Warhammer - [Brunner the Bounty Hunter 02] - Blood and Steel

by C L Werner (lit)

  'Why?' demanded Carandini, his eyes blazing with anger.

  'Because I need it to remove that ugly head of yours from its neck.' Brunner took another series of shuffling steps, rounding the long table. Carandini cringed away from the killer's approach, straining to lift the glass vial still higher.

  'I will drop it!' he shrieked. 'I'll destroy us both! Stop right there!'

  Brunner's voice was as flat and icy as any grave-born horror. 'I have a better idea. It involves you setting that thing down. Do that, and I'll give you five minutes before I come after you.' The bounty hunter took another menacing step around the long table. 'Trust me, it's the best deal you're going to get.'

  Whatever response the necromancer was going to voice died in his throat as a gasp of terror forced its way upward. Carandini's eyes grew wide with fright, his sickly finger pointing accusingly at the bounty hunter. But he was looking at something else entirely. Brunner followed his gaze and found himself leaping back from the table, injured foot or no.

  Carandini's voice returned in a wheezy groan.

  'I told you not to touch the mummy!'

  LIGHT SLOWLY INTRUDED upon the perpetual darkness, awareness slowly returned to the mind of the ancient sleeper. A flicker of power had disturbed his dark dreams of dusty tombs and obelisk-lined necropolises. How long had he slept the sleep of the tomb? Seven centuries? Ten?

  Memory stirred, recollections of a time as parched and empty as the sands of the desert. Of a great and powerful spell, a sorcerous apocalypse that had fallen upon Khareops, Numas and Khemri and all the great land of Nehekhara, which had in an instant robbed the most ancient kingdom of man of all life and vitality. It had stilled the heart and sucked the breath of every living thing in Khareops.

  It had been the Great Ritual, cast by the Accursed One so that he might reclaim his throne and rule over an empire of the dead. Withered lids slid back from the dry hollows of the mummy's face, flakes of crusty decomposed skin scattering like sandy tears. Nearby someone had drawn upon similar power, and he could feel the faintest echo of that tremendous act of evil.

  More memories rose within the desiccated husk of Nehb-ka-menthu. The priest-king could recall the moment of his own death, and yet death had not been the end. His soul had not left his mortal frame. Like a spectator, he had watched as the liche-priests had prepared and embalmed his body, watched as the unliving priests, the only things in all Khareops that now walked the dead streets of the necropolis, bore his body in its golden sarcophagus to his pyramid tomb.

  For some time he had remained within his tomb, detached from his body, detached from all thought, existing in the dark limbo of the dead. Was it months or aeons that he remained thus? But at last, the power had made itself felt across the Dead Lands once more. The Accursed One had awoken once more, and the power of his black resurrection made itself felt across the carrion realm of Nehekhara. The power had reached out and stirred other things from their ancient graves. So it was that Nehb-ka-menthu had emerged from his tomb, to contest with his own ancestors for the rule of Khareops.

  The mummy's right arm moved, falling from its chest to the side of the table. Slowly, so slowly that it did not seem to be moving. And yet how incredibly swift must such a motion seem to a body that had lain silent and still in the cool dark of its grave for hundreds of years?

  When had Nehb-ka-menthu last walked the earth? Had it been when he had mustered the dead hosts of his city, when he had set out to find the phantom tower of Nagash's disciple, the liche king Arkhan the Black, to ransack that place of darkest sorcery, to bear away its terrible secrets? Had it been when he returned in defeat from the dread city of Khemri and his attempt to force his way into the profane Black Pyramid of Nagash itself? As in life, so in death did Nehb-ka-menthu lust for the power of the dark magic. As in life, so too in death did that knowledge elude him, straying almost within his very reach then dancing away once more.

  The mummy moved its other arm, letting it fall to its side. The sound of battle intruded upon the corpse's thoughts and slowly, the lingering traces of the power began to wink out around him. The sense of fading dark energy snapped the mind of Nehb-ka-menthu from his memories, from recalling ancient battles and inglorious defeats. No, he was not the match for Arkhan, who guarded the secrets of his master in his spectral Black Tower. He could not contend with the might of Settra, king of Khemri, who watched the Black Pyramid for any sign of his immortal enemy's return and prevented any from entering that place of timeless blasphemy and nameless horror. The secrets, the knowledge, the perversions that Nagash had discovered were not yet his. But they would be. The power would be his!

