by C. L. Werner
‘No! I know nothing about that! Not a thing!’ Ferricks’s eyes were wide with fright. He wiped his sweaty palms on his filthy breeches.
‘These men say otherwise,’ Sir Lutriel scoffed. ‘Perhaps some more time on the rack might jar your recollections?’
‘You’re a dead man already,’ Brunner said, stepping toward the little bandit. ‘Does it matter if they hang you here, or if the Black Prince does it later?’
Ferricks looked about him with a shifty, narrow-eyed expression trying to recover from his start at hearing the Black Prince named. ‘What are you proposing?’ the thief’s whiny voice asked.
‘It is within my power to pardon you,’ Sir Lutriel said, acting as if the thief’s decision was of no concern to him. ‘Tell us what we want to know, and you will be a free man.’
‘Sure, and then the Black Prince’s men will find me and kill me, but not quick and nice like your hangman.’
‘Not if I kill him first,’ Brunner’s murderous voice rasped. Josef turned, eyeing the bounty hunter.
‘If you kill him?’ Ferricks laughed. ‘He’s not human. He’s been around hundreds of years and nobody has been able to put him on the spot. Why should you be any different?’
‘Ferricks, may I introduce Brunner, the bounty hunter. I rather imagine that his reputation precedes him?’ Sir Lutriel enjoyed watching the small thief slink away from the bounty hunter much like a man who has nearly stepped on a snake.
‘If anyone can do this thing, it would be Brunner,’ Stoecker said. ‘Besides, do you really have any other choice?’
‘I show you on a map where the Black Prince’s tower is, and you let me go?’ Ferricks said, trying to make certain he understood.
‘No,’ Brunner’s icy voice spoke. Even Sir Lutriel stared at the bounty hunter with a look of open surprise. ‘You guide us there. That way anything that happens to us, happens to you as well.’ Ferricks cringed back still further, his back against the stone wall. But he found himself nodding in agreement.
‘If I help you, I want a share of his treasure,’ the thief said.
‘If you help us,’ Brunner’s voice snarled, ‘I’ll consider not bringing you back to the Viscount de Chegney for the reward he has on your scrawny neck.’
From his dark throne, the Black Prince watched the lithe figure of the slave girl strut and whirl across the floor. He smiled as he considered her smooth, unblemished skin. Truly, it had been such a shame to loose Slaich. Such a master with the whip! It had taken him years to get this animal to perform, years of discipline with the lash. Yet there was not a mark on her body, as the brief garment that clung to her hips allowed the elf to determine. True, the girl might be reckoned a beauty to humans—for what they knew of such things—but the real measure of her worth was the way in which she performed. It was the savage dance of the witch elves, those maniacal temple maidens of Khaine in his native Naggaroth. But there was an added element lacking in the dances of those dangerous elves, an element that thrilled the Black Prince and made his breath short. It was fear. The girl exuded it, as the memories of the pain Slaich had inflicted upon her added to the frenzy of the dance.
The Black Prince looked away from the sweating, wide-eyed woman, his eyes falling to the teakwood box. The lid was open and the gleaming gemstone of the Eye of Tchar stared back at him. The dark elf smiled. The bounty hunter had discovered Ferricks, just as the Eye had foreseen. It annoyed the elf to allow the traitor to draw another breath, but he knew that the vermin’s days were numbered. He had seen that as well within the Eye.
The Black Prince raised his new goblet, and let the last of Slaich’s blood slip past his pale lips. The rest had been imbibed by one of his slaves, so the dark elf might savour the taste, but this last cup he would drink himself. It was a final honour to bestow upon his old servant.
Slaich was the first of the sacrifices his current scheme would force him to make. It had been the hardest one, taking the dark elf a few heartbeats to decide upon. Those which were to follow would not disturb him in the slightest.
