Brunner the Bounty Hunter

by C. L. Werner

  Then Ferrini’s face went white once more. I turned to see what had horrified the bandit so. Standing in the doorway was the armoured figure of the bounty hunter. So silently had he come, I never heard even the softest footfall, the merest creak of the door. It was as if some daemon prince had snapped his fingers and summoned the man from thin air.

  Ferrini fumbled for his sword. I heard the rasp of steel as the bounty hunter drew his own. Ferrini shrieked and threw down his weapon, scrambling for the window, and throwing open the shutters.

  The bounty hunter was on him in an instant. Ferrini became a dead weight in Brunner’s gloved hands, sobbing like a child. A liquid stench rose from the bandit’s trousers. The bounty hunter did not hold onto his prey, but hurled him screaming through the window. There was a dull thud as the man landed on the cobblestones three floors below.

  The bounty hunter leaned from the window as screams of pain rose from the street.

  ‘Just his leg,’ I heard a voice as cold and chill as an open grave grumble. ‘Thought he’d break his neck. Guess I’ll just have to drag him back up here and try again.’ The armoured figure turned from the window and began to stalk towards the door with long, pantherish steps.

  Brunner exuded an aura of menace, a tangible feeling of impending violence, a promise of death. But there was something about him that at once captivated and fascinated me. I thought of the sparrow who sees the serpent, knows it for what it is, yet cannot tear its eyes away and fly from its company. I was also reminded of an old saying, a favourite of my father’s: ‘The Great and the Good are not always one and the same.’ I at once decided that I must speak with this man. The idea had sprung into my mind that the exploits of such a man would be no boastful lies told by some loutish ruffian seeking to enlarge a drunken ego. No, whatever words might pass between myself and a man like this, they would be the truth. A dark, brutal, murderous truth, but truth is not always a pleasant thing. And Ernesto was not paying me to pen parables for the cult of Shallya.

  I must confess that my voice was like the squeak of a mouse when I addressed the bounty hunter for the first time. The man’s face, clothed as ever in the steel mask of his helm, fixed upon me, as if becoming aware of my presence for the first time.

  The breath caught in my throat, and for a moment I was certain that I had foolishly invited Morr to reach up from the shadows and pull me into the kingdom of the dead. But after a second, the bounty hunter relaxed his grip on the hilt of his sword. The icy voice spoke again, demanding to know what I wanted.

  I stumbled over my words several times as I tried to relate the idea. It seemed no less suicidal than walking up to a sleeping dragon, knocking it upon the head and loudly proclaiming its mother to be the lowest form of lizard. The bounty hunter listened for a moment, and I watched as a curious light crept into his eyes, as if the blue glaciers behind the visor of his steel face were melting. There was silence. I finally said that I could pay him, and proffered the leather purse that contained monies I had earned from a month of prying stories from the addled memories of pirates and thieves deep in their cups.

  A gloved hand closed about the bag, and stuffed it into his belt. I later came to understand how unusual a gesture this was, for Brunner did not count what I had given him. Whatever moved him to speak with me that night in my dingy little room, the money was nothing more than a dressing, a garnish.

  The bounty hunter walked back into the room, closed a hand about the back of the single wooden chair that was a part of my furnishings, and set it beside the window, in order that he might keep an eye on the moaning man in the street below. I hastened to my table, digging quill, ink and parchment from their cubby holes and set myself upon the floor, eager to begin recording the bounty hunter’s adventures before he thought better of such a charitable impulse. He waited until I was ready, and then the icy voice began to speak…

  THE MONEY-LENDER’S PRICE

  We talked long into the dark hours. I am still uncertain what motivated the bounty hunter to confide in me, for as he related a lengthy and gruesome catalogue of bloodshed and depravity, I was certain that no other ears had heard these things before. I was momentarily reminded of a pilgrim listing his misdeeds to a confessor in one of Verena’s temples. I cannot help but wonder if Brunner spoke to me out of a similar need to unburden his soul of the filth that encrusted it. As I came to know him better, I often wondered at this grim parody of penitent and confessor, but I am certain that Brunner has never asked anyone—man or god—to absolve him of anything he has ever done. For him, the gold that crosses his palm is absolution enough.

