Warhammer - [Brunner the Bounty Hunter 01] - Blood Money Read online

  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

  The Money-Lender's Price

  Wolfshead

  The Doom of Gnashrak

  Blood Money

  The Tyrant

  Honour among Vermin

  The Black Prince

  PROLOGUE

  FOR ME, IT all began one hot summer night in the sweltering back streets of the Tilean city of Miragliano. I was in my second year of exile from the place of my birth, grand Altdorf, that emperor of all cities, that symbol of human endeavour, might, learning and faith. It followed, as some may recall, the publication of my own retelling of history's most fearsome villain: A True History of the Life of Count Vlad von Carstein of Sylvania the Vampyre that my troubles began.

  True, the name of Ehrhard Stoecker became known far and wide across the Empire. There was even an invitation to visit the tsarina in Kislev, a land fascinated by tales of the aristocracy of the night. But in my own land, even as fame and fortune crept towards me, implacable foes arose between me and the rewards of my labours. My work was denounced by no less a personage than the Grand Theogonist himself, and the High Priest of Ulric in Middenheim even called the novel 'contemptible'. Literary critics, ever bowing their craven heads to the mood of the pulpit, decried my work as doggerel and claptrap, the work of a barely literate hack who 'doubtless thinks Sylvania is a province in Bretonnia'.

  I could contend with such spiteful and petty detractors, for my publishers happily informed me that with every harsh word the Grand Theogonist deigned to hurl upon my volume, another five hundred copies were sold. And it is in the matter of coin, perhaps, that public opinion has always been, and shall ever be, expressed. No, it was not the vitriol of the critics, nor the scorn of the pulpit that drove me to distant lands to lose myself from the Empire. It was one late night in a darkened street, when I discovered that there were others who had taken offence at my work, and that not all my detractors were human. It was then that I distanced myself from the land of my birth.

  So it was that I, Ehrhard Stoecker, came to be sitting in the burrow-like interior of a filthy tavern in the seediest district in Miragliano, that notorious port of merchant princes, swashbuckling privateers and dastardly smugglers. I had found my status much reduced. I, who had once put to pen some of the most well-known and sinister tales of horror to ever grace the libraries of the Empire.

  The last of my monies from A True History of Vlad were fast failing and I had been impressed upon by a most unscrupulous Tilean by the name of Ernesto a publisher of thin tomes foisted upon seafarers to lessen the tedium of their ocean voyages to turn my talents to furnishing him with fodder for his schilling dreadfuls. I found my days spent lurking in the taverns of Miragliano, dutifully committing to memory the tales of seamen and mercenaries as they sank into their cups, wading through their crude dialects and inveterate boasting to seize any germ of truth behind the stories they related.

  It was not unlike being put to the question by an Estalian torturer, those long hours of trying to endure some simpleton's vanity as he explained how he was the mightiest hero since Sigmar, or at least Konrad. Still, Ernesto needed as much material as I could furnish, and the pittance he paid for each page ensured that I furnished him with as many manuscripts as I could compose.

  I was deep in my cups one evening, sitting in a dockside dive known as the Maid of Albion. I was not, however, as deep as my companion, a petty banditti named Ferrini, who was drunkenly slobbering out his life story. He explained to me how he had become a veritable bandit prince after being villainously spirited away from the household of a noble family in Tobaro by agents of his younger brother, who desired the title for himself. I was finding myself unable to decide if even Ernesto would be able to swallow the lout's lies, when the door of the tavern opened and my companion suddenly became sober as a priest of Morr. I followed his ashen gaze to the figure that had made its way into the room.

  He was a tall man, lean yet muscular, after the fashion of a professional duellist, or a professional assassin men whose need of strength is seconded to their need for agility. The man wore a suit of brigandine armour about his body, a breastplate of gromril, that fabulous metal of the dwarfs, over his chest. Belts of knives, crossbow bolts and other weapons encircled his waist and crossed his chest above the armour. A heavy falchion sword swung from his hip. The man's face was partially obscured, the region above his upper lip hidden behind the rounded surface of his black steel helm. As I gazed upon him, he turned and for a moment the icy blue eyes that stared from behind the visor met my own. The man at my side muttered a word under his breath.

  'Brunner.' Ferrini croaked. He cast a desperate look at the two brutish men who had been with him before my arrival. The pair of bandits was already in motion, one pulling a long-bladed dagger from his belt, the other hefting a heavy club of steel and oak. As the man Ferrini had identified as Brunner began to walk towards our table, Ferrini's comrades assaulted him. There was a flash of light as a knife whipped from one of the armoured man's gloved hands and I saw the club-wielder drop his weapon as the blade sank into his forearm. Even as he screamed, Brunner turned on him, kicking in his teeth with a steel-toed boot. The other bandit charged the killer from behind. Brunner dodged the stabbing blade. I did not see what transpired next, however, though I could hear the man screaming a moment later. For I was hurrying out of the side door of the Maid of Albion, hastening after my drinking partner who had risen from the table and scurried away the instant Brunner's attention had been diverted to the other bandits.

