by C. L. Werner
Upon reaching one of the three massive gates that provided entry through the outer wall, the caravan was forced to halt. The gateway was teeming with activity, no less than three other caravans vying for entry into the city. The mules and horses of the other traders snorted and stomped at the rancid city smell wafting outward from the gateway even as their drovers tried to quiet them. Mercenary guards in the armour of a half dozen lands glowered at one another, their already foul moods turned still more sullen by this last delay to their journey’s end, this final obstacle between themselves and the taverns and brothels of Remas. In the gateway, the merchant owners of the caravans haggled with the guards at the gate, trying to reduce the custom the soldiers expected to exact on their wares. The raised voices of the merchants drifted back to Brunner as Emiliano Tacca climbed down from his wagon and made his way toward the gate. Tacca spoke a few quick words to one of the guards, imposing himself between the soldier and one of the other caravan masters. The man’s angry glare became somewhat homicidal as the soldier nodded his head and waved Tacca’s caravan forward. The other trains parted before the caravan, the muleskinners and mercenaries glaring at Brunner and his companions as they passed by.
Beyond the gates was a wide square, large numbers of burly-looking men sitting in the shadow of one of the walls. As they saw Tacca, representatives from each gang hurried forward, loudly offering their services to unload the wagons for the merchant. Tacca dismissed the men, and the imposing sight of Horst and several of the other mercenaries did much to silence the protests of the draftsmen. They settled back into the shadow to await the next caravan. Other individuals hastened forward as the draftsmen retreated, peddlers and street sellers offering sips from jugs of water and dried fruits to the newly arrived travellers. These fared a little better than the draftsmen had, and several of Zelten’s soldiers and Tacca’s drovers parted with their silver for such welcome refreshment.
Brunner took in the city he now found himself within. The walls at his back were high, imposing things, casting their shadow across much of the square, yet the buildings in the immediate vicinity were much less imposing, most of them no more than two storeys tall. There were a number of inns and stables fronting on the square, each sign swaying before their doors promising better service and lower prices than that of their neighbours. The street leading away toward the south was wide, and Brunner could see quite a bit of foot traffic trailing away in the direction. Toward the north, the street ended in a small plaza surrounded by inns. A number of streets snaked their way toward the west, but unlike the wide lane leading south, these were narrow and Brunner could see no one walking them.
Tacca’s wagons and several of the mercenaries turned south, destined for the warehouses where the merchant would store the goods they had brought back from Miragliano. Zelten shared a few words with the merchant, then brought his horse around.
‘I’ve left Mietz in charge of things here,’ Zelten told Brunner. ‘We’re going to go ahead of him and let Prince Gambini know that we’re back.’
‘Prince Gambini?’ Brunner asked, his eyes suddenly narrowing with suspicion.
‘Oh, yes,’ Zelten said. ‘He is our employer. He charged us to accompany Tacca up to Miragliano. Apparently Emiliano Tacca has some hopes of arranging a new trade agreement with Prince Borgio. I’m certain that he will be most anxious to know that we have returned.’
The bounty hunter remained silent as he followed the mercenary captain into the narrow streets of the city. Once away from the teeming press of bodies near the outer wall, and the traffic passing to and from the city, the numbers of people began to diminish, falling off drastically the further the two men rode away from the wall. Soon, only a few furtive figures were visible on the street ahead: fearful, downcast citizens hurrying along the streets, eager to reach their destinations. Compared to the din of hawkers, travellers, and beggars that filled the air in the other cities Brunner had been in, the silence that filled the streets of Remas was eerie and unnatural.
‘This place is like a graveyard,’ the bounty hunter commented as they made their way along yet another deserted stretch of road. Zelten favoured Brunner with a grim look.
‘It is much more lively the closer you get to the docks and the tavern district,’ Zelten said. ‘But up here, the people keep to themselves.’
Brunner shook his head. ‘Keep to themselves? I’ve smelled fear before, and I can tell you that it is thick enough here to choke the life from a man.’ Brunner looked around, watching as a swarthy face hastily withdrew behind the edge of a window. A moment later a thick wooden shutter slammed close. ‘What I don’t understand is what these people fear. I see no soldiers about, and by all accounts the rulers of this city are fair-minded and even-handed in their policies, no worse than any other and better than most.’
