by Warhammer
'Don't worry, your bones will feed the crows and your memory will become a jest told to your children when I tire of making them scream.' The Black Prince stepped away, his foot sliding beneath the naked steel of the wood elfs sword. The dark elf worked his toe under the blade and flicked it across the chamber once more. The sword clattered across the floor to where a horrified Josef had watched the swift, brutal fight. The boy reached toward the sword.
'I hope you were paying attention,' the Black Prince's musical voice said as he strode away from Lithelain's corpse. 'I expect better from you.' The dark elf walked toward the boy, sword held at his side. 'Though I doubt that I shall receive it.'
A roar and crack thundered through the Black Prince's throne room. The dread figure of the bandit lord shuddered as a red mist burst from his chest. The sword fell from suddenly lax fingers. A shaking hand rose to the wound that marked the very centre of the Black Prince's chest. The mailed hands probed the aperture, coming away and rising before the reflective face-plate. The eyes behind the metal mask stared in wonder and disbelief at the crimson staining the metal fingers. The Black Prince turned, falling to his knees as the strength failed in his legs. With an effort, he looked up as his killer walked toward him.
'Sorry,' the icy voice of the bounty hunter reached the Black Prince's ears, 'I was getting bored myself.'
Brunner returned the smoking pistol to its holster and strode forward. The Black Prince coughed within his helm, red liquid seeping from the joins of his visor and gorget. 'And there are people waiting for me, and that ugly head of yours.'
The Black Prince slumped forward, his death rattle gargling in his throat.
Brunner watched the dark elf expire, then fingered the grip of the long-bladed knife he morbidly termed The Headsman. Before beginning his macabre task, the bounty hunter looked up at Josef.
'I could have let you have your chance at him,' the bounty hunter said. 'But somehow, I don't think you'd have liked that.' Josef nodded his head, a surly look of guilt and anger mixing with profound satisfaction on his face.
'Now come over here and help me get this bastard's armour off,' Brunner called out. 'I want to make a good cut. After all, it has to be pretty enough for a king.'
Ehrhard Stoecker sat his battered body down in the chair, casting a furtive look around the bar of the inn. There was no sign of Yvette, however. The woman had been rather upset at him when he had returned to Parravon, after leaving for weeks with no warning, and she had used more than words to express her ire. She had been most unwilling to listen to his explanations. Even the gold he had brought back with him had done nothing to assuage her anger when she had discovered the bruises the writer had earned in his brief combat with the beastman.
Stoecker sighed and sipped his wine. His share of the Black Prince's booty had amounted to more than a few hundred gold pieces, a tidy fortune before the due's tax men had decided what their portion should be. Perhaps he should have gone with Mahlinbois and Josef after all, and returned to the Empire. But, no, there were too many reasons for him to stay as far from Altdorf as he could. He recalled only too well the old Imperial proverb that all roads led to the Emperor's city.
Once again, Stoecker found himself lamenting the fortune that must have once been hidden within the Black Prince's vaults. But the fleeing brigands had had a considerable headstart, and they had known where to search. The bandits had further benefited from the skills of the thief Ferricks, who, having excused himself from the battle, had slunk down to the treasure rooms, disarming the many cunning devices set to protect them. All except the last one. Stoecker didn't think he had ever seen a more surprised look that the one on Ferrick's corpse when they found him stuck to the wall by a spring-launched javelin.
They had split what the bandits hadn't taken at least he, Mahlinbois and Josef had. Brunner had angrily stated that he worked for his money, and wanted no part of the plundering. Stoecker had thought the bounty hunter foolish, but, as it turned out, the price on the Black Prince's head had far exceeded what they could loot from his tower. After they had parted company with Mahlinbois and Josef, Stoecker had suggested to Brunner that he might split the bounty. The bounty hunter had laughed, responding that he never asked Stoecker for any portion of what he earned from the lies he wrote about the killer.
Stoecker shook his head, wondering where the fearsome warrior was now. He cast an eye at the door of the inn. He laughed to himself and sipped at his wine. It did not matter where Brunner was. Sooner or later, the writer was certain, he would again walk through that door. Stoecker had never been more certain of anything in his entire life. And strangely enough, he found himself eagerly anticipating that meeting, found himself wanting to hear about every treacherous, ruthless step of the bounty hunter's travels.
A shape shrouded in black moved through the darkened chamber, disturbing the flies that buzzed about the headless corpse rotting on the floor. The shape did not pay the corpse a second thought, but moved toward the dais. It looked over at a smashed teakwood box and smiled beneath its hood. Then it climbed the steps to the throne-like chair. A slender, pale hand caressed the armrest, sliding its fingers along the length of the wood until there was a click. The hand reached into the hinged opening of the seat, removing the silk-wrapped object within. The apparition's eyes glittered as they stared at the Eye of Tchar. The slender hands drew the gem back to the cloaked body, and the magical scrying stone disappeared in one of the pouches on the figure's belt.
The shadow turned away from the throne, stopping this time beside the headless corpse. The black-garbed shape bent down, and lifted the discarded helmet from the floor. The face under the hood smiled as it considered the helm. It almost dropped the piece of armour, but a stray thought caused it to tuck the helmet with its reflective visor beneath its arm.
All had unfolded just as the Eye of Tchar had shown him. News of Dralaith's death would reach Naggaroth. There would be no more assassins, for he knew that one day, one of their number would succeed and all his plans would come to ruin. He had sacrificed much to accomplish the deception, but gold was trash, easily collected by one of his skill and intelligence. His followers were likewise trash, and easily replaced. He cast another look at the headless corpse of Uraithen. It was not the first time he had cause to allow one of his lieutenants to momentarily assume his guise as the Black Prince. But it would certainly be the last. It was no matter, the two departed elves were nothing but mongrel half-breeds sired upon a filthy aborigine. No true Druchii would ever have allowed themselves to be so easily deceived. In death, his sons had proven how pathetic and unworthy of his blood they truly were. Dralaith spat on the floor, a gesture denoting the contempt he felt for the spirits of such worthless beings.
Only one thing disturbed him. It was the thought that somewhere, a miserable human was walking the earth, boasting that he had killed the Black Prince. Indeed, he very nearly had. The dark elf had nearly fallen to his death when his horse had toppled over the precipice, and it had taken him several hours to climb up from the chasm. It alarmed him somewhat that the Eye had not shown him that particular event. Once more, Dralaith pondered the Norse shaman's laughter.
A most vexing thought, the dark elf mused as he left his throne room for the last time, and walked the empty halls of the abandoned elf tower. It was an itch that would have to be scratched one day.
Scanned, layouted and (only very basic) proof-read by Mon
Version 0.94