by C. L. Werner
As the Comte de Chegney fell, the other mercenaries sprang into action. A crossbow bolt from a weapon that had already been armed before entering the castle and was now aimed with terrible speed and accuracy skewered the throat of the man-at-arms to the left of the dying count. The other soldier was trampled by the powerful warhorse of the brutish hairy Tilean that had seconded the leader even as the Bretonnian raised his pike to ward off the sudden and vicious charge. The hairy Tilean roared like a blood-mad bear as he brought his heavy cavalry mace crashing downwards at the cringing, horrified steward. The old man raised his arm to ward away the blow. The steel weapon snapped the man’s arm, but did no more than graze the old man’s head. Gourmand fell, groaning. On the verge of unconsciousness, he could do no more than roll away from the hooves of the horsemen as they charged up the steps that led from the courtyard into the castle itself.
‘Inside, everybody!’ the leader shouted. ‘Don’t give their archers a clean shot!’ As if to punctuate the mercenary’s words, an arrow flew from the window of a tower to strike one of the rearmost riders in the back. The man fell with a garbled scream. More arrows flew downwards, striking the stone steps and walls as the Tileans charged into the safety of the keep itself.
Ursio looked at his men. Eighteen, there were only eighteen of them now. He had started with fifty-four when he had been engaged by the Viscount de Chegney. Six had fallen when they had seen to the capture of the viscount’s neighbour the Marquis le Gaires’s annual tithe of gold to His Majesty King Louen Leoncoeur. The others had died when the viscount’s own men had ambushed the Tileans, seeking to silence these pawns of their master. Ursio vowed that his treacherous former employer would pay for every man he had lost.
‘Spread out!’ Ursio roared. ‘Search every room! Every hall!’ There was a strangled cry and a man-at-arms who had been storming down the stairs toppled down the remainder of the flight, a black bolt of steel and wood protruding from his chest. ‘We find the boy, we get paid! The mercenaries roared their approval of their captain’s words, many of them tearing away the bandages they had tied about their bodies, for few in the company were as injured as they appeared. The smell of vengeance and the promise of gold lent their fatigued bodies a new vigour. As if sharing in the vitality of their riders, the horses offered no protest as the mercenaries spurred their steeds down hallways and up stairs.
Betraying us, thought Ursio, is going to cost you dearly, viscount.
In the nursery, Mirella de Chegney and her sons nurse cowered together. They could hear the sounds of battle and bloodshed echoing throughout the castle all around them. A brave woman in her own right, a part of Mirella desperately wished to race from the protection of the as-yet undisturbed nursery to see what had befallen her husband. But a newer and greater concern ruled her thoughts and enthroned a new fear in her heart. A fear for the small, fragile little life she clutched against her body, trying to stifle its crying wail in her bosom.
Suddenly, the door burst inward. A massive brown stallion, flanks caked in mud and dried blood, froth dribbling from its mouth, smashed through the heavy Drakwald timber. The steed whickered in a mixture of protest and pain as the rider upon his back straightened. The man was no less horrid in appearance than his warhorse. A powerful, brutish looking man, his face encased in a mangy black beard, his head sporting a mane of black hair as caked in blood and mud as the flanks of his steed. The man cast blazing brown eyes at the cowering women. With a snarl that was only half laughter, the man dropped from his saddle, shuffling towards the women with an almost hound-like lope.
‘The boy,’ he grunted, his words as thick and heavy as his voice. The man’s huge hands closed about the tiny crying shape pressed against Mirella’s body. The Tilean began to pull the baby from its mother, his bestial strength overcoming the noble-woman’s desperate hold. The Tilean stared at his prize with hungry eyes, jostling the wailing infant in his hands as if to hear the clinking of golden coins.
‘Unhand my son, scum!’ Mirella screamed. The Tilean turned his burning eyes at the woman. He saw the bright flash of metal in the firelight as Mirella drove a knitting needle into the soft flesh of his groin. The improvised weapon was deflected by the metal of the mercenary’s codpiece, but stabbed into the tender flesh of his thigh with scarcely impeded force. With the reflexes of a professional soldier, the Tilean ignored the pain and smashed a meaty fist into the blonde woman’s face. Mirella staggered away as the mercenary ripped the needle from his thigh, ignoring the wailing child he had dropped to the fur-laden floor.
