Warhammer - [Brunner the Bounty Hunter 01] - Blood Money

by C L Werner (lit)

  Somewhere to the north, he would find the knights who owned the sorry cattle he and his mob had claimed. Then there would be a slaughter worthy of an orc, a proper fight to make the name of Gnashrak Headkrusher. The peasants thought the harvest was past, but the orc would teach them and their masters differently. There was a second harvest coming. A harvest reaped not with sickles, but with swords.

  Opening his massive maw once more, Gnashrak voiced his bestial howl of ambition into the falling night.

  THE CASTLE OF the Marquis de Galfort loomed over the flat meadowlands. Tall towers thrust upward from every corner of the curtain wall, while still taller pillars of stone rose from the keep. From the height of the tallest tower, the marquis could look down upon his entire domain, even to the distant green apparition on the horizon that marked the easternmost limit of his realm, the edge of the faerie-haunted wood of Loren. He could see every farm, every village, every little hovel the peasants of his land called home.

  It was a sight the aged marquis never tired of: looking down upon his land, his possessions, knowing that they were his, his by decree of Bretonnia's king and the grace of the Lady, Bretonnia's patron deity. He would drink in the blue of the sky, the gold of the fields, the green of the meadows long into the afternoon. Then the sun would begin its downward descent and the marquis would return to his chambers within the castle and attend to such duties as were necessary to manage his domain and could not be delegated to his wife or his steward.

  But this morning, the view had been spoiled, befouled by a thick stream of black smoke rising from the south, in the direction of the distant mountains. This was where a few hamlets stood, dwellings for the rugged peasant miners who clawed salt from the slopes of the Vaults and helped de Galfort's domain prosper. Later in the day, the wasted, worn-out form of a peasant was brought to the castle, discovered by one of de Galfort's game wardens wandering through the forest. Yet this sorry, terrified creature was no poacher and the tale he told the marquis turned his blood to ice. Not since the time of his own grandfather had the domain of the de Galforts been set upon by orcs. When last the marauders had come, it had taken two generations to repair the damage.

  Now the aged Marquis de Galfort sat in his throne room, deep in disturbed thoughts. He had ordered messengers to be sent at once to the neighbouring counts, barons and dukes, letting them know of this peril that had come upon his domain and threatened them all. There was no question that all were at risk, for orcs respect no boundaries, and it would not matter to them if the village they plundered belonged to de Galfort or some other. No, his neighbours would react as decent Bretonnian nobles, and would send a company of knights and such armsmen as they might muster to augment de Galfort's own forces and hunt the orcs down. But it would take time, much time, for the aid to arrive. And the orcs would be free to loot and despoil until then. Unless the marquis were to act on his own, without the support of his neighbours.

  The marquis looked up from his chair and stared down into the eager young face of his son, Etienne, and wondered if he had ever borne such inexperience and naivete in his own youth.

  The boy had pleaded with him all morning, ever since the tale of orcs and slaughter had been related, to release to him the household knights, to let him ride down these monsters and make them learn the folly of trespassing upon lands protected by the de Galfort name.

  The marquis's observation that the peasant had no idea how many orcs were in this raiding party, that an entire army of the greenskinned monsters might have been vomited from the mountains, had done nothing to dim the boy's enthusiasm. He was young, not yet learned in the ways of war; the only blood he had ever shed was that of wolves, wild cats and bandits. He reckoned this to be a similar task, perhaps a bit nobler, putting more faith in the favours of the Lady and good Bretonnian steel than he did in the strength of monsters he only knew from legend and travellers' tales.

  Truth to tell, it had been a long time since any in de Galfort's domain had laid eyes upon an orc. Even the marquis himself had only seen stuffed specimens in the castle of the Due de Vilifere never a living, breathing greenskin. And the marquis was an old enough hunter and soldier to know that it is folly to pursue a foe, beast or man, whom you know nothing of.

  A servant entered, bowing low before the two noblemen and hastened toward the seated marquis.

  The marquis raised a thin hand, the fur-trimmed cuff of his voluminous robe falling away, and gestured for the servant to speak.

