The madam pushed open the door to her room. A baby was lying on the bed, wrapped in swaddling clothes, its hands tiny fists clenching and unclenching. The infant gurgled and blew saliva bubbles from its mouth, a wisp of fiery red hair sprouting from the crown of its head. The child had emerald-green eyes, just like the madam. Molly collapsed against the doorframe, unable to believe what she was seeing. “Tomas? Is that you?” Molly whispered, her words a whisper of hope and fear.
The baby kicked its feet at the air and laughed.
This can’t be real, Molly told herself, but the suppressed memories flooded back, overwhelming her with grief. The brandy on her owner’s breath as he claimed her, the months of discomfit and fear while hiding her shame, the night of pain as Tomas came into the world, and the dawn that haunted her still. Molly didn’t want to think about what happened, how she weighed down the tiny bundle before throwing it into the canal, watching it sink without a trace. The everlasting guilt for what she’d done, the torments and pain she had suffered since that day—it was all too much.
She sank to the floor, sobbing, while the ghost of her past cried on the bed.
“I thought you said removing the head would stop them?” Kurt shouted. He was hacking at the five undead with his blade, slicing away heads and hands, limbs and legs. But still they kept coming, driving him backwards into a corner of the temple.
“It should,” Otto insisted. He was attacking the living dead from behind, beating at them with a hefty candle-stand, the base given extra weight by a lump of lead within it. Under his breath the priest was muttering in an arcane language, casting spells that should have stopped the undead in their tracks. But nothing either man did seemed to have much effect on the risen. Slicing off their legs debilitated them, and removing their arms stopped the clawing hands ripping at Kurt and Otto’s faces, but the undead were stubbornly refusing to become dead once more. “This is powerful dark magic, too powerful for my spells to overcome. A single priest of Morr is not enough, not against a dark magic incantation of this magnitude!”
It was a high window in the temple wall that saved Kurt and Otto. The first light of a new day broke through the rectangle, hitting a burnished bronze plaque of Morr hanging on the opposite wall, reflecting sunshine round the candlelit room. As the sunlight touched the undead they slowed and stumbled, their strength sapped. More and more sunlight came into the chamber, debilitating the attackers, bringing them close to a standstill. Realising what was happening, Otto ran to the door facing east and threw it open. Sunlight flooded the chamber. “Now,” the priest urged. “Now they will fall!”
Kurt lashed out, his blade cleaving bone from bone, slicing and severing, metal undoing the enemy. One by one the undead went down and stayed down, broken and beaten. Once the last of them had fallen still, Kurt sank to his knees, gasping for breath.
“Are you all right?” Otto asked from the doorway.
“Been better,” Kurt replied. “What happened?”
“It’s dawn. The rising sun is burning away the mist. Whoever’s behind this dark magic must have been using the fog as a link to the undead.”
“The sunlight severed that link, made the skeletons vulnerable,” Kurt realised.
Otto nodded. “All night I’ve felt disturbances in the barrier between the living and the dead, as if those beyond this mortal coil were trying to break back into our world.”
The captain got back to his feet, brushing the dust of the dead from his uniform. “The mist and the sea, there must be a connection.”
“Why?”
“You’ve got a mausoleum next door, filled with old bodies, but none of them came to life. Only those below sea level rose up, and they were sustained by the mist.”
“Of course,” the priest realised. “Mist is millions of moisture particles. It rolled in from the sea last night, as the sun was going down.”
“Exactly. Whoever’s behind all of this is out there, waiting to attack.” Kurt joined Otto at the doorway. Outside a few tendrils of fog still lingered in the air at street level, but the rising sun had diminished the sinister cloud’s grip on the city—for now. “I reckon we’ve the rest of today to get ready for what’s coming, so long as the sun keeps shining.”
“What if it doesn’t?”
Kurt grimaced. “We’ll be dancing with Morr by nightfall tomorrow.”
