by Warhammer
Stepping around the huge man raining punches upon the now slack form of the Sartosan sailor, Rocha entered the beer hall. Merchants and ships from all over the Old World came to Miragliano, from Marienburg and the Empire, to Araby and the near mythical elf realm of lllthuan. And for every breed that came to Miragliano's cluttered markets and swarming docks, there could be found a drinking hole to match their particular cultural tastes. The Black Boar, Rocha knew, was a beer hall operated by a displaced Reiklander brewer, and catered especially to the needs of men from the Empire a familiar setting in a foreign land. Rocha was certain that at some point, the man he was looking for would show himself in the beer hall.
Rocha entered the dark building. The ceiling was much higher than might have been expected, for the floor was set well below street level. The cause of this architectural irregularity was clustered about the end of the massive bar. It was a bar that sloped from the chest height of a man, to terminate at just above kneeheight at its far end. Numerous dwarfs, their dress ranging from the robes of tradesmen to the armour of mercenaries, were clustered about the short end of the bar, downing overflowing steins of white-capped beer.
The dwarfs were not the only ones who clustered within the tunnel-like hall, seeking a taste more substantial than the thin Tilean wines and Bretonnian ales of other taverns. Rocha could see men from such diverse places as Marienburg, Altdorf and Nuln. A dour group seated about a large round table had the fur caps and drooping moustaches of the far north: Kislevite horsemen, come to sell their martial prowess to the merchants of the south.
The Tilean turned his eyes from the Kislevites and scanned the dark niches cut into the far wall of the beer hall. There were small private tables for those who wanted to see what manner of patron entered the Black Boar without themselves being seen first. The gleam of steel reflected in the dim light cast by the hanging lanterns of the tavern caught Rocha's eye and he advanced upon one of the darkened niches.
Rocha removed his hat as he approached, wringing it in both hands. It was partially a gesture of nervousness, but also a measure of caution, lest he accidentally make any motion that might be construed as a play for the dagger in his belt.
'Say your piece,' a steel voice intoned from the shadows, halting Rocha in his steps.
'My master, the most esteemed merchantman Ennio Corbucci Volonte...' Rocha began, bowing slightly to his shadowy accoster.
'Volonte,' the shadow scoffed. Rocha could see a head leer from the darkness. It was clothed in steel, a black helm in the rounded sallet style favoured by Imperial militia. Cold eyes stared out from the visor of the helm. A gloved hand raised a small clay cup to the exposed mouth below the edge of the helm. 'Volonte is a leech and a parasite, who lends money to men who can ill afford to repay what they have borrowed, let alone the extortionate interest.'
The man in the shadows shifted forward still more, exposing a lean, muscular body clothed in a suit of brigandine armour, a heavy-bladed falchion sword strapped to his side, a belt of long knives crossing his chest. 'That bloodworm has never been one to spend the gold he makes. My price is more than he can stomach. Let him deal with street thugs and unemployed duellists, let him look to the gutter trash he knows so well.'
Rocha smiled fawningly, diplomatically overlooking the slights upon the name and reputation of his master. He bobbed his head in appeasement. 'It is true, my master has never had cause to engage a collector of your calibre. But he now finds himself set upon by a matter not only of errant debitry, but also of familial honour.'
The bounty hunter mulled over the Tilean's words for a moment, keeping to himself any dubious thoughts about Volonte's familial honour. He rose from the darkness, striding towards Rocha from the depths of the niche.
'You have earned my interest,' Brunner stated, retrieving a small compact crossbow from the bench. 'Lead on,' he gestured with a gloved hand towards the steps leading back up to the street. 'But your master had better have conquered his miserly ways,' the bounty hunter warned. 'Men who take me from my vices only to waste my time do not find me agreeable company.'
The room was cold and clammy, almost like the preparation room in a temple of Morr. A lavish portrait of nubile wood nymphs consorting with horned satyrs dominated one wall, its gilded frame tarnished in the gloom, its colours overtaken by mildew and rot. A similar fate seemed destined for the exquisite marble statue of some slender and naked maiden that loomed beside a massive oak table that formed the focal point of the room. Behind it, seated in a high-backed chair, was a great greasy puddle of flesh that might once have resembled a man. He stared at the bounty hunter.