‘Better not to ask, my friend,’ Zelten advised. ‘Those who get too curious don’t prosper very well in Remas.’
Suddenly a sharp scream broke the silence. Brunner and Zelten at once grasped their weapons and the bounty hunter spurred Fiend ahead, eager to find the source of the sound. Ordinarily, he was much more cautious about minding his own affairs, but the almost tangible dread in the city had set him on edge and it was with an amount of eagerness that Brunner anticipated confronting whatever trouble lay ahead. Zelten hesitated a moment, then spurred his own horse to keep up with that of the bounty hunter.
The screams had died down into frightened, choking sobs and a harsh voice, shouting. The sounds came from directly ahead of the two riders and soon the source of the trouble became all too clear. Brunner’s gloved hand slowly worked his pistol from its holster and he noted Zelten’s grip on his sword tighten.
The two men found themselves at the mouth of a small plaza, a large, ornate fountain bubbling in the centre, depicting some impossible mixture of man and fish spitting water into a great stone clam shell. The buildings opening upon the plaza had the look of shops, but their doors and windows were closed tight, shutters drawn. There was but a single exception, a small baker’s shop. The door to this establishment had been knocked from its hinges and was lying in a splintered pile just within the threshold.
In the centre of the square, in the very shadow of the fountain, a group of men stood. They were dressed alike, white cloaks thrown over leather tunics and breeches, their faces covered in plain, featureless masks of polished white wood. Though featureless, the faces of the masks were not without expression, locked as firmly into a single emotion as the classic tragedy and comedy masks employed by the playhouses of the Empire. The expression so firmly stamped upon the wooden masks was that of an angry, judgmental disdain. Upon the left breast of each of the men’s cloaks was worked the symbol of a golden fist.
Two of the men struggled to hold onto a squirming woman, her clothing drenched and in disarray, her long black hair hanging about her face in long dripping strands. A third cloaked man had a grip on her head, the eyes behind the mask that hid his features fixed upon a fourth cloaked figure. This masked man stood slightly distant from the fountain, shouting in a loud, stern voice, turning his head frequently that he might address each of the buildings fronting the plaza, clearly intending his words for those citizens cowering behind their locked doors and shutters.
‘Know that this foul creature, this harlot and speaker of falsehoods has blasphemed against you!’ the speaker stabbed a bloodied finger at the sobbing woman. ‘She has profaned the marriage bed, deceived her husband and lord!’ The masked man pointed his finger upward, indicating a badly beaten, water-logged shape dangling from a noose cast across the outstretched arm of the fountain’s central statue. ‘She has drawn him to wretchedness and iniquity, to value her vile flesh more than the honour of obeying and serving Mighty Solkan, he whose justice is certain, whose retribution is swift!’ The speaker inclined his head slightly and the man holding the woman’s head savagely forced her face into the pool of the fountain.
‘Know that this woman, through her profane lusts h
as been seduced by those powers righteously called ruinous! Through her lusts, she has nurtured Chaos within this most exalted city, this temple to our divine protector! She has profaned and defiled the immortal spirit of her own husband and cast him screaming from the grace of Mighty Solkan!’ The masked speaker nodded his head again and the woman was withdrawn from the pool, gasping and spitting water from her lungs. ‘She shall confess her evils, Mighty Solkan, before your swift retribution shall bear her to the black pit of atonement that is the reward for all who would hearken to the lures of Chaos!’ The zealot glared at the sputtering, gasping prisoner and nodded his head again. Once more, the woman’s head was plunged into the pool.
Brunner watched the scene unfolding before him with a mixture of loathing and anger. The pistol gripped in his hand began to rise as his cold gaze locked upon that of the shouting zealot. Almost instantly, a gloved hand reached over and arrested the bounty hunter’s action.
‘Don’t,’ warned Zelten, his voice almost lowered to a whisper. ‘There is nothing you can do. This sort of thing happens all the time in Remas. The cult of Solkan is powerful here, and its followers most zealous.’ Zelten released Brunner’s hand and turned his horse’s head. ‘Come, we’d best find another path to the palazzo.’