  Brunner told me many tales that night, of his travels across the Known World and his battles with hideous beasts and equally vile things that were more horrible for their humanity. He told me about his lengthy service under another bounty hunter, a fellow man of the Empire, named Kristov Leopold, until he at last learned all he could from the crafty veteran and surpassed his teacher in the skills of his gory trade.

  At one point during the night, Brunner suddenly rose from his chair and removed the crossbow from the clamp on his left vambrace. He leaned out the window, snarling down at Ferrini in a voice more laden with threat than any red-eyed thing I had encountered in the darkened streets of Altdorf. I heard the bandit sob, and the bounty hunter hiss a second command. Then he fired the crossbow and Ferrinis wails of pain rose from the street, lingering on for sometime before shock and fatigue caused the bandit to fall silent. I later learned that Ferrini had started to crawl away, seeking to escape while we spoke. By what means the bounty hunter knew his prey was escaping, I do not know, but it was almost as if some sixth sense warned him. The sight of the crossbow aimed at him from the window instantly caused the bandit to plead for his life. Brunner ordered the man to place his hand against the wall next to him, holding it above his prone body. Without a moment’s hesitation, the bounty hunter fired, the bolt smashing through Ferrini’s hand, pinning the man to the wall.

  Satisfied that his prey would be going nowhere, and seemingly paying him no further thought, the bounty hunter resumed his tale, telling me about a money-lender named Volonte…

  The little, sharp-eyed man scuttled through the grimy, manure-ridden back streets of Miragliano. He wore an ill-tended dark purple tunic above coarse homespun breeches. A slender poniard graced a leather sheath attached to a belt around his emaciated waist. The man did not seem particularly nervous as he passed a band of boisterous mercenary marines on leave from some wealthy merchant vessel berthed in the harbour. The frail-looking man kept his eyes averted from the mercenaries as they lurched their way to the next tavern on this, Miragliano’s most notorious street: the Strada dei Cento Peccati. Taverns, brothels, weirdroot dens, fighting pits and other, even less savoury, places of diversion prospered here. It was said that even the most dour priest of Morr could not walk the breadth of the street without discovering something to make him forget his clerical vows.

  This lane of illicit pleasure was the most dangerous in the entire city. Murder was more rampant than venereal disease and alcoholism, and not a night passed without a cart of bodies being removed in the morning, destined for the lime pits outside the city. It was whispered that many more died without their bodies being found, slaughtered in dark rituals or spirited away to the abodes of necromancers. It was also rumoured that some of the taverns and brothels, and especially weirdroot dens, were not above drugging their patrons, the unlucky victims waking up to find themselves in the secret holds of some barque bound for the slave markets of distant Araby—a fate perhaps worse than death.

  It was a lawless district, where even the watch did not dare to come during the hours of night. It was just the sort of place where the most wretched and depraved of men would thrive. And it was precisely where Rocha would find the man his master had sent him to look for.

  The sound of loud, volatile cursing intruded into his thoughts as a gaudily dressed sailor was flung from the darkened doorway of a beer hall to his left. The ma
n landed noisily in the dung-ridden gutter. He raised a soiled hand and screamed obscenities at the massive figure looming in the door, his high, nasally tones carrying the accent of a Sartosan. The bearded man in a grimy suit of armour glowered at the cursing sailor for a moment, then stalked from the doorway, his steps swift, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

  The Sartosan started to rise, nervous fear stalking through his anger. Even as he tried to scuttle away, the bearded man was upon him. Rocha heard the sound of a mallet-like fist crashing into the sailor’s face, but he ignored the violent scene, having seen its like too often to be interested in its finale. His gaze drifted away from the brawlers and came to rest upon the wooden sign swinging beside the doorway. Depicted upon it was a dark, massive porcine creature. Crude characters beneath the slavering brute spelled out the name ‘The Black Boar’ in Reikspiel.

