Next would come the sounds. He moaned, praying, begging any god that would listen to spare him the sounds. But no god, it seemed, cared to hear him. First the rattle of chains slithered into the man's ears. Then the sound of harsh, brutal voices, voices snarling and laughing, cruel and wicked in their tones. Then the screams, such screams, echoing through his brain. Louder, louder, and louder still they grew. Why could they not just kill him? Why would the screams refuse to end? The tormented man folded the edge of his blanket and bit down upon it to keep from repeating the shrieks pounding upon the inside of his skull.
He spat it out with disgust. It tasted like blood and filth, the flesh of a rat, raw and salty, its excrement staining its rancid fur. The man moaned again, fighting to keep the sound from rising into a scream.
What would happen if he opened his eyes, he wondered? Would he see anything? Would there be anything to see? Oh please, let there be something to see! Let there be light in his cell! Let his captors have had that much pity! But he knew it would be dark, he knew that his captors were without mercy. If he opened his eyes, he would see nothing, only the blackness of his prison.
The skin upon the man's back began to crawl. It felt as if it was trying to rip itself free from his body. The agony built and built, like a red-hot iron slowly pressed against his naked flesh. The tortured man clenched his teeth against the pain. He must not give in, he must not submit!
The man's eyes snapped open as his scream filled the room. His body shook as he felt the agony wash away. No, it was still there, like a dull ache in the back of his skull, just waiting to rise up and devour him once more. The man looked around him. He was still in the palazzo of Prince Gambini, as he knew he must be. He had endured the terror many times, yet he was always shocked to find himself somewhere other than the Caliph of Martek's dungeons. He sometimes wondered if his escape from that place and all that had happened after was nothing more than some dream concocted by his tortured mind. Had he ever really left that blighted place?
The man shook his head, cradling it in his hands. Yes, he had escaped the dungeons of Martek, and he had brought their evil with him. He could still feel the sensation of the skin on his back crawling. The evil was there, waiting, hungering. Soon it would need to be fed.
The man cried softly, pulling his knees to his chest and slowly rocking upon his bed. Soon he would have to allow the evil to feed.
IT WAS QUITE late when Brunner at last returned to the Gambini palace. He had spent some time in the tavern Horst had led him to, an establishment named the Red Horse. As Brunner had suspected, the mercenary was a prodigious drinker, and he found it not too difficult to slip from the man's company once he was in his cups.
Unfortunately, there was little to be learned in the tavern. Many of the Gambini soldiers did indeed frequent the Red Horse, but if the man he was after was among them, he had left no clues among the serving wenches and bar keeps. A few pieces of gossip and rumour about the Gambinis were related to Brunner, the eccentricities of Prince Gambini's uncle, the elderly Remaro (none would be so bold as to call the old aristocrat mad) and the peculiarities of Remaro's son, the decadent Alfredo Gambini. But there was little of real value to Brunner's hunt. Certainly a few of the soldiers who had been involved in escorting Princess Juliana down from Pavona had spoken of their important duty, but the few names Brunner was able to pry from the serving wenches' addled memories hardly accounted for all of them. Still, it was a start.
The bounty hunter helped a drunken Horst back to the palace, placing him in the custody of the gate sentries as soon as the guards had allowed the two men back into the courtyard. Brunner paid no attention to their demands that the bounty hunter conduct the nearly insensible mercenary back to the barracks. He had carried the hulking soldier far enough, he reasoned. If he had been certain that the sentries would have allowed him back into the palace without him, Brunner would have left the man to sleep it off in the tavern, to be robbed or rolled into the street as the tavern keepers decided.
Brunner made his way into the darkened palace, picking his path through the marble-floored halls, past the fluted columns that supported the high arching ceilings. He knew his way well enough from earlier to find his way back to the mercenary barracks, though he would feel better once he knew the layout of the rest of the palazzo. It always paid to know the lay of the land.
As Brunner made his way through the dark, quiet halls, his footsteps echoing only slightly on the polished marble tiles, he suddenly saw a light ahead. Instinctively, the bounty hunter stopped, pressing his back against the wall. Most likely it was just some servant getting an early start on the day's duties, but the bounty killer's cautious habits were something that were second nature to him and he had no mind to put them in check.
