Warhammer Anthology 07

by Way of the Dead

  Brunner kicked aside the pack of provisions, lifting a pair of slender crossbow pistols he had secreted beneath the leather bags. Brunner sent one missile crashing into the chest of the crossbowman to his left before the mercenary even had time to register the fact that his prey had escaped his carefully prepared shot. The second man had a single moment to react as Bruenner spun the second crossbow in his direction. Panic seized the man and instead of dropping to the ground, the Tilean fumbled at his weapon, trying to reload it. The bounty hunter's bolt punched through the wooden stock of the Tilean's weapon and embedded itself in the man's lung. The mercenary fell then, a fraction of a second too late to save his life.

  Brunner strode across the clearing, fetching up his sword from the display of weapons and calmly walked over to the still writhing man he had peppered with the blast of his firearm. The Tilean was cursing freely, his body wracked with pain. As he sensed his enemy drawing near, the Tilean stretched a bloodied hand towards his sword. Brunner set his boot on the mercenary's hand. He flipped the mercenary onto his back with his other foot. The armour was flecked in blood and pitted by the small steel pellets the bounty killer's gun had disgorged.

  'You're lucky,' Brunner observed as the Tilean's face twisted into a grimace. 'The armour stopped most of the impact. The shot barely nipped your skin.' In truth, Brunner had been thankful for that armour. He needed one of the men alive.

  'In case you are wondering,' Brunner said, turning his eyes from the wound in the mercenary's chest to the man's face, Viscount de Chegney did send me.' The information brought a groan not entirely of pain from the Tilean. 'He wants his grandson back, but he prefers to pay for him with steel instead of gold.' The bounty hunter put all of his weight to the boot crushing the man's hand, bringing a new cry of pain. 'Perhaps you would like to tell me where the viscount's heir is?'

  'If I tell you, how do I know you won't kill me?' the Tilean snarled through clenched teeth. Brunner favoured the man with a frigid smile.

  'Because if I killed you after you lied to me and made me lose the bounty the viscount is offering for his grandson, I wouldn't be able to kill you later for lying to me.' Brunner ground the mercenary's hand under his heel, twisting the broken bones against one another, wrenching another cry from his prisoner. 'So, where are your friends hiding?'

  Under cover of night, Brunner replaced his gear on his packhorse and threw his saddle onto the back of the towering bay. He spared a single glance at the man he had tied to the trunk of the gnarled old tree the locals called the Wizard's Bones. The Tilean glared back at him from above the linen gag the bounty hunter had shoved down his throat.

  'You seem to harbour me some ill will,' Brunner commented as he lifted himself onto the back of his charger. 'Perhaps you have called down all manner of curses on my head.' Brunner smiled beneath his helm. 'But consider this. If your friends kill me, do you think they will come back here looking for you? Do you think anybody is going to happen along here before hunger or thirst does for you? Or perhaps a pack of wolves will decide to pick your bones clean before that.'

  Brunner clicked his tongue and turned his steed's head away from the clearing.

  'Just something to keep your mind occupied,' the bounty hunter said, as he disappeared into the night.

  The lonely grey tower stabbed into the night sky like the defiant fist of some fallen giant. Brambles and weeds encircled the structure, choking doorways and windows with dry brittle limbs. Massive grey stones littered the ground all about the forlorn tower, falling prey to the same verminous growths that had surrounded the fort from which they had fallen.

  Cold, hard eyes gazed at the tower from the shadows of the forest. Brunner noted the faint flicker of firelight in one of the lower windows of the tower. The captured ransom collector had told the bounty killer the truth, but, then, Brunner had never doubted that he would. Perhaps the bounty hunter would even hold to his part of the bargain and return for the man before the wolves made a meal of him.

  Brunner considered the tower. Once there would have been a scarlet pennant flying from the now broken roof, displaying the drake rampant that was the device of the Baron von Drakenburg. Once there would have been four sentries patrolling the rampart that peeped from below that roof, each dressed in the von Drakenburg livery, each a veteran marksman, for the Baron von Drakenburg would hire only the most capable of men. The face beneath the black helm smiled mirthlessly. Perhaps the baron had not been such a good judge of men, for he had been betrayed in the end, after all. Although, it had to be admitted, that even the traitor had been very capable.