‘You dropped this,’ the Tilean spat as he rushed the reeling Mirella. The woman’s hands left her broken nose as the Tilean drove the knitting needle into her midsection. The butcher wasted no further thought on the dying noblewoman, but turned his attention back toward the wailing baby. He saw the nurse clutching the crying child, trying to soothe its pain and terror, while casting horrified eyes on the Tilean’s advancing bulk.
‘Thinking of killing them too, Verdo?’ a cold voice rasped from the doorway. The Tilean looked over to see his captain framed in the entrance of the nursery. ‘We need the child, and unless you think you can nurse a baby, we need the girl too.’
‘I can wait,’ Verdo growled, snatching a fistful of the nurse’s hair and pulling her to her feet.
Gourmand groaned as another sharp pain rasped against his flesh. ‘Don’t die on me,’ a voice snarled. Gourmand recognised those cold tones, that mocking sneer. It was the leader of the mercenaries, the man who had killed his master. The stricken steward groaned and forced his eyes to settle upon Ursio. The man scowled down at him.
‘I have a message for you to deliver, messenger boy,’ the mercenary captain tossed a leather packet down, letting it settle on the wounded man’s body. ‘You take that to the Viscount de Chegney. You tell him what happened here. You also tell him that we have his grandson.’ Ursio gestured to the courtyard, once again filled with Tileans, and now joined by the mounted figure of the nursemaid and the swaddled form she held in her arms. ‘If he doesn’t want his line to die out with him, he will follow those instructions to the letter. Now on your way, messenger boy. And don’t die until you deliver that to the viscount.’ Ursio’s face twisted into a cold, murderous leer.
‘For the boy’s sake.’
The centuries hung heavy within the great hall of the Chateau de Chegney. For a thousand years the de Chegney family had dwelled in the massive brooding stone fortress, guarding the narrow pass through the Grey Mountains that linked the Kingdom of Bretonnia with the sprawling Empire. The lands ruled by the viscounts de Chegney had alternately prospered or suffered under their lords, accepting the justice and tyranny alike with the dogged stoicism and subservience of the Bretonnian peasant, but seldom had they bowed their heads in fealty to so terrible a man as he who now sat brooding within the castle’s great hall.
The Viscount Augustine de Chegney was no longer a young man, yet his build bespoke an animalistic strength and vitality. The man was not tall; indeed his stature was somewhat squat, slightly below that of the average Bretonnian. But the viscount’s shoulders were broad, his head rising from those shoulders on a thick bull’s neck. The head perched atop that neck was likewise massive, the viscount’s forehead sloping immediately from his thick brows to join his steel-grey hair, cut in the bowl shaped fashion of the Bretonnians. The man’s nose was broad, his mouth a thin gash above his scarce chin.
The viscount lounged in his high-backed chair wearing a tunic of scarlet trimmed with the fur of a wild cat, a bejewelled dagger thrust through the leather band of his belt. His leggings were tucked into a set of high leather boots, their toes shod in steel and silver. A trim of wolfskin had been sewn to the mouth of the boots, the grey fur exactly matching the cold eyes of the viscount’s face.
It was the eyes of Viscount Augustine de Chegney that unnerved those who met them. Like the wild cat and the wolf, there was a ferocious cunning and ruthlessness about them, a quality of vicious determination
that offered no quarter to those who might stand between the man and his desires. Even the closest of the viscount’s associates dreaded the steely gaze of their master, more so when the fire of emotion crept into them and glared from behind the icy grey pools to strike with the force of a basilisk’s stare.
Elodore Pleasant was facing such eyes at this moment, nervously adjusting his weight from one foot to the other. Pleasant was Augustine de Chegney’s oldest and closest crony, and had become his master’s seneschal following the sudden and unexpected death of Augustine’s father. A slender, haggard-looking man, Pleasants pate was bald, a thin mane of unkempt white hair fringing the back of his head. The merest suggestion of a moustache struggled in the shadow of Pleasant’s sharp, birdlike nose. The man wore a long black robe fringed in gold, his hands heavy with over-sized rings. Indeed, if Augustine de Chegney suggested some feral predator, then Elodore Pleasant suggested a vulture. Only in the eyes were the two men similar, for both viewed the world through cunning orbs, though the craftiness behind Pleasant’s pale blue eyes was akin to that of the fox.
