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

by C L Werner (lit)

  'No.' he replied after a moment. 'I am sure that he was a stranger, from outside Greymere.' Brunner continued to stare at the boy, then reached into a cloth pouch on his belt and tossed the child a copper coin.

  'Let me know if you see any more strangers.' the bounty hunter's cold voice said. Without a further look at the boy, he proceeded on his way to the inn. As he passed, the child bit the flat wedge of metal, to see if it would bend. When it did not, a gleeful expression washed across his face and he raced off, to be lost in the dingy streets of Greymere.

  The bounty hunter was deep in thought as he pushed open the log door of the inn. Since he had arrived here, two men had tried to kill him. The duellist, Savio, had been known here. But the brutish man who had ambushed him in the stable apparently was not, assuming the boy and the stablemaster were to be trusted. Brunner did not doubt that there would be a third attempt.

  DREXLER BOLTED DOWN the glass of Estalian brandy as if it were cheap marshbrew from the inn. He cast a withering look at the attending servant and the man hastened to refill his glass. The door of the parlour opened and the exiled Imperial nobleman turned his head, his hand slipping away from the glass to fumble for the crossbow leaning beside his chair. He breathed a sigh of relief as he saw Vincenzo enter, and the ashen pallor faded slightly from his face.

  'I have not left this room in two days.' the merchant growled, fear making the sullen tone more whiny than intimidating. 'He killed the pitfighter.' To punctuate his last statement, Drexler drained the glass of brandy.

  Vincenzo nodded his head, removing his cloth hat with a hand grey with traildust. 'I could have told you that it would turn out like that. You hired a killer to do an assassin's job.'

  'I encouraged the prince to arrest the man.' Drexler said, looking down at the floor. 'He would have done so, had the bounty hunter not already appeared before him. It seems this pitfighter was once a Sartosan corsair, with a price on his head in every port in Tilea.' Drexler sighed, waving his hands in an expressive gesture. 'If it had been the bounty killer's word alone, perhaps I might have prevailed upon Waldemar to arrest him, but the pitfighter's manager came forward to affirm the hunter's claim! Damn fool was hoping to share in the reward, and gain some last bit of profit on his fighter!' Drexler shook his head. Ordinarily, he would have admired such limitless avarice, and the ability to ferret out the last copper from an investment, but this time boundless greed had worked against him.

  Suddenly Drexler raised his head, and turned to face his Tilean friend. 'What did you say a moment ago?' he inquired, a subtle tone to his query.

  'I made contact with Louis.' Vincenzo replied. 'He will arrive in two days' time.' Drexler shook his head, waving away his words.

  'No, you said something about this being an assassin's job,' he said, a sinister gleam in his eye.

  He thought for a moment, motioning for Vincenzo to be silent. A smile cracked his face and he nodded. 'Perhaps we do not need to wait two days.'

  'What are you planning?' Vincenzo asked, not following the merchant's thoughts.

  'Drugo,' the exile said, his smile broadening as he saw the frightened look in Vincenzo's eyes.

  'Drugo?' he scoffed. 'Prince Waldemar will never stand for that. You may as well send for Vogun and have him do the job and smash down half the town in the process.' The Tilean shook his head. 'Besides, Drugo is locked away in the prince's dungeon, to entertain us all on Pflugzeit when he is drawn and quartered.'

  The calculating look remained on Drexler's face as he stood from his chair. 'I am very old friends with Waldemar. I think he will find that it is easier to catch an assassin like Drugo than it is to keep him.' He laughed, snatching the bottle of brandy from his attendant and pouring a measure into his glass. 'At least he will after I finish speaking with him about it.'

  'This bounty hunter considers killing a business,' Drexler snickered. 'Let us see how he fares against someone who considers it a religious experience.'

