by C. L. Werner
After a half-hour of pushing their way through the late-night crowd of revellers, the Pink Rose stood before the two men. It was a large building, standing almost as tall as the Gambini palazzo, but its opulence was a facade; the white plaster covering its walls was chipped in places to expose the stonework beneath, the paint upon the wooden balcony that fronted the structure flaking away. Yet, for all its somewhat decayed exterior, the building certainly had a large amount of traffic passing through its front door. A young man in a brightly-coloured tunic, an outrageous ruffled hat scrunched on his head, stood before the building, his loud voice extolling the delights to be had within in rapid, quickly spoken words. Horst and Brunner pushed their way past the bawd and entered the main parlour of the brothel.
Horst gave a delighted gasp as his eyes took in the lavishly appointed chamber, his surly humour instantly clearing. The room was large, dominating much of the ground floor, filled with cushioned divans, large, potted ferns and palms from Araby, vases of flowers in every shape and colour imaginable, and an ornate fountain with a centrepiece that depicted something Brunner considered to be physically impossible. As rich as the furnishings were, they were but a setting for the smiling faces that regarded the two men as they entered the room. There were at least twenty women lounging upon the divans or sitting beside the fountain, each more lovely than the next, and each in such a state of undress that it seemed to be a competition to see who could display the most flesh without exposing her charms entirely.
Horst let his eyes linger over the company, his face broadening into a grin. ‘I take it back, bounty killer,’ his words came from the corner of his mouth. ‘This was worth crawling out of a beer keg.’ Without a further word, the mercenary strolled toward one of the divans, striking up a conversation with a seated woman with the blonde hair and pale skin of the Empire while slipping his thick arm about the waif-like waist of a dusky Tilean wench standing beside the couch.
Brunner removed his helmet and strode further into the chamber. He was still for a moment, his practiced gaze studying the room, lingering for a moment on the hulking brutes who sat on chairs against one wall, big Arabyan-style scimitars propped against the wall beside them. The bounty hunter raised his eyebrows. A bullet might not even stop one of those brutes. Brunner hoped that he could accomplish what he needed without attracting the attention of the guards.
‘See anything you like?’ a soft voice inquired from beside him. Brunner turned his head, finding himself looking at a dark-skinned Tilean woman wearing a loose gown of bright red silk, her generous cleavage straining against the web of white lace that fronted the garment. The woman’s heart-shaped face was marked by a knowing smile, a lock of her dark brown hair dangling down against her cheek.
‘Actually, I was hoping to speak with the owner of this establishment,’ Brunner said, smiling back. ‘I have a business proposition for him.’
‘Indeed,’ the woman commented, shaking her head slightly. ‘And what sort of proposal would this be?’
‘The sort of proposal that involves gold,’ Brunner stated, tossing a small cloth pouch in his gloved hand. The woman’s face brightened noticeably as she heard the sound of jingling coins.
‘In that case, I think she might be very interested in your proposal,’ she said. ‘So long as it is within reason,’ she added with a wink. She extended her hand toward Brunner with a gesture that mocked the grace of queens and duchesses. ‘Madame Rosa, owner of this house of entertainments,’ she introduced herself.
Brunner nodded his head, kissing the woman’s slender hand. ‘I am certain that it will be a pleasure doing business with you, madame.’
Giordano propped himself up on the pillow, staring at the door of the small room, a smug look of pleasure on his face. This was indeed a good way to work off his frustration. He had needed to get away from the Gambini palazzo for a few days, at least until all the unwarranted attention being given to Zelten and his mob of rabble died down. It was woefully unfair, Giordano and his men had escorted the princess herself to Remas, an event of vast import to the future of Prince Gambini. Yet Prince Gambini had thrown only a minor feast in honour of their return, a peasant’s supper compared to the event he had arranged for Zelten. All because the cursed foreigner had butchered a mob of starving, pox-ridden bandits! Giordano shook his head at the inequality of it all.
