SICKHOUSE

by C L Werner

The Atmosphere in the dingy little cellar room was, if anything, even more stifling than the sweltering Miragliano streets overhead. Strings of wet linen had been set between the thick wooden posts that supported the tannery above the cellar, yet far from cooling the dank chamber they had served only to increase the humidity. Coupled with the rich stink of rotten vegetables and the other refuse that lay heaped in piles all around the chamber, the effect was not unlike entering one of the blighted swamps that crouched beyond the city walls. Certainly the cellar’s lone denizen should not have looked out of place in such an environment.

The feeble creature that sprawled upon the rickety cot rolled onto his side, stretching a thin, wasted limb toward the small oil lamp that rested on the floor beside him. Thick, wormy digits that were more tentacles than fingers raised the flame, increasing the illumination within the miserable rat-hole. The mutant scowled as his visitor sank into the chair facing him without invitation. The creature muttered under his breath. Manners were often lacking in those who still deigned to visit Tessari the information broker.

‘What you want to know will cost you two pieces of silver,’ the mutant croaked. The man sitting in the chair smiled thinly at the crippled monster.

‘And how do you know that, Snake-Fingers?’ the visitor’s harsh voice sneered. ‘I haven’t said anything yet.’ There was a note of suspicion and challenge to the man’s voice, an unspoken threat behind his words. Tessari leaned back, his eyes narrowing.

‘There is no mystery to my price, bounty killer,’ Tessari replied, putting as much distaste in the title as his visitor had in describing the mutant’s affliction. ‘I need two pieces of silver to secure a new supply of blankets before winter sets in. Therefore, whatever it is you wish to know, the price is two pieces of silver.’

For a moment, the bounty hunter was silent, as though pondering Tessari’s price. At length, he nodded his head in agreement. ‘Very well, cellar-rat, I am looking for the thief Riano. So far, I haven’t been able to find him. Rats have ears, tell me what you have heard.’

‘Have you tried searching the back rooms of the Maid of Albion?’ Tessari inquired. ‘Riano has done favours for the owner of that drinking hole in the past.’

‘I’ve already looked there,’ the bounty hunter snarled. ‘Riano’s nowhere in Miragliano.’

‘How can you be certain?’ Tessari pressed, his tones bubbling with interest. The wormy fingers of his hand twitched in a loathsomely boneless fashion.

‘Because if he was in Miragliano, I’d have found him already,’ the bounty hunter retorted, his temper rising. ‘It seems clear to me that you do not know anything, Maggot-Hand.’ The killer began to rise from the chair.

‘Don’t be hasty!’ Tessari cried out, surging forward, reaching toward the bounty hunter. ‘Sit, and talk with me.’

‘I’ve better ways to spend my time than wasting it down in this rat’s den of yours,’ the bounty hunter snapped. ‘If you can’t help me, I’ll find someone who can.’

‘The man you are looking for has left Miragliano,’ Tessari called out to the killer’s back, frightened by the prospect of being left alone once more within the dank cellar. ‘If so, then he has gone somewhere he can lie low until the price on his head diminishes. Someplace he will feel safe.’

The bounty hunter hesitated, turning slowly, one hand gripping the weapon hanging from his belt. ‘And where would that be?’ he demanded. Tessari held out the less deformed of his hands, waiting until his visitor walked back and placed a silver coin in his palm. The bounty killer held the other one poised between his thumb and forefinger.

‘I’ll give you this one if your information is useful.’ he informed the mutant. Tessari shrank back into his bedding.

‘Riano grew up in the small village of Decimas,’ the mutant stated. ‘If he has fled Miragliano, he can only have gone back to Decimas, where he has many friends. Friends who might make things rather hard for men of your profession.’

‘I doubt it,’ the bounty hunter told Tessari, tossing the other coin to the mutant. The bounty hunter turned away once more.

‘Wait!’ Tessari cried. ‘There is more, something else that would be of interest to a man like you.’ The visitor turned back, glaring down at the deformed man.

‘I grow tired of these games, lice-breeder,’ the warrior hissed. ‘What else do you have to say?’

Tessari’s twisted face spread into an avaricious smile. ‘It will cost you another silver piece.’ The bounty hunter drew another coin from a pouch fixed to his belt, holding it once more between his fingers.

‘There is another man looking for Riano, a bounty killer like yourself.’ Tessari leaned forward, voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Would it interest you to know that two days ago another man was standing where you are now, asking me the same questions you’ve been asking?’

‘Out with it, dung-eater! Who else is on Riano’s trail?’

‘Brunner,’ Tessari told his visitor, enjoying the sudden unease that manifested upon the other man’s features. The mutant grimaced as the bounty hunter returned the silver coin to its pouch. ‘That was mine!’ Tessari growled.

‘And how much did Brunner pay for his information?’ his guest demanded. Tessari glared at the other man, wormy fingers coiling like angry pythons. The bounty hunter smiled back. ‘Since he has a head start on me, I’d be a fool to pay more than he did.’ The man withdrew through the gloom of the cellar. Behind him, the twisted Tessari hurled obscenities at his back.

The sun hung high in the sky, glaring down from the azure plain, causing tiny ripples of heat to shimmer upwards from the scraggly brown grass below. The barren dirt and rock of the narrow road that crawled between the underbrush and the sickly trees had been baked to the solidity of granite, for in this season there would be no kindly rains to counterbalance the sun’s tyrannical attentions. No birds flew upon the hot breeze, hiding within whatever shade they could find. The only sign of life was a large grey lizard, its long-taloned fingers clutching the sides of a large stone resting upon the road. The reptile’s eyes were closed, its body bobbing up and down in repetitious motion as its cold flesh soaked up the blazing rays. Suddenly, the lizard’s scaly lids snapped open and it cocked its head, listening to the vibrations that had disturbed it. With almost blinding speed, the reptile lunged from its perch, streaking across the road to skitter into the sanctuary afforded by a patch of yellowing brambles.

The rider whose approach had disturbed the creature paid its departure little notice, his steely eyes dismissing the lizard as soon as they had reacted to the sudden motion, then returning to their study of the road itself. Behind the rider, a ragged grey packhorse plodded, its back laden down with numerous packs and bags, and several things that were clearly sheathed weapons. The rider’s mount, a massive bay warhorse, turned its head, seeming to glance sympathetically at its doughty companion. The rider gave a gentle tug on the reins, recalling his steed to its course. The sooner he found what he was looking for, the sooner all of them would be able to find rest.

The rider was a tall man, panther-like in his build. His features were solid, harsh and weathered, cold blue eyes squinting from the leathery face beneath his close-cropped brown hair. A suit of brigandine armour hung about his frame, a breastplate of dark metal encasing his chest. Weapons dripped from the belts that crossed his torso and circled his waist - the steel fangs of knives, the gaping maw of a pistol, the cruel edge of a hatchet. Upon one hip rested a huge knife with jagged teeth, a savage instrument which its owner had named ‘the Headsman’ in a moment of sadistic humour. From the other, its golden hilt fashioned in the shape of a dragon with outspread wings, was sheathed the warrior’s longsword, the fabled blade named Drakesmalice. From the horn of his saddle, swinging from the leather straps that bound it in place, the rounded steel frame of the bounty hunter’s sallet helm cooked beneath the sun’s merciless attentions.

