by Warhammer
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.
For twenty years, Rudol had found himself crushed beneath the same system of poverty that kept the peasants of Bretonnia in a state often worse than the conditions in which they kept their cattle and swine. He found himself keeping frost from fields for nothing more than a few bowls of soup and a wedge of cheese, calling up rainstorms for a handful of copper coins and perhaps a live chicken or two. And yet, amidst the peasants, even so poor a wage made him wealthy, respected and feared. The small, two-storey stone tower in which he dwelled had been built on that fear, constructed by the villagers during the long hours of the night after they had returned from their herds and their fields, fearful that the wizard might place a curse upon them should they refuse his demands.
Rudol smiled as he remembered that event. He had felt a tiny taste of the power he desired that night. But it would be no peasant rabble who would cower before him. It would be his own peers, the wizards who had cast him out from the Celestial College in Altdorf. They would repay Rudol for the years of misery he had endured, the hardships he had been made to suffer. They would hail him as the greatest of their order and confess their jealousy and envy even as they grovelled in the dirt and pleaded for his forgiveness.
The wizard's eyes turned once more to the pages of the book laid out beside him. It was a translation of many of the characters used in the elven Eltharin language into the more readily understandable letters of the wizard's native Reikspiel. With every step in his translation of the story carved upon the piece of ivory, Rudol's pulse quickened and his breath sharpened, hardly daring to believe what he was reading. The artefact was ancient, predating the establishment of Bretonnia and even Sigmar himself, preserved from the ravages of time by the lingering magic of the elves with which they protected most of what they made. The carved characters told a story, an ancient moment from a vanished time. It was the tragic story of an elf prince who fell during the legendary war between the elves and dwarfs that had raged while the tribes of the Empire still wore the skins of beasts and hid inside caves. The prince had been a great warrior and leader among his people, and he had commanded the wyrms of the earth to serve him and carry him to victory in battle.
Rudol let a sharp gasp escape as he considered what the importance of that might mean. Could it be? Could it truly be? He had read legends, legends related by the elves of Marienburg, about a potent talisman used by the elves to summon dragons, to bind the mighty reptiles to their will. It had been called the Fell Fang, to give its closest Reikspiel translation, and legend said it had been lost when its princely owner had fallen in battle with the dwarfs. Could the lord spoken of on the ivory cylinder have been the wielder of the fabulous talisman? Another thrill swept up the wizard's spine as he considered another part of the old legend, that which referred to the size of the magical artefact. The object resting before him matched very closely the dimensions given in the elf legend.
There was only one problem, and the excitement bled out of Rudol as he considered it. The stories were adamant about the material from which the Fell Fang had been crafted. The talisman had been made from the tooth of a dragon. The object he had been studying was unquestionably whale ivory, the sort of scrimshaw often worked by the so-called sea elves on their long voyages. Rudol's brow knitted for a moment as he considered the quandary. He stared intently at the cylinder, bringing one of the strange crystal lenses he had liberated from the Celestial College to bear upon the object. The wizard studied every inch of the artefact once more, this time ignoring his translations of the engravings and concentrating upon the surface itself. He laughed with joy as his closer scrutiny revealed a minuscule gap between the ivory and the silver cap that formed its base.
'You have discovered something?' Gobineau inquired, reacting to the wizard's sudden excitement.
'It is hollow!' Rudol exclaimed. The words electrified the observing bandits, each of the brigands drawing still closer to the table, thoughts of hidden treasure vanquishing their uneasiness. Rudol ignored the eager anticipation of the men around him, seemingly oblivious to their presence, his long slender fingers slipping among the engravings, pressing upon them.
'I have seen this sort of thing before,' the wizard spoke, his words directed at no one. 'It
is like a Cathayan puzzle box. The question is, how does it open?' The wizard's fingers continued to press and pry at the elaborate engravings upon the ivory cylinder and its silver cap. Gobineau watched every movement, eyes locked upon the mystic's crawling fingers. He heard the faintest click as Rudol's index finger stabbed at a small sickle-shaped symbol upon the silver ring. The wizard laughed again, tugging the ivory cylinder free.
