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

by C L Werner (lit)

  Brunner dug a small piece of copper from a pouch on his belt and threw it down to the hoary old man. 'Thanks for the oracle, grey one,' he said. 'Now I know that both spiders and snakes are in my future.' With a contemptuous snort, Brunner edged his horse away from the fortune teller, but the beggar staggered forward once more, the copper coin forgotten in the dirt at his feet.

  'Something more. Much more, yes! A warning,' the old man said, and this time there was a note of fear in his voice. 'Where you go,' the man's voice fell into a low whisper, 'tempt not the Mardagg.'

  Brunner's horse began to snort in alarm when the beggar whispered the final word of his prophecy, as if the animal had nearly trodden upon a serpent. It took the bounty hunter a full minute to calm his mount. When he turned about to question the beggar further, the old man was gone. Brunner cast his gaze over the ranks of the other mendicants, but the white-bearded prophet was not to be found among them.

  The bounty hunter's thoughts dwelled on the strange old beggar as he passed out from the walls of Pavona. Doomsayers and prophets were commonplace in the great cities of the Old World, deluded and crazed beggars even more so. Still, there had been something unsettling about the wretch, something that made Brunner wonder who and what the man might once have been.

  The walls of Pavona began to diminish in the distance as Brunner rode through the farmlands and peasant villages that crowded outside the city, yet his thoughts were still on the old man's strange words. What would he find in Remas, Brunner wondered?

  THE BOUNTY HUNTER had a fair distance to travel. Remas lay to the north and east of Pavona, nearly a hundred and fifty miles as the crow might fly. But it was a much longer distance on the ground, for the roads were few and progressively more ill-tended the further from Pavona they became, marks that the land itself was no longer firmly under the domination of man. Just two days' ride from Pavona and the only traces of civilisation were the dirt road upon which the bounty hunter travelled and the occasional ruined traces of some villa or farm house lurking just off the path. The days of peace and tranquillity had deserted Tilea, forcing the wealthy merchants from their country villas and back into the overcrowded cities. The wilds were still not quite so hazardous as those of the Empire, but there were enough unnatural things prowling the countryside to make them not so devoid of danger as they had been in ages past.

  Late in the afternoon of his fifth day from Pavona, Brunner chanced upon stark evidence of the dangers presented by the Tilean country. Smoke rose lazily from a mass of charred wood and canvas strewn about the road. It soon became apparent that the wreckage was the remains of a dozen or so wagons, their cargo of sailcloth and timber consumed along with the wagons themselves. Scattered amid the wreckage were a number of rotting bodies, the wagon masters and their guards.

  Brunner dismounted and inspected one of the bodies, rolling it onto its back with his steel-toed boot. The purple-faced corpse that stared up at him crawled with maggots, big black corpse-flies flitting from the body's mouth. The skin of the slain guard was blackening, sloughing from his bones. Brunner could see a great gash in the man's mail shirt, and it seemed to him that where the cut had been made, the metal was corroded. By the evidence of the smoke rising from the charred remains of the wagons, these men had been slain not more than a day ago. Yet the body he looked upon had the rotted look of a man weeks in the grave.

  The bounty hunter stalked away from the corpse and remounted his horse. Brunner had seen such remains before, and he knew that the agents of such death were far fouler and more loathsome than orcs or beastmen. He did not look forward to running into such degenerates on his own.

  As Brunner rode away from the scene of carnage, his eyes chanced to fall upon a body that certainly did not belong among the slaughtered men of the caravan. Clearly the murderers had not been able to enact their butchery with complete impunity; the slaughtered men of the caravan had evidently brought down at least one of their attackers. It was a bulky form in grey plate armour, great rusty chains lashed about its shoulder pads and interconnected across its chest. Gruesome, rotting trophies dangled from the chains: severed hands, tongues and even less pleasant organs. Great fat worms writhed in the decaying tissue of the trophies, filthy black things that looked like animated veins.

  The warrior's head was enclosed in a great helm fashioned like the head of a scavenger bird. The corpse flies were even thicker around the dead warrior, and rose in an irritated cloud as the bounty hunter rode nearer. As the flies took wing, Brunner could see the crude sign that was emblazoned upon the breast of the dead raider's armour, and he felt a wave of revulsion seize his gut. It was a simple sign, three interconnected circles, each radiating a single arrow, but its power was not in its complexity, but in what it represented. It was the mark of one of the great powers of Chaos; Brunner had seen it before, in a plague-stricken district near Miragliano some time past.