  Stepping around the huge man raining punches upon the now slack form of the Sartosan sailor, Rocha entered the beer hall. Merchants and ships from all over the Old World came to Miragliano, from Marienburg and the Empire, to Araby and the near mythical elf realm of Ulthuan. And for every breed that came to Miragliano’s cluttered markets and swarming docks, there could be found a drinking hole to match their particular cultural tastes. The Black Boar, Rocha knew, was a beer hall operated by a displaced Reiklander brewer, and catered especially to the needs of men from the Empire—a familiar setting in a foreign land. Rocha was certain that at some point, the man he was looking for would show himself in the beer hall.

  Rocha entered the dark building. The ceiling was much higher than might have been expected, for the floor was set well below street level. The cause of this architectural irregularity was clustered about the end of the massive bar. It was a bar that sloped from the chest height of a man, to terminate at just above knee-height at its far end. Numerous dwarfs, their dress ranging from the robes of tradesmen to the armour of mercenaries, were clustered about the short end of the bar, downing overflowing steins of white-capped beer.

  The dwarfs were not the only ones who clustered within the tunnel-like hall, seeking a taste more substantial than the thin Tilean wines and Bretonnian ales of other taverns. Rocha could see men from such diverse places as Marienburg, Altdorf and Nuln. A dour group seated about a large round table had the fur caps and drooping moustaches of the far north: Kislevite horsemen, come to sell their martial prowess to the merchants of the south.

  The Tilean turned his eyes from the Kislevites and scanned the dark niches cut into the far wall of the beer hall. There were small private tables for those who wanted to see what manner of patron entered the Black Boar without themselves being seen first. The gleam of steel reflected in the dim light cast by the hanging lanterns of the tavern caught Rocha’s eye and he advanced upon one of the darkened niches.

  Rocha removed his hat as he approached, wringing it in both hands. It was partially a gesture of nervousness, but also a measure of caution, lest he accidentally make any motion that might be construed as a play for the dagger in his belt.

  ‘Say your piece,’ a steel voice intoned from the shadows, halting Rocha in his steps.

  ‘My master, the most esteemed merchantman Ennio Corbucci Volonte…’ Rocha began, bowing slightly to his shadowy accoster.

  ‘Volonte,’ the shadow scoffed. Rocha could see a head leer from the darkness. It was clothed in steel, a black helm in the rounded sallet style favoured by Imperial militia. Cold eyes stared out from the visor of the helm. A gloved hand raised a small clay cup to the exposed mouth below the edge of the helm. ‘Volonte is a leech and a parasite, who lends money to men who can ill afford to repay what they have borrowed, let alone the extortionate interest.’

  The man in the shadows shifted forward still more, exposing a lean, muscular body clothed in a suit of brigandine armour, a heavy-bladed falchion sword strapped to his side, a belt of long knives crossing his chest. ‘That bloodworm has never been one to spend the gold he makes. My price is more than he can stomach. Let him deal with street thugs and unemployed duellists, let him look to the gutter trash he knows so well.’

  Rocha smiled fawningly, diplomatically overlooking the slights upon the name and reputation of his master. He bobbed his head in appeasement. ‘It is true, my master has never had cause to engage a—collector— of your calibre. But he now finds himself set upon by a matter not only of errant debitry, but also of familial honour.’

  The bounty hunter mulled over the Tilean’s words for a moment, keeping to himself any dubious thoughts about Volonte’s familial honour. He rose from the darkness, striding towards Rocha from the depths of the niche.

  ‘You have earned my interest,’ Brunner stated, retrieving a small compact crossbow from the bench. ‘Lead on,’ he gestured with a gloved hand towards the steps leading back up to the street. ‘But your master had better have conquered his miserly ways,’ the bounty hunter warned. ‘Men who take me from my vices only to waste my time do not find me agreeable company.’

  The room was cold and clammy, almost like the preparation room in a temple of Morr. A lavish portrait of nubile wood nymphs consorting with horned satyrs dominated one wall, its gilded frame tarnished in the gloom, its colours overtaken by mildew and rot. A similar fate seemed destined for the exquisite marble statue of some slender and naked maiden that loomed beside a massive oak table that formed the focal point of the room. Behind it, seated in a high-backed chair, was a great greasy puddle of flesh that might once have resembled a man. He stared at the bounty hunter.

