by C. L. Werner
‘Now is your chance to try again,’ Lithelain said.
The riders were only a few dozen yards from the heaped mound of rubble. As the elf had observed, four of them were rustic, ill-kempt Bretonnian louts, rusty swords thrust through a loop of rope tied about their waists. Each of the men had a quiver of arrows lashed across his back and a long, curved Bretonnian bow lashed to his saddle. They all wore tunics and breeches of homespun wool and leggings crafted from fur. Their faces were cruel, the harsh features set in a greedy leer.
The leader of the men was obviously the armoured figure that rode behind them. He was clothed from shoulder to toe in a suit of dull steel plate armour, his powerful frame seeming to strain the metal that encased it. A brutal-looking mace hung from a leather thong fastened about his wrist while a small, compact crossbow was fitted to an iron hoop on his belt. The man’s height was further emphasised by the tower-like broad-brimmed brown hat that clothed his head. His features were dark, baked to a leather-like consistency by the hot Estalian sun. Crater-like scars littered his face, remnants of a childhood pox. The man’s eyes were dark green, with a low, hairy brow. A crooked nose, like the bent beak of a hawk, dominated the hardened features.
Brunner stared at his one-time ally, and fingered the trigger of his crossbow. He saw the other bounty hunter’s green eyes narrow with suspicion as he and his men drew closer to the heap of rubble. As soon as Brunner saw the Estalian pull back on his mount’s reins, he fired. The bolt caught the horse in the neck, pitching the wounded animal sidewise, and carrying itself and its rider into the black morass of the fen.
Even as the horse’s cry of terror and death sounded, Lithelain leapt up from concealment and sent an arrow through the face of the foremost Bretonnian. The man did not even gasp as he fell from his horse, his body crashing into the dust. Before any of his comrades could act, a second arrow was already nocked and fired, pitching a second rider from his saddle, with an arrow through his chest.
Brunner retrieved his handgun, and aimed it down at the last riders. The weapon discharged its deadly missile with a loud explosion.
The roar and boom of the gun caused the Bretonnians’ horses to rear upwards in fright and terror. One of the men was thrown screaming into the black water. The other clung desperately to the neck of his animal as the animal raced past the mound of rubble. Brunner sighted his other crossbow at the fleeing man, but as he did so, he saw the hands gripping the horse go slack and the rider fall. The gory wound caused by the bounty hunter’s ball wept from the Bretonnian’s breast.
A shriek of anguish rose from the fen as the last Bretonnian struggled upward from the mire. A brown leathery mass the size of a fist was stuck to the man’s face and Josef watched in horror as the Bretonnian’s hand ripped the giant leech off, pulling away a round chunk of his own cheek. Lithelain did not hesitate, but sent an arrow into the fen. The Bretonnian was knocked from his feet and sloshed backwards as the arrow hit him. As the dead man’s body rolled over in the water, a half-dozen leathery bubbles of flesh could be seen clinging to his back.
A whistling sound caused Brunner to spin about. As he did so, a crossbow bolt smacked into a stone block a few feet away. The bounty hunter could see Osorio throw the spent weapon away from him. The Estalian’s armour was dripping with slime and he was having difficulty moving through the mire. The brown hat was gone and blood flowed from a wound in the man’s scalp, where he had torn one of the rapacious leeches from his body. As Osorio sloshed his way forward, he wiped his mailed hand across his brow, trying to keep the blood out of his eyes.
‘You faithless spawn of a maggot!’ the Estalian cried out. ‘Face me, Brunner! We’ll fight for the dagger.’ Brunner stared down at the enraged killer, maintaining a stony silence. ‘I know all about it! I spoke with Gobineau’s brother.’ Osorio paused, breathing heavily. His violent fall into the fen was making breathing difficult. The Estalian paused, gathering his strength. ‘You are not worthy to face the Black Prince!’ Osorio screamed.
‘I told you,’ Lithelain smirked. Brunner shook his head.
‘Face me like a man, Brunner, you bastard!’ roared Osorio, sloshing his way forward, the cavalry mace gripped in his right hand. Brunner lifted his crossbow and aimed it down at the Estalian.
