by C. L. Werner
‘I’m afraid that you were a bit… tardy,’ the young rogue told Dogvael. He spread his arms in a lavish gesture to encompass the mule cart. ‘You see, this cart has already run afoul of bandits.’ The rogue smiled again, swinging down from the seat of the mule cart, his booted heels landing upon the now still form of the man who had taken hold of the mule’s bridle. The grinning thief looked down at the corpse under his feet, then daintily hopped across the spreading pool of gore emanating from it.
‘Rather sloppy operation, you know,’ the rogue told Dogvael, stepping closer to give the wounded brigand a reassuring pat on the shoulder. ‘I mean… you really should be using bows.’ He turned his head, staring at each of Dogvael’s dead companions. ‘Probably get a few more men, too,’ he advised the bandit in an almost conspiratorial whisper.
Men were now emerging from the woods behind the mule cart, advancing upon the violent scene. The rogue gave an airy flick of his hand to indicate the approaching men.
‘I have five men in my little company,’ he told Dogvael. ‘With bows,’ he added almost as an afterthought. ‘We do quite well for ourselves.’ A harsh, hostile note slipped into the rogue’s voice. ‘Which is why we did not take too kindly to finding out that a pack of sloppy amateurs had set up shop in our hunting grounds. The ducs aren’t the only ones can’t abide poaching, you know.’
The bowmen were striding forward now, inspecting the bodies of Dogvael’s men, rolling them over with the toes of their fur boots, rummaging about their clothing for any scrap of loot.
The cart master watched as his companions went about their ghoulish work, giving another wink of conspiracy to the injured man sitting near him. ‘They’re quite thorough, you know. Clean those boys as nice as a pig with a soup bone.’ One of the archers, a big brute with a full black beard and a filthy hauberk loped toward Dogvael, pushing the injured man onto his back with a sharp kick.
‘I was conversing with that fellow,’ the leather-clad rogue called out in mock outrage as the bearded man began to search Dogvael’s person.
‘You can play around on your own time, Gobineau,’ snarled the bearded brigand as his massive hands ripped brass buttons from Dogvael’s tunic and patted down his chest in search of any hidden pockets.
‘Neither manners nor memory,’ Gobineau chided the other bandit. ‘Our friend there has a bit of a reputation. Don’t you recognise him?’
‘By the Lady?’ gasped one of the other bowmen. ‘That’s Dogvael!’ Gobineau spun about stabbing a triumphant finger at the man who had called out.
‘Precisely! One of the Black Prince’s old custom collectors,’ Gobineau said. ‘I’m sure everybody here hasn’t forgotten paying their tithe to that old tyrant.’
‘If Dogvael is here,’ another of the brigands observed, ‘then the rumours must be true. The Black Prince is dead!’
‘That seems a distinct possibility when one of his old lieutenants starts playing at honest work again,’ agreed Gobineau. He turned away from the discussion however as he saw the bearded archer remove something from Dogvael’s body. The bulky man gazed at it intently a moment, then made to stuff it within his tunic.
‘Hello, Manfret,’ Gobineau called out. ‘What is it that you have there? Not holding back on your fellows, are you?’ The tone of warning did not go unnoticed by the others, and fingers began to play with bowstrings and arrows.
‘Bit of scrimshaw the pig had on him,’ Manfret snarled. ‘I took a fancy to it, is all.’
‘Perhaps I should have a look at it,’ Gobineau pressed. ‘I’ve been known to fancy scrimshaw too.’ He held one hand out toward the sullen Manfret, the other hand closed about the hilt of the sword sheathed at his side.
‘Damn you!’ snarled Manfret. ‘I killed the pig, so I get first pick of whatever he’s got on him!’ The bandit’s hand closed a bit more tightly about the object he had lifted from his victim. Gobineau could see that it appeared to be a cylinder, perhaps six inches in length, apparently crafted from bone, its surface elaborately carved.
‘I thought that we agreed that all loot was to be divided evenly,’ Gobineau said, more for the benefit of the other bandits than the defiant Manfret. He peered sternly into the bandit’s eyes. ‘I suppose you know exactly how much that bauble of yours is worth, and where you can sell it?’
