by Warhammer
Gnashrak's voice was raised, shouting deep roaring commands in his own brutal language. But it was too late. His mob had also heard the call of the horn. Their bloodlust whetted by the slaughter of the Bretonnians, they were already racing from the mound, across the clearing toward the sound, eager to sink their blades into more human flesh. The orc cursed again, then spun about, his remaining eye locking onto Brunner's.
Then the massive brute loped away not towards his mob, but into the trees. Three other orcs spotted him and gave chase, their loyalty and fear of the warboss overcoming the bloodlust surging through their frames. Brunner saw them disappear into the trees, then watched as Etienne de Galfort and the rest of his command burst from the tree-lined path, lances at the ready. Lost in the madness of their frenzy, the orcs did not appreciate the slaughter that ensued, not until they were reduced to a field of crushed, broken bodies.
Etienne de Galfort looked down at the work of his men, then raised his gaze to the mound. He shouted a greeting as Brunner staggered into view. The knight rode toward the bounty hunter, removed his helmet and smiled.
'We won,' the Bretonnian laughed. 'Just as you said, they couldn't resist the bait. And once we whetted their appetite, they wouldn't be able to control themselves and run when we came upon them!'
Brunner nodded his head. 'I was starting to think you weren't coming,' he said, his voice heavy with fatigue.
'I waited until the sands in the glass were half gone,' the noble replied. 'Then we came galloping at all speed.' Etienne suddenly looked closer at the bodies strewn among the stones upon the mound. 'The others?'
Brunner shook his head. 'No.'
The smile died on Etienne's face. 'Still, at least we beat them.'
'You'd have caught their leader if you had come a little sooner,' the bounty hunter said after a pause.
'He escaped?' Etienne asked, suddenly sick in his stomach. The bounty hunter just slumped onto the ground. He raised a hand to his damaged helm and pulled it free, running a gloved hand through the close-cropped brown hair. The glove came away streaked with sweat and blood.
'Don't worry,' the bounty hunter said, fixing Etienne with his piercing blue eyes. 'He's finished. Among orcs, only the strong lead. The injuries I dealt that monster...' Brunner shook his head. 'By tonight, some young bull is going to be calling himself warboss and cooking this brute for dinner.'
'Then it's over,' Etienne said.
'It's over,' Brunner agreed.
Night settled about the mountainside of the Vaults like a magician's cloak. Four figures sat about the small fire, their beady red eyes gleaming in the flickering light. One of them moved, pushing another log upon the fire. But as he did so, the greenskinned face stared not into the fire, but at the massive shape of one of his companions, a figure from which only one eye gleamed.
Gnashrak let another sigh shudder from his huge body and put a finger into the empty pit of his face to scratch at the irritating eye socket once again. Thoughts were already swirling about in his thick skull. Thoughts of revenge. He would return to this land, burn and pillage it as no orc had ever done. He would gather an army this time, a mighty war host with boar riders and siege engines, packs of trolls and shrieking hordes of goblins to soak up the Bretonnians' arrows. Then he would rip the heart from the man who had cost him his eye and hand. He would take his throbbing heart and eat it before the human's fading eyes.
The gleam of ambition burned in Gnashrak's eye, more fiercely even than the fire before him. The orc yawned and stretched his massive frame. As he finished stretching, he looked about for a place to sleep, then his eye caught the gaze of his remaining followers. For the first time, fear wormed its way into Gnashrak's savage heart. The look in the eyes of the other three orcs was one Gnashrak recognised only too well. It was the gleam of ambition.
Gnashrak reached for the slender Bretonnian sword that he had been reduced to carrying since he lost his hand, noting as he did so the furtive knowing looks of the other orcs. There was still some fear in them, but not much. Not enough.
With the sword in his hand and sleep tugging at his mind, Gnashrak settled down, wary of his companions.