  'By your leave, my lord,' the servant said, his voice low, his eyes downcast. 'I felt that you would like to be informed that the outlander is making ready to depart.'

  The marquis rose from his chair, an excited light blazing in his eyes. His wrinkled skin cracked into a smile. 'Of course,' he said. 'Why did I not think of it before?' He fixed his gaze on the servant. 'Hasten to the gate and inform Sir Doneval that the outlander is not to be allowed to leave.' A sly look entered the marquis's eyes. 'Tell him to bring the bounty hunter to me.'

  THE MARQUIS STROKED the scraggly moustache that spread from the thick grey hairs of his nostrils to the corners of his chin. It was a nervous habit, a peculiarity of temperament that afflicted him whenever he was discomfited. Normally, it only struck him at balls and masquerades and other such public functions of pomp and pageantry. But there was something decidedly unsettling about the man who stood before him, his face unreadable behind the steel mask of the black helm he had not doffed upon entering the presence of the marquis, as custom demanded. Nor had he bowed, as had the armoured bulk of Sir Doneval, who was now crouched upon one knee.

  But the marquis had expected such disregard for his station from the man. Had he not behaved so the previous day? Had he not strode to the marquis's throne with such arrogance that he might have been the Emperor himself? Had he shown any consideration for the delicate sensibilities of the women of the court when he had presented the marquis with the grisly object that had brought him to de Galfort's domain?

  No, it was not the contempt for nobility which the bounty hunter showed that unsettled the marquis. There was an aura about the man, something which the aged marquis, with one foot in Morr's domain already, could see with his tired old eyes. It was as if an air of dread hung about the man like a shroud, a miasma of blood and death.

  The marquis had not shied from the sword in his younger years, and he had known knights who had been as steeped in blood as any Sartosan corsair or Norse reaver. But there had been reasons for the lives they took, a cause that ennobled their deeds, a chivalry that governed their actions. There was no such honour about the bounty hunter. Though he walked with death, like a comrade in arms, he did not respect it. Death was nothing more than a commodity to him, a ware to be traded at market.

  T understood our business to be at an end,' the bounty hunter rasped icily. Beside him, Sir Doneval tensed, one hand dropping to the pommel of his sword. The bounty hunter let his own gloved hand caress the butt of the pistol nestled against his belly.

  'There is another service I would ask of you,' the marquis said, choosing to ignore the bounty hunter's words. 'I shall pay you twice what you collected for Lorca the Estalian and his brigands.'

  Brunner stared up at the seated noble. Silence lingered for so long that it seemed to become an almost tangible thing. At last he nodded his head, the gloved hand adopting a slightly more casual position on the butt of the pistol. 'You have my interest,' Brunner said at last. 'Who do you want me to kill?'

  'Not who, but what,' the marquis corrected. The bounty hunter's eyes narrowed behind his visor, though from suspicion or interest, the noble could not be sure. 'Yesterday, a band of orcs invaded my land, torched one of my villages, and murdered my peasants. I want you to track them down.'

  'I've fought orcs before,' Brunner replied. 'Their raiding parties come in many sizes. A horde numbers thousands and a warband consists of a single bull. I have no desire to trade swords with either.' The bounty hunter touched a finger to the brim of his helm, turning on his
heel to leave.

  'I do not ask you to kill them yourself,' the marquis hastened to say, hoping to keep the killer from leaving. He wondered whether his men would be able to detain him. Fortunately the bounty hunter stopped and faced him once more. 'I ask only that you lead my son and a company of my finest knights to these brutes.'

  'And if they number more than your men can handle?' Brunner asked pointedly The kneeling Sir Doneval bit down the protest welling up in his massive chest.

  'I pay you only to track these monsters, not to fight them. If they are more than the men I send with you and my son can handle, you will return here, to await the reinforcements I have requested from the neighbouring domains'

  'And who shall make the decision as to how many orcs are too many?' Brunner asked, his sharp tone suggesting that he already knew the answer before it was given.

  'My son shall be in command, Brunner,' the marquis replied, refusing to be intimidated in his own castle. 'You shall defer to him in all matters of command.'

