by C. L. Werner
Which still did not spare him the perpetual discomfort of sleeping under the draughty roofs of Bretonnian hostelries and drinking the thin, lacklustre brews that the peasants dared to call ale and wine.
Kroenen’s mood turned even more sour as he sampled the amber liquid that festered within the wooden cup set before him on the counter. The only comforting thought was that his companion was enjoying himself even less. Kroenen turned a smug eye toward the small figure who brooded at the end of the long wooden bar. The short warrior’s body was covered in a suit of chainmail augmented by sections of elaborately engraved steel plate. A helmet trimmed in gold shared the same theme as the plates, interconnecting spirals of runes that each seemed to be some sort of stylised axe-head. From belts affixed about the short warrior’s broad shoulders and prodigious girth, a number of far less esoteric axes hung, keen edges gleaming from slits in the faces of their leather holsters. A far larger axe leaned against the counter beside the stout fighter, its shaft crafted from some exceedingly dark steel alloy, its double-bladed head gleaming with the keenness of a razor.
The warrior himself was grizzled, his skin dark and leathery. A flowing blond beard cascaded down his chest, the wiry hair obscuring almost his entire face saving the broad nose and narrow, surly eyes.
Kroenen considered himself rather fortunate to have engaged so capable a bodyguard as Ulgrin Baleaxe. Normally the services of a dwarf axeman would have been beyond the miserly inclinations of the toysmith, but Kroenen had happened upon the dwarf when his career had entered a decided slump. All the dwarf wanted now was a way to earn enough gold so he could return to the Empire without looking like a penniless mendicant.
It had been relatively easy for Kroenen to take advantage of the dwarf’s misfortune. He suspected that Ulgrin was going to refuse his offer, the dwarf had certainly fingered his axe in a most unpleasant way when Kroenen had mentioned how much he was willing to pay, but he knew the dwarf was desperate. He couldn’t return to the Empire without some coin to his name. He might be willing to have men see him as a near-beggar doing odd jobs for food and ale, but he’d certainly not suffer the eyes of his fellow dwarfs to see him in such a state. It was a part of the stubborn pride that had allowed men to advance their own engineering knowledge to a state where it was almost the equal to that of their ancient teachers, while the dwarfs themselves had scarcely advanced at all since the time of Sigmar.
Except in the arena of toy making… Kroenen made another sour face that had nothing to do with ale. He took a certain twisted joy in observing Ulgrin’s discomfort, a vicarious revenge for all the times he’d been bested by dwarf toysmiths in the great houses of the Empire. Kroenen imagined that there would be another tense scene involving the dwarf’s axe when the toysmith informed Ulgrin that the thin Bretonnian ale which the dwarf was imbibing by the gallon was being deducted from the warrior’s fee.
Ulgrin slammed down another wooden cup. He raised a grizzled fist and motioned for the tavern keeper to bring him another. ‘And see if you can’t keep from washing your feet in it before you serve it,’ the dwarf added. His harsh words were swiftly noted by a cluster of onlooking soldiers. Professional men-at-arms, they were part of the retinue of some petty lord who was journeying back to the royal court, and they had taken an instant dislike to the distinctive foreigner. Bretonnia did not enjoy the strong ties and shared history with the dwarfs in the way the Empire did, and it had been many centuries since more than a handful of the stout breed had travelled the green lands of the king.
The trio of soldiers rose from their table, an air of hostility preceding them as they strode toward the bar. Kroenen noted their advance, retreating deeper in the tavern to place a greater distance between himself and his bodyguard. After all, it was Ulgrin’s job to attend to such difficulties, that was what he was being paid for. The dwarf, for his part, did not seem to pay the approaching ruffians the slightest notice, maintaining a glowering stare that focused entirely upon the upended wooden cups.
‘Did it say something?’ the foremost of the soldiers asked. He was a tall, lean figure, a rounded cap of steel encasing his skull, a bright tabard of red and yellow displayed over his suit of leather armour, both cloth and armour struggling to maintain the man’s prodigious gut. Though he gripped a leather jack of ale in one hand, his other rested on the hilt of the sword swinging from his belt.
‘I’m not sure. It mumbles so terribly.’ a second, this one sporting a wide-brimmed steel hat on his head, commented.
