CHAPTER ONE

Hunter’s Moon

Lothar Koenig tugged back on the reins with a practiced ease, bringing his horse to a rapid halt upon the stony path. With the pounding of the hooves suddenly stilled, the land seemed improbably, unnaturally quiet. Lothar sat motionless in the saddle, head tilted towards the sky, scanning his surroundings. It was a cold, crisp night, poised on the cusp of autumn. Up above, the sibling moons Mannslieb and Morrslieb shone like newly minted coins in a star-flecked sky, dappling the rolling hills with a pale silver light.

In that moment everything looked so pure and untainted. The world, Lothar reflected, could be a cruel and deceitful place. And lonely. Here, on the edge of the mountains, within sight of the great river that snaked its path from the borders of Kislev to the very heart of the Empire, a man might well believe that he was the very last soul alive upon the face of the world. But he would not be alone. Not for much longer.

Lothar Koenig kicked in with his booted heels and drove his mount forward, on towards his destination. He rode quickly, threading a path through the barren forest that skirted the edge of the hills. He would leave nothing to chance. Not now, when he was so near.

Soon he reached his vantage point, a narrow ledge hidden within a cluster of trees which overlooked a second, better-trodden path that ran through the base of the valley some twenty yards below. Lothar pulled a spyglass from the pocket of his padded hide jerkin and scanned the length of the valley. At first he could see nothing beyond a tar-like blackness tinged at its extremity by the moonlight. Koenig cursed, cupped a hand around the lens so as to shade it from the prying moons, and tried again. Now he could see the outlines of the trees lying directly below. The rising profile of the mountains stretched out like a boundless ocean of blackness, in each direction as far as the eye could see. The expanse of land known as the Ostermark was vast, vast enough for a traveller to lose himself in utterly. But Lothar Koenig was not lost. He was exactly where he needed to be.

He made use of the few moments that remained to take stock of his tools in trade. Neatly stowed about the saddle of his horse were all the means by which he earned his living: a sword, light but honed to a keen sharpness, always ready: a length of rope, and a shorter length of linked metal chain wound tightly around a wire net strong enough to hold the wildest of beasts; a glass bottle, tightly stoppered, containing a potion capable of subduing a man in seconds and a short steel knife, useful only for close combat, the sort of combat that could only end in death. This was Lothar’s tool of last resort. He was a bounty hunter, not a killer. If death was to be the only currency, then he could deal it as well as any man. But his clients generally paid better money if their prizes were delivered alive, not dead. What happened to them after that was another matter, and one that Lothar was careful never to pry too far into.

He shivered, aware as if for the first time of the biting chill held in the still night air. Cold or not, he would have to wait for as long as it took. Patience. He must have patience. That was a quality that his trade depended upon.

He lifted the spyglass again, tracking back along the length of the path below. Not long now, surely, if his calculations were correct. Soon his quarry would emerge from between the hills into the bottleneck of the valley below. Then the familiar ritual would begin again. Sometimes it ended in death. And eventually, he reflected, the Gates of Morr would open for him too. He lowered the glass, contemplating the prospect of his death at the hand of an as yet unknown opponent. It would probably come in a place such as this, a vast expanse of wilderness in a distant part of the Empire. His body would fall and rot amongst the trees, unnoticed by all except the devouring worms. No one would miss him, no one would mourn his loss. Such friends as he had ever known had gradually melted away, and his wife and child lay long dead in the cold earth.

For a moment something akin to self-pity washed over him, a bittersweet savouring of loss and a life that might have been. Lothar allowed himself the moment of weakness then crushed the emotion down, locking it away with the impatience, the fear and the weariness that lay heavy in his bones. This job called for a clear head and a cold, empty heart.

Patience, patience. His calculation had been exact. They would appear along the path below any minute now, emerging into the bright moonlight. He thought again about his target, the man who would put enough money in his purse to spare Lothar the need for these nocturnal adventures for many a night to come.

The man he was waiting so patiently for was a bandit, a common cut-throat set apart from his peers by his singular reputation for cruelty. A man who plundered lives and property indiscriminately, for gain or for fun, as it suited him. Normally, and—from Lothar’s perspective—thankfully, their paths would not have crossed. But this particular cutthroat had gone too far. He had kidnapped a girl, noble-born, a proctor’s daughter from Talabheim. The ransom demanded had been paid, but it hadn’t ended there. It seemed the kidnappers hadn’t known where to stop with their fun. Things had gone too far. Now the girl was dead, and her captor had a price upon his head, a generous purse laid by the grieving father.

