by C. L. Werner
Brunner calmly reloaded his weapon, and sent a second bolt smashing into the man’s face. This time, the shot was fatal and the soldier pitched forward, his body hanging over the wooden railing of the tower, his steel helmet falling from his head and landing with a moist thud in the muddy mire below.
Loading the weapon for the third time, the bounty hunter removed his own heavy falchion and its scabbard from the packhorse. He pushed Aldo’s body into the mud and belted the weapon about his waist once more. Stooping to retrieve his black helmet from the dead man, Brunner attached that too to his belt, shifting it so that the helmet rested against the opposite hip from his sword. The bounty hunter cast a long look at the timber fort that rose above the village, nodded his head grimly, then stalked down the muddy path that wound its way between the peasant hovels and ended at the fort of their tyrannical ruler.
Brunner had needed no time to consider the boy’s offer. He had followed the peasant back to his home village, keeping behind lest the boy should sight the armed killer on his trail. Then he had hidden himself in the woods overlooking Yorckweg, waiting for an opportunity to gain access to the small village. Aldo and his pack of killers could have been no more timely had the bounty hunter written ahead and requested an invitation.
Now it was time for a long deferred reckoning.
Albrecht Yorck sat in his padded seat, his sadistic, grinning features illuminated by the flickering torches set about the small wooden arena. The man snapped his fingers and a serving maid hurriedly refilled the iron-bound flagon on the short table beside his seat. Wine was well enough during the day, but Yorck felt that something more substantial was in order to fend off the chill night air. The local-brewed mead would serve such a purpose admirably. He had intended to wait for morning before indulging in his favourite sport, but the peasant slattern his troops had brought to him had proven less than acceptable. If it were not for the fact that it would spoil his dogs to give them too much food, he might have added the little witch to the menu. Perhaps in a few weeks’ time when the dogs had worked up more of an appetite…
Yorck thought again about the stupid peasant rabble and their audacious plan. For such low-born worms to think that they could actually match wits with a man who had attended a baron of the Empire, who had fought with the Reiksguard in his youth, who had managed to escape the grasp of the treacherous Viscount de Chegney—a feat few men could boast of—it was beyond absurd. Yorck’s subjects simply had to learn that they were not his people, they were his property.
The tyrant spared another impatient look at the wooden gate at the far side of the arena. It was taking them quite some time to bring the boy. He might have to see about having one of his soldiers play with the dogs after this, to teach him not to keep his master waiting. Yorck nodded to himself. Yes, that might indeed be a valuable, and highly entertaining, measure to maintain discipline.
The girl at Yorck’s side suddenly gasped in alarm. Yorck turned on her, and slapped her with the back of his hand. The girl flinched from the blow, but as the despot recovered from the attack, he saw what had made her cry out. A tall, lean man in armour was standing on the top of the steps that led up to the platform. A dark, black sallet helm covered his head, exposing only the lower part of his face. He clutched a fat-bladed falchion sword in a gloved hand. The other hand held a second helmet and as he tossed it forward, Yorck recognised it as belonging to his henchman Aldo.
‘I’m afraid that tonight isn’t going too well for you,’ an icy voice rasped from below the visored steel. ‘First your killers get themselves killed, then someone changes your evening’s entertainment.’ The bounty hunter took a step forward. Needing no further encouragement, the frightened serving girl darted past the armoured killer and flew down the steps, disappearing into the night.
Yorck stood slowly, backing away. His eyes were wide with fear. He cast a glance toward the log gate in the arena below. Brunner followed the man’s gaze.
‘I’m afraid that I already met your men,’ the bounty hunter stated, his voice carrying all the warmth of an open grave. ‘I convinced them that the boy was a little too small for what you had in mind.’ The bounty hunter let the point of his sword jab forward. ‘It took a little effort to convince them, but not much.’
Yorck gripped the dragon hilt of his own sword and the bounty hunter took another step forward, his icy eyes suddenly blazing into fiery life. The tyrant withered before the glare, hastily raising his hands into the air. For far too long Albrecht Yorck had been content to command the swords of others, for far too long he had taken life in cold blood rather than hot. The warrior Yorck had once been—the bold scheming villain who had betrayed one throne and seized another—had become a petty, hedonistic reptile that now shivered before the threat of honest battle.