‘Go hang yourself!’ roared Manfret. ‘I’ve heard enough from that slippery tongue of yours, Gobineau! I killed him, so it’s mine. You lot can split the rest of it!’
Gobineau shook his head, laughing with disdain. ‘No, no, no. I don’t think that would be very wise. That little bit you’re holding might just be worth more than the rest of this garbage put together.’ Gobineau’s voice dropped lower, into a scandalised whisper. ‘You wouldn’t be trying to cheat your mates now, would you?’
With another low curse, Manfret drew his own sword, backing away from Gobineau. The other bandit sighed with disappointment and, with one swift move pulled his own sword from its sheath, darting forward with the quickness of a viper. Manfret’s blade fell into the mud as Gobineau’s sword slashed open his hand. Before the bearded brigand could finish his cry of pain, Gobineau struck again, this time thrusting the point of his weapon into the other man’s throat. The stricken Manfret fell, joining his discarded blade in the muck, a sickening gurgle sounding from his punctured vocals. Gobineau casually wiped the blood from his sword and returned it to its sheath.
‘Never could abide a man who would cheat his friends,’ Gobineau commented, spitting on the dying Manfret. Reaching down, he removed the engraved cylinder from the dying man’s hand. He was immediately struck by the craftsmanship of the object, the interlocking symbols that wound about its surface and the elaborate silver base that sealed one end of the cylinder. His earlier observation that it was bone proved false, for it was crafted from ivory, a substance he had only ever encountered before adorning the jewellery boxes of lonely countesses and duchesses in Bretonnia’s great cities. Gobineau looked away from his study of the object as he heard the other members of his band approaching.
‘A fine piece, lads,’ he told them, holding the cylinder up so that all of them could see it. ‘No wonder Manfret took a fancy to it!’
‘I’ve taken a fancy to that silver on it!’ cried out one of the brigands, bringing soft laughter from the others.
‘Some good drinking money to be had when we chip that off and sell it!’ commented another.
Gobineau turned an incredulous look on his companions. ‘Chip it off? Can’t you lads see the craftsmanship, the quality of this piece of art? Why the entire thing must be worth far more than the price of the silver on its base!’
‘The silver will be good enough for me,’ grunted a balding man with a lean, wolf-like face.
‘That is why you are still a bandit,’ Gobineau told the man. ‘You don’t ever think things through, don’t look to see the grander scheme of things.’
‘You’re talking like some sort of boss-man now,’ complained the wolf-faced man.
‘We agreed that we wouldn’t have no leader!’ chimed in one of the others. Gobineau spun about, pointing at the second man who had spoken.
‘That’s right! We agreed to have no leader,’ he said. ‘So listen to me and do what I say. We can get a lot more for this piece if we don’t break it up and try to sell it whole.’
‘And who would buy it?’ groused wolf-face.
Gobineau smiled, holding up his hand like an instructor who sees an opportunity to press home his point. ‘Ah, first we need to know exactly what it is, then we can find out how much it is worth and who might want to buy it.’ Gobineau pointed at the symbols carved across the surface of the cylinder. ‘These fancy letters my friends, were written by elves.’ The other bandits drew a step back as they heard Gobineau mention the fearsome fey folk. ‘Now we all know that elves are rich in magic. So it follows that we should take this artefact to somebody who knows a thing or three about magic.’
‘You know such a man?’ asked one of t
he brigands.
‘Indeed I do,’ Gobineau replied with a look not unlike that of a cat who has just swallowed a songbird. ‘There’s a little town near here, Valbonnec, and in that town they have a wizard, a conjurer they call Mad Rudol. We’ll go and see this wizard and see what he can tell us about this treasure we’ve come upon.’ The other bandits nodded their heads, seeing the sense in Gobineau’s proposal. The outlaw continued to smile, regarding the ivory cylinder one last time before tucking it through his belt.
Perhaps it had been some badge of office given to Dogvael by the Black Prince. Perhaps it was some piece of the Black Prince’s own treasure that had been looted by Dogvael when his employer had been slain. Or perhaps it was simply a piece of the bandit’s own plunder, taken from some wandering knight returning from some quest to distant and exotic lands. Whatever the history behind it and how it had come to find its way into the dead man’s possession, it was Gobineau’s now, and he would see to it that he wrenched every last groat from it before he was through.