Brunner lifted his eyes from the road, glancing at the sign that stood beside the deserted path, its three fingers pointing in every direction save that dominated by the woods at its back. The killer smiled grimly as he noted the topmost sign. Scrawled upon it in charcoal letters was the word ‘Decimas’. Brunner shook his head, looking away from the sign. As he did so, he noticed a sorry figure sprawled beneath the sign, almost hidden by the rock pile that formed the signpost’s support. Brunner eyed the shape warily, watching for any sign of movement or breath. Without removing his eyes from the prone form, the bounty hunter drew his pistol and carefully dropped down from Fiends saddle. With cautious glances to either side of the path, the bounty hunter slowly walked toward the shape.

It was a man, dressed in the tattered homespun common to the peasants that populated the Tilean countryside. Brunner nudged the man’s side with his steel-toed cavalry boot, watching the body for any sign of reaction. It simply rocked in its position. Putting more effort behind his thrust, Brunner pitched the body onto its back. The bounty hunter stepped away from the sight that greeted him, a gloved hand reaching to his face to keep the smell from his nose.

The man was dead, but neither beast nor man had claimed him. The swollen tongue that protruded from the corpse’s contorted face had nearly been bitten clean through during the agonies that had gripped the man. Upon his skin were livid red boils, some nearly the size of Brunner’s thumb, each weeping a filmy, scarlet pus. The bounty hunter continued to back away. He had seen too many bodies like this recently. The red pox had returned to Tilea, rampaging across the countryside, striking down all who tempted its pestilent attentions.

Brunner turned away from the corpse, eyes considering the bleak expanse toward the south. His destination lay in that direction, but if the sorry corpse at his feet had come from there, if the red pox was rampant in the south, then in all likelihood he would be making a wasted journey. The dead did not last long when the red pox was abroad, so long as there were still healthy men to burn the diseased corpses. It would be difficult to turn in a pile of ash and blackened bones if Riano had already been claimed by the plague.

The sound of a twig snapping spun the bounty hunter around, lifting him from his thoughts. Brunner cursed under his breath. Worrying about the red pox had made him careless, sloppy. His natural caution had been subordinated to concern about the plague that hovered about the land. The bounty hunter chastised himself. He’d been around long enough to know that a moment of distraction could often last for all eternity.

The creature that had caused the sound rose from where it had been crawling, realising that its stealth had been compromised. It was a miserable, twisted shape, a rotten mockery of the human form. Ragged linen hung about its lean, wasted frame, tied about its waist with a length of rope. Its pallid skin was blotched with ugly red welts and crater-like scars, its face a broken shambles, crazed eyes swollen within their sockets, nose rotten away into a scabrous stump of cartilage. Upon its forehead, the miserable creature had carved a brand, three bloated circles, linked at their centres, each sporting a jagged arrow. The brand was the only vivid thing about the creature’s face, weeping a vibrant green pus each time the thing drew a breath. But it was the object clutched in the creature’s withered hand that arrested Brunner’s attention - a fat-bladed shortsword.

The bounty hunter did not give the twisted abomination a chance to close upon him. With a single deft motion, he ripped his pistol from the holster resting across his belly and fired into the diseased abomination’s rotten skull. Watery brain tissue erupted from the back of the creature’s head as the bullet tore its way through. The plague-ridden thing did not cry out as its head exploded, but simply crumpled into the road with all the grace of a wilting flower.

The shot’s echoes had yet to fade before the bounty hunter discovered that the diseased attacker had not been alone. Other twisted shapes scrambled into view, descending upon the road like a pack of jackals upon a fresh carcass. Some were similar to the one Brunner had put down, ragged, tattered figures that might have been men before their flesh was consumed by the unholy foulness which now claimed them. Several though had never borne the mantle of humanity, their feet ending in cloven hooves, their shapes clothed in mangy fur, their heads cast in the manner of goats and kine. Upon these monstrosities, too, was that pestilent brand, filthy pus drooling from the mark and caking the fur of the beastmen with reeking filth.

Brunner tore his sword from its sheath, cursing anew as the diseased abominations sprung their ambush. There were at least a dozen of them, far too many to face with sword and axe. As the bounty hunter considered this fact, his cold eyes stared longingly at the repeating crossbow lashed to the saddle of his warhorse. He was a master with the weapon, and with it in his hands four of his attackers would have found death. But already there were beasts and once-men between him and his animals, converging on the horses in a frenzied mob. Brunner watched as Fiend reared back, the massive warhorse’s iron-shod hooves lashing out and splitting the skull of a degenerate plague-mutant as though it were an egg shell. Whether intent on plunder or horseflesh, the mutants would not claim the horses without a fight.

The bounty hunter braced himself to meet his own attackers. Three of the mutants and a pair of goatheaded pestigors had split from the main pack, their lust for slaughter and bloodshed overwhelming their desire for plunder and meat. The creatures glared at Brunner with rheumy eyes, strings of spittle dripping from slackened mouths. Brunner was not deceived by the apparent simple-mindedness of his attackers, he had seen goblins beneath the haunted caverns of the Vaults given over to similar fits. And though their attacks might have been crude and lacking in coordination, their befuddled brains had seemed incapable of understanding pain, even as limbs were hacked from their bodies.

The first of the attackers charged with a wet, gurgling war cry, his mutated face resembling nothing so much as a grinning skull. Brunner prepared to meet the monster’s assault, ready to cut the rotten head from its decaying body But the killing stroke proved unnecessary. With a loud crunch, a five-inch spike of steel smashed into the mutant’s face, spilling it to the ground and tripping up the lice-ridden pestigor that followed behind it. The bounty hunter did not waste time considering his good fortune. Even as the mutant dropped he was in motion, his sword lashing out to meet the axe of the mutant closing upon his right. The keen edge of Drakesmalice smashed into the rotten wooden haft of the axe, just beneath its rust-pitted head, shearing through the weapon and severing the reed-thin arm behind it.

The mutant recoiled from the stroke, its stump dripping a filth that was far too dark to be proper blood. The creature seemed to regard the mutilating wound as little more than an inconvenience, reaching down with its remaining arm to retrieve the blade of its axe. The bounty hunter’s gut churned at the unnatural sight, stabbing downward between the mutant’s shoulders as it bent down. Spitted on the tip of the longsword, the mutant’s body trembled for a moment, then grew slack. Brunner tore the weapon free from the corroded body, spinning about to meet his next attacker.

It was the hulking beastman that had fallen over the mutant felled by the mysterious steel spike. The other beastman was down, another of the strange steel spikes sprouting from its heart. It was just as well, Brunner considered as he sized up his adversary. One such foe was more than sufficient.

