by C. L. Werner
The bounty hunter charged into the injured skaven, his sword passing through the neck of the closest one, sending its head rolling across the alley. The second skaven tried to parry his blow, but it overbalanced and fell against the stones, causing more caltrops to sink into its mangy hide. The slave shrieked, but its cry ended in a low rattle as Brunner’s sword transfixed its heart.
The bounty hunter removed his blade from the twitching corpse, glaring at the other attackers, but the fight was over—the injured ratmen limped away as best they could, back to the hidden entrances to the sewers and the comforting safety of the dark tunnels.
A loud snap sounded from the entrance of the alley and something whizzed past Brunner’s face, smacking into the wall beside him. He turned as another snap sounded, and staggered as something struck his breastplate, ricocheting off into the darkness. It had dented the almost indestructible metal. He quickly drew a throwing knife and sent it arcing through the darkness to strike the figure at the mouth of the alley. There was a sharp squeal and something clattered to the cobbles.
Brunner strode towards the cloaked figure, watching with some amusement as it tried to tug the knife from where it had caught the garment and pinned it to the wall. The murderous creature had been lucky, the knife had missed its arm.
Brunner stooped and removed the strange-looking weapon the skaven had fired at him. It was similar in some ways to a crossbow, but it had a box-like device set atop the string. The steel string itself had a mechanism that instantly pulled it back after firing. He paused to admire the weapon for a moment, then turned his icy eyes on the struggling creature.
‘I suppose you didn’t bring me the rest of my money,’ he sighed.
The skaven suddenly slipped free and dropped down out of the pinned cloak. Skrim scrambled from the alley on all fours, like the giant rat he resembled. Brunner muttered a low curse, letting the unfamiliar crossbow fall back to the street and grasping for one of his own throwing knives. He had an instant to watch the long, naked tail and grey-furred backside scramble out of sight around the corner. He snarled again, giving chase, turning the corner just in time to see the tip of the fleshy tail slip into a narrow sewer drain.
‘No,’ the bounty hunter said after gazing at the dark drain. He sheathed the knife and walked away. ‘I am not going back down there unless I am sure I’m getting paid.’ Still watching for any sign of lingering ambushers, he strode back to the alleyway to reclaim the skaven’s abandoned weapon. The exotic weapon would be compensation for the money his treacherous, inhuman employer had failed to pay out.
Skrim was muttering to himself as he sloshed his way through the murky tunnel. He nibbled at the tip of his tail, savouring the taste of his own blood. Flecks of foam fell from the corners his mouth, splashing against the grey fur of his chest.
The human would pay, the skaven swore to himself. The filthy man-creature would suffer untold agony, have the flesh gnawed from his bones by Skrim’s own fangs. He would spare no expense to have his revenge. He would set the finest assassins in the Under Empire upon that treacherous cur…
Skrim stopped short, a hunted look entering his eyes. Yes, he could set the nastiest, sneakiest, stealthiest, most skilled assassins in the Old World on the bounty hunter’s trail. There were enough warp tokens in his many caches of wealth to afford them. But could he be certain that the killers would stab first and ask questions later? What might they be able to learn from this man-killer before they slew him? For that matter, what might that dolt Niedreg have told him before he was killed? Skrim’s head whipped about, his narrow eyes darting at every shadow, trying to see what they might conceal.
He was in the same bind. He could not set one of his own kind after the bounty hunter; he’d have to use another human for the job. Yet even then, there was no surety of killing the man-killer. He had a decidedly skaven-like penchant for distrust and cunning. Skrim had to admit that it was an almost admirable quality. Perhaps he was being hasty in his thirst for blood. After all, those cowardly slaves were more to blame than the man-creature. If they had not been so easily frightened, they might have been able to better the human. It took Skrim quite some time to convince himself, but at last he decided that the escaped slaves were the cause of his humiliation and near-death experience. He’d see them skinned alive for causing such anguish.
As for the man-creature, he seemed to hold no loyalty beyond his need for the yellow metal all the humans lusted after. Perhaps he might be of use at some later time? Enough gold, and perhaps he might even forget about their unfortunate misunderstanding.
Skrim’s eyes glistened in the darkness as his devious mind began to hatch new plots and intrigues, plans in which a human bounty hunter was a rather prominent player.
