by C. L. Werner
‘But one must make concessions for savages,’ the Black Prince said. ‘Otherwise there is no sport in butchering one of your kind.’ The Black Prince lashed out again, Lithelain parrying the fiend’s blow aside. Turning his body, the wood elf avoided the fighting spines of the dark elf’s other arm. The wood elf smashed the hilt of his parried sword into the reflective visor of his enemy. The dark elf staggered back.
‘You shall pay for every drop of blood you have spilled,’ the wood elf swore, attacking once more. The Black Prince intercepted the avenger’s sword, catching it between his vambrace and sword.
‘Shall I?’ the dark elf sneered. ‘Then I must have run up quite a debt.’ The Black Prince surged upwards, throwing the wood elf aside. The dark elf’s sword flickered toward Lithelain, barely intercepted as the fighter recovered. ‘But do you think that you shall be the one to collect it?’
Lithelain spun his body about, sweeping his sword in a low arc. The Black Prince leapt above the striking blade, thrusting his own sword through the wood elf’s breast. The Black Prince pushed his body forward, digging the steel deeper into Lithelain’s chest. The wood elf gasped, fighting for breath, his eyes widening with rage and disbelief.
‘This has been utterly boring,’ the Black Prince declared, his face only inches from the dying elf’s face. He twisted the blade about in the wound, bringing a fresh spasm of agony to the gasping elf’s features. ‘There are people I must find, and kill,’ the Black Prince stated. He tore the sword from Lithelain’s body, and a great flood of blood bubbled from the triangular cut. Lithelain dropped, his fading eyes locked on the figure of the Black Prince.
‘Don’t worry, your bones will feed the crows and your memory will become a jest told to your children when I tire of making them scream.’ The Black Prince stepped away, his foot sliding beneath the naked steel of the wood elf’s sword. The dark elf worked his toe under the blade and flicked it across the chamber once more. The sword clattered across the floor to where a horrified Josef had watched the swift, brutal fight. The boy reached toward the sword.
‘I hope you were paying attention,’ the Black Prince’s musical voice said as he strode away from Lithelain’s corpse. ‘I expect better from you.’ The dark elf walked toward the boy, sword held at his side. ‘Though I doubt that I shall receive it.’
A roar and crack thundered through the Black Prince’s throne room. The dread figure of the bandit lord shuddered as a red mist burst from his chest. The sword fell from suddenly lax fingers. A shaking hand rose to the wound that marked the very centre of the Black Prince’s chest. The mailed hands probed the aperture, coming away and rising before the reflective face-plate. The eyes behind the metal mask stared in wonder and disbelief at the crimson staining the metal fingers. The Black Prince turned, falling to his knees as the strength failed in his legs. With an effort, he looked up as his killer walked toward him.
‘Sorry,’ the icy voice of the bounty hunter reached the Black Prince’s ears, ‘I was getting bored myself.’
Brunner returned the smoking pistol to its holster and strode forward. The Black Prince coughed within his helm, red liquid seeping from the joins of his visor and gorget. ‘And there are people waiting for me, and that ugly head of yours.’
The Black Prince slumped forward, his death rattle gargling in his throat.
Brunner watched the dark elf expire, then fingered the grip of the long-bladed knife he morbidly termed The Headsman. Before beginning his macabre task, the bounty hunter looked up at Josef.
‘I could have let you have your chance at him,’ the bounty hunter said. ‘But somehow, I don’t think you’d have liked that.’ Josef nodded his head, a surly look of guilt and anger mixing with profound satisfaction on his face.
‘Now come over here and help me get this bastard’s armour off,’ Brunner called out. ‘I want to make a good cut. After all, it has to be pretty enough for a king.’
Ehrhard Stoecker sat his battered body down in the chair, casting a furtive look around the bar of the inn. There was no sign of Yvette, however. The woman had been rather upset at him when he had returned to Parravon, after leaving for weeks with no warning, and she had used more than words to express her ire. She had been most unwilling to listen to his explanations. Even the gold he had brought back with him had done nothing to assuage her anger when she had discovered the bruises the writer had earned in his brief combat with the beastman.
