by C. L. Werner
Brunner shook his head. ‘He may watch, but expect nothing more.’ The bearded mercenary glared at the bounty hunter’s impious remark. ‘Look to your steel, that is the only thing that will see you through to the day’s end!’
Then the time for talk and prayer was at an end as the Chaos warriors struck the mercenaries’ line.
The marksmen had accounted for eight of the armoured Chaos warriors by the time the degenerate plague worshippers closed with Zelten’s front line. There was more than enough to go around for Zelten, Horst, Brunner, and the half-dozen foot-troops who had advanced to support them. Half of the other mercenaries had fallen back to support the rearguard, taking two of the marksmen with them, leaving only Schtafel and another crossbowman to continue to pick at the raiders attacking their front. The fighting was brutal and savage, with no quarter asked or given by the combatants of either side. The plague worshippers fought to honour their diseased god, throwing themselves into combat with a reckless abandon, giving no thought to defence as they slashed and hewed at their foes. The mercenaries fought with just as great a determination, knowing that their lives and possibly their souls would be forfeit if they failed to repel their awful adversaries. But the mercenaries fought more defensively than the plague warriors, and they fought as soldiers, not frenzied beasts, each man acting as a part of a whole, supporting and assisting their comrades. The plague warriors fought as individuals, pushing one another aside to reach their foes, giving no thought to helping their fellows, only to rending the clean, unblemished flesh of their enemies. For every one of the mercenaries who fell, two of the plague warriors spilled their life from pierced bellies and split skulls.
Yet they were losses that could be ill-afforded. The weight of numbers was in the favour of the plague warriors. Brunner swore as he slashed the edge of Drakesmalice through the helm of a Chaos warrior, removing the top of the degenerate’s skull. It was the third such to fall to his sword, yet still it was not enough. Four of the mercenaries were down, and the last two were hard-pressed by four of the remaining plague warriors. Two more of the armoured scum were sprinting toward the wagons, determined to end the sporadic fire coming from the remaining marksmen.
Zelten was down, his horse gutted by a plague warrior’s axe, and the mercenary captain was now trying to finish off the raider who had killed his mount. Horst was still in his saddle, his flail clotted with blood and brains. Brunner could see perhaps a half dozen plague warriors strewn around the man, their helms crushed out of shape by the mercenary’s violent blows. Horst’s eyes cast a vacant, empty glance across the battlefield, unsettling even to the bounty hunter in their homicidal intensity. Foam dripped from the man’s beard as he gave voice to a loud war cry and rode toward the embattled swordsmen.
Brunner took in the state of the battle around him quickly, then his eyes watered as an unspeakably vile stench filled his lungs. Fiend reared beneath him, threatening to toss him from the saddle. Brunner fought to restrain the warhorse. He could not fault the animal its reaction, he had himself hoped to never endure that smell again. A black buzzing host of flies swirled about Brunner as a huge monster charged toward him, the hooves of its diseased horse crushing the bodies of mercenary and plague warrior alike as it surged forward.
‘Brunner!’ the droning echo that served Pulstlitz as voice buzzed from the Chaos champion’s helm. ‘Zhiz zhime you die!’
The bounty hunter watched as the plague knight rode toward him. With a smooth, fluid motion, Brunner released Fiend’s reins and drew his pistol. He’d known as soon as he’d recognised Pulstlitz that this moment would come and had prepared for it as best he could. Yet he had not counted on Fiend’s violent agitation to the plague champion’s aura of filth and pestilence. If the horse reared now, he’d be thrown.
The pistol exploded as Brunner pulled back the trigger. The steel ball hurtled into the avalanche of corroded steel and diseased flesh that was Pulstlitz and his loathsome steed. The rheumy ball of pus that served the plague steed as an eye burst like a squashed grape, spattering mucus-like phlegm across its barding as it ruptured. The ball tore through the decaying substance of the infested animal’s skull, ripping apart its brain. The plague horse gave a low, painful neigh, rearing away from the discharge, arresting its advance. Then the horse fell, slamming onto its side, pinning its diseased rider beneath it.
