Brunner the Bounty Hunter (what price vengeance)

by Warhammer

'I have a message for you to deliver, messenger boy,' the mercenary captain tossed a leather packet down, letting it settle on the wounded man's body. 'You take that to the Viscount de Chegney. You tell him what happened here. You also tell him that we have his grandson.' Ursio gestured to the courtyard, once again filled with Tileans, and now joined by the mounted figure of the nursemaid and the swaddled form she held in her arms. 'If he doesn't want his line to die out with him, he will follow those instructions to the letter. Now on your way, messenger boy. And don't die until you deliver that to the viscount.' Ursio's face twisted into a cold, murderous leer.

  'For the boy's sake.'

  The centuries hung heavy within the great hall of the Chateau de Chegney. For a thousand years the de Chegney family had dwelled in the massive brooding stone fortress, guarding the narrow pass through the Grey Mountains that linked the Kingdom of Bretonnia with the sprawling Empire. The lands ruled by the viscounts de Chegney had alternately prospered or suffered under their lords, accepting the justice and tyranny alike with the dogged stoicism and subservience of the Bretonnian peasant, but seldom had they bowed their heads in fealty to so terrible a man as he who now sat brooding within the castle's great hall.

  The Viscount Augustine de Chegney was no longer a young man, yet his build bespoke an animalistic strength and vitality. The man was not tall; indeed his stature was somewhat squat, slightly below that of the average Bretonnian. But the viscount's shoulders were broad, his head rising from those shoulders on a thick bull's neck. The head perched atop that neck was likewise massive, the viscount's forehead sloping immediately from his thick brows to join his steel-grey hair, cut in the bowl shaped fashion of the Bretonnians. The man's nose was broad, his mouth a thin gash above his scarce chin.

  The viscount lounged in his high-backed chair wearing a tunic of scarlet trimmed with the fur of a wild cat, a bejewelled dagger thrust through the leather band of his belt. His leggings were tucked into a set of high leather boots, their toes shod in steel and silver. A trim of wolfskin had been sewn to the mouth of the boots, the grey fur exactly matching the cold eyes of the viscount's face.

  It was the eyes of Viscount Augustine de Chegney that unnerved those who met them. Like the wild cat and the wolf, there was a ferocious cunning and ruthlessness about them, a quality of vicious determination that offered no quarter to those who might stand between the man and his desires. Even the closest of the viscount's associates dreaded the steely gaze of their master, more so wlien the fire of emotion crept into them and glared from behind the icy grey pools to strike with the force of a basilisk's stare.

  Elodore Pleasant was facing such eyes at this moment, nervously adjusting his weight from one foot to the other. Pleasant was Augustine de Chegney's oldest and closest crony, and had become his master's seneschal following the sudden and unexpected death of Augustine's father. A slender, haggard-looking man, Pleasants pate was bald, a thin mane of unkempt white hair fringing the back of his head. The merest suggestion of a moustache struggled in the shadow of Pleasant's sharp, birdlike nose. The man wore a long black robe fringed in gold, his hands heavy with over-sized rings. Indeed, if Augustine de Chegney suggested some feral predator, then Elodore Pleasant suggested a vulture. Only in the eyes were the two men similar, for both viewed the world through cunning orbs, though the craftiness behind Pleasant's pale blue eyes was akin to that of the fox.

  'Tell me,' the viscount mused, sloshing the last mouthful of wine about the bottom of his crystal glass, 'why do they call you "pleasant"?' The grey eyes narrowed and the nobleman rose from his seat. Angrily the viscount hurled the glass against the wall, its gleaming debris scattering across the hall. 'For as long as I have known you, I have heard only ill tidings from your mouth!' the viscount snarled.

  'It is better that a friend deliver such news.' Pleasant replied, trying to keep his tone even, not let any anxiety cloud his words. 'One who knows your heart and might better council you in such matters as these.'

  'Was it not your counsel that advised I let that dolt Norval deal with Ursio and his men?' challenged Viscount de Chegney, his tone low and full of menace.

  'Yes, my lord,' agreed Pleasant, bobbing his head like the carrion bird he so resembled. 'We have employed him for such matters before, and never had cause to regret...'