‘Maybe he is just too deep in his cups to speak,’ the third, a large brute whose helm featured an immense steel nasal guard, said. ‘After all, little men shouldn’t drink so much.’
The dwarf did not turn to face the accosting soldiers, keeping his attention fixed upon the tavern keeper as he set a new cup before him. Ulgrin reached a gnarled hand forward, clenching his fist about the vessel and then made a point of draining its contents in one swallow.
‘Is that supposed to impress us, little man?’ sneered the first soldier.
This time Ulgrin did turn, staring up at the swaggering trooper. The dwarfs eyes were like tiny fires, just beginning to glow into flame.
‘Not with this pigs’-piss!’ the dwarf spat. ‘Back in the High King’s realm the babies are weaned on stuff stronger than this sewage. Fetch me a decent beer if you want a drinking bout, a contest with this mud would take a month.’
‘I think I heard it insult our Bretonnian ale,’ the brutish soldier grumbled. ‘I think the little man is saying that our drink’s not good enough for him,’ he added with a note of menace.
‘In the habit of thinking too much, or just too little?’ Ulgrin shot back, his deep voice carrying with it the sharpness of a knife. At the far end of the tavern, Kroenen suddenly found a reason to be elsewhere, slipping out the door with a speed that did little to maintain his dignity.
‘What a nasty little temper it has!’ observed the fat soldier, chuckling with his domineering bravado. ‘Short folk should be much more respectful,’ he tutted, waving a warning finger.
‘I think it is that ugly bird’s nest of a beard hanging down his belly,’ the soldier in the steel hat remarked. ‘That must be what makes him so ill-tempered.’
‘Maybe we should give him a shave then,’ growled Brute. ‘Improve his looks, if not his manners!’
Ulgrin rolled his eyes, one hand scratching at his beard. ‘You grobi-fondlers do take a long time picking a fight,’ he complained.
The dwarf’s free hand came swinging around, hurling one of the wood cups from the counter behind him squarely in the face of Fatty. The soldier flung up both hands to protect himself as the cup bounced neatly off his forehead. The ale left in the cup was expelled as he threw up his hands, sending the amber liquid cascading into the face of Steel Hat, the alarmed soldier stumbling away from the unpleasant shower and tripping into Brute as the larger soldier began to draw his sword. The two men-at-arms crashed to the floor in a tangle of limbs.
‘You should hire a few snotlings,’ Ulgrin said, grabbing up his double-headed axe. ‘Might improve your chances!’ Fatty had drawn his sword and although one hand still clutched at the dent in his forehead, the soldier strode toward the dwarf to exact revenge.
Ulgrin smiled at the ungainly advance, firming his own double-handed grip on his axe. As Fatty leaned back to slash down at his antagonist, Ulgrin lunged forward, driving the heft on his axe into the man’s groin. Instantly, the soldier’s sword clattered to the floor, a dull groan of misery flying from his body as though to escape the pain that had given it birth. The man fell to his knees, eyes watering. Ulgrin smiled down at the obese soldier.
‘A word to the wise: always buy a steel codpiece,’ the dwarf told the stunned Bretonnian before bringing the blunt heft of the axe smashing up under his chin and breaking the soldier’s jaw. Ulgrin turned away from the unconscious Fatty as the man’s comrades untangled themselves and rose from the floor.
‘He’s mine!’ snarled Steel Hat as t
he soldier considered the ruin Ulgrin had made of his friend.
The man-at-arms came lunging at the dwarf in a hate-ridden charge that was long on violence and short on grace. Ulgrin was reminded momentarily of the blood-mad rushes of orc warriors, but Steel Hat had neither the overwhelming bulk nor the unthinking ferocity to make such an attack problematic for the old dwarf veteran. Ulgrin brought his great axe upward, meeting the sweep of the soldier’s sword. The Bretonnian steel shuddered as it impacted against the black steel of the axe. The runes upon the weapon seemed to glow for a moment, giving off a faint blue light. Undaunted, Steel Hat brought his blade slashing downward again. This time, the sword did not simply rebound from the cruel dwarf weapon, but snapped like a twig, the upper length of the sword skittering across the room. Steel Hat stared in horror and disbelief at his mangled weapon, then at the glowering dwarf. Ulgrin hefted his axe and took a menacing step forward.