There was no doubting that his quarry was a loathsome and despicable man, but Lothar Koenig carried no especial hatred in his heart. He thought of his target dispassionately, perhaps, even, with a strange affection. It was through men like this he earned his living, and for that Lothar gave thanks. He looked skywards and said a prayer to whatever gods might bless him this night.

Carl Durer was not a complex man. He rarely had room in his head for more than one idea at the same time. Tonight his mind was upon hunting, not being hunted.

They had picked up a trail a little way west of Baumdorf—a lone rider, heading south. These days few travellers were stupid or foolish enough to travel the mountain trails alone at night. People were running scared—though scared of what Carl Durer was never quite sure. There was vague talk of trouble brewing, of war beyond the border, of strange beasts and mutants stalking the land.

None of it much interested Carl Durer. All he knew was that merchants and traders rarely ventured out other than in convoy now, and pickings for men like him were growing thin. But this one, this one was surely a beauty. Durer and his men had followed him from the outskirts of the village, a single horseman oblivious or indifferent to the perils of the Ostermark. The bandits followed at a distance at first, content to let their victim run awhile. A few miles ahead the path narrowed, then dropped down into a valley. The only way out was up a steep climb at the far end. That was where they would take him and whatever treasure he carried.

Durer enjoyed the anticipation almost as much as the kill. As the four of them closed in on their prey, he started to think about the sport ahead. Usually they put up a bit of a fight, at first. If they did, so much the better, Carl enjoyed a fight. Then, when it became obvious they weren’t going to escape, they would beg, beg for their lives to be spared. Sometimes—often, in fact—Carl would silence the begging with a blade through the guts, and keep twisting it until the wretch shut up. Other times, if he were in the mood, he might listen to what they had to say. They might have a bit extra to offer—money stashed away where Carl might not have thought to look. He enjoyed watching wealthy gentlefolk grovel at his feet, on their knees, pleading for their lives to be spared. Carl thought about it and laughed. It made no difference, really. He killed them all in the end.

Soon they’d reach the valley. He spurred his mount on, ready to overhaul the horseman ahead, and glanced around at the riders on either side of him. Filthy Erich Wahl: as fat and gluttonous as a pig a man who would watch his mother starve if it meant he could feed his belly. His brother Kurt, who’d killed more men than he could remember, most for no particular reason. And the strange, whey-faced boy, a northerner known only as Lief, with a deep, unfathomable something about him that scared even Carl. They were Durer’s men, but he wasn’t stupid enough to think they were his friends. In truth he despised the lot of them, and they’d knife him in the back as soon as he would them—which was soon enough. But so long as they were useful to each other, then they were in it together.

Right now they probably hated his guts, blamed him for the foul-up in Talabheim. That business with the girl had got out of hand. They should have got out as soon as they had the ransom, but Carl had wanted a bit of fun, and then it had gone too far. That didn’t matter in itself—nobody gave a damn about the girl. But even Carl hadn’t reckoned on the little whore’s father being such a vengeful bastard. Carl wasn’t used to being a fugitive, and it didn’t much agree with him. The hungry ache in his belly agreed with him even less. It was time he lived off the fat of the land again.

As they crested the top of the valley Carl looked down to see the other rider barely fifty yards ahead of them. He was either deaf, had no sense of instinct, or both, or he would have had some sense of the riders behind him by now. But the horseman varied neither his speed nor his course, just kept on at the same steady pace, riding bolt upright in the saddle, staring out at the night ahead.

He was a tall man, Carl noted. Tall, and heavily built with it, the sort who might give a good account of himself. So be it. All the better in fact. Carl Durer enjoyed a decent scrap, so long as the odds were good. In any case—he glanced round at his comrades again—more than one of these scum were dispensable now.

Any man out on the trail in these parts had to be heading from somewhere, to somewhere. And they had to be carrying something too: money, silver, gold, whatever. It would do. Carl met Lief’s wall-eyed stare and grinned. He could almost smell the blood.

