by C. L. Werner
‘The accused was responsible for damaging the horse of one of His Imperial Majesty’s roadwardens,’ stated the gaunt, cadaverous Weichsle, Vaulkberg’s prosecutor. ‘His cart was overturned in the lane leading into the town. In avoiding the obstacle in question, the horse injured its leg, necessitating the animal’s destruction.’ Weichsle pronounced the last as if describing the most unspeakable heresy ever committed by a man.
‘Seizure of half the condemned’s property, forty lashes and five month’s hard labour in such function as His Imperial Majesty’s roadwardens find suitable,’ pronounced Judge Vaulkberg, his tone heavy with boredom. He waved the gilded mahogany gavel in a dismissive gesture. Two of his crimson-liveried guards began to escort the unfortunate prisoner away. Suddenly, the man broke free, rushing toward the table and the seated Judge.
‘But I have entered no plea!’ the man protested. Judge Vaulkberg fixed the prisoner with a withering gaze. Vaulkberg’s face had been described once by a poet as being as craggy and imposing as any peak in the Worlds Edge Mountains. The Judge had agreed with that assessment of his features, then ordered the poet hung for defamation of character anyway.
‘And what plea would you care to enter,’ baited the Judge.
‘Not guilty!’ exclaimed the prisoner, not seeing the trap.
‘“Not guilty,’” repeated Vaulkberg with a sneer. “Not guilty,” he repeated again, looking over at Weichsle. Then the magistrate turned his gaze upon the prisoner. ‘There is no such plea as “not guilty” in this court!’ he thundered. ‘You will forfeit all of your property to His Imperial Majesty,’ the Judge pronounced. ‘You will receive forty lashes administered by my ogre,’ the Judge paused. ‘Then you will be taken to the town square, there to be hung by the neck until dead, may your filthy soul rot in Hell,’ the Judge waved his gavel again and his guards seized the shocked prisoner more securely than before and dragged the screaming man from the chamber.
‘I will not have my time wasted by such scum protesting their innocence,’ Judge Vaulkberg said under his breath before taking another sip of his brandy.
After the last case had been decided by Judge Vaulkberg, a matter involving a thief and resolved by one quick stroke of an axe, the only man bold enough to observe the proceedings of the court detached himself from the rear wall of the ballroom and advanced toward the Judge.
‘Brunner,’ the Judge greeted the armoured figure as he strode toward the magistrate. ‘Ghunder told me he saw you as we came into town.’ Judge Vaulkberg removed the white coils of his powdered wig and set it within a velvet-lined hatbox. ‘What have you brought me?’
The bounty hunter casually tossed a rough sackcloth bag onto the table. The object landed with a thump and the Judge reached for it, pulling it towards him. He peered into the bag, sighing.
‘Klag Vandries,’ the bounty hunter stated, spitting the after-taste of his cigar onto the Burghermeister’s floor. ‘Sometimes called the Bellycutter.’
‘Wanted for the murders of some fifteen people on the road between Altdorf and Talabheim, two of them persons of name, as well as brigandry, theft of sacred objects, horse-thievery and failure to respond to a summons from this court,’ the Judge rattled off the dead highwayman’s offences, clearly considering the last to be the man’s most despicable act. ‘I was looking forward to getting my hands on this scum,’ the Judge continued. ‘But I was hoping to get him alive.’
‘We don’t always get what we want,’ Brunner replied, one hand stretching out to the magistrate, palm upwards.
‘I will only pay twenty-five crowns,’ declared Judge Vaulkberg. ‘You should try and bring me some of this vermin alive once in awhile. They get off far too lightly when they escape the justice of this court.’
‘Vandries didn’t seem to think he was getting off lightly when his life was pouring out of his belly,’ Brunner said, his cold voice dropping to a glacial tone. ‘And your posting said quick or dead. You owe me the full fifty.’
Judge Vaulkberg hesitated for a moment, wondering if he should acknowledge the threat in the bounty hunter’s murderous tone. Eyeing the man for a moment, eyes lingering on the heavy crossbow strapped across Brunner’s back, the heavy falchion sword sheathed at his hip, the numerous daggers and knives, both visible and unseen about the bounty killer’s person, Vaulkberg decided to let the insolence pass with a wry smile. He nodded at his prosecutor, who had been watching the exchange between the two men with an ever-increasing amount of agitation.