  'My son is dead!' roared the viscount, clenching his fist in anger. 'And now this foreign rabble have my grandson as hostage, demanding I pay them twice the fee for their services as payment for his safe return!' The viscount scratched at the hairy growth on his throat and jowls. 'Tell me, Pleasant, what do you advise that I do? Hmm? Shall I pay these animals for killing one heir to ensure the return of another?'

  'Begging your leave, my lord,' the black-garbed seneschal stuttered, 'but I do not think that paying them will achieve anything. They have been betrayed, and seek more than gold as compensation.'

  'Do you think that thought has not occurred to me?' snorted the Viscount. 'But what other choice do I have? I have spent a lifetime expanding the realm and fortune of the de Chegneys, I shall not see it fail for want of an heir! We shall pay these vermin ten times what they ask, but I will have my grandson returned!'

  'There is another way, my lord,' Pleasant said, not daring to let his eyes settle upon the viscoilnt in his present humour. 'We could recover the child ourselves. That would ensure his return and not force you into a compact with this mercenary rabble.'

  'These men are not morons,' snapped the viscount. 'I would not have engaged them in the first place if they were. If Ursio even thinks my men are close to finding him, he will kill my grandson.'

  'Then we shall not use any of your men,' Pleasant offered. 'I agree, the Tileans would certainly discover an armed force sometime before they themselves were in peril. But a single man? One man could discover their hiding place, infiltrate it and recover the child.'

  'Know you of such a man?' the viscount asked, his tone dubious.

  'Our smuggler friends in the Empire speak of a bounty hunter, a man named Brunner,' Pleasant answered. 'They say that once he is on a man's trail, he will follow them to the Wastes themselves, and return with his prey.'

  'A bounty hunter?' scoffed the Viscount. You would entrust the safety of my grandson to a bounty hunter?'

  They say that this Brunner is of noble blood, that when he takes a commission, he always sees it through to the end,' the seneschal responded, somewhat defensively. 'His reputation is quite terrible amongst our friends, and in this case, that is to our benefit.'

  The viscount considered Pleasant's counsel for a moment, his feral eyes narrowing as he thought. At last he turned his gaze back upon the vulture-like seneschal. Very well, Elodore, if you can find this bounty hunter, engage him. Tell him to bring me my grandson. Or llrsio's head.'

  Pleasant bowed before his master. 'Judge Vaulkberg is making his circuit amongst the towns of Reikland. This Brunner is known to work for the Judge quite often. If the Lady's grace is with us, I think the bounty hunter might be found with the Judge.'

  The townsfolk of Albrechtswolhtat lined the dirt street or peered from the second-storey windows of their wood-frame homes and businesses. The men of the village jostled one another for a better view of the lane even as the womenfolk ushered children back indoors. Despite the eagerness of the townsfolk to watch the procession now making its way through their settlement, on every face was stamped an expression of nervousness and dread. They cast suspicious looks at one another, for none of the townsfolk could say with absolute certainty that some accusation made by one of their neighbours might not bring them before Judge Tscherpan Vaulkberg.

  The magistrate's procession made its way through the town. First came four riders, each in gleaming plate armour, their massive steeds as white as snow Colourful ostrich plumes graced each of the knights' helmets and upon the tip of each lance the Reiksguard held was the blue and red banner of the Imperial Capital of Altdorf. After the Reiksguard came twenty armed footmen, each soldier bearing either a halbe
rd or crossbow, each wearing the blood-red livery of Judge Vaulkberg over his lightweight armour. After the soldiers came a massive black coach drawn by six equally massive horses, their hair the colour of pitch. The curtains were drawn upon the coach, offering no view of the grim and terrible occupant of the carriage. Few saw the infamous Judge until they were called before him.

  When the Judge's carriage had passed, the rear of his caravan stomped into view. Towering a monstrous twelve feet, garbed in a suit of foul smelling leather armour above which the crimson livery of Judge Vaulkberg hung was the Judge's personal executioner, the ogre Ghunder. The beast's face was partially covered by a black leather hood, exposing only his broad nose and enormous mouth, one broken fang protruding from the right side of his lip. The tool of the headsman's trade was carried over his shoulder, an axe so large that any three men in the on-looking crowd would be needed to lift it, much less wield the butchering weapon. But wield it the ogre did, often. Some said that the ogre was always trying to top the distance the condemned's head flew when he chopped it from their body. His current record was reckoned at sixty paces.