‘Whatever they are paying you,’ he stammered, sweat cascading down his forehead, ‘I will triple it!’
A low snarl roared from Brunner’s chest and he sprang forward. Yorck lifted his hands still higher even as he sank to his knees, trembling in terror. Brunner set the point of his falchion against the tyrant’s belly. The man flinched from the cold metal. Brunner’s free hand closed upon the buckle of the man’s sword belt, unlatching the clasp, pulling the belt free. He held it in his hand with two fingers as the others worked loose the clasp of his own sword belt. The worn leather fell to the timber floor and Brunner placed the other sword belt into its place with one hand.
‘You like that sword?’ Yorck muttered, fear cracking through his voice. ‘It is yours! I want you to have it! My gift to you!’ Brunner’s eyes narrowed and he pressed the point of the falchion a bit deeper so that it indented the flesh of the usurper’s belly. ‘Anything you want!’ Yorck squealed. ‘You can be the baron! Just let me live!’
‘The word of some men can’t be bought,’ the bounty hunter hissed, his voice dripping venom. The bounty hunter clasped Yorck’s shoulder and with a savage push plunged the falchion through the tyrant’s belly, releasing it as Yorck slipped away. The man stumbled on his feet, with three inches of the heavy sword’s blade sticking from his back. The man stared at Brunner for a moment, but the bounty hunter’s steel-tipped boot kicked the man backwards, so that he broke through the low-wooden railing onto the muddy floor of the arena.
The bounty hunter looked down. Behind the gate beneath the platform, Yorck’s starving pets clawed at the wood, driven into a frenzy by the smell of their master’s blood.
Brunner turned his gaze to the dying Yorck as he forced himself to a sitting position. The fallen tyrant bore a questioning gaze. Blood bubbled from his mouth as he tried to speak.
‘How… much? How much… did they… pay youuu…’
Brunner reached into his belt and threw several small objects to the muddy floor of the arena. Yorck’s eyes focused on the three silver coins and the clutter of copper groats.
‘Everything,’ an icy voice replied. His hand now rested on the dragon-shaped hilt of the von Drackenburg blade. Yorck was still staring at the coins, beyond comprehension, when Brunner’s other hand pulled down on the rope and two lean, slavering shapes lunged from the darkness.
The two gaunt hounds circled their master, fangs bared, muzzles twisted into the silent snarls. Yorck raised a trembling arm to ward off the huge beast that snapped at his neck. Its fangs buried themselves deep into the meat of his arm, worrying the limb away from his body, and leaving the throat exposed for the other dog. The second hound was quick to seize the opening, hot breath panting from its excited, eager lungs. Yorck shrieked as the animal’s jaws closed upon his windpipe, and crunched his neck as though it were an old soup bone.
Like the bounty hunter, the dogs had taken many lives, but never had they savoured the kill for so long, or so well.
HONOUR AMONG VERMIN
I left the city of Miragliano as I had quit the Imperial city of Altdorf—a frightened cur with its tail tucked between its legs. I had terror in my soul, and prayed fervently to Sigmar that I might pass unnoti
ced by the powers of the Old Night.
It happened late one evening. I had been speaking with Brunner for many hours. We were situated in a small wine shop near my own rooms. The hour was late when the bounty hunter at last declared that I would have to question him further some other time. We left the wine shop, the light of Mannsleib bathing the filthy streets in a pale silvery light. My companion, as was usual for such a predatory nature, carefully considered the night streets, his piercing gaze covering the entire street at a glance. He did not linger over any one person, nor upon any window, doorway or darkened alley mouth. Yet I had the feeling that he saw as much with his quick glance as I would in an hour of close examination—his keen mind picked out every detail. Brunner had, as I have mentioned, an amazing memory and a craftsman’s eye for detail.
Abruptly, Brunner asked if there were any free rooms at the boarding house where I lodged, for we were quite close by. I replied that I believed that there were, and the matter was settled. The bounty hunter led me through the dark streets, saying that he would see for himself what manner of luxury his recollections furnished me with.