  A FIGURE OF blackness watched from the shadows beside a ramshackle wainwright's as the last light on the upper floor of Greymere's inn went dark. The face grinned in the darkness as widely and hideously as any goblin from the Badlands. No laughter accompanied the manic leer as the shape detached itself from the wall against which it had been pressed. A shadow crossed the muddy street. It had the faintest suggestion of a man's figure, cloaked and hooded in a garment cut from midnight itself. It crossed the street, fading into the looming darkness before the inn. No sound accompanied it, not the sound of breath, the squelching of mud under booted sole, or even the rustle of fabric. The heavy door of the inn, firmly secured from within, was covered by darkness for one fleeting moment. Then it opened by the smallest margin. The shadow slipped through the opening and the heavy door shut behind it.

  Drugo replaced the bar his thin, wire-like hook had lifted and scanned the silent building. A dog lying near the door did not even raise its head as the assassin stalked past. The man grinned down at the animal, fingering the dagger clutched in his hand. It had been two weeks since he had slaughtered anything, and the last blood he had drawn had been from his jailer when he bit off his fingers as he spooned food into his mouth. The assassin's tongue darted out, licking his chin and cheeks, as if to recall the taste. The man leaned towards the dog, a murderous urge rising within him. But the moment passed and he turned away, gliding up the narrow stairway that led to the rooms of the inn.

  He had been forced to swear oaths before the grey moustached man had released him. Oaths to his patron god, Khaine, the Lord of Murder. The only oaths he would honour, and the man had known it. He had sworn to leave Greymere, sworn never to return, sworn to kill no more of its denizens. With one exception: the bounty hunter.

  Drugo knew that his prey would be found up here, in one of the private rooms. It was to be expected. Poor men never warranted a sanction, never rated the expense of hiring a killer. Gold given for the services of an assassin of Khaine was sacred, and only a large amount was acceptable. For who would dishonour a god by offering up a pittance?

  Drexler had been most upset at Drugo's insistence that his freedom was not enough, and still more upset when he heard the price. But he had paid, in the end. When the fear set upon them, they always paid.

  The assassin glided down the hall, his approach so stealthy that a rat scurried past him along the opposite wall without turning a whisker in his direction. He reached the first door on his left and paused a moment to defeat the lock. He pushed the door open by the slightest of cracks, then closed it again, the brief intrusion unnoticed by those within. The fat man had certainly not been a bounty hunter, his companion even less. The assassin glided away, passing from one door to another, pausing at each, before moving on.

  Finally, he reached the room he sought. There, on a battered table, rested the helmet he had had described to him by the merchant. There was a body in the bed, the heavy blankets pulled about it to guard against the chill of the night.

  Drugo's blood surged and pounded through his veins. He shut the door behind him and silently moved to the bed. At last, his breath came hot and hard to him, the killing frenzy seething through his body. It had been far too long since he had made an offering to Lord Khaine!

  The assassin's dagger slashed downwards, into the blanket, into the spot where Drugo judged the neck to be. It was a killing blow, but the frenzy was upon him, and the blade struck the blankets again and again. The grinning leer became still more wicked and depraved, the gleam of madness still more maniacal as his dagger rose and fell, rose and fell. Then, the smile died, the gleam faded. The assassin's hand reached out, tearing away the blankets. He watched as feathers slowly flew from the butchered pillows, feathers, but no blood, pillows but no body upon them. The assassin leaned forward, unable to believe his eyes.

  There was a loud explosive sound and the assassin fell backwards, half his face turned into a charred, gory mess. Flecks of black powder sizzled in his flesh, as his blood dribbled into the floorboards and leaked do
wn to the tavern below.

  The bed creaked as a form emerged from beneath it. Brunner lit the lamp beside his helm. The smoking gun was clenched in his hand, mirroring the smoke rising from where he had fired through the raised pallet that served as a mattress. He lit a cigar on the lamp, and as the dark smoke rose from the stubby tube of dried weeds, he bent over the dead man, to examine what was left of his face.

  There was a din and clamour in the hall outside, and a frenzied battering at the door of his room. The bounty hunter stalked over to the door, opening it, staring into the bald visage of the innkeeper.

  'Just an uninvited guest, maybe you know him,' he said, motioning for the innkeeper to enter and look at the man he had just killed. The man gave a gasp as he recognised the carcass.

