by Warhammer
'This damnable wolf!' the baron cursed, spilling wine from his goblet as he slammed it angrily against the table. The cheery lute music of the minstrels died away and conversation around the table fell to a hushed whisper. The celebration had done nothing to snap the baron from his brooding thoughts and now he was giving voice to his outrage.
'I can feel its damn fangs at my throat!' Friederick said, closing his clawed hand about his neck. 'It is bleeding me dry! The peasants are too frightened to work the fields, too terrified to tend the herds! My land is dying around me and there is no one to save it!'
'We have try, great boyar,' the words came from a dusky ruffian seated to Brunner's right. He was a stocky, powerfully built man, bald but with bushy eyebrows and moustache. His clothes were the furs and leather of a colder clime, heavy bearskin boots and a furry goat-hide jacket. The stink of sweat and kvas had soaked into the garments so that even the smell of the feast could not mask them. This, Brunner understood, was Kazan, one of the Kislevite wolf hunters.
'I have hunt the wolf in many land,' Kazan continued, pausing to noisily slurp down a goblet of wine and snap his fingers at a servant to bring more. 'I have the many pelt to show for my skill. One of my wolf, his hide sit in the Tsarina's palace, and no lie!' He tapped his chest. 'When Kazan tell you this wolf, he is clever, then you know it is truth. But he will no get away from Kazan and Pujardov!'
Kazan reached his arm beside him, grabbing the shoulder of the man seated next to him. Pujardov was much younger than Kazan, his thick black hair tied back in a long scalplock, his face just starting to darken with beard. Like the elder Kislevite, he wore rude garments of hide and leather and around his neck was a crude necklace of bear claws, talons that looked to be sharper than daggers, even removed from their original owners.
'Will that be before or after the crops fail!' quipped one of the aristocrats. Kazan glared at the courtier, but the arrival of another goblet of wine distracted him from the object of his ire.
'The wolf, very soon he is being mine,' Kazan promised. 'Pujardov saw sign of him only this night.'
The baron sneered at the boast. 'Nurse that wine, Kazan. It is liable to be the last you take from my table.' The old man scowled at the two wolf hunters. 'So your son found sign of the wolf, did he?' A crooked finger pointed at Brunner. 'This man saw more than sign. He saw the beast itself! That is more than you Kislevite layabouts have done in six months!'
Dietrich closed his hands on his father's shoulders, easing him back into his seat. 'They have done better than the other hunters,' he reminded his father. He stared directly into Brunner's icy eyes. 'The others were all killed by the wolf.'
Brunner set down the sliver of cormorant he had been eating. He stared back at Dietrich and smiled. 'If it is a wolf,' he said. He had kept certain things from Dietrich and his father, but the boasting of the Kislevites had made him think that perhaps he had made a mistake in doing so.
'What you mean, "if it is wolf"? You no think Kazan know wolf when he see his tracks!' The Kislevite grabbed the breast of Brunner's tunic, pulling the bounty hunter to his feet. 'You say that again!'
Brunner said nothing. Instead he buried a fist in the wolf hunters gut, doubling the man over, then brought his forearm smashing into Kazan's neck, spilling him onto the floor. A kick to the head ensured the Kislevite would stay there. Brunner stabbed his finger into Pujardov's face as the youth surged towards him, pointing straight between the boy's eyes. The menacing gesture brought the young Kislevite short and he took a step back.
'Enough of this!' shouted Dietrich. 'If you scum cannot conduct yourselves like civilised men, you can go take your supper in the kennels!'
Brunner shook his head and chuckled as he returned to his seat. A pair of servants dragged the unconscious Kazan away. Pujardov lingered for only a moment, then hurried after his father, pausing only to rip a bottle of wine from the hands of a valet.
'At least it smells better now,' the bounty hunter said, returning to the roast cormorant on his plate. Dietrich continued to glare at him, but whatever he was going to say was cut off by his father's voice.
'You say it is not a wolf, Kazan insists it is,' Friederick said. 'One of you must be wrong.'
'Kazan is an experienced wolf hunter,' Dietrich interrupted. 'What does this... this assassin know about hunting wolves?'