‘He’s yours!’ Steel Hat cried as he fled past the brutal-looking soldier, dropping the remains of his sword as he ran, struggling to push his way through the other patrons of the tavern who now choked the exit.
Brute snarled as he stalked forward, murderous eyes intent on the dwarf. ‘You’ve made quick work of my friends, little man,’ the thug growled. ‘Now let’s see how you do against me!’
The big soldier moved toward Ulgrin with more caution than Steel Hat had, clearly taking his enemy with a sobering degree of care. Ulgrin smiled beneath his beard. Sometimes too much caution was a bad thing.
The dwarf shifted his upper body, starting to bring the butt of his axe forward. Brute reacted by dropping his sword downward to intercept any crippling blow aimed at his vitals. But the dwarf had no intention of repeating his earlier attack on Fatty. In mid-motion, Ulgrin swept the upper part of his weapon around. Already leaning forward to protect himself, Brute’s face was in easy reach of the double-headed weapon. The colour drained from his features as he saw the steel flash before his eyes. Something struck the floor with a loud thud. Brute cast his gaze downward, his flesh going even paler as he saw the severed nasal guard staring up at him.
Ulgrin leaned on his axe, glaring at the shocked Bretonnian. Brute looked away from the cleanly cut steel and it was with dread filling his gaze that he stared upon his adversary. Ulgrin’s face split in a cruel smile of both mockery and challenge.
‘You should probably go away now,’ the dwarf told the Bretonnian. ‘Before I take it into my head to give you a shave,’ he threatened. ‘With this,’ he added, patting the shaft of his axe. Brute needed no further encouragement, slamming his weapon back into its sheath and running with all speed for the tavern’s exit.
Ulgrin smiled coldly, turning around and beginning to make his way back to the bar. As he did so, the sound of two hands clapping together brought the dwarf to a stop. Firming his grip upon the axe, the dwarf peered into the shadowy recesses of the tavern. Ulgrin watched intently as his applauding spectator stepped out into the light. The dwarf was somehow not surprised that he recognised the man. The grip upon the axe became a bit tighter.
‘Brunner,’ the dwarf addressed the man from the shadows. ‘Still slinking around like some damn tunnel goblin I see.’
The bounty hunter strode forward, one gloved hand dropping to rest on the butt of the pistol holstered across his belly.
‘Still carrying around that monstrosity, Ulgrin?’ Brunner asked. The bounty hunter let a faint laugh escape his lips. ‘Of course, I suppose you’d no longer be called Baleaxe if you were to lose it.’ Ulgrin stared back, clearly finding no humour in the bounty killer’s jest.
‘What brings you snooping around, Brunner?’ the dwarfs voice was heavy with suspicion.
‘Just heard that an old friend was in the area,’ the bounty hunter replied, his voice level and even.
Ulgrin snorted with grim amusement. ‘You don’t have any friends, Brunner,’ the dwarf stated. ‘And if you did, I wouldn’t be one of them.’
‘Still angry about that?’ the bounty hunter shook his head. ‘I would have thought with that sharp dwarf memory of yours you’d be able to recall that I found him first. Besides, Judge Vaulkberg doesn’t like dealing with dwarfs. He’d have dropped his price if you’d brought Selber in.’
‘That’s supposed to make me feel better?’ the dwarf growled. ‘Fifty or sixty gold in my hands is still better than none.’ Ulgrin let his hands clench and unclench about the haft of his weapon, a silent display of his eagerness to use it.
‘What if I told you I was looking for you?’ Brunner told the dwarf.
It was true, after a fashion. The bounty hunter had known his old rival was in Bretonnia for some time now, he just hadn’t seen any reason for their paths to cross before. Now the dwarf bounty killer could be of use to him. ‘I need some help securing the mark I’m hunting. A good set of eyes to watch my back.’
Ulgrin laughed contemptuously. ‘The great Brunner in need of help,’ the dwarf jeered. ‘Why do I find that story a bit hard to swallow?’
‘The man’s name is Gobineau. He’s wanted for banditry, piracy, murder, arson and the deflowering of a small army of noblemen’s wives and daughters.’ Brunner paused, staring straight into the sullen eyes of Ulgrin Baleaxe. ‘The reward being offered is two thousand gold crowns. If you help me, we split it right down the middle.’