The chill of night tugged at the dying man as he dragged himself from the road. He did not accept the fact that he was dying, any more than he understood why it was so important to reach the shadows of the trees. There was little enough of reason left in his mind, fogged over by the pain wracking his frame and the indignity of how easily he had been brought down. Dogvael, once one of the Black Prince’s trusted servants taken by a simple bandit’s trick every brigand from Kislev to Araby learned before he was out of swaddling. The blow to his pride pained him even more than the hole in his back. He’d allowed himself to get sloppy, allowed his wit and cunning to be dulled by the miserable poverty to which he had been forced into after his lord’s demise.
The sound of horse’s hooves slowly clopping along the mud and dirt lent a new strength to Dogvael’s fading vitality and like some grotesque turtle, he tried to scramble at speed toward the safety of the shadows. He heard the animal turn towards him, walking with slow and deliberate steps to place itself between the stricken bandit and the refuge he sought. Dogvael could see the coal-black socks of the animal looming before him, the horse’s hair spattered grey with the muck of its travel. A black boot rested in the stirrup of the saddle and as Dogvael craned his head upward, he found himself staring into the cold steel mask of a Reiklander’s sallet helm. The bandit gasped in fright, for that helm and the man who wore it were not unknown to him.
‘I am looking for someone,’ Brunner called down to the wounded brigand. ‘From the looks of things, I think you may have run into him.’
Dogvael scrambled in the mud, turning his pained body and tried to scuttle away. With a slow and deliberate contempt, Brunner directed his steed to once more impose itself between the bandit and the refuge of the brush. Dogvael stared up once more into the cold, stern countenance of the bounty hunter and, with a sigh of resignation, slumped down into the muck.
‘Who did this?’ the bounty killer demanded, pointing the barrel of the pistol gripped in his hand at the arrow protruding from Dogvael’s body. The bandit licked his lips, trying to force some moisture into his voice as he tried to answer.
‘Gaw… Gaw…’ the bandit tried to speak, trying to voice the name he had heard his killers use to address the smiling, mocking rogue who had been in the cart.
‘Gobineau?’ Brunner prodded. Dogvael nodded his head slightly. The bounty hunter leaned forward. ‘Do you know where he went?’
Dogvael nodded his head again, gulping down a mouthful of air in hopes that it would help his words. ‘Walbec… Valbec… Wiza…’
‘Gone to Valbonnec to look for a wizard,’ the bounty hunter mused aloud. ‘Most interesting.’ Brunner replaced his pistol in its holster and looked down at Dogvael, studying the wretch for a moment. ‘You’ve been most helpful, Dogvael,’ the bounty hunter’s words were like frost clawing at glass. His gloved hand fell toward the huge knife hanging from his belt, a butcher’s tool which he had morbidly termed ‘the Headsman’ long ago.
‘Just one more thing you can help me with,’ Brunner told the bandit as Dogvael tried once more to drag his paralysed body off the road. The giant knife with its serrated blade gleamed in the moonlight as Brunner gripped it in his gloved fist and dismounted. ‘A little matter of fifty gold crowns,’ the bounty hunter stated as he closed upon the squirming Dogvael.
CHAPTER TWO
The room was small and dark, stinking of mouldering weeds and rank liquids. Tangles of mangy animal pelts hung from hooks fixed to the walls and overhead beams, alongside the severed claws of birds and bundles of dried herbs. The few walls not given over to such macabre oddities were dominated by shelves alternately filled with clay jars and glass bottles, or else by bundles of parchment scrolls and leather bound books, their pages slowly conspiring to free themselves of their rotted bindings.
Illumination came from a bronze, bowl-like lamp resting upon the surface of a long table of unfinished timber. Men clustered about that lamp, disturbed by the weird decor of the magician’s workshop, their eyes turning away from the reassuring flame to consider the wicker cages that formed a part of that decor and the small croaking things that scrabbled and clawed at their bars.