BLOOD MONEY
I entered the Black Boar one evening, looking for my literary contact, a hulking Norseman-turned-pirate named Ormgrim a surprisingly loquacious man, for all his resemblance in appearance and odour to a mountain hear. I had been considering a collection of stories recounting the reaver's exploits, from his days upon the Sea of Claws, stalking the shores in the fabled dragon-boats, to his time as a pit fighter in the lawless fighting arenas of the Border Princes. I dearly hoped that I would be able to catch him early in his cups, before drink would sodden his small brain. Otherwise he would only be able to utter three word sentences in crude Reikspiel that many goblins would find laughable. It would be but a short step from there to the kind of violent outbursts that had resulted in a week of bedridden misery for this unlucky writer who was not nimble on his feet.
As it transpired, however, I had a much more lucrative prospect than another night of Ormgrim's half-coherent drunken ramblings. Seated at a back table of the smoky, tunnel-like beer hall, I spied the black-helmed shape of Brunner. He was sipping at a small bottle, which I did not doubt contained schnapps. I had seen him like this before, and knew that this was how he indulged himself after a particularly successful hunt. I at once made my way toward his table. The bounty hunter looked up at me, then gestured with a gloved hand, indicating that I might sit. I asked him how he was faring, and if he might share his good fortune with a friend. He smiled at me, unoffended by the directness of my words and began to relate events that had transpired recently in the realms of the Border Princes.
It was a tale long in the telling, and as he spoke, I found my eyes continually drawn to the large wooden cask that rested heside him on the floor. My horror of the object grew steadily as the story unfolded, for I came to understand that Brunner still had merchandise to dispose of...
A lone rider made his way through the timber gate that led into the town of Greymere. The guards atop the walls eyed the man with looks of suspicion, for in the realms of the Border Princes it paid to trust no stranger. War between men in these lawless regions was almost as common as war with the marauding tribes of orc and goblin. The rider paid his coin to the sergeant at the gate, and suspicion or no suspicion, the man was allowed to enter the town, leading a dappled grey pack horse behind his own black and brown bay.
The merchants and peasants that ambled about the muddy lanes of the town paused to favour the stranger with curious glances, for he presented a compelling, almost sinister, sight. The man wore armour about his lean frame, his head was encased in a helm of blackened steel, and knives and other blades hung all about his body. On either side of the man's saddle, sheaths had been attached: one bore a large crossbow, the other a wood and steel frame of a blackpowder weapon. His second horse laboured under assorted burdens, barrels, packs and rolls of cloth. But with one look at the man, all could tell that those packs did not contain merchandise, and that he was not some sort of wandering peddler.
The stranger stopped before the crude timber face of the town's only inn. He dismounted. Casting his visored gaze about the street, as if challenging any thieves who might be watching, he left his horses and stalked into the building. Although several sets of eyes cast covetous looks upon the animals and the gear they carried, none did more than look.
Shortly afterwards a man emerged from the inn, his face as white as a sheet. Quickly and cautiously the man slunk away from the building into the nearest alleyway, losing himself in the confusing spaces between the town's maze of huts and pigsties.
Brunner, the man thought, smoothing the front of his leather tunic and wiping the perspiration from his swarthy brow. The Tilean licked his lips and placed a reassuring hand on the sword at his side. Then, a sudden thought of just who it was he feared brought a fresh burst of speed to the man's steps. By Ranald and Morr, what is he doing here?
Whose head is he after? The answer came to Vincenzo's mind almost immediately. The meagre price on his own head would not have dragged the bounty hunter away from the city states, but there was someone in Greymere who did merit such a price.
The grey-haired man swept a bone brush through the massive moustaches that crouched upon his lip, training them back into the upward-pointing horns fashionable among the nobles of the Empire. It was unwise, he knew, to affect such an appearance, but years of habit were hard to escape and the former Baron of Kleindorf was not about to give up the few, miserable trappings of his former station that he was able to maintain. Not for the first time, the man who had once been Bruno von Ostmark, and now called himself Drexler, considered his surroundings with a snort of disdain. The house he kept in Greymere was lavish by the standards of the Border Princes: it had a stone facade and wooden floors and roofing that did not consist of thatch and straw or logs thrown across support beams. Only the keep of the ruler of Greymere, Prince Waldemar, was more extravagant and sumptuous. Yet, the baron could not help but remember the castle that had once been his, the estates and private forests that had been his possessions. Even his kennels had been larger than his present home.