The pestigor gnashed its fanged jaws, its clawed hands tightening about the grip of its spike-headed mace. The monster’s eyes were weeping a filthy yellow ooze, gnats and flies buzzing about its goatlike head. Upon its chest, livid where it had been burned into the mangy fur, the pestilent brand stood out. Brunner felt disgust welling up within him as he beheld the hideous rune, fighting down his revulsion just in time to push aside the monster’s brutal attack. The pestigor reared back, snarling some obscenity in its own harsh tongue, then lashed out once more, the bounty hunter managing to turn aside the powerful blow only by putting the weight of his entire body behind his own blades retort.

From the corner of his eye, Brunner could see the other mutant working his way toward the bounty hunter’s back, a short boarspear gripped in its malformed hands. Unable to free himself from his duel with the pestigor, Brunner knew there was little he could do to protect himself from a stab in the back. The bounty hunter tried to manoeuvre his massive foe around, to place the pestigor between himself and the spear-bearing mutant. But the beastman would have none of it, accepting a slash to its forearm in return for holding its ground. It too had seen the mutant moving toward Brunner’s back and was not about to surrender such an advantage.

The sound of steel crunching through bone rumbled through Brunner’s ears, followed by the impact of a body falling somewhere behind him. The pestigor’s goatlike face contorted into a mask of feral rage and the bounty hunter could guess the source of its fury - the spear-bearing mutant had just been shot down. Brunner did not give the pestigor time to turn its rage into strength. Slipping past the monster’s guard, he slashed his sword along its gut, spilling its entrails into the dust. The beastman stumbled backward, the mace falling from its claws as it reached down for the ropy mess hanging from its belly. Brunner slashed at the monster again, this time nearly severing its forearm. The pestigor lifted its horned head, roaring its rage into the barren sky, bloody froth spilling from its jaws. As Brunner moved in for the kill, the pestigor lowered its head, spitting a stream of filth into his face.

It was the bounty hunter’s turn to stumble back from his foe, one gloved hand wiping away at the gory muck that now covered his features, finding with disgust that the pestigor’s bloody spittle was alive with writhing, wormy shapes. Brunner cleared his eyes just in time to see the pestigor bearing down on him, its remaining claw crunching down about his shoulder, its powerful grip seeking to pull the bounty hunter into the massive horns that curled against the monster’s skull. Brunner stabbed into the beastman’s side with his blade, punching the length of his sword into the monster’s corrupt flesh, transfixing its blackened heart. The pestigor fell to its knees, its eyes glaring into Brunner’s own as its unclean life slowly drained from its twisted form. The grip on his shoulder loosened and Brunner watched dispassionately as the pestigor fell backwards and crashed into the dust.

The bounty hunter looked away from his fallen foes, looking back toward his animals. Three mutants lay sprawled about them, and two others looked to have fallen victim to the mysterious sharpshooter who had so fortuitously come to his aid. The others were fleeing back down the road, forsaking the promise of loot and provisions in their haste to save their own hides. Brunner strode toward his horses, keen to inspect the animals for any sign of injury and to recover his crossbow from Fiend’s saddle, lest the twisted ambushers regain their courage. As he approached, Fiend and the packhorse, Paychest, retreated from him and it was only with slow steps and soothing words that he was able to keep the horses from bolting. Patting Fiend’s neck with a gloved hand, Brunner quickly removed his crossbow from its holster, slapping the box-like magazine into place. He turned his head in the direction from which he judged the mysterious steel shafts to have originated. He was not surprised to find a lone rider descending the jagged slope of a low hill. Leaning against the side of his horse, keeping his crossbow at the ready, Brunner awaited the approach of his unknown benefactor.

His wait was not a long one, and soon Brunner found himself confronted by a tall, slender man mounted on a white steed of similar build, a mount built for speed rather than war. The man himself was garbed in black, from the leather boots that encased his feet to the leather hat on his head. A leather belt crossed the man’s chest, long steel spikes fitted into the loops that rose along its surface. A number of box-like pouches were fitted to the belt that circled the warrior’s waist, along with a longsword and poinard, both of the simple, utilitarian style favoured by Tilea’s professional duellists. Resting upon the saddle before the rider was a strange device, a thing of steel and bronze that looked as though it could not decide if it were musket or crossbow.

Brunner looked up into the face hiding within the shadow of the rider’s hat. It was a gaunt, hungry face, with cruel eyes that gleamed with an almost feral cunning. The man’s sharp nose stabbed downward above a thin, almost lipless mouth and a slender black moustache. It was the kind of face Brunner knew only too well. The face of a predator. The face of a man like himself.

‘I hope you don’t mind the intrusion,’ the rider said when he brought his horse to a stop a few yards from Brunner, ‘but it looked like you had bitten off more than you could handle.’ The weaseleyed man chuckled with grim humour. ‘Even the infamous Brunner isn’t the equal of a dozen beastmen.’

‘Perhaps they didn’t know who I was.’ Brunner returned, ‘or they would have brought twice as many.’ The jest brought another sardonic chuckle from the rider. Brunner fixed the other man with his cold stare, the leather of his gloves creaking as he firmed his hold on the crossbow. ‘Tell me, Sabarra, how is it that you happen to be in the right place at the right time? I’ve never been one to place much trust in providence.’

Sabarra grinned back at the other bounty hunter. ‘If you are thinking I was expecting you, then you’d be right. There are things we should discuss, you and I.’ The rider leaned back in his saddle, gesturing at the dead mutants strewn about the road. ‘But it can wait until we put a little distance between ourselves and the road. Just in case their friends stop running and decide to come back this way.’

The two bounty killers took the southern stretch of road, a move that took them away from the village of Decimas. Sabarra’s eyes narrowed, studying his rival with undisguised interest and suspicion. For his part, Brunner seemed to be paying little attention to the Tilean, rubbing at his face with a cloth he’d dampened from his waterskin. Sabarra was not fooled by the display, he knew that the Reiklander was even now turning any number of schemes to rid himself of Sabarra over in his mind.

‘You know of course that I’m after the same mark as you.’ Sabarra declared. It was better to get the matter out in the open sooner rather than later. ‘It’s a handsome price Riano has on his head.’ Brunner did not turn to regard Sabarra, instead dousing the cloth in his hand with more water from the skin. ‘Enough for two men, if they aren’t greedy.’ Sabarra elaborated. Brunner turned cold eyes onto the weasel-faced killer.

‘And what if the men in question are greedy?’ he inquired. A cruel smile split Sabarra’s features.

‘Then things could get very upsetting.’ Sabarra said. ‘One of the men might get there before the other. That might not be so good if Riano has some friends with him.’ The bounty hunter’s gloved hand whipped upward, catching a buzzing fly between its fingers. ‘And, of course, he’d also have to worry about his back.’ Sabarra warned, crushing the fly in his fist. ‘Because even if he won out, he’d still have something the other man wanted.’

‘And what if the men decided they weren’t greedy?’ Brunner asked, lowering his hand. Sabarra’s eyes narrowed with concern as he noticed how near to his pistol Brunner’s hand was now poised.

‘They might decide to share,’ the Tilean suggested. ‘Split everything down the middle. The dangers and the gold, divided up equally between them. Rather a good idea with the countryside crawling with beastmen and half-mad with plague.’