Stoecker sighed and sipped his wine. His share of the Black Prince’s booty had amounted to more than a few hundred gold pieces, a tidy fortune before the duc’s tax men had decided what their portion should be. Perhaps he should have gone with Mahlinbois and Josef after all, and returned to the Empire. But, no, there were too many reasons for him to stay as far from Altdorf as he could. He recalled only too well the old Imperial proverb that all roads led to the Emperor’s city.
Once again, Stoecker found himself lamenting the fortune that must have once been hidden within the Black Prince’s vaults. But the fleeing brigands had had a considerable headstart, and they had known where to search. The bandits had further benefited from the skills of the thief Ferricks, who, having excused himself from the battle, had slunk down to the treasure rooms, disarming the many cunning devices set to protect them. All except the last one. Stoecker didn’t think he had ever seen a more surprised look that the one on Ferrick’s corpse when they found him stuck to the wall by a spring-launched javelin.
They had split what the bandits hadn’t taken—at least he, Mahlinbois and Josef had. Brunner had angrily stated that he worked for his money, and wanted no part of the plundering. Stoecker had thought the bounty hunter foolish, but, as it turned out, the price on the Black Prince’s head had far exceeded what they could loot from his tower. After they had parted company with Mahlinbois and Josef, Stoecker had suggested to Brunner that he might split the bounty. The bounty hunter had laughed, responding that he never asked Stoecker for any portion of what he earned from the lies he wrote about the killer.
Stoecker shook his head, wondering where the fearsome warrior was now. He cast an eye at the door of the inn. He laughed to himself and sipped at his wine. It did not matter where Brunner was. Sooner or later, the writer was certain, he would again walk through that door. Stoecker had never been more certain of anything in his entire life. And strangely enough, he found himself eagerly anticipating that meeting, found himself wanting to hear about every treacherous, ruthless step of the bounty hunter’s travels.
A shape shrouded in black moved through the darkened chamber, disturbing the flies that buzzed about the headless corpse rotting on the floor. The shape did not pay the corpse a second thought, but moved toward the dais. It looked over at a smashed teakwood box and smiled beneath its hood. Then it climbed the steps to the throne-like chair. A slender, pale hand caressed the armrest, sliding its fingers along the length of the wood until there was a click. The hand reached into the hinged opening of the seat, removing the silk-wrapped object within. The apparition’s eyes glittered as they stared at the Eye of Tchar. The slender hands drew the gem back to the cloaked body, and the magical scrying stone disappeared in one of the pouches on the figure’s belt.
The shadow turned away from the throne, stopping this time beside the headless corpse. The black-garbed shape bent down, and lifted the discarded helmet from the floor. The face under the hood smiled as it considered the helm. It almost dropped the piece of armour, but a stray thought caused it to tuck the helmet with its reflective visor beneath its arm.
All had unfolded just as the Eye of Tchar had shown him. News of Dralaith’s death would reach Naggaroth. There would be no more assassins, for he knew that one day, one of their number would succeed and all his plans would come to ruin. He had sacrificed much to accomplish the deception, but gold was trash, easily collected by one of his skill and intelligence. His followers were likewise trash, and easily replaced. He cast another look at the headless corpse of Uraithen. It was not the first time he had
cause to allow one of his lieutenants to momentarily assume his guise as the Black Prince. But it would certainly be the last. It was no matter, the two departed elves were nothing but mongrel half-breeds sired upon a filthy aborigine. No true Druchii would ever have allowed themselves to be so easily deceived. In death, his sons had proven how pathetic and unworthy of his blood they truly were. Dralaith spat on the floor, a gesture denoting the contempt he felt for the spirits of such worthless beings.
Only one thing disturbed him. It was the thought that somewhere, a miserable human was walking the earth, boasting that he had killed the Black Prince. Indeed, he very nearly had. The dark elf had nearly fallen to his death when his horse had toppled over the precipice, and it had taken him several hours to climb up from the chasm. It alarmed him somewhat that the Eye had not shown him that particular event. Once more, Dralaith pondered the Norse shaman’s laughter.