‘I would,’ the bounty hunter sneered, ‘if I was challenged by a man and not a dog.’ Brunner fired, the bolt smashing through the dented armour above Osorio’s knee. The Estalian screamed, pitching forward into the foul dark water. A steady stream of obscenities rose from the fen. ‘I only hope you don’t make the leeches and crows sick,’ Brunner said, turning away.
‘You’re not going to leave him like that?’ Josef asked, horrified. ‘At least put him out of his misery.’
Brunner fixed an icy glare upon the youth. ‘Don’t ever tell me my business again, boy. If that scum had done even a single decent thing in his miserable life, I would. But there isn’t a hell foul enough for that kind of bastard.’ Brunner pointed a gloved hand to where they had hidden their horses. Josef could see that Lithelain had already mounted the magnificent roan stallion that he had called from the forest when they had ridden from their camp that morning. ‘Mount up. I want to make Parravon before nightfall.’ Brunner pushed Josef ahead of him as he gathered up his weapons and strode toward the horses. Behind them, Josef could hear another cry of rage sound from the morass of Grimfen.
‘We’ve wasted enough time here,’ Brunner said. The bounty hunter’s jaw was set and Josef fancied that he saw a look of dreadful satisfaction in the eyes that peered out from behind the visor.
The shadows stretched across the high-ceilinged hall, as though trying to grasp at the chamber’s sole occupant. For long hours, the thin figure upon the black throne had sat immobile, staring intently at the faintly glowing contents of the box he was clutching.
A sound like chimes brought Dralaith’s attention away from the fascinating scene he had witnessed within the Eye of Tchar. Even his dark heart was filled with a certain sense of admiration for the ruthlessness of the bounty hunter, however crude his methods. The Black Prince hesitated for a moment, then closed the lid of the teakwood box. The chiming continued. It was familiar, a sound that recalled the halls of his castle in lost Naggaroth. For a moment, the dark elf enjoyed the nostalgia, then a foul humour settled upon him. He rose from his throne just as two armoured figures strode towards him.
The slim figures bowed their heads, and slapped their hands to their breasts in the manner they had been instructed; a gesture that showed due fealty and deference to a Druchii lord.
The Black Prince stepped down, his dark silk khaitan flowing about his slender figure. He looked at his lieutenants. The two virtually identical faces were so very like his own. Both elves were dressed in full armour, mail aketons worn over their own sombre-hued robes of silk, with breastplates of polished steel.
The Black Prince reached a pale hand out, and idly played with the small steel barbs that dangled from the shoulder guards of his lieutenants’ armour on delicate silver chains. He stared at the jagged, thorn-like hooks. He had not seen their like since leaving Naggaroth.
Savagely, the Black Prince slapped the face of one of his minions.
The lieutenant did not flinch, though his pale flesh began to colour. The Black Prince smiled at his slave’s resolve. He reached out with both hands, tearing the array of flesh hooks from the armour of both elves. With a contemptuous gesture, he threw the ornaments across the room.
‘Where did you get those?’ the Black Prince asked.
‘From Slaich, my master,’ the dark elf that had been struck answered.
‘He crafted them for us,’ the other lieutenant added. ‘He said that they were the emblems of your family, that all the knights who serve our master wear them into battle.’ The Black Prince stalked forward, gripping the elf’s chin with his hand, digging his fingers into the delicate skin.
‘And are you a knight? Are you nobles, you two mongrel curs?’ The Black Prince flun
g the lieutenant from him. ‘If you ever again forget your place, I shall cut your tongues from your mouths and sew them to your foreheads, that all may see what becomes of ambitious fools!’ The Black Prince waved his hand. Without another word, the two dark elves turned and marched from the chamber.
The Black Prince watched his servants depart. What did they know of nobility, what did they know of the longest war? What did they know of Naggaroth? Only what Slaich had told them.
The Black Prince turned his eyes to the discarded flesh hooks, those talismans of heritage and badges of honour. They had been crafted by Slaich. A feeling almost of sadness came upon the dark elf. Slaich had been with him for many years, more years than any of his servants. The old torture-master had served his own father before Dralaith had assumed mastery of his house—before the Eye of Tchar had shown him how to safely murder his sire and place the blame where it would profit him most.