  Ennio Corbucci Volonte was one of many money-lenders in Miragliano, but his were the fattest fingers, the greasiest thumbs. His bribes went higher than most men, his retinue of thugs and enforcers more brutal than any. It was said that Volonte would loan a gold crown to anyone, because he would see five returned to him before the month was out. And if he did not, the streets of Miragliano were teeming with beggars who sought to placate the toad-like man, even after his enforcers had reduced them to penury. And, darker rumours averred, the money-lender even had ways to turn a profit from the dead—passing their parts off to alchemists and herbalists for use in the concoction of remedies and elixirs, and selling the refuse to sausage makers who, it was also said, had never laid eyes upon a hog.

  The fat man rolled forward in his chair. His maggot-like fingers were fitted with rings, the rolls of fat flesh almost engulfing the bands of gold.

  Volonte swept a greasy lock of black hair from his face, staring into the eyes of the bounty hunter with his own swine-like orbs.

  ‘Bertolucci,’ the fat man wheezed, as if every breath spent away from the plate of roast fowl set before him came at great exertion. ‘I want Bertolucci, bounty killer.’

  ‘So your minion explained,’ Brunner returned, unfazed by the money-lender’s attempt to affect an air of superiority. His gloved hand casually rested about the pommel of the heavy falchion sword at his side.

  ‘He has wronged me terribly,’ the money-lender croaked. ‘I lent him a tremendous sum, in good faith, to fund a business venture I wanted to invest in.’ Brunner noted that Volonte was careful not to mention the exact sum, lest he give the bounty hunter any ideas about his own fee. ‘But more than this, he insisted that I allow my daughter, my lovely Giana, my only child…’ The thin, rasping noises issuing from Volonte’s throat resembled belching more than sobbing and were silenced quickly as the money-lender continued to speak. ‘Bertolucci insisted that I make my daughter wed his pig of a son! To seal our pact with blood! As if his were some great and noble house!’

  ‘Get to the quick of it, fat man,’ Brunner’s icy voice intoned.

  ‘Ninety in silver,’ the money-lender croaked. ‘Ninety in silver when you bring me Bertolucci’s heart.’ Volonte’s fat fist opened in a clutching, clawing motion. ‘When you place it in my hand.’

  ‘Ninety it is,’ the bounty hunter said, his voice level and emotionless. ‘But it will be gold, not silver.’ Brunner gestured with his gloved hand. ‘This is a m
atter of revenge, not restitution, as I understand it. Passion such as that is costly. And besides,’ Brunner said as he turned away from the scowling face of Volonte, ‘she was your only daughter.’

  The dingy cellar beneath the tannery stank of rotten cabbage and spoiled fruit. Strips of wet cloth were hung from the beams that supported the floor above, in a desperate attempt to fend off the heat of day. Brunner picked his way through the wet strips of cloth, penetrating the maze-like veils to reach his goal—a shabby wooden cot that crouched like a crippled beast in the far corner of the cellar, where the stench was less and the shadows more. A form stirred upon that cot, and Brunner watched as it reached out to light a stubby candle with a strange device of flint and steel.

  ‘Ah, Brunner,’ the voice of the figure called out as the light of the candle revealed the bounty hunter’s armoured shape. The form on the cot was revealed as well: an emaciated thing, little more than a bag of bones, withered by age and unnatural disease alike. The face of the man was skull-like, his skin dark with small bony growths like little nubs of teeth embedded in the flesh of cheek and forehead. One hand was a perfectly natural, albeit shrunken and gaunt. The other was a trio of long, worm-like digits, short tentacles that gripped the candle in a loathsome parody of fingers. The bounty hunter strode forward, undisturbed by the sight of the mutant.

  ‘I need information, Tessari,’ the bounty hunter said, seating himself in a battered wooden chair opposite the cot.

  ‘No one ever just comes just to visit me,’ the mutant sighed, his watery eyes rolling skyward. ‘They always come because they want something.’