Brunner watched and saw that the light emanated from a halfopen doorway just ahead. He could see two figures framed in the doorway, illuminated by a candle in an ornate brass holder, held by a hand that was elegant and smooth, its milky skin as flawless as the marble upon the floor. The woman holding the candle was clad in a thin shift of pale, gossamer-thin cloth, possibly even silk from distant Cathay. The thin garment did nothing to conceal the shapely curves of the woman's figure, displaying her charms as readily as if it had been absent. The woman turned her head at some faint sound from elsewhere in the palace and Brunner could make out her pretty face in its frame of lustrous dark hair. The woman turned back toward her companion, accepting a heavy fur wrap with her free hand and casting it about her shoulders. She leaned forward, kissing the man beside her, then turned and stealthily made her way down the hall.
Brunner waited until the light of the candle had vanished, then continued down the passage toward the barracks. His stride was slower now, his pace careful and measured. When the woman had leaned forward, he had seen the face of the man she had kissed. The bounty hunter had no great desire to alarm Manfred Zelten by catching up with the mercenary as he was stealing away from his midnight rendezvous.
BRUNNER ROSE EARLY the next day, long before most of the mercenaries who shared the hall-like barracks. Horst had said that there were five of these rooms, each given over to a separate mercenary company. After the losses incurred by the warband of Pulstlitz, the chamber held more empty beds than sleeping bodies. Brunner armed himself and marched past the sleeping soldiers, pausing for a moment before Horst's loudly snoring body Apparently the sentries at the gate had decided to carry him back to his billet after all rather than leaving him to sleep it off in the courtyard.
Near the door to the room, Brunner could see the wiry form of Schtafel sitting in the corner, a blanket thrown about his dozing body, his crossbow lying across his waist. The bounty hunter studied the man for a moment. Clearly he was still extremely nervous about Brunner's presence. The mercenary must have noted his return sometime in the night and decided to stand guard against the bounty hunter. Brunner hoped that the marksman was ready for many such nights of discomfort. He had no idea how long it might take him to sniff out his target, and he had no intention of leaving the Gambini palazzo until he had his prey.
In the hall outside the barracks, Brunner was somewhat surprised to see Zelten emerging from his room. All of the mercenary commanders had their own private quarters, as befitted men of their position. After the man's late night, the bounty hunter had assumed that Zelten would be much later in rising. The mercenary smiled as he sighted Brunner and walked toward him.
'I have spoken with Prince Gambini,' he said. 'He is most anxious to meet the man who saved his caravan. I think I can easily talk him into engaging you if you were to take a position in my company.'
'Perhaps,' Brunner said, noncommittally. 'I'd like to get the feel of the place better before I make any decision.'
'Of course, of course,' beamed Zelten, pleased that the bounty hunter had not flat-out rejected his proposal as he had the previous day. If the truth be told, Zelten was not entirely certain why he was so pleasantly disposed toward the grim warrior. Perhaps it was
simply the sword that he wore, a symbolic link to Zelten's destroyed past. Or perhaps it was simply his way of showing gratitude to the man for killing the traitor Albrecht Yorck. Whatever his reasons, and despite the short time he had known him, Zelten wanted to number the bounty hunter among his friends. 'The prince is arranging a feast tonight in celebration of his coming marriage to Princess Juliana Bensario. All of his officers are invited to intend. As a gesture of his gratitude, he has asked that you attend also.'
Brunner was quiet for a moment as the two warriors strode down the marble halls. At last he nodded his head. 'Yes, I think that might prove rather instructive. You may tell the prince that I will accept his invitation.'