  'That's Drugo!' he exclaimed. 'A cultist of Khaine. But he is supposed to be locked up in the prince's dungeon!' The man did not protest as Brunner gripped his arm and led him back toward the door where the faces of the rest of the staff and guests peered in.

  'Then he might be somewhat appreciative when I return Drugo to his custody in the morning.' Brunner started to close the door.

  'My sheets!' the innkeeper shouted, suddenly realising what else he had seen in the room.

  'Yes, I'll need a new set,' the bounty hunter said. 'But you can give them to me in the morning.' With that he shut the door in the face of the innkeeper and those behind him.

  Brunner walked across the floor, back toward the bed. He reloaded his firearm, then, cradling the weapon against his chest, slipped under the pallet, letting the sheets once again drape over the edge. The bounty hunter was not unused to hardship, with many months every year spent hunting things that were almost men, and men who were barely human. A soft bed, even a not so soft bed, was now too strange to enjoy. And, besides, there was always some jackal ready to murder a person in his sleep. It was always best to give him a tempting target, but never the right one.

  THE BALD MAN with the grotesque paunch reached to the shelf behind him and twisted the tap on the cask of beer. The light, urine-hued liquid sloshed into the clay stein. The man set the stein down upon the counter of the bar with such violence that the white-topped brew rolled over the sides of the cup.

  'Careful,' the cold voice of the man on the other side of the counter admonished the bald bartender. 'You are spilling my drink.' The innkeeper turned on the bounty hunter, an angry look on his face.

  'You can have this one at my expense, just so long as you do not spend another night under my roof!' the man exclaimed. 'Half of my guests left this morning, and the other half have demanded I reduce their bills. All because of you and that visitor of yours last night.'

  Brunner regarded the man with a face that was as expressionless as the steel mask of his helm.

  'You would think that I had not done your community a great service this past night,' the bounty hunter said. 'Kept you all from being murdered in your beds as I nearly was.'

  'As you should have been,' the bald man retorted. 'Beds are meant to be slept on, not to be crawled under! What kind of place do you think I am running here?'

  'I am glad that your prince was more appreciative,' the bounty hunter's voice warmed as his hand caressed the slight bulge in the breast of his tunic. 'Twenty gold crowns is not my best work, but then my commissions are seldom so obliging as to come to my rooms looking for me.'

  Brunner looked over as the tavern door opened, one hand slipping to a throwing knife, grasping its hilt. The bounty hunter relaxed slightly as he saw the salt boy enter. The boy caught the man's eye and ran over.

  'I saw another stranger, like you asked about,' the boy said. 'Riding into town.' Brunner dug a silver piece from his belt, holding it in his upraised hand where the boy could see it.

  'Now.' the bounty hunter said, 'describe this stranger for me' He looked over his shoulder at the innkeeper. 'And I may be wanting to use that back door you spoke of earlier.'

  THE SLENDER MAN rode his white horse through the muddy streets, stopping well short of the inn that was the first place of interest to visitors to Greymere. He was a young man, his brown hair worn short, in the rounded bowl pattern of a Bretonnian peasant. But the suit of well-tended leather armour that clothed him, the metal boots, the slender blade at his side, the hard set of his features these belonged to no peasant. The man slipped down from the saddle of his steed, tethering the animal to a post.

  He stared up at the high wooden tower of the building beside him, then glanced back down the street, his hawklike gaze training on the door of the inn. He turned, removing a long curved length of wood from the saddle of his steed.

  The man carried the length of wood with him as he walked into the building. There was no one about in the little timber temple to the goddess Myrmidia, as he had hoped. The Bretonnian paused, and drew a long cord from his belt that he fixed to one end of the haft of wood. He studied the wooden shaft, admiring the grain of its surface, the shape of its cut, the intricate carved runes and script that flowed along its length too precise, too artful to be any manmade construction.

  Straining, the Bretonnian bent the shaft of wood into a bow shape that transformed it from a length of wood into a deadly weapon. The string, made of the hair of elf maidens woven together with consummate skill and craft, was made fast at the other end of the bow.

