by C. L. Werner
The press of bodies was no less than it was before, but Jurgen noticed as he followed the bounty hunter that merchant, peasant, soldier and craftsman alike all made way for the grim figure. Slipping behind in Brunner’s shadow, the boy discovered that his own passage was not so unobstructed and found his body squirming between the foot traffic as the people closed ranks and resumed their travel.
Brunner walked back down the street, toward the tavern from which the burly guard had so summarily ejected Jurgen only minutes before. As the boy advanced toward the building, the steel face of the bounty hunter turned towards him again.
Jurgen squeaked with fright as he saw that Brunner’s gloved hand was closed about the hilt of his fat-bladed sword and that an inch of steel gleamed where he had begun to draw the weapon from its scabbard.
‘I trust you have a reason for following me,’ the bounty hunter challenged, every inch of the trained killer tensed for action. Jurgen began to back away, but the sudden image of his home, his family, the frightened, desperate faces in the gloom of the barn forced him to hold his ground, to raise his face and stare defiantly at the bounty hunter.
‘Yes,’ the boy said in what he hoped was like the commanding tone he had heard the baron employ so very often, but which emerged as the high-pitched yip of a frightened fox. ‘I want to hire you.’
Jurgen thought he saw a flicker of amusement twitch across the hard mouth below the line of his helm. But it was only for a brief moment. The armoured figure turned and strode through the door of the tavern, waving a gloved hand for Jurgen to follow.
The boy re-entered the tavern. The huge bouncer again rose from his stool, striding toward the doorway, smacking one meaty fist into the palm of his other hand. But the bully had taken no more than a few steps before he saw the man waiting for Jurgen inside. A fearful look made the bouncer’s eyes grow wide and the hairy man returned to his stool, studiously avoiding the peasant boy and hardened killer who had preceded him into the drinking hole.
Brunner advanced to a table in the corner of the room, resting his back against the wall. He casually dropped the sack containing the head of the thief upon the table, paying it no further attention. He motioned with his hand for Jurgen to sit at the other side of the table, then snapped his fingers. An ashen-faced barmaid walked toward the table, her steps reluctant, her bodice heaving with short, frightened gasps. The bounty hunter barely looked at the young woman, as he snapped an order for a stein of beer. The barmaid cast a look at the peasant boy, then back at the bounty killer.
‘He can drink after I am paid,’ Brunner snapped, dismissing the woman. Leaning forward, the bounty hunter’s cold blue eyes stared at the peasant boy. ‘So you have a job for me?’ There was nothing mocking in the killer’s tone, only a deadly seriousness. ‘You should know that I don’t come cheap.’
Jurgen reached into his tunic, pulling the coins from the inner pocket his mother had sewn above his heart. It held the combined wealth of the town’s oppressed people. The boy reached toward the bounty hunter, but Brunner tapped the table instead of reaching for the boy’s hand. Jurgen nodded and set the coins down next to the rough cloth sack. Brunner’s gloved hand hovered over the coins, turning each of them over with a finger. Then he stared into the boy’s eyes.
‘And what could be worth so much to you, I wonder?’ his cold voice asked.
A light gleamed in Jurgen’s eyes. Was this man, this horrible killer, really considering helping them? He had been told that they could not trust to greed alone to dispose of their cruel tyrant, but also to the compassion of a noble heart, to the sense of justice that moves some men with no thought of reward. But Jurgen dared not hope that any such emotion stirred within the heart of this fearsome man.
‘My village lies only a few days from here,’ Jurgen began. ‘It was called Elsterholz, and our lord was the Count Schlaesser. But about five years ago a man came, the leader of some soldiers. Our lord hired them, for there was rumour that wild tribes were on the march again. But the man had no intention of protecting the count—he seized control. They killed the soldiers loyal to the count, then their leader hung our count from the village gate and declared himself our lord. The Baron Yorck.’ Jurgen fairly spat the name. The bounty hunter leaned forward, his face inches from the peasant boy’s.
‘Describe this Yorck for me,’ Brunner hissed. As the boy recounted the visage of the grim tyrant, the steel head of the bounty hunter nodded in affirmation of each detail.