Brunner nodded thoughtfully, then lifted the cloth back to his face. ‘Of course, they would be foolish to stop watching their backs,’ he warned. Sabarra didn’t bother hiding the cunning look in his eyes. ‘But let’s say these men did reach an agreement, where would they start?’

‘By sharing information,’ Sabarra told him. ‘For instance, why are we riding away from Decimas rather than toward it?’

‘Because, as we both know, Riano isn’t there,’ Brunner said. ‘Decimas is gone, the red pox has already done its work there.’

‘Then why south?’ pressed Sabarra. Brunner continued to rub at his face.

‘You should spend more time learning about your prey,’ Brunner said. ‘Don’t place all your wager on a single informant. I have my reasons to believe Riano headed south if he had to quit Decimas.’

‘And those would be?’ Sabarra asked.

‘I prefer to keep that information to myself,’ Brunner replied. ‘That way I won’t have to watch my back.’ The Reiklander continued to dab at the blistered skin of his face, trying to soothe the raw, irritating itch that had seeped into his skin. Sabarra’s smile widened as he noted the ugly rash.

‘I’d be worried about that,’ he told Brunner. ‘Who knows what foulness was in that animal’s blood. I’d get myself to the nearest hospice of Shallya if I were you. Let the priestesses bleed the contamination out of you. Maybe let someone else finish this hunt for you, bring you your percentage later.’

Brunner threw the cloth down. ‘Either I die or I don’t,’ he told Sabarra. ‘I’ll not go crawling to anybody, not even the gods. I’m through with all of that, through playing their games.’

‘Have a care,’ Sabarra warned his rival. ‘You die and I might never find Riano. I’d hate to miss that payday because an impious fool went and caught the plague.’

Brunner’s response was spoken in a tone as menacing as the grave. ‘Then I suggest you start praying I don’t get sick.’

The disease-ridden mutant crept into the foul-smelling hovel, bent almost in half, cringing at every step as though it were a whipped cur rather than a man. The room he had entered was a shambles: furniture overturned, walls fouled with blood and mucus, the air filled with buzzing flies. Bodies littered the floor, their skin blackening as necrotic bacteria speedily consumed their diseased flesh, the final trademark of the ghastly red pox. But it was not this reminder of the hideous disease that so unnerved the once-human wretch. It was the five armoured shapes looming against the far wall.

The warriors were huge, hulking monsters, their powerful forms encased within suits of plate armour, the steel pitted with corruption. Upon their breastplates had been stamped the mark of their deity, the daemon god to whom each of the corrupt warriors had pledged his life and soul. Three circles and three arrows the mark of Nurgle, Grandfather of pestilence and decay. The close-faced helms of the Chaos warriors did not turn to regard the mutant as he slowly crept toward them, intent instead on the miserable figure sprawled upon the filthy floor before them. It was an old man, his body disfigured by the profusion of red boils that peppered his skin. His diseased frame trembled and shook as the agonies of the plague ripped at him, yet the Chaos warriors made no motion to end his suffering. Plague was the handiwork of their god, and to the Chaos warriors, what they were witnessing was a holy sacrament, and they stood as if in the presence of their loathsome deity.

Nervously, the mutant cleared his throat, allowing a dry croak to escape his drawn, placid lips. The sound caused the warriors to turn their steel faces upon him, fixing him with their burning eyes. The mutant fought back the urge to flee, holding his ground as the centremost of the armoured warriors strode toward him. He was a brute, his steel armour fading into a mass of green corruption, leather straps hanging from spikes set into his shoulder-guards displaying a variety of festering trophies. The warriors helm was cast in the shape of some mammoth insect and there was no sign of any eyes behind the sieve-like holes that pitted the helm’s face. The mark of pestilence branded into the warrior’s breastplate glowed with a leprous light, marking the creature as favoured by his daemon master a champion of Chaos.

‘Zhere izz reazon why you dizurb uzz,’ the droning, buzzing voice of the champion echoed from within his helm. The mutant cowered before the unnatural voice, falling to his knees before the ghastly creature. Pulstlitz gave the mutant only a moment to answer before growing impatient, his armoured hand falling to the massive sword at his side, a gigantic blade of rusted steel that drooled a murky scum from its pitted edge, the filth falling to the floor in sizzling droplets.

‘Mercy dread master!’ the mutant cried in a voice that seemed to bubble from the bottom of his stomach. ‘Your slave did not mean to disturb your devotions! I came to bring word that Folgore is not coming back.’

A seething growl rasped behind the insect-helm. Pulstlitz took another menacing step toward the mutant. ‘That vermin darezz defy my command! I will carve the name of Pulzlizz upon hizz bonezz for zhizz betrayal of Nurgle!’ The other Chaos warriors watched their master warily knowing too well that when their champion was in such a state, death hovered near. The mutant buried his face into the floor, unwilling to gaze upon the favoured of the Plague God.

‘Folgore is dead, master!’ the mutant whined. ‘Slain upon the road by a traveller who wore not the blessings of the Grandfather!’

‘You rizked attack when I commanded you here?’ Pulstlitz demanded, the droning buzz of his voice seeming to come not from one but a dozen throats. ‘When I need every mangy beazman and acolyte? When I prepare to raze the hozpizz of thrice-accurzed Zhallya? It izz at zuch time you zee fit to dizobey?’ The enraged plague champion lifted his armoured foot, bringing it smashing downward into the abased mutant. Bones cracked as Pulstlitz brought his weight down upon the mutant’s neck, then ground the creature’s skull into the floor beneath his foot. When nothing solid remained beneath his boot, Pulstlitz turned to his warriors.

‘We wait no longer!’ the Chaos champion droned. ‘Zhiz night we ride for the hozpizz! I will zee it burn!’ The warriors did not pause to question their leader’s command, but hastened to follow the monster into the night, leaving the old man to complete his communion with the Plague God in solitude and silence.

Sabarra watched as the white walls of the structure finally manifested in the distance. The bounty hunter cursed under his breath. It was about time he encountered some manner of luck. Since setting out after the price on Riano’s head, he’d been met by obstacle after obstacle. It was as if the gods themselves were hurling every misfortune they could conceive in Sabarra’s way, as though he were some mighty hero from some Luccini fable rather than a hired killer just trying to maintain a comfortably hedonistic lifestyle. The bounty hunter spat into the dust of the road. The gods! As though they were paying any manner of attention to him. They certainly were not in the mood for answering prayers.

The bounty hunter looked over his shoulder, back at the train of animals that slowly plodded along behind him. Slumped in the saddle of the rearmost horse was Sabarra’s old rival and recent partner, Brunner. The Tilean cursed again. He’d warned Brunner against mocking the gods, but the miserable Reiklander had remained unrepentant. Now he was sick, contaminated by whatever filth had lived within the loathsome blood of the pestigor he’d killed. For three days now, Brunner had been slipping in an out of consciousness as the disease wracked his body.