Drexler finished sweeping his moustaches into the desired shape and began to dress himself. Here, too, he thought of his fall. Once, three servants would have busied about his person, preparing him to face the day in whatever raiment he chose from closets larger than the bedroom he now sat in. The exiled baron sighed loudly and slumped into a velvet-backed chair and slowly pulled a leather boot onto his foot. Such extravagance was beyond him now. The few servants that he could afford had more pressing duties matters of business, that would keep Drexler from slipping down the ladder of life. For the nobleman was realistic enough to understand that, miserable as his surroundings might seem, there were far more wretched levels of squalor into which he could sink, and never emerge.
A sharp knock at the door interrupted the nobleman turned merchant as he stuffed a stocking-covered foot into his other boot. He turned towards the door, snarling at this intrusion upon his routine. Drexler stifled the impulse to hurl the shoe at the door as it opened. The men now serving him were hardly domesticated, and hardly as meek as those who had cowered before the Baron von Ostmark. One had to be careful about berating and insulting them, lest the dogs snap at the hand of their master.
The wiry, dark-skinned shape of Vincenzo, Drexler's Tilean aide, assistant and confidant slipped through the portal, slowly closing it behind him. Drexler stared at the Tilean, suspicious of his furtive manner and quiet steps. The merchant reached under the fur blankets of his bed, fingering the dagger hidden within the bedding.
'Well?' the merchant demanded. 'What news is so important as to drive you to disturb me before I have properly risen? What troubles you that you cannot await a more decent time to speak to me?' Drexler tensed his grip on hilt of the dagger as Vincenzo sidled across the floor towards him. The Tilean licked his lips and a cold sweat glistened on his face. Drexler could practically smell the fear dripping off the man.
'Have you ever heard of a man named Brunner?' the Tilean said at last. Drexler shook his head, staring at the thief and smuggler with a questioning gaze.
'He is the most notorious bounty hunter in all of Tilea,' Vincenzo explained.
Drexler pursed his lips in thought. 'And you think this killer, this Brunner has come to Greymere looking for the Baron von Ostmark?'
'The reward offered by the Count of Stirland is quite substantial,' Vincenzo pointed out. 'What other reason could there be for the bounty hunter to come to Greymere?'
A troubled expression grew upon Drexler's features. He pounded his fist in his palm. 'No, of course. Somehow he heard of me, found me. But he won't get me!'
'I could ask Savio to attend to it.' Vincenzo offered. Drexler smiled.
Yes, do that.' the merchant said. 'I have never seen a man who could match Savio's blade. Now, leave me. We have to negotiate with the dwarfs again regarding the transport of their beer to the Moot and I want to look my best.'
The stranger sat at a small table in the rear of the large tavern that dominated the ground floor of the two-storey structure. A few offduty soldiers from the prince's guard eyed the armed bounty hunter with thinly veiled antipathy. Mercenaries were a common sight in Greymere, and their arrival often heralded the replacement of one of the other soldiers in the pay of Prince Waldemar. The other occupants of the tavern, a trio of dishevelled peasants who were nursing their beers in order to savour the expensive luxury for as long as they could, did their best to avoid looking at the black-helmed man.
A buxom barmaid made her way between the largely empty tables and set a stein of beer before the bounty hunter. The visored head lowered, staring at the frothy mug for a moment before setting a few copper coins on the table. The woman leaned forward, scooping up the coins with one hand, while her eyes maintained their hold on the face. The cloth covering her massive chest hung loose as she bent over the table, and the woman licked her lips with a wet, pink tongue. She hesitated a moment, lingering over the table, watching for any sign of interest the warrior might exhibit.
