Brunner the Bounty Hunter

by C. L. Werner

  ‘Reward?’ repeated Marimund, as though the word was strange to him. ‘You would have me engage your services as a way of repaying the assistance you gave my champion?’ A cruel smile spread across Marimund’s features. ‘Are you not content to serve a single master?’ the duc asked, his voice maintaining its cool, unemotional tone. ‘Do not think I am unaware of your identity, Brunner. Nor why you have come here, assassin!’

  As Marimund spat the last word, the guards flanking his throne surged forward. The bounty hunter, his body already tense, coiled for the attack, was in motion even before Marimund’s guards had started to move, drawing his sword and pistol. Brunner was not certain exactly what had gone wrong, but the bounty hunter vowed he would not go down without taking several of his enemies with him.

  Quick as the bounty hunter was, he was not quick enough. With a speed that Brunner would have judged to be impossible, Sir Corbus lunged at him, the knight’s armoured hands closing about Brunner’s own. The bounty hunter struggled in the powerful grip, feeling the awesome strength of Corbus as the knight’s gauntlets clenched tighter. Brunner cried out in pain, unable to maintain his grip on his pistol. The weapon clattered to the floor, quickly recovered by one of Marimund’s guards.

  Brunner fought against the incredible pressure, striving to maintain his grip on Drakesmalice. But it was like struggling against a bear; the bounty hunter’s efforts seemed to go unnoticed by the red knight. Sir Corbus began to lift his arms, pulling Brunner upward so that only the tips of his boots maintained contact with the floor. Then the knight began to twist his grip, savaging Brunner’s wrist until Drakesmalice began to slide free of the bounty hunter’s wavering clutch.

  Brunner snarled through the red tide of pain pulsing through his body. Leaning back as far as he could, he sent his head smashing forward, the black steel of his helmet crunching against the knight’s exposed face. Corbus gave voice to his own snarl, tossing the bounty hunter across the room as though he weighed no more than a child. Brunner struck the marble floor on his side, skidding across the polished stone. The impact forced the air from his lungs and succeeded in tearing his sword free of his grip. The bounty hunter rolled onto his back, dazed by his fall.

  Corbus glared at the prone bounty hunter with eyes that no longer resembled anything human but glowed red within the dim light of the great hall, like twin pools of blood. The greasy, translucent treacle that flowed from where Brunner’s helmet had broken the knight’s nose was no such thing as should flow through the veins of mortal men.

  The knight stalked forward, not deigning to draw his blade. ‘I generally do not lower myself to preying upon beasts,’ Corbus hissed, his voice brimming with fury. ‘But I find myself of a mind to make an exception.’ The knight smiled again, this time displaying his powerful wolf-like canines. The enraged vampire reached down and gripped the front of Brunner’s armour, lifting him from the floor with one hand while the other bent the bounty hunter’s head back, exposing his neck.

  ‘He is of no use to you dead,’ a soft, melodious voice cautioned. During the combat, another figure had emerged from behind the duc’s throne: a tall, slender woman garbed in a red flowing gown. She laid a delicate pale hand upon the armrest of Marimund’s throne.

  ‘Ah,’ smirked the nobleman, ‘but it is so rare that I am allowed to enjoy watching Corbus do what he does so very well.’ Marimund seemed to revel in the momentary flicker of disgust that crossed the woman’s sharp, striking features.

  ‘It can be dangerous to indulge such distractions, my lord,’ the woman told him. ‘This man may know things that we do not. For instance, can you be certain that your enemies have repeated their past error and sent only a single assassin?’ The enchantress hid the satisfaction she felt as she saw Marimund’s eyes droop with a mixture of doubt and concern.

  ‘You are quite right, as usual, my dear,’ Marimund concurred. ‘It might be rash to waste such an opportunity out of hand. Corbus!’ The nobleman’s shout froze the vampire. The undead knight turned to regard its lord. ‘I want that man alive,’ Marimund decreed. The vampire scowled as though it had eaten something rotten, but relinquished its grip upon the bounty hunter, letting his body fall none-too-gently onto the marble floor.

  ‘A wise decision, my lord,’ the elf maiden told Marimund. ‘There are spells I can employ to pry information from this man, information that might be of benefit when dealing with the men who sent him here.’