  Louis had dwelled long in his homeland, with his family, on the very edge of the Loren Forest. They had known the forest folk, as few men did, and the bow had been gifted to his father by one of the wood elves. It was that bow that had cost his father his life, when their knightly liege had demanded the weapon, claiming that such a bow was unfit for peasant hands.

  Louis smiled, recalling how the knight had died, drowning in his own blood, how he had reclaimed his father's bow, and how he had made the armoured lords of Bretonnia pay for their cruelty and oppression. At last, the feared archer known as the Black Feather after the crow feathers he adorned his arrows with had been forced to leave his homeland, to range far across the Known World to escape the vengeful grasp of the king.

  Louis walked over to the simple ladder that would take him into the tower. Now he was an assassin for hire, employing his skill and the elegant weapon he bore for the crude pursuit of gold. But some day, he would return to Bretonnia, and cause his former masters to again fear the forests, to fear the death that struck from afar, without warning.

  The marksman made his way into the small stand atop the tower, and crouched down onto his belly. He pulled a black-feathered arrow from the quiver at his side, putting it to the string of his bow. He sighted down the street, fixing his gaze on the door of the tavern.

  He stretched the arrow back, keeping the string taut and the sight at the door of the inn. When the bounty hunter came out, he would never see the arrow that pierced his heart.

  Long hours passed, the sun lowered in the sky. Still the Bretonnian kept his arrow nocked, ignoring the strain of his muscles, and the tension and fatigue setting into his limbs.

  Louis waited, still as a statue. Eventually, the bounty hunter would emerge. Then he would die.

  Intent on holding that thing back all night?' a cold voice asked from behind the Bretonnian. The stillness of the archer seemed to actually increase. Louis turned his head slightly, seeing a black boot at the edge of his vision, resting on the edge of the sloped roof.

  'Wondering how long I've been here?' the bounty hunter asked. 'Almost as long as you, waiting for you to make a move.' There was a steel edge in Brunner's voice. 'I finally got tired of waiting.'

  The Bretonnian didn't move as the man he had been hired to kill spoke, as his sword touched the small of his back. 'When I learned that a stranger had ridden in, alone, sporting a fancy bow, I reasoned it out: that you were here to kill me. That you would be up here, the highest ground in this mud hole. I would be here too if I were going to put an arrow in somebody before they could do something about it.'

  The Bretonnian craned his neck around, to glare at the bounty hunt
er.

  Brunner stared back, his face unreadable in the dark. 'Don't even think about it,' the bounty hunter said. 'You move a muscle, and you're dead. And I'm sure you'd rather have your bones rest back in Bretonnia, Louis.'

  The use of his name enraged the former peasant. The tone of the bounty hunter's voice echoed his former lord's. With a snarl, the archer turned, gasping as Brunner's sword stabbed into his side. The elegant bow slipped from the archer's shocked fingers, toppling back down the dark pit of the tower. Louis clutched his side, blood seeping between his fingers.

  'Now,' the bounty hunter's chill voice spoke again, 'what I want to know is who paid you to kill me.' The words dripped with the promise of death if they were not obeyed. Again, Louis heard the echo of the knight's voice as he demanded his father's bow.

  Louis's hand flew to the hilt of his sword. Brunner lashed out with his foot, kicking the man in the chest. A strangled scream howled from the Bretonnian's lips as he was pushed from the tower.

  The bounty hunter heard the dull thud of the man's body in the mud far below. He peered over the edge of the tower at the body down in the street, its limbs skewed about it in unnatural, broken angles. He shook his head.

  'Well, at least your head will make it back to Bretonnia,' he said, caressing the hilt of the long knife at his belt.

  DREXLER SAT UPON the back of his horse on the low hill just outside Greymere, six of his men clustered around him. He had spent a day and a half hiding out here, less afraid of the denizens of the wild than he was of the seemingly unkillable bounty hunter. The sweat of fear dampened his brow as he thought of the man and the massive knife, and the use to which he put it.

  Drexler pulled the small steel flask from his belt and drained away more of the Estalian brandy. A few of his men muttered something under their breath, but a withering gaze silenced them.