Brunner breathed a sigh of relief as he dropped the pistol from his gloved hand and reclaimed the reins. As if sensing its master’s danger, Fiend had quieted the moment he had released his grip. The bounty hunter muttered a few words of gratitude, then urged his horse toward Pulstlitz’s slain mount. He found the loathsome plague champion trying to wriggle out from underneath the dead mass of his steed. The insect-shaped helm shifted, glaring at Brunner as he advanced. Pulstlitz grasped for where his sword had come to rest after his fall, but the diseased warrior was unable to reach the blade.
‘This time you don’t walk away,’ declared Brunner. Pulstlitz snarled up at his enemy, the sound rumbling from deep within his armour. Suddenly, Brunner was struck from behind, falling from his saddle to crash down on the top of Pulstlitz’s slain horse.
The bounty hunter found himself lying on his belly, his lungs filled with the rotten stink of the diseased horse. Brunner lashed out blindly with Drakesmalice to fend off whatever had attacked him, sweeping the sword behind his back. He rolled his body, facing upward just in time to ward off the blunt knobby head of a massive iron mace.
The shape behind the crude weapon could no longer be called human, if it could ever have been. It was a hulking mass of lice-ridden fur and boil-blemished flesh, its huge chest rippling with muscle despite the sickly green that coloured fur and flesh alike. The beastman roared, its goat-like head lifted in feral anticipation of crushing the skull of its defiant foe.
Brunner tried to stab his sword through the Chaos monster’s unprotected belly, but found that he was unable to rise. Powerful steel-clothed hands had closed about his shoulders, holding him down. From beneath the carcass of the horse, Pulstlitz laughed in the bounty hunter’s ear. ‘Zhiz zhime, you donz walk away,’ the droning sound of the Chaos champion buzzed.
Brunner struggled against the plague champion’s clutch, his eyes locked on those of the diseased beastman as it raised its weapon. The pestigor’s inhuman features split into an expression of supreme confidence and triumph.
A moment later, its expression was one of shock and horror as the beastman’s foul blood cascaded down its face from the wound in its forehead where a crossbow bolt had ripped through its skull. The knobby mace fell from the pestigor’s suddenly lax claws and a moment later the monster crashed to the ground beside its weapon.
The grip of the plague champion grew slack for a moment as Pulstlitz watched his warrior fall, as surprised as the pestigor by its sudden demise. Brunner exploited the diseased marauder’s moment of inattention to break away from his grasp. The bounty hunter quickly regained his feet, staring down at the trapped Pulstlitz. He brandished Drakesmalice before the struggling Chaos knight. The metal of Brunner’s sword seemed to blaze with orange flame, reacting dramatically to the overpowering taint of the Chaos champion. Despite himself, Pulstlitz recoiled from the magic blade as a spasm of fear wormed its way into his diseased frame. The Chaos champion, with a superhuman effort stretched his trapped body, his hand closing on the hilt of his fallen sword. As Brunner swung Drakesmalice downward, Pulstlitz swept his rotted blade upward, its infected metal crashing against the blazing edge of Drakesmalice.
The two swords groaned as they met, Drakesmalice burning yet more brightly as it came into contact with the plague champion’s blade. There was a bright flash of light, then the shriek of tearing steel as Pulstlitz’s sword was shorn in two. Unimpeded, Drakesmalice drove downward into the arm behind the broken blade, tearing through the plague knight’s armour.
The droning tones of Pulstlitz’s voice echoed in a mad scream as his arm fell away. From the ruptured, penetrated armour, hundre
ds of shiny black bodies crawled forth, scattering across the battlefield. Brunner smashed one of the fleeing cockroaches under his steel boot as it fled, then lifted Drakesmalice once more.
‘Now you meet your filthy god!’ the bounty hunter snarled, swinging Drakesmalice into the neck of the Chaos champion. The insect-like helm flew away, clattering across the ground. A fountain of vermin exploded from the hole at the top of Pulstlitz’s body armour, the insects spilling to the ground in a crawling flood. Brunner could see that more of the disgusting insects were also creeping from the empty helm of the Chaos champion. He smashed several more underfoot and walked over to the helmet. Brunner kicked it over, gazing at the now empty steel. Long in the service of the Chaos Lord of Decay and Corruption, Pulstlitz’s body had been consumed by the evil he worshipped, until at last he wore not one body, but thousands. Now, with the controlling spirit of the Chaos champion gone, the vermin were evacuating the armour that had contained them and given the plague knight form and substance, crawling back to the filthy holes from which they had once been summoned.