A most vexing thought, the dark elf mused as he left his throne room for the last time, and walked the empty halls of the abandoned elf tower. It was an itch that would have to be scratched—one day.
BLOOD & STEEL
PROLOGUE
The world is beset on all sides by great and terrible perils, creatures of the Old Night, things far beyond the imaginings of those safe in their beds within the sturdy walls of Altdorf. Evils, both mortal and supernatural, stalk the lands of men, from the green pastureland of Bretonnia to the swarming cities of the Empire. From the harsh deserts of Estalia to the crumbling strongholds of the dwarfs, dread forces move and dark deeds are consecrated to the most abominable of powers.
My chosen vocation is as a chronicler of such things, for I have ever been drawn to the workings of evil, as a moth is drawn to a flame. Indeed, it was my notorious work, A True History of Vlad von Carstein, and the unwanted attention it gathered, which caused me to flee my native Altdorf. For I discovered that supernatural monsters lurk even in the very shadow of the Emperor’s palace and hunt in the very streets of his capital.
But even in exile, a man is still who he is. I continued to write tales of mystery and adventure, drawing upon the life experiences of sometimes less than reputable sources. Sometimes, far too rarely, I would uncover some valiant and noble heart who had stood defiant before the forces of ruin and Chaos, who had heroically challenged the powers of darkness and driven them back into the shadows. More often, however, I learned the depths of greed and avarice to which a human soul can sink. Gold, I discovered, had stirred more men to action than any righteous cause. For the promise of gold, a man might stand his ground against the most terrible of monsters, the most debased and degenerate parodies of humanity, and thank steel rather than the gods that he emerged triumphant.
I had good cause to consider such things as I sat within a small tavern in the Bretonnian city of Parravon. It was to here that I had migrated after my hasty departure from the Tilean city of Miragliano in the south, and it was to here that I had returned after my brief flirtation with adventure, chronicled in my pamphlet The Fall of the Black Prince. Many months had passed since I had parted ways with my companion on that enterprise. Occasionally I would hear a rumour of his activities, a tale of murder and mayhem from some desolate corner of the realm. But of the man himself, there was no sign until the first thunderheads began to slip down from the looming heights of the Grey Mountains.
It was a dreary, chill evening and the sun was just beginning to forsake the sky. Overhead, thunder rumbled, echoing through the streets of the narrow Bretonnian township. I stood just outside the door of the tavern, watching the play of lightning in the distance. I was minded of old stories of storm gods and their capricious battles amongst one another. The flash of lightning was said to be the gleam of their swords as they struck one another’s blades, the boom of the thunder was their raised voices as they contested in the sky above the storm. It was a fabulous display, each blue flash of light cast by the weather making the craggy heights of the mountains manifest from the deepening shadows like some spectral apparition.
For many long minutes I lost myself, fascinated by the awesome display of elemental might unfolding before me. It reminded me that there are things so much greater than fragile mankind, and that all his works, all his advances in civilisation, in science and wizardry, must seem as small and worthless as an ant hill beside them. What was man beside such forces as those that assailed him? The borders of his lands were ever threatened by the howling hosts of orc and goblin; the forests within his domains were the refuge of twisted, horrible things: mutants and beastmen, the children of dark gods and perverse corruption. Fiendish predators stalked the streets of even the greatest of his cities, fearsome monsters who had long ago forsaken their humanity for a loathsome parody of immortality. Beneath those same streets, other things lurked—the foul skaven, warped rat-like creatures of Chaos, working their foul intrigues below while the people living above discounted their very existence as spurious myth and superstition.
More loathsome than any of these, however, were the still human degenerates who had willingly betrayed all that was decent and good and bowed instead before the altars of the Ruinous Powers in hidden covens, forsaking their very souls in exchange for unspeakable promises. Evil was everywhere, lurking, waiting, biding its time until the hour of doom should arrive, and too few were those who might stand against it.
