[Marienburg 02] - A Massacre in Marienburg

by David Bishop - (ebook by Undead)

  “By whose authority?” Andries asked.

  “Does it matter?” the witch hunter sneered.

  Andries and his partner exchanged a glance. No, it didn’t matter to either of them.

  “Where is your station?” the witch hunter continued. “Suiddock or Paleisbuurt?”

  “Paleisbuurt,” Wijk replied. “We report to Captain Bloom.”

  “Then return there, and consider yourselves fortunate.”

  Andries thought to ask why they should, but dismissed the question as soon as it formed in his mind. In his experience Black Caps who asked too many questions did not last long, nor did they have the happiest of times. Instead the watchman tipped his cap to the witch hunter and dragged Wijk away, across the bridge to Paleisbuurt. As they marched over the rest of the Hoogbrug towards home, they passed a dozen witch hunters—more than either man had ever seen before in their whole lives. That settled it for Andries. He wanted no part of whatever was happening across in Suiddock.

  Back in the centre of the Hoogbrug, Brother Nathaniel was saying his farewells to the other witch hunters. “You have your orders. Do not deviate from them, no matter what horrors you may witness or terrors may confront you. Here and on the Draaienbrug is where we must make our stand, if this accursed dark magic is to be vanquished.”

  The others nodded, their faces grim and resolute as that of Nathaniel.

  He marched off towards Suiddock, vanishing into the fog long before the sound of his boots faded into the distance. Then he was gone, as if the mist had consumed him.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Otto staggered naked through the mausoleum, eyes closed, hands held up in front of his face. “No more,” he begged, “please, no more.” But his torments were unending, as the ghosts of those laid to rest in crypts and tombs around him rose up. They hovered and swayed in the air, before diving through the priest’s fevered body, every penetration like a stab of ice, cold shame to his soul. As each ghost entered his body, Otto felt what they felt, sensed what they sensed, suffered as they suffered.

  The priest experienced the final moments of their existence and the numbing horror of their death. The mother whose life ebbed away in a pool of her own blood as the stillborn baby lay on the cobbles, sobbing in anguish while uncaring people stepped over them both. The innocent boy stabbed to death in a senseless rage by his eldest brother, all reason torn away by years of crimson shade abuse. The elderly crone who suffered years of pain as the tumours grew inside her, eating away at liver, kidneys and lungs. The rich merchant drowned by his second wife on their wedding night, killed for a fortune she never got to spend during her brief sojourn to Rijker’s Isle. The fabled explorer who lied all his life about the lands he claimed to have discovered, perishing in an alleyway as the heart he had neglected ground to a halt, choked by years of banquets and rich food.

  All of these deaths Otto endured and dozens more, over and over again, each torment more excruciating than the last. It was an endless cycle of darkness, seeing the nothingness that lay beyond the grave, the bleak wallow of eternity these unhappy spirits had found in the world after death, the terrifying void where they had expected paradise. For hours the priest had denied these visions, decrying them as hallucinations, visions sent to plague him, lies and falsehoods born of dark magic.

  But as dawn came to Suiddock, the horrors became too much. Otto ran from the spirits, lurching through the mausoleum back to his temple, the house of stone and sorrows he called home. But more nightmares waited there, these torn from the bones and bodies that had attacked him and Kurt. Somehow despatching them had undone the binding between body and soul, unleashing them as avenging spirits bent on revenge. We died once but we rose again, they whispered in the priest’s mind. We were resurrected and you stole that resurrection from us. You’re a murderer. Murderer!

  “No, I’m not,” Otto whimpered, sinking into a corner of the temple, paying no heed to how cold the stone was against his skin, not caring anymore if he lived or died. “I couldn’t kill you, I couldn’t. You were already dead—already dead!”

  Not anymore, they screamed into his thoughts. We’ll live again inside you!

  “No—nooooooo!”

  Kurt was en route to see how his Black Caps were faring with the blockades when he heard a terrified cry from nearby. The captain had never got used to the sound of men screaming, though he’d heard it often on the battlefield and more than a few times since arriving in Marienburg. There was something unnatural, almost inhuman about male screaming. It was a sound that simply could not be ignored.