  Brunner stood still for a moment, and the Marquis de Galfort wondered if he would refuse the task. But at last the bounty hunter nodded his armoured head. Very well, I agree to the terms. But it will be three times what you paid me for Lorca. More if I have cause to use my sword.' The bounty hunter fixed the marquis with a penetrating gaze. 'With orcs, one is never sure who is the hunter and who the hunted.'

  THE COMPANY OF horsemen rode from the yawning maw of the castle gate, the ponderous weight of armoured knight and barded warhorse causing the timbers of the drawbridge to shudder and creak. Fifty of the Marquis de Galfort's knights and their lightly armoured squires had been delegated to accompany Etienne de Galfort and the foreign bounty hunter. The young de Galfort was certain that it was too many noble men to dispatch upon so rude a quest, positive that a dozen knights would be more than an equal for any brutish adversary. Brunner had refrained from commenting on the boy's enthusiasm.

  'The thin column of smoke there on the horizon,' Sir Doneval pointed a steel-clothed finger toward the south. Brunner followed the knight's gesture. That was the hamlet of Villiers.'

  The bounty hunter nodded. 'What is the closest habitation to Villiers?' the icy voice asked.

  'Of what concern is that?' interrupted Etienne de Galfort. The visor of his helm had been lifted, exposing his smooth-featured, handsome face, and an eager gleam in his eyes. He did not flinch as the bounty hunter turned in his saddle and fixed him with a cold stare.

  'The orcs will head for the next closest village,' Brunner explained. 'With our horses, we should be able to engage them before they reach their destination.'

  'Such is your view on the situation.' objected Etienne. 'But what if the orcs do not proceed as you say? We shall have wasted our time, and worn out our steeds in pursuit of phantoms.'

  'At least we would be able to warn the peasants,' Sir Doneval said. 'They should be able to retreat back to the safety of your father's castle.'

  'And shall we ride across the whole domain and warn every little hovel to pack its belongings and fly to the castle?' Etienne de Galfort responded, shaking his head. 'We would be weeks rounding up every miner, woodsman and shepherd.' The young nobleman clenched his mailed fist. 'No, we serve them best by running these monsters to ground before they can cause further harm.'

  Brunner leaned forward, the leather of his saddle creaking, the blue eyes behind the visor glaring at Etienne. 'And how do you propose to accomplish this feat?'

  'We shall ride to the hamlet of Villiers,' replied Etienne. 'There you shall do what my father is paying you to do. You shall pick up the trail of the orcs and follow their tracks back to their lair.' The nobleman snorted with contempt. 'Then you will be free to pull back as we attend to the monsters.'

  Brunner spat into the dust of the road. 'These are orcs on the march,' he explained. 'They have no lair. They sleep only when fatigue overpowers them, and lie where they fall. They can march for days without rest, and their wind will carry them longer than even the best of your horses. If you try to wear them down, they will wear you down, and fall upon you when you are tired, and most in need of rest. No, it is better to anticipate them, to lie in wait for them.'

  'I am in command here,' Etienne snapped. 'We ride for Villiers, and you will find the trail these orcs have taken. That is an order. This is a hunt, bounty killer, not some Tilean pirate prince's game of skulk and dagger. I think you will find these monsters much less capable of matching Bretonnian vigour than you imagine.'

  So saying, Etienne reined his steed about and set it galloping down the southward spur of the track. The other knights and their squires followed. With a last, surly look at the castle and the aged marquis who had impressed him into accepting this task, Brunner turned Fiend, his own bay, about and rode after the line of Bretonnians.

  OLD MARCEL WHISTLED a tune as he made his way down the rocky terrain, back toward the little mining camp. The heavy wicker basket of salt rocks was lashed to his back, but it was a weight the miner had borne many times, and he no longer even felt the burden except when it was no longer there. The Bretonnian thought about the meal his wife was preparing for him: the small fowl his young son had claimed with his bow the day before would make good eating after boiling over a small flame for the day.

  The miner suddenly pitched to the ground, misjudging his step. Marcel crashed onto his belly, skinning his knee on the loose stones, the rocks of salt spilling from his pack. He gave voice to a curse as he crawled toward the nearest of the crystals. But a deep, rumbling sound froze him in place. He turned his face to see what could utter such a harsh, unpleasant sound.