'It isn't a wolf,' Brunner repeated coldly. 'Did you ever see a wolf that walked upon its hind legs or had hands to close around its prey? Has Kazan told you how a wolf can ignore lead bullets and steel bolts, how it can dance away unmarked after being struck with an axe?'
'Then if it is not a wolf but some invulnerable monster, how did you escape?' Dietrich asked, his voice thin and mocking.
For an answer, Brunner tossed a few burnt weeds onto the table. The dramatic gesture brought gasps from those closest to him and those further away craned their necks to see what he had produced. Frieda rounded the table and stepped over Kazan's vacated seat to examine them.
'Hawthorn,' she pronounced, drawing away in revulsion. 'A strange weapon to use against a wild animal. How did you think to burn hawthorn to drive it away?'
Brunner rubbed a hand through his close-cropped hair, scanning his audience, trying to judge their mettle. Any community so far from the niceties of civilisation was likely to be more pragmatic than pious. Whatever he said, if they thought he could help end their problem he would be safe enough.
'I encountered an old woman in the forest.' Brunner said. 'It was she who gave me the weeds and told me how to use them.'
The reaction of the other listeners was nothing beside that of the baron. He straightened himself in his chair, leaning forward, gazing intently at Brunner.
'The woman! How was she called?' growled the baron. It was a demand, not a question.
'Miranda.' Brunner answered. 'Mamma Miranda.'
The baron's face became ashen. Trembling, he rose from his chair, then stumbled, relying upon his son to help lead him from the dining hall. Shocked silence followed his exit.
Brunner watched the noblemen leave, then looked over at Frieda. 'I guess that means dinner's over.'
As a valet showed Brunner to the room that had been prepared for him, he found himself suddenly face-to-face with the baron and his son. The old man was still visibly shaking, the sadness and defeat in his eyes even more pronounced.
'You were not lying when you spoke at my table?' the baron asked.
'I don't lie to people about to pay me five hundred crowns.' Brunner answered, his words clipped with irritation.
The baron grabbed his hand, holding it tight in his withered claw. 'You shall have a thousand, two thousand!' The offer faded into a wracking cough. Dietrich tried to assist the baron, but the old man waved him back.
'The witch!' the baron continued. 'Find her again. Tell her to lift this curse she has placed upon my lands! If she won't.' he paused, wondering if he dared voice the words. 'If she won't, kill her and bring her head back to me! Do this, and you shall have a fortune!'
Brunner remained impassive, detaching the baron's fingers from his hand and brushing them aside. Why not send a messenger to Wurtbad? You can have witch hunters here inside a week, and they will work much cheaper.'
The baron started to speak, then cast a nervous glance at his son and the valet. 'I need her gone now!' The authority drained out of his voice and his words became desperate, almost pleading. You will do it for me!'
'I'll take it under serious consideration.' Brunner answered, motioning for the valet to lead on. The servant hesitated, unsure if his master had finished speaking with his guest, but when the baron made no protest, he motioned for Brunner to follow him down the stone-walled corridor.
'Two thousand crowns!' the valet whistled once they were out of sight of the baron. 'You could buy all of Wurtbad with that much money! Still, to go after a witch...'
Brunner interrupted the lad's thoughts. You know where the Kislevites sleep?' he asked.
The valet blinke
d, confused by the abrupt question. 'Yes, of course.' He shivered as the bounty hunter took something from his belt and tossed it at him. Instinctively, the boy caught it, apprehension turning to joy when he found it to be a silver shilling.
You'll have to earn that,' Brunner warned him, causing the valet's grin to soften. He reached into his belt again, removing a small pouch. He handed it to the boy. 'I want you to grind that into their boots. They can't see you doing it and once it's done you can't say anything about it.'
The boy gulped at the implied threat, but nodded his understanding.
'One last thing,' Brunner told him. 'I want to know as soon as the Kislevites leave the castle tomorrow. There's an extra shilling in it for you if I can still smell kvas at the gates'
Brunner motioned for the valet to be off on his clandestine errand. He watched him race off, then turned and entered his room. It was not thoughts of witches and wolves that occupied him, it was the memory of Viktor's body and the marks the wolf had left upon it. How very different from the marks on the dead wolf hunter's body. Those wounds had looked like the sort of thing that might be left by a bear claw honed to razor-keenness.