‘Too late,’ commented the bounty hunter. As Brunner said the words, the temple militia began to detach themselves from the fountain, leaving only one of their number to restrain the woman. Zelten groaned as he saw them walking forward, each of the white-garbed zealots drawing a heavy wooden cudgel from beneath his robes. They seemed almost unreal as they advanced, phantom forms without shape, their white wooden masks stern and uncompromising.
‘For Sigmar’s sake,’ Zelten addressed Brunner through the corner of his mouth. ‘Don’t kill any of them!’
The bounty hunter’s face twisted into a feral smile. ‘That depends entirely on them,’ he told the mercenary. The foremost of the Solkanites was just rounding Fiend’s head, the brown eyes staring out from behind the wooden mask fixed upon Brunner. A second zealot strode toward Zelten, while the third maintained a position in front of both riders, clearly thinking to grab the reins of the animals should the two men think to flee.
The militiaman near Brunner looked the bounty hunter over from head to toe, then looked to the other zealots. ‘More foreign scum!’ he declared. ‘Mercenary swine brought from lands where they know not the light and the glory of Mighty Solkan!’ The ringleader of the zealots glared into Brunner’s icy eyes. ‘How long must we suffer such filth to profane the streets of our holy city with their…’
Whatever words the Solkanite thought to conclude his diatribe with were knocked back down his throat as Brunner smashed the heavy wooden butt of his pistol into the man’s mask, cracking both the white wood face, and the jaw beneath it. The zealot fell into a heap, coughing and spitting blood and teeth through the splintered mask. At the same time, Brunner drove his spurs into his horse.
Fiend reared up, front legs kicking forward. The zealot before the animals fell back, alarmed by the sudden eruption of violence from the animal and the man who rode it. But he did not withdraw far or quick enough, one of Fiend’s flailing hooves crunched against the side of the man’s skull, tearing the white cloak and throwing the stunned militiaman to the ground.
Zelten reacted to Brunner’s attack far more quickly, kicking his foot into the midsection of the Solkanite beside his horse before the man had time to even begin raising his cudgel to strike the mercenary. Air exploded from the zealot and the man doubled over, clutching his chest and trying to gulp air back into his lungs.
Brunner had some satisfaction watching the last standing zealot in the plaza release his hold on the woman and race off down the street. But what satisfaction he felt was quickly vanquished as a second group of white-cloaked men strode into the square from one of the side streets. This time, there were ten of the masked men, many of them carrying swords or axes instead of clubs. Still more intimidating, however, was the towering apparition who led them. Nearly seven feet tall, his body encased in a suit of blackened plate armour, a black hooded cloak cast about his shoulders, the face of the leader was hidden behind a mask similar to those worn by the zealots, but made of gold rather than wood.
The sight of the huge warrior made Zelten curse colourfully under his breath.
‘An inquisitor of Solkan!’ the mercenary swore. ‘Now we’re in the fire!’
The towering warrior Zelten had identified as an inquisitor strode forward, well ahead of the white-garbed temple militia. As he did so, the huge warrior drew an enormous hand-and-half sword from its scabbard, the polished metal of the blade gleaming in the sun. Brunner could see the fiery, fanatic gleam in the eyes watching him from behind the golden mask, could see that here was a foe who would show no quarter, who was as prepared to die as he was certain that no man would best him in battle. The bounty hunter began to raise the pistol still gripped in his hand, then noticed that in smashing the zealot’s face, he had dislodged the firing cap.
With a disgusted motion, Brunner holstered the weapon and drew Drakesmalice from its sheath. The bounty hunter was an excellent judge of a man’s combat prowess, able to ascertain from the way a warrior moved, the way he gripped his sword, the look in his eyes, how proficient with the blade he was. The man he now faced displayed the qualities of a master duellist, with the build of an ogre to support his skill. Even if Brunner might hope to match the inquisitors ability, he knew there would be no way to match his prodigious strength.
