Brunner the Bounty Hunter (Blood Money)

by Warhammer

  Tour price, bounty hunter,' the money-lender said. You have done a good, if expensive, job for me.' A sudden gleam of hate flickered across Volonte's face, and he drew the bag close to his breast. 'But before I pay you, I want to hear about his death. I want to hear how Bertolucci grovelled before you and begged for his life. I want you to describe his screams as you cut his heart out!'

  Brunner took another step forward. 'Then I must disappoint you.' A sullen look of anger contorted Volonte's obese features. 'Bertolucci did not beg, nor did he grovel. When he learned who I was, and what I had come for, he did not try to run.' Brunner looked into Volonte's eyes, seeing the dissatisfied look there. 'He simply asked me what the market value of swine was in Miragliano these days'

  A puzzled look replaced the scowl on Volonte's face. Brunner took another step closer.

  'He paid me eighty pieces of copper before he died.' Brunner said, his hand gripping the pommel of the long-bladed and serratededged knife sheathed at his hip. Volonte laughed nervously.

  'Not enough to buy a man like you, eh?' the money-lender stammered, sweat beading along his brow.

  'It is the quarry that determines a bounty hunter's price.' Brunner said, closing the distance between the men. 'A pig is worth much less than a man.'

  Volonte's servants roused in their slumbers as a sharp scream echoed through the walls. The sound seemed to come from the study where their master was in the habit of going over his records of debts late at night. Apparently he was not alone this evening. The thought did not unduly disturb Volonte's household, and many of them went back to sleep. There would be time enough to divide up the money-lender's possessions in the morning.

  WOLFSHEAD

  There are few horrors of the night that have so thoroughly captured the imagination of rural folk as the werewolf Peasants, hunters and woodsmen sit about their midnight fires on chill winter nights and tell bloodcurdling tales of these monsters stalking through the darkened woods, their jaws slavering in eagerness to sink their fangs into the tender young flesh of a lone shepherdess or a lost child. Such folklore is common throughout the Old World. In barbarian Norsca they speak of feral Wulfen and flesh-eating Werekin, still farther north there are tales of the skin-changing Ulfwernar. In Ostermark and Ostland, it is the Balewolf that haunts the night, passing its lupine curse to any hardy enough to survive a bite from its fangs. In Stirland, there are tales of sub-human hillmen who shed their human forms when the sickly light of Morrsleib casts its foulness across the night sky. In Middenland, such creatures are known as Ulricskinder and actually venerated by the cult of lllric. The debased inhabitants of ghoul-haunted Sylvania speak of Doom Wolves and hulking bestial fiends called Varghulfs. The Bretonnians speak of 'les loups garoux', another terror to be protected from by their knights.

  As widespread as stories of werewolves and belief in such creatures is among the unlettered rustics of the country, very little serious scholarship has been conducted into the truth of such legends. Indeed, even the most complete bestiaries treat the subject with only passing mention, if at all. There are few accounts of the werekin made by what could be considered an educated witness that have been handed down. Discounting the spurious report by Felix Jaeger of his encounter with the Children of Ulric in his sensationalistic My Travels with Gotrek, Vol. II, we are left only with the unsatisfying record of the Red Moon Killer who terrorized Altdorf as recorded in the pamphlet The Private Life of the Great Sage-Detective of Altdorf, As Recounted by his Faithful Manservant and Companion. This later work is a tawdry volume published in the Moot and authored by a halfling simply addressing himself as 'Vido'. Given such an unreliable source, this account of the renowned Zavant Konniger catching a were-beast in the middle of the Imperial capital can be safely discounted.

  I was considering the paucity of reliable stories of werewolves one evening while sitting in the Black Boar. Being a bit deeper in my cups than usual, I began inquiring if there were any legends of such creatures told in Miragliano. As I should have expected, I was soon up to my ears in ridiculous stories about verminous underfolk stealing babies and grain, but these were hardly the sort of thing I was interested in. I said as much, hoping to curtail the barrage of fables being foisted on me and again reiterated my interest in creatures that were not a hodge-podge of beast and man, but ones that could change from one to the other and back again. As I expected, silence rewarded my outburst.