Sabarra shook his head, cursing his ill luck. During his lucid moments, which were becoming less and less frequent, Brunner’s mind had wandered, crawling through the muck of the bounty hunter’s bloody career. But he’d still retained enough coherency that he did not respond to Sabarra’s promptings for more information most especially with regards to Riano and whatever hole the thief had relocated himself to. Some deep-rooted instinct of selfpreservation stilled Brunner’s lips at such times. The bounty hunter’s eyes had cleared for a moment, boring into Sabarra’s own. ‘Get me to a healer,’ Brunner’s voice had rasped. ‘Then I’ll tell you what you want to hear.’

By rights he should have left Brunner behind. Sabarra had seen enough of the red pox in his time to recognise its early stages. But the image of the gold being offered for Riano’s head had been too tempting. So, Sabarra had lifted the sickly warrior into the saddle of his horse, tying Brunner’s hands about the animal’s neck, his legs beneath its belly. With Brunner secured to his animal, Sabarra had set out for the only place he could think of where a man suffering from the red pox might find sanctuary and succour. He only hoped that Brunner would last long enough to reach it.

The white walls grew steadily in size, the narrow cross-shaped windows and massive supporting buttresses breaking up the smooth alabaster facade. Sabarra could make out ragged figures huddled in the shadow of the walls, a great sprawl of wretched humanity. The bounty hunter’s spirits fell another notch. Just how widespread was this plague? It looked like half of Tilea was camped outside the walls. He risked another look over his shoulder, striving to see if Brunner had reacted at all to the sight, but the man remained as he had for more hours than Sabarra wanted to count. The Tilean looked back toward the walls, noticing this time the vast pit that had been torn from the earth some distance to the west of the structure. Dour, hooded figures were busy there, throwing naked bodies into the yawning chasm as though tossing seed across a field. It was a minute before Sabarra released the breath he hadn’t realised he had been holding. Of all the ends he could imagine, being consigned to a plague pit was probably about as bad as it got. Sabarra looked back once more at his charge and scowled.

So long as he found out what he wanted to know, Sabarra didn’t much care where Brunner wound up. All the Reiklander had to do was cling on to life long enough to become lucid one last time.

An aura of misery so intense that it seemed to clutch at Sabarra’s face greeted the bounty hunter as he drew nearer the white-walled structure. The Tilean struggled to avoid looking down, tried not to see the dejected, forlorn creatures that sprawled upon the ground all around them. Many looked dead already, only the glazed eyes that rolled within their boil-strewn faces betraying the fact that they yet drew breath. Some of these miserable creatures had managed to build crude tents of rag and fur, but the vast majority just lay upon the ground, exposed to the open air and the chill of night. Sabarra tried not to imagine how many of these lost souls would make the journey past the portal of Morr before the sun again rose. Perhaps it was even a kindness to allow them to expire from exposure rather than the suffering the red pox would wrench from their bodies before it was through with them.

Sabarra slowly moved the horses through the sprawl of diseased refugees, the animals hard-pressed to avoid stomping on the miserable wretches. The bounty hunter allowed a slight sigh of relief to escape his throat as he saw the arched doorway that led into the structure behind the white walls and the shimmering marble dove that loomed above the arch’s cornerstone. ‘Well, friend,’ Sabarra declared, glancing back once more at the still unmoving Brunner, ‘this is it. The Shrine of the Seven Mercies. The hospice of Shallya.’

As if in response to his declaration, several men suddenly appeared beneath the arch, emerging from the interior of the hospice. Three of the men wore suits of armour, narrow helmets crushed about their ears. Their eyes were red-rimmed and their faces bore a pained, tired expression. But there was nothing fatigued in the way in which they held their spears. Three other men, dressed in the simple sack-cloth of supplicants of Shallya, laboured under the weight of a scrawny, pale burden. Behind the men carrying the corpse, a pair of white-garbed priestesses followed, one bearing a torch, the other carrying a bundle of rags that Sabarra imagined had once clothed the dead man. It was a common custom in cases of the plague. The body was hastily buried, but the clothes and bedding were burned, lest they pass the contagion on to another.

The priestess bearing the torch stared up at the mounted bounty hunter, her eyes red-rimmed and brimming with fatigue. Sabarra was somewhat surprised to find that the priestess was quite comely beneath the lines of worry and overwork. It had always been his experience that the ranks of the priestesses were commonly filled by daughters deemed unfit for a profitable marriage by their fathers. The bounty hunter’s face twisted in the faintest hint of a lewd smile. Instantly the woman’s eyes narrowed with disapproval, the shadows cast by her hooded robe seeming to grow thicker about her face.

‘What do you want here, mercenary?’ the priestess asked, her voice soft, yet demanding. Sabarra noted that it was a voice used to the burden of command and guessed that the priestess must be highly ranked among the sisters of the hospice, perhaps even the Sister Superior in charge of the entire shrine. Taking that into consideration, and remembering why he had come, the smile died on the bounty hunter’s face. He was all business now.

‘I seek the solace of the shrine,’ Sabarra answered. ‘I am in need of Shallya’s mercy and blessing.’

The priestess took a step forward, the torch banishing the shadows from her face. ‘You are ill?’ she asked. Sabarra shook his head.

‘No,’ he replied, then gestured to the horses standing behind his own. ‘But my friend is in dire need of healing.’ Sabarra’s voice dropped into a chill whisper. ‘I fear it is the red pox.’

The priestess nodded her hooded head, sighing regretfully. ‘Your friend is not alone. Many have fallen victim to the pox, and many more must follow before this evil has run its course. The mercies of Shallya are in much demand these days, our hospice is filled far beyond its capacity and still we cannot provide sanctuary for all who would enter.’ She extended her arms to indicate the wretched masses clustered about the walls. ‘The red pox is swift, once it has a hold on the flesh it is difficult to exorcise. We cannot forsake those in whom the infection is little, those who might recover, to give false hope to those for whom it is already too late.’

Sabarra gritted his teeth. When he first saw the miserable camp on the hospice’s doorstep he should have expected as much. He stabbed a finger at the body being carried away. ‘It seems there is at least one bed without an owner.’ The priestess shook her head.

‘And there are twenty already waiting to fill it,’ she said sadly, turning to follow the grim procession.

‘Dammit! At least you could look at him!’ Sabarra snarled. The priestess turned again, her eyes boring into the bounty hunter’s. At length she sighed and strode toward the warhorse standing behind Sabarra’s own. The woman’s steps slowed as she neared Fiend, as her eyes fell on the man lashed to the animal’s back. It was a trembling hand that reached out toward the sick man, that lifted his head and stared at his face. The priestess recoiled as though it were a serpent she held in her hand.

‘There is no room,’ she repeated, her voice quivering. The man lashed to the saddle tilted his head and spoke in a shallow whisper.

‘Even the goddess of mercy picks and chooses her prey,’ Brunner’s fading voice managed to hiss before his head sagged back down into Fiend’s mane. The priestess glared at the sick man, then turned her head back toward Sabarra.