Two of the men, however, did not share in the discomfort of the others. One of these was the unacknowledged leader of the others, a tall rakish man in black armour. His eyes did not stray to the darkness, nor the weird and unnatural bric-a-brac of the room. His attention was focused solely upon the man seated at the table, inspecting the slender ivory artefact set before him. Gobineau was no less intimidated than his men by the aura of menace that pulsated from the walls of the wizard’s study, that indeed seemed to be exuded by the very wizard himself. But he was too old a scoundrel, too veteran a thief, to allow his unease to disorder him. He’d taken many a pilfered necklace or stolen ring to fences in his time and knew that studying the face, trying to read the thoughts of the man who was appraising the goods was every bit as important as the theft itself. Instinct told him that in the present circumstances, there was no difference between this wizard and a fence, and that his hopes for a tidy profit might rest upon his observations.
The wizard in question was seated, his intense gaze fixated upon the strange object Gobineau had brought to him. At times, the wizard would turn his attention to one of several decrepit books he had set beside him at the table. Gobineau peered at one of the books, the one which the wizard consulted the most, seeing that it appeared to be written in two different scripts: the flowing, graceful symbols of the elves and the much more angular and harsh letters of Reikspiel. The wizard’s long, spidery fingers slithered among the pages, rummaging among them as he inspected the carvings that covered the ivory cylinder and its silver base.
The wizard’s name was Rudol, and like Gobineau, he was garbed in black, a long flowing robe of fine cloth that was wrapped about his lean frame as though woven from shadows and the darkest hours of the night. As the wizard had descended the stairs that led from the tower above into his workshop to receive his petitioners, it had seemed as though stars had twinkled from within the depths of his garment. A skullcap of dark blue cloth rested upon his head, bound about the brow by a circlet of silver adorned at the centre by a polished piece of moonstone. Upon the breast of his robe, the golden outline of a comet had been woven.
The man beneath the robe was thin, of no great stature or strength. Yet even so, Gobineau could recall few men who had presented so intimidating an impression. The wizard’s skin was dark, betraying his foreign blood, carrying with it the swarthiness of the southern Empire and lands such as Averland and Wissenland. His hair was black, and despite the evident age in the wizard’s face, it was as dark and lustrous as any Gobineau had ever seen, without even the faintest suggestion of grey and silver.
Rudol’s features were hard, a thin cruel mouth that was locked in a perpetual smirk of sinister amusement, a narrow knife-like nose and two dark eyes that gleamed with all the feverish obsession of a weirdroot addict. Even the wizard’s
hands were unsettling, the fingers long and thin, like two pale spiders rather than human hands.
As the wizard continued his examination, he glanced up at Gobineau. The bandit licked his lips nervously as their eyes met and it seemed to him that the smirk became slightly greater as Rudol returned to his study.
Rudol had been a promising student of the Empire’s colleges of magic, before impatience and ambition had earned him the distrust and enmity of his instructors. He’d been kicked out for his reckless refusals to accept the caution and restraint the elder wizards were forever trying to drive home to their students. It had been as good as a death sentence, for Rudol knew that those who were banished from the Colleges always attracted the dangerous attention of the witch hunters, who hunted down most zealously any who delved into the forbidden arts without official patronage. So it was that Rudol had been forced to flee his homeland, staying one step ahead of the witch hunters as he rode for lands beyond their reach, the green and pleasant realms of Bretonnia.
Of course he had not done so empty-handed. The better part of one of his instructor’s personal libraries had found its way into Rudol’s keeping. Some day, Rudol had promised himself, he would return to Altdorf and collect the rest of that library.
The green and pleasant realms of Bretonnia had not offered much to further such ambitions. True, he had eluded the witch hunters, who seldom ventured into the lands claimed by the King of Bretonnia, but he found himself a foreigner in a land where even its natives were gripped in a hideous and perpetual poverty. He could find employment with none of the noble lords he had offered his services to, dismissed alternatively as a beggar, a charlatan or worse, hounded across the countryside as an Imperial spy if the knights proved particularly paranoid and distrustful of outsiders. Denied the patronage of the nobility, Rudol had been forced to eke out a living off the peasants, people who had little enough for themselves, much less enough to pay for the services of a wizard.