‘Pay the man for his service to the Emperor,’ Vaulkberg told the gaunt lawyer. ‘And see that this gets a proper burial in the nearest sewer,’ the Judge added, tossing Weichsle the sack. The lawyer held the unpleasant thing as far from his body as his arm could manage and fumbled about at a heavy iron casket, eventually opening it and withdrawing two sacks of coins.
‘Always a pleasure, Judge,’ the bounty hunter took the sacks from the lawyer, weighing them in his hand before turning on his heel and marching from the chamber.
Elodore Pleasant and his hulking bodyguard pushed their way past a gang of drunken farmers and entered the cave-like gloom of the Braying Ass, the most disreputable of Albrechtsburg’s taverns. Pleasant brought a perfumed handkerchief to his nose, trying to blot out the vile mixture of cheap beer, unwashed humanity and dry urine that wafted out of the tavern. Beside him, the bodyguard rolled his eyes, annoyed that his charge had already broken his advice to keep a low profile in this thieves’ nest. Pleasant did not pay his protector the slightest notice but arrogantly pushed his way into the darkness.
Pleasant doubted if the rumours about the man’s nobility could be true. How any person of note could allow themselves to be surrounded by such filth and squalor was beyond the Bretonnian’s ability to comprehend.
Pleasant scanned the room, his eyes lingering on every dirty bearded face, his gaze taking in the large oak bar, its surface nicked and pitted by countless brawls and endless games of mumbeley-peg. The burly Bretonnian man-at-arms beside Pleasant nudged the seneschal’s arm, drawing his master’s attention away from the antics of a fat coachman and a serving wench. Pleasant’s gaze settled upon the dark corner his henchman indicated. The two Bretonnians headed toward the isolated table and its sole occupant.
‘Do I have the distinction of speaking with the gentleman known as Brunner?’ Pleasant said in his most fawning manner as he approached the darkened corner.
‘Who wants to know?’ came the guarded reply.
Pleasants dour face broke into a wide grin. ‘I am Elodore Pleasant, seneschal to his lordship the Viscount Augustine de Chegney,’ the man said, lowering himself into the chair opposite that of the bounty hunter.
‘I don’t recall asking for company. Who invited you to sit down?’ There was a note of challenge and warning in the bounty hunter’s voice that froze Pleasant in mid-motion, his rear inches from the seat of the chair, his face inches away from the killer’s. It was as if he had come face to face with a snarling wolf. Beads of perspiration gathered about Pleasant’s brow. The hulking bodyguard took a step forward, hand falling to the pommel of his sword.
‘Before he can draw that frog-stabber of his,’ the bounty hunter’s menacing voice rasped, ‘I’ll have your throat slit.’ In the second it took the bodyguard to digest the threat, the bounty hunter erupted into action. A silver flash of metal caught the tavern’s dim light, then was pressed against the skin of Pleasant’s throat, a bead of crimson surrounding the point.
At the same time, the bounty killer’s other hand rose from beneath the table, a small crossbow gripped in his gloved fist.
‘We don’t want any trouble,’ Pleasant declared, rising slowly from the chair, the bounty hunter’s dagger rising with him. A sidewise gesture of his hand made the seneschal’s henchman sullenly back away. The bounty hunter set the crossbow pistol down upon the table, its lethal dart still pointing at the bodyguard, and removed the dagger from the chastened functionary’s throat.
‘Why are you looking for me?�
� demanded Brunner.
‘I understand that you hunt men,’ Pleasant stammered, dabbing at his bleeding throat with his perfumed handkerchief. ‘And that you are the best there is to be had in that line of enterprise.’
‘That much is obvious,’ Brunner looked across the dingy tavern. ‘It would take quite a reputation to bring so fine a gentleman as yourself to a place like this.’ The bounty hunter lifted a small wooden cup to his lips. ‘What’s the job?’ he asked before sipping at the schnapps.
The anxious look on the Bretonnian’s face eased somewhat and Pleasant smiled. ‘The castle of the viscount’s son was ransacked by mercenaries discharged from my lord’s service,’ the seneschal began. ‘They killed my master’s son and his wife, as well as very nearly every living thing in the place.’
