Brunner the Bounty Hunter (Blood Money)

by Warhammer

  'Where do I meet you when the job is done?'

  'Alley-run behind butcher-lodge, Fleischer-weg,' the shrill voice replied. Brunner nodded his head.

  'When?'

  'When wyrd-maker dead,' the shrill voice hissed, 'hunter-man come when dark, when butcher-lodge alone. Hunter-man find gold then. Need wyrd-maker slay-kill soon, or not give-spend gold. Day and night, not more.'

  'All right, but bring twice as much money when you meet me. The death of a wizard is not an easy thing,' the bounty hunter stated, studying the sinister man. In truth, what he had been paid already was enough for him to accept the job. And that was what made him uneasy. The strange figure's reaction to his raising of the fee was not what the bounty hunter expected.

  'Gold not problem,' the voice uttered with the same unsettling titter of laughter. 'Small wyrd-maker, easy strike-kill, but gold not problem.' Still laughing, the lean figure rose from the table.

  'This wizard have a name?' Brunner asked, a demanding tone in his voice. The cloaked patron froze, cocking his head to one side, as though it was a curious thing to require the name of the man upon whom he had put a death mark.

  'Niedreg,' the voice pronounced, before slipping away into the shadowy crowd.

  Brunner watched the figure disappear, and considered the gold in his pocket and the mysterious shabby man. He reached forward, tipping the stein to his mouth, to wash away the after-scent of the departed man's cheap perfume.

  Skrim Gnaw-Tail looked from side to side as he scuttled toward the mouth of the sewer. When he was satisfied that no one was looking his way, he dropped to all fours and scampered across the filthy alleyway like the vermin he resembled. He slipped through the narrow opening, dropping ten feet to the dark tunnel of muck-lined stone walls. The skaven's nostrils drank in the stench of the sewer, but even that mighty reek could not entirely drown out the odour of the cheap perfume he had been forced to douse his fur with.

  Skrim removed one of his gloves and raised a grey, hairy paw to his nose. His face wrinkled with disgust and he cast a murderous look at the two mute slaves who had been waiting for his return. He slashed his claws against the face of one of them, enjoying the way the brute flinched. It was not their fault that Skrim had been forced to don his unpleasant disguise and walk among the man-things again, but nothing lessened the irritation seething in Skrim's scheming mind. Such petty retribution even against a hapless lackey eased the skaven's mood somewhat.

  The skaven walked over to the edge of the slime-coated walkway, peering at the foul brown water. The sharp tang of the filth caused Skrim's nose to twitch, but he was more accustomed to this than the overpowering reek of the perfume. To a creature who saw the world through his nose as much as his eyes, it was like being nearly blinded. With another sullen look at his slaves, the skaven dropped into the filthy water, splashing about in the slime for a moment before submerging entirely. When he emerged, clumps of waste and even more unsavoury substances clung to his wet dripping pelt, and a foul odour wafted from his fur, but at least the stinging scent of the perfume had been washed away.

  Skrim snapped a command and the two slaves fell into position: one before and one behind their master. The skaven paid his guards no further attention as they made their way through the dark sewers.

  He was lost in his own thoughts. The man-creature he had hired was well known amongst the smugglers and traitors Skrim had occasion to deal with, and his reputation was indeed terrible. He would be able to accomplish the task, Skrim was certain of that.

  With Niedreg gone, there would be no further connection between Skrim and the unauthorised use of the red pox he had employed against the mad duke. With Niedreg gone, he could stop worrying about the retribution the fanatics of Clan Pestilens would exact upon him if they connected Skrim, the plague-spores that had infected the house, and the plague monk agent who had stolen the spores for him.

  Skrim was saddened by the loss of the filthy creature; it was rare to find skaven amongst the plague monks who were capable of being bribed. Still, Skrim believed in the old adage that it is a wise skaven who collapses his tunnels behind him.

  Once Niedreg was gone, there would only be one more link to sever. It would be easy enough humans were, after all, inferior and witless creatures. Skrim raised his tail and began to nibble at it nervously Still, the stories they told about this bounty hunter were not to be discounted. He looked at the slave ahead of him, then cast a glance over his shoulder at the other one behind. Perhaps he would purchase a few more guards before he met the bounty hunter behind the slaughterhouse to give him his reward.