V
The small group of riders left Parravon early the following day, just as the first gleam of pre-dawn began to glow above the peaks of the Grey Mountains. By nightfall, they had camped in a break in the woods that clothed the base of the trees. Running a cold camp, the bounty hunter had allowed no fire. The encampment was a tense place, made all the more so by the distrust and rivalry festering in the hearts of the members of the small band. Mahlinbois loathed and despised Sir Lutriel, who in turn was quite open about his own suspicions about Lithelain, who he believed would betray them to seek his own, separate vengeance. Ferricks was in obvious terror of the Black Prince: he started at every shadow, terrified that the evil creature’s reach would find him. The wiry thief was also in obvious terror of both Brunner and Sir Lutriel; as fearful of the two men as he was of the brigand lord he was betraying. And Josef, too, harboured his own suspicions, wondering if he could trust the bounty hunter.
Only the writer, Ehrhard Stoecker, seemed without prejudice. He flitted from one person to the other, engaging each in conversation. Josef wondered if this was why the bounty hunter had allowed the man to accompany them. Not to indulge Stoecker’s desire to have some grand adventure of his own, but to keep the bounty killer’s company from cutting each other’s throats in the night.
Eventually, Stoecker finished his circuit of the camp, and seated himself beside Josef. The young merchant looked over at the writer. Stoecker must have noticed the boy’s glance, for he smiled and asked what was on Josef’s mind.
‘I can understand why everyone is here, except for the elf,’ the youth confessed. ‘Ferricks and Mahlinbois are being driven by their fear of the hangman or Brunner. Sir Lutriel wants a share of the bounty. You are here to experience one of the adventures you write about. But why is Lithelain with us?’
Stoecker smiled, nodding toward the elf making his way into the trees, to take his position for the long night watch. ‘I’ve spoken with him before, a few years ago, in Miragliano.’
‘Miragliano?’ the youth asked. ‘Why would a wood elf be in a Tilean port-city?’
‘The same reason he is here now, the same reason you are here. He is looking for revenge.’ Stoecker noted the start Josef gave as he heard the declaration. ‘You see, many years ago, centuries actually, the wood elves sent an envoy to the king of Bretonnia. But she never returned to Athel Loren. She was ambushed, her retainers and guards killed by the Black Prince. For a hundred years, Lithelain searched for the envoy, but all he could discover were rumours, and legends about a shadowy bandit king. Then, one day, as he followed yet another lead, he met a rider on the road. The rider was silent, and wore a silk robe that clothed her from head to foot. As he drew nearer, the smell of death struck his nose, and the buzz of flies sounded in his ears. The rider was a corpse, lashed to the saddle. A wooden frame held it upright. As Lithelain looked closer, he saw that the corpse was that of the missing envoy, and it was only hours old. I will not mention the atrocities that sorry body bore witness to, but cut into the flesh were savage, twisted elf runes, runes that spelled out a simple message: Compliments of the Black Prince.’
Stoecker fixed Josef with a stern, saddened gaze. ‘The envoy was his sister.’
Josef stared up at the tree the elf had climbed into, with a sudden understanding in his eyes. He might not be certain about whether Brunner would cheat him of his revenge, but he could be certain that nothing would keep the elf from killing the Black Prince with his own hands. Josef knew this because the same determination filled his own heart.
Josef awoke with a start, a clammy hand clamped across his mouth. He stared up into the face of Sir Lutriel.
‘Don’t make a sound, or we are undone,’ the knight’s calm voice whispered. He removed his hand. Josef sat up, seeing that the knight was fully dressed, his sword sheathed at his side.
‘What’s this about?’ the youth asked. The knight gave him a knowing, superior look.
‘A bounty which you want for yourself,’ Josef observed.
‘Naturally,’ the knight admitted. ‘But I am rather loath to share it.’
‘What do you intend?’ the merchant inquired, his mind racing, trying to see where the Bretonnian was leading him.
‘I’ve just had a most illuminating discussion with our friend Ferricks,’ Sir Lutriel confessed. ‘He told me about an old goblin tunnel that burrows its way into the Black Prince’s stronghold—a tunnel that is never used, and never guarded. He also told me how to find the valley where the Black Prince’s stronghold is hidden. It might be possible for two determined men to make their way in and collect that valuable head.’ The knight smiled. ‘Actually, Ferricks came to me with the idea. It seems he is inordinately fond of the idea that the Black Prince might already be dead when Brunner drags his sorry hide back there. In fact, he even said that he would keep the bounty hunter riding in circles for a few days, to give us enough time to kill his former master and be away before Brunner can do anything about it.’