  As Brunner disposed of the last of the zombies, the eyes of the mummy began to glow with a faint luminance, a ghostly green flame. Nehb-ka-menthu focused his will, his thoughts, his spirit back into its carriage of decayed flesh. The hands of the mummy turned over, the powerful talons within the grey-green wrappings splintering the wood of the table as they gripped it. The arms lifted and slowly the body of the mummy began to rise.

  IN THE COURSE of his travels, Brunner had encountered many strange and terrible things, but never had he stood before something like this. The hulking corpse of the long-dead priest-king had been unnerving enough at rest, exuding its aura of ancient decay and loss, the faint scent of lands forgotten and ruined. It was as bittersweet as the most tenderly recalled nostalgia and as hideous as the bloodhowl of an enraged orc. It was a feeling of regret and despair that clutched at the soul. The bounty hunter would have breathed easier once the thing had been destroyed and the fear creeping into his stomach had been dispelled.

  How much more horrible was that withered husk now that it had been endowed with motion, now that its strong sinews and supple limbs caused it to rise from the table, to set its cloth-wrapped feet upon the rotting wood on the floor? Brunner only realised that he had been backing away from the undead abomination when his back struck the rear wall of the room. Beside him, Carandini was also gripped by terror, and did not even notice that the bounty hunter was beside him, his eyes locked upon the supernatural figure of the mummy.

  The skull-like face of the mummy slowly turned from side to side with stiff, jerking motions, as it took in the room and its contents. As the head passed over Brunner and Carandini for the second time, it froze. Luminous fires of ghostly light burned in the pits of its face, regarding the two men with an inscrutable gaze.

  Carandini's teeth were chattering, his muscles relaxing as he lost control of them. Suddenly the glass vial fell from his slackened fingers. Brunner caught the faint motion and watched in horror as the vial shattered against the floor. He gritted his teeth against the coming explosion, and braced himself for a quick and certain death.

  A moment passed and Brunner drew another breath. He looked down at the smashed vial, and at the putrid blood it had contained seeping into the floor. Then he turned to Carandini. The necromancer had torn his eyes away from the mummy, and was glancing downward at the shattered glass. He gave Brunner a frightened, embarrassed smile; his deception had been revealed. Brunner's lip twisted into a snarl and he thrust Drakesmalice through the necromancer's belly as a reward for his bluff. Carandini groaned and slid to the floor, clutching at his punctured body, and trying to quell the flow of blood and bile spilling down his legs.

  The bounty hunter did not hesitate to round on the tomb king. The mummy began to storm forward, its stride long and swift. Brunner lashed out at the undead horror, trying to pierce through the shrivelled heart in the monster's breast. Before Drakesmalice could sink into the mummy's flesh, however, an iron grip closed about the blade, arresting his strike. Brunner tried to pull his sword free, but it was trapped as firmly as gold dust in a dwarf's fist.

  The mummy tore the sword from Brunner's grasp as if the bounty hunter was a sickly child. Casually, it tossed the weapon aside. Then it reached forward to grab the man who had been presumptuous enough to attack it. The bounty hunter dodged the mummy's grasp, drawing a throwing kn
ife and hurling it at the monster. The blade sank into the mummy's chest, causing a puff of corpse dust to rise from the wound. The monster did not pay the slightest attention to its injury, but reached out once more for its foe.

  Brunner scrambled from the groping creature. Planting a hand firmly on the top of the table, he jumped over it, placing it between himself and the undead horror. The mummy did not pause; it strode forward and closed its claws around the edge of the table. Effortlessly, the mummy flipped the heavy piece of furniture onto its side and swatted the obstruction from its path.

  Brunner retreated once again. As he stepped back, his foot struck something lying on the floor. The bounty hunter glanced down to see Mahrun's blessed stake lying beside his boot. Quickly, he retrieved the weapon and held it dagger-like in his fist.