  The silence was broken by a familiar cold voice from the shadows. I turned in surprise, for I had not seen my grim collaborator sitting there in the darkness. I hurriedly sat down at the table and fumbled for quill and parchment as Brunner began to tell me of his own encounter with a werewolf in the lonely forests of the Empire...

  Trees loomed thick and brooding on every side, casting weird shadows by the sickly light of Morrslieb. The gibbous moon glowered like the face of some malignant god from the starless sky, its more wholesome companion Mannslieb just a thin silvery sliver cringing against the horizon like a whipped cur. What had started as a clear and distinct path through the forest had degenerated into little better than a boar run, overgrown shrubs and bushes pressing in to reclaim the ground.

  It was rough going for the two horses that forged their way through the overgrown track, but for the man who walked behind the beasts, the passage was nothing short of tortuous. His lean face was a scabby bruise from where branches had whipped across it, his rough homespun garments were tattered and torn by the ravages of thorns and his goatskin boots were almost shapeless within thick layers of dried mud. The man stumbled, his arms pulled taut ahead of his body and his hands crossed and lashed together by a thick cord of rope. Its other end was tethered securely to the tack of the smaller of the animals, a grey packhorse, its back laden down with bundles and sacks, a small wooden keg lashed to its side and the ugly hook of a halberd peeking from beneath rolled blankets.

  'Shallya's Blood!' the man cursed as another branch smacked across his nose, splitting the skin. 'It's too dark to go on!'

  The rider on the foremost horse, a huge black destrier, turned in the saddle, cold eyes staring from behind the visor of a steel sallet helm. The captive blanched as he felt those eyes bore into his own.

  'I don't like it any better than you,' the rider said, his tone as menacing as the purr of a panther. 'I don't like it when they want the merchandise delivered still breathing.' He leaned over in the saddle, spitting the taste of his cigar into the brush. 'You might mention that to Judge Vaulkberg when you see him.'

  Beads of sweat peppered the prisoner's face as he heard the name of the magistrate. Viktor Schwartz had fled the Reikland when he learned the infamous Judge Vaulkberg was looking for him. The confidence man had gone too far when he had assumed the title of 'Baron von Schwartzhelm' in his last racket. The real von Schwartzhelms had taken offence at the indignity of their name being appropriated by a criminal and made their displeasure known in no uncertain terms. He had thought Stirland would be beyond Judge Vaulkberg's reach. He hadn't thought about the fat bounty Vaulkberg had set on his head to appease the von Schwartzhelms, nor how far the ruthless breed of men who made their living as bounty killers would go to collect that reward.

  Viktor had certainly never imagined a man as tenacious and relentless as the one who had finally caught him. Single-handed, the bounty killer had dragged him from the nest of river pirates with whom he had taken refuge. The confidence man shivered as he recalled the gruesome epilogue to that murderous scene. The bounty killer had set fire to the pirate lair, then shot down the outlaws as they came out the door, only he had been spared such a miserable death. That had been barbaric enough, but afterwards he had been forced by his captor to help him poke among the cinders for any bodies recognisable enough to turn in to the riverwardens. Viktor turned his horrified eyes to the wooden keg lashed to the side of the packhorse the bounty hunter grimly called Paychest and felt his stomach turn. He ran his hand against his neck, imagining the steel teeth of the killer's knife sawing through fles
h and bone.

  Brunner was nothing if not pragmatic. Why drag the entire body away, when just the head would do?

  The bounty killer cut a formidable aspect upon the back of his grim black warhorse, a Bretonnian steed named Fiend. The man wore a suit of weathered brigandine armour, metal studs poking through the layers of reinforced leather. Steel vambraces shielded his forearms, a breastplate of thick gromril covering his chest. Bandoliers of crossbow bolts and throwing knives criss-crossed his torso and from his leather belt a riotous array of weapons dripped like venom from a serpent's fang. The fat-bladed knife with its serrated edge, the morbid Headsman Viktor had seen in action among the ashes of the pirate lair. A thick hatchet, its wooden heft deeply stained from its blood-drenched career. A pair of slender, almostdelicate looking crossbow pistols hung at his hips, their blackened steel frames almost melding with the sombre coat of Fiend as they slapped against the horse's flanks. Across his belly, Brunner wore a holstered duelling pistol, one of the killer's hands lingering close to the grip of the firearm. Against the bounty hunter's left hip, the sheathed length of a murderous falchion, a butchering blade capable of tearing the steel from a man's grip as easily as it could gut the man himself.