Slaich had not been a part of the events the Black Prince had foreseen in the Eye of Tchar. Slaich had much knowledge in his old white-capped head, knowledge that could undo his master’s schemes. The dark elf sat back in his black throne, resting his hands on the rests, sinking deep into thought.
It was not how to dispose of Slaich that was troubling him, it was how he should be prepared… Perhaps basted in his own blood?
That might provide an interesting dining experience.
IV
The grey haze of smoke rising from the city of Parravon was visible long before the city itself came into view. More of a fortified town than a city, Parravon was a thin sprawl of houses and buildings nestled between the Upper Grismerie River and the white cliffs that marked the beginning of the Grey Mountains. So near did the white cliffs loom, that many houses had been built right into them; only their doors and windows and sometimes a narrow portico marring the sharply sloping barrier of rock. Jagged chasms dropped away on two sides of the city. The walls of the Grey Mountains and the narrow finger of the river formed the settlement’s remaining boundaries. Tall walls of stone, supported by still taller towers formed further defences against attack. A small dock was cut into the riverside wall, allowing traders to make their way along the Grismerie to unload their merchandise in Parravon.
As Brunner and his companions rode nearer, the sound of thousands of birds could be heard—the multitudinous flocks that nested in the cliffs above the Bretonnian city and who were the bane of the many gardens kept by Parravon’s great and noble.
A large fort crouched upon the only landward approach to the city. It was a massive bridge, an ancient relic from the days of the elves, and was still as strong as the day it was built. Josef was struck by the slender, gracefully arching ribbon of stone stretching across the boundary of one of the chasms. He was amazed that such a functionary structure could have such a sense of poise about it. The merchant idly wondered how much such a construction had cost, and how wealthy the kingdom that could have afforded such a frivolous expense.
‘I shall await you here,’ Lithelain announced as they rode towards the gatehouse to petition the guards for access to the bridge. There was a look of distaste on the elf’s face, as his eyes stared at the sprawling mass of thatched roofs and tile-topped towers. ‘The smell of the place is offensive enough from here. I shall never understand how men can dwell in such confinement and squalor. And to think that you call such filthy places cities and speak of them with pride.’ Lithelain shook his long hair.
‘City?’ scoffed Brunner. ‘This village? You need to travel more. This isn’t a city. In the Empire, there they have cities.’ The bounty hunter turned Fiend about and began to walk the horse toward the gatehouse. ‘Stay here if you want,’ he called back. ‘We’ll not be more than a day if my friend hasn’t moved on.’
Josef lashed his nag forward, catching up with the bounty hunter just as he was paying the watchmen within the yawning mouth of the gate. He did not pause, but dismounted and led his animals across the slender bridge. Josef fumbled for the coin the gatekeepers demanded then hurried to catch up with the bounty hunter.
The two men walked their animals across the bridge. Although slender, there was enough room for the men and their mounts to walk abreast. There was little traffic this morning and the two were alone save for a distant figure in a torn grey mantle pushing a rickety handcart toward the city. Josef risked a look over the side of the span, and recoiled in fright as he beheld the distant bottom of the chasm they now walked over, and the jagged, fang-like rocks that covered it. Heights had always been one thing that the young merchant did not enjoy dealing with. He turned his attention back to the bounty hunter, and locked his gaze on him.
‘I’ve not had dealings with elves before.’ Josef said when they had traversed half the length of the bridge. ‘Can he be trusted?’ Brunner’s steel face regarded the boy for a moment, his reaction masked by the black metal of his helm.
‘It depends what you wish to trust him to do,’ the bounty hunter said, staring ahead at the nearing streets of Parravon. ‘You can depend upon Lithelain to honour his word, a rare thing for those who ply my trade.’ Although Josef was certain that Brunner spoke of himself, he could detect no trace of self-reproach as he implied that he was a man who did not honour his own word. The thought made Josef’s eyes narrow, and he gazed with a new suspicion at the hired killer. Until that moment, the boy had not fully appreciated how much he had come to trust Brunner’s judgement and allow himself to be led by one who was a stranger to him.