How to deal with Durer’s gang was a problem that had been playing on Lothar’s mind for most of the day. There had been no chance of taking him on his own. It had taken Lothar long enough to pick up the bandits’ trail after Talabheim, and since then it seemed Durer was rarely if ever alone. Lothar would have to wait for his opportunity, then make the most of it.

He had slipped quietly and unobtrusively into the gang’s wake just outside Baumdorf. He had weighed his chances of taking Durer—dead or alive—with three other armed men in tow, and decided that his best chance was to wait, staying just in touch, until they struck camp. An hour, two hours passed in stealthy pursuit. The sun had drawn down its light below the distant mountains, and still Durer and his men gave no sign of breaking their journey. The bounty hunter had grown anxious. If the bandit gang were to reach the forest under cover of nightfall it would be all too easy to lose them forever.

Then he had seen the fifth rider, the single horseman, bearing south-west at the same, unvarying pace, with Durer and his savage disciples slowly closing in. Then he knew that the bandits would not head into the forest. They would chase this unwitting rider down into the Ostravska Gorge, rob him and murder him. And whilst Durer’s gang were busy with their butchery, Lothar would have the element of surprise on his side. If he was lucky, the traveller might manage to wound or kill some of Durer’s men before he himself was killed. At worst, the gang would be distracted for a few precious moments. It might be the only chance he would get.

It had taken him only a moment to make his decision. He would ride ahead, to the far end of the gorge, then double back on them from the south. The strategy wasn’t without risk. But then, he had told himself, everyone had to die sometime.

The lone horseman pressed on into the valley, shadowed by his four pursuers. Keep going, Carl thought, with quiet satisfaction. Soon we’ll have you exactly where we want you. He looked around, taking in the physical dimensions of the valley. To his left and right, towering walls of rock. Ahead, the path snaked through the valley before exiting in a steep, winding climb that would take an agile rider at least half an hour to navigate. No way out of here in a hurry. Like a cork into a bottle. We’ve got you trapped now, my friend.

Carl Durer started to relax, settling into an old and comfortable routine. No harm now in making sure their quarry knew they were here. He slackened off the pace and bellowed out a command: “Hey, you up there. Turn about!”

The words echoed off the facing cliffs, filling the valley. But the horseman made no acknowledgement of the summons, nor varied the steady pace of his horse by as much as a step. If he was aware at all of the riders closing in on him, then he remained completely indifferent to his fate. A surge of anger welled up inside Carl Durer. The horseman—trader in trinkets, courier or whatsoever he was—would pay dearly for his insolence. Any lingering thought in Carl Durer’s mind that he might allow the man a mercifully quick death was now forgotten. No, he’d let the boys play a while with this one, practise their carving skills. It was remarkable how much pain you could inflict and still keep a man alive.

Durer looked left and right, and signalled to his men, initiating a familiar manoeuvre. The Wahl brothers spurred their horses on, leaving Lief at Durer’s side. The two riders steered out left and right, moving to overtake the horseman on either side. Carl watched them speed past their target, the blades of their swords glinting in the moonlight. If their victim had been oblivious to his fate before, he wouldn’t be now. And yet, still the solitary figure did not deviate from his path through the valley. The same, steady pace. The same, unswerving direction. Well, let him enjoy his little game, Carl thought. Soon enough, we’ll be enjoying ours.

Fifty yards on, the two bandits pulled up, dragging their horses around in a cloud of dust and stones. Now they faced the oncoming rider, blocking off any escape from the valley. Carl Durer looked on with satisfaction as, finally, the horseman checked his speed and came to a gradual halt.

Durer slowed his own horse to a gentle trot until he was within hailing distance of his men.

“Mark him all you want, boys. But keep him alive for me. I want some time with this one.”

Still the rider sat, immobile on his towering steed, gaze fixed ahead as if only seeing the path that led out of the valley.

“Turn about,” Carl commanded. “Turn around so I can take a look at you.” After what seemed a long time the horseman finally turned, slow and ponderous, until he was facing Durer.

The rider was half in shadow, but Carl Durer caught a glimpse of a weather-beaten face framed by a shock of unkempt, jet-back hair. A pair of eyes the colour of night itself stared directly through him without any acknowledgement of his existence. For the briefest of moments he looked like a statue carved out of living stone, rather than a mortal man. In the same moment a thought raced, unbidden, through Carl Durer’s mind: This is a mistake.

