by C. L. Werner
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 off-duty 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 foppish-looking 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 most 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.’
The innkeeper’s eyes grew wide with alarm as he heard Savio’s name associated with such great cities. Suddenly the professional swordsman had become more frightening than even the innkeeper had imagined. ‘There is a back door,’ the bald man said. ‘You could slip through it and be out of Greymere without Savio seeing you go.’
A loud voice called from the street, demanding that Brunner emerge, and berating the bounty hunter as a rogue and a coward without honour.
‘And keep him waiting even longer?’ Brunner asked. He removed another packet of paper from a third pouch on his belt. He tapped the light, flour-like powder from the folded square of paper into a covered pan at the rear of the gun, just below the steel latch of the hammer. The bounty hunter rose from the table, bearing the loaded handgun with him.
‘What are you going to do?’ the bald man asked, voicing the question on the mind of everyone in the tavern.
‘Before he left Tilea, Savio killed the son of one of Luccini’s most prosperous guildmasters,’ the bounty hunter replied, snatching up a shabby cloak from a hook beside the door, and draping it over his right arm to hide the weapon he now carried. ‘More than enough to pay for the replacement of a bullet and some powder.’
Savio stood in the centre of the muddy lane, men and animals giving him a wide berth as they passed. The thin-bladed, lightweight sword was gripped in his still-gloved hand. His other arm was covered by the heavy fabric of the red cape, the slender fang of his dagger gleaming from the fist that emerged from the folds of the cape. As the duellist saw Brunner emerge from the tavern, he uttered a short, sharp laugh.
‘I was thinking that maybe I would have to go inside and drag you out,’ he laughed. ‘Many is the time when some churlish cur would refuse to answer the demands of honour and unman himself before the duel even began.’ The Tilean’s blue eyes focused on the shabby cloak draped about the bounty hunter’s right arm. ‘Oh? You think to fight me in the style of a Tilean streetfighter?’ The duellist laughed again. ‘The trick is to employ the cape as not only shield but weapon. Catch your enemy’s blade in its folds, if you can, but there is many another trick.’
The duellist made a quick swipe with his sword into the empty air, then pranced a pace forward, whipping the edge of the cape forward, like a boy cracking a wet towel. ‘Strike the hand of some handsome noble and watch them recoil from so minor a blow, dropping dagger or sword from fingers stung by so little a thing.’ The Tilean withdrew, then danced forward a step, unfurling the cape and casting it about an invisible foe, as the sword lashed out again. ‘Then one can always cast one’s cloak about the enemy. He will panic, trying to fend off your cloak, and exposing himself for one instant to the steel in your hand.’
‘Your swordplay is as extravagant as your mouth,’ Brunner’s voice sneered. The Tilean lost the playful expression, and his words their jocular tone.
‘I have never met my equal with the sword,’ the duellist said, staring at the armoured figure of the bounty hunter.
‘And you never will,’ Brunner stated. He lowered the gun held upright at his side. The hammer responded to the tug of the trigger, smashing into the pan and the powder contained there. The powder lighted under the impact, in turn igniting the gunpowder in the barrel. The black powder exploded with a flash and boom, forcing the iron ball from the weapon. The bullet shot across the few yards separating the two men and crashed into Savio’s breast, tearing through the chainmail shirt as though it were not there. The duellist toppled backward, his head crashing into a pool of mud and horse urine.
A stunned silence settled upon the street as the echoing report of the handgun slowly faded away. Brunner stalked across the mud, crouched down beside the body of the Tilean and pulled the large knife from his belt. The serrated edge gleamed in the light for a moment before he brought the blade against the neck of the dead man. A woman screamed as Brunne
r set about his gruesome labour.
‘Always make sure that the man you want to kill is playing by the same rules,’ the bounty hunter said as he lifted Savio’s head from the corpse.
Brunner looked about the street, his gaze canvassing the horrified onlookers. He settled upon a young boy standing near the door of the inn, and tossed a gold coin to him.
‘Fetch me a sack of salt,’ he told the boy. ‘Keep a few coppers for yourself, but bring the rest back to me.’ The boy rushed off, the menace in the bounty hunter’s voice ensuring that he would return as speedily as his young feet would allow. Brunner pushed open the door of the tavern with the still-smoking barrel of his gun and disappeared into the darkness with his trophy.
On the edge of Greymere, a crude amphitheatre of wooden tiers had been erected for what passed as cultural pursuits in the brutal and savage realm of Prince Waldemar. Vincenzo quietly made his way through the noisy, raucous crowd seated in the wooden benches that rose above the muddy ground. Far below the wooden tiers, in a stone-lined hole, a nearly naked man held a shortsword in a massive fist, his other hand encased in a razor-sharp cestus. Five wiry creatures circled the man, their red eyes gleaming in the light of the torches set about the pit.