Ennio Corbucci Volonte was one of many money-lenders in Miragliano, but his were the fattest fingers, the greasiest thumbs. His bribes went higher than most men, his retinue of thugs and enforcers more brutal than any. It was said that Volonte would loan a gold crown to anyone, because he would see five returned to him before the month was out. And if he did not, the streets of Miragliano were teeming with beggars who sought to placate the toad-like man, even after his enforcers had reduced them to penury. And, darker rumours averred, the money-lender even had ways to turn a profit from the dead passing their parts off to alchemists and herbalists for use in the concoction of remedies and elixirs, and selling the refuse to sausage makers who, it was also said, had never laid eyes upon a hog.
The fat man rolled forward in his chair. His maggot-like fingers were fitted with rings, the rolls of fat flesh almost engulfing the bands of gold.
Volonte swept a greasy lock of black hair from his face, staring into the eyes of the bounty hunter with his own swine-like orbs.
'Bertolucci,' the fat man wheezed, as if every breath spent away from the plate of roast fowl set before him came at great exertion. 'I want Bertolucci, bounty killer.'
'So your minion explained,' Brunner returned, unfazed by the money-lender's attempt to affect an air of superiority. His gloved hand casually rested about the pommel of the heavy falchion sword at his side.
'He has wronged me terribly,' the money-lender croaked. 'I lent him a tremendous sum, in good faith, to fund a business venture I wanted to invest in.' Brunner noted that Volonte was careful not to mention the exact sum, lest he give the bounty hunter any ideas about his own fee. 'But more than this, he insisted that I allow my daughter, my lovely Giana, my only child...' The thin, rasping noises issuing from Volonte's throat resembled belching more than sobbing and were silenced quickly as the money-lender continued to speak. 'Bertolucci insisted that I make my daughter wed his pig of a son! To seal our pact with blood! As if his were some great and noble house!'
'Get to the quick of it, fat man,' Brunner's icy voice intoned.
'Ninety in silver,' the money-lender croaked. 'Ninety in silver when you bring me Bertolucci's heart.' Volonte's fat fist opened in a clutching, clawing motion. 'When you place it in my hand.'
'Ninety it is,' the bounty hunter said, his voice level and emotionless. 'But it will be gold, not silver.' Brunner gestured with his gloved hand. 'This is a matter of revenge, not restitution, as I understand it. Passion such as that is costly. And besides,' Brunner said as he turned away from the scowling face of Volonte, 'she was your only daughter.'
The dingy cellar beneath the tannery stank of rotten cabbage and spoiled fruit. Strips of wet cloth were hung from the beams that supported the floor above, in a desperate attempt to fend off the heat of day. Brunner picked his way through the wet strips of cloth, penetrating the maze-like veils to reach his goal a shabby wooden cot that crouched like a crippled beast in the far corner of the cellar, where the stench was less and the shadows more. A form stirred upon that cot, and Brunner watched as it reached out to light a stubby candle with a strange device of flint and steel.
'Ah, Brunner,' the voice of the figure called out as the light of the candle revealed the bounty hunter's armoured shape. The form on the cot was revealed as well: an emaciated thing, little more than a bag of bones, withered by age and unnatural disease alike. The face
of the man was skull-like, his skin dark with small bony growths like little nubs of teeth embedded in the flesh of cheek and forehead. One hand was a perfectly natural, albeit shrunken and gaunt. The other was a trio of long, worm-like digits, short tentacles that gripped the candle in a loathsome parody of fingers. The bounty hunter strode forward, undisturbed by the sight of the mutant.
'I need information, Tessari,' the bounty hunter said, seating himself in a battered wooden chair opposite the cot.
'No one ever just comes just to visit me,' the mutant sighed, his watery eyes rolling skyward. 'They always come because they want something.'
'Maybe it is because your son charges three pieces of copper to let anyone come down here,' Brunner replied. Tessari drew himself up as straight as his frame would allow.