  A shiver crawled through Skrim's body. Yes, he would get some more guards before facing those merciless eyes again. Caution was not cowardice, and even if it were, only skaven with very short lives held cowardice with any manner of contempt.

  The sound of booted feet striding through the inky blackness beneath Altdorf disturbed the dark brown rat as it nibbled at the wing-bone it had wrestled from a pile of dung. The scavenger turned its beady eyes toward the sound, hissing. The vermin cringed from the bright light and with a squeak it abandoned its meal and leapt into the filthy channel of reeking brown water. The rat's naked tail writhed behind it as it swam off, into the darkness that was its proper home.

  Brunner strode along the narrow walkway, a blazing torch held before him. He moved with caution, his armoured head turning about, staring at the mouldy walls and foetid water that slowly coursed past only inches from his feet.

  The sewers of Altdorf were ancient, dating back almost to the foundation of the city. They had been designed by dwarfs, it was said, as a tribute to Sigmar himself. It was also said that the sewers that served Altdorf were better planned than the streets, as they ran beneath the capital in orderly ranks whereas the lanes and pathways of the capital wound and crossed one another in maddening disorder.

  All sorts of strange stories were told about the sewers. It was rumoured that an ancient dwarf steam engine hissed and churned in the bowels of the city to flush the filth through the underground streams. But there were darker stories too, tales of ghouls lurking in the tunnels, waiting to prowl the streets while the city slept and Morrsleib lorded over the night sky. More gruesome yet, it was said that during the siege of Altdorf by the undead hosts of Vlad von Carstein, entire companies of the living dead had entered the sewers, seeking to enter the city from below, and that some of those deathless monsters still wandered in the dark foulness, doomed to spend eternity there. There were other tales too, of secret covens of profane cultists living beneath the foundation of Sigmar's faith, whose rites summoned up hideous things from the Realm of Chaos.

  But Brunner's mind was not on such fears and fancies; his eyes and ears sought more natural dangers such as pockets of mephitic vapour that might explode in his torch's flame, and packs of starving rats that might not be too discerning about their next meal. Crumbling stonework and archways that waited for a victim before succumbing to the ravages of time and damp. To his mind, these were the adversaries to be feared, not the bogies the foolish and the fearful claimed were in the tunnels.

  He paused to glance down once again at the map, black powder pistol held at the ready. Brunner studied the scrawled pattern of slashes and curves, then stared at the dark openings that yawned away twenty paces to the left, twenty-five to the right and still again to the left at the very limit of his vision. Each of the brickwork archways appeared equally forbidding; a filthy brown stream crawled from the mouth of every one. He made his way forward, then, bracing himself, leapt across the foul waters, nimbly landing on the narrow ledge opposite. He leaned his body against the muckcrusted wall to steady himself.

  Torch in one hand, pistol in the other, the bounty hunter entered the right-hand tunnel, the tunnel that would, in time, worm its way beneath the Imperial Palace itself.

  Fifteen eyes opened as the distant light and the unfamiliar sound of booted feet made themselves known. The eyes blinked a thin membrane snapping over each yellow, pu
s-hued orb, dulling the unfamiliar, stinging light. A huge bulk undulated through the water, its mass glowing from the phosphorescent filth that sweated from its lumpy, fungus-like hide. Claws clicked against one another, anticipating the rending of flesh. Sensitive nostrils flared, scenting the almost forgotten odour of man. The hulk slithered through the waste, leaving a glowing wake behind it. Ahead of the thing, rats squealed in terror, scampering away from the unnatural haunter of the dark.

  The creature had lurked within the tunnels below Altdorf for many long years, far longer than the reigns of Karl-Franz and his father Emperor Luitpold combined. And in the darkness, it hungered. It did not need food, no, indeed, it was well beyond that simple need, its Chaos-ridden flesh preserved and sustained by no worldly meat. But it still felt the pangs of appetite, the needs of hunger. Its horrible, twisted form was not made for the hunt, however, it was far too cumbersome to track down rats and other vermin; its smell, noise and glowing warned away all the creatures of the sewers well before its approach. In the last year, it had fed only twice: once on a river stork that had flown into the sewers and got trapped. The other time, it had discovered a number of men, loading sacks into a small skiff. They had been too busy to see the peril until it was upon them. Only one of the half-dozen smugglers had escaped. Yet even with the bodies of five men rotting in its gullet, the thing had not been sated.