‘Bring him inside,’ Elisia told Sabarra. ‘Sister Marcia will show you where.’ Elisia did not wait for a response from the bounty hunter, but went after the funeral party, her steps hurried, fed by the doubt and fear that had closed icy fingers about her heart.

She had hoped never to see that face again, hoped never to hear that harsh, unforgiving voice. It had been almost a year since she had undertaken her mission of mercy for the Bertolucci family, wealthy merchants from Miragliano who had fled to a country villa in order to escape enemies in the city. But those enemies had sent an agent in pursuit of them, a hired killer to root them out from their hiding place. Brunner had ‘chanced’ upon Elisia as she was making her way to the villa, circumstance causing the grim bounty hunter to become her protector against the beastmen that prowled the countryside. Little did the priestess know that both of them had business at the villa - she to bring a new life into the world, the bounty hunter to remove an old one from it. Guilt and despair had wracked her for months afterward, that she had allowed herself to be the unwitting accomplice of the killer, that her actions had helped bring about a good man’s death.

How she had wished death upon Brunner. It was true that he had saved her on the road to the villa, but only so that he could use her. She owed the merciless killer nothing. And now, her wish was coming true, Brunner was in the grip of the red pox, its poison coursing through his body. He would die, slowly and in great agony. Why then had she admitted him into the hospice?

Because it was her sacred oath to combat the forces of pestilence, because Brunner had questioned her integrity, made her consider whether she would violate that sacred duty simply to indulge her own desire for vengeance. Far from a wish fulfilled, the bounty hunter’s arrival might prove the most arduous test of her faith she had ever endured.

Elisia hesitated, casting a worried look over her shoulder at the white walls of the hospice. Yes, it was a test, but was she equal to that test?

Sabarra stood aside as a pair of burly supplicants lowered Brunner onto a straw pallet in one of the hospice’s overcrowded wards. Designed to hold perhaps twenty inmates, every spare inch of space had been scavenged to provide room for nearly fifty. The men moved aside, allowing a dour priestess to inspect their latest charge. The old woman produced a small knife and began to strip away the bounty hunter’s clothes and armour, her deft hands nimbly plucking weapons from Brunner’s belt. The stricken bounty killer did not stir until the old woman’s hand tugged at the dragon-hilt of Drakesmalice. Like a shot, Brunner’s hand clutched at the weapon, fingers tightening about the blade until his knuckles turned white. The priestess tugged at the imprisoned weapon, trying to free it from the sick man’s grasp.

‘He doesn’t want you to take his sword,’ Sabarra stated. ‘I suggest you leave it with him.’ The old woman cast a sour look at the Tilean, but released her grip on Drakesmalice, hurrying to remove the rest of Brunner’s armour. When she had finished, she gathered up the bounty hunter’s gear and without a backward glance, strode from the ward. Sabarra waited until she had gone, then crouched beside Brunner’s pallet. The reaction to the priestess trying to take his sword encouraged Sabarra that his rival might have slipped back into a moment of relative coherence.

‘We’re in the hospice, Brunner,’ Sabarra told him. The stricken man turned his head weakly in Sabarra’s direction. ‘You’re in the Seven Mercies.’

Brunner’s eyes snapped open as he heard the name. The bounty hunter stared at Sabarra for a moment, then cast his gaze across the rest of the ward. Even knocking on the gates to Morr’s realm, he seemed to be studying the faces of the men around him, looking for any sign that might put a name to a face and a price to a name.

‘You said if I brought you here, you would tell me where Riano has escaped to,’ Sabarra reminded Brunner. Brunner’s head rolled back to where he could again face the rival bounty killer. A slight smile pulled weakly at his mouth.

‘I… I have… recon… reconsidered… the arrangement,’ Brunner’s words escaped him in a ragged whisper. Sabarra’s features flushed crimson with anger and the killer’s hand fell to the poinard sheathed at his hip. ‘You… you should… start praying again,’ Brunner advised the Tilean, seemingly oblivious to Sabarra’s fury. ‘Pray now that I… that I recover.

Brunner’s words trailed off into oblivion and his eyes closed. Sabarra watched the bounty hunter’s body go lax, a part of him hoping that the disease had finished the Reiklander. But another part of him was relieved to note the steady rise and fall of his chest. While Brunner yet drew breath, there was still a chance that Sabarra could draw the information he wanted from the dying man.

The Tilean rose, casting a disgusted look at the wretched, moaning shapes strewn about the room. Sabarra drew the garlic pomander he wore beneath his tunic, lifting the herb to his nose, inhaling its septic fumes. Garlic was said to be proof against disease, but the bounty hunter had no great desire to test that belief any more than he had to. One way or another, he would be rid of Brunner soon. Turning on his heel, Sabarra marched from the ward, determined to find some cleaner air to breathe.

Never take the life of a human being. Elisia knelt before the simple altar that stood within the tiny chapel. There were three such chapels within the grounds of the shrine, but this was the only one that still retained its intended purpose. The others had been transformed into makeshift infirmaries, as had the small courtyard and many of the cells inhabited by the priestesses themselves. They shared rooms now, sleeping in four-hour shifts.

Elisia lifted her eyes to the small marble statue that stood atop the altar - the image of a beautiful woman crafted in the classical Tilean style, a golden heart held in her hands, as though offering the shimmering organ to the supplicant kneeling before the idol. It was symbolic of the selfless sacrifice of the Goddess of Mercy - offering of her own body that others might find solace and peace, the sick might be healed and the halt made whole. It was an example that the priestesses of her faith were expected to follow, a standard to aspire toward.

Never refuse healing to those in need. Such had been the oaths she had taken when she had cast aside the ruin of her old life and become a servant of Shallya. But never before had she felt their weight. Her oaths bit into her, like heavy chains that coiled about her body and strove to crush the breath from her.

The bounty hunter. Why had he come here, of all places? He was dying, Elisia had seen that much in the brief moment when her eyes had again regarded that cold, calculating face. The red pox had already gained a stronghold within his flesh. There was nothing she could do to save him.

Or was that simply what she wanted to believe? It would be so easy to simply step aside, let the disease run its course. That would be just retribution for how Brunner had used her, just vengeance for all the blood that stained the man’s hands.

Never take the life of a human being. Elisia cringed as she muttered the oath under her breath. Would she be any better than Brunner if she allowed him to die? She had been wracked with guilt and anguish over being the unwitting accomplice to one man’s death, how could she live with being the instrument of another man’s? How could she continue to serve Shallya with blood on her own hands?

If the disease claimed Brunner, she would never be certain that she did not allow it. That doubt would always linger behind her eyes, within the pits of her soul.

Elisia rose, walking toward the altar. There was only one thing to be done. She circled the altar, lifting up one of the flagstones set behind it. From the hole beneath the stone she removed a bottle of dark Bretonnian glass. The holy waters of the Temple in Couronne, the blessed spring from which Shallya’s tears dripped into the world of men. They were precious beyond the weight of gold, for within the Tears of Shallya were the divine healing powers of the goddess herself. The Seven Mercies had never had a large supply of the Tears, only enough to guard the priestesses themselves against the diseases they hoped to cure, for what good would a healer be if she were to fall victim to the plague?