  At first Kurt couldn’t tell from where the scream had come, the fog still making it all but impossible to see beyond an arm’s length ahead. But as he groped his way towards the sound, the captain’s hands found the sign of Morr on the wall ahead and Kurt realised where he was. More shocking was the fact he couldn’t remember where he’d last seen or heard from Otto. It could have been hours, even days, but the watchman was unable to put the pieces of memory together in his mind. Was it another side effect of the accursed mist, Kurt wondered, before pushing that aside. It didn’t matter, finding Otto and stopping whatever was making the priest scream had to be the priority now.

  Kurt felt his way along the wall, knowing the entrance must be close. His hand fell on the handle as a beam of sunlight penetrated the greasy yellow gloom all around. It was dawn. It was Geheimnistag. Kurt pushed his way into the temple. As he entered, the screaming stopped, as if cut off at the source.

  The interior was dark, a single lit candle providing the only illumination. Kurt peered round the temple, trying to discover Otto among the torn tapestries and broken stonework. The rooms had been a mess when he left, but something far worse had happened since. That was underlined when Kurt found the priest hunched in a corner, stark naked and sobbing, his eyes staring at worlds beyond vision.

  “Otto, it’s Kurt,” the captain said, crouching on one knee by the trembling figure. “It’s Captain Schnell, from Three Penny Bridge. You remember?”

  The priest blinked once but gave no other response.

  “You helped us with a memorial service for Jan Woxholt, and all the other Black Caps who died last year, when the mercenaries attacked the station.”

  Another blink, but nothing else.

  “I’m going to find your robe, Otto. You can’t stay like this, you’ll catch your death in the cold,” Kurt said, getting back to his feet. “Where’s your robe, Otto?”

  “Catch your death,” the priest whispered.

  “That’s right.”

  Otto pointed to the opposite corner, where a torn and tattered garment had been flung. Kurt retrieved it and brought the robe back to the priest. He helped Otto up and slipped the robe over the naked man’s head and shoulders. “That’s better. Last thing you want to do is run around Suiddock naked. Not today, not on Geheimnistag.”

  “When the dead talk to the living through dreams,” Otto said, still shaking.

  Kurt nodded, before gesturing at the carnage inside the temple. “What happened?”

  “Kept seeing visions of death, and horror. Torturing me, tormenting me. Over and over, over and over,” the priest replied. “Couldn’t escape them, couldn’t find a way out.”

  “Do you know where these visions came to you from?” Otto stared at the captain.

  “Yes.”

  “Can you lead me to the source?”

  “Not that, don’t ask me to do that,” the priest said. “Anything but that!”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I’m not strong enough. When you came in, I was all but broken, my mind…”

  “By these visions of the dead?” Otto nodded.

  “But you’re a priest of Morr. You worship the god of dreams, the protector of the dead. You work with the deceased every single day—how can you be afraid?”

  “There are worse things than death,” Otto hissed. “Far worse.”

  “Like what?”

  But the priest didn’t reply, on
ly shook his head.

  Kurt wouldn’t be denied. “Like what, Otto? Tell me!”

  “He can’t,” another voice interjected. Kurt swivelled round to see the temple door opening. A lone figure stood outside, bathed in a mixture of mist and sunshine, dark cloak swirling around them. The wide-brimmed hat tipped back, revealing the face of Brother Nathaniel underneath. “If he tells you, he becomes a heretic.”

  Kurt shook his head in disbelief. “Is that why you’re here, to brand this poor priest as an unbeliever? Maybe take him away for torture and interrogation by one of your brethren, followed by a few decades of indoctrination and incarceration?”

  The witch hunter strolled into the temple. “Quite the contrary—I’m here to help.”