The inquisitor halted several paces away from the horses, his gaze encompassing both the riders and the injured militiamen strewn about them. When the armoured giant spoke, it was with a voice of steel and thunder. ‘You have laid hands upon servants of Mighty Solkan engaged in their holy duties,’ the inquisitor stated, his rumbling voice surprisingly level for all the fire in his eyes. ‘To do so is to forfeit one’s life.’ The zealots filed to either side of the inquisitor, their weapons held before them.
‘Prepare to taste holy vengeance!’ the inquisitor snarled. He took a step towards Brunner, his gigantic sword raised. Then the sound of numerous hooves clattering upon the cobbles caused the huge man to step back. Brunner and Zelten each risked a glance behind them. Racing toward them was a group of five riders.
Zelten’s face broke into a wide smile as he recognised the features of Horst and some of his other men. The mercenaries rode straight toward their captain, falling in line between himself and Brunner.
The huge inquisitor cast his stern gaze across the figures of the mounted mercenaries, then stared at the masked militia to either side of him. Brunner could almost read the hulking war-priest’s thoughts. The men he faced were hardened, professional warriors, the men with him were untrained fanatic rabble. He might have been willing to confront two warriors with such a force as he had, but he was less sure of his chances against seven. With a snarl, the inquisitor slammed his sword back into its sheath and slowly stalked to the side of the plaza. The zealots followed suit, some of them scuttling forward to assist their stricken comrades. When the last of the masked fanatics was out of the way, Zelten urged his horse forward at a careful, wary trot. Brunner and the other mercenaries followed close behind the Reiklander.
As he passed the huge inquisitor, the armoured giant’s steel voice addressed Zelten. ‘The memory of Mighty Solkan is long, blasphemer! When you no longer cringe beneath the skirts of your decadent nobles, you shall answer for this day! The Master of Vengeance is not to be denied!’
Zelten spat onto the cobbles after the inquisitor spoke, maintaining his steed’s trot. Soon, the plaza was behind the riders, the glowering temple militia and the huge priest-warrior lost to view. Brunner rode up on the mercenary captain’s left while Horst fell in on the man’s right.
‘That went well,’ the bounty hunter commented dryly. ‘We were lucky to ride away from that,’ said Zelten. He looked over at the wild-haired Horst. ‘If you hadn’t chanced to take the same path
back to the palazzo, I wouldn’t like to think about what might have happened.’
Horst cast a sullen look at Brunner. ‘Actually, we followed you. When Meitz told us you had ridden off alone with the bounty hunter, none of us felt too good about it.’
Brunner gave a short chuckle as he fixed a new firing cap to his pistol. ‘In my line of work, I get pretty used to profiting by people’s fear.’ Satisfied that the firing cap was firmly in place, the bounty hunter holstered the weapon. ‘But I never thought I’d do so in quite that way.’
IV
The Gambini palazzo was located midway along the enormous Great Reman Bridge. As Zelten’s party drew near the massive structure, Brunner found himself impressed by the massive dimensions of the bridge. It was nearly two miles long and almost a quarter of a mile wide, constructed entirely of polished granite, the heavy grey rock supported from below by gigantic stone piers. It was construction on a scale that should have even impressed a dwarf, though there seemed no trace of the influence of demi-human engineers in the simple architecture that bolstered the span.
Both sides of the bridge were entirely covered by massive, elegant palazzos, each of the opulent dwellings trying to outdo the other in the richness of their adornment and the majesty of their facades. The palazzos reached upwards three, four, even five storeys, their structures leaning far beyond the foundations of the bridge itself, supported by their own piers of steel and wood.
Gigantic columns and statuary dominated the fronts of each palazzo, while colourful banners and flags depicting the heraldry of Remas and that of each of the noble houses snapped in the cool sea breeze from every tower and spire rising above the palazzos. In addition to the heraldry, the pennants of numerous mercenary companies flew above the palazzos, a silent reminder to the enemies of a particular house of which band of hired soldiers protected the family and its interests.
The surface of the bridge itself was alive with the traffic of those who had business with the merchant princes, those who would petition the noble houses about some matter of government, servants hurrying about their masters’ needs and anxious tradesmen hoping to peddle their wares to the inmates of one of the palazzos, be they master or servant. It was a completely different world from that of the silent, subdued streets where the fearsome cult of Solkan held sway.