Elisia lifted the bottle to her breast, holding it close to her heart. What she was doing might be considered blasphemy by others of her faith, squandering some of the precious holy water on a killer and assassin. But it was the only way she could be sure, the only way she would ever know peace again.

Brunner groaned as soft hands lifted his head from the straw pallet, as cold glass was pressed against his lips. The bounty hunter’s eyes snapped open, staring into the sullen face of Elisia. The priestess glared back at him, hatred burning behind her eyes.

‘I’ve come to finish it,’ she told the bounty killer, her voice a low hiss. She pushed the bottle higher, letting its contents trickle into Brunner’s mouth. The bounty hunter coughed as the cold waters worked their way down his swollen throat.

‘Damn you for ever coming here,’ Elisia spat as she withdrew the bottle. Already she could see the miraculous waters beginning their work, the redness in Brunner’s eyes beginning to fade. ‘I have squandered a precious gift on inhuman vermin when this hospice is overflowing with men and women worth a dozen of your kind.’

‘Because I… I saved… your life?’ the bounty killer asked. Elisia shook her head and turned away from him.

‘Because I am too selfish to let you die.’

Pulstlitz glared upon the white walls of the hospice, disgust and loathing welling up within his polluted form. The blessing of Nurgle, Lord of Pestilence, was a sacred thing, a divine gift handed down to men by the most powerful of the gods. Yet there were so very few who would accept that blessing, clinging to their tired old lives like rats to a sinking ship. The cult of the goddess Shallya had arisen to feed on that foolishness, to drive the breath of Nurgle from the bodies of man. The Chaos champion gripped the hilt of his decaying sword. This would be more than a simple raid, more than slaughter in the name of the Dark Gods. For Pulstlitz, this would be avenging sacrilege, exterminating an affront to the god whom he served.

The plague champion directed his gaze to the ragged figures encamped outside the walls of the hospice. He could see the sickly green aura that seemed to hover over each one, the mark of the Plague God. These were men in whom the blessing of Nurgle had firmly established itself, beyond the power of the Shallyan priestesses to drive from their bodies. They were already claimed by Nurgle, already walking the road that would lead them to the Plague God’s realm. But before that, they would serve Nurgle one last time.

Pulstlitz looked over to the brooding ranks of his warband blackarmoured Chaos warriors, ragged diseased mutants and cultists of the Plague God, and the furred shapes of goatheaded pestigors. The champion allowed their feral anticipation to wash over him, letting their eagerness to avenge this insult to their god fire his own ambition. He drew his rusted sword, filth sizzling upon the grass at his feet.

‘Drive the rabble to the wallz!’ the droning voice of Pulstlitz bellowed. ‘Let them know we have come! Let them know Death iz here!’

Sabarra stood within the old courtyard, sitting upon an upended barrel that had been cast aside by the priestesses when its contents had been distributed among their charges. The bounty hunter tried not to think about the sickly wretches lying all around him, focusing instead on the task at hand. The steel frame of his arquebus rested on his knees as the bounty hunter busied himself with scrubbing the inside of the barrel, removing any residual powder lingering within the weapon. It was a tedious, automatic task for Sabarra, and his mind did not need to concentrate upon his work. Instead, he mulled over his arrangement with Brunner and the price on Riano’s head. Every hunt had its dangers, but with the red pox all around him, Sabarra was quickly coming to the conclusion that the wealth being offered for Riano was not equal to the risk.

The sound of screams tore Sabarra from his labour. The bounty hunter turned his head in the direction from which the sound had come. It was repeated, and joined by others, becoming a cacophony of terror rising from outside the walls of the hospice. Sabarra jumped up, racing toward the narrow, cross-shaped windows that opened from the walls. He was swiftly joined by temple guards, priestesses and those supplicants still healthy enough to care about what was going on outside.

The bounty hunter’s view was partially blocked by the frightened, ragged bodies of the sick rabble that had been camped outside the hospice, their dirty hands and boil-ridden faces filling much of the window. But there were infrequent views of other figures beyond them, the creatures that had put the fear into the rabble and driven them to claw at the walls, begging for sanctuary. Sabarra grimaced, for he had seen their like not long ago - the same sort of diseased, mutated scum he had helped Brunner fight on the road to Decimas.

The bounty hunter pulled away from the window, removing a small paper tube from one of the pouches on his belt, ripping it open with his teeth and pouring the blackpowder down the gaping mouth of his arquebus. Sabarra’s hand rose to the belt of steel garros he wore, removing one of the deadly darts. But he hesitated as he prepared to pound the spike into the barrel of his weapon. He turned his eyes back to the windows, now completely filled by groping hands and desperate faces. He’d never be able to find a target with the rabble crowded so close to the temple. Whatever warlord led the Chaos vermin assaulting this place was crafty, herding the sick toward the walls to foil any archery that might be brought to bear on him.

The sound of frenzied pounding at the massive wooden doors of the hospice rose above the screams and cries for mercy. The sounds of terror grew louder from the direction of the door and were soon punctuated by other sounds Sabarra knew only too well; the sounds of blades cutting into flesh and men choking upon their own blood. Temple guards tore themselves away from the windows, hurrying toward the doors. Several of the men put their shoulders to the portal, prepared to defend it against the coming attack.

The guards leaning against the door withdrew, screaming in mortal agony. Sabarra cringed as he saw the skin sloughing away from their arms where they had been holding the door, the links of their chainmail visibly corroding as rust gnawed at them. Behind them, the door was similarly being assailed, the aged wood beginning to crumble and crack as rot consumed it. Iron fittings fell to the floor, devoured by rust. Wooden panels cracked and warped, as though infested with fungus. Far quicker than the eye could follow, the doors aged and withered, at last crashing inward.

Armoured figures filled the opening beyond the door, grim shapes of steel and corruption, their faces hidden behind gruesome helmets. Beside them, leaning tiredly upon a staff of human bones, a goatheaded monster gestured proudly at its sorcerous handiwork. The armoured warriors paid the shaman little heed, striding forward across the ruined portal, crushing its rotten substance into dust beneath their feet.

One of the warriors lifted his sword, filth dripping from its edge, pointing it at those cowering before his approach. A wrathful voice droned from behind the warrior’s insect-shaped helm. ‘Make of thizz plaze a zacrement to Nurgle!’ the monster’s voice roared. ‘Leave none alive!’

In response to the plague champion’s wrath, three white-clad priestesses stepped forward, their voices lowered in a soft chant. Despite the severity of the situation, and the fact that in all likelihood he was going to die horribly in a matter of moments, Sabarra felt a sense of calm flow into him. The reaction of the Chaos warriors was markedly different. The armoured monsters flinched, taking several steps backward, seemingly repulsed by the soothing chant. The insect-helmed leader looked over toward his bestial shaman. The creature nodded its horned head and began to mutter in its own braying voice.

