Warhammer Anthology 07

by Way of the Dead

  'We don't want any trouble,' Pleasant declared, rising slowly from the chair, the bounty hunter's dagger rising with him. A sidewise gesture of his hand made the seneschal's henchman sullenly back away. The bounty hunter set the crossbow pistol down upon the table, its lethal dart still pointing at the bodyguard, and removed the dagger from the chastened functionary's throat.

  Why are you looking for me?' demanded Brunner.

  'I understand that you hunt men,' Pleasant stammered, dabbing at his bleeding throat with his perfumed handkerchief. 'And that you are the best there is to be had in that line of enterprise.'

  'That much is obvious,' Brunner looked across the dingy tavern. 'It would take quite a reputation to bring so fine a gentleman as yourself to a place like this.' The bounty hunter lifted a small wooden cup to his lips. 'What's the job?' he asked before sipping at the schnapps.

  The anxious look on the Bretonnian's face eased somewhat and Pleasant smiled. 'The castle of the viscount's son was ransacked by mercenaries discharged from my lord's service.' the seneschal began. 'They killed my master's son and his wife, as well as very nearly every living thing in the place.'

  The bounty hunter slowly set the cup down, his cold eyes locking on those of the functionary. 'I have already heard news of the unpleasantness across the border.' Pleasant was visibly shocked by the bounty hunter's words. 'I make it my business to be wellinformed,' Brunner explained. 'A man's life sometimes balances upon the merest shred of information.'

  'The brigands have taken the viscount's grandson with them,' Pleasant continued. 'They are demanding ransom for his safe return.'

  'I collect bounties, not children,' Brunner replied, lifting the wooden cup to his mouth again.

  'The viscount is prepared to pay you very well,' Pleasant reached into the breast of his tunic and withdrew a large leather pouch. 'Two hundred gold crowns,' the Bretonnian said, setting the bag down on the table.

  Several sets of eyes turned toward the scene as the distinct report of coins jostling against one another insinuated itself into the clamour of the tavern's atmosphere. Brunner reached a hand toward the bag, running his gloved digits across the cool leather surface. 'One hundred now, the rest when the viscount's heir is safely returned.' Brunner turned his helmeted head away, leaning back in his chair so that his back rested against the tavern's peeling plaster on wood wall.

  'A fair price,' the bounty hunter admitted. 'But I am not interested.' Brunner bolted the rest of his schnapps and set the cup down upon the table.

  'I could speak to the viscount,' Pleasant said, his tone desperate. 'He would surely agree to any reasonable sum.'

  Brunner sucked his teeth and stared at the Bretonnian. 'I don't want your money,' he said, his tone menacing. 'I've had more than enough of you Bretonnians and your lordly ways. I am my own man, not some foppish snail-eater's errand boy.'

  Pleasant's mouth dropped in disbelief as the bounty hunter's crude words impacted upon his ears. The functionary trembled in outrage, wishing he had more of the viscount's men with him so he could teach this villain some manners. The seneschal's tongue worked itself to voice a retort but all that emerged was a feeble croak. The bounty hunter turned away, motioning for a serving wench to bring him another drink, his would-be patron already dismissed from his attention. Balling his fist in outrage, Pleasant rose and stormed away from the table.

  'This has been a fool's errand,' Pleasant snapped as he passed his bodyguard. The other Bretonnian took his place at the seneschal's side. The two men marched their way toward the feeble light seeping under the tavern's door. Neither man noticed the scruffy figures who had preceded them into the street, or the two rat-faced men who followed after them.

  Elodore Pleasant's face was a mask of sullen, brooding rage as he stomped through the dirty streets of the township. The seneschal dabbed his handkerchief against the cut the bounty hunter's blade had left on his throat. The outright audacity of the scum! Pleasant wondered if he might not use some of the funds he had quietly diverted from the viscount's coffers towards seeing some justice meted out upon the arrogant vermin. But such thoughts of revenge were for another day. For now, there was still the matter of rescuing the viscount's grandson, or seeing his abductors dead.