Absurd. Imagining things. Carl swept the thought aside and tugged his sword out from its harness. The other man, he noted, had made no attempt to draw his own sword yet. Maybe he knows it’s hopeless, Durer reckoned. Or maybe he’s one of the ones who think they can talk their way out. Well, let him talk. They’d have him singing before they’d finished with him, but all the pretty tunes known to the gods weren’t going to save him now.

Durer nudged his horse forward so he could get a better look at their prize. He was big all right—thickly muscled and stockily built, but that was of no concern whilst they were four to one. Carl sliced the air with his sword a matter of inches from the other man’s face. The rider didn’t flinch, but kept his dark eyes fastened on Durer. There was no hatred there, but no fear either. He was looking through him, not at him, Carl realised. As if he didn’t exist at all.

Maybe the man had gone mad, wandering the plains of the Ostermark for days or weeks on his own? Well, he had some company now, and they’d see if they couldn’t waken him up a little. He reached for the flask inside his tunic and drained its contents into his mouth, swallowing them down in one gulp. It was the last of the rotgut brandy, the last of their provisions. But it was enough to get the blood-fires boiling inside him, and not so much as to dull the killing edge. He tossed the empty flask away, the battered pewter clattering on the hard flint ground.

“Give us your money,” Durer demanded. He could sense the other men around him growing impatient, eager to get on with their handiwork. “Give us your money, and we’ll let you be on your way,” he lied. The other man looked around him, slowly, seeming to take in Durer and his three henchmen for the first time.

“No money.” The voice was cold and toneless, void of emotion. By now Durer had decided their quarry certainly was mad, and the realisation disappointed him a little. Perhaps this wasn’t going to be fun after all. The night was cold and his belly was griping incessantly. Perhaps they should just kill the idiot and be done with it, then strip the body of whatever they could find. Carl Durer was already starting to tire of his evening’s sport. A ride to the nearest village—even a scumhole like Mielstadt, with its sour beer and its pox-ridden bawd-house—was beginning to sound a better prospect than this.

The tall rider turned away and took up the reins, making ready to ride on, oblivious to the men blocking his path. As he moved, the sleeve of his tunic slid up to reveal his arm. At that instant Carl Durer registered something odd about the arm—the flesh extensively bruised or stained—but it was not the flesh that caught his eye. Fixed upon the man’s wrist was a band of gold metal, the like of which Carl Durer had never seen before. He glimpsed it only momentarily, glittering under the moonlight, but for that moment it shone with a depth and lustre that told Carl he must possess it at all costs. Even if the madman was travelling without so much as a copper penny in his pockets, this would surely be an ample reward for their night’s work. Carl Durer fixed the other man with a leering, crack-toothed grin.

“We’ll start with that little trinket there,” he said. “Give it over.”

The rider raised his arm a fraction, as though examining the golden band by the light of the two moons. “Go on,” Durer continued, warming to his theme. “Slip it off nice and slow and maybe we’ll go easy on you.” Perhaps there was some fun to be had in this after all.

There followed a moment of absolute stillness. The rider sitting as if frozen in the saddle, eyes fixed upon an indeterminate point in the far distance. Behind him, the barrel-shaped bulk of Erich Wahl and his sadistic brother, waiting for the command that would let the slaughter begin. In front of him, Carl Durer, the bandit king with the blood of more than fifty on his hands. And Lief, the scrawny man-boy, polishing the face of his axe upon his breeches. When they’d done, Carl decided, he’d let Lief skin him alive if he fancied it.

Without warning, the rider suddenly brought his horse about and rode off, resuming his journey, apparently without a thought to the men barring his way. Carl spat a curse.

“A plague on the gods!” he yelled. “We’re finished with this fooling. Cut his arm off, then bring me that gold bangle.”

Erich Wahl drew his sword with evident relish and moved to block the path of the oncoming rider.

Carl Durer would not have believed what happened next, had he not witnessed it with his own eyes. The fat man hefted his blade and swung it in a swift arc towards the exposed right arm of the rider. As the blow fell, the other man drew out his own sword with his left arm. It was not the speed of the answering blow that dismayed Carl Durer so much as its unimaginable force. Force enough to knock the blade clean out of Erich’s meaty grip and then keep moving, slicing the night air in an unstoppable trajectory.