  * * *

  Frau Silvia Vink was not in the habit of venturing outside her home, except on Marktag when she went shopping for provisions. It had been different when her husband Titus was alive, he could eat like a horse, but she’d been alone since his murder. Halflings were few and far between in Suiddock, so Silvia held out little hope of meeting another from her kind that she wished to invite into her home, let alone her bed. Once the murderer had been punished, Frau Vink decided it was time to move on from the house she’d shared with Titus on Three Penny Bridge. His killing had soured too many happy memories, and she wanted to make a fresh start. So the widow sold her home and shifted to a quiet corner of Stoessel, remaking the house to suit her needs.

  She had not gone out since the fog first settled over Suiddock. One breath of the foul mist convinced the little woman it was best avoided. She bolted the front door and shuttered the windows, content to read by candlelight and spin yarn on a wheel. Three days passed in this fashion, with only an occasional visit from a friend or neighbour to disturb her peace. But the morning of Geheimnistag brought a battering on her front door.

  Roused from sleep, Frau Vink flung open the shutters on her bedroom window to look down on the cause of the racket. She found this gave her a height advantage over those below, something a halfling did not often experience. The foul fog had dissipated enough for her to see a hulk with tattooed arms and a soot-smeared shirt bashing her front door. “What in Manann’s name do you want?”

  “Witch hunters have put the district under quarantine,” he replied, after spotting where she was.

  “Nobody’s allowed in or out of Suiddock, and that includes the docks as well as the bridges. River Watch are blockading every waterway too.”

  “Why?”

  “Dark magic, or so they say. All the stevedores and teamsters are going round every home in Suiddock, asking people to help us break the quarantine. They are leaving us to rot here, hoping it’ll save the rest of the city. Why should we die for them?” As he talked other men were hammering on doors up and down the alleyway, repeating the same phrases to concerned citizens. Residents were already spilling out of their homes, carrying satchels laden with clothing and other possessions. “So, you coming or not?” the stevedore demanded. “We march on both bridges within the hour.”

  “I’m staying put,” the widow replied. “I’ve already moved once this year, I’m not moving again. When I leave this house they’ll be carrying me out in a burial shroud.”

  “Have it your own way,” the hulk shrugged. He moved on to her neighbour’s door and the hammering resumed. Frau Vink watched for a few minutes before withdrawing into her own little world, closing the shutters on the tumult outside.

  “Dark magic,” she muttered to herself. “Who believes in such nonsense?”

  Scheusal stood in front of the Hoogbrug, Silenti flanking him on one side, Potts on the other. Six more watchmen were behind them, blocking any access to the bridge across the Rijksweg. The rising sun had done its best against the insidious fog, but swirls of the mist were already forming above Suiddock. For the first time in days, Scheusal found himself wishing the fog to return. The sergeant and his contingent of Black Caps had been standing guard over the Hoogbrug since dawn, following Kurt’s instructions to the letter. Behind them two clusters of witch hunters were standing on the bridge, ready to send back any citizens who broke through the blockade of watchmen.

  For the first hour it had been quiet, so quiet Scheusal wondered if all their preparations had been wasted effort, the promised revolt a figment of the imagination less substantial than the mist. But one by one the citizens came, laden with possessions and anger, all of them wanting to escape Suiddock. The first few were bemused and polite, but as their numbers swelled and the Black Caps stood firm, the mood turned ugly. It was a standoff, an explosive situation waiting for someone to strike the first match.

  Scheusal knew his men could repel ordinary citizens in small groups with little trouble. But once the burly stevedores and teamsters from the docks arrived, the begging and verbal abuse would soon turn to violence. The watchmen were under orders to use force to defend the bridge and themselves, no more. If the standoff turned into a riot, the captain had been clear: nobody was to take a life except to defend their own or that of another Black Cap. The witch hunters could look after their own men, according to Kurt, and the sergeant was more than happy to agree. He’d already been forced to batter back several attempts by citizens, all of them intent on getting past the blockade. Once they got organised, it was liable to be a bloodbath. Even the fog was preferable to that.

  “This isn’t so bad,” Potts said. “What was the captain worried about?”

  “Them,” Silenti replied, jerking his head towards a delegation marching through Hightower Isle, towards the blockade. There were more than forty heavily muscled men in the gang, all armed with clubs or longshoreman’s hooks.