  Brunner studied the rampart again, satisfying himself that only a single man patrolled the roof, a weary looking Tilean with a crossbow who barely spared a glance towards the forest as he made his regular sweep of the battlement. Brunner watched the mercenary, studying his regular, unvaried movements. The sentry was slipping into that dire, inattentive boredom that always threatened to dull a sentinel's wariness. With the man's mind wandering away from the tedium of his duties, his eyes might miss a dark shape emerging from the cover of the forest. No doubt his watchfulness was not so far-gone that he would fail to see that same figure creep to the base of the tower itself. But there would be no need for the bounty hunter to test the guard's capability that far.

  Brunner made his way to a large overgrown bush, a massive thorny brute that promised no berries or leaves to any that might show interest in it, only the sting of dagger-like nettles. Brunner grabbed the bush, pulling it back from the small rise it leaned upon. As the bush moved, a dark opening revealed itself, a hole that dug its way into the rubble-strewn plain. Without hesitation, the bounty hunter worked his body past the unwholesome plant and into the darkness of the narrow tunnel. A predatory smile crossed Brunner's features. The Tileans might have made the fortalice their lair, but they would soon discover that they knew very little about their temporary stronghold.

  The mercenary wiped the crust from his eyes and refocused his attention on the dim landscape beyond the fortalice. The narrow window afforded only a slight view of the terrain, but llrsio had wanted a man stationed here just the same. He was taking no chances that any party of the viscount's knights bent on revenge would fall upon the mercenaries without warning. Hence Ursio had placed two watch-points, one atop the tower, in the ruin of its roof, and a second here, in a damp room midway up the tower's height. The wily captain was always a careful man. Men sneaking up on the tower might see the sentry above, and hide themselves from his vision, but having seen one sentinel, they would not think to look for a second and would perhaps reveal themselves to the concealed watchman.

  It was a sound theory, but it did not change the fact that the Tilean's post was a cold, dreary and boring one. Not for the first time, the Tilean began to recite old ballads to himself, imagining the times when he had first heard them, carousing with his comrades through the taverns of Luccini after a successful campaign.

  The mercenary's soft humming ended in a ghastly gurgle as blood bubbled into his throat. He toppled forward, his body sliding off the dagger blade that had neatly punctured the back of his neck.

  'You were off key,' the grim figure of the mercenary's killer stated, wiping the blood off the dagger with a bit of rag. Brunner turned away from the corpse and made his way back to the far wall of the chamber. His gloved hand caressed a worn stone several inches above the height of his head. Soundlessly, the wall sank inward. Brunner waited a moment, then slipped into the darkness from which he had emerged to kill the watchman.

  Brunner emerged from the shadows that claimed the collapsed section of tile and timber which sagged across the greater portion of the roof. He watched the Tilean crossbowman making his rounds for a moment. The bounty hunter had finished scouting the tower. He had found that there were nine villains within it. Three were bivouacked in a long chamber that had once served as a barracks for the tower, busily playing at dice, gambling with the ransom money they had not yet earned. Another had been keeping watch ov
er the horses, though now the horses were keeping watch over his body.

  Three others, one of whom he took to be the leader, were with the child and a nursemaid, busily plotting a triumphant return to Tilea and the strengthening of their depleted band. The other two had been the watchmen, the dead one below and the man death now stalked.

  The drowsy sentinel finished his circuit and turned to retrace his steps. His mouth dropped open in shock as he found himself face to face with an armoured figure, its face hidden within a helmet of blackened steel. Icy eyes burned back into the young Tilean's stunned gaze.