We reached the boarding house and Brunner secured a room quite close to my own, at a price considerably lower than my own. Once more, I reflected that the best champion of honesty is fear. I followed the bounty hunter up to the room the landlord had allocated to him. He gave the room a glance, then settled in, taking his leave of me without a word. Feeling for all the world like a dismissed servant, I made my way to my own chamber. However, I had only just begun to tug off my boots when the door opened. The bounty hunter gestured with a thumb at his room.
‘It ill suits my level of comfort,’ he hissed. ‘You sleep there, I’ll take your room.’ I sputtered out a protest but Brunner reminded me that it was his stories that elevated my livelihood. Like a scolded dog, I gathered up my boots and nightclothes and left the room, hoping that the landlord’s daughter Maria did not think to pay me a visit this night. The bounty hunter was capable of most anything. With his ruthless impulses and lightning-fast reflexes, he might kill the girl before he was even aware who had stolen into the room. Or he might welcome the company. I was not sure which scenario troubled me more.
So it was that I woke in the small hours, a foul stench filling my lungs. I did not rise from my bed, for I recalled Tilean tales of the Strigoi, the blood-sucking fiends who smelled of the grave and ripped the throats of their victims as they slept in their beds. After my encounter in Altdorf, vampires held an especial horror for me, and I became as still as a corpse, hoping that whatever exuded such a stench would not notice me. Yet, even in terror my mind was analysing the situation.
The odour was not that of a rotting corpse, but the reek of filthy fur, like an ill-tended beast from a menagerie. My hearing became ever more sensitive as my fear mounted, and I could hear the soft padding of naked feet stealing across the wooden floorboards. The soft, furtive steps drew ever closer towards the bed and with them, the stench filling my lungs increased. I held my breath, trying to wish the intruder away, and screwing my eyes shut desperately, lest I should see what horror now hovered over me.
The shrill titter that sounded from above me chilled my spine; it was a sound of cruel and inhuman amusement. Almost against my will, I opened one of my eyes. In the soft light streaming through the unshuttered window, I saw a hideous shape from the realm of nightmares. It was shaped like a man, though slender and small, its back crooked. A dark cloak covered its shape, and its paws were coated in a verminous black fur. Two red eyes gleamed from the shadows of the hood, and a long, rodent muzzle peeked forward, whiskers twitching as the nose scented my terror. Two long, chisel-like fangs jutted downward from its upper jaw. And I could see the moonlight dance on something metal clutched in its paw.
It was a horror from childhood, a nursery fable given flesh. How often have we tried to frighten naughty children with tales of the skaven, those scheming ratmen who lurk in the shadows, plotting the destruction of humanity ? How often do we laugh at their fear at such tales, for we in our wisdom know such tales to be foolish and fantastic? Can we no longer remember our own childhood terrors? When did we decide that such things were not real? And who told us that such things could not be…?
I watched in horror, frozen to the spot by my disgust, by the sudden flooding of my heart with all those childhood nightmares. The skaven drew a long, foul dagger from the worn leather belt about its waist. The red eyes gleamed more brightly and I knew that I looked upon my death.
Suddenly, the door was thrown open. The skaven uttered a sharp squeal of surprise, and leapt from the bed, scrambling toward the window. But it never reached its escape. The dull thok of a crossbow sounded. Once, twice, and yet a third time, all in rapid succession. The monsters body twitched as the first bolts slammed into its mutated flesh, and as the third bolt struck its cowled head, it fell to the floor. A long, naked tail twitched for a moment, then fell still as the vile creature breathed its last.
Brunner walked into the room. He still wore his armour, though he had removed the almost ever-present helmet. I watched his hard, grim face as he stared at the expired monster, turning its carcass over with the toe of his boot. He had the curious repeating crossbow pistol still aimed at the ratman. He did not seem horrified by the monster’s loathsome visage, or concerned at its presence here.
‘You knew it would come here!’ I accused, my fear giving me enough courage to confront the bounty hunter. ‘You used me as bait!’