‘Tell me,’ the viscount mused, sloshing the last mouthful of wine about the bottom of his crystal glass, ‘why do they call you “pleasant”?’ The grey eyes narrowed and the nobleman rose from his seat. Angrily the viscount hurled the glass against the wall, its gleaming debris scattering across the hall. ‘For as long as I have known you, I have heard only ill tidings from your mouth!’ the viscount snarled.
‘It is better that a friend deliver such news.’ Pleasant replied, trying to keep his tone even, not let any anxiety cloud his words. ‘One who knows your heart and might better council you in such matters as these.’
‘Was it not your counsel that advised I let that dolt Norval deal with Ursio and his men?’ challenged Viscount de Chegney, his tone low and full of menace.
‘Yes, my lord,’ agreed Pleasant, bobbing his head like the carrion bird he so resembled. ‘We have employed him for such matters before, and never had cause to regret…’
‘My son is dead!’ roared the viscount, clenching his fist in anger. ‘And now this foreign rabble have my grandson as hostage, demanding I pay them twice the fee for their services as payment for his safe return!’ The viscount scratched at the hairy growth on his throat and jowls. ‘Tell me, Pleasant, what do you advise that I do? Hmm? Shall I pay these animals for killing one heir to ensure the return of another?’
‘Begging your leave, my lord,’ the black-garbed seneschal stuttered, ‘but I do not think that paying them will achieve anything. They have been betrayed, and seek more than gold as compensation.’
‘Do you think that thought has not occurred to me?’ snorted the Viscount. ‘But what other choice do I have? I have spent a lifetime expanding the realm and fortune of the de Chegneys, I shall not see it fail for want of an heir! We shall pay these vermin ten times what they ask, but I will have my grandson returned!’
‘There is another way, my lord,’ Pleasant said, not daring to let his eyes settle upon the viscount in his present humour. ‘We could recover the child ourselves. That would ensure his return and not force you into a compact with this mercenary rabble.’
‘These men are not morons,’ snapped the viscount. ‘I would not have engaged them in the first place if they were. If Ursio even thinks my men are close to finding him, he will kill my grandson.’
‘Then we shall not use any of your men,’ Pleasant offered. ‘I agree, the Tileans would certainly discover an armed force sometime before they themselves were in peril. But a single man? One man could discover their hiding place, infiltrate it and recover the child.’
‘Know you of such a man?’ the viscount asked, his tone dubious.
‘Our smuggler friends in the Empire speak of a bounty hunter, a man named Brunner,’ Pleasant answered. ‘They say that once he is on a man’s trail, he will follow them to the Wastes themselves, and return with his prey.’
‘A bounty hunter?’ scoffed the Viscount. You would entrust the safety of my grandson to a bounty hunter?’
‘They say that this Brunner is of noble blood, that when he takes a commission, he always sees it through to the end,’ the seneschal responded, somewhat defensively. ‘His reputation is quite terrible amongst our friends, and in this case, that is to our benefit.’
The viscount considered Pleasant’s counsel for a moment, his feral eyes narrowing as he thought. At last he turned his gaze back upon the vulture-like seneschal. ‘Very well, Elodore, if you can find this bounty hunter, engage him. Tell him to bring me my grandson. Or Ursio’s head.’
Pleasant bowed before his master. ‘Judge Vaulkberg is making his circuit amongst the towns of Reikland. This Brunner is known to work for the Judge quite often. If the Lady’s grace is with us, I think the bounty hunter might be found with the Judge.’
The townsfolk of Albrechtswolhtat lined the dirt street or peered from the second-storey windows of their wood-frame homes and businesses. The men of the village jostled one another for a better view of the lane even as the womenfolk ushered children back indoors. Despite the eagerness of the townsfolk to watch the procession now making its way through their settlement, on every face was stamped an expression of nervousness and dread. They cast suspicious looks at one another, for none of the townsfolk could say with absolute certainty that some accusation made by one of their neighbours might not bring them before Judge Tscherpan Vaulkberg.
