[Marienburg 02] - A Massacre in Marienburg

by David Bishop - (ebook by Undead)

  “No rest for the wicked, is there?” Damphoost called from his boat as it approached the wreck. Belladonna was sat beside him, trying not to catch Kurt’s eye, while Grist worked the oars. “Any idea how this started?”

  “Scavengers and looters,” Scheusal replied, saving Kurt the trouble of lying. “Things turned ugly when your men and ours tried to intervene.”

  “Really?”

  Kurt nodded. “That’s what will be in my report.”

  Damphoost smiled. “Fair enough. Just so long as we all agree.” By now the brawlers had stumbled to a standstill, most sporting cuts and bruises, a few with broken bones. “So who’s taking charge of the scene?”

  “We’re calling it a dry crime,” Kurt said.

  “How’d you figure that?”

  “There’s half a dozen homes been wrecked here. I’ve counted at least three bodies in the water, all of them Riddra residents judging by their clothes. That’s manslaughter, maybe even murder, plus malicious damage and Manann knows what else we’ll find.”

  “All caused by a boat ramming itself into the side of an island. That’s as clear-cut a case of wet crime if ever I saw one,” said Damphoost.

  “Forget it. My men were here first, it’s our case,” Kurt insisted.

  The smile faded from the other captain’s face. “It’s a wet crime, and that’s final.”

  “Sweet Shallya, why can’t you both deal with the case?” Belladonna asked, impatience obvious in her voice. She stood up in the boat, bracing her feet against both sides to maintain her balance. “The River Watch can investigate the boat’s background far more easily—where it came from, why it went off course. And the Black Caps can cover everything else, like identifying the dead and assessing the damage to Riddra. Surely discovering the truth is more important than who gets the glory for it?”

  “She’s right,” Kurt said through gritted teeth.

  “Agreed,” Damphoost added. He jumped from the boat to the newly formed slope, climbing up to where Kurt was standing. The River Watch captain extended a hand to his counterpart, both of them conscious all their men were watching. “Truce?”

  “Truce.” Kurt shook the offered hand, but his eyes were fixed on Belladonna. She looked away, more interested in the splintered remains of the Altena.

  “It’s clear where the investigation should start,” Damphoost said, taking in the scale of the devastation. “We need to discover how the wreckers succeeded in crashing a ship into Riddra in broad daylight. Why they did it is obvious, but not how.”

  Kurt frowned. “You think wreckers did this?”

  “Who else do you suggest?” Grist sneered from the water’s edge. “It had to be wreckers, no doubt working for the Thieves’ Guild.”

  Scheusal snorted with derision.

  Damphoost glared at the sergeant. “You disagree with our assessment?”

  “You’re talking out the back of your—”

  “Scheusal,” Kurt cut in, glaring at his sergeant to keep the peace.

  “—out the back of your boat,” Scheusal said. “The Thieves’ Guild needn’t stoop to wrecking to claim its share of every cargo coming in and out of the city. Even if it did, the likes of Adalbert Henschmann would certainly never permit such an activity in broad daylight, let alone less than five hundred paces from his own office.”

  “He’s right,” Belladonna said. “There’s something else happening here.”

  “Indeed?” Damphoost grimaced. “Then how do you suggest we proceed?”

  “There’s one obvious question that needs answering,” Belladonna replied. “A ship this size needs between six and nine men, including the captain. So where are the crew?”

  Before anyone could answer, a hurried, rasping noise became audible. It seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, but it was getting louder by the moment—as if what was making the sound was getting closer. The Black Caps and the River Watch looked round, trying to discern the source. Scheusal grabbed Kurt by the arm, and whispered into his captain’s ear. “I’ve heard that noise once before—a year ago.”

  Ganz was peering into a broken sewer pipe, two boatmen unconscious at his feet. “Whatever it is, the sound’s coming from in here!” he shouted. By now the noise was becoming thunderous, like the galloping hooves of a thousand steeds. Ganz moved closer to the shattered pipe. “I can see something moving inside.”

  “Get away from there,” Kurt commanded. “For the love of Manann, move!”

  The ex-soldier staggered back from the sewer pipe, shaking his head, his face ashen. “No, that’s impossible. It can’t be…” Ganz lost his footing and fell, sliding down a river of excrement into the murky water below.