‘Why me?’ Josef wondered, suspicions rising in his mind. ‘Why not do it yourself?’
‘I need someone to watch my back. I have no idea what risks might be involved. I need an accomplice.’ Sir Lutriel’s voice dropped still lower. ‘And you are the only one I can trust. The others are too connected to Brunner, and if I take Ferricks, I lose my decoy. Brunner would be after me like a shot in that event.’ The knight paused, studying Josef’s reaction to his words.
‘It is the only way you’ll get your chance at the murderer of your father,’ he said.
‘You will let me face the Black Prince?’ There was a note of disbelief in Josef’s tone.
‘Oh, by all means. And when he kills you, there will be no one to share the reward with,’ the knight admitted, his voice as friendly and superior as ever. Josef considered the brutal honesty of the statement.
‘Very well,’ the youth said. ‘Give me a moment to gather my things.’
Josef and the knight made their way down the narrow path, careful not to dislodge any of the jagged stones that lined it. It was a secret way into the small valley where the Black Prince had made his stronghold; a way supposedly known only to Bors and Ferricks, though Sir Lutriel had expressed his doubts, and had kept his sword ready. It was not only men that served the dark elf, and the knight knew enough about beastmen to know that if their minds were less than human, their senses were more than human.
The path had started in a grove of tangled trees, then climbed up the side of a hidden, narrow ravine that laced through the Grey Mountains. On one side, the narrow path was bordered by soaring dark cliffs, on the other it dropped away into a deep chasm. The surface of the trail was damp and slippery, forcing the two travellers to move very slowly, lest they lose their footing and tumble to their deaths on the jagged rocks below.
It was a highly defensible route, and Sir Lutriel did not doubt that it would indeed take an army to force their way into the valley should its inhabitants be aware of their approach. But Sir Lutriel had never been one to take the direct approach when a knife in the back or a loose saddle-strap might serve his purpose just as well.
They had left the horses hobbled in the small grove of trees, where the Bretonnian hoped they would not be discovered, and had then set upon the winding trail that Ferricks had described. They climbed the grey rock of the mountain, at times nearly vertical with the face of the grim rock, then descended by a treacherous path to the valley floor.
The valley itself was small, but again proved perfect for the purposes of the bandit lord. A small stream ran down from the mountains, rolling across the rocky, barren ground before plummeting down the deep gash that snaked its way across the valley floor.
The narrow crack was decidedly unnatural in appearance, much like the runnels cut into the valley floor. But where the runnels showed the remains of ancient trenches and earth-works, the crack was an altogether different sort of scar left by a long forgotten battle. The crack started at the opposite side of the valley, in the shadow of the mountain, and ran almost to the valley’s centre.
The crack was the last vestige of an ancient tunnel dwarf sappers had blasted in an effort to reach the stronghold of their enemy—before the unnatural wards and defences of their foes had caused the tunnel to collapse and crumble into the caverns under the Grey Mountains. The collapsed dwarf tunnel had left behind a long jagged cut twenty feet wide and hundreds deep.
Rising from the centre of the barren valley was a slender round tower of white stone. Fluted buttresses supported the crown of the tower, where a tiled roof enclosed the upper parapet. Several balconies opened out from the sides of the tower at varying heights, each edged by triangular crenellations that added to the symmetry of the structure. In places, the stone was chipped or fractured, but it was still an imposing and fabulous sight, a relic of the days of elf rule over the Old World, before the War of the Beard caused them to abandon their colonies and withdraw back to the enchanted shores of Ulthuan.
Neither of the men who gazed upon the tower for the first time could guess how many battles it had seen unfold. Nor could they fathom the deep satisfaction its present occupant drew from claiming such a relic of his cousins for his own. As they observed the tower, a pair of gangly, man-sized creatures silently circled the spire on grotesque bat-like wings. It was difficult to make out any detail at such distance, and neither of the men desired a closer look than their position allowed.