  The bounty hunter fought down his revulsion, spitting a blob of bilious phlegm on the dead warrior's armour. His wary gaze considered the surrounding countryside more closely than before.

  Deciding at last that no lurking ambushers had remained behind, Brunner urged his animals onward, his pace slightly faster now. Knowing for certain now that there were Chaos-worshippers prowling the vicinity, and in numbers great enough to strike down an armed caravan, the bounty hunter was even more eager to put the wilds behind him.

  A FEW HOURS later, as the sun began to set, the bounty hunter came upon a second caravan. The terrain had become even closer, stands of trees with thin trunks and small leaves spreading to either side of the narrow road, permitting only a limited view of whatever might lie just off the road. Brunner was eyeing the woods with great suspicion, knowing that a location such as this would be a prime site to spring another ambush. This caravan, however, was no cluster of burning wreckage and rotting corpses; instead, Brunner found himself gazing upon a half-dozen wagons, laden down with bundles of dyed wool from the north, barrels of olives from the Trantine Hills, and other, less readily identifiable goods.

  The caravan was just making camp for the evening, the wagons arranged into a barricade across either end of the road. Brunner could see several of the drovers bustling about tending their horses while other men prepared a fire at the centre of the camp. The bounty hunter could also see a number of armoured figures prowling about between the wagons, inspecting the makeshift barricade.

  It would be easy to bypass the encamped caravan, but Brunner considered once more the unpleasant nature of the dead raider he had discovered on the site of the massacre. There were some decidedly nasty things about, and it would pay to be cautious until he was safely arrived in Remas. His decision made, the bounty hunter slowly rode toward the camp, one hand casually resting on the grip of his pistol.

  'That's far enough!' a hard voice called out from the line of wagons when Brunner had come within fifty feet of them. The bounty hunter could see three men aiming weapons in his direction, two crossbows and a bulky-looking handgun. Brunner could see at least another dozen men peering over and beneath the beds of the wagons, some of them drawing blades from their scabbards. He also caught a faint motion from the side of the camp and soon heard the furtive rustle of a body moving stealthily through the trees.

  Brunner reined in his horse, staring for a moment at the speaker. He was an older man, tending toward fat, wearing a gaudy red coat of some heavy cloth, an outrageously plumed hat scrunched onto his head. The man's full-featured face bore an air of command, but also a suggestion of fear. Indeed, now that Brunner considered it, he saw the same nervousness on almost all of the other faces he could see, drovers and mercenaries. Apparently the bounty hunter wasn't the only one who had come upon the massacre site.

  'Who are you?' the plump man demanded. 'Speak quickly or my men will shoot!'

  'Just a traveller,' Brunner replied, keeping his voice as even and pleasant as he could manage. When he saw the doubtful look on the merchant's face, Brunner straightened his position in hi
s saddle. He smiled grimly as he noted the three marksmen adjust their aim slightly to account for his movement. 'You must think I'm a ten-fold fool. I can see that you have me in check. Even if your men there miss me, I know you have another fellow flanking me in the woods just to my right.' A low curse rose from the bounty hunter's right. Brunner stared out the corner of his helm to see a wiry man wearing black leather armour come stalking out of the trees, a crossbow gripped in his hands. The look on the sneaking marksman's sharpfeatured face was murderous. He lifted his weapon, keeping it trained on the bounty hunter.

  'A traveller, eh?' the merchant said. 'And how do we know that's all you are? How do we know that you're not in league with the scum that hacked down the caravan we passed this afternoon?' As the merchant spoke, there were sombre nods from some of his men.

  Brunner was preparing a retort when a voice called out from within the camp.

  'He's what he says he is, Emiliano,' said a loud voice in a Reiklander accent. Brunner watched the speaker emerge from the cover of the wagons. The man wore an elaborately engraved breastplate over a bright blue shirt. A brace of pistols and a slender longsword dangled from a brass-studded belt about the man's waist while steel armour covered much of his upper legs. Black leather cavalry boots completed his costume, save for the dull steel helm that guarded his skull. The face of the rounded helm was open, exposing a countenance that had seen too much of the world to still be considered young. The skin was dark and leathery, weathered by years of exposure to the hot sun of the south.