  A sharp stabbing agony shot up the left side of the mercenary's body and the crossbow clattered to the stone floor. The bounty hunter withdrew a bloody fang of steel, the same he had already used to send two of this man's companions to Morr's realm this night. The young mercenary gasped as the pain seared into his vitals and blood seeped from his side. The bounty hunter's gloved hands gripped the wounded man's body. He turned the sentry towards the crenelated wall. Stealth had played its part. Now it was time to let the sheep know that the wolf had arrived.

  'Scream for me,' the bounty killer's murderous voice hissed into the Tilean's ear as he flung the injured man from the top of the tower.

  The sentry's wail of horror echoed through the corridors of the fortalice in the brief instant before it was silenced in a dull crunch of bone. Cries of surprise and alarm sounded from the two rooms still occupied by the Tilean kidnappers. Ursio met the gaze of the foremost man from the former barracks.

  'Find out what is going on!' the mercenary captain snarled. 'And kill it!' he added, slamming the door shut after him.

  The trio of mercenaries crept up the stairway, swords held before them, making their way to the roof. They had already discovered the body of the lower watchman, removing any question that someone was loose in the tower. The men were wary, cautious and more than a little enraged. At least one more of their comrades gone, another debt of blood to be collected in this vendetta with the Bretonnian viscount.

  The rearmost of the Tileans was only a few paces behind the leading pair when he paused. He had heard a sound: the scrape of stone against stone. He turned, facing a dark opening in the wall that had not been there a moment before. He opened his mouth to shout, but found his words silenced as a length of steel tore into his gut.

  'Aren't you pleased you found me?' Brunner asked the dying man as he pushed him off his sword. The bounty hunter turned his body as he emerged from the concealed passage and made ready to meet the attack of the other Tileans as they reacted to the sound of their companion's demise. Brunner smiled to himself. The men would join their friends soon enough.

  Ursio stared at the door of the room that had once served as the quarters for the commander of the tower. The sounds of combat, the ring of steel on steel and the gasping cries of dying men had sounded from beyond that now closed portal. The mercenary captain cast a nervous look over at his remaining men. The wiry, scar-faced Vernini nodded at his commander, hefting the loaded crossbow in his hands. Vernini was the best shot among all his men. Whoever opened that door would be rewarded with Vernini's quarrel in his heart.

  The brutish mass of Verdo glowered at Ursio. The homicidal thug was still chafing from the violent reprimand his captain had given him. When they had discovered that there were intruders in their hideout, a fit of rage had consumed the black-bearded mercenary. Before Ursio could stop him, Verdo had snapped the neck of the abducted nursemaid with his bare hands and was lumbering toward the basket that contained the baby before a blow from the hilt of Ursio's sword had restored some degree of reason in the thug's murderous mind. Verdo stood, his heavy cavalry mace clenched in his hands, his chest heaving, every muscle in his body tensed in anticipation. Ursio thought his brutish comrade was not unlike a hound straining at the leash, or a Norse berserker working himself into a frenzy.

  Ursio's roving eyes rolled to the basket and the crying form within. The mercenary captain had lost everything because of the Viscount de Chegney's treachery. The small life in that basket represented the only way Ursio could make his deceitful former patron suffer. The Tilean's face settled into a snarl. He pulled his long-bladed dagger from its sheath and moved toward the woven basket.

  Just then, the heavy door swung open, its rusty hinges groaning. Vernini did not hesitate. The sharp snap of his crossbow discharging drowned out the creaking sound of the old hinges. The bolt sped into the shape that filled the doorway, smashing through leather tunic, flesh and ribcage. The body jerked as the bolt impacted, then fell forward as it was pushed into the room.

  Brunner wasted no time discarding his cadaverous shield, shifting to the right as the body pitched to the floor. Vernini was already hastily reloading his crossbow, swinging his body about to bring the still unloaded weapon to bear on Brunner. Ursio froze above the basket, dagger in hand; his eyes locked upon the black-helmed figure that had slain so many of his men.

  'Blood of Khaine!' the mercenary swore as recognition came to him. 'Brunner!'