THE BLACK PRINCE
Many are the legends told in the misty shadows of the Grey Mountains, that nigh-impenetrahle fence between the Kingdom of Bretonnia and the grand Empire. Here was the birthplace of such legends as the infamous Blood Keep and the vampiric red duke. The location of the haunted dwarf minehold of Bhurali-dwar is said by some to worm its way through the roots of jagged fangs of rock. And, here too, once stood that monument to the Dark—the fortress of Drachenfels—and the unholy being who inhabited that blighted palace.
Some of these tales are naught but stories told to frighten young children, and to keep ignorant peasants from straying too far from their masters’ lands. But others hold the seed of some dark and terrible truth, some secret the teller of such stories is better off not guessing. For sometimes truth comes at a high price and can raze the fortunes of the most prosperous, sap the strength of the most mighty, and savage the soul of even the most stalwart.
Among the legends of the Grey Mountains, there is the tale of a grim and fearsome haunter of the darkness, a Black Prince, master of a shadowy kingdom of thieves, bandits, murderers, assassins, kidnappers and slavers. A Black Prince who rules from a stronghold hidden within the Grey Mountains, and collects tribute from his nefarious subjects within both Bretonnia and the Empire. Some even say that his spectral reach extends even beyond these great lands, so that cut-purses in Tilea, highway-men in Estalia, Sartosan pirates and even marauding mercenary free companies in the Border Princes pay their tithe of blood and gold to this man. It is whispered that not all of the Black Prince’s slaves are human; that in the dark woods twisted things bray and growl their oaths of allegiance to him. And, it is also whispered, the Black Prince himself is not human, but some creature of the Ruinous Powers, a daemon thing set upon the world to cultivate the seeds of corruption and decay, to weaken the bastions of humanity and pave the way for the next great push by the forces of Chaos.
Chief amongst those tradesmen who harkened to tales of the near-mythical figure of the Black Prince was that hard and brutal breed—the bounty hunter. Though the Black Prince himself might only be rumour, the reward offered for his head was only too real. Held within a vault below the King of Bretonnia’s castle in Couronne, the bounty for his capture was the ransom of a king. It had been kept under lock and key for three hundred years following the notorious kidnap and disappearance of the elf envoy from Athel Loren. Yet even after all this time, no man had ever stepped forward to claim the reward, and so the infamy of the Black Prince grew and grew.
The siren lure of the Black Prince summoned that grim and terrible figure, Brunner the bounty killer, to the pleasant land of Bretonnia. And on this epic hunt, I became more than Brunner’s chronicler—I became a part of his deeds, a part of the contest between the limitless cruelty of the Black Prince and the unerring ruthlessness of the bounty hunter.
I doubt if I shall ever feel clean again…
I
The tavern was full despite the late hour. Peasants spent their meagre earnings on cups of watered-down ale, trying to warm the chill of autumn from their bent, overworked frames. A down-on-his-luck minstrel sat near the fire, despondently plucking away on a battered lute. A pair of caravan guards tested their strength in an arm wrestling
contest, trying their best to ignore the whiny-voiced muleskinner who tried to incite everyone to wager their coin on the outcome. An off-duty watchman bounced an overweight, middle-aged serving wench on his knee half-heartedly. A woodsman spread a set of skins out on his table, examining them in the feeble light cast by the lanterns on the rafters.
Near the bar, a well-dressed merchant from the Empire ordered another flagon of ale for himself and his son. The merchant sported the elaborate moustaches favoured by the well-to-do of his land. His face was plump and well-fed, but bore the mark of the weather in the hardness of its cast and the roughness of its skin. The eyes glittered with humour, but there was also a mark of sadness in them—a scar left by years of experience in times that were neither so pleasant nor so prosperous as the present.
Otto Kretzer took the two leather mugs from the obese Bretonnian behind the bar and made his way back to the table. A younger man rose to help him, but Otto shooed him away.
‘I’m not so old as I can’t handle myself, you know,’ the ageing man scoffed. He set the flagons down on the table and let a big sigh heave from his chest as he slumped into one of the chairs. ‘Of, course, I’m not so young as I used to be,’ he admitted with a wink, taking a deep draught of ale from his cup.