  The man's blond moustache and keen blue eyes betrayed his northern origin however, every bit as much as the rampant griffon upon his breastplate and the accent in his voice.

  'I met him in Miragliano shortly after we arrived,' the mercenary said, turning away from his employer and walking away from the barricade. 'Apparently, he is a bounty hunter of some note.' As the captain made this statement, the marksman in the trees gave a disgusted, hateful hiss. 'An unpleasant sort, but not a follower of the Ruinous Powers.'

  The mercenary captain strode towards Brunner, stopping when he was only ten feet away. Brunner focused his attention on the man. He remembered only too clearly their last meeting. This time, the man was not drunk, and backed by more than a few besotted companions as he had been in the Black Boar. More, Brunner could see by the way the mercenary carried himself that he was a man who knew his business, who knew how to handle a sword and had depended upon it for his livelihood for quite some time. The bounty hunter considered his options, not liking the conclusions he was drawing. Even if he was able to best the mercenary in a fair combat, he knew that the waiting marksmen would quickly avenge their captain's loss.

  'I see you still carry the sword,' the mercenary declared, pointing a gloved finger at the dragon-hilted shape against Brunner's left thigh. The bounty hunter did not speak, fixing his eyes upon those of the sell-sword. The mercenary met Brunner's gaze. 'Tell me,' he asked in a sombre voice, 'that story you told me about how you came by the sword, was it the truth?'

  Brunner sneered at the mercenary. 'Lies are what we tell those we fear,' he said. He cast a furtive glance at the black-garbed marksman as the man moved to complete his flanking of the bounty hunter, then returned his attention to the man before him.

  The mercenary captain was quiet for a moment, his face unreadable. Then he nodded, reaching a decision. He lifted one of his gloved hands, waving his fingers. Ahead of him, Brunner could see the other mercenaries relax, the marksmen withdrawing their weapons. Brunner looked back to the blond-haired captain and nodded. The Reiklander returned the gesture.

  'If you would share our camp,' the mercenary said, 'I would hear a more complete account of Albrecht Yorck's demise.'

  'That is a small enough thing,' the bounty hunter replied. 'But why should it interest you? Of what matter is this sword and a slaughtered pig to you?'

  'My father was a soldier in the service of the man to whom that sword rightfully belonged,' the mercenary said, indicating the dragon-hilted weapon once more. He turned to make his way back to the camp.

  'What was his name?' Brunner called after the mercenary.

  'Zelten,' the mercenary said, turning around once more. 'Karl Zelten, Rittmeister to the Baron von Drakenburg.' There was a swelling pride in the mercenary's voice as he spoke of his father and his position with the deposed baron. 'I am his eldest son, Manfred Zelten,' the mercenary concluded with equal pride, turning on his heel and resuming his march back to the encampment.

  THE SHADOWS HAD grown long by the time Brunner had finished relating his story to the mercenary captain. Manfred Zelten had listened with marked interest from the folding camp chair he had removed from one of the wagons. Around him, a number of his sell-swords had gathered, eager to hear this tale which so interested their captain, among them the heavy, bear-like warrior who had risen to the defence of Zelten in the Black Boar and the wiry marksman who had tried to flank the bounty hunter during the earlier stand-off.

  The story Brunner told was simple enough. He had been hired by the down-trodden people of Yorckweg, a miserable little town in the Border Princes, to remove their despotic ruler, a usurper named Albrecht Yorck. The bounty hunter had infiltrated the town and found the tyrant, feeding Yorck's belly the full length of his sword before kicking the expiring man down into his fighting arena to be torn apart by his own wardogs. As a way of supplementing the meagre funds offered by the peasants, Brunner had relieved Yorck of his magnificent sword before knocking him down into the pit to meet a well-deserved end.

  The relating of Yorck's gruesome demise brought a look of shock and horror to the face of the merchant, Emiliano Tacca, perhaps more due to the cold, emotionless tones in which it was recounted than anything else. Several of the listening mercenaries chuckled however, applauding the ruthless act with their grim humour. Zelten himself wore a broad smile, clearly pleased by what he had heard.