'Hmph! That bastard! I should have brained him when he was a babe in arms!' The mutant leaned toward the bounty hunter. 'Do you know that that rascal has started letting children pay their way down here? "See the Beast in the Cellar", let the urchins have their morbid little eyes gawk at my affliction.'
'I came here to ask what you knew about Ennio Volonte and Goffredo Bertolucci,' the bounty hunter snapped. 'There was a time, before your affliction, when you knew quite a bit about everyone in Miragliano. But perhaps the rot has crawled into your brain as well as your hand.' Brunner rose from the chair, but Tessari's human hand beckoned him to sit once more.
'Not going to grace me with the pleasure of human company and a few kind words?' the mutant asked, his voice heavy. Noting the lack of compassion on the bounty hunter's face, the mutant sighed. 'You always were a ruthless bastard, Brunner. What do you want to know?' Brunner leaned forward, his helm gleaming in the candlelight.
'Bertolucci has fled Miragliano,' the sharp voice of the killer rasped. 'Where would he have gone?'
'How can you be certain he has left the city?' the mutant challenged.
'Because if he hadn't, Volonte's men would have found him by now. Bertolucci, his son, Volonte's daughter and about twenty of his household have vanished. Almost as if the Chaos gods plucked them from his villa and whisked them away to the Wastes'
'Bertolucci does not have much money,' Tessari mused. 'After this thing with Volonte, he is almost as badly off as myself. Now where might he go?' Tessari turned his face to stare into Brunner's eyes. The palm of his human hand was turned upwards. Brunner placed a pair of silver coins in the mutant's hand.
'In better days, many of the wealthy families of Miragliano kept villas in the country, before the beastmen and the orcs drove them back into the stink of the city.' The mutant laughed, the sound dry and moist at the same time. 'The Bertoluccis had a villa somewhere to the north of here, a winery as I recall. Perhaps he has decided that the dangers of the city outweigh those of the country. Perhaps he has gone home.'
'Thank you,' Brunner said, plucking the coins from Tessari's hand. The mutant sat bolt upright, snarling at the bounty hunter. His face twisted into something as bestial as his tentacled hand.
'Don't worry, I'll be back,' Brunner said. 'You'll get paid when I return.'
'Do you actually think Volonte is going to pay you for killing Bertolucci?' the mutant sneered. 'Did he tell you why he wants Bertolucci dead?'
Brunner turned back towards the mutant. 'Something about his daughter and a broken business deal.'
Tessari laughed again, the sound both louder and more liquidladen than before.
'Is that what he told you?' the mutant gasped between cacklings. Volonte's daughter and Bertolucci's son had for months been secretly attending one another in the long hours before dawn. They are in love, you see. But that toad Volonte was not about to give away his only daughter without a substantial profit. I think the reptile had thoughts that he might marry her off to some petty lord and thereby ooze his way into the noble classes. Be that as it may, he at last relented, but only on condition that Bertolucci allow Volonte into a business dealing that promised a great reward.
'Spices. Spices from Araby, Brunner, worth their weight in gold. That was what Volonte wanted. For his consent to the marriage, he was allowed to invest in Bertolucci's enterprise, though the moneylender forced Bertolucci to squeeze out all of the other investors. The money-hungry maggot could not bear the thought that other men might profit alongside himself. This destroyed Bertolucci's reputation and made enemies of many that were once his friends. And many of those laughed when news arrived that the ship bearing the spices from Araby was lost claimed by pirates, storm, or some horror of the deep. You can imagine that Volonte was the most upset of them all. He had lost his investment and the chance to marry his daughter to some great advantage. So now he sends you, the wolfhound, to bring his prey to ground and slake his thirst for retribution.' The mutant's eyes glittered in the flickering candlelight, studying the reaction his words had caused.
After a moment, the bounty hunter turned his back to the mutant.
'I care not for the whys of it,' Brunner said, stalking away. 'Only that there is money waiting at the end.'