  Pleasant was so lost in his thoughts that he did not notice the darkened lane his steps had carried him into, nor the warning hiss of his bodyguard. It was only the sight of three men standing in his path that snapped Pleasant from his dark humour, bringing his attention back to his surroundings. Pleasant looked at the men, their dirty, grimy clothes, their unwashed faces and gap-toothed grins. The Bretonnian's face wore an expression of contempt as his eyes met those of the men, but the flesh that hung from his cheeks trembled with nervous anxiety as he noticed the clubs and blades the men gripped in their dust-blackened hands. He chanced a look back at his bodyguard, noticing for the first time that the soldier's sword was drawn, and that two more ruffians had closed upon them from the opposite side of the lane.

  'I am on my master's business,' Pleasant said in a voice he hoped conveyed more authority than the fear that was building within him. 'Give me space to pass.'

  One of the ruffians swaggered forward, a short-bladed sword clutched in his hand. He flipped a strand of dirty blond hair from his forehead as it fell into his eyes. The man grinned, exposing a set of yellow and pitted teeth. He spat a glob of phlegm into the dust.

  'We 'eard 'bout yer little errand in da Brayin' Ass,' the ruffian said, his voice raspy. 'Two-hunert gold fer retrievin' some wine-swiller's brat.' The ruffian clucked his tongue. 'That's a pretty price, no mistake.'

  'I am afraid that I am not at liberty to offer that particular commission to anyone but the man my master considered skilful enough to accomplish it.' Pleasant tried to keep his cool, but was all too aware of the beads of sweat trickling from his brow.

  'Is that so?' the blond-haired man sneered. 'So we can't take this little job from yer? Can't earn us the two-hunert?' The man cast a mock regretful look at his companions and sighed. 'Well, I guess we'll just have to settle fer the hunert yer carry'n!'

  The men laughed as they advanced toward Pleasant. The hulking Bretonnian bodyguard was soon beside the seneschal, trying to interpose himself between both the three men closing upon his charge and the other two quietly advancing from the rear. All five robbers were chuckling under their breath, their eyes gleaming like those of a wolf pack lighting upon a tethered horse.

  'Easiest money I ever done made.' the leader of the thieves snorted as he closed upon Pleasant, drawing his sword back for a sideways swipe at the Bretonnian. The man's chuckle trailed off into a gurgling death rattle as a spike of steel impacted into his throat. The sword clattered from his hands and he fell to his knees, dirty hands fumbling at the crimson tide gushing from the hole in his windpipe where the crossbow bolt had torn its way through his neck.

  The other muggers were thrown into confusion and disarray by the sudden death of their leader. It only lasted a moment, but even so slight an instant was enough. The hulking Bretonnian smashed his shield against the leg of one of the club-wielding men closing upon the Bretonnians from behind. The bone snapped under the impact and the ruffian fell to the dirt street, howling with agony.

  The bodyguard lashed out at the other robber with a downward stroke of his blade, the thief barely managing to raise his own sword to parry the blow.

  The men facing Pleasant snarled and made to leap at the seneschal, determined to claim the weighty purse of gold before making good their escape. But even as they sprung into action, a new player introduced himself into the fray. A heavy falchion sword ripped through the spine of one of the men as the steel blade was thrust through his body from behind. The man didn't scream, his eyes instead staring in incomprehension at the bloodied steel that protruded from the gory ruin of his belly. The eyes had glassed over by the time the blade was withdrawn and the robber's body fell into the dust.

  The other thief turned, glaring at the black-helmed figure t
hat had seemingly materialised from nowhere to spoil their game. He raised his stout club, its fire-blackened wood further enhanced by a cluster of iron spikes driven into the cudgel. With an oath that might be voiced by any cornered animal, the robber charged at his foe. The face below the visor of the sallet-helm smiled as the ruffian came towards him. With one hand, he raised the falchion sword, notching the thief's wooden weapon as he swung at him. The robber spat a second curse and renewed his attack. Again the armoured man parried the robber's attack with his bloodied sword, but this time the man's other hand leapt into action. As the thief was again repelled by the man's guard, the armoured fighter's left hand smashed into his face, plunging the blade of the dagger it held into the robber's eye.

  The robber dropped to the ground, screaming and writhing in agony, burying his bleeding face in the dirt. Brunner smiled as he strode towards the thief and calmly raised his falchion. There was a final cry of pain and the crunch of breaking bone as the bounty hunter plunged his sword between the wounded robber's shoulders.