The bounty hunter slowly set the cup down, his cold eyes locking on those of the functionary. ‘I have already heard news of the unpleasantness across the border.’ Pleasant was visibly shocked by the bounty hunter’s words. ‘I make it my business to be well-informed,’ Brunner explained. ‘A man’s life sometimes balances upon the merest shred of information.’
‘The brigands have taken the viscount’s grandson with them,’ Pleasant continued. ‘They are demanding ransom for his safe return.’
‘I collect bounties, not children,’ Brunner replied, lifting the wooden cup to his mouth again.
‘The viscount is prepared to pay you very well,’ Pleasant reached into the breast of his tunic and withdrew a large leather pouch. ‘Two hundred gold crowns,’ the Bretonnian said, setting the bag down on the table.
Several sets of eyes turned toward the scene as the distinct report of coins jostling against one another insinuated itself into the clamour of the tavern’s atmosphere. Brunner reached a hand toward the bag, running his gloved digits across the cool leather surface. ‘One hundred now, the rest when the viscount’s heir is safely returned.’ Brunner turned his helmeted head away, leaning back in his chair so that his back rested against the tavern’s peeling plaster on wood wall.
‘A fair price,’ the bounty hunter admitted. ‘But I am not interested.’ Brunner bolted the rest of his schnapps and set the cup down upon the table.
‘I could speak to the viscount,’ Pleasant said, his tone desperate. ‘He would surely agree to any reasonable sum.’
Brunner sucked his teeth and stared at the Bretonnian. ‘I don’t want your money,’ he said, his tone menacing. ‘I’ve had more than enough of you Bretonnians and your lordly ways. I am my own man, not some foppish snail-eater’s errand boy.’
Pleasant’s mouth dropped in disbelief as the bounty hunter’s crude words impacted upon his ears. The functionary trembled in outrage, wishing he had more of the viscount’s men with him so he could teach this villain some manners. The seneschal’s tongue worked itself to voice a retort but all that emerged was a feeble croak. The bounty hunter turned away, motioning for a serving wench to bring him another drink, his would-be patron already dismissed from his attention. Balling his fist in outrage, Pleasant rose and stormed away from the table.
‘This has been a fool’s errand,’ Pleasant snapped as he passed his bodyguard. The other Bretonnian took his place at the seneschal’s side. The two men marched their way toward the feeble light seeping under the tavern’s door. Neither man noticed the scruffy figures who had preceded them into the street, or the two rat-faced men who followed after them.
Elodore Pleasant’s face was a mask of sullen, brooding rage as he stomped through the dirty streets of the township. The seneschal dabbed his handkerchief against the cut the bounty hunter’s blade had left on his throat. The outright audacity of the scum! Pleasant wondered if he might not use some of the funds he had quietly diverted from the viscount’s coffers towards seeing some justice meted out upon the arrogant vermin. But such thoughts of revenge were for another day. For now, there was still the matter of rescuing the viscount’s grandson, or seeing his abductors dead.
Pleasant was so lost in his thoughts that he did not notice the darkened lane his steps had carried him into, nor the warning hiss of his bodyguard. It was only the sight of three men standing in his path that snapped Pleasant from his dark humour, bringing his attention back to his surroundings. Pleasant looked at the men, their dirty, grimy clothes, their unwashed faces and gap-toothed grins. The Bretonnian’s face wore an expression of contempt as his eyes met those of the men, but the flesh that hung from his cheeks trembled with nervous anxiety as he noticed the clubs and blades the men gripped in their dust-blackened hands. He chanced a look back at his bodyguard, noticing for the first time that the soldier’s sword was drawn, and that two more ruffians had closed upon them from the opposite side of the lane.
‘I am on my master’s business,’ Pleasant said in a voice he hoped conveyed more authority than the fear that was building within him. ‘Give me space to pass.’
One of the ruffians swaggered forward, a short-bladed sword clutched in his hand. He flipped a strand of dirty blond hair from his forehead as it fell into his eyes. The man grinned, exposing a set of yellow and pitted teeth. He spat a glob of phlegm into the dust.
‘We ‘eard ‘bout yer little errand in da Brayin’ Ass,’ the ruffian said, his voice raspy. ‘Two-hunert gold fer retrievin’ some wine-swiller’s brat.’ The ruffian clucked his tongue. ‘That’s a pretty price, no mistake.’