  ‘Your sorcery certainly does have its uses,’ Marimund replied, his voice as cold as a serpent’s. ‘But I am afraid that I am still a bit old fashioned when it comes to matters of torture.’ He redirected his attention to the still glowering Sir Corbus. ‘Take that scum to the dungeons,’ Marimund declared, punctuating his remark with an imperious wave of his hand. ‘Make him regret the day he was ever born,’ the nobleman added. ‘Just see that he remains alive.’

  Corbus grinned, reaching down and lifting the dazed bounty hunter once more. The huge knight waved aside the guards who came forward to help with its burden, striding toward the great hall’s exit as though the man he carried weighed no more than a chicken. From beside the throne, the elf enchantress Ithilweil watched the vampire depart, a worried expression on her face.

  ‘Do not fret so,’ Marimund consoled her. ‘If Corbus does not get the information we require from the assassin with his methods, then we can always try your sorcery later. It should not be of any great importance if your subject is a little worse for wear, or missing the odd finger or two’

  The wind howled, gnawing at the fragile walls of the Griffon’s Nest. It was a fell, stagnant zephyr, thick with the stink of smoke and death. Under its unseen assault, the thatch roofing began to be stripped away, disappearing from the ceiling in ragged clumps. The proprietor of the inn, old Gaspard, emerged from the heavy bundle of fur blankets that covered his sleeping form. He squinted into the tearing sting of the wind, watching as the furs and strips of cloth he used to cover the holes in his establishment’s walls danced and writhed in the gale. The sound was like thunder, a deafening din that grew ever louder.

  Gaspard rose to his feet, at once struck by the foul stink that filled the air, a sickly evil smell that caused the bile to rise in his throat. Some of the guests of his inn were already stricken by the loathsome stink, spilling their dinners into the muck that passed for the floor of the Griffon’s Nest. Gaspard, through determination, kept his own dinner in its proper place, and staggered into the bar room. The old man’s mind was at a loss to explain what was happening. Storms were common enough, and they had savaged his ramshackle dive more than once in the past. But this felt different somehow, this breeze was not cool, but hot, almost sweltering. Then there was the abominable stench. The innkeeper determined to look outside and discover if the smell had afflicted the rest of the village or simply his own establishment. Perhaps a lodger had died the past night and gone unnoticed.

  As suddenly as it had begun, the gale abated. However, though no more thatch was stripped away and the fur wall hangings ceased to dance and sway, the sound of the wind had not abated. It was still as discernible as ever, rasping like some mammoth bellows. And the sickly smell had grown as well. Abruptly, the entire building shook, rocked as though a giant had kicked the inn’s foundations. Gaspard was thrown to the floor and it was only with some difficulty that the one-armed man regained his feet. He could hear curses of annoyance and fear sounding in the darkness as his guests reacted to the sudden tremor.

  What was going on, the innkeeper asked himself? Steeling himself to find the answer, Gaspard reached out and threw open the front door. A blast of withering heat caused him to cover his face, the overwhelming concentration of the evil stench making him stagger. As he blinked through tearing eyes, he saw a shape beyond the doorway, but it was only a small part of some far vaster whole. There was an impression of powerful muscles, red scales and black claws. A hissing shriek such as might herald the murder of the sun shook the night. The innkeeper screamed as he clamped hi
s hand to his bleeding ears, the terrible roar having ruptured them.

  Then the ceiling crashed inward, brought to destruction by the gigantic clawed foot that smashed down upon it from above. The sight of the timber and thatch rushing down upon him was the last to fill the horrified eyes of Gaspard. He was already dead when the flames came, rushing through the Griffon’s Nest, consuming wood and flesh and stone with equal ferocity. And as the inn burned, there sounded once more the hissing roar of something that was already ancient when men were finding names for their gods.