  Pleasant stared about him, his mouth gaping open at the carnage he had witnessed. He had seen many combats in his time, but seldom had he seen a conflict begin and end with such swift dispatch. He looked for his bodyguard, finding the man already walking back towards him, wiping blood from his blade. The seneschal then turned his gaze back upon the bounty hunter. He watched as Brunner withdrew a rag from his belt and wiped the blood from his sword before sheathing the weapon. The bloodied dagger he returned to his gloved hand as he advanced toward the Bretonnian.

  'We were lucky you came along,' the nervous seneschal stammered, the corners of his mouth twitching. 'It would have been a near thing. I am no warrior, and all five of these men against my bodyguard might not have turned out so well for me.'

  Brunner didn't speak, instead his eyes turned toward the blond leader of the robbers, his breath still gurgling from the wound in his neck. 'Let's not be all day about it,' the bounty hunter's harsh voice hissed. Leaning over the dying man, Brunner raked the dagger across his throat, letting the new-made corpse pitch forward into the street.

  'There was no luck in my finding you,' the bounty hunter said, turning his eyes toward Pleasant. 'I followed you from the tavern.'

  'Followed us?' Pleasant asked. 'Then you have reconsidered the commission from the Viscount de Chegney?' Hope flared in the seneschal's devious heart.

  'Reconsidered?' there was actually a suggestion of mirth in the bounty killer's voice as he repeated the Bretonnian's comment. 'I intended to take the job the moment you sat at my table.'

  Pleasant's eyes sharpened, his face screwing into a suspicious leer. 'Then why did you refuse my offer?'

  Brunner rose and stalked toward the other side of the lane. The ruffian the bodyguard had smashed with his shield was trying to crawl away. Brunner set a booted heel against the man's broken leg, pinning him in place and bringing a fresh cry of pain from the robber.

  'You made yourself a target, showing your wealth in such a den of jackals,' the bounty hunter shook his head. 'I had to see what sort of rats would scurry out of the shadows to relieve you of that fat pouch of gold.' Brunner looked down at the groaning man at his feet. 'Though I must say I am less than impressed by the results. I doubt if I shall get more than thirty silver for these sorry cutthroats.'

  'You used me as bait!' howled Pleasant. His earlier glee at the bounty hunter's acceptance of the viscount's commission had once again been overtaken by a fervent desire to see the arrogant commoner painfully put back in his place.

  'I would prefer to think of it as seizing an opportunity that presented itself.' Brunner returned his attention to the man at his feet.

  'I trust that you will show more expediency in retrieving the viscount's grandson,' Pleasant declared, choking down the more choice words that threatened to explode from his mouth. 'Time is of the essence in this matter.'

  'I just have a few things to finish here,' Brunner said, still considering the man at his feet. 'If time is so valuable, I suggest you attend to effecting your return to Bretonnia. You can give me the details I will require on the road.'

  Pleasant bristled under the bounty killer's tone. He, a viscount's seneschal, was being dismissed by a hired sword? Perhaps there was truth in the rumours of Brunner's noble birth; Pleasant had never encountered such audacity in anyone that did not have some manner of breeding in their background. With a sharp word to his bodyguard, the fuming seneschal turned away from the bounty hunter.

  'Oh, messenger,' Brunner called after the Bretonnian. Pleasant turned to face the killer again. Brunner held a gloved hand in the Bretonnian's direction. 'The hundred gold crowns' With a muttered oath, Pleasant savagely dug the pouch from the pocket within his tunic and tossed it to the bounty hunter. Brunner caught the jingling sack one-handed and tucked it into his belt.

  The bounty hunter casually set a few more sticks into the circle of his campfire and unlimbered his packhorse of its tack and harness, hobbling the animal's legs to keep it from wandering too far. His riding horse, a magnificent bay, he left untethered. There were few things the bounty hunter placed any trust in, but the fealty of his Bretonnian warhorse was one. He could be certain that the animal would stay by his side, come fire or sorcery. Brunner patted the great horse's muzzle with a black gloved hand and returned to preparing his camp.

  As Brunner continued to arrange his packs and blankets, the bounty hunter's attention was only minimally upon his task. This was the place Pleasant had named as the rendezvous with the kidnappers. Brunner had a deep knowledge of this region, certainly a more intimate familiarity than a rabble of Tilean mercenaries could acquire in a few months of employment. He had counted three men watching the barren glade from supposed places of concealment. He could have easily disposed of them but he had no way of knowing what other precautions the ransomers might have made against any treachery on the part of the viscount. Brunner had thus ridden into the lurking mercenaries' supposed control, and prepared to let the Tileans make the next move.