Brunner strode across the courtyard of Castle Hartog, the chill of morning turning his breath to mist before him. He stepped into the stables. A young stable boy was sleeping just inside, nestled within a mound of hay. A kick roused the boy from his slumber. He blinked at the bounty hunter, eyes going wide with fright.
You've been here all night?' he demanded. The youth nodded, too afraid to speak. 'What did the Kislevites ask you to do to my horse?'
The boy shuddered, quickly scrambling to the pile of hay and digging in it for something. He swiftly turned back around, displaying a pair of cruel-looking triangular pieces of metal.
'He asked me to put these in their hooves,' the boy confessed. 'But I didn't do it! I swear I didn't, no matter what they paid me!' The lad's face turned a sickly green. 'I had a look in that barrel when we removed the tack from your packhorse. I wouldn't do nothing to provoke you, as Rhya is my witness I wouldn't!'
'Well spoken,' the bounty hunter's chill voice answered. He watched as the boy wilted beneath his gaze. 'A wise decision. Now I need you to fetch me a pig, the leaner the better, and a length of rope to use as a leash.' He waved the boy away. 'I'll take care of saddling my own horse.'
The bounty hunter cast a strange sight as he left the castle. Mounted on the back of his charger Fiend, he was crouched low in the saddle, watching the pink and brown swine the stable boy had found for him as it tugged and strained on the end of its leash. He set the beast down. Instantly its nose was snuffling against the ground, and it uttered a sharp squeal. The pig strained at the end of its rope. Brunner chuckled grimly to himself. Farmers in Bretonnia would train hogs to hunt truffles and they held that the noses of their hogs were sharper than any hound. He was counting that the snouts of the Empire's swine were no less keen. If there was one thing a pig enjoyed eating more than a truffle it was a snotling. The snotling dung he had the valet grind into the boots of the two Kislevites was something he doubted the slovenly wolf hunters would even notice, but to the pig, it was the scent of a most delicious supper.
Brunner let the eager pig lead the way. Wolf and witch would wait. First he would need to attend to his rivals. He had no intention of ending up like Otto and however many other hunters the treacherous Kazan and Pujardov had ambushed and killed.
For most of the morning, the boundless appetite of the pig guided Brunner through the winding paths of the forest. Even by day, there was a brooding intensity about the place, an air of lurking menace. The trees pressed in close about him and he found himself watching every shadow for signs of movement. He knew that Fiend would sense the wolf-beast long before he did, but he felt there was no reason not to be cautious just the same.
It was nearly noon before a sharp cry echoed through the forest. The bounty hunter was not surprised to find that the sound came from the direction the pig was leading him. He tied the end of the swine's leash to a branch and pressed on ahead. It seemed he had been harsh belittling the skills of the Kislevites. In only a few hours they had managed something it seemed the baron had never been capable of. They had caught the witch.
The two wolf hunters were crouched in a small clearing, a little fire burning on the ground between them. Lying on the ground, trussed up like a Sigmarzeit goose, was the old hag Mamma Miranda. Her feet, thrust full in the flames, had blackened, blood oozing from the split skin. Pujardov, kneeling close to her head, kept pouring kvas down her mouth each time she seemed about to pass out, the burning spirit snapping her back into awareness.
'It is so simple, little mama,' Kazan scolded. 'All you do is lift curse. I tell Lord Dietrich, Pujardov pulls your feet from fire and everyone happy.' The Kislevite stabbed a curved dagger into the soil, snorting with agitation. 'Why you so stubborn? You like to hurt? That is what make you glad?' He stood and drew an ugly-looking axe from his belt. 'It is your choice, little mama,' he sighed. 'Pujardov, hold out her hand. I start with thumb and work the way around.'
So intent were they on the vicious torture that the first the two wolf hunters were aware of Brunner's presence was when Fiend bolted out from the brush. The charger slammed into the stunned Kazan, knocking the man into the fire. He squealed and shrieked as he rolled across the ground, trying to douse his smoking garments. Pujardov rushed at Brunner, a spiked club in his hand. Brunner swung Fiend around, a kick of the charger's hoof sending the hunter's furred cap flying into the bushes and throwing the man himself to the ground.