The dwarf let his axe droop to the floor, shifting his grip so that one gnarled hand could scratch at his chin. Ulgrin’s eyes gleamed with a new light, the glint of goldlust. ‘A thousand gold,’ the dwarf muttered. ‘More than enough to buy my way out of this wretched country and make my return in style.’ Ulgrin turned his attention back to the bounty hunter. ‘You have my interest, Brunner. Now let me see how the land lies. Why do you need my help?’
Brunner smiled at the other bounty hunter, considering his words carefully. ‘You have heard of Mousillon?’
‘The cursed city?’ the dwarf said, his tone incredulous. ‘They say that ghosts hold court in broken castles and toppled towers there, that ghouls prowl the streets and devour whatever flesh they find.
It is said to be a haven of disease and plague, where madness is commonplace and children are born twisted and warped. They say…’
‘…many things,’ Brunner interrupted. ‘Many of them are lies, but there is enough truth to the stories to make Mousillon a shunned and dangerous place.’ The bounty hunter’s tone became sombre as he continued. ‘The man I am seeking has fled to Mousillon. That is why I need you.’
Ulgrin’s gaze dropped, staring intently at the floor as the brain behind those eyes considered the bounty killer’s offer. ‘Two is safer than one, is that it?’ the dwarf said at last. ‘Sounds rather like how they hunt trolls in Karak Izor. They take a big old boar into the tunnels. The boar gets a sniff of the troll and takes off after it thinking it’s going to find some nice tasty mushrooms. Of course, when it discovers a troll at the end of the trail, it starts squealing bloody murder, which gets the troll riled enough that its one thought is to smash the boar. That usually gives the troll hunters time to bring the thick-witted brute down before it can shift its attention over to them.’ Ulgrin glared suspiciously at Brunner. ‘I suspect you want me to be the boar,’ he accused.
The bounty hunter’s smile did not change. ‘Let’s just say that somebody with your flair for chopping heads first and taking names later might be a nice complement to my own methods.’
‘Meaning I draw the enemies out while you pick them off from the shadows,’ the dwarf sneered. He was quiet for a moment more, then gave voice to a boisterous laugh. ‘For a thousand gold crowns, I can do that! You have yourself a partner, bounty killer.’
‘You’ll need a horse,’ Brunner pointed out. ‘It’s a long walk to Mousillon.’ The bounty hunter knew that dwarfs as a rule disliked riding, though he’d seen some manage well enough on mules and ponies. Ulgrin nodded his head.
‘The slime I was working for, Otto Kroenen, gave me a mule so I could keep up with him on the road,’ Ulgr
in said. ‘It’s in the stable now. I’m sure he won’t miss it.’ The dwarf swung his massive axe, letting the blade rest against his shoulder. ‘We’ll just consider it my severance wage,’ the dwarf laughed, following Brunner’s lead toward the exit.
The lone traveller sat in a bleak, forsaken corner of the small inn. The little structure’s floor was a morass of mud, planks of wood crudely thrown over the morass to provide relatively stable places upon which to walk and stand. A few ox-skins were stretched over the walls, a feeble and ultimately futile attempt to keep the allintrusive chill at bay. Trickles of water dripped from the ceiling where the thatch had at last yielded to the harsh pounding it had taken since the rain had started some hours before. The villages that peppered the road leading toward the forsaken city of Mousillon were noteworthy for their poverty, even by the exceedingly low standards set by the peasantry of Bretonnia, and the shanty town that supported the desolate little inn was no exception to the rule.
The Griffon’s Nest, the owner of the dive dared to call it. The Spider Hole might have been a more honest title to bestow upon the wretched hovel, at least in such a direction went Gobineau’s thoughts. Still, the proprietor, a one-armed grey-head named Gaspard, did have a rather endearing quality. Maimed in his youth for the crime of poaching, Gaspard had little love for the knights who ruled Bretonnia and maintained the peace. The innkeeper was notorious for his lack of interest in those who chose to patronise his establishment, whatever their crimes or the prices on their heads. Or perhaps it was simply that only an outlaw would endure the slovenly standards of Gaspard’s food and drink, and the positively hideous condition of the long straw-strewn stable where he allowed his patrons and their beasts to strive toward achieving some pale shadow of sleep and rest.