Brunner lifted Pulstlitz’s helmet high over his head then set up a loud cry, hurling the empty helm at the closest of the Chaos warriors. The diseased raiders set up a cry of agony and horror as they saw the evidence of their champion’s defeat, at once abandoning their fight with the mercenaries. News of Pulstlitz’s death quickly spread to the rabble and pestigors attacking the rear of the column and the ambushers quickly turned tail and ran. Their flight was hastened by the frenzied one-man charge of the mercenary Horst, who rode down and slaughtered as many of the degenerates as he could catch before they reached the security of a nearby patch of forest.
The bounty hunter turned away from the empty armour of Pulstlitz, sheathing Drakesmalice and clutching at the spot on his side where the pestigor had struck him from Fiend’s back. The armour had absorbed most of the force of the blow, and Brunner could detect no broken bones beneath the skin, yet such knowledge did little to offset the numbing pain. Still, he had little time to spare for his own hurt, and made his way about the battlefield to reclaim his horse. He leaned upon Fiend, resting his weight on the warhorse as his eyes swept the area for any sign of his pack horse. He was still in such circumstances when Manfred Zelten strode towards him, the old veteran Mietz and the wiry marksman Schtafel at his side.
‘How’d we do?’ the bounty hunter asked Zelten as he came near. The mercenary’s expression was grim, but not entirely without an air of triumph.
‘We lost ten, and I have another four wounded that probably won’t make it to Remas,’ Zelten stated. ‘Especially since their wounds are certain to become infected. The magic of these plague worshippers is potent, and fast.’ Zelten shook his head. ‘Still, we took nearly three times as many of them. Though I have to confess that if you hadn’t taken their leader and broken their resolve, it might have gone the other way.’
‘You should thank your man there,’ Brunner said, pointing a gloved finger at Schtafel. ‘If he hadn’t finished that brute who was preparing to brain me, I wouldn’t have had my chance at their leader.’
The marksman looked away, somewhat unnerved by the statement. When he looked back, his eyes were just as suspicious and wary as before. ‘Sometimes a man has to decide between two evils.’
Brunner’s eyes were just as cold as he returned Schtafel’s stare. ‘Then I am glad the decision went my way,’ he said.
It took an hour before the caravan was under way again. The wounded had to be made secure in the wagons and Zelten insisted on burying their own casualties, though the swiftly decomposing bodies of the plague worshippers were left to rot where they had fallen. In that time, a few of the wagoners emerged from the trees to rejoin the convoy. Emiliano Tacca overrode any talk of waiting for the other men to return, decrying them as miserable cowards, though the stout merchant had spent the battle cringing under the bed of one of his wagons. It was noted that the merchant seemed especially wary of the trees and rocks, and it was the return of the raiders, not his men that so agitated the man.
There were now only five riders to form the vanguard of the column, the other two claimed by the diseased spears of the pestigors, and Brunner took his place among them.
III
The sun was just dropping into afternoon as the caravan drew within sight of Remas. The road had been long, but after the attack by the plague warriors, there had been no further attacks. Seated on their horses, Brunner, Zelten and the other mercenaries gazed upon the mighty city. Built upon the tip of a vast peninsula, nearly one hundred miles in length and almost half as broad, the city completely surrounded a giant lagoon, a body of water almost perfectly round in shape. Long had been the speculation that the lagoon was no natural formation, but some vast undertaking constructed by the long departed elves. Great blocks of masonry stabbing upward from the lagoon like fangs of stone and other ruins lying just beneath the water certainly gave evidence that the elves had exploited this place, even if they had not created it.