  Then the creatures came, bursting from first one sewer pipe, and then from another, and another—until the wreck was swarming with them. They were animals but they stood on their hind legs, hissing and spitting. They were vermin clad in armour, an obscene parody of an army. They moved with diabolical speed, vicious blades clutched in their grasp, murder in their eyes. Fangs jutted from their hissing snouts, gnashing and biting at the air. They glanced round at the surroundings, squinting their black, beady eyes against the sun’s dazzle and glare. They were rats the size of men.

  Kurt swallowed, hard. He had seen these monsters before, even though they were creatures of legend and nightmare that most sane people believed did not exist. He had watched these monsters invade his station at Three Penny Bridge, brutally slaughtering dozens of mercenaries and beheading several of Kurt’s best watchmen. He had stood against them and prevailed, by the narrowest of margins and only with help from the elves. He had prayed never to look upon these fiends again and now they were walking abroad in daylight, something that should be anathema to them.

  Kurt heard himself whisper the name these creatures called themselves: “Skaven!”

  CHAPTER THREE

  For a few brief moments everything froze. The ratmen stood blinking in the daylight, nearly a hundred of them, all clustered round the broken sewer pipes. The Black Caps and River Watch stared at the vermin, many unable to believe the evidence of their own eyes, unable to accept what was standing in front of them. Some of the men prayed, others soiled their uniforms. The rest stood their ground, transfixed.

  Scheusal edged a step nearer to Kurt. “Captain, what are they waiting for?”

  “I don’t know,” Kurt admitted.

  “It’s a year today since their leader died at our station. Could this be revenge?”

  “Maybe, but why here? It’d make more sense if we were still at the station.”

  “Perhaps all this was a diversion,” Belladonna whispered. “The crash, the houses collapsing, all of it designed to lure us here.”

  “And draw us away from Three Penny Bridge,” Kurt said, completing her suggestion. “Maybe, but what are they waiting for? If they’re going to attack, why not—”

  A bellowing horn drowned out his words, the sound of it booming from the broken sewer pipes, deafening all those stood nearby. As the last echoes of the horn faded, dozens more ratmen burst from the pipes. They surged down the slope towards the wreckage of the Altena. Anyone standing in their way was driven backwards into the water, swept away by the tide of vermin running down the slope.

  Kurt heard a skittering sound above him. He twisted round to see a fresh horde of ratmen appearing at the top of the slope, all armed to the fangs with blades and weaponry. “Sweet Shallya,” he gasped, before dropping to one knee.

  “This is no time for prayer,” Damphoost snarled at him. “What about your men?”

  Kurt drew two razor-sharp daggers from sheaths sewn into the sides of his boots. “I wasn’t praying,” he spat at the River Watch captain. “I was getting ready to fight!” Kurt stood up, punching the air with both fists, a blade in each hand. “Black Caps, together!”

  The ratmen lining the top of the slope screamed, hissed, and attacked.

  The battle was brutal, bloody and brief. Kurt’s Black Caps all had daggers and sti
lettos to hand, a legacy of events a year earlier. Too many good watchmen had died for the lack of weapons back then, so Kurt had ordered all his recruits to arm themselves. No more did the Black Caps of Suiddock go on patrol with only a leather jack, a club and a lantern by way of protection. Some kept crossbows slung over their shoulders, hidden beneath capes and cloaks. Others preferred the cold metal of a blade on their hip or secreted in their boots. Kurt had forbidden his men from ever talking about the ratmen, or what had happened during the battle for Three Penny Bridge. But a few of the survivors had seen the sort of weapons wielded by the ratmen that dark night, and adopted the vermin’s practice of carrying a handful of sharpened metal stars in a pouch. With enough training and endless hours of practice, these innocuous slivers could be deadly weapons.

  When the ratmen charged down the slope, the Black Caps were ready for them. They formed into pairs or trios, better to protect one another from attack. Standing shoulder to shoulder, they hacked and slashed at the ratmen as the enemy surged past. Bolts flew from crossbows, puncturing armour and snouts, snapping back the heads and hearts of the slathering vermin horde. Throwing stars were just as effective, though none were augmented by the insidious, ravening poisons that coated the ratmen’s weapons.