  Had I been even a moment tardier in my pursuit, I should never have caught up with the weasel-faced bandit. The door opened upon a narrow alley, and my former companion was already half way down its length. It took a tremendous effort to catch him. When I did, he spun on me, a dagger clenched in his fist. He recognised me in an instant and withdrew the blade, then turned to run. I placed a hand on his shoulder and told him I knew of a place where he could hide. He sighed a moan of thanks thr
ough heavy breaths and the two of us slid down a dank alleyway toward the dingy little hostel where I kept my rooms.

  Ferrini immediately went to the single window that looked down upon the street, quickly searching for any sign of pursuit. Finding none, he hastily slammed the shutters, sealing off the window. Then, feeling a bit safer, some of the old bravado wormed its way up in the bandit, and he began to tell me about this figure of dread, this walking herald of death and judgement.

  Brunner was a bounty hunter, Ferrini explained. The man's name was a fearful whisper among bandits, pirates and highwaymen as far away as the forests of Bretonnia and the villages of the Reikland. It was said that once Brunner had set out to catch a man, that man's days were numbered not in years, but in weeks. It was said that the bounty hunter had spirited a buccaneer captain from the sanctuary of the pirate stronghold of Sartosa, that he had brought down a traitor to the King of Bretonnia in the court of an Arabyan sheik, and that he had pursued one notorious smuggler to the depths of Black Crag and returned with his prey from the bowels of the goblin fortress. Or at least, the man's head... With sword and bow, there were few men who could match him, and none who could claim supremacy over him in both. The tales went on, each more terrible and grim than the last.

  Then Ferrini's face went white once more. I turned to see what had horrified the bandit so. Standing in the doorway was the armoured figure of the bounty hunter. So silently had he come, I never heard even the softest footfall, the merest creak of the door. It was as if some daemon prince had snapped his fingers and summoned the man from thin air.

  Ferrini fumbled for his sword. I heard the rasp of steel as the bounty hunter drew his own. Ferrini shrieked and threw down his weapon, scrambling for the window, and throwing open the shutters.

  The bounty hunter was on him in an instant. Ferrini became a dead weight in Brunner's gloved hands, sobbing like a child. A liquid stench rose from the bandit's trousers. The bounty hunter did not hold onto his prey, but hurled him screaming through the window. There was a dull thud as the man landed on the cobblestones three floors below.

  The bounty hunter leaned from the window as screams of pain rose from the street.

  'Just his leg,' I heard a voice as cold and chill as an open grave grumble. Thought he'd break his neck. Guess I'll just have to drag him back up here and try again.' The armoured figure turned from the window and began to stalk towards the door with long, pantherish steps.

  Brunner exuded an aura of menace, a tangible feeling of impending violence, a promise of death. But there was something about him that at once captivated and fascinated me. I thought of the sparrow who sees the serpent, knows it for what it is, yet cannot tear its eyes away and fly from its company. I was also reminded of an old saying, a favourite of my father's: The Great and the Good are not always one and the same.' I at once decided that I must speak with this man. The idea had sprung into my mind that the exploits of such a man would be no boastful lies told by some loutish ruffian seeking to enlarge a drunken ego. No, whatever words might pass between myself and a man like this, they would be the truth. A dark, brutal, murderous truth, but truth is not always a pleasant thing. And Ernesto was not paying me to pen parables for the cult of Shallya.

  I must confess that my voice was like the squeak of a mouse when I addressed the bounty hunter for the first time. The man's face, clothed as ever in the steel mask of his helm, fixed upon me, as if becoming aware of my presence for the first time.

  The breath caught in my throat, and for a moment I was certain that I had foolishly invited Morr to reach up from the shadows and pull me into the kingdom of the dead. But after a second, the bounty hunter relaxed his grip on the hilt of his sword. The icy voice spoke again, demanding to know what I wanted.

  I stumbled over my words several times as I tried to relate the idea. It seemed no less suicidal than walking up to a sleeping dragon, knocking it upon the head and loudly proclaiming its mother to be the lowest form of lizard. The bounty hunter listened for a moment, and I watched as a curious light crept into his eyes, as if the blue glaciers behind the visor of his steel face were melting. There was silence. I finally said that I could pay him, and proffered the leather purse that contained monies I had earned from a month of prying stories from the addled memories of pirates and thieves deep in their cups.

  A gloved hand closed about the bag, and stuffed it into his belt. I later came to understand how unusual a gesture this was, for Brunner did not count what I had given him. Whatever moved him to speak with me that night in my dingy little room, the money was nothing more than a dressing, a garnish.