  Brunner's face was largely hidden beneath the visor of his rounded sallet helm, but what Viktor could see was a hard, unforgiving countenance with a mouth turned down in a perpetual scowl and a shallow grey scar pulling at the chin. He knew the man was a Reiklander by his speech and accent, but highborn or low commoner was something Viktor found strangely difficult to extract from the bounty hunter's voice. Certainly the hunter's casual disdain for Viktor's attempts at bribery to secure his release bespoke no commoner scraping to earn his living by such a dangerous profession. Though, perhaps, this was simply because he had not offered enough?

  'You know,' Viktor began without preamble. 'I have some rather influential friends who would make it well worth your while...' He paused as another branch came slashing into his face, opening an oozing cut in his cheek. Viktor cursed lividly, then struggled to refocus his thoughts. 'My friends would pay well to have me back safe and sound, and wouldn't be too particular about who they paid, or why.'

  Viktor felt rather than saw Brunner's steely glare as he swung back around in his saddle.

  'Friends like your pirates?' the bounty hunter sneered. 'All the money I want from that sort I can put across Paychest's back.' Brunner tapped the metal handle of the Headsman in a grim gesture. 'As for you, I'd consider what I had to say very carefully. I'm not a tolerant man and my indulgence is over.' Brunner turned back around, spitting the stump of his cigar into the darkness. 'Vaulkberg wants you alive. He didn't say anything about with or without tongue.'

  All the colour drained out of Viktor Schwartz as he heard the threat, stunned into silence by the casual manner in which it was made. Shocked into silence, the outlaw was almost pulled from his feet as the bounty hunter's animals continued their march through the benighted forest. Too terrified even to curse, Viktor stumbled along in his effort to keep up.

  Suddenly, Viktor found himself crashing into the rump of Paychest. The grey packhorse stood stock still, its eyes wide with alarm, its ears standing up, its hooves pawing nervously at the ground. Ahead, he could see the black bulk of Fiend and even the warhorse seemed agitated, swinging its huge head from side to side as though trying to spot some hidden menace. The bounty hunter upon its back was likewise rigid with concentration, listening for any errant sound among the shadows. His hand had fallen to the grip of his pistol, slowly inching the weapon from its holster.

  All was silence, even the chirping of crickets seemed to be muted by some unseen malignance. Viktor could hear his heart hammering in his chest, feel his throat going tight from fear. He could feel it now, as surely as the horses and the hunter. There was something out there, something obscene and unnatural.

  From somewhere deep in the forest, a piercing howl rose into the night. It was a savage, feral sound, both deep and sharp, seeming to echo in the very bones of those who heard it. It was not unlike the cry of a wolf, but of such volume and magnitude that defied belief. Viktor muttered a quite prayer to Taal, god of the beasts and the wild, as he heard it. The bounty hunters horses nickered and stamped their hooves in agitation. For his part, Brunner drew his pistol and checked to see that the firing cap was secure upon the weapon's steel nipple.

  A chill wind rustled through the brush, fanning the terror of the two horses, forcing the bounty hunter to forget his weapon for the moment to quieten his steed. Viktor dodged out of the path of the bucking Paychest until the bounty killer dismounted and calmed the draft horse as well.

  When he turned from his chore, Brunner ripped the pistol back from its holster, allowing his other hand to slip around the hilt of his falchion. Ahead, in the darkness, a shape moved, creeping through the brush towards the two men.

  Brunner aimed his pistol at the approaching shadow, his finger loose around the trigger. The slightest pressure would send a lead ball blasting through the head of the advancing wraith. Though he could make out nothing but a darker shadow beyond the bushes, the manner in which Fiend and Paychest reacted to the unseen denizen of the dark was enough to make him aware that it was no natural thing. The woods and forests of the Empire were havens for all manner of goblins and beastmen, as well as other, less wholesome inhabitants. A few more steps, and Brunner would make the wilds of Stirland safer by one less monster.