The mercenary’s face brightened as the door opened and his supple bedmate of the last few hours slipped into the room. He always liked coming to the Pink Rose. Rosa kept the cleanest girls in Remas, and every one of them was learned in tricks that would shame a sultan’s harem. Giordano smiled again as the long-legged girl strode across the room. Then he noticed the heavy iron manacles clutched in her tiny hands. Giordano chuckled.
‘Are those for me, or for you?’ the soldier laughed.
‘They are for you,’ a cold voice said. Giordano tore his eyes away from the strumpet. A tall man had followed the girl into the room. He had the look of the Empire about him, his brown hair cropped short, his piercing blue eyes fixed upon Giordano. It was the pistol clutched in the man’s gloved hand, however, which drew Giordano’s attention. The girl touched his wrist with her dainty hand, causing the mercenary to flinch away. The mercenary froze when he heard the hammer of the pistol draw back.
‘Just let her do her job, if you please,’ Brunner advised the soldier. Giordano snarled at the bounty hunter, but did not resist as the harlot locked the manacles about his hands after working their chain through the iron bedstead. Her task done, the girl hastily left the room. Brunner strode forward.
‘I have a few questions for you,’ the bounty hunter said.
‘I’ll tell you nothing, Morr rot your bones!’ Giordano spat.
Brunner sighed and holstered his firearm. ‘I had hoped that we could do this the easy way.’ Giordano’s eyes grew wide with terror as he saw the bounty hunter remove the massive knife from his belt, the serrated edge of the blade gleaming in the dim light cast by the candles in the room.
‘Wait!’ he cried.
‘I’m glad you have decided to be reasonable,’ Brunner stated, making no move to return Headsman to its sheath. He had already found out from the girl that Giordano was not the man he was after, there was no tattoo, of a snake or anything else, on his back. But he could still provide the names of the men under his command who were a part of the entourage that was in Pavona.
A few minutes later, the bounty hunter had learned all he needed to know. As he walked toward the door, Giordano struggled against the manacles.
‘I think it best if I leave you here while I finish my work in Remas,’ Brunner told the man. ‘Keep you out of the way. It shouldn’t take more than a few days. I suggest you make the best of it.’ The bounty hunter closed the door on the stream of curses and obscenities the mercenary hurled at him.
‘You found out what you needed to know?’ Rosa asked Brunner as he exited the room. Brunner nodded his head.
‘At least all he could tell me,’ he said. Brunner looked at the door, then back at the shapely Tilean madam. ‘You’ll keep him here for three or four days?’
Madam Rosa smiled. ‘We’ll see that he’s well taken care of.’ Her eyes lingered on the bounty hunter, looking him over from head to foot. ‘You know, I don’t really think that was worth what you paid me,’ she said. ‘I feel rather bad about taking your money for such a small thing.’
‘Then I suppose we should figure a way to work out the difference,’ Brunner commented, allowing Rosa to lead him away.
Night hung heavy on Remas when Brunner emerged from the Pink Rose. The streets in the waterfront district were not quite deserted at this hour, certainly more lively than the lanes of the inner city in late afternoon when Brunner had first arrived, sailors staggering back to their ships or else trying to figure out which taverns they had yet to be thrown out of, a handful of street walkers trying to earn a few extra silvers before the custom died away completely, even the odd armed watchman, ensuring that
no enterprising souls took it upon themselves to open any of the shops without the knowledge of the shopkeepers.
The bounty hunter was alone, not having waited for Horst to emerge from whatever diversion he had discovered in the Pink Rose. Having been led to the brothel, he could easily find his way back to the bridge and the Gambini palazzo. Brunner adopted his customarily cautious manner as he made his way through the shadowy streets. There might not be many people about, but he knew well enough that it only took one man to slip a knife in someone’s ribs.
By degrees, the bounty hunter’s wary senses paid off. He could detect furtive footfalls trailing him, stopping when he stopped, mirroring his own pace. Brunner smiled grimly at the inexpert shadower and continued on, a gloved hand resting on the grip of his pistol. He saw a small alleyway ahead and strode towards it. The bounty hunter was not one to ignore a menace, however slight, and the time to deal with this one was at hand.