Sir Lutriel pulled Josef close, motioning with his hands how they would next proceed. Ferricks had told them of an underground passage, a tunnel built by the goblins during their infestation of the tower, that wormed its way from the mountainside to the stronghold. He did not know if the Black Prince knew of its existence, but Ferricks was certain that his former master had not put the old tunnel to any use. There might be other secret ways into the tower, but this was the only one Ferricks had ever learned about.
The knight and the merchant made their way carefully across the open expanse, casting fearful glances at the tower, wary of any sign of watching sentries. The ground they had to cover between the trail and the opening of the old goblin hole was not far, but it was the most dangerous. Both men sighed with relief when they gained the cover of a cluster of rocks. Between a pair of massive boulders, the dark, gaping mouth of the goblin tunnel beckoned to the men.
The opening itself was tight, and Sir Lutriel found himself obliged to squirm his way between the rocks, not daring to fill his lungs as he slithered through the tight passage. The tunnel itself was an equally miserable experience: a low-ceilinged affair, with an uneven floor and frequent disorienting changes in pitch and direction. The men had to bend double with their backs parallel to the ground, their swords held before them. Josef lit a small torch he had brought with him to illuminate the jagged passageway. Old bones, the last remains of the original inhabitants, were crunched into powder beneath their boots.
After what seemed an eternity in the clammy, dark silence of the tunnel, the ceiling suddenly grew much higher, and the men could stand upright. The tunnel had opened into some sort of chamber. Josef could see that a great pile of goblin bones rested against one wall, while the other opened into a deep, sloping passage. The remaining wall was remarkable as well, for it was smooth, moulded by skilled hands rather than gouged from the living earth.
Josef looked at Sir Lutriel. The knight nodded, dropping the face of his helmet down and firming his grip on the hilt of his sword. Josef set the torch down and began to rub his hand across the smooth surface of the wall. Down near the bottom, his palm encountered a slight spur, a blemish in the face of the wall. There was a
faint, barely perceivable click, and a section of the wall slid outward.
‘Remember, he is mine.’ Josef whispered, then stepped through the opening. He could see that the door had opened upon a hall, its walls, ceiling and floor crafted from the same smooth white stone. As he took in his surroundings, a bright flash of light exploded before his eyes. Stunned, the youth was unprepared when a clutching hand tore the sword from his hand. Josef could hear a grim Bretonnian curse, and guessed that Sir Lutriel had also been captured and disarmed. Burly limbs wrapped themselves about Josef’s arms and the boy was savagely pulled into the centre of the hallway.
‘It seems I have visitors,’ a melodious voice purred.
Josef found himself staring into an inhumanly handsome face. It was not unlike the visage of Lithelain, in many ways, but to call them identical was to call a swarthy-visaged Arabyan a pale Kislevite nomad. The paleness of the speaker’s skin was more marked, it was more pallid than the creamy hue of the wood elf. There was a harsh cruelty about this elf’s features, a stamp of wickedness that tainted the fine sharp lines with menace. The hooded eyes regarded Josef and Sir Lutriel with an almost bored expression.
Josef let his gaze fall from the elf’s face, starting as he saw the black armour, the twin swords, and the long dangling length of silk and steel skirts. He had not seen the face of his father’s murderer before, but he recognised the garb of the Black Prince.
Rage surged through his lean frame and the boy struggled against the grip holding his arms. But the powerful hold could not be broken.
The elf smiled, drawing his thin lips tight. He idly flicked a lock of long black hair from his face. ‘Whatever shall I do with my delicious guests? It is so seldom that I am called upon to entertain.’ Coarse laughter echoed in the Black Prince’s words and Josef became aware that there were others with him. Hard-faced men, wearing all manner of motley armour filled the corridor behind the bandit lord. Two more elves, their faces mirroring their master’s, their armour fashioned to echo and mimic that of the Black Prince, flanked the dread figure. Their own beautiful faces were twisted into sneers of sadistic amusement. Other figures, twisted and inhuman, loomed above the elves and men, or slithered their warped shapes between the bandits to get a better view of the prisoners.