I looked away from the storm, distressed by the course my thoughts had wandered on. The sky was fast growing dark and I turned to go indoors. Even in Parravon, with its gardens and cobbled streets, its high walls and guarding cliffs, even here did the reach of evil extend. For generations some nameless thing had prowled the city after dark, so that none would willingly risk travelling the narrow lanes after the sun had forsaken its post. I had learned that it is often wise to heed such customs, as past experiences had taught me that many legends are more real than we would like to believe.
As I turned to re-enter the tavern, I noticed a figure striding through the gloom. There was something familiar about that walk, and I hesitated.
The man who approached was tall, his build lean, betraying a quality of muscle and power. He wore a suit of brigandine armour about his frame, over which a breastplate of gromril encased his chest. At some point, that fabulously hard metal had been scratched by a tremendous blow. Steel vambraces, darkened black to prevent any betraying shine, enclosed the man’s forearms, while mismatched shoulder guards protected his upper arms. Hard leather boots with steel toes rose to meet the steel leg greaves that protected his thighs.
The man was a walking arsenal, a small crossbow pistol dangled from a clamp set upon one of his vambraces and a belt of knives crossed his chest. An expensive-looking pistol sheltered in a holster set across his belly while a thick-bladed hatchet swung from his belt just above his right leg. A massive, cruel knife nestled beside the hatchet, a blade with a serrated edge that its owner had morbidly named the ‘Headsman’. A scabbard on the man’s left side held a longsword, its pommel and guard shaped in the form of a golden dragon with outspread wings. Its name was ‘Drakesmalice’, a sword with some history and reputation in the lands formerly owned by the house of von Drakenburg, and now claimed by the Viscount de Chegney.
The warrior continued to stride towards me out of the darkening twilight. His face was largely concealed by the mask of a rounded sallet helm, of the sort favoured by the militia and soldiery of Reikland. It was of black steel and a dent in its surface gave evidence to some past service it had performed for its wearer. Cold blue eyes regarded me through the visor.
‘Stoecker,’ the man addressed me in a hard voice.
‘It has been a long time, Brunner,’ I said. ‘Over half a year.’
‘I’ve been busy,’ Brunner replied.
‘No rest for the wicked?’
‘Not until they put me in the ground,’ was his response. ‘And you? I should have thought you would have left a backwater like Parravon a long time ago.’
‘I keep myself busy,’ I lied. In truth, the t
edium of the place, the unending chore of transcribing the Duc of Parravon’s grossly enriched family history, had been working on me and I had begun to consider moving on. ‘The climate here agrees with me,’ I elaborated. Actually, the climate had become fairly hostile ever since Yvette had forsaken my company for that of a dashing young guardsman, who seemed unable to cope with the presence of a former paramour of his beloved.
‘Perhaps we might repair indoors,’ I said, noting with alarm the rapid onset of night. Brunner inclined his head, motioning for me to lead the way. It was a short walk back to the tavern, and I soon secured a table and two tankards of mead, for they had long since run dry of anything approaching beer. Brunner sat at the table, leaning back against the wall, his eyes canvassing the room, studying each face with a practiced gaze.
Brunner was a bounty hunter, one of the most notorious in the Old World. From the bandit strongholds of the Forest of Shadows, to the lowliest thieves’ nest in Gisoreux, his name alone was enough to make outlaws shudder with fear. His reputation was something of a legend in and of itself, and it was said that he never failed to bring in his prey once he was on their trail. Death was the only escape from this relentless hunter, and even then there was no guarantee that he would not yet bring his catch back. The ‘Headsman’ was not so named casually, that gruesome instrument had earned its name. I had often seen the evidence of this for myself.
I had met Brunner in the south, during my years of exile in Miragliano. At the time, I had been penning adventure pamphlets for a spurious publisher named Ernesto, and the bloody career of the bounty hunter had formed the basis for some of these shilling dreadfuls. There was something at once terrible and fascinating about the man, repulsive and compelling at the same time. I should have never had anything to do with him after the events that led to my hasty flight from the Tilean city, yet when he had arrived in Parravon on the trail of the infamous Black Prince, I had not only renewed our association, but even accompanied him on his perilous hunt. Now I found myself once again sitting over drinks with the remorseless killer.