Gobineau had never seen such a look of greedy rapture as the one that flashed across Rudol's face when the wizard laid eyes upon the thing which had been hidden within the cylinder. The artefact was like a reliquary, like the small silver boxes in which pious peasants might carry the finger bone of a saint, or a lock cut from the hair of one of the Lady's holy damsels. But the thing which had been hidden within the artefact had never come from any man, however holy or heroic. Nor had it been part of an elf, however ancient and fabulous. It was a six-inch curve of blackened bone, its tip sharp as a dagger even after so many centuries. The surface of the bone was pitted in places by deep holes, each of the holes ringed in some light, shiny metal that was unknown to Gobineau and his men. Just as the cylinder had been hollow, so too was the object it contained. An evil, sickly smell seemed to fill the room as Rudol exposed the thing, and Gobineau started to feel hot with excitement.
'Magnificent!' Rudol gasped. 'It is true!' The wizard's fingers caressed the blackened relic, as though exploring the soft skin of a beautiful woman.
'Then we have found a very valuable treasure?' Gobineau inquired, intruding upon the wizard's glee.
'Valuable?' Rudol scoffed, so lost in his discovery that his words came without thought. 'It is beyond value! A king's ransom would be but a trifle next to the value of this artefact! All the gold in the Grey Mountains would be but a pittance to the worth of this...' Rudol snapped out of his reverie, looking up at the hungry faces staring at him, noting the greedy gleam of the bandits' eyes.
'Of course I speak from the view of a scholar,' Rudol explained, his voice uneven. 'It would command no great price from someone who was not interested in such things,' the wizard elaborated weakly. He rose from the table, the artefact still gripped in his hand. Gobineau reached forward, grabbing hold of the relic before the wizard could remove it. For a moment, brigand and mystic stared at one another, each clutching the relic. At length, with an almost apologetic shrug, Rudol relented, allowing Gobineau to reclaim the ivory cylinder.
'Naturally, you should be paid something for your efforts,' Rudol explained as he walked towards a section of shelving that lined the wall behind him. 'For the value of the silver, if nothing else,' he continued. Gobineau watched the mage, the hair on the back of his neck starting to stand on end. He observed Rudol remove a leather bag from behind a brass astrolabe, the distinct and familiar chink of coins striking against one another sounding as the wizard lifted the pouch.
'Perhaps three gold crowns would serve as recompense?' Rudol asked. Alone among the bandits, Gobineau looked away from the moneybag Rudol held towards them, observing the wizard's other hand. The long, spidery fingers were twitching and clawing in an elaborate series of motions.
Gobineau cursed himself for a fool and threw himself to the floor. He'd let his greed get the better of him, allowed it to overcome his natural caution. He hadn't appreciated that Rudol might decide to keep the elven artefact for himself. And, most disastrous of all, he'd momentarily forgotten that the strange old man was much more than a strange old man. He'd failed to keep at the forefront of his mind that Rudol was a wizard!
The bounty hunter slowly slogged his way down the muddy lane that formed the main road of Valbonnec. Peasants hurried from his path, seeking the safety of doorways from which to peer in surprise and dread at the armoured figure and his foreign garb. Simple, hard-working folk, most of them had never been more than a few miles from their village and the only warriors they had ever seen were the resplendent knights who were both their lords and protectors. The man now striding down the narrow strip of mire was something different, his garb dishevelled and without the flamboyant heraldry of a knight. His weapons were strange, devices that none of the onlookers could quite figure out, but which they decided were deadly all the same. The eyes that stared out from the visor of his plain, unadorned helm were like chips of ice, more like the eyes of a wolf than the eyes of a knight. There was an air of menace about the man, a smell of blood and death, more than enough to make the quiet folk of Valbonnec keep their distance.
Brunner paid little attention to the frightened faces of the villagers. Their fear would keep the peasants from getting in his way. He'd hate to accidentally kill someone he wasn't going to get paid for.
The bounty hunter paused as he saw the spire of a tower. It was only two floors and yet even so it was the tallest building in the village. The lower floor was built of stone, unworked blocks of granite crudely fitted together. The upper floor crouched above it like the cap of a toadstool and was built of timber. It was like a coarse parody of the sort of place a merchant of the Empire might make his home, an unrefined copy of the sort of tower in which a real wizard would lair.
Brunner glanced away from the tower, eyeing the pistol holstered across his belly, ensuring that the cap was still fitted to it, then the bounty hunter caressed the heavy wood and steel frame of his repeating crossbow. With any luck, he could disable most of Gobineau's friends before it came to swordplay. Of course, he'd have to spare the bandit leader the worst of his attentions; no bullet or crossbow bolt for him. The bounty on Gobineau, at least the largest one being offered, the only one that was of interest to Brunner, specified that there would be a deduction of five hundred gold crowns if the villain was brought in dead. The Reiklander had no intention of being wasteful.