‘As you are very fond of reminding everyone when it’s time to load the wagons,’ the younger man laughed.
Josef Kretzer was the very image of the merchant, though not as plump, or as well dressed. A slender branch of black hair curled upwards from the corners of his mouth, framing a sharp nose. His hair was cut short, though not in the military fashion of the older merchant. His leather tunic was not elaborate, but his boots bore a pair of glittering silver buckles that contrasted richly with the simple laces and clasps that graced the older man’s leggings.
Josef reached a soft-skinned hand forward and grasped the leather jack. Pulling it toward him, he wrinkled his face. Otto laughed.
‘If you are going to take over the route, then you will have to learn to stomach Bretonnian drink,’ the merchant sniggered and downed another mouthful of the amber liquid. ‘You’ll find few enough places that serve beer, and even fewer that serve anything even the lowest dive in Altdorf would dare to pass off as tea.’
The younger man pushed the jack away from him after taking a brief sip. ‘I may just have to turn to tea,’ he said, ignoring the glowering look the tavern keeper cast at him from behind the bar. ‘I don’t suppose there would be room in the wagons for a few kegs of decent drink?’
‘And lose valuable cargo space?’ Otto returned with mock incredulity. His companion smiled and shook his head. As he did so, the younger man noticed a nondescript figure sitting in the far corner of the tavern. Otto followed his son’s look and focused upon the solitary traveller.
The figure was slim, almost obscured by the shadows cast by a support beam and a stuffed boar’s head mounted on the wall. The man appeared tall; even seated his height was apparent. A worn brown cloak was cast about his head and shoulders, the hood pulled up over his face. Gloved hands rested sombrely on the table before him. The lower part of the man’s face was obscured by a wrap of dark cloth; the skin above it was pale and shone like marble in the little light that touched him. Narrow eyes, almost shaped like almonds, stared from above the slender bridge of his nose. They were focused intently upon the door of the tavern. His eyes had their own glitter; they seemed to twinkle with an unholy light.
There was a menace in those eyes, a stamp of death and violence. They were eyes that had seen death many times. They were eyes that had seen murder, many times.
Otto shuddered and turned away, drinking from his tankard. ‘Gruesome sort,’ he muttered. ‘Best lock our door tonight.’
‘Who do you think he is?’ wondered Josef. ‘I see he doesn’t drink. Perhaps he’s a pilgrim.’ A sudden look of horror crossed Josef’s face as he considered the covered face. ‘Perhaps he’s a leper!’ he gasped.
‘He’s probably neither,’ Otto replied. ‘I’d wager he’s a foreign mercenary, a hired killer or an assassin. De Chegney and the Marquis le Gaires may have a treaty, but don’t think for a moment that it’ll last. Things’ll get nasty before too long, mark my words,’ Otto winked at his son. ‘That’ll be good for business. And de Chegney doesn’t have le Gaires’s prejudice against firearms. We might even be able to unload that cannon from Nuln on him when the time comes.’ Otto smiled as he considered what profit that particular transaction would turn.
Suddenly, the heavy door of the tavern was kicked open. Startled oaths died on the lips of guests and staff alike as two men strode into the room. One was a thin, scowl-faced man dressed in animal skins, a heavy crossbow gripped in his hands. The other man was taller, and broader of shoulder. He was clothed in a suit of chainmail. The colourful surcoat of a Bretonnian knight was tied about his waist. He held a huge-mouthed weapon of black steel and wooden stock. The business end of the blunderbuss slowly canvassed the room as the bandit turned his body at the waist. The room grew still and silent as the grave.
The silence was broken by the sound of metal jingling against metal. A tall figure—surely the bandits’ leader strode in from the street, his dark form highlighted by the red glow of the fading sun. An imposing figure, he was clothed from head to foot in armour: boots of lustreless metal rose to his knees, and from his waist hung a skirt of mail, the links of which were so small and fine they looked like scaly hide. His arms were protected by the same fine armour, with long vambraces of dark metal covering his forearms. Sharp spikes marched along the length of the armour pieces, and his ornamented metal breastplate depicted a rampant drake.
The warrior’s head was encased in a high-browed helm of black steel, with bat-wing vanes sweeping back from either ear. A crawling trim of gold snaked above the face of the helm, before stabbing downward along the nose to form a vulture-like beak.