  In the morning, only a stretch of blackened slag marked the place where the Griffon’s Nest and the village that had surrounded it had once stood. The few survivors hid beneath rocks deep within the surrounding woods, their minds half-broken by the awesome force that had annihilated their homes and families. In frightened whispers, they gave a name to the mighty destroyer, a name as ancient as that of any god. The name of dragon.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The bounty hunter awoke to find himself in a place of pain and darkness. Memory struggled to return to him even as the chill of the damp stone floor bit into the bare flesh of his back and legs. Brunner clenched his jaw against the sudden red hot rush of agony that shot through him as he rolled onto his side. The stirring memories told him that Corbus had done this to him, lifting his body like a rag doll and dashing him against the stone walls with the knights inhuman strength. Yes, Corbus and the torturers who had assisted the monster had been very thorough, brutalising their captive for several hours before tiring of their sport. If his cell was not absolutely without light, Brunner imagined that his body would seem like a single gigantic bruise.

  More memories began to trickle in. The red-gowned witch who had stood beside Duc Marimund in his throne room, and who had later come to the torture chamber to remind Sir Corbus that their mutual lord and master did not want the prisoner killed. He remembered Corbus’s snarled oath that they were simply ‘softening him up’, that they wouldn’t even start asking questions until the next day. The witch had grown angry at the knight’s surly, unapologetic remark, but had held her tongue, her strange eyes narrowing with a mixture of caution and fear.

  Brunner slid his battered body across the floor, biting down on another cry of pain as his scarred back met a cold stone wall. He turned his face in the direction in which memory told him the door of his cell lay. He knew that two men had been left to guard him, men who had seemed properly motivated when Corbus had informed them to keep a careful watch on the prisoner. Brunner strained his ears to detect any sign that the guards had heard him. He needed time to think, time to work out some plan of action and time to begin recovering from his injuries. The bounty hunter worried that if the guards knew he had awoken, they might fetch Sir Corbus, so the inhuman knight could again sate his wounded pride with another round of torture.

  The sound of movement and the flicker of light in the hall outside his cell brought a curse rolling from Brunner. Since arriving in Mousillon, he’d had nothing but ill luck and misfortune. Perhaps that was the real reason the city was called cursed.

  He’d wondered why his captors had not bothered to shackle him to the wall. Now he had his answer—because Corbus did not intend him to stay in the cell for very long. The bounty hunter groaned as he struggled to his feet, forcing his protesting body to obey. He folded his hands together, making a hammer from his locked fists. If they thought to drag him from his cell, they would not do so unopposed.

  The light grew brighter behind the door, shining through the narrow barred window, illuminating for Brunner the small extent of the miserable hole in which Corbus had discarded him. The bounty hunter braced himself against the wall as he heard the sound of iron keys rattling. Slowly, the door began to inch open. Brunner did not wait a moment, lurching clumsily at the retreating portal and pushing it outward as fast and violently as he could. The bounty hunter knew the rushed attack was foolhardy, but had decided that even if his bravado were rewarded with a sword in his gut, it would still be a much quicker end than being left to the mercies of Corbus.

  Brunner’s lunge forced whoever had opened the door to retreat to the far wall of the corridor to avoid being struck by the hurtling portal. He stumbled after the retreating figure, bringing his locked fists over his head in order to drive them into the skull of his enemy with the maximum amount of force. Brunner paused in his attack, however, when he found that he faced not one of Marimund’s guards, but the witch who had shown such marked interest in him since his arrival in the castle.

  Now that he saw her up close, without Corbus’s fist smashing into his face every few seconds, Brunner saw the source of the unsettling grace which had haunted the woman’s movements, the strange beauty that had characterised his impression of her. Marimund’s enchantress was an elf, something that did little to ease Brunner’s mind regarding his chances of escape. Even when dealt with from a position of strength, elves were dangerous folk to trifle with. Their minds were far older than those of men, filled with secret knowledge even the wisest wizard would find difficult to comprehend, their bodies possessed of an agility and quickness that made a mockery of even the most skilled acrobats. Brunner saw that Marimund’s witch had replaced her red robes with a tight-fitting leather tunic, breeches and knee-high boots. There was nothing about her lean, supple form to suggest the physical weakness and frailty of those human sorcerers Brunner had encountered in his travels.

  ‘Stay your hand, Brunner,’ the witch commanded, her piercing eyes fixed upon the bounty hunter’s. ‘I have come to help you,’ she told him. ‘My name is Ithilweil. I have put a powder in the guards’ wine that will make them sleep for hours.’