Paulo Arkensword had ridden through the night to reach Marienburg, leaning forward in the saddle to urge his steed onwards, his lean and muscular body matched by the flinty determination in his narrow face. He had accompanied his master on a barge from Altdorf for most of the journey, but left the vessel at dusk to ride ahead. The overland journey was far more dangerous, but Arkensword had not hesitated at his orders—years of training had ingrained absolute obedience deep into his core.
Twice attacks had been launched at horse and rider from out of the darkness, enemies intent upon bringing death to both steed and man. A trio of bandits came from the north, waving flaming torches and firing flintlocks. But such a display put no fear into Arkensword’s resolute heart, especially when the aim of his attackers was so poor and the torches they brandished merely served to light a way through their ranks. He had lashed out with both boots as he passed, breaking the jaw of one man and kicking another unconscious. The third bandit abandoned his brethren, running off into the darkness.
The second attack was more serious and cost Arkensword more time. Chaos-addled creatures lurched across the road when the rider was but an hour from the city. Dawn was close and the night thinning, but Arkensword could see no way past his foe. They showed far more tactical skill than the bandits, choosing a narrow passing place between two high cliffs of grey stone. The creatures locked arms, preventing any easy rupture to their chain, and they showed no fear when Arkensword made to ride them down. He pulled up at the last, his horse’s hooves skidding along the path.
“What do you want?” Arkensword demanded. “If it’s gold or valuables, I carry naught but the blades at my side. If you wish those, it will cost you dear in blood.”
“Flesh,” one of the creatures growled, its face ruptured by some hideous mutation.
“I’ve no meat with me. I ride with the wind, not provisions.”
“Your flesh we want,” the creature continued.
Arkensword glanced over his shoulder. Seven more of these monsters appeared from the gloaming behind him, blocking any easy escape. Even if he could go past them, this road was by far the quickest route into Marienburg. He would face a treacherous journey across wasteland and marshes to make the city otherwise, forced to go deeper into territory that these creatures called home. There was no alternative. He had to go forwards, or fail—and he would not countenance failure.
“Let me pass, or I shall ride you down,” he warned.
“Give us flesh,” the creatures’ leader replied. A forked tongue licked black, bruised lips, while throaty chuckles of delight escaped those behind the lone horseman.
“You give me no choice,” Arkensword said. “Come and get it.”
The monsters moved closer, their greed getting the better of them. Arkensword waited until they had reached the widest part of the pass. Then he jammed both boots into the sides of his steed, and the horse jumped forwards, racing at the attackers. The rider hunched low in the saddle, urging the beast on, until they were nearly on top of the creatures. Then Arkensword reared back in his seat, pulling hard on the reins. The horse leapt into the air, as it would over a tall hedge or obstacle on a battlefield. It couldn’t clear the creatures or the tall blades they brandished, but three of the monsters went down beneath its hooves and the others were scattered, their leader among them.
Arkensword rode on, grinning at his escape and the bravery of his steed. “Good girl,” he said, patting the horse’s neck. “Good girl.” They raced away from the monsters, maintaining a lightning pace until the attackers were left far behind. Only then did the rider let his mount ease down. As the horse slowed to a canter, its
legs developed a stumble. The slower it got, the more pronounced the untidiness of gait became. Finally Arkensword was forced to stop altogether. He slid out of the saddle and dropped to the ground. One glance at his steed’s underside confirmed all his fears. The horse had suffered grave wounds from the attackers. Only adrenaline had kept her going this far.
The horse slumped to the ground, legs giving way beneath the mighty beast. Arkensword drew a stiletto and pressed it to his beloved horse’s neck. “I’m so sorry, girl.” He eased open her veins and she was gone in less than a minute, warm blood pooling beneath the steed, steam rising from the fatal wound. Better to end her suffering as soon as possible, Arkensword believed. He retrieved his meagre possessions from the saddlebags and continued his journey on foot, running towards Marienburg.