His face was hidden by a featureless mask of steel, only two narrow slits for eyes interrupted the polished silvery surface of the visor. A pair of slender, matched blades completed the figure’s trappings, one set upon either hip, each sporting a brutal guard of thorn-like spikes.
The bandit leader advanced, stalking past the two mercenaries. With every step, the musical tingle of his armour sounded. The denizens of the tavern parted before the advancing warrior, not a soul daring to breathe as he stepped past them. He let an armoured hand rest on the pommel of a slim dagger fastened across his belly and slowly turned his helmeted head. His eyes were alive with a cold fire, a subtle malevolence that caused the soul to shudder.
Other figures entered the tavern behind the bandit leader, but none of the denizens of the room could draw their gaze away from the black-clad warrior. As the warrior stared at Josef Kretzer, the boy suddenly realised how similar the bandit’s eyes were to those of the solitary mercenary.
The warrior turned away from the merchant’s son and looked into the shadowy corner where the lone traveller sat.
‘It is a very long road to walk,’ he spoke from behind the shining mask of steel. The voice was beautiful yet cruel. It was a harsh beauty that had nothing in it to warm the soul. It was the voice of a daemon, a sound of the night, the seductive call of the darkness.
‘It is a very long road to walk,’ the bandit leader continued, ‘to find only death.’
The lone figure at the table slowly stepped forward, casting the shabby brown cloak from him. He was indeed tall and lean of frame. His garments were of fine black cloth, his boots of black scaly hide. Three weapons hung from a leather belt round his waist: a long dagger, a barbed sickle-like blade, and a needle-thin hooked shortsword. His head was unclothed, save for the dark mask that covered his mouth and nose. His skin was very pale, contrasting with the inky darkness of his fine black hair. Sharp ears of inhuman length pointed from the long black locks. An elf, Josef realised in surprise, though he had never set eyes on one before.
The elf cast a chill glare upon the armoured warrior.
The war
rior spoke again, but no longer in words that were known to any in the tavern save himself and the one he addressed. It was a melodious language, but spoken with great malice. ‘What news from home?’ the armoured figure asked. ‘Do they still allow that feeble fool to babble and rave? Do our people still bow to impotent beings that promise victories they do not know how to achieve?’
The masked traveller drew two of the weapons from his belt: the dagger and the sickle-shaped spineblade. The warrior chuckled mirthlessly, and drew the sword sheathed upon his right side.
‘Dagger and ghlaith,’ the bandit lord said. ‘Are there then no new tricks they teach in Ghrond?’
The assassin moved forward, as lightly as a leaf blown across a graveyard by a midnight wind. As he came closer, the hand with the dagger shot forward, a bright flash of light exploded from the gem that had been secreted in the palm of his glove. The bandits at the door groaned and covered their eyes; many patrons of the tavern screamed, clenching their hands to their faces to blot out the blinding light.
The assassin leaped at the bandit leader, sweeping the sickle-shaped ghlaith in a sideways stroke that should have cut through the bandit leader’s mail skirt and ripped his kidneys and bowels from his armoured body. He moved the dagger upwards, seeking his enemy’s armpit, hoping to thrust through the lightly armoured join and stab into the lung. The sound of metal clashing against metal echoed above the moans and cries filling the room. As the bright light dissipated, the assassin found both of his weapons blocked and held by the jagged, thorn-shaped blades of his enemy’s swords.
‘Right now,’ the bandit leader said, ‘you are wondering how such a thing is possible. I am sure that trick has always worked before. But I am beyond the petty tricks of the witch elves now.’
The elf assassin drew away, spinning about on his heel. The blades in his hands were a blur of motion—such was his inhuman speed. To the returning vision of the watching bandits and tavern patrons, it was like trying to see a gust of wind. The assassin reversed his weapons, slashing the spineblade upwards towards his foe’s neck in a move that recalled the decapitating skills of the executioners of Har Ganeth. The dagger slashed downwards toward the groin in a despicable manoeuvre favoured by the man-hating witch elves of Khaine. Once again, the murderous eyes widened with surprise as the ring of metal on metal echoed through the room. His foe had matched the preternatural quickness of his attack, each weapon again intercepted by a thorn-bladed sword.