Zelten clapped Brunner's shoulder. The bounty hunter winced slightly at the hearty slap, feeling once again a slight sting from the old wound he had been dealt by the orc warlord, Gnashrak. 'I am certain the prince will be pleased to be informed that you will be attending the feast.' The mercenary suddenly looked up. Their steps had carried them toward the main hall, where a large flight of stairs rose toward the upper floors of the palazzo. Descending the stairs were two regal-looking figures. The first was a broad-shouldered, handsome featured man wearing a red tunic embroidered with silver braid, sporting tight breeches and polished leather shoes adorned with large bejewelled buckles. He was holding the hand of a young woman. Despite the long, heavy dress of dark green fabric she now wore, Brunner recognised her instantly.
'Ah, you can tell him yourself,' Zelten said. 'There is Prince Gambini now.' The mercenary was surprised when Brunner's gloved hand closed about the front of his tunic and the bounty hunter pulled him back out of the hall.
'What do you mean by this?' demanded Zelten, his voice indignant.
'Tell me who that woman is!' demanded Brunner, speaking in a low snarl.
'That is the Princess Juliana Bensario,' the mercenary replied. Brunner released his grip on Zelten and pushed him away.
'Are you insane, or just an idiot?' demanded the bounty hunter, keeping his voice low.
'Explain yourself!' hissed Zelten, hands balling into fists at his side.
'I saw you last night,' Brunner said. 'Leaving a storeroom. You weren't alone.' He watched as the colour drained from Zelten's face. 'The question remains, are you insane, dallying with a princess, and the betrothed of your master, no less?'
Zelten tried to voice some explanation, but the words caught in his throat several times. Brunner waited for the younger man to collect his thoughts. 'I... I met her when the prince was trying to arrange his marriage with her. My men were charged with protecting Prince Gambini's representatives on the road to and from Pavona. We... we were attracted at once. I don't know how it happened, it just did.'
'They might be saying the same thing when they find your throat slit,' snapped the bounty hunter, his voice tinged with disgust at the mercenary's recklessness.
'You... you won't say anything?' asked Zelten. Brunner shook his head.
'No.' he said, 'I have few enough friends in this world to go around arranging their murders' Brunner paused for a moment, staring hard into Zelten's eyes. 'I won't tell anybody, but I suggest you show a little more care in your meetings with her, if you are so stupid as to continue them.' The bounty hunter's voice changed suddenly, becoming less emotional, more calculating. 'I won't say anything, but I want to meet with your mistress. There are some things I'd like to ask her.'
Inwardly, a part of Brunner felt disgusted by his exploitation of Zelten's reckless dalliance, but the bounty hunter quickly dismissed the feeling. He had done far worse things than exploiting a friend's misjudgement, things he had never felt any regret for having done. Indeed, this would provide him his best chance at tracking down his prey. The princess was the only person who had left Pavona who he could be certain was not the murderer, and as such was the only one who had made that journey he could make inquiries of without risking alerting his target that someone was on his trail. With knowledge of her activities with the dashing mercenary captain, Brunner would be able to get all the information he needed from the woman. Then it would only be a matter of time before he would be filling his pockets with Prince Bensario's ducats.
PRINCE GAMBINI SMILED at his bride as they descended the wide staircase. They had spent the morning discussing petty arrangements for their wedding, simple things such as the colour scheme that would be used to decorate the small chapel of Shallya that was the venue for the ceremony, the seating arrangement for the guests who would be arriving from Pavona, and a host of other equally small matters. Umberto Gambini was surprised to find that he did not begrudge the time spent on such trivial things. He did not deceive himself that the coming wedding was anything more than a political alliance, a business arrangement to strengthen the ties between Remas and Pavona, designed to cultivate more favourable trade agreements between the two cities. But the fact that his intended bride was such a beautiful and charming lady did not distress Umberto in the slightest. He even considered that he might break off relations with his mistresses once they were wedded.
Umberto laughed at some witty remark Juliana made, squeezing her hand slightly. She made him feel young, as though the weight of position and power were not heavy upon his shoulders, crushing his vigour long before its time. In her presence, it seemed like all the trade agreements and political manoeuvres he found himself dealing with every day were meaningless, as trivial as any of the hundreds of colour schemes and seating plans they had discussed that morning.
The sight of two men climbing the stairs made the smile die on Umberto's face. He had hoped that the day might remain light and somewhat carefree, yet already, it was destined to turn unpleasant.