He could see the city in the distance now, an ominous dark cloud hanging above it. Arkensword would ensure his message was delivered no matter what, but even a man as relentless as him could not help but be shaken by the shape visible in the cloud over Marienburg: a death’s head skull, grinning like old Morr himself. Arkensword did his best to ignore the nagging sensation he was running to his own demise, and quickened his pace. The sooner he delivered this message and purchased a new horse, the quicker he could return to his master. But first he had to find his quarry, a shamed exile and former soldier. First he had to find Kurt Schnell.
Potts was one of the few Black Caps inside Three Penny Bridge to get a decent night’s sleep. He awoke with the dayshift, all of them complaining bitterly about a succession of disturbingly vivid dreams and nightmares. One grizzled watchman noticed the new recruit, silent among the others. “What’s your name, son?”
“Potts, Erasmus Potts. My uncle is—”
“None of my concern,” the Black Cap said. “If there’s one thing I learned from the army, it’s judge a man by his actions, not his family connections. I’m Ganz, Marc Ganz.”
Potts shook the offered hand. “You were in the army? I thought we only had the militia here in Marienburg.”
Ganz snorted his derision. “Militia? Hardly deserve the name. Bunch of fat, lazy, hired thugs, if you want my opinion. Real military, that’s another matter. I’m from Altdorf, originally. Served under Old Ironbeard himself, General Erwin Schnell.”
“You’re from Altdorf, like Captain Schnell?”
Ganz nodded. “He’s the general’s son.”
Potts looked startled. “I didn’t know that.”
“That’s not surprising, not after what happened last time he went into battle.” Ganz pulled up his tunic to reveal a livid red scar that ran the length of his torso. “I lost half the blood in my body thanks to our glorious captain. Only made it home alive because the general sent his private physician to tend me. Got invalided out of the army, ended up here in Marienburg.” Ganz muttered a curse and spat on the floor. “Of all the privy sheds in the city, they had to send me here, stuck me with that coward of a captain.”
By now the other watchmen had finished ablutions and were filing back into their quarters. Holismus shook his head as he listened to the veteran’s complaints. “Stop your damn bellyaching, Ganz. Captain Schnell’s one of the bravest men I’ve ever met.”
“Yeah? Well he was a coward where it counted—on the battlefield!”
The two watchmen were squaring up for a fight as Scheusal came in. The sergeant pulled the pair apart, his meaty hands grabbing both men by the front of their tunics. “Ladies, ladies—you know how I feel about fighting in the station. If you two have got a personality clash to settle, take it out on the streets. Better still, take it out on the district’s criminals. I’m sure you could find a few cutpurses and robbers who need disciplining.”
Ganz jabbed a finger at Holismus. “This isn’t over. The only reason you’re still here is because Schnell saved your sorry skin. Any captain worth the name would have sent you packing after that business with your brother. Yeah, that’s right, we heard all about you and jolly Joost the Chaos freak at my last station.”
“Climb out of the bottle and I might have some respect for you,” Holismus spat back at Ganz. “I’ve heard plenty of talk out of you, but I’ve also seen the captain risk his life for us again and again. Until you do the same, keep out of my damn way!” He stormed from the sleeping quarters, most of the other Black Caps going with him. Soon there was just Ganz, Potts and the sergeant left. Scheusal let go of Ganz’s tunic.
“Well, Potts, looks like I’ve found someone to partner you on patrol,” the sergeant announced. “You seem pretty eager to shoot your mouth off today, Ganz, so you can escort our newest recruit round the district. Show him what life is like in Suiddock. You’re on thin ice already, so try not to get him killed. One more reprimand on your file and it’ll be back to standing guard outside headquarters for you. Understand?”
Ganz glared at the sergeant, hatred and fury all too obvious in his expression.
Scheusal was something of a gentle giant, but he cut an imposing figure when roused. The sergeant loomed over Ganz, glaring down at the watchman.
“Understand?”
“Yes, sergeant,” Ganz muttered after a lengthy silence.
“That’s better.” Scheusal gave Potts a wink on the way out. “He’s all yours.”