  The entrance of the ogre brought gasps of horror and dread from many of the onlookers. Even the Burghermeister, a distant relation of some minor dignitary at the Imperial court found himself trembling, having seen before what manner of damage the monster could inflict upon a human body with his bestial strength. The Burghermeister cast a nervous gaze at his bodyguard, not favouring their chances should it come to a contest between his men and the Judge's entourage. At the Burghermeister's side, the ranking priest of Sigmar in Albrechtswolhtat muttered quiet prayers to the Patron deity of the Empire. Vaulkberg was known to save his harshest judgements for priests who failed in their duties, and was equally notorious for performing only the most rudimentary of investigations before pronouncing a man's doom.

  Only one man in all the throng gazed upon the procession of Judge Vaulkberg without any trace of fear. He was a tall figure standing to the rear of the assembly. The man's build was the well-muscled frame of a professional soldier, displaying a quality of strength rather than the undisciplined mass of a common labourer. The man's garb also suggested a martial bent. Black leather boots with steel toes encased the man's legs to a height just below his knees. Dark steel cuisses clothed his upper legs; each emblazoned with a tarnished gold emblem that might once have been an eagle rampant. A sombre suit of brigandine armour encased the man's torso, a breastplate of rare gromril fastened over the doth-andmetal armour, protecting the man's chest. The dull tan of the man's shirtsleeves was largely hidden by the steel vambraces that encased his arms. Black leather gauntlets clothed each of his hands, the knuckle of each gauntlet sporting a tiny spike-like stud of metal. The man's head was covered by the rounded bowl of a sallet-helm, the face of the helm concealing the man's features as completely as the executioner's hood. Icy blue eyes regarded the procession from behind the visor of the helm while the exposed mouth below the armour chewed at the remains of a smouldering cigar. The ogre Ghunder paused as his steps drew his massive frame opposite the armoured spectator. The helmeted head of the spectator inclined slightly within its veil of cigar-smoke. The executioner's mouth twisted in a slight semblance of a grin, then he turned and continued after his master's coach.

  'What is this one charged with?' Judge Vaulkberg's dry, scratchy voice intoned as his hand closed about the goblet of brandy resting at his elbow. The Judge had established himself in the ballroom of the Burghermeister's residence, having decided that the town hall of Albrechtswolhtat was beneath the dignity of his office. The Burghermeister had immediately agreed to the magistrate's proposal, moving a heavy table and a dozen chairs into the room, heedless of the damage done to the polished oak floor.

  'The accused was responsible for damaging the horse of one of His Imperial Majesty's roadwardens,' stated the gaunt, cadaverous Weichsle, Vaulkberg's prosecutor. 'His cart was overturned in the lane leading into the town. In avoiding the obstacle in question, the horse injured its leg, necessitating the animal's destruction.' Weichsle pronounced the last as if describing the most unspeakable heresy ever committed by a man.

  'Seizure of half the condemned's property, forty lashes and five month's hard labour in such function as His Imperial Majesty's roadwardens find suitable,' pronounced Judge Vaulkberg, his tone heavy with boredom. He waved the gilded mahogany gavel in a dismissive gesture. Two of his crimson-liveried guards began to escort the unfortunate prisoner away. Suddenly, the man broke free, rushing toward the table and the seated Judge.

  'But I have entered no plea!' the man protested. Judge Vaulkberg fixed the prisoner with a withering gaze. Vaulkberg's face had been described once by a poet as being as craggy and imposing as any peak in the Worlds Edge Mountains. The Judge had agreed with that assessment of his features, then ordered the poet hung for defamation of character anyway.

  'And what plea would you care to enter,' baited the Judge.

  'Not guilty!' exclaimed the prisoner, not seeing the trap.

  '"Not guilty,'" repeated Vaulkberg with a sneer. "Not guilty," he repeated again, looking over at Weichsle. Then the magistrate turned his gaze upon the prisoner. 'There is no such plea as "not guilty" in this court!' he thundered. 'You will forfeit all of your property to His Imperial Majesty,' the Judge pronounced. 'You will receive forty lashes administered by my ogre.' the Judge paused. 'Then you will be taken to the town square, there to be hung by the neck until dead, may your filthy soul rot in Hell.' the Judge waved his gavel again and his guards seized the shocked prisoner more securely than before and dragged the screaming man from the chamber.