Whatever its origins, the elves were gone now, and where their outpost may once have stood, men had reared a still greater city. The tiled roofs and plastered walls of Remas spread across either side of the lagoon, surrounding it completely on its landward edges. The mouth of the lagoon was also claimed by the city, a colossal bridge spanning the entire length of the lagoon’s narrow mouth, rising high above the water on mighty stone piers, allowing the swift, sleek warships of Remas easy access to the sea. Upon the bridge, grand palazzos stood, their balconies facing outward toward lagoon and sea. These were the houses of the wealthiest of Remas’s merchant princes, those who made up the ruling council of fifty and the triumvirate who was elected from those ranks to decide how that rule would be directed and enforced. On either end of the bridge, great towers stood, leaning away from the bridge at impossible angles, as though at any moment they might escape the support of their many buttresses and crash into the sea.
On either side of the bridge, the vast sprawl of the main city stretched. An inner wall of massive stone blocks enclosed the oldest portion of the city, hugging the coastline in places. This eventually met a second wall, larger and thicker than its predecessor, which likewise hugged the coast before sweeping inland to enclose a still larger amount of the peninsula. Along the coast, this second wall met and joined with an equally enormous wall of much later construction and even more impressive proportions. Twenty men standing one atop the other should not have been able to reach the top of the outer wall, and the thickness of the barrier was such that two companies of double-ranked pikemen could pass one another without disturbing their formations. Towers and guardhouses rose from this wall every hundred feet or so, crossbowmen keeping a wary watch as they patrolled the battlements. Like the older walls, the outer wall hugged the coastline for much of its distance before turning inward and bisecting the peninsula, forming an unbroken barrier of stone from shore to shore, completely enclosing the lagoon and the city built around it.
Between the first two walls, on a great rise of land, the skeletal remains of the mighty fortress of Remas yet stood. It was a relic of older, darker times, when tyrannical despots lorded over the city, long before the enlightened rule of the republic. The fortress had been largely cannibalised by the citizens of Remas in the centuries after the founding of the republic, the stones from its walls used to build the palazzos of the citys leading families upon the giant bridge at the mouth of the lagoon, for it was felt that the very presence of such a castle in the city would feed the ambition of some future tyrant and no man could be trusted with ownership of the place. The fortress had briefly risen from the rubble into which it had fallen during the short despotic rule of Omilo Mondo as the self proclaimed Prince of Remas tried to repair the castle and so fortify his rule. But with Mondo’s death, the reconstruction of the fortress was once again prohibited and it now languished as a forlorn pile of rubble overlooking the inner city.
Much more impressive was a mammoth structure located in the o
uter city, overlooking the sea. Its spire reaching nearly two hundred feet into the sky, the Temple of Solkan had taken nearly three hundred years to complete. A vast, megalithic building, giant columns of flawless white limestone imported from Araby fronted the plaster-covered walls that enclosed the shrine to the grim god of vengeance and order. Nowhere else in the Old World had the worship of harsh Solkan, the Fist of Retribution, found so firm a hold as it had in Remas, and such a gigantic shrine to the Master of Vengeance was unique to the city. Even from the distance at which they gazed upon the city, Brunner could see the giant golden fist topping the spire of the temple gleaming in the sunlight, as though it would reach up and drag down the sun should that celestial body offend the pitiless deity.
‘Remas,’ muttered Zelten as they slowly began to descend toward the peninsula. ‘Never thought I would ever think of such a place as being home.’ He smiled and stared over at Brunner. ‘I imagine a man like you has travelled widely?’
‘No,’ Brunner replied, his eyes still fixed on the familiar symbol of Solkan. He’d had an unfavourable experience with an Estalian bounty hunter named Osorio, a fanatic worshipper of the Fist of Retribution, a few years past in the city of Tobarao, an event that had coloured his attitude toward Solkan and his followers. ‘I’ve been to many places, but never Remas.’
Zelten’s expression grew somewhat severe. ‘You should stay with us for a time,’ he commented. ‘When in Remas, it is best to be in the service of one of the merchant princes. Very unwise to be independent.’
‘I’ve always depended on no one but myself,’ the bounty hunter stated.
‘Let me put it this way,’ sighed Zelten. ‘In Remas, you need friends, and the more powerful the better. A man on his own could find himself in very bad trouble. The kind that you don’t walk away from.’
