Brunner the Bounty Hunter (Blood And Steel) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  This is a dark age, a bloody age, an age of daemons

  and of sorcery. It is an age of battle and death, and of the

  world's ending. Amidst all of the fire, flame and fury

  it is a time, too, of mighty heroes, of bold deeds

  and great courage.

  At the heart of the Old World sprawls the Empire, the

  largest and most powerful of the human realms. Known for

  its engineers, sorcerers, traders and soldiers, it is

  a land of great mountains, mighty rivers, dark forests

  and vast cities. And from his throne in Altdorf reigns

  the Emperor Karl-Franz, sacred descendant of the

  founder of these lands, Sigmar, and wielder

  of his magical warhammer.

  But these are far from civilised times. Across the length

  and breadth of the Old World, from the knightly palaces

  of Bretonnia to ice-bound Kislev in the far north, come

  rumblings of war. In the towering World's Edge Mountains,

  the orc tribes are gathering for another assault. Bandits and

  renegades harry the wild southern lands of

  the Border Princes. There are rumours of rat-things, the

  skaven, emerging from the sewers and swamps across the

  land. And from the northern wildernesses there is the

  ever-present threat of Chaos, of daemons and beastmen

  corrupted by the foul powers of the Dark Gods.

  As the time of battle draws ever

  near, the Empire needs heroes

  like never before.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Beneath the Vaults

  Sickhouse

  Deathmark

  Where walks the Mardagg

  PROLOGUE

  The world is beset on all sides by great and terrible perils, creatures of the Old Night, things far beyond the imaginings of those safe in their beds within the sturdy walls of Altdorf. Evils, both mortal and supernatural, stalk the lands of men, from the green pastureland of Bretonnia to the swarming cities of the Empire. From the harsh deserts of Estalia to the crumbling strongholds of the dwarfs, dread forces move and dark deeds are consecrated to the most abominable of powers.

  My chosen vocation is as a chronicler of such things, for I have ever been drawn to the workings of evil, as a moth is drawn to a flame. Indeed, it was my notorious work, A True History of Vlad von Carstein, and the unwanted attention it gathered, which caused me to flee my native Altdorf. For I discovered that supernatural monsters lurk even in the very shadow of the Emperor's palace and hunt in the very streets of his capital.

  But even in exile, a man is still who he is. I continued to write tales of mystery and adventure, drawing upon the life experiences of sometimes less than reputable sources. Sometimes, far too rarely, I would uncover some valiant and noble heart who had stood defiant before the forces of ruin and Chaos, who had heroically challenged the powers of darkness and driven them back into the shadows. More often, however, I learned the depths of greed and avarice to which a human soul can sink. Gold, I discovered, had stirred more men to action than any righteous cause. For the promise of gold, a man might stand his ground against the most terrible of monsters, the most debased and degenerate parodies of humanity, and thank steel rather than the gods that he emerged triumphant.

  I had good cause to consider such things as I sat within a small tavern in the Bretonnian city of Parravon. It was to here that I had migrated after my hasty departure from the Tilean city of Miragliano in the south, and it was to here that I had returned after my brief flirtation with adventure, chronicled in my pamphlet The Fall of the Black Prince. Many months had passed since I had parted ways with my companion on that enterprise. Occasionally I would hear a rumour of his activities, a tale of murder and mayhem from some desolate corner of the realm. But of the man himself, there was no sign until the first thunderheads began to slip down from the looming heights of the Grey Mountains.

  It was a dreary, chill evening and the sun was just beginning to forsake the sky. Overhead, thunder rumbled, echoing through the streets of the narrow Bretonnian township. I stood just outside the door of the tavern, watching the play of lightning in the distance. I was minded of old stories of storm gods and their capricious battles amongst one another. The flash of lightning was said to be the gleam of their swords as they struck one another's blades, the boom of the thunder was their raised voices as they contested in the sky above the storm. It was a fabulous display, each blue flash of light cast by the weather making the craggy heights of the mountains manifest from the deepening shadows like some spectral apparition.

  For many long minutes I lost myself, fascinated by the awesome display of elemental might unfolding before me. It reminded me that there are things so much greater than fragile mankind, and that all his works, all his advances in civilisation, in science and wizardry, must seem as small and worthless as an ant hill beside them. What was man beside such forces as those that assailed him? The borders of his lands were ever threatened by the howling hosts of orc and goblin; the forests within his domains were the refuge of twisted, horrible things: mutants and beastmen, the children of dark gods and perverse corruption. Fiendish predators stalked the streets of even the greatest of his cities, fearsome monsters who had long ago forsaken their humanity for a loathsome parody of immortality. Beneath those same streets, other things lurked - the foul skaven, warped rat-like creatures of Chaos, working their foul intrigues below while the people living above discounted their very existence as spurious myth and superstition.

  More loathsome than any of these, however, were the still human degenerates who had willingly betrayed all that was decent and good and bowed instead before the altars of the Ruinous Powers in hidden covens, forsaking their very souls in exchange for unspeakable promises. Evil was everywhere, lurking, waiting, biding its time until the hour of doom should arrive, and too few were those who might stand against it.