‘He wears a sword, does he not?’ Brunner asked, interrupting the boy. ‘A nobleman’s blade? A slender fang of steel with a hilt of gold fashioned in the shape of a dragon with outspread wings?’
The boy nodded, amazed that he had so exactly described the baron’s sword. A moment of silence hung in the air. At last, Brunner nodded his head. ‘I will consider this commission you have offered me.’ Some of the hope drained from Jurgen’s face.
‘If the money is not enough, we can offer more,’ the boy hurried to explain. ‘We have food and mead and some of the girls in the village are very beautiful.’ The boy’s face dropped as he saw that Brunner’s expression had not changed at all. ‘And there is more! The baron has all manner of treasures in his fort. Gold from the dwarf mines and silver and gems from the south.’ Brunner snorted. Jurgen misunderstood the expression, thinking the imaginary wealth was still not enough to entice the hunter. ‘The baron has the horde of a dragon in a secret chamber, from his days as a mercenary and adventurer. If you help us, the town elders will let you claim all that you can carry!’
‘I said that I would consider your offer,’ Brunner repeated, leaning back against the wall again. Jurgen reached forward to reclaim the coins, but Brunner’s gloved hand intercepted him. ‘Leave those. They will help me in reaching a decision.’
‘But that is all the money we have!’ the boy exclaimed. ‘That is all the wealth we have been able to steal and keep hidden from the baron’s men!’
‘Then I know that you won’t be seeking to hire some other while I make my—decision unless you can find some fool who will work for unseen dragon gold,’ the bounty hunter said. ‘Return to your village. You will have your answer in a fortnight.’
The boy rose from the table, slumped in defeat. As he walked away, he cast a last look at the bounty hunter. Brunner was drinking from the clay stein that had been brought to the table, his eyes staring at the other denizens of the tavern. The coins remained on the table, gleaming in the feeble light. The last hope dripped from Jurgen’s body.
At least the man in the alley had been an honest thief.
It was dark when Jurgen slipped through the crack in the perimeter wall of Yorckweg. It was a burrow dug by the children of the village long ago to escape the notice of their parents and slink unseen into the woods to play their secret games. But now the hidden hole in the wall served a much more important role and those who used it could no longer be properly called children.
Jurgen made his way along the deserted, muddy lanes. His tattered clothes were slick with sweat and covered in the dust of the road. He stole cautiously to the flimsy plank that served as the door of the mud-walled hovel he shared with his parents and three siblings. He paused, listening to the sounds of soft sobbing coming from inside. The boy was certain that it was his mother’s voice. A sudden sense of urgency filled Jurgen and he pushed the plank aside.
Jurgen saw his mother kneeling beside the cooking fire that dominated the main room of the hovel, stirring the contents of the iron pot. Her face was drenched in salty tears, their snail-like trails glistening in the flickering light. There was no sign of his brother and sisters, who should have been sleeping on their straw-lined pallets against the far wall. The boy could hear a stirring in the back room, but a thin blanket over the opening of the room obscured his view.
The woman looked up as she heard her son enter. The look on her face was of utter horror. Her mouth opened to scream, to warn her son away, but another voice silenced her. Mother and son both look
ed to the opening of the back room. The blanket was pulled aside, but the man standing in the doorway was not Jurgen’s father. Though wearing only a long white nightshirt, a sword was clasped in his hand.
‘We missed you, Jurgen,’ he said in a low, mocking voice. ‘I understand you have been far away and have much to tell.’ Aldo stalked toward the stunned youth. ‘I think the baron will be most interested to hear what you have to say.’
Albrecht Yorck emerged from his stone-walled chamber beneath the timber fort. There was a contented smile spread across his cruel features. The wailing sobs of guilt mixed with groans of pain sounded from the cell he had left. They replaced the shrieks that had echoed through the halls for the last two hours. A burly Tilean appeared behind Yorek, fastening a chain and lock to the wooden door. The bare-chested man then turned to his master, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of a hairy hand.