The bounty hunter reached down and removed a small pouch from the skaven’s belt. I heard the jingle of coins as Brunner hefted the sack. He opened it, smiling as he saw the gold it contained. Then he withdrew something else from the sack, a piece of leather that still bore fur on one side. He read whatever message was written on it, then replaced the scrap of leather in the pouch.
‘What is this all about?’ I demanded. ‘By the shadow of Morr, what is that thing?’
Brunner nudged the corpse with his foot one more time. ‘Just a messenger, from someone making good on a debt.’
The bounty hunter then began to speak, to spin a tale of what had befallen him in my home city, in Imperial Altdorf beneath the very feet of the Emperor.
Niedreg crept softly through the dark room. His silent steps went unerringly past piles of books, tables laden with scrolls and jars, past the dozens of black obstacles that awaited him in the near lightless room. But the young man was no stranger to this environ; he had been this way many times before, though never with such purpose as now moved his thin, lean body.
A small pool of light blazed in the midst of the shadows. Niedreg paused, catching his breath, and stood still, watching, listening, and most of all waiting. His eyes gleamed in the flickering flame of the old copper-bound oil-lamp that had its origins in the desolate wastes of far-off Araby. The lamp was resting atop the large worktable of dark Drakwald wood that dominated the room. Papers were piled in one corner of the table, while books and jars of dark liquids were spread across every remaining edge of the wooden surface. In the only break in the mountain of leather-bound books and glass pots, a stoop-shouldered man was bent forward, his pale, long-fingered hands working within the sphere of light cast by the lamp. The man’s head was covered in long grey hair, topped by a rounded cap of black felt marked with symbols and stars of silver and azure.
Niedreg watched as the wizard continued his labours. The old man stabbed a lengthy needle-like device into a small bowl, then removed a tiny scrap of flesh from it. With his free hand he grasped one of the glass jars, and pulled it into the sphere of light. He dipped the needle into the jar, and shook it until the fragment of flesh fell free and slowly sank into the dark liquid. Then he thrust the needle into the blazing flame of the lamp until its tip burned red, then withdrew it and set it upon a sheet of moist vellum, to steam and sizzle.
The old man leaned over the glass pot in which he had dropped the fleshy fragment. Then he turned to a steel frame that held up a thick piece of glass i
n a brass claw. He raised a wrinkled hand to his head, pulling back the long strands of hair that threatened to slip into his eyes. Looking through the piece of glass, he concentrated on the fragment of flesh, the dark liquid, and what effect their union was having.
Niedreg licked his lips nervously and drew the knife from his robe. It was still in its sheath of dark leather, but the young man imagined he could feel heat ebbing from the blade. He had been warned to keep the weapon sheathed at all times, until the very instant he was to strike. He had been told that the merest touch, the simplest contact with the naked blade would kill, but not quickly, or cleanly. Niedreg cast an apprehensive look at the sheathed weapon and took a deep breath.
The seated figure was so involved in his labour that he did not notice Niedreg’s shadow fall upon him. It was almost a summary of their relationship: the old wizard had never paid any but the most cursory notice to his apprentice. Niedreg had served Lothair the Golden for five years, and in all that time his magical training had amounted to little more than hurrying about Altdorf securing the compounds and chemicals his mystic patron required. While it was true that Lothair had shown some compassion by schooling him after the Colleges of Magic had so summarily rejected his application, Niedreg felt that his apprenticeship had been steadily degrading into nothing more than servitude. But now the would-be wizard had found a new patron, one who promised to teach him far more than Lothair ever could have.
The apprentice drew the knife from its sheath. The weapon glistened wetly in the flickering light, its black surface coated with a foul ichor that seemed to ooze from the very metal of the weapon. Niedreg spared the knife only a moment’s glance, for the grey head of his mentor had lifted, as though he sensed something was amiss. Whatever warning sense disturbed the old wizard it was not quick enough, for Niedreg swiftly stabbed the black blade into the wizard’s back, piercing his heart. A long, low gasp sounded from the magician and he slumped over his table, disturbing the flasks and jars.