  The mummy did not hesitate to surge forward, its claws lunging for the bounty hunter. Summoning up every ounce of his courage, Brunner met the monster's attack, and braved the clutch of its skeletal hands to plunge the stake deep into the mummy's chest. The undead monster did not seem affected by whatever holy power had been woven into the stake. With the wooden spike protruding from its breast, its hands now closed about Brunner's body.

  The bounty hunter felt himself being lifted up by the monster, and swept up from the ground as though he were a rag doll. The mummy shifted its grip, holding Brunner over its head by his shoulder and thigh. The bounty hunter fumbled to free his axe from his belt. He had already driven Ursio's stiletto into the monster's palm as it clutched him with no effect. Every motion was a test of his will power. His mind began to darken, as pain surged where the mummy's crushing fingers bruised his bones. As Brunner struggled, he felt the first hint of pressure on his spine as the mummy began to bend his body.

  Suddenly, the pressure lessened. The mummy's head turned, as though it had been distracted by a noise. Dismissively the mummy tossed Brunner aside, sending him crashing into the shelves again. Brunner lay in a heap on the splintered floor, as still as the other bodies lying about the room.

  Nehb-ka-menthu paid the hired killer no further thought. It had sensed a familiar presence, a presence he had not encountered for thousands of years. After so many centuries, it would be interesting to renew his acquaintance and finish what had been left undone.

  THE SUN WAS casting its dying rays across the derelict district. The lingering twilight highlighted a black coach that almost blocked the narrow street. A pair of coal-black stallions snorted agitatedly before the elegant carriage, resisting the best efforts of a pasty-faced coachman to calm them. A group of armed men, nearly a dozen strong, clustered about the carriage, staring at the door of the coach and at the red-roofed building behind them.

  Contessa Carlotta de Villarias pulled aside the thick, veil-like black curtain that shrouded the windows of the carriage. She flinched from the fading orange light of the setting sun. Unlike many vampires, de Villarias was able to endure the rays of the sun, for a time, though she was weak during the bright hours of the day, and became filled with a sickness of stomach and heart. Her two devoted thralls were not so strong and they cringed in the coach, horrified at being outside before night had fully fallen.

  De Villarias smiled, as she always did when she forced her slaves to endure fear and hardship. The power of command, the compelling force she could exert over others was one of the few remaining things that still gave her pleasure. It was another reason she would exact her own measure of retribution on the bounty killer. In defying her, and refusing to submit to her beguiling gaze, he had denied her the satisfaction of dominating his will.

  Very well, the vampire would just have to extract a different measure of satisfaction from him. De Villarias licked her lips hungrily.

  'Is this wise, my lady?' asked Torici, cringing as far into the dark leather seat as he could. He was squinting distastefully at the faint light. The Lahmian turned her face toward her creature, irritation written on her features.

  'I have to agree with the fop,' snarled Relotto. His hand closed about the hilt of his duelling sabre, as though he might brandish the weapon at the sun to hasten its withdrawal. 'If the bounty killer has failed, it may be dangerous here. My lady should not endanger herself so.' Relotto smiled, showing his fangs. 'Leave this to me, my lady. I can deal with a mere mortal.'

  De Villarias considered her creature's words. Why was she here? If the bounty hunter had failed, if the withered husk of Nehb-ka-menthu contained even a fraction of that madman's hideous soul, then this was the last place she should be. The vampiress stroked the sleeping cat curled in her lap, seeking to dispel some of her doubt and fear in the comfort of the animal's fur.

  She was here because she needed to know. She needed to know if the bounty hunter had succeeded, if the deed had been done. She needed to know if that awful thing had been destroyed at last, whether the shadow that had haunted her through the centuries was no more. She could not sit idly within her decrepit palazzo and await word of the bounty hunter's fate - she had to see for herself, run her hands through the ashes of her ancient tormentor.

  But Relotto was right. What if the bounty hunter had failed? What if the foolish necromancer had awoken that dread carrion husk, to make even a vampire know fear? De Villarias shuddered at the image of that dry cadaverous shape swathed in the funeral wrappings. Of a tomb king clutching at her, bearing her back to the sandy wastes of Khareops, and resuming his vile experiments upon her. She pushed aside the curtain once more, watching the last rays of light fade.