Belladonna was waiting for Kurt in his office when he returned from Otto’s temple. She pushed an errant curl of warm brown hair back behind one ear. “Good, you’re here. I was beginning to wonder if you were avoiding me.”
“Why would I do that?” Kurt asked.
“I left a note saying I needed to see you here this morning.”
“You did?”
She pointed at a letter, in the centre of his desk, an inkwell stood atop it.
The captain coloured with embarrassment. “Sorry. Didn’t notice that. Well, I’m here now. What did you want to see me about?”
“I’m transferring to the Suiddock River Watch,” Belladonna announced. “I’ve already submitted my papers and headquarters have approved them. All I need is your agreement and I can join my new posting immediately.”
Kurt sank into his chair. “You’re sure that’s what you want?”
She nodded. “Damphoost lost half his men yesterday, he needs all the help he can get. He’s promised me special resources, an office of my own, maybe even a special unit to help me develop the procedures I’ve been trying here once he gets the local River Watch squad back on its feet. He takes what I do seriously.”
“So do I,” Kurt protested.
“Maybe, but you don’t support me. Every time I’ve asked for help, you’ve turned me down. Feels like I’m banging my head against a stone wall here.”
“Belladonna, you know what it’s been like. We haven’t had a full complement of Black Caps here since the day this station re-opened. You want to leave now, when this place is close to running properly at last? And how will Damphoost deliver on all his promises, when he’s so short-staffed? How do you know you can even trust him?”
She looked Kurt in the eyes. “I know.”
He sighed. “Then you’d best be with him, if he’s that important to you. I know you always follow your heart, Belladonna, so I hope you find what you’re looking for, but remember this: there’ll always be a place for you at Three Penny Bridge, if you want it.”
“Thanks.” She offered her hand to Kurt. He stood up to shake it, but his attention was distracted by a lone figure stalking into the station.
“It can’t be…” Kurt whispered.
Belladonna glanced round to see who he was looking at. “You know that man?”
The captain nodded. “All my life.”
Scheusal was on duty as desk sergeant. He questioned the newcomer, before pointing to the captain’s office. Kurt emerged to greet the arrival. “Paulo? Is that you?”
Arkensword marched over to Kurt. “I’ve a message,” he announced, his voice tight and formal, his face full of disdain and loathing. Arkensword had dark rings under his eyes, and his garb was flec
ked with blood and mud. It was clear he had seen plenty of combat but precious little sleep in recent days.
“You brought it all the way from Altdorf?” Kurt asked.
The newcomer shook his head. “The message is from your father. He wanted me to tell you two things. You should prepare yourself for a shock.”
Kurt’s smile faded. “What is it?”
“Your mother is dead.”
“No,” Kurt gasped. “When did she—?”
“Two months ago.”
“What? The old bastard waited two months to tell me? Why?”
Arkensword grimaced. “You know why.”
Kurt’s face darkened, his expression hardening. “What else? What’s the second thing he wanted you to tell me, Paulo?”
“My name is Arkensword, to you. Don’t presume to address me as a friend.”
Belladonna recognised the anger in Kurt’s eyes. He looked ready to kill.
“Fine,” he snarled. “What else are you here to tell me, Arkensword?”
“It was your mother’s dying wish that father and son be reunited.”
Kurt shook his head. “I’ve got nothing to say to the general.”
“You do not understand—”
“I understand all too well!” Kurt raged, his anger getting the better of him. “My father—the mighty warrior, the great general, Old Ironbeard himself—hasn’t got the nerve to come here and tell me face to face that my mother’s died. No, he waits two damn months before he sends his adjutant to do the dirty work. Now he deigns to come and grant me an audience, is that it? Well, you can tell your lord and master he’s not welcome here. He can do what he likes in the rest of the city, but if he sets foot on Three Penny Bridge he’ll be going over the side for a swim in the Rijksweg. Tell him that!”
[Marienburg 02] - A Massacre in Marienburg Page 10