  The bounty hunter gave a sharp cry of alarm as the pistol fell from his gloved hand. The leather smoked where the suddenly white-hot weapon had seared him where he gripped it. The spectral chill of sorcery whirled around him, creating a sinister contrast to his burned hand. Brunner tore his falchion from its sheath, staring into the darkness, ready to rush his spell-slinging foe. The shadow he had seen before was no longer there. The bounty hunter's instincts caused him to spin around towards the other side of the path.

  A dark figure smiled at him with a ratty, gap-toothed grin as Brunner raised his falchion to strike.

  'None of that, sweetie,' the figure croaked in a voice that was withered with age and evil. 'It's no harm Mamma Miranda means to you. It'd be a true pity for me to have to burn your other hand now.'

  As she spoke, the woman stepped forwards into the dim light of the moon. She was a little creature, barely tall enough to touch the fetlocks of Brunner's charger, her back almost as crooked as a woodsman's bow. She leaned upon a knobbly cane of oak and was wrapped tight in a dark woollen shawl, the hood pulled close about her scraggly white hair and shrivelled head. It was a desiccated, reptilian face that stared from the frame of the hood, the skin splotched with brown blemishes and wrinkled like old leather. Her nose was a little bulb set above her wide, rodent-like mouth and the eyes that gleamed from either side of it were strangely luminescent in the darkness. A tangle of charms and talismans rattled about her throat and dangled from her wrists, bearing symbols of Ahalt the Drinker and other, even more unspeakable gods.

  Brunner slowly lowered his sword, carefully returning it to its sheath. Miranda watched the action with seemingly rapt attention, then her rat-like grin hardened.

  'Don't think I don't see you going for your knife while you put yon boar-cutter away,' the old woman cackled. 'It's a good turn I mean you and you have nay right to bear me such ill.'

  'Is that so?' the bounty hunter returned. He folded his arms across his chest in a seeming gesture of defeat. 'What have I done to warrant the interest of a witch?'

  Miranda scowled at the word and her glittering eyes took on an even uglier appearance. 'It's careful you should be about baiting me, child.

  There's Powers I be beholden to and They be the ones what have an interest in you, nay old Mamma Miranda. Left to me, and I'd leave you to have your bones picked clean and your guts spilt across the forest!'

  'I care nothing for your daemons or your magic, witch!' Brunner growled back. The fingers of his left hand slipped gradually beneath the vambrace on his right arm, reac
hing for the slender throwing knife hidden there. 'I have business in Reikland and no desire to waste words with a heretic hag!'

  The witch uttered a cackle of scornful amusement. She stabbed a crooked finger at Viktor. 'Your dead man will never reach the judge, and weeds will grow through your gnawed bones and a fitting end it would be too.' Miranda's scowl grew even sicklier and she fingered one of her talismans, a metal sliver of moon intersected by a disc. 'Unfortunately it would sit ill with my Masters if I were to allow harm to befall you because of my magic, and Their displeasure is not a thing to be taken lightly.'

  With a speed that even Brunner found amazing, the old woman removed a bundle of weeds from beneath her shawl and threw them at the bounty hunter's feet. You are not the only hunter abroad this night, Brunner of Drakenberg. When the beast picks up your scent, you must burn these herbs' Miranda saw the incredulous twist of Brunner's mouth. There are things against which lead and steel are not enough,' she warned. That is when you might be thankful for an old witch's magic!'

  Brunner bent down to retrieve the bundle of herbs, using the motion to cover his hand as he finished pulling the knife from beneath his armour. His eyes were only off the witch for an instant, but when he straightened to hurl his weapon at her, he found himself staring only at the night-blackened forest. He fought back the twinge of supernatural dread the hag's vanishment evoked.

  'She... she disappeared... right there! While I was... was watching!' stammered Viktor, pointing with his tethered hands at the empty bushes.

  Brunner stalked over to his captive, checking his bonds. The witch might have vanished, but his prisoner wasn't going to follow her example.

  'She... she was a witch!' Viktor gasped. He grabbed Brunner's arm in a desperate gesture. 'She said I would never reach Judge Vaulkberg, that I was a dead man!'