  'You are right,' she said, staring out the window. 'Relotto, take the mortals and see what has transpired in the house.' She turned her piercing gaze on the thrall. 'If the bounty hunter is still alive, bring him to me.' She let her voice slip into a menacing undertone. 'Bring him to me alive, Relotto,' she warned. The duellist twisted his face as though he had swallowed something unpleasant, but nodded his head.

  'And the mummy?' asked Torici, hoping to unnerve his rival by suggesting that Relotto might have to deal with the abomination as well.

  De Villarias struggled to keep fear from her voice. 'See that it has been destroyed,' she answered after a pause. 'Whatever has happened, see that it has been destroyed!'

  RELOTTO LED THE contessa's human guards toward the ramshackle palazzo of the necromancer. They were a motley group of bewitched mercenary vermin, the sort of trash Relotto had cut open in countless street duels. True, they were devoted to the contessa, bound to her by supernaturally enforced chains of devotion and adoration. In the service of their mistress, these men would break before no enemy, no matter how terrible. Still, the vampire considered the mortal warriors with contempt as he addressed them. He was more than capable of dealing with the bounty hunter, and a shambling, stiff pile of bones. He would cut the head from that thing and present it to his mistress. He would show her that he alone was worthy of her attentions.

  'When we get inside, spread out and search every room,' the vampire ordered. 'If you find the bounty hunter, call out.' A cunning smile crossed the duellist's face. He had seen the way de Villarias had looked at the mortal. Did she really think that he had not seen her intentions toward him? Did she really think he would allow her to replace him with that scum? He tolerated Torici as he would a small, yappy dog, but the bounty hunter was another matter. 'I will deal with him myself,' the vampire hissed.

  Suddenly the wall of the house exploded in a shower of wood splinters and dust. Relotto and his warriors flinched from the violent display, covering their faces to ward away the flying debris. Striding from the wreckage was a tall, wiry figure, a cadaverous giant with glowing green eyes. The mummy did not pause; it advanced like an unstoppable juggernaut. It closed upon the nearest of Relotto's men, grabbing the warrior's sword arm and ripping it from its socket as a man might pull a drumstick from a cooked chicken. The mutilated warrior screamed wretchedly and fell, blood spurting in a crimson torrent from his mangled shoulder. While the man toppled, the withered corpse was in motion, chopping its hand into the face of a
second swordsman, pulverising the front of the man's skull, leaving him trying to scream through the crimson puddle that had replaced his face.

  The mummy turned from the ruin of the two warriors, finding its path blocked by the vampire Relotto. The duellist feinted toward the creature with the long dagger clenched in his right hand. For an instant, the green witch-fires burning in the monster's face focused on the weapon. The vampire struck, driving his sword into the mouldering wrappings that shrouded its emaciated remains. The fang of steel penetrated deep, its point emerging from the other side. The mummy, however, was not as easily disposed of as the vampire's usual prey. A powerful fist crashed down on the sword, snapping the blade.

  Relotto backed away, staring in momentary horror at the useless hilt he now held. Before him, the mummy clawed at the transfixing length of steel, pulling it back out of its body.

  The cold, emotionless movements of the mummy infuriated Relotto more than any amount of bravado could have done. He gripped his dagger in both hands, bared his fangs and leapt at the ancient cadaver with the full fury of his supernatural strength. It was an attack that the vampire had resorted to in the past when overcome by anger and red rage. In such a frenzy, he had once torn apart a bear with no more than his bare hands and unholy might. How much easier would the rotten remains of the priest-king crumble apart under his mangling claws?

  Relotto fell away from the mummy, his berserk leap transformed into an agonising fall. The vampire pawed at his chest where the mummy had driven the snapped steel of his own blade. Relotto tried to draw it from his cold, blood-ridden heart. The vampire paused in his labour to look up, to stare at the shadow that had fallen upon him. The mummy of Nehb-ka-menthu was tossing aside the torso of an axe-wielder it had torn in two when the man had tried to come to the vampire's aid. It did not look down as it raised its cloth-wrapped foot and brought it crashing down upon Relotto's head, grinding the vampire's skull as a man might grind a beetle under his heel.