  Brunner settled himself down upon a blanket, propping his back against his saddle. The killer faced the fire, seemingly unconcerned by what might be transpiring in the trees all around him. But the bounty hunter's steely gaze was all the time scanning the edges of the clearing, all the time his ears were listening for the sharp crack of a twig or the rustle of a branch. Beneath the cover of his blanket, Brunner's hands kept a loose grip upon his weapons.

  'Hallo to camp,' an accented Tilean voice shouted from the darkness. 'May I share your fire?' There was a note of question as well as suspicion in the Tilean's voice. Brunner allowed himself an inward smile. His elaborately staged calmness and unconcern had disarmed the men. They were unsure if he was the man they were expecting or just some chance wanderer who had muddled along into their affairs.

  'Provided you be no lllricite zealot, please yourself,' the bounty hunter called back.

  That reply should further disorder the villain's mind, Brunner thought.

  The Tilean strode forward, the fire revealing his olive-hued features. He was a young man, a bright slash of a duelling scar across his cheek, a thin moustache worming its way across his lip. The mercenary wore a suit of loose-fitting armour, a broadsword at his hip and a crossbow slung over his back. Even as the man strolled forward with a seemingly casual swagger, he rested a hand on the pommel of his blade.

  T might be spending a cold night in the crook of a tree.' the Tilean said, his eyes taking in Brunner's figure, a smile flickering on his face as he saw the sword and other weapons resting near the reclining man. Near enough to reach should any visitor to his camp think to cause him any trouble, but not near enough to reach should that visitor have friends lurking in the dark with crossbows trained upon the warrior before that trouble began.

  'Then, by all means, warm yourself.' Brunner offered, inclining his head towards the fire. The Tilean advanced, making a display of warming his left hand above the dancing tongues of flame. His other hand still hu
ng at his side, casually resting on the pommel of his sword.

  'It is by Taal's grace that I saw your fire.' the Tilean commented, his eyes still studying what he could see of the face below the visor of his host's helm. 'How came you to be in this blighted place?'

  'I should ask you the same question.' Brunner replied, his gaze piercing that of the mercenary.

  'My horse threw me.' the mercenary answered. 'I was acting as an outrider for a wine merchant who hopes to establish a new route through the pass to sell his grapes in the Empire. I must have ridden too far out for them to hear my oaths as the wretched pony unseated me and ran into the hills. You can be sure I will have some words with the man who sold me that gangly brute.'

  A smile appeared on Brunner's face. He had been listening to the creaks and cracks emanating from the dark, gauging the position of those who made the sounds. His watchers had drawn closer, eager to catch every word of the exchange.

  'Strange.' Brunner said, spitting into the dust. He fastened his eyes on the Tilean once more, the mouth below the black slash of his helm split in a mocking smile. 'Do you not find it strange that a wine merchant would employ a foreigner as an outrider, rather than a man native to the region?'

  An angry snarl appeared on the Tilean's features. An accomplished liar the man might not be, but to be caught in a lie was insulting to him all the same. The blade at his side flew from its sheath, the firelight dancing in the exposed fang of steel.

  Thunder and smoke rose from the reclining figure on the blankets. Fiery pain blazed into the Tilean's chest, pitching him backward with such force that he crashed upon his back in the campfire. The mercenary's body rolled from the flames, his armour smoking, a wail of suffering rising from his throat.

  The violent flash and boom of the discharge of the blackpowder gun the bounty hunter had fired through the fabric of the blanket momentarily startled and disoriented the two crossbowmen in the trees. The veteran killers did not hesitate for more than a breath before snapping the strings of their weapons, sending two steel bolts slamming into the target they had carefully marked. But in the thick grey smoke, the Tileans were not able to see that their would-be victim had thrown himself into motion even as the crack and boom of the gun's firing resounded across the night. Brunner had flung his body to the side at once, rolling away from the blankets and the saddle, away from the carefully laid out weapons to the left of his previous position. One bolt impacted in the centre of the blanket; another struck midway between the blanket and the weapons.