  The torchlight was growing brighter, the footsteps were coming nearer. Body quivering with anticipation, the thing submerged beneath the filthy brown water. It did not understand that even with its body beneath the foulness, it left a film of phosphorescence floating on the water to betray its presence. Even so simple a supposition was now beyond the mind that had once composed volumes of learning and lore and had pondered the true nature of the Winds of Magic.

  Brunner continued to make his way along the embankment, watching his steps as often as he stared at the leather map. The stones were slick and slimy, caked in the filth that had accumulated over the months since the River Reik last swelled its banks and rushed through the sewers, cleansing them in return for the stream of pollution that befouled the mighty river. The bounty hunter smiled. Even if one of Karl-Franz's jailers did know of the secret entrance, he was sure no one would endure the path leading there.

  His smile faded as a new stench struck him: a sickly odour like rancid milk mixed with spoiled cabbage and poured over a pile of vomit. Even in this labyrinth of nauseating stenches, the smell was distinct and overpowering. Tears formed in his eyes, such was the quality of the reek.

  Brunner paused to wipe his eyes. The door was not far, at least according to the map. If it were not, he may have decided to quit the sewer entirely until he could equip himself with a fragrant pomander to out the stench. As it was, there could not be more than fifty yards between him and his goal. He would force his senses to endure the smell for such a short distance.

  With his gloved hand Brunner wiped his eyes, then retrieved his torch. As he lifted the brand from the small crack in the wall which had served him as an emergency sconce, his eyes fell upon the sewage that slowly flowed past the embankment. There was an odd glow about it, a decidedly eerie green luminance. The bounty hunter cocked the hammer of his pistol and thrust the map through his belt.

  The monster rose from the waste, its twin mouths uttering a maddening wail, like the mewling of an infant married with the sound of a dying elk. The thing dripped waste and sewage, streams of filth flowing across its massive back, and down its pulpy, shapeless chest. Five groping, slender limbs flailed about from its trunk-like body, each tipped by a series of sharp claws, like the mandibles of an ant. A cluster of short stalks writhed between the limbs, each sporting a leprous eye that blinked in fascination at the man. Two gaping mouths yawned where breasts might be found, were the thing human. The mouths drooled a digestive venom that sizzled and consumed its own slimy hide. They were toothless and pulpy and seemed to alter shape each time they opened and shut, as though controlled by muscular contractions rather than jaws.

  The creature was immense, larger than a bear, and rose from the filth on a set of legs as broad and powerful as those of an ogre. The legs were short, stumpy and loathsomely human in appearance, but they were covered in small pink fibres that fluttered and danced when they emerged from the gangrenous skin of the abomination.

  Brunner recoiled as the numerous eyes struggled to focus upon him. He raised his weapon, firing at the clustered eyes. The boom and crack of the weapon was almost deafening, the flash of its discharge blinding in the darkness of the sewer. Brunner did not pause to see what effect his shot had had, but began to race from the loathsome being. He could hear the water sloshing behind him as a tremendous bulk surged through the channel.

  Brunner dared a look over his shoulder. The Chaos spawn was nearly upon him, undulating through the water in a hideous, boneless fashion like an eel. The cluster of eye-stalks had been blackened by the pistol shot, a pulpy, fibrous drizzle of yellow pus surrounding the injury. Yet from the base of each ruined stalk, a new eye, the hue of a rotten egg, peered from the gore. And each of the intact eyestalks now acted in concert, fully aware and focused upon the fleeing bounty hunter.

  Brunner spun around, thrusting his torch toward the oncoming mass. The eye stalks snapped shut before the bright glare, but even as the warrior thought the flame might keep the fiendish mutant at bay, one of the snake-like limbs shot forward, wrapping about his arm. He found himself pulled toward the sickly horror, the strength of the thing nearly pulling his arm from the socket. A second tentacle curled itself about his waist as he grasped the dragon hilt of his sword. The spawn pulled Brunner from the brick ledge, and held him above the filthy mire of the channel. The jawless mouths of the abomination slavered, opening and closing with a sickly sucking sound, bubbling fluid sizzling from each maw.