  I looked away from the storm, distressed by the course my thoughts had wandered on. The sky was fast growing dark and I turned to go indoors. Even in Parravon, with its gardens and cobbled streets, its high walls and guarding cliffs, even here did the reach of evil extend. For generations some nameless thing had prowled the city after dark, so that none would willingly risk travelling the narrow lanes after the sun had forsaken its post. I had learned that it is often wise to heed such customs, as past experiences had taught me that many legends are more real than we would like to believe.

  As I turned to re-enter the tavern, I noticed a figure striding through the gloom. There was something familiar about that walk, and I hesitated.

  The man who approached was tall, his build lean, betraying a quality of muscle and power. He wore a suit of brigandine armour about his frame, over which a breastplate of gromril encased his chest. At some point, that fabulously hard metal had been scratched by a tremendous blow. Steel vambraces, darkened black to prevent any betraying shine, enclosed the man's forearms, while mismatched shoulder guards protected his upper arms. Hard leather boots with steel toes rose to meet the steel leg greaves that protected his thighs.

  The man was a walking arsenal, a small crossbow pistol dangled from a clamp set upon one of his vambraces and a belt of knives crossed his chest. An expensive-looking pistol sheltered in a holster set across his belly while a thick-bladed hatchet swung from his belt just above his right leg. A massive, cruel knife nestled beside the hatchet, a blade with a serrated edge that its owner had morbidly named the 'Headsman'. A scabbard on the man's left
side held a longsword, its pommel and guard shaped in the form of a golden dragon with outspread wings. Its name was 'Drakesmalice', a sword with some history and reputation in the lands formerly owned by the house of von Drakenburg, and now claimed by the Viscount de Chegney.

  The warrior continued to stride towards me out of the darkening twilight. His face was largely concealed by the mask of a rounded sallet helm, of the sort favoured by the militia and soldiery of Reikland. It was of black steel and a dent in its surface gave evidence to some past service it had performed for its wearer. Cold blue eyes regarded me through the visor.

  'Stoecker,' the man addressed me in a hard voice.

  'It has been a long time, Brunner,' I said. 'Over half a year.'

  'I've been busy,' Brunner replied.

  'No rest for the wicked?'

  'Not until they put me in the ground,' was his response. 'And you? I should have thought you would have left a backwater like Parravon a long time ago.'

  'I keep myself busy,' I lied. In truth, the tedium of the place, the unending chore of transcribing the Duc of Parravon's grossly enriched family history, had been working on me and I had begun to consider moving on. 'The climate here agrees with me,' I elaborated. Actually, the climate had become fairly hostile ever since Yvette had forsaken my company for that of a dashing young guardsman, who seemed unable to cope with the presence of a former paramour of his beloved.

  'Perhaps we might repair indoors,' I said, noting with alarm the rapid onset of night. Brunner inclined his head, motioning for me to lead the way. It was a short walk back to the tavern, and I soon secured a table and two tankards of mead, for they had long since run dry of anything approaching beer. Brunner sat at the table, leaning back against the wall, his eyes canvassing the room, studying each face with a practiced gaze.

  Brunner was a bounty hunter, one of the most notorious in the Old World. From the bandit strongholds of the Forest of Shadows, to the lowliest thieves' nest in Gisoreux, his name alone was enough to make outlaws shudder with fear. His reputation was something of a legend in and of itself, and it was said that he never failed to bring in his prey once he was on their trail. Death was the only escape from this relentless hunter, and even then there was no guarantee that he would not yet bring his catch back. The 'Headsman' was not so named casually, that gruesome instrument had earned its name. I had often seen the evidence of this for myself.

  I had met Brunner in the south, during my years of exile in Miragliano. At the time, I had been penning adventure pamphlets for a spurious publisher named Ernesto, and the bloody career of the bounty hunter had formed the basis for some of these shilling dreadfuls. There was something at once terrible and fascinating about the man, repulsive and compelling at the same time. I should have never had anything to do with him after the events that led to my hasty flight from the Tilean city, yet when he had arrived in Parravon on the trail of the infamous Black Prince, I had not only renewed our association, but even accompanied him on his perilous hunt. Now I found myself once again sitting over drinks with the remorseless killer.

  'I unearthed one of your books in Gisoreux,' Brunner said after he had sipped at his mead. 'Amazing how far those things have travelled.'

  'Everyone appreciates a hero,' I said. 'It gives them an escape from the hardships of everyday life.'

  Brunner leaned forward over the table. 'You should try writing the truth sometime. Write about what really happened. Not some tripe about a noble warrior on a white horse, riding off to right wrongs and champion the weak and punish the wicked.'

  'Indeed,' I shot back, 'you would prefer me to write about a heartless bastard who would put his sword through Sigmar reborn if he saw gold in such a deed!' The bounty hunter glared at me for a moment, then laughed grimly.

  'Perhaps you have the right of it,' he said. 'Nobody wants to face the way things really are. They like their lies and fables.' He sipped again at his drink. 'I don't think many people would appreciate some of the things I've seen and done.'