  Beady red eyes gleamed back at the man from a scarred visage of fangs and leathery green skin. The orc laughed again. It had not been a misstep that had tripped the old Bretonnian but a shove from the orc's massive paw. Marcel began to crawl away from the hulking monster, noting with alarm the massive axe gripped in its other paw. The monster watched the man retreat. Marcel could see amusement fade from the greenskin's eyes, and a cold look of death creep in. The orc uttered a low snarl and raised the huge axe, taking a step towards the old miner.

  THE COLUMN OF armoured men was silent as it emerged from the tree-lined trail that led to the smouldering remains of the tiny village. They had ridden hard from the desolation that had been the hamlet of Villiers. It was shortly after the knights had arrived at the site of the earlier massacre that a squire had spied the plume of smoke rising from the east. At once, the horsemen had set out at a gallop along the narrow track that slithered its way through the trees and grassy fields toward the looming rocky slopes of the mountains.

  Etienne de Galfort stared up at the severed head that watched the knights emerge from the wood. It was a grisly thing, the face nearly cleft in half by a gruesome cut that sank deep into the bone of the skull, the flesh darkened by flame. It had been spitted upon a crude spear, from which other ghastly talismans dangled, and swayed in the breeze from the smouldering remains of a large bonfire. The young nobleman's expression was unreadable as he considered the hideous object. He raised a mailed hand to his face, and motioned with his other for a squire to come forward and bury the vile totem.

  It was a repetition of the scene they had found at Villiers: every building put to the torch. Butchered bodies lay strewn about the devastation. At the centre of each carnage, a great fire had been built from wood and debris ransacked from the dwellings, and before each fire had been placed a gory talisman of limbs and skulls.

  Etienne looked at the hulking figure of Sir Doneval beside him, the older knight's face completely hidden within the great helm he wore. Then he cast a guilty glance at the bounty hunter. Brunner had dismounted and was examining the footprints exactly as he had done at Villiers.

  The footprints were all inhuman. They were sunk to a depth even a fully armoured knight's weight did not manage. The feet were broader and shorter than human feet, so that even the smallest betokened an immense size. Some of the feet were shod, others were bare. Brun
ner had informed Etienne that there had been at least twenty-five individual orcs at Villiers, based upon the prints. Now he rose from a cursory examination and faced the nobleman.

  'This was the same mob,' the bounty hunter declared. 'No question. I have both three-toe and the one with the clubbed foot here. There can't be two orcs with feet like that rampaging about in your father's domain.'

  Etienne sighed loudly. He looked away from the bounty hunter, staring about the clearing. The lightly armoured squires had spread out, their bows held at the ready, their keen eyes scanning the trees. The knights were moving their steeds through the ruins, examining the handiwork of the orcs. The sight added fire to the outrage boiling in their hearts. Finally, Etienne turned towards Brunner.

  'You were right,' he said. 'We should have come here first. This is my fault.'

  Brunner stared back. 'We might have saved these people, but the orcs would have only hit someplace else.' The bounty hunter noted the confused look entering Etienne's eyes. He hastened to explain. 'You have to understand something about orcs. It is true they live for plunder and massacre. But above all else, they lust after battle. These totems, those bonfires, they are a challenge.'

  'But if they want to fight, why won't they face us?' Etienne demanded, his knightly pride insulted by the thought of such creatures questioning his courage.

  'Because whatever bull is leading this mob is no fool,' Brunner said, spitting into the dust and ash. 'An orc leader is a mixture of raw strength, charisma, and cunning. This one seems to have a bit more cunning than usual. He wants a fight, but he is smart enough to want a fight that he can win. He has maybe thirty orcs with him. You have fifty horsemen.' Brunner let a harsh laugh escape his lips. 'He might not be able to count, but he can certainly recognise a lop-sided pairing.'

  'Then what do we do?' Etienne asked. 'He won't stand and fight, you say that tracking him would only wear us down, and if we don't give chase, he's just going to burn down every settlement in the domain!'