‘Get a little wine and some food,’ Yorck said. ‘We’ll have another go at him in a few hours.’ Yorck’s smile curled into a vile leer. ‘Just to be certain he told us the truth.’ The torturer bowed and departed. The tyrant turned and faced the henchman who had waited outside the cell for his master’s orders.
‘Did he tell you anything?’ Aldo asked.
‘We knew much of it from that idiot Geier,’ Yorck laughed. It did his wicked heart good to recall the peasant who had informed him of the plot. Purely out of loyalty, Geier had claimed, though he seemed quite eager when Yorck mentioned a reward.
And Yorck had been most generous, giving him fifty gold crowns for being such an altruistic and loyal man. Of course, Geier had been a bit alarmed when the gold coins were brought to him on a wooden plate, as a meal… Poor man, it seemed that his eyes were bigger than his stomach. Or at least his throat. That was one lesson Yorck had learned from the Viscount de Chegney—never trust a traitor. ‘But the boy did fill in some of the gaps, more so than his father or any of the others. It seems he found a man in Brezano willing to kill me. A bounty hunter, or so the rascal claimed.’
Aldo’s scarred features narrowed. ‘A bounty hunter?’
Yorck nodded his head. ‘An expert killer, according to the boy. Get some of your men together. Ride for Brezano and kill this scum. Bring his body back, so we can show this rabble what happens to those who oppose me.’
The Tilean soldier bowed and turned to leave when a nagging thought stirred in what passed for the man’s conscience. He turned to his despotic leader. ‘What are you going to do with the boy? Hang him in the gibbet with his father?’
Yorck smiled with chilling excitement. ‘Dear me no, he might be able to wiggle his way through the bars. No, I think he should have a spot of sport with my pets. It has been some time since they were fed.’ The tyrant laughed at his own jest, then turned sternly to his henchman. ‘I have my affairs to get in order and you have your own to pursue. I suggest that you go find this man. The boy won’t make much of a meal for the dogs.’
That evening four riders set out from the main gate of Yorckweg. Aldo had chosen his companions both for their martial prowess and their experience as cold and ruthless murderers. These were men who would not shrink from putting a dagger in a sleeping man’s back or striking out with a crossbow bolt from the shadows. Each man bore an expression of cruel determination. Long years serving their usurper lord had driven whatever compassion and rectitude they had from their souls. They had done far worse things under Yorck’s orders than murder an unarmed man in cold blood—one more crime would weigh no more heavily upon their already blackened hearts.
Aldo’s scarred features scanned each of his armed cutthroats. ‘Remember,’ he cautioned, ‘we must bring his body back. The baron wants to make an example of this bounty hunter, and to let the villagers know that no one can oppose his rule.’ The rider to Aldo’s left bowed his head, the steel of his rounded kettle hat gleaming in the feeble light cast by Mannsleib and its darker sibling. But just as he raised his face, a spike of steel slammed through his nose, crunching through the cartilage and bone. The soldier fell from his horse, clutching at his wound, an inarticulate bubbling gurgle frothing from his face.
Aldo shouted for his men to take cover, but even as he did so, a second crossbow bolt tore through the chest of the man to his right. The mercenary screamed, slumping down in his saddle as his steed raced off into the darkened countryside, frightened by the sudden slaughter.
The remaining soldier turned his horse about, making to ride back to Yorckweg. Aldo saw the bright flash of a blackpowder hackbut exploding from the tree line, and he heard the loud crack of the report echoing. He watched as the bullet took the soldier’s steed in the neck, dropping it instantly. The man was crushed beneath the animal’s weight, pinned to the earth and screaming piteously from above his crushed legs and pelvis.
Aldo did not wait for another attack, but leapt from his saddle and dived into the brush. He landed hard, twisting his foot. He bit down on the pain, and drew his sword, cursing as his horse raced away, bearing his crossbow on the back of its saddle.
The man pinned beneath the dead horse was still screaming when Aldo heard hooves drawing near. The sound of hoofbeats stopped, then only the occasional rattle of chain-links or the scuffing of an armoured boot upon a loose stone indicated that someone was coming closer.