  It is one of the failings of my personality that I have a morbid fascination with tales of horror and the macabre, but I must also admit to a profound interest in the less than stalwart deeds of men such as Brunner. Their very existence on the fringes of society, their ability to kill without question or pity, their amazing knack for surviving against even the greatest odds has become a compelling mystery to me. As I heard the haunted tone in Brunner's voice, my ears picked up and I set about trying to draw the story out of him. At last, he relented.

  Brunner finished off his mead, wiping the sleeve of his tunic across his lips. Then he settled back and began to speak.

  'As you know, some time passed between your departure from Miragliano and my coming to Parravon,' Brunner rumbled. 'There are a great many things that happened to me while you were away...'

  BENEATH THE VAULTS

  Nicoletta slowly made her way from the raucous commotion of the large common room that dominated the lower floor of the Purple Kitten. It was a busy night for the notorious Miragliano brothel. No less than seven merchant vessels had docked in the harbour during the day, each having just returned from a long and dangerous voyage to the northern port of Marienburg. But the eagerness of the sailors and mercenary marines to squander their wealth was not attractive to Nicoletta this night. Her mind was troubled, making it difficult for her to abide the crude gaiety of the common room, much less the physical aspects of her trade. Though the hour was not very late, Nicoletta had given her sisters of the night her share of the custom and was now making her way to her small room on the upper floor of the bordello.

  Of course, such a dereliction of her duties was not without its hazards. If Madame Livia were to discover her absence, the best she could expect would be a beating. More likely, the wizened hag would detail Nicoletta to entertain some of the brothel's more curious customers, and their less than common tastes. Normally, the least appealing of the girls was given such duties, but Madame Livia never failed to threaten her prettier workers with the detail when they were not compliant with her wishes and the demands of business.

  The woman paused before her door. She could hear sounds coming from the other rooms and a part of her mind chided her for her foolishness, for throwing away all the silver and gold she might earn if she would just forget about things. There was nothing she could do, and worrying would solve nothing. She was risking the wrath of her madame by not working. All it would take would be for one of the other girls to discover that she had slipped away and inform the madame and she would have even more problems to occupy her mind. It was no good the softer, less practical instincts were too strong to wish away with common sense. Nicoletta could not help worrying about her beloved, nor could she distance herself enough from him to ply her trade.

  She had met him years ago, right here in the Purple Kitten. He had cut a dashing figure, a handsome rogue sailor, an adventurer who had travelled to nearly every port Nicoletta had ever heard of. He'd seen the great statues of all the old emperors in Altdorfs Konigplatz. He'd sailed his ship beneath Marienburg's high bridge and passed within view of the craggy coasts of the fabled and dreaded Norsca. She'd at once warmed to his rakish charm, aided in no small way by the gold and jewels he had lavished upon her. He'd promised to take her away from the Purple Kitten when he had amassed enough wealth to provide her with a home in whatever city she chose. Unlike the many other infatuated sailors and mercenaries she had entertained, she'd believed Bruno Brega. The small treasures he presented her every time he made port in Miragliano convinced her of his sincerity. One day, Bruno Brega would indeed take her away from Madame Livia and her customers. And, Nicoletta decided, living with the good looking smuggler wouldn't be such a bad price to pay for her liberty.

  She opened the door and stepped into the darkened room. At once a foul animal reek struck her. She clutched her nose against the smell, her powdered face twisting into a grimace of disgust. It was as if every dog on the Strada dei Cento Peccati had rolled around the overfl
owing gutters and then pranced about in her room. Nicoletta snarled a curse and stamped across the small room, past the large bed and toward the sole window to lift the shutter and allow the disgusting smell an avenue of escape.

  As the trull made her way through the shadowy room, a patch of darkness detached itself from the wall. Before the woman could react, the apparition had placed itself between her and the door. An arm, wrapped in leather bindings, extended from the shadow; its hand fastened upon the door, and slammed it closed.

  Nicoletta opened her mouth to yell - possibly to gain the attention of the burly toughs that protected Madame Livia's girls as she backed away toward one of the walls. But the sound died on her lips as the feeble light from the window illuminated the hand. It was not human at all, but something clawed and twisted and horrible.

  The shadow advanced upon her, and as it came forward, the animal stench filled her lungs. She could only just make out the basic outline of the sinister figure: it was a tall, lean creature, shrouded in a hooded cloak that fell to its thighs. The legs seemed wrong in some way. As the interloper came forward, it seemed as if its knees folded backward and forward at the same time. Hard boots that reflected the dim light from the street encased its feet.

  Nicoletta retreated before the fearsome presence, cringing into some tiny corner of her soul, sobbing like a child. The animal stench grew and Nicoletta could see the visage that observed her from beneath the shadowy hood. The lower face was wrapped in a thick, heavy scarf of rough material, but above the scarf the skin was coarse and swarthy, hirsute and weathered. Eyes gleamed from the masked face - eyes that burned and glowed with an orange light in the darkness.

  Nicoletta trembled, fumbling at the pocket of her dress for the small knife she kept hidden there. The shadow laughed, and then it spoke.

  'Ah, my mangy dove,' the shadow's voice rasped. It was like a foul wind blowing across a dank bog, bubbling with corruption and decay. 'I have waited so very long for you to return to your roost.'