  The maritime watchmen were not so fortunate. They had never seen this enemy before, let alone fought against it. Most of the River Watch boatmen were frozen by sheer terror, unable to cope with the inhuman foe surging down the slope. The ratmen hissed and snapped their fangs, deadly blades slicing the air. They stank too, a stench of death and decay like rotting fruit and corpses. The vermin body odour was almost a weapon in itself, invading the nostrils and lungs, an aroma so ripe it made several boatmen vomit. Damphoost tried to rally his troops but they were overwhelmed, fighting alone against the enemy, with few weapons and even less hope of survival, let alone victory.

  Grist was studying the wreckage of the Altena just before the ratmen appeared. The sergeant had been River Watch man and boy, joining the ranks before he was old enough to shave. Nearly thirty winters later, Grist had grown bitter in the knowledge he would never progress any further than sergeant. He was not a political animal, and had no stomach for the flattery and glad-handing necessary to win favour with those in the upper echelons, the people who made decisions about promotions from within the ranks. Nor did Grist have sufficient savings to buy himself a commission, as Damphoost had done.

  Grist did his job and no more, gaining some petty satisfaction from offering as little help as possible to those above him in rank. When the chance arose, the sergeant was not above a little light pilfering to supplement his meagre earnings. Wreckers and all those who made good ships come to grief were despicable to Grist’s way of thinking, but he was less vehement in his condemnation of scavengers and looters. After all, wasn’t he all too often guilty of the same sin, however venal? While Damphoost and the Black Caps’ captain had been arguing on dry land, Grist was working his way through the cargo of the Altena, looking for the richest pickings from what still remained on board.

  He couldn’t help admiring the workmanship of the Marienburg boat builders that had constructed the vessel. It had been rammed into the side of Riddra with enough force to bring down half a dozen houses, and caused the island’s northern tip to collapse into the sea. Despite that, the Altena was still structurally sound. The fact the island had given away with such ease suggested it was already weakened by centuries of tidal erosion, but for the boat that triggered the subsidence to retain the integrity of its hull was remarkable. Alas, the impact had destroyed much of the cargo, notably a load of Lustrian pottery.

  But Grist did find a wooden casket, its heavy padlock suggesting whatever was inside must be valuable. The crash had broken apart one of the corners, and inside he could see something glinting. The sergeant smirked. It was a gemstone, luminous and green. Perhaps this was the payday he’d been looking for, a treasure trove that could fund his retirement. Anything was better than the prospect of spending his declining years at some mission for retired boatmen. Grist reached into the chest and closed his hand round the jewel. “Gotcha,” he whispered to himself as the ratmen burst from the nearby sewers.

  Grist tried to pull his hand clear, but couldn’t compress his fist enough to get it and the gemstone out of the casket together. By now the ratmen were gathered on the slope above him, pausing for Manann knew what reason. The sergeant tugged and pulled at his arm, determined to get it and his prize out of the casket. Then the ratmen charged down the slope to the water—straight towards the Altena.

  Panic seized Grist like an icy fist closing round his heart. Bitter tears of frusuation welled in his eyes as the monsters charged at him, the sergeant’s arm now wedged within the casket. He couldn’t escape it, couldn’t get at the blade hanging from his belt, and couldn’t defend himself. He was going to die on a broken boat, his arm stuck in a box of delights he couldn’t open. Shame and guilt overwhelmed Grist. Finding a strength he’d never known before, the sergeant slammed the casket against a nearby mast. The wooden box cracked and split open a little further. Unable to believe his luck had changed at last, Grist ripped his arm free and held aloft his prize. At long last, he was rich.

  The gemstone was glorious, glowing with an inner light that bewitched the sergeant’s gaze. Grist was so entranced by it he never saw the blade that decapitated him.

  The battle felt like an eternity to those fighting for their lives against the vermin hordes, but in truth the tidal wave of ratmen was lessening within a minute. Their numbers became fewer, the thrust towards the sea less urgent. As the ranks of ratmen diminished, the width across which the battle was being fought narrowed. Soon Kurt found himself, Scheusal and Belladonna free of the enemy’s surge, better able to assess what was happening on the slope. Some of the ratmen were stopping to fight, but only when men stood in their way and the path to the sea was blocked. The rest of the vermin plunged into the water and vanished, swallowed by the inky darkness below the surface.