The countryside beyond Miragliano was rolling, hilly terrain, marked by isolated pockets of humanity, but, more often, vast stretches of uninhabited wildland. Streams and brooks snaked their way along the deep hollows between the hills, encouraging the thick woods that filled each of the valleys. To the north side of the boulder-strewn hills and their forested hollows was a great plain of sandy, level ground. Stands of thin, scraggly trees were scattered in clumps, sometimes only a few dozen, other times a few hundred, forming an irregular forest.
The occasional stretch of level, grassy earth showed where farms had once stood, or, more rarely, where some hardy peasant still fought to wrest a living from the land. A path of brown dirt snaked its way between the trees and rocks, passing each of the farms, deserted or occupied, a relic of the time when there had been peace and safety in the hills of Tilea.
Two travellers made their way along the path, haste warring with caution for mastery over their steeds. One of the travellers was a large man, his powerful body encased in a tunic of hardened leather further toughened by strips of steel riveted to the garment. A rounded helm covered the man's head, the low cheek-guards fanning outward to join the rounded rim. A long sabre hung from a scabbard at his side and a heavy crossbow was strapped to the saddle of his horse. The man cast wary glances to right and left as they proceeded on their journey, his hard features betraying none of the fear that gripped him. There were things abroad, the soldier knew, things inhuman and unclean.
The other rider was mounted upon a short, shaggy-pelted burro. The little creature kept pace with its larger kin with great effort, its shorter steps causing it to fall behind several lengths before a brief burst of speed would bring it beside the horseman once more. No saddle graced the burro's back, only a thick blanket of wool. Seated upon that blanket, her legs thrown across the left side of the animal, rode a woman dressed in a hooded robe of pure white. Her face, framed by the fringe of her hood, was not unhandsome, but the stamp of age was creeping into it, the first webwork of wrinkles trickling away from the corners of her eyes.
Elisia had been a priestess in the service of Shallya for most of her life. Her family had been taken from her by plague; a husband and three children lost to an outbreak of the dreaded red pox. Somehow, though she too had become ill, she had recovered, and in her survival had seen the mercy of the goddess. She had devoted her life to Shallya, joining a shrine deep in the countryside, catering to the needs of the poor peasants and farmers who braved the wild to feed the swarming cities. Somewhere, in the long years of healing the sick, tending the wounded and soothing the bereft, Elisia had discovered within herself another woman, a woman far different from the one whose life the red pox had ravaged.
The priestess brought her burro to a halt as the soldier reined in his horse. She looked up at the armed man, a questioning look on her face.
'What is it, Gramsci?' she asked. 'Do you see the villa?'
The soldier kept his armoured
head staring down the path even as he replied to the priestess. 'There is a man on the road ahead.' He pointed his finger toward a figure, only distantly visible, ahead of them upon the road. The horseman slapped the reins in his hand against his steed's neck, urging it forward.
'Stay here, sister,' he called back as he left, 'I shall see what he is about.'
Gramsci rode towards the man he had seen, scanning the trees and brush for any sign of lurking banditti. He doubted that any brigands would be so bold as to attack a priestess, but it was not unknown for some follower of Ranald to return the contempt of Shallya's followers with the edge of a knife.
'That is close enough,' a cold voice arrested Gramsci. The soldier came to a halt as the armoured man before him pointed a crossbow in his direction. Gramsci tried to peer at the face of the man, but it was hidden behind the steel mask of his Imperial-style helmet.
'I mean you no harm, sir,' Gramsci offered, raising his hands. 'I am but escorting yon priestess upon an errand. Let us pass and we shall be upon our way.'
The bounty hunter stared at the soldier, then his attention turned away from Gramsci. The soldier stifled an annoyed groan as he heard the clopping steps of the burro draw up beside him.
'It is true, sir,' Elisia stated, not at all intimidated or threatened by the crossbow aimed at her. 'I am a servant of Shallya on a mission of mercy to aid this worthy swordsman's household. Please, sir, let us pass, for we bear you no threat.'
Brunner lowered the crossbow, striding back to the horses he had left tethered at the side of the road. 'If your travel takes you north of here,' the bounty hunter remarked as he returned the crossbow to a scabbard set into the harness of his packhorse, 'I should advise you to turn back now. Just this afternoon, I was set upon by three beastmen. Their numbers will only grow when the sun fades'