Aldo watched as a dark figure cautiously advanced, stalking toward the wounded soldier with all the caution of a lone wolf on the hunt. The scar-faced Tilean gave a start when he saw the man: the blackened steel sallet helm and the dark gromril breastplate. Somehow he had known that it would be him. Only the bounty hunter would have had cause to ambush them; only he would have had the skill to accomplish such a feat.
Aldo had chosen his band of killers well, but he had not reckoned with facing an even more callous, cunning and ruthless adversary. The bounty hunter closed upon the wounded soldier, raising a small hand crossbow. He pointed it at the wounded man’s head and silenced his screams of agony. There had not been even a second of hesitation, a moment to consider mercy, to pity the man he had broken with his gunshot.
Aldo lifted himself from his hiding place, hoping to slink off into the night. At the sound of the rustling movement, the bounty hunter spun about, dropped his crossbow and drew a blackpowder pistol from a holster across his belly in one fluid movement. There was another loud report and the barrel of the pistol erupted into flame.
Only one thing spared Aldo’s life from the shot—his injured foot gave way beneath his own weight, causing him to topple just as the bounty hunter fired his weapon. Brunner did not hesitate to address the misaimed shot, holstering the pistol and pulling his fat-bladed falchion from its scabbard. Aldo lifted himself to meet the charge, with a dagger in his left hand, and a longsword in his right.
Brunner closed upon the Tilean with a sinister silence that unnerved Aldo more than any orc’s brutal war-howl. With the speed of a viper, the bounty hunter struck out with his heavy sword, the blade barely intercepted by Aldo’s much lighter longsword. The bounty hunter strained, pushing the Tilean’s sword to the side, exploiting the mercenary’s weakened leg to offset the man’s superior brawn.
Aldo snarled, the scar on his face livid with anger. He sent his dagger-gripping hand forward toward the bounty hunter’s vitals. But a gloved hand closed about his wrist, pushing the blade back, and twisting the point of the dagger back at its wielder. Aldo felt his grip being turned and reasserted his strength, turning his hand around in the gloved grasp, even as he sought to free his sword from the weight of Brunner’s falchion.
The two men jostled for position in the shadows, each struggling to subdue his foe. In the darkness, the dagger stabbed into flesh and a dry gasp escaped the throat of a man who was clearly dying.
The guards atop the gate of Yorckweg hailed the lone rider who made his way toward their post. It was still dark, but they could easily recognise the distinctive helmet and armour of Aldo. The mercenary sergeant led a second horse behind him, a body thrown across the saddle. The co
mmander of the watch called out his congratulations on his successful and speedy hunt, and hastened down from the tower to examine Aldo’s prize. One of the other guards followed the officer, sharing in the excitement of the moment. He left only one man to work the heavy counterbalance that would raise the timber gate.
‘Didn’t think to see you back so soon,’ the officer said, sparing only a brief glance at the mounted Tilean before hastening to the packhorse. ‘Are the others behind you, or did they go on to Brezano for a bit of rest?’
The officer laughed. There was little enough entertainment to be had in Yorckweg, and what little there was, the baron hoarded for himself. It took very little to get any of the men to take an unauthorised furlough to any of the neighbouring settlements. The armoured Tilean just nodded his head, and began to dismount from his horse.
The officer reached for the body slumped across the saddle. He lifted the head, and stared at the face beneath the black visor of the sallet helm. A deep gash spread from beneath the armoured helm to the end of his cheek. It was a scar that the officer had seen many times before. Even as the soldier turned to confront the impostor, six inches of Tilean longsword were driven into his gut. The officer’s cry of alarm emerged as a low gasp and he slumped to his knees, pawing at the mud with his hands. The soldier who had followed him down from the tower barely had time to see his officer fall before the impostor sent a throwing knife through his throat. The soldier fell onto his back, writhing in his death throes as blood bubbled between the fingers clasping his neck.
Brunner dropped Aldo’s sword into the mud and lifted the small crossbow he had tethered to his wrist with a leather lace cut from the mercenary’s boot. The lone guard in the watchtower was reaching for the alarm bell when the small bolt struck him in the back. He shouted once, hands clutching at the dart, but was unable to reach it. He staggered for a moment, pain driving out thoughts of alerting his lord and master.