  “They’re not attacking us,” he said, the realisation hitting him like a blow across the face. “They’re only engaging the men who attack them.”

  Belladonna heard him and looked round, seeing what he was seeing. “You’re right. Tell the others to stand down, while they still can!”

  Kurt nodded. He dropped his weapons and cupped both hands round his mouth. “Black Caps, put down your weapons and get out of their way. They mean you no harm!”

  Ganz was among those closest to Kurt. “Are you insane?”

  Scheusal threw down his crossbow. “The captain’s right. Drop your weapons!” The other Black Caps saw this and followed the sergeant’s example. The vermin swept by, ignoring the watchmen. But the River Watch kept fighting, and kept dying.

  “Damphoost, tell your men to stand down!” Kurt shouted at his counterpart, bellowing to be heard above the melee.

  “No! The River Watch never surrenders!”

  “Do what Kurt says!” Belladonna shouted at Damphoost, her voice getting through to him in a way Kurt’s words could not. The River Watch captain looked round himself, and saw the ratmen running past the unarmed, defenceless Black Caps. But every boatman who engaged the enemy was being cut down without pity or mercy.

  “River Watch, stand down!” Damphoost shouted. “That’s an order! Stand down!”

  It was already too late for most of his men. The last ratmen threw themselves into the sea, some diving off the far end of the Altena, others dragging the bodies of their fallen with them into the murky depths. Once the water had recovered from this invasion, there was no sign the ratmen had ever passed this way, no evidence they even existed—but for the wounded, dying and dead members of the Watch left behind.

  A few of the Black Caps were hurt, but none seriously. The River Watch had been slaughtered, half of them dead, the rest traumatised by what they had just experienced. Kurt sent Scheusal to check on the wounded, while Belladonna consoled Damphoost. The River Watch captain was
bereft, his face white with rage, his hands trembling.

  “Why? Why did this happen?” he demanded.

  “We were in the wrong place, at the wrong time,” Belladonna suggested.

  “They attacked us!”

  “They fought those who tried to stop them,” Kurt said. “Soon as we let them pass, they went on their way. I’ve heard of this in other animals—it’s a survival instinct; fight or flight, the urge to preserve the species overtaking everything else.”

  “Like rats leaving a sinking ship,” Damphoost said, bitterness in his voice.

  “The sinking ship was incidental,” Belladonna observed. “They ignored the Altena, and its cargo. All they wanted was to get away from Suiddock.”

  “Why?” Damphoost demanded.

  “That’s the real question here,” Kurt agreed. “What could be so terrifying it would make those creatures flee? What do they know about that we haven’t discovered yet?”

  His counterpart looked round at the fallen. “How do we explain what happened? I can’t make a report that talks about vermin that stand and fight on their hind legs, I’d be laughed out of the River Watch. What do I tell the families of those who died here?”

  Belladonna took hold of his hands. “Tell them their men died as heroes, fighting against overwhelming odds. It’s the truth, and that’s all their families need to know. How they died doesn’t really matter, does it? Just that they died nobly, and well.”

  Kurt nodded. “We’ll make the same report. Your men and mine fought a valiant action against looters, scavengers and mutants. The River Watch suffered the greater number of casualties, as the criminals made their escape by water rather than over land.”

  Damphoost frowned. “And your superiors will believe that?”

  “They’ll believe what they want to believe,” Kurt replied. “It’s Marienburg.”

  Carts and stretchers were found to take the wounded for treatment, while the River Watch used its boats to ferry away the fallen. Death was no stranger in the maritime city, but burial grounds were few and far between in its overcrowded alleys and passageways. The richest families had their own crypts, burying their dearly departed deep beneath palatial mansions of marble and stone. Less wealthy merchants could still afford to buy a plot in one of the few graveyards or public crypts, usually adjacent to a temple of Morr. But even there, occupants were always buried in a shroud with a shovelful of quicklime, ensuring their resting place would be ready for a fresh corpse within a year.