  The bounty hunters hand worked at the trapped sword, straining against the constricting steel coils of the monstrosity. As the beast wrapped tighter about its prey, the breath was crushed from Brunner's lungs. Dark spots blurred his vision and the bounty hunter could feel the icy touch of death. Was he going to die here, devoured by some faceless horror of the dark, all his plans unrealised? Were his bones to fester in filth and dung until they were no more? Wrath blazed in his fading vision. With a burst of hate-fuelled strength, Brunner's grip upon the blade grew firmer and he pulled the ancient sword of the von Drackenburgs from its sheath.

  It was an effort fuelled by more than physical strength; it was an effort made possible by the force of will and spirit. And still, the blade only rose a few inches. Yet it was enough. The coil that held arm and sword firm was cut by the sharp steel edge as it crawled from its scabbard. As the cold steel touched Chaos-ridden flesh, it carved its way through the substance like a red-hot knife through butter. The coil sizzled and burned, a foul green mist rising from the wound. The steel seemed aflame, glowing a brilliant crimson.

  The Chaos spawn wailed a sound all the more horrible for its kinship to the cry of a mortal man. The coils withdrew and unwound with a speed that set Brunner's body spinning. The bounty hunter crashed to the floor of the sewer, legs landing in the filthy channel, chest crunching into the brick embankment, the breastplate cracking the mouldy brickwork.

  Taking deep breaths to feed his violated lungs, Brunner stood quickly, not allowing his mind to register the many hurts he had suffered. The von Drakenburg sword was held before him and there was no mistaking the writhing fire that crawled about the blade; the mystical flame cast a hellish glow upon the brown water and the crumbling vaulted ceiling above. Brunner let a curse escape his lips, bracing himself for the creature's next attack. And, though the din of its ululating howl still thundered all about him, the ghastly glow of the horror's phosphorescence was receding into the dark.

  Brunner breathed a sigh of relief, then stared about him, finding the discarded torch resting, by some miracle of chance, upon the far embankment.

  Leaping across the channel, the bounty hu
nter retrieved the firebrand, then retraced his steps. He dug the map from his belt, employing the hand that still gripped the sword Drakesmalice. Brunner studied the curious scrawl on the map and replaced it in his belt. He was eager to be out of the sewers, for at least the foes he might encounter in the Emperor's dungeons would be human.

  Trotzel stirred on his pallet of straw and lice. The thin, haggard man wore rags that had once been red and blue, though now their colour matched the dirt and grime of his cell. The man's narrow, calculating eyes canvassed the small expanse of his cell: the cold grey stone walls, the bits of bone and rag that littered the floor, the small wooden bowl that served as his slop and the even smaller bowl that held his daily ration of water.

  The thief glanced at the heavy oak door with the iron fittings that separated him from the corridor beyond. He was trying to discern sounds and movement from outside. Perhaps one of the gaolers had decided to administer a beating to work off a bout of boredom.

  A sound to his left roused him from his disconsolate thoughts. Before his stunned eyes, a section of the wall sank inwards, revealing a blank expanse of darkness.

  Trotzel rose from the floor, taking furtive, uncertain steps toward the strange opening in the wall. He had taken no more than a few steps when a gloved hand reached out from the shadows. Even as the thief recoiled, the fist closed about the neck of his tunic. Uttering no more than a frightened squeal, the thief found himself pulled forward, his head smacking against the stonework. Trotzel moaned and slumped to the floor as the hand released him.

  Brunner emerged from the opening, casting a satisfied glance at the unconscious man. The prisoner would be insensible for some time, perhaps even hours; long enough to serve the bounty hunter's needs.

  Looking the man over, a thought formed in Brunner's mind and a new plan began to form. Turning away, the killer strode to the heavy door, removing a series of small hooks and lead weights from his belt. He expertly assembled the objects, then snaked the slender metal hooks through the small barred grille set in the face of the door. A few moments of play with the hooks slid the bolt of the door back. Brunner retrieved the hooks, then crouched and began to work at the lock with a slim piece of curled metal. There was a click, and he pulled the door inward, peering into the dimly lit corridor beyond, to ensure that no patrol was making its rounds. Then he slunk into the hallway, pulling the door closed behind him and throwing the bolt back into place.