The bounty hunter reached a gloved hand forward and closed it about the body of the clay stein. He drew his hand back and raised the frothy drink to his lips. The barmaid stood, shaking her head in an angry gesture and stalked away hopes of supplementing her wages diminished by his indifferent air. As she turned, Brunner let a slight smile play on his face. It had been a long ride here from Remas, but not that long.
The door of the inn opened, bearing with it the smell of dust and excrement from the street outside. A single man entered: short, but with wide shoulders and muscular arms. He was wearing a foppishlooking cap of red silk, with a purple falcon's feather sticking out from a gold button on its left side. A shirt of chainmail encased his body, the skirt falling to his thighs, where green leggings completed his costume. Leather shoes with bright brass buckles set a jingling echo across the tavern's earthen floor with each step the man took.
Bright blue eyes set in the dark-skinned face of a Tilean considered the tavern and its inhabitants. The face of the man was dominated by a bristly black beard, cut to a point. When his eyes closed upon the figure of the bounty hunter, the beard became distorted as his mouth curled into a predatory smile. The Tilean let his gloved hands caress the hilts of the long-bladed dagger and rapier that hung from his belt. He shrugged and the red cape he wore fell from his shoulders and onto his back. The man strode across the room, each face in the tavern watching his every step save the bounty hunter, who continued to quietly sip at his drink.
The Tilean stopped beside the table, staring down at the seated warrior. Slowly, Brunner set the stein down, and peered up at the Tilean through his visor.
'Your name is Brunner?' the Tilean asked, his tone arrogant, his accent that of the merchant princes of Tobaro. Brunner let his left hand emerge from beneath the table, his small crossbow pistol now visible in his gloved hand.
'Who would like to know?' his icy voice asked.
The Tilean pulled a velvet glove from his hand. 'My name is Savio,' the man said, dropping the glove on the table. A light of recognition blazed in Brunner's cold eyes as the Tilean spoke. 'I make my challenge. If you are a man, you will face me.'
'Not in here!' bawled the massive bald-headed innkeeper from behind the bar. 'It stinks bad enough without blood seeping into the floor.' The off-duty guards seemed to share the innkeeper's thoughts, and Brunner let his grip on the crossbow relax when he heard the men draw their swords.
'It seems here is not the best place,' the bounty hunter said. The duellist nodded back at him.
'I shall await your pleasure outside then,' the man said, spinning about and retracing his steps across the tavern. Brunner watched him go. As soon as the door had shut behind him, the innkeeper strode to the bounty hunter's side.
'Whatever you have done to earn the notice of Savio,' the man shook his head. 'He is the m
ost feared swordsman in all the Border Princes. He has killed more people in Greymere than dysentery.' The man's expression changed to one of mock regret. 'Could you please settle your bill before you go outside? And if you will add a little extra, I can send a boy to fetch the priest from the shrine.'
'That won't be necessary,' the bounty hunter said. He reached below the bench he sat on, and pulled a leather-wrapped object onto the table. The innkeeper stared as the bounty hunter removed a heavy object of steel and wood.
'If you don't pay for the priest, they won't bury you,' the innkeeper muttered. 'They'll just strip your body and toss it over the side of the wall for the wolves and the crows to pick at.'
'Well, they have to eat too,' the bounty hunter said, not looking at the bald man. He removed a small tube of paper from a pouch on his belt. The ends of the paper tube had been twisted closed. The gloved hands tore one end of the tube open and up-ended the paper cylinder over the mouth of the steel weapon. A foul-smelling black grain-like substance poured into the barrel. 'And if I can choose, I'd rather feed wolves than worms.'
'I am happy that you can joke about it,' the innkeeper said, wringing his hands on his apron and looking anything but happy. 'But if you think you can match swords with Savio, then you have no idea who you are facing.'
The bounty hunter packed down the grain in the barrel with a long wooden rod. He set the rod down and removed an iron ball from another pouch on his belt. 'I know who Savio is,' he said. He dropped the steel ball into the weapon, packing it down again with the wooden rod. 'In Tobaro, in Miragliano, in Luccini, his name is reckoned as that of the greatest duellist to ever practise the art of the vendetta.'