Brunner slipped into the alley, proceeding down it a few steps. As he had anticipated, the sudden move caused his shadow to hasten his pace, trying to get the bounty hunter back in his sight. Brunner saw his pursuer turn into the alley, his lean frame illuminated by the flickering light cast by the lamps on the street. The bounty hunter strode forward, raising his pistol, letting the cold metal barrel gleam in the lamplight. He was certain that his pursuer would not fail to notice that the weapon was aimed at his face.
‘You should find a new line of work,’ Brunner snarled. ‘You’re no good at this one.’
The bounty hunter had expected the supposed thief to retreat before the threat of his gun, or else fall to his knees and plead for mercy. The last thing he expected was for the man to charge at him. With a bestial howl, the lean figure lunged forward. Brunner’s reflexes were instant, the pistol’s flash exploding in the darkness as he sent the steel ball crashing into his attacker’s face.
In that brief flash, the face of his attacker was revealed to Brunner, and it was not human. The face was almost hairless, only a cluster of wispy strands standing out in ragged patches upon its scabby scalp. The features of the visage were sharp and angular, a knife-blade nose with distended nostrils, slanted eyes that bulged wildly from their sockets. The gash-like mouth was filled with pointed fangs, a long snake-like tongue darting in and out between them.
Brunner braced himself for impact even as he heard the ball rip its way through flesh and bone. The lean body ploughed into him, causing the bounty hunter to lose his footing and fall to the ground, the body of his attacker crushed against his chest.
Brunner gagged at the sickly sweet odour of the thing as he strove to push its weight aside. As soon as he began to shift the creature, however, it sprang into life once more. Brunner felt powerful hands pressing down against his chest, as his attacker pushed himself back to its feet. As the monster loomed over him, the bounty hunter could see the light from the street shining through the savage wound that had replaced the left side of its face.
Brunner tore one of his knives from its sheath and hacked at the monster’s wrist. Hot blood gushed from the wound and the monster uttered a shrill cry of pain. The powerful hands clawed at his armour, pulling Brunner to his feet. No sooner had the bounty hunter been lifted from the ground than the enraged creature tossed him aside like a sack of rubbish. Brunner hit the floor of the alleyway, rolling on his shoulder back into the street.
His shoulder pained him, the bounty hunter could feel blood trickling down his arm. His violent fall had probably torn open the scar tissue clothing the injury he had been dealt by the orc Gnashrak. Brunner forced the affected arm to move, pulling a throwing knife from the bandoleer across his chest while his right arm pulled Drakesmalice from its scabbard, the metal of the blade rippling with flame. Carefully, Brunner backed away from the darkened alley, eyes focused on the shadowy corridor. The few people on the street paused to watch, eager to witness whatever violent confrontation was going to unfold before them. Yet these would-be spectators gave voice to screams of terror as they saw the bounty hunter’s adversary emerge into the street.
It was the same size and shape as a man, perhaps it had even been a man at some point in its existence. But now, through magic or mutation, it bore only a trace of humanity. The thing’s body was twisted, almost curled over in a perpetual stoop, its legs somehow too short for its body. The rough cloak that covered the creature bulged at the centre of its chest, speaking of some horrible malformity beneath the cloth. The face was more loathsome than before, the left eye-socket blasted into ruin, greasy brain tissue and the pulp of its eye dangling from the wound. Even for a mutant, such a wound should have been final, there was something even more unclean about this creature and a chill swept up his spine as Brunner put a label upon his thoughts: daemonic.
The possessed creature gave voice to a shrill snarl and lunged once more at Brunner, leaping ten feet in a single hop. The bounty hunter lashed out with both weapons, Drakesmalice slashing across its leg, his knife digging at its belly. He was gratified to hear the thing cry out in pain, even more pleased to see it hobble away. The wound in its belly wept a dark mixture of blood and bile, the gash on its leg bubbled and sizzled like bacon in a pan. Brunner could sense the monsters alarm. Blades and bullets of steel might injure the creature, ruin its host body, but the enchanted blade of Drakesmalice could attack the thing itself. The sword might even be able to kill it, if such a creature as this could ever be truly killed.