There was no howl of pain, nor bellowing of wounded rage from the fat man. Only the dull thud of an object hitting the ground, then a second, far heavier crash, as the severed head fell to earth, followed a moment later by the rest of Erich’s body.

Carl Durer stared in paralysed disbelief at the bloody carnage seemingly wrought out of thin air before his eyes. But Kurt Wahl was not so dumbstruck. Screaming murderous vengeance, he charged full tilt towards the man who had killed his brother. The stranger kept his sword hanging down by his side, resting against the horse’s flank. There was no attempt to defend himself against the assault. He waited passively whilst Kurt bore down upon him, the flailing hooves of his horse raking clouds of ochre dust from the valley floor. The stranger still hadn’t moved when Kurt cut across his path and lashed out, delivering a sweeping blow with a sword heavy enough to cut through armour. The stranger nudged his mount to one side with a delicacy that belied the bulk of both horse and rider, dancing away from the blow. The sword-stroke sliced uselessly through thin air as Kurt Wahl shot past.

Carl Durer glanced across at the youth sitting by his side. Lief’s bloodless face was as it ever was, as bereft of emotion as his tongue was of words. But he could read the way the battle was running as well as his master, and when Carl Durer nodded he pushed his horse forward, moving in a slow circle around the combatants like a snake closing upon its prey.

Twice more Kurt surged forward towards the traveller, seized by an unquenchable rage, desperate to avenge the blood of his kin. Both times the result was the same, the tall stranger holding his ground, drawing the attack to him, before pulling out of range of his enemy’s blade at the last possible moment.

Playing with him, Carl realised. Toying with the fiercest and most dangerous of his men. This was not how it had been meant to be. On the third pass, the playing came to an end. This time Kurt correctly anticipated the manoeuvre. This time his blow was on target, the sword scything down towards the other’s unprotected face. The stranger raised his sword, and met the blow, effortlessly. Steel bit upon steel. The stranger lifted his blade higher, twisting Wahl’s arm, lifting the bandit clear out of the saddle and tossing him onto the ground.

Things moved quickly now. Before the stranger could turn his horse about to finish off Kurt, Lief took his chance, leaping from his own horse to fasten like a limpet upon the man’s back. Lief’s bird-claw nails closed around his enemy’s neck, closing off his windpipe and scouring the flesh from his throat. From the ground, Kurt saw what was happening and climbed briskly to his feet, encouraged that the tide of the battle was now turning. His optimism was rewarded with a blade that traced a perfect line from his breastbone to the line of his scalp, spitting him then paring him open like a ripe fruit. His blood mixed with his brother’s, draining into the dry earth.

The pale boy now redoubled his efforts, trying to choke his opponent with his left arm, freeing the right to lift the axe free of his belt. Sensing the blade about to fall, the stranger twisted to shake him off, and, in the struggle that followed, both fell from the saddle on to the ground below.

Carl Durer dismounted and strode forward smartly, sword in hand. Sport be damned, he was in no mood to fool with a madman like this. He’d cut the trinket from the fellow’s wrist whilst the two of them were still fighting, and then be off. The boy could take his chances. The figures on the ground broke apart and Lief stood up, trying to escape. As he stepped away the stranger reached out and caught hold of his arm, hauling him back. The youth turned and lashed out with the axe, but the stranger appeared to meet the blow with nothing more than his bare hand, knocking the weapon out of the boy’s grip.

Carl watched the two figures standing in the moonlight. Lief was now battling for his life to break free of the stranger standing over him, one hand fastened upon his arm, the other cupped around the boy’s shoulders. There was a popping sound like splintering wood as the stranger broke the boy’s neck, and Lief tumbled lifeless upon the ground.

Carl Durer launched himself at the anonymous figure, this maniac who had laid waste all three of his men in a matter of moments. As he ran, he noticed the stranger’s sword, a flash of silver in the moonlight, lying where it had fallen, well out of arm’s reach. He knew this was probably his only chance. His clumsy sword-stroke fell well wide of the mark, but the impetus of his run carried him, charging into the other man and knocking him off balance. Carl struggled maniacally to stay on his feet and keep hold of the sword. He was filled with a sudden, giddy elation that, after all, his was to be the final victory.