  As if to punctuate the Tilean's oath, the bounty hunter fired the smouldering weapon gripped in his left hand. The shot from the black powder pistol smashed into Vernini's forehead with a force far greater than that of the marksman's crossbow. The mercenary's face disappeared in a red ruin as the shot punched through the Tilean's skull and the man was dead before his body finished falling. Brunner let the spent pistol fall too, dropping the weapon and drawing the heavy falchion from the scabbard at his side.

  As the roar of the firearm began to fade, it was replaced by a thunderous bellow no less violent. Verdo charged forward like a maddened bull, swinging his mace at the bounty hunter as if it were the avenging maul of Ulric himself. The bounty hunter managed to dodge the powerful but clumsy blow, kicking the brute in the knee. Verdo grunted, but did not stagger. Howling his wrath, the Tilean lashed out at Brunner again, this time finding his weapon blocked by the intercepting steel of the bounty killer's sword.

  Ursio cursed again, gathering up the child from the basket, heedless of the wailing infant's cries. Keeping the baby pressed against his chest, the mercenary captain circled around the duelling figures of Brunner and Verdo. He did not favour his thuggish comrade's chances against the notorious bounty hunter, but perhaps Verdo could keep the hunter occupied long enough for Ursio to effect his own escape. As if to speed Ursio's flight, as he neared the doorway, he saw Brunner's blade slip past Verdo's guard, slashing the man's left arm almost to the bone.

  The Tilean was running when he passed from the chamber of death and into the corridor outside. His steps were heavy and swift. He did not see the tiny glittering objects strewn about the floor, the sinister little steel spiders that met his weighty footfalls. They were caltrops, metal spikes designed to cripple warhorses, dropped by the bounty hunter to maim any escaping prey. As Ursio's booted foot encountered its first caltrop, the metal spike pierced leather and flesh, gouging a hole through the sole of his foot. Ursio cried out in pain, flinging both child and blade from him as both hands instantly sought to arrest his fall. The mercenary captain landed badly, another caltrop punching through the palm of his hand, three others digging into his chest and legs as he impacted against stone, another puncturing his right cheek.

  Ursio writhed in pain, trying to dig the caltrop from his face with his uninjured hand. The sound of boots scuffling against flagstone brought a new horror to the Tilean. Ursio looked up to see Brunner framed in the doorway, wiping the lifeblood of Verdo from his sword with a rag torn from the mercenary's tunic before sheathing his blade. Ursio saw the bounty hunter cast a glance at the small swaddled object that lay against the wall, now silent and unmoving. The face below the visor of the helm was unreadable as Brunner strode toward Ursio's prone form.

  'Wait!' the mercenary stammered. 'I'll go with you! I won't try to escape!' Ursio knew who had set the infamous bounty hunter on him, he knew that he could expect slow death and torture when he was delivered to the sadistic Bretonnian viscoun
t. But it would take days to reach the viscount's castle, and Ursio was desperate to gain even so small a respite from his journey to the gardens of Morr. 'You can take me to the viscount. I won't resist!'

  Brunner leaned over the pleading sell-sword. 'I will take you to the viscount,' his cold voice stated. Ursio's eyes grew wide with fright as he saw the bounty hunter draw a large serrated knife from its sheath. 'But the viscount is only paying me for your head.'

  'My grandson is dead then?' the question emerged from Viscount Augustine de Chegney's mouth like the forlorn growl of a wretched and dying wolf.

  Brunner looked up at the seated nobleman upon his raised throne-like chair. He could imagine the man sitting there not as he was, a morose creature who had seen his last chance for posterity taken from him, who knew that his long and noble line would now end with his last breath but as a cruel and sadistic brute, resplendent in treacherous triumph. He could imagine the viscount sitting there, slowly sipping his wine as a sobbing maiden with long golden hair washed his feet with her tears, begging with the beast that had become her father to spare the battered and broken man whose blood still stained the stones of the hall's floor. He could almost hear the viscount's words of conciliation, of acquiescence to the pleas of his daughter-in-law. He could almost see the shabby, lice-ridden shapes of the slavers standing in the shadows of the room, there to ensure that every promise the viscount made to the maiden would become a lie.