  “Taal’s teeth,” the new recruit whispered.

  “Let’s hope we’ve still got some teeth when this is over,” Silenti said.

  The delegation forced its way through the crowd of citizens that stood twenty deep around the blockade, until the armed men were facing the Black Caps. Lea-Jan Cobbius emerged from among the newcomers, his hands empty of any weapon. He stood opposite Scheusal, arms folded, face resolute and stern.

  “We wish to pass,” Cobbius announced, his voice loud enough for all to hear.

  “Suiddock is under quarantine, by order of the Stadsraad and the witch hunters,” the sergeant replied. “None may leave the district, by land or by sea.” He gestured to the Rijksweg, running underneath the bridge. A string of River Watch boats bobbed in the water, extended out east and west as far as the eye could see. “If you wish to object or complain about the quarantine, we suggest you take it up with the proper authorities.”

  “And how do you suggest we contact these authorities, since they are safely outside the district while you are holding us prisoner inside the district?” Cobbius demanded. His question brought yells of approval and support from those behind him.

  Scheusal shrugged. “We didn’t choose to be here either. We’re prisoners of this situation, just like all of you.”

  “Except you’re prisoners who also hold the key to freedom.”

  The sergeant jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the waiting witch hunters. “In case you hadn’t noticed, the real warders are behind us. Any citizen who attempts to get past them will be summarily excommunicated. Your souls will be forfeit—or so I’ve been instructed to tell you. Better for everyone if you all go home, and wait there.”

  “What if we don’t wish to wait?” Cobbius asked. “What if we force the issue?”

  “Then force will be met by force, however painful that may be. For all of us.”

  Cobbius nodded, before turning to his men. “Do what you must.” He walked past his army of thugs, and on through the assembled citizens, back into Suiddock. Once he was out of sight, the delegation of stevedores and teamsters closed ranks, their weapons ready for action. Silenti leaned over towards a pale and pasty Potts.

  “Now do you see what the captain was worried about?”

  Damphoost had chosen to be in the River Watch boat furthest to the west of S
uiddock, floating between Riddra and Rijker’s Isle, and Belladonna had chosen to be with her new captain. Plenty of citizens had tried to flee the district in a variety of vessels, but all had been turned back by the maritime watchmen. Several river taxis approached the blockade from other parts of the city, but none had the stomach for a direct confrontation with the River Watch. Damphoost was not anticipating trouble from them.

  It was the smugglers that worried him most. Suiddock was a haven for dubious ships carrying unregistered cargo. With the port closed for several days in succession, the smugglers’ need to shift their contraband was becoming ever more urgent. Sailing out of the harbour while the mist had fallen on Suiddock and its waterways was too dangerous. Now the sun had driven the fog back, it was a golden opportunity for smugglers to make a break for open water. Not all of them could expect to break through the blockade, but even the heavily reinforced River Watch had little hope of stopping everyone. Once the smugglers reached the cover of fog near Rijker’s Isle, their escape was assured.

  They came as a distant bell tower chimed nine. It must have been a pre-arranged signal for action, as Belladonna could hear screams drifting across the water, and the sound of a flintlock pistol being fired. The smuggling ships emerged from the port entrance and sailed due west, straight for the flotilla of River Watch boats commanded by Damphoost. “How do we stop them?” Belladonna asked, all too conscious that the dagger in her trembling hand was little use against a large ship coming at ramming speed.

  “I’m not sure we can,” Damphoost admitted. “But we’ll try.”

  Archers appeared on the decks of the approaching ships. Belladonna watched in horror as the bowmen loaded their weapons with flaming arrows. She was sitting in a wooden boat, as were all the River Watch vessels. They’d no defence against fire, except the sea-water lapping around them. Then the arrows were flying through the air, raining down on the line of wooden boats. The man to her left took an arrow through the eye, and fell overboard screaming. Damphoost was to her right. He threw his body over her, pressing Belladonna down inside the boat, out of harm’s way. Several River Watch vessels nearby were not so fortunate, three catching fire and others capsizing as the crew fell into the water, punctured by burning arrows.