The stranger started to get up again, moving with that same mechanical precision. Carl Durer aimed a heavy, satisfyingly accurate kick into the man’s chest, sending him back into the dust.

“No you don’t, you bastard. You’ve given me quite enough trouble for one night already.” The cheap brandy had long worn off and he felt all too vividly sober, but, for all that, he was beginning to warm to his task at last. The muscular figure shrugged off the blow and climbed off the ground a second time. Durer lashed out with his boot again. Once more the blow connected, knocking his victim back. The earth shuddered beneath the stranger’s heavy frame.

Carl Durer stepped forward, casting a moon shadow across the outstretched body of the other man. He levered the point of his blade against the other’s chest, pressing it lightly against flesh and bone. The other man made no response.

“Come on, then,” Carl spluttered, fighting for breath. “Let’s hear you sing.”

The other man’s features were masked in shadow. Carl could make nothing of him beyond the profile of an angular, unshaven face. Yet, eerily, he sensed there would be no fear registering on the stranger’s face. No fear, no recognition of his now desperate plight. Not the slightest readiness to yield.

Very well, Carl decided, let’s help him find his voice. He pressed the sword in harder against the other’s chest, turning the blade as he did so in a slow, corkscrewing motion.

He watched the stranger’s arm lift, assumed he was ready to beg for mercy. But he assumed wrong.

The other man locked his hand around the naked steel of Carl Durer’s blade. The bandit cried out, more in surprise than anything else, and tried to pull the blade back. But he could not twist it, could not move it at all. The stranger was holding the razor steel gripped in his bare hand, holding it as fast as a vice. Seized with a sudden panic, Carl pulled again on the sword, but the stranger tugged first, and much, much harder. Suddenly Durer was on the ground, spitting dry dust from his mouth, the sword gone from his hand.

He lay for what seemed like an eternity, face down in the dust, his mind grappling to find answers to this impossible reversal of fortune. The only response came in the shape of a leather boot, weather-beaten and crusted with the filth of long journeying. The booted foot flipped Carl Durer over onto his back as easily as though he were a baby.

He was now looking directly into the eyes of the man bearing down upon him: the man now carrying his sword, the man who now held his life in the balance. The dark eyes radiated a terrible strength and a harsh indifference quite unlike Carl’s own cruel greed.

“Get up.” The voice, when at last the man spoke, was cold and distant, like an echo from a far country. Carl Durer struggled to his knees. He was powerless to resist the command, powerless to stop the tremors taking hold of his body. He knew how it would go now. He was an old hand at this. Except that now it was he who would do the begging-He looked up into the man’s face, meeting the other’s dark unyielding eyes. Still the other man seemed to look straight through him, as though his gaze was fixed upon another world. Blood oozed steadily from a weeping gash across the man’s left hand, but he seemed immune or indifferent to the pain. He’s insane, Durer guessed, but maybe I can talk him round.

“Listen,” he began, cursing himself for his faltering voice, “let’s call it quits, eh? No hard feelings. We’d be a good team, you and me. We could clean up round these parts, easy.”

He knelt, hand held out, waiting for a response. When it came there was no anger, no thirst for vengeance colouring the other man’s voice. Carl heard only the flat tones of the executioner, words tinged with the faintest disgust.

“You are nothing,” the stranger said. “You are weak.”

As the stranger drew his sword arm back, Carl Durer was granted one final sight of the amulet fastened upon his arm, the prize that he had promised to himself above all else. The polished gold sparkled in the air, as though filled with unnatural energy. For a moment Carl was filled with a sick longing, a half-glimpsed knowledge of the power the amulet could grant him, a power which would never now be his.

He saw a second, last, glimmering as the sword passed through the air. Carl followed its shimmering arc, his body held fast by a horrified wonder. He watched the movement whilst he could, then screwed his eyes shut. He knew he had been granted his final sight of this world.

The bounty hunter had watched the destruction of Durer’s gang with growing incredulity, a disbelieving spectator at a grotesque carnival of death. He had been edging closer to the scene of the battle, keeping well hidden beneath the cover of the trees. By the time Carl Durer spat out his last, blood-flecked breath, Lothar Koenig and the killer were no more than twenty feet apart.