  'I will not have my time wasted by such scum protesting their innocence.' Judge Vaulkberg said under his breath before taking another sip of his brandy.

  After the last case had been decided by Judge Vaulkberg, a matter involving a thief and resolved by one quick stroke of an axe, the only man bold enough to observe the proceedings of the court detached himself from the rear wall of the ballroom and advanced toward the Judge.

  'Brunner.' the Judge greeted the armoured figure as he strode toward the magistrate. 'Ghunder told me he saw you as we came into town.' Judge Vaulkberg removed the white coils of his powdered wig and set it within a velvet-lined hatbox. 'What have you brought me?'

  The bounty hunter casually tossed a rough sackcloth bag onto the table. The object landed with a thump and the Judge reached for it, pulling it towards him. He peered into the bag, sighing.

  'Klag Vandries.' the bounty hunter stated, spitting the after-taste of his cigar onto the Burghermeister's floor. 'Sometimes called the Bellycutter.'

  'Wanted for the murders of some fifteen people on the road between Altdorf and Talabheim, two of them persons of name, as well as brigandry, theft of sacred objects, horse-thievery and failure to respond to a summons from this court.' the Judge rattled off the dead highwayman's offences, clearly considering the last to be the man's most despicable act. 'I was looking forward to getting my hands on this scum.' the Judge continued. 'But I was hoping to get him alive.'

  'We don't always get what we want.' Brunner replied, one hand stretching out to the magistrate, palm upwards.

  'I will only pay twenty-five crowns.' declared Judge Vaulkberg. 'You should try and bring me some of this vermin alive once in awhile. They get off far too lightly when they escape the justice of this court.'

  Vandries didn't seem to think he was getting off lightly when his life was pouring out of his belly.' Brunner said, his cold voice dropping to a glacial tone. 'And your posting said quick or dead. You owe me the full fifty.'

  Judge Vaulkberg hesitated for a moment, wondering if he should acknowledge the threat in the bounty hunter's murderous tone. Eyeing the man for a moment, eyes lingering on the heavy crossbow strapped across Brunner's back, the heavy falchion sword sheathed at his hip, the numerous daggers and knives, both visible and unseen about the bounty killer's person, Vaulkberg decided to let the insolence pass with a wry smile. He nodded at h
is prosecutor, who had been watching the exchange between the two men with an ever-increasing amount of agitation.

  'Pay the man for his service to the Emperor,' Vaulkberg told the gaunt lawyer. 'And see that this gets a proper burial in the nearest sewer,' the Judge added, tossing Weichsle the sack. The lawyer held the unpleasant thing as far from his body as his arm could manage and fumbled about at a heavy iron casket, eventually opening it and withdrawing two sacks of coins.

  'Always a pleasure, Judge,' the bounty hunter took the sacks from the lawyer, weighing them in his hand before turning on his heel and marching from the chamber.

  Elodore Pleasant and his hulking bodyguard pushed their way past a gang of drunken farmers and entered the cave-like gloom of the Braying Ass, the most disreputable of Albrechtsburg's taverns. Pleasant brought a perfumed handkerchief to his nose, trying to blot out the vile mixture of cheap beer, unwashed humanity and dry urine that wafted out of the tavern. Beside him, the bodyguard rolled his eyes, annoyed that his charge had already broken his advice to keep a low profile in this thieves' nest. Pleasant did not pay his protector the slightest notice but arrogantly pushed his way into the darkness.

  Pleasant doubted if the rumours about the man's nobility could be true. How any person of note could allow themselves to be surrounded by such filth and squalor was beyond the Bretonnian's ability to comprehend.

  Pleasant scanned the room, his eyes lingering on every dirty bearded face, his gaze taking in the large oak bar, its surface nicked and pitted by countless brawls and endless games of mumbeley-peg. The burly Bretonnian man-at-arms beside Pleasant nudged the seneschal's arm, drawing his master's attention away from the antics of a fat coachman and a serving wench. Pleasant's gaze settled upon the dark corner his henchman indicated. The two Bretonnians headed toward the isolated table and its sole occupant.

  'Do I have the distinction of speaking with the gentleman known as Brunner?' Pleasant said in his most fawning manner as he approached the darkened corner.