‘I am afraid that I am not at liberty to offer that particular commission to anyone but the man my master considered skilful enough to accomplish it.’ Pleasant tried to keep his cool, but was all too aware of the beads of sweat trickling from his brow.
‘Is that so?’ the blond-haired man sneered. ‘So we can’t take this little job from yer? Can’t earn us the two-hunert?’ The man cast a mock regretful look at his companions and sighed. ‘Well, I guess we’ll just have to settle fer the hunert yer carry’n!’
The men laughed as they advanced toward Pleasant. The hulking Bretonnian bodyguard was soon beside the seneschal, trying to interpose himself between both the three men closing upon his charge and the other two quietly advancing from the rear. All five robbers were chuckling under their breath, their eyes gleaming like those of a wolf pack lighting upon a tethered horse.
‘Easiest money I ever done made,’ the leader of the thieves snorted as he closed upon Pleasant, drawing his sword back for a sideways swipe at the Bretonnian. The man’s chuckle trailed off into a gurgling death rattle as a spike of steel impacted into his throat. The sword clattered from his hands and he fell to his knees, dirty hands fumbling at the crimson tide gushing from the hole in his windpipe where the crossbow bolt had torn its way through his neck.
The other muggers were thrown into confusion and disarray by the sudden death of their leader. It only lasted a moment, but even so slight an instant was enough. The hulking Bretonnian smashed his shield against the leg of one of the club-wielding men closing upon the Bretonnians from behind. The bone snapped under the impact and the ruffian fell to the dirt street, howling with agony.
The bodyguard lashed out at the other robber with a downward stroke of his blade, the thief barely managing to raise his own sword to parry the blow.
The men facing Pleasant snarled and made to leap at the seneschal, determined to claim the weighty purse of gold before making good their escape. But even as they sprung into action, a new player introduced himself into the fray. A heavy falchion sword ripped through the spine of one of the men as the steel blade was thrust through his body from behind. The man didn’t scream, his eyes instead staring in incomprehension at the bloodied steel that protruded from the gory ruin of his belly. The eyes had glassed over by the time the blade was withdrawn and the robber’s body fell into the dust.
The other thief turned, glaring at the black-helmed figure that had seemingly materialised from nowhere to spoil their game. He raised his stout club, its fire-blackened wood further enhanced by a cluster of iron spikes driven into the cudgel. With an oath that might be voiced by any corne
red animal, the robber charged at his foe. The face below the visor of the sallet-helm smiled as the ruffian came towards him. With one hand, he raised the falchion sword, notching the thief’s wooden weapon as he swung at him. The robber spat a second curse and renewed his attack. Again the armoured man parried the robber’s attack with his bloodied sword, but this time the man’s other hand leapt into action. As the thief was again repelled by the man’s guard, the armoured fighter’s left hand smashed into his face, plunging the blade of the dagger it held into the robber’s eye.
The robber dropped to the ground, screaming and writhing in agony, burying his bleeding face in the dirt. Brunner smiled as he strode towards the thief and calmly raised his falchion. There was a final cry of pain and the crunch of breaking bone as the bounty hunter plunged his sword between the wounded robber’s shoulders.
Pleasant stared about him, his mouth gaping open at the carnage he had witnessed. He had seen many combats in his time, but seldom had he seen a conflict begin and end with such swift dispatch. He looked for his bodyguard, finding the man already walking back towards him, wiping blood from his blade. The seneschal then turned his gaze back upon the bounty hunter. He watched as Brunner withdrew a rag from his belt and wiped the blood from his sword before sheathing the weapon. The bloodied dagger he returned to his gloved hand as he advanced toward the Bretonnian.
‘We were lucky you came along,’ the nervous seneschal stammered, the corners of his mouth twitching. ‘It would have been a near thing. I am no warrior, and all five of these men against my bodyguard might not have turned out so well for me.’
Brunner didn’t speak, instead his eyes turned toward the blond leader of the robbers, his breath still gurgling from the wound in his neck. ‘Let’s not be all day about it,’ the bounty hunter’s harsh voice hissed. Leaning over the dying man, Brunner raked the dagger across his throat, letting the new-made corpse pitch forward into the street.