  The bounty hunter walked back into the room, closed a hand about the back of the single wooden chair that was a part of my furnishings, and set it beside the window, in order that he might keep an eye on the moaning man in the street below. I hastened to my table, digging quill, ink and parchment from their cubby holes and set myself upon the floor, eager to begin recording the bounty hunter's adventures before he thought better of such a charitable impulse. He waited until I was ready, and then the icy voice began to speak...

  THE MONEY-LENDER'S PRICE

  We talked long into the dark hours. I am still uncertain what motivated the bounty hunter to confide in me, for as he related a lengthy and gruesome catalogue of bloodshed and depravity, I was certain that no other ears had heard these things before. I was momentarily reminded of a pilgrim listing his misdeeds to a confessor in one of Verena's temples. I cannot help but wonder if Brunner spoke to me out of a similar need to unburden his soul of the filth that encrusted it. As I came to know him better, I often wondered at this grim parody of penitent and confessor, but I am certain that Brunner has never asked anyone man or god to absolve him of anything he has ever done. For him, the gold that crosses his palm is absolution enough.

  Brunner told me many tales that night, of his travels across the Known World and his battles with hideous beasts and equally vile things that were more horrible for their humanity. He told me about his lengthy service under another bounty hunter, a fellow man of the Empire, named Kristov Leopold, until he at last learned all he could from the crafty veteran and surpassed his teacher in the skills of his gory trade.

  At one point during the night, Brunner suddenly rose from his chair and removed the crossbow from the clamp on his left vambrace. He leaned out the window, snarling down at Ferrini in a voice more laden with threat than any red-eyed thing I had encountered in the darkened streets of Altdorf. I heard the bandit sob, and the bounty hunter hiss a second command. Then he fired the crossbow and Ferrinis wails of pain rose from the street, lingering on for sometime before shock and fatigue caused the bandit to fall silent. I later learned that Ferrini had started to crawl away, seeking to escape while we spoke. By what means the bounty hunter knew his prey was escaping, I do not know, but it was almost as if some sixth sense warned him. The sight of the crossbow aimed at him from the window instantly caused the bandit to plead for his life. Brunner ordered the man to place his hand against the wall next to him, holding it above his prone body. Without a moment's hesitation, the bounty hunter fired, the bolt smashing through Ferrini's hand, pinning the man to the wall.

  Satisfied that his prey would be going nowhere, and seemingly paying him no further thought, the bounty hunter resumed his tale, telling me about a money-lender named Volonte...

  THE LITTLE, SHARP-EYED man scuttled through the grimy, manureridden back streets of Miragliano. He wore an ill-tended dark purple tunic above coarse homespun breeches. A slender poniard graced a leather sheath attached to a belt around his emaciated waist. The man did not seem particularly nervous as he passed a band of boisterous mercenary marines on leave from some wealthy merchant vessel berthed in the harbour. The frail-looking man kept his eyes averted from the mercenaries as they lurched their way to the next tavern on this, Miragliano's most notorious street: the Strada dei Cento Peccati. Taverns, brothels, weirdroot dens, fighting pits and other, even less savoury, places of diversion pros
pered here. It was said that even the most dour priest of Morr could not walk the breadth of the street without discovering something to make him forget his clerical vows.

  This lane of illicit pleasure was the most dangerous in the entire city. Murder was more rampant than venereal disease and alcoholism, and not a night passed without a cart of bodies being removed in the morning, destined for the lime pits outside the city. It was whispered that many more died without their bodies being found, slaughtered in dark rituals or spirited away to the abodes of necromancers. It was also rumoured that some of the taverns and brothels, and especially weirdroot dens, were not above drugging their patrons, the unlucky victims waking up to find themselves in the secret holds of some barque bound for the slave markets of distant Araby a fate perhaps worse than death.

  It was a lawless district, where even the watch did not dare to come during the hours of night. It was just the sort of place where the most wretched and depraved of men would thrive. And it was precisely where Rocha would find the man his master had sent him to look for.

  The sound of loud, volatile cursing intruded into his thoughts as a gaudily dressed sailor was flung from the darkened doorway of a beer hall to his left. The man landed noisily in the dungridden gutter. He raised a soiled hand and screamed obscenities at the massive figure looming in the door, his high, nasally tones carrying the accent of a Sartosan. The bearded man in a grimy suit of armour glowered at the cursing sailor for a moment, then stalked from the doorway, his steps swift, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

  The Sartosan started to rise, nervous fear stalking through his anger. Even as he tried to scuttle away, the bearded man was upon him. Rocha heard the sound of a mallet-like fist crashing into the sailor's face, but he ignored the violent scene, having seen its like too often to be interested in its finale. His gaze drifted away from the brawlers and came to rest upon the wooden sign swinging beside the doorway. Depicted upon it was a dark, massive porcine creature. Crude characters beneath the slavering brute spelled out the name 'The Black Boar' in Reikspiel.