Looking on from the safety of the trees, Lothar had first thanked Sigmar for what was surely divine intervention. The stranger had proved to be far more than a distraction; without Lothar lifting a finger he was doing his work for him, whittling away the odds separating the bounty hunter from his prize. But it was clear that Durer was not going to survive, Lothar Koenig wouldn’t be taking the bandit back to Talabheim alive. He felt a rush of something like grief stab through him as he realised Carl Durer’s value would be halved by virtue of his imminent death.

A voice inside Lothar urged him to intervene, step into claim what remained of the bandit leader, alive or dead. The traveller could have no quarrel with that. He had only been protecting himself from a murderous assault. Would he not be happy to see Durer led away, a prisoner, to face his retribution? But he held back whilst the slaughter reached its bloody conclusion, sensing that he was witnessing something abnormal, a display of berserk beauty from a cold, mesmerising force. He held back, yet he knew that he could not delay indefinitely. If he could not have Durer alive, then he must have him dead. His body, delivered intact for a bounty of eighty crowns. That was the deal, and he knew his grieving yet fastidious patron would brook no other arrangement.

Wait, Lothar told himself. Wait until the other man has climbed back into the saddle. Give him time to be on his way. He has no business with you. But now he was moving forward through the trees, moving from shadow into the stark light cast by the watching moons. Moving towards confrontation with the all-conquering warrior. Later he would say to himself that it was determination that drove him on. Who was to say that the madman would not butcher Durer’s dead body, every frenzied blow from his sword devaluing what was righty his—Lothar Koenig’s—property. He had not come so far to be denied his rightful bounty.

But, even as the other man turned, almost casually, at the sound of his footsteps upon the stony path, Lothar knew that it was greed that had brought him to this moment of recklessness. Greed, and the knowledge of what certain people—the right people—might pay to possess a creature such as this, a killing machine the match of any mercenary Lothar had ever seen.

A thousand possibilities were tumbling through Lothar Koenig’s mind as the two men came face to face. To the value of Carl Durer’s corpse he now added a sum at least double that for the bounty he might earn, if he could but take the warrior captive. Could he take the man alive? Of course he could. He was Lothar Koenig. Not just a bounty hunter. He was the bounty hunter. The best. He would find a way. He always did.

Then Lothar looked into the eyes of the other man, and, in that moment, all of his imaginings crumbled away. It was he, not the other man, who was mad. Mad to ever think he would have a chance of pulling this off.

Lothar Koenig’s hand moved towards the hilt of his sword, then dropped away. Almost by instinct he raised both arms in a gesture of conciliation and contrition.

“I’m sorry,” he said, aware of how stupid his words now sounded. “I mean you no harm. That man—” he pointed towards the bloodied carcass that was all that remained of Carl Durer. “I need the body, that’s all. Just the body.”

The traveller glanced briefly in the direction of Durer’s body, then turned towards Lothar Koenig. His face was unshaven, weathered by what looked like many weeks upon the road, but his eyes burned bright with a hungry fire. Lothar saw in that face neither good nor evil, only power. Unassailable power. The stranger gazed at him without favour or pity, and his features formed into something that might have been a smile. There was a moment of stillness as the stranger paused, as though listening to a distant sound, a voice that spoke to him alone. Then he raised his sword, and polished the blade slowly against the fabric of his tunic. Lothar saw the burnished gold of the amulet, but it was what lay beneath that held him transfixed. In the shadows the man’s arm had appeared almost black covered with a vivid bruise. But now he saw that it was no bruise. Almost the entire length of the man’s lower arm was covered in some kind of tattoo, a tableau of runes and images etched upon the killer’s skin.

As the killer raised his sword, the images began to move, suddenly animated with a life of their own. Figures came together in combat the dark hues of the tattoo suddenly flushing blood red. With a sudden shock of recognition, Lothar realised he was watching a re-enactment of the battle with the bandits, and the death of Carl Durer.

Lothar Koenig took a step back and looked around for any aid or refuge amongst his surroundings. Finding none, he sought a last, desperate comfort from his thoughts. We all have to die, he reminded himself again. We all have to die sometime.

But, in the final moment of truth, he found that the words held no comfort at all.