  ‘Why would you help me?’ Brunner demanded, his voice filled with suspicion. He kept his locked fists raised, though with the element of surprise gone, he doubted if he would be able to so much as touch the wiry elf woman. ‘You are Marimund’s sorceress. You told him I was coming.’

  ‘Yes,’ Ithilweil admitted, nodding her head in apology. ‘It was I who told the duc about your intentions.’ The elf’s face twisted into an embarrassed smile. ‘I have my reasons for not wishing to see Marimund dead.’ This last was spoken in such a manner that it was obvious to Brunner that there was no love lost between Marimund and his enchantress.

  ‘You fear Corbus,’ the bounty hunter observed. A faint trace of the fear he had seen there before briefly flickered in the elf’s eyes.

  ‘Corbus is a monster, a foul perversion of the blackest sorcery,’ Ithilweil stated. ‘Only men, with their short lives and shorter vision, could have imagined such a loathsome use for magic.’ The elf shook her head, sickened by the mere contemplation of such things. ‘Corbus is one of the undead, a vampire. He clings to the martial pride and chivalric honour that were his in life, using them to try to prevent being completely devoured by the terrible urges that torment him. He took service with Marimund shortly after arriving in Mousillon. It is that oath of service that gives Marimund control over his vampire.’

  Brunner fought not to show the horror that gnawed at his gut. He’d had encounters with the undead before and had always found their chief weakness lay in their lack of skill as warriors. But he’d seen Corbus in action, seen him to be perhaps the finest swordsman the bounty hunter had ever encountered. To learn that the unholy powers of the vampire were behind that blade… Brunner decided that the greater the distance he put between himself and Sir Corbus the better.

  ‘That explains why you didn’t want me to kill Marimund,’ Brunner said. ‘But it does not answer my question. Why free me afterwards?’

  Ithilweil took a step toward the bounty hunter, reaching forward with a slender hand, the pale flesh hovering inches from Brunner’s discoloured chest. ‘Because I need your help,’ she confessed. ‘I am as much a prisoner here as yourself. I was aboard one of my people’s ships, a research expedition dispatched by the arch-mages of Saphery. We were to collect specimens of the strange plants that the mystics of Araby employ in their crude
experiments. But there was a terrible storm, one even our magic had not foreseen. The storm blew our vessel north, at last driving the ship into the mud banks that surround Mousillon. Though the city had an ill air about it, we decided to seek the assistance of its denizens in repairing our ship. The first poor wretches we saw fled at our approach, taking us to be daemons. But it was not long before they returned, in huge, howling mobs. They blocked our escape back to the mud flats, filling the streets and alleys behind us with their numbers. It was with great reluctance that the warriors among us lashed out, so miserable and dejected were their foes, and it was that reluctance that doomed them. They waited too long, letting the mob draw too close. One by one they were dragged down and ripped apart by fishbone knives and driftwood spears. The rest of us fled the only way we could, retreating deeper into the city. But we found no refuge there.’

  ‘In the end, only I escaped. My flight had taken me to an old, decaying stone chapel. I had sensed the sleeping power of the place, the faint echo of a magic that was kindred to my own. There was a man in the chapel, an armoured knight. It was Marimund, and he at once demanded to know why I had disturbed his devotions. I explained as well as I could what had happened, thankful that this man, at least, seemed rational. Marimund was silent for a moment as he considered my story. When he spoke, it was to offer me protection if I would serve him. With the sound of the pursuing mob drawing close to the chapel, I had no choice but to accept his offer. In exchange for my magical talents, Marimund keeps me safe from the superstitious peasants and from the soldiers of the other nobles, who hate and fear me as the Red Enchantress.

  ‘I must escape. Time for me is running out.’ Ithilweil continued, her voice filled with dread. ‘But I fear to do so on my own. I do not know my way through the city, Marimund has always been careful to keep me within the walls of his castle. And my skill lies not with the sword were I to encounter trouble. I need a strong, skilled warrior to take me from this accursed place.’ Her eyes took on a crafty quality as they stared deep into Brunner’s own. ‘One who has just as pressing a need to be far from this place as I.’ She reached into a pouch fitted to the belt that crossed her waist, her hand emerging with a lump of dun-coloured paste.