Cries of alarm sounded nearby. Brunner risked a glance and saw three white-robed men rushing forward, heavy wooden cudgels in their hands. The bounty hunter cursed. Alone against the daemon-creature, he would be pressed hard enough. Having to deal with it and three of the Solkan fanatics, he wasn’t so certain of his chances. However, as they ran forward, the white-robed fanatics paid no attention to the bounty hunter, converging on the daemon-thing instead.
The monster grabbed the first zealot by the hood, tossing him aside. The man crashed into the wall with a shuddering impact, howling in agony as he clutched at broken ribs. The second and third brought their clubs smashing into the daemon-thing’s body, punishing it brutally. The daemon recoiled for an instant from the attack, the pain inflicted on its physical host momentarily stunning it. Brunner saw the cloak fall away from the monster’s body, exposing the single tear-shaped breast that rose from the centre of its chest. The sight of the monster’s grotesque body caused the militiamen to pause in their attack, allowing their daemonic adversary a chance to recover and regain the initiative.
Or so it might have, had the bounty hunter not charged forward. The creature’s injured head swung around to glare at him, snarling its shrill growl. Drakesmalice swept outward in a fiery arc, crunching through the monstrosity’s neck. The head fell away, the wound bubbling as though it had been bathed in corrosive troll vomit. A pale light rose from the body as it slumped to the ground, and the sickly sweet stench of the monster intensified for a moment, almost overcoming the zealots and the bounty hunter. Then there was a high-pitched, almost human scream and the light flickered away, the smell vanishing with it.
Brunner breathed heavily, leaning over the body. On the corpse, just below the unnatural mammary growth, the bounty hunter could see a sign branded into the flesh. The bounty hunter knew little of arcane matters, but he had taken enough jobs for religious officials in the Empire to recognise this one. A full moon, a downward pointing crescent and an upturned sickle-shape moon, all united by a thick shaft. The sign of the most seductive of the Ruinous Powers, the perverse Lord of Pleasures.
Brunner strode away from the quickly putrefying body. It would be easy to dismiss the attack as coincidence. The ways of the Chaos gods and their creatures had no pattern or reason to them. Yet somehow, the bounty hunter felt that the horrible daemon-thing had been sent especially to kill him. It seemed that more than one man in Remas wanted him dead. Unless there was some schemer wily enough to manipulate both the powers of Chaos and the fanatic worshippers of the gods of Law.
‘Why do you bring your suspicions to me?’
The room was dark, its cheerless grey stone walls laid bare, unadorned by either tapestry or portrait. The only furnishings were a pair of bronze braziers, a large dais with five high-backed chairs and an iron ring set into the floor just before the dais. It was a room designed to crush the warmth within a man, to remind him that life was a trial, and that it would be judged at its end. Or perhaps just before.
Only one of the chairs was occupied now, the one on the rightmost side. A tall, powerful figure in black armour sat there, his golden mask resting beside him on one of the armrests. Inquisitor Bocca’s face was suspicious as he spoke his question. There was the usual hint of threat and menace in his tones, the promise that the answer had best meet up to his expectations.
The man standing below the dais bowed his head once more. ‘If my suspicions are correct, who else would I turn to?’
Bocca uttered a short, doubtful laugh. ‘I find it difficult to believe a man of your sort would do anything if he did not stand to profit by it. If General Mandalari is, as you say, playing false with the temple, I doubt any pious concern would cause you to bear such tidings to me.’
The informer fell silent, staring at the floor for a moment before lifting his eyes once more. ‘You are right, inquisitor, it is not piety that makes me warn you. It is fear.’ A look of interest filled Bocca’s eyes for the first time since granting the man his audience with him. The informer hastily continued. ‘I was not certain until I heard him talking after the feast. I am certain that he has hatched some sort of plot with Alfredo Gambini.’ The man paused as a look of intense hate filled Bocca’s face. ‘I am also certain that Alfredo Gambini,’ the informer’s voice dropped into a frightened whisper, ‘is a servant of the Dark Gods.’