‘Who are we meeting here?’ the young merchant asked at last, trying to keep his words even and level.
‘An old… friend,’ the bounty hunter answered.
‘You seem a bit uncertain about this “friend”,’ Josef observed. Brunner faced the young avenger.
‘I have not seen him in over a year’s time,’ the bounty hunter said. ‘When we parted, it was not on the best of terms. Still, there is no better man to speak with about legends and myths, and what seeds of truth might lie buried under centuries of embellishment and invention.’
Brunner turned away again as they reached the other side of the bridge and its fortified gatehouse. Beyond the crouching barrier, they could see the handful of narrow, twisting streets that formed the township of Parravon.
Bells tolled in the streets, summoning the folk of Parravon to their morning devotions. The man seated at the table in the centre of the small bar looked up from his scattered sheets of parchment and squinted at the light streaming in from the open window. He looked about for the landlord, seeing the powerfully-built man stumbling his way down toward the bar.
The man blinked his eyes, staring for a moment at the bottles of Bretonnian wine and Estalian sherry arrayed in ordered ranks behind the counter. The landlord grunted with disgust and reached over the dark wood of the counter. He retrieved a clay jar from beneath the bar, pulled the cork stopper from its mouth, and took a deep swallow of the contents, coughing as the fiery liquid burned its way down his throat.
The man at the table wrinkled his nose as the strong smell of Kislevite vodka wafted up from the jar. ‘How can a man drink that vile brew so early in the day?’ he observed.
The landlord wiped the sleeve of his shirt across his mouth and resealed the jar, setting it back behind the counter.
‘You should talk,’ the landlord laughed. ‘You do see that the sun is up? I don’t know why I charge you for your room; you never use it. Unless of course Yvette is around,’ the innkeeper winked lasciviously at his patron.
‘The duc wants this history of Parravon completed in a few weeks,’ the man at the table said. He reached for a leather cup resting amidst the scattered documents and a half-filled inkwell. ‘Complete with all but the most outrageous lies his forefathers have handed down over the centuries.’ The scrivener frowned as he observed the depleted nature of his cup. The landlord chuckled and nimbly retrieved a bottle from the rack and made his way to the table.
‘I mean why commission a historical work if you don’t even care if
the facts are correct?’ the writer complained. ‘ “And nothing about elves, if you please.” ’ the man continued, mimicking the voice of his benefactor. ‘“We find them a most dull and insignificant part of our city’s lineage.’”
The innkeeper laughed again and made his way across the wood floor of the bar. ‘Best to keep such talk to yourself,’ he warned. ‘Otherwise you’ll be without a patron and I’ll have to throw you into the street.’ He smiled, but the writer did not doubt that the man would be as good as his word if the duc’s silver were to suddenly dry up.
The innkeeper moved toward the door, intending to let some fresh air into the building to clear some of the stink from last night’s patrons. As he opened the door, however, he found himself staring into the dark metal of a steel helmet. The man beneath the helmet pushed his way past the burly innkeeper. A smaller, younger man followed the warrior inside. A protest formed on the innkeeper’s tongue: the inn could not open until after the morning devotions had ended at the chapel, but a second look at the sinister figure caused him to rethink his choice of words.
The writer looked up, his face growing slightly pale. He reached for his cup, almost draining it in one swallow. The armoured intruder stared down at him, the eyes behind the visor of his helm burning into the seated man. After a moment of tense silence, the bounty hunter spoke.
‘You look well, Ehrhard,’ the steel voice rasped. ‘Parravon seems to agree with you.’
Stoecker nodded his head, some of the colour returning to his features. ‘Brunner,’ he said. ‘I did not expect to see you again.’
‘The world is full of unpleasant surprises,’ the bounty hunter stated. He cast a side-wise look at Josef. ‘Show him,’ Brunner ordered. Josef hesitated, annoyed by the killer’s tone, but withdrew the carefully wrapped dagger from his belt. Stoecker reached forward, taking the weapon from the youth. The writer gasped as he unwrapped the blade, marvelling at the elegant, thorn-like edge, and examining the engraved hilt and pommel.