  'Nothing less than the swine deserved,' the Reiklander spat. 'You did the Empire a service removing that scum from the ranks of the living.'

  'I gather you knew this Albrecht Yorck,' Brunner stated, crouching beside the fire.

  'Indeed, he was seneschal to Baron von Drakenburg, second in command of his soldiers, among other duties.' Zelten's face grew hard as he recalled the man. 'It is because of his treachery that my father and many other brave warriors are dead.'

  'I suspect that you have your own tale to tell.' the bounty hunter observed.

  Zelten looked over at the heavily-muscled bear-like man. 'Horst, ensure that the rotation schedule for the sentries is maintained. Two in camp, one in the trees at either side of the road. I want no tired eyes watching over us when Chaos is abroad.' The bear-like Horst Brendle nodded, muttering a curse on all those who would bow before the Dark Gods, and strode away to carry out his captain's orders.

  'I fear that my own story has a less pleasing finish than yours,' Zelten admitted when he returned his attention to the bounty hunter. 'As I mentioned, my father was captain of cavalry to the Baron von Drakenburg, a noble house whose lands lie upon the Reikland side of the Grey Mountains. He was a very wealthy man, as his domain included Iron Pass, a slender finger through a break in the Grey Mountains which allowed passage between the Empire and Bretonnia. Unfortunately, the Baron's Bretonnian neighbour was a very ambitious man, a villain named de Chegney, a viscount with less honour and decency about him than an orc.'

  The bounty hunter's gaze became even harder as he heard the treacherous Bretonnian lord mentioned. 'Much of the baron's wealth was poured into building forts and arming soldiers to protect his lands from the viscount's numerous and unrelenting attempts to expand his domain eastward. It is a testament to the baron's tactical acumen and the quality of his soldiers that the Viscount de Chegney was repulsed every time, sent back to Bretonnia to lick his wounds.'

  Zelten snapped his fingers and an elderly looking soldier advanced. The old veteran wore a suit of often-mended plate mail about his lean yet-powerful frame, the faded
outline of a laurelwreathed skull visible on his greaves and breastplate. The veteran cast a dubious look at his captain, his wrinkled face further disfigured by a worried scowl. The mercenary handed his captain a lead flask which Zelten took from him without a word. The younger man took a long pull from the bottle, then stared at the flask for a moment before handing it back to the veteran. There was something akin to relief in the older man's face as he returned the flask to a pouch on his belt and withdrew.

  Fortified by whatever he had imbibed, Zelten continued to speak. 'For many years this went on, until at last, the viscount himself proposed an end to the fighting. He proposed a treaty with Baron von Drakenburg, a treaty that would be sealed with blood.

  The viscount's son would marry the baron's daughter, thus uniting their houses and fortifying the peace with a bond stronger than mere words. After much thought and consultation with his advisors, the baron at last agreed to the marriage and the treaty.' Brunner listened to Zelten speak, clenching and unclenching his swordhand, as though eager to grip the hilt of his blade. The mercenary did not notice the gesture and continued with his tale. 'Although no coward, the baron had grown weary of the constant skirmishes and raiding, and this proposed alliance seemed the only chance for bringing peace to his realm. The marriage was announced, to be held on neutral ground, a glade located along Iron Pass, midway between the two realms. The two factions would each bring however many soldiers they desired and the ceremony would be conducted by both a priest of our most Holy Sigmar and a cleric of Bretonnia's Lady of the Lake.'

  'The wedding itself passed without incident. Indeed, even the most sceptical of the baron's men had to admit that it seemed that at last his troubled realm would know peace. How could they have imagined the black-hearted deceit that was the true intention of the viscount? How could the baron have imagined how deep the Bretonnian's foul reach had stretched into his own barony? Riding back from the wedding, with his loyal,' the mercenary fairly sneered the word, 'seneschal Albrecht Yorck by his side, the baron dared to hope that the security and happiness of his land had been secured, that it would know no more the sound of battle, at least in his time. But the wedding feast had been long, and the hour had grown late. At the suggestion of Yorck, the baron's party did not head back toward the massive walls of the Schloss von Drakenburg, but instead diverted their path toward a small border fort. It seemed a most reasonable thing to do, with the sun long faded from the sky and many hours' travel before reaching the warm halls of the Schloss.'