'I kill you!' Kazan snarled, rising to his feet, the axe still clenched in his fists. 'I kill you, you son of...'
Brunner's pistol barked and Kazan's threat died in a gargle of blood. The bounty killer holstered the spent weapon and dropped down from the saddle. Pujardov groaned as Brunner strode past the prone Kislevite. Brunner reached down, grabbed hold of the youth's scalplock and slammed his face into the ground until he stopped moving.
Brunner rose from the unconscious wolf hunter and walked to the abused wreck of the old woman. Fire, it seemed, had not been the first motivational tool the two Kislevites had used on her.
Miranda's eyes fluttered, but she forced them to focus on the bounty hunter as he loomed over her. A vindictive smile spread across her face. 'So you took Mamma Miranda's advice,' she cackled, oblivious to the trickle of blood streaming from her mouth as she spoke.
'The baron is paying me two thousand crowns to end your curse,' Brunner told her. 'Whether you live or die doesn't interest him so long as the curse is lifted.'
The witch laughed, spitting gore into the grass. 'So he remembers me, does he? As well he should. It's not every man bold enough to take the virtue of a priestess' A sly grin worked its way through her pain. 'Though you might say it is a trait of the Hartogs!'
'The curse, witch!' Brunner growled. He was not certain what kind of magic there was in the old woman, but he did know what kind of damage had been done to her. Whatever she would do, she did not have long to do it.
'The curse!' Miranda cackled. 'Oh yes, it will survive old Mamma Miranda, have no fear. There's some things it is easy to invoke than send away.' She looked sternly into Brunner's eyes. 'Take no part in it!' she hissed. 'My Masters will not forgive me if you die because of my magic and death is no refuge from Their wrath!'
'Then end your enchantment!' Brunner said.
'You don't understand what I've done,' the witch answered. 'What is done can't be taken back! "Even the noble heart, that fears not Old Night, may be cursed and damned, by the werekin's bite!" It was the blood of the werekin I mixed into the philtre, to damn and destroy the baron's preening son!'
Brunner found himself recoiling from the hag's slobbering words. The werekin, men that wore the shape of beasts at the full of Morrslieb, things so terrible that most insisted they were nothing more than fable and traveller's tale. He remembered the strange paws of the wolf and the terrible intelligence in its stran
ge eyes. Was that what the witch had summoned to work her revenge?
Miranda was laughing again, forcing herself onto her elbows. 'End the enchantment you say?' Blood dribbled down her chin as she laughed. 'Oh, aye, that I can do, and won't the baron and his son be so happy when it is done!' Brunner thought the words would be her last, as the ravaged body shuddered in a spasm of coughing. But the witch had strength enough to point at the curved dagger Kazan had stabbed into the ground.
'There is your key, Brunner of Drakenberg!' she hissed. 'Cut the beast but once with that blade and the enchantment will be broken! Aye, the enchantment will be broken!' Another fit of laughter gripped her, but this time there was no strength to sustain the toll it took from her body. She collapsed, her last breath wheezing from her bloodied lips.
Brunner bent to the earth and retrieved the dagger from the ground. He slid it beneath his belt and moved on to the chore of binding Pujardov. The wolf hunter regained awareness just as he was finishing the labour. Pujardov struggled against his bonds, but found himself trussed tightly to the trunk of a fir tree.
'Save your energy,' Brunner advised Pujardov as he stepped away. You'll need it.'
Pujardov hurled curses at the bounty hunter, then gave a wail of horror as he saw his father's body strewn along the ground. You killed my father!'
Brunner looked up from reloading his pistol. 'Be thankful I need live bait to lure the wolf to me, or you'd have gotten the same,' he warned.
Brunner looked at the position of Mannslieb and judged that another hour had passed. He raised his pistol into the air and fired. The report echoed through the forest. He was playing a dangerous game, he knew, but he was trusting that he had guessed the lay of the land correctly. Coiled in the branches of a big oak at the edge of the clearing, the bounty hunter looked down at the bait tethered to the trunk below.
Pujardov glared up at him. 'This won't work, murder swine! The wolf won't come where it hears hunters!'