The magistrate’s procession made its way through the town. First came four riders, each in gleaming plate armour, their massive steeds as white as snow Colourful ostrich plumes graced each of the knights’ helmets and upon the tip of each lance the Reiksguard held was the blue and red banner of the Imperial Capital of Altdorf. After the Reiksguard came twenty armed footmen, each soldier bearing either a halberd or crossbow, each wearing the blood-red livery of Judge Vaulkberg over his lightweight armour. After the soldiers came a massive black coach drawn by six equally massive horses, their hair the colour of pitch. The curtains were drawn upon the coach, offering no view of the grim and terrible occupant of the carriage. Few saw the infamous Judge until they were called before him.
When the Judge’s carriage had passed, the rear of his caravan stomped into view. Towering a monstrous twelve feet, garbed in a suit of foul smelling leather armour above which the crimson livery of Judge Vaulkberg hung was the Judge’s personal executioner, the ogre Ghunder. The beast’s face was partially covered by a black leather hood, exposing only his broad nose and enormous mouth, one broken fang protruding from the right side of his lip. The tool of the headsman’s trade was carried over his shoulder, an axe so large that any three men in the onlooking crowd would be needed to lift it, much less wield the butchering weapon. But wield it the ogre did, often. Some said that the ogre was always trying to top the distance the condemned’s head flew when he chopped it from their body. His current record was reckoned at sixty paces.
The entrance of the ogre brought gasps of horror and dread from many of the onlookers. Even the Burghermeister, a distant relation of some minor dignitary at the Imperial court found himself trembling, having seen before what manner of damage the monster could inflict upon a human body with his bestial strength. The Burghermeister cast a nervous gaze at his bodyguard, not favouring their chances should it come to a contest between his men and the Judge’s entourage. At the Burghermeister’s side, the ranking priest of Sigmar in Albrechtswolhtat muttered quiet prayers to the Patron deity of the Empire. Vaulkberg was known to save his harshest judgements for priests who failed in their duties, and was equally notorious for performing only the most rudimentary of investigations before pronouncing a man’s doom.
Only one man in all the throng gazed upon the procession of Judge Vaulkberg without any trace of fear. He was a tall figure standing to the rear of the assembly. The man’s build was the well-muscled frame of a professional soldier, displaying a quality of strength rather than the undisciplined mass of a common labourer. The man’s garb also suggested a
martial bent. Black leather boots with steel toes encased the man’s legs to a height just below his knees. Dark steel cuisses clothed his upper legs; each emblazoned with a tarnished gold emblem that might once have been an eagle rampant. A sombre suit of brigandine armour encased the man’s torso, a breastplate of rare gromril fastened over the cloth-and-metal armour, protecting the man’s chest. The dull tan of the man’s shirtsleeves was largely hidden by the steel vambraces that encased his arms. Black leather gauntlets clothed each of his hands, the knuckle of each gauntlet sporting a tiny spike-like stud of metal. The man’s head was covered by the rounded bowl of a sallet-helm, the face of the helm concealing the man’s features as completely as the executioner’s hood. Icy blue eyes regarded the procession from behind the visor of the helm while the exposed mouth below the armour chewed at the remains of a smouldering cigar. The ogre Ghunder paused as his steps drew his massive frame opposite the armoured spectator. The helmeted head of the spectator inclined slightly within its veil of cigar-smoke. The executioner’s mouth twisted in a slight semblance of a grin, then he turned and continued after his master’s coach.
‘What is this one charged with?’ Judge Vaulkberg’s dry, scratchy voice intoned as his hand closed about the goblet of brandy resting at his elbow. The Judge had established himself in the ballroom of the Burghermeister’s residence, having decided that the town hall of Albrechtswolhtat was beneath the dignity of his office. The Burghermeister had immediately agreed to the magistrate’s proposal, moving a heavy table and a dozen chairs into the room, heedless of the damage done to the polished oak floor.