The foremost of the two men was dressed in a long yellow robe, stylised sirens and sea monsters embroidered upon the fabric in blacks and reds. The man wearing the robe was old, his head worn down to a thin, fleshless shadow of what it had once been. Scraggly wisps of hair were plastered upon the top of his head in a vain attempt to cover it. The old man strode forward, his eyes darting from the prince to his bride with every step he took. Behind the old man, the garishly dressed figure of Corvino followed, looking almost like a devoted puppy, were it not for the sneering, superior look he favoured the old man's back with.
'Uncle Remaro,' the prince greeted the old man. 'You should be in bed,' Umberto cast a chastising look at Corvino. 'The morning chill is not good for your old bones.'
The old man stared at the prince for a moment, then reached out a withered claw. He gripped the princess's dainty hand, pulling it toward him. Juliana smiled nervously, clearly disliking the clammy touch of the old man's cold skin. Umberto, however, remained unmoving, hoping that what he was observing was some sign that his uncle had at last accepted his bride. There had been several instances already where the half-mad Remaro had upset Juliana.
Remaro studied Juliana's hand for a moment, patting it as though it was some small pet. Juliana cast a pleading look at Umberto. Before the prince could react, however, a strange look came over Remaro's face. The old man's hairy nostrils sniffed at the air. With surprising quickness, he lifted the woman's hand to his nose, sniffing at it like a hound. Juliana removed her hand from the old man's feeble grasp, staring at him in open disgust.
'Smells like man's hands,' the old man cackled. 'Have you been touched by a man? Man's hands been touching you? Eh? Hmmm?' Remaro cackled again, climbing past the shocked prince and his bride. Umberto glared down at Corvino as the fool started to follow after the old man.
'I told you to keep him in his rooms,' the prince growled. 'I do not want my uncle upsetting Juliana.'
'I apologise, my lord,' said the fool, bowing his head. 'I thought that it would be safe to take him for a walk while you were busy discussing the wedding arrangements in the sunroom. I did not think you would be about until your uncle was back in his own rooms. I certainly did not intend any discomfort for her ladyship.'
'See that it doesn't happen again,' Umberto said, his voice surly.
'And keep my uncle out of his cups. He has little enough of his wit remaining, I don't want him further put out of sorts by drinking too much.'
'Only a little wine, my lord,' Corvino explained. 'The physicians say it will help strengthen his blood.'
'More than a little, I trust,' sighed Umberto. 'So far as sneaking bottles from the cellar, my uncle's mind is still as sharp as a knife.' He returned his gaze to the fool. 'Keep a better watch on him,' he said.
Corvino bowed again, then hurried up the rest of the stairs, the bells upon his staff jingling madly as he raced to catch up with the elderly nobleman.
GENERAL MANDALARI SETTLED his body into a leather-backed chair, his clawed wooden leg stretched before him on a small stool. The general slowly swirled the dark brown liquid around in the crystal goblet he held. Then he looked away from his contemplation of the thick Estalian brandy and stared at his guest.
'I am disappointed in you, inquisitor,' the general confessed, unspoken menace lurking in his voice. 'My contacts with the temple recommended you very highly. They said that Gualtiero Bocca was one of the most zealous of the sacred warriors of Solkan.' The general gave a contemptuous snort. 'In my army, I would have had a man like you chopped up and fed to the ogres.'
The man he addressed stood like a black shadow across the room from the seated general, one armoured hand resting on the top of the map-strewn table. Whatever expression Inquisitor Bocca wore, it was hidden behind the cold, judgmental expression of his golden mask. When the inquisitor spoke, however, his voice was anything but cowed.
'The mercenary has only delayed the inevitable,' the priest's words rumbled from behind the mask. 'Those who evoke the wrath of Solkan will find his justice in due time. The Fist of Retribution is as inevitable as the rise of the sun and the turn of the tide.'
'Then your god had best act swiftly,' the general commented impiously. 'Every hour that worm draws breath threatens my plans.'
Warhammer - [Brunner the Bounty Hunter 02] - Blood and Steel Page 25