As the bounty killer studied the small tower, examining it for alternate means of entry, by which his quarry might effect an escape, a sudden commotion sounded from within the structure. It had sounded like an explosion of some sort, punctuated by the cries and wails of several men. Brunner spat into the dust, running toward the tower at a brisk jog. Perhaps this Rudol was less charlatan and more genuine wizard than he had presumed. Perhaps the bounty hunter wasn't the only one interested in the price on Gobineau's head. Amidst such desperate poverty as he'd seen in Valbonnec, Brunner could see even a wizard lending his abilities to more mercenary purposes.
Not that it mattered. No one was going to get between Brunner and his quarry, not even a wizard.
The room was a shambles, scrolls fluttering across the floor, feathers spinning slowly after being ripped from the bizarre collection of croaking birds that nestled amongst the wizard's cages. Gobineau found himself lying upon his back, sprawled beneath a smelly old wolfskin that had been torn from where it had been nailed to an overhead beam. Blood drizzled from his nose, his cheek also lacerated by the heavy pewter cup that had crashed into his face. The brigand pulled a white cloth from his belt, trying to stem the flow of crimson before it had a chance to stain his garments. Moaning voices sounded from all around him, telling Gobineau that his men were likewise alive, if not unharmed.
Rudol stood behind the table, glaring at the men with an expression that was as much a thing of contempt as it was annoyance. The wizard held his hand extended before him, the fingers splayed so that they formed something that resembled the claw of a vulture. It had been from that hand that the power had struck. Gobineau had once numbered piracy amongst his catalogue of crimes, preying upon fat merchantmen as they tried to slip into the port city of Marienburg. What had exploded within the wizard's room had been every bit as fierce and terrible as any gale born over the Sea of Claws, a blast of howling wind and invisible might that had smashed everything and everyone before it. Then, as suddenly as it had struck, the burst of wind had ceased, only the destruction it had wrought giving evidence that it had indeed occurred. Gobineau fancied that he could see a weird light slowly fading from Rudol's eyes, a wan blue energy that chilled the bandit's thrice-cursed soul.
Rudol's lip cur
led into a sneer as he returned the brigand's gaze. 'You fools!' he snapped. 'You dare think you can cheat Rudol of what he desires!' The fingers of his outstretched hand closed into a whiteknuckled fist which the wizard shook angrily at the stunned bandits. 'You have felt but the smallest measure of my power! Give me cause and I shall destroy each and every one of you!' The wizard snarled, turning his fist toward the door. He extended his index finger and by his command, the heavy wooden portal crashed inward, ripped open by unseen hands. 'Leave while I am of a mind to let you live,' Rudol ordered, the words brooking no defiance. Gobineau turned his head to see the least shaken of his men already on their feet and sprinting toward the door. He turned his head back toward Rudol as he heard the wizard laugh derisively and reach toward the artefact still lying upon the table.
The bandit cast aside his blood-soaked rag, ripping the sword from his belt as he leapt to his feet. Gobineau roared at his fleeing henchmen, putting all the command he could in his tones. 'Will you let this charlatan swine steal our fortune, lads?' The look the wizard turned upon him almost froze Gobineau's heart, yet the rogue continued to shout his defiance. 'He's no Wastes-spawned daemon! Prick his hide and he bleeds red like any other thief!'
What effect, if any, Gobineau's bold words might have had on his men was uncertain, and irrelevant. As the first of the brigands who had gained their feet reached the door, they found their path blocked by a grim figure in armour. The foremost of the men found his belly caving in under the short punch delivered by the armoured warrior's fist. The bandit crumpled to the ground, his last meal splashing on the wall. The man behind him hesitated, eyes wide with fright, hand fumbling for the blade thrust through his animal-gut belt. The sword was never drawn, however, for the warrior blocking the doorway lifted the heavy crossbow gripped in his right hand and sent a steel bolt crunching its way through the Bretonnian's skull.
'Ranald's grace!' Gobineau heard one of his henchmen cry out as he sighted the killing machine that now strode into Rudol's workshop. 'It's Brunner!'