Almost instantly, the sense of calm began to fade as the beastman’s dark invocation fouled the very air. The Chaos warriors strode forward once more. The few temple guards who had not been reduced to screaming husks by the decaying sorcery of the shaman rushed forward, interposing themselves between the five warriors and the priestesses. Pulstlitz waved his warriors forward, content to allow them to slake their fury on the spearmen, just as he had been content to let the mob of mutants and pestigors bloody their blades on the rabble outside the walls of the hospice. The Chaos champion was interested in only one sort of prey, and with the few soldiers occupied there was no one to stand between himself and his prey.

Pulstlitz glared down at the white-clad women. They refused to open their eyes, concentrating entirely upon their sacred prayer. The plague champion snorted derisively. Sometimes the most satisfying things in life were also the easiest to acquire. ‘Tonight, you zhall cower before my god and beg hizz forgivenezz!’ Pulstlitz lifted his blade, pausing to savour the moment, then brought the polluted steel rushing downward.

The plague blade stopped short of striking flesh, the sound of crashing steel ringing out as another blade intercepted it. A dull fire seemed to glow within the keen edge of Drakesmalice as the enchanted blade crashed against the polluted metal of the Chaos sword. Pulstlitz recoiled from the unexpected parry. He turned his insect-eyed helm to face the fool who thought to stand between himself and those who had profaned his god.

The brown sack-cloth of a supplicant hung about Brunner’s pale figure, sweat dripping from his frame as he struggled to remain on his feet. The Tears of Shallya were posed of miraculous properties, but they were not able to instantly erase days of inactivity and fatigue. The plague champion chortled within his corroded helm. Here, perhaps, was a man worthy of killing, a soul that warranted being sent screaming to the Plague God. Pulstlitz nodded, then swung his foul blade at the bounty hunter’s neck. Brunner intercepted the powerful stroke, turning it aside with a manoeuvre he had learned from a Tobaran duellist. The foolish man was skilled, Pulstlitz conceded, but he could not hope to fend off the plague blade indefinitely and it would take but a single scratch from the infected steel to kill him.

However long their little struggle might last, Pulstlitz was certain of the outcome.

Sabarra lifted the heavy arquebus to his cheek, his narrowed eyes considering the carnage unfolding all around him. The guards were almost all dead, but the plague warriors had been mobbed by a desperate pack of supplicants, their malnourished forms clinging to the butchers, slowing the armoured giants with the weight of their dying bodies. Closer at hand, the leader of the plague warriors had been engaged by Brunner. How Sabarra’s rival had been able to rise from his sick bed, much less find the strength to wield a sword, was a problem Sabarra would worry about later. The Tilean was relieved that Brunner had stopped the insect-helmed monster, because he had a feeling that if the plague champion were to reach the priestesses, then no one would be leaving the hospice alive. There was another struggle going on, apart from the crash of swords. Gods were at battle here, striving against one another through their chosen priests.

Sabarra turned the arquebus toward the archway, where the twisted shaman continued to bray and moan in its grisly voice. Sickly green light gleamed from the monsters eyes. Sabarra muttered a prayer to Shallya, then put the smouldering hemp match to the touch pan of his arquebus. The weapon shook as the blackpowder ignited and the roar of the discharge overwhelmed all other sounds. Almost at once, the sense of soothing calm returned to Sabarra. As the echoes of the shot faded, the chanting of the priestesses returned, now strident and loud, as though the tones were a caged river flowing through a broken dam. The smoke began to clear and Sabarra was pleased to see the steel spike of his garro sheathed in the dead beastman’s skull.

The plague warriors moaned as they reacted to the fading magic of their sorcerer. The loathsome runes carved upon their armour began to weep blood, and it was with painful, awkward movements that the monsters retreated back toward the archway. Outside, the frightened wail of the other plague creatures sounded, followed by the frenzied retreat of malformed shapes, slinking back into the comforting darkness of the woods.

Pulstlitz shuddered as the protective magics of the priestesses surrounded him. Without the baleful power of the shaman to counteract the magic energies, the antagonistic energies wracked the plague champion. He felt the healing powers of the goddess entering him, sapping his strength and coordination. The plague champion lifted his blade to ward off the bounty hunter, but the move was too slow. Brunner’s sword bit into Pulstlitz’s hand, tearing through the corrupt armour. The steel gauntlet dropped to the flagstones with a crash, the plague blade tumbling from its slack fingers. No hand filled the polluted glove, instead a mass of black-shelled cockroaches scuttled into the light, their hideous shapes crumbling as the hostile energies drove the corruption from their tiny shapes.

Pulstlitz, clutching the stump of his arm to his chest, retreated before Brunner. The monster gave a droning howl of fury, then turned and raced from the courtyard. Brunner watched him go, sagging weakly to the ground. He was not one to leave an enemy alive, but what strength had been restored to him had been all but spent during their brief duel. He had a feeling, however, that their paths would cross again, and that only one of them would walk away from that encounter.

Sabarra walked toward the Reiklander, crouching beside him on the flagstones. The Tilean looked Brunner up and down, a cold smile tugging at his weasel-like face.

‘So,’ Sabarra said, ‘it looks like you’re recovered. Suppose we have that little talk now?’

Brunner stalked through the corridors of the hospice like a wolf on the prowl. He had mended his armour, wearing it now once more, his weapons again hanging from his belt. The last traces of the red boils were slowly fading away, sinking back into his skin. Miraculous was the only word to describe the fantastic elixir Elisia had given him. The bounty hunter saw the priestess crouched beside one of the pallets in the ward he had so recently inhabited. He strode down the narrow path between the sick beds toward her.

Sabarra had been quite hasty in his departure, leaving Brunner to complete his recovery on his own. Brunner hoped that his rival was having a nice time in the little village of Montorri. He hadn’t lied to Sabarra, Montorri was indeed where Riano’s uncle lived. He had simply failed to mention that he no longer had any reason to believe Riano would be found there.

Elisia looked up as the bounty hunter’s shadow fell across her, the hate undimmed in her eyes. Brunner respected that, a woman of principle and standards. It had been out of respect for that quality in her and what she had done for him that he had waited this long. The smart move would have been to act as quickly as possible, to reduce how much time Sabarra had to realise his mistake. Instead, Brunner had bided his time.

‘How is he?’ the bounty hunter asked. Elisia glared at him, wiping a lock of stray hair from her face.

‘What you have been waiting for has happened,’ she told him, her voice as hard as the roots of the Grey Mountains. ‘The red pox has won. He is dead.’ Elisia smoothed the front of her robe as she rose to her feet. ‘You are no better than a vulture, a jackal,’ she spat. Brunner did not bother to contradict her, instead he stared down into the dead man’s face, the face he had recognised when Sabarra had brought him into this room. The face of Riano. When plague had struck Decimas, the outlaw had fled here. If Brunner still gave any thought to the gods, he might have seen the workings of fate that he and Riano should meet by so strange a turn of circumstance. But the bounty hunter no longer gave much thought to gods, only gold.

‘Have some of your people help me drag him outside,’ Brunner told Elisia, his gloved hand closed about the massive serrated knife he had named the Headsman. ‘That way you won’t have far to carry the part I don’t need.’