[Marienburg 02] - A Massacre in Marienburg

by David Bishop - (ebook by Undead)

  The smugglers’ ships kept coming, brutal and relentless.

  It was Potts who fired the first shot at the Hoogbrug. The surly gang of dockworkers had marched towards the watchmen, clubs and hooks at the ready, spoiling for a fight. The Black Caps braced themselves, Scheusal growling at his men to stand their ground. But the sergeant didn’t see the trembling recruit behind him pull out the flintlock, or aim it at the oncoming horde. It was Silenti who intervened, throwing his weight sideways into Potts as the pistol fired. The shot went into air, out of harm’s way, but the shock of it still brought the dockworkers to a halt.

  “They’ve got pistols!” a woman cried out from among the gathered citizens.

  “They mean to kill us!” another shouted.

  “They can’t stop us all,” the tallest of the dockworkers snarled, gesturing for the crowd to follow him and his men on to the bridge. “Let’s get ’em before they get us!”

  “Sweet Shallya,” the sergeant muttered. “Here they come!”

  Scheusal and his men fought valiantly against the horde, knocking back most of the dockworkers and even the first few citizens to fling themselves at the watchmen’s blockade. But sheer weight of numbers won the day, hundreds and hundreds of citizens proving far too many to repel for less than a dozen men. Scheusal could see people falling to the cobbles, getting trampled underfoot in the mob’s haste to escape the district. Realising the situation was hopeless, he pulled a whistle from his tunic and blew on it three times. “Withdraw, Black Caps—withdraw!”

  Silenti bundled Potts and several other watchmen to one side of the bridge, out of harm’s way, while Scheusal took the rest with him to the opposite side. They watched as the crowd surged up the Hoogbrug’s mighty span, towards the waiting witch hunters, where the battle was replayed. But a small army of militia had crossed from the northern end of the bridge to support the witch hunters. The first skirmish was over, but the war for control of the Hoogbrug raged on, pitting citizen against paid soldiers.

  Once the crowd had passed, Scheusal called his watchmen together to help those left behind, the wounded and the dying. Twenty-two had been crushed in the rush to escape Suiddock, and not all of them would survive the day. “Silenti, find me a healer and an apothecary, these people need help!” The Black Cap raced away in search of medical aid, while Scheusal pulled a horrified Potts away from the injured. “Who told you to bring a pistol to the blockade? Who gave the order to fire your flintlock?”

  “No one,” the young recruit whispered, tears welling in his eyes. “I wanted to help, to protect the blockade, that’s all.”

  Scheusal pointed at those crushed in the stampede. “You’re partly responsible for what’s happened here today. I want you to memorise the face of every one of these citizens. It’s our job to protect them. Potts, that’s what is important. If one of them dies, their blood will be on your hands. Everything we do has consequences. Remember that!”

  Captain Gralish enjoyed the spectacle as his archers shot wave after wave of burning arrows at the line of wooden boats. The River Watch had been a thorn in the sides of Marienburg smugglers for years, but blockading the waters around Suiddock was a step too far. Word of the quarantine had reached Gralish and his rivals the previous night, as they drowned their sorrows at being fog-bound. Lea-Jan Cobbius himself had come to the Anchor and Albatross, a disreputable tavern lurking in the shadow of the docks, to spread the news. “Should anyone feel the urge to sail at dawn once the sun burns away some of this damn mist,” he had said, “it wouldn’t surprise me if they got all the help they need from any dockworkers that might be standing idle nearby.”

  Gralish didn’t need to be invited to a fight twice. He’d headed straight back to his ship, a sprightly sloop called the Ravensberg, and ordered the crew to get it loaded. The captain had a cargo of stolen perishables that needed to leave the city within a day or be dumped, and the client waiting for his delivery would not brook any excuses about unnatural fog or witch hunter quarantines. Gralish might be a man you didn’t cross without a guide and an armed guard, but his client was considerably more violent and prone to rages that made witch hunters look like princesses in comparison.

  Hiring archers as a first-strike weapon against the River Watch’s wooden boats was a brainwave of one of Gralish’s rivals, but the captain was happy to play along. He’d stationed seven bowmen at the front of the Ravensberg. Once they were within range of the quarantine, he’d ordered them to open fire. The blazing arrows transformed the floating blockade into a chaotic rabble within minutes. While the River Watch was scrambling to recover, the Ravensberg was picking up speed, a breeze from the shoreline of Suiddock driving the ship towards the burning boats and capsized crews.

  “Ramming speed!” Gralish bellowed at his men. “We destroy anything that dares block our way. We’re getting out of this city while the getting’s good. Move yourselves!”

  The Ravensberg sliced through the burning boats like a stiletto through silk, crushing one and tipping over two others. The smugglers sailed on towards Rijker’s Isle, Gralish laughing at the sight of his old foe floundering in the ship’s wash. But his first mate was looking ahead at the dirty yellow cloud that clung to the water by the prison island, so dense it was impossible to see through the mist.

  “Captain, what about the fog?”

  Gralish snorted his derision. “We’ve just vanquished the River Watch in a single skirmish, and you’re worried about a cloud? Where’s your courage, man? You’re a smuggler, not an old woman!” But the smirk died on his lips as the Ravensberg neared the fog. The stiff breeze that had driven them out of port and on past Rijker’s Isle vanished, so Gralish’s vessel was left drifting into the mist ahead. As the Ravensberg got close, the fog billowed outwards, swallowing all the smugglers and their vessels. Visibility sank to nothing, forcing them to drop anchor for fear of colliding with each other. Then came the sound of something approaching them through the water.

  “What is it?” the first mate hissed. “One of ours?”

  Gralish shook his head. A lifetime at sea had taught him the ways of the ocean and what noises different vessels made as they cut through the water. Whatever was headed their way, it was unlike anything he’d heard before. “Break out the weapons,” Gralish told his crewmen. “Stand by to repel boarders! If they think to take the Ravensberg, we’ll give them the fight of their lives, mark my words.”

  But his bravado was forgotten as soon as the mighty ship appeared from the mist. All Gralish could hear as the vast vessel bore down on them were his own screams, begging for divine intervention—but none came.

  It was Nathaniel who convinced Otto to lead him and Kurt to the source of the dark magic. The witch hunter whispered in the priest’s ear, muttering things Kurt could not hear. Whatever was said had the desired effect, reviving Otto enough for the priest to nod in agreement. But his body was too weak to walk after suffering so many hours of torment from the spirits infesting the temple. “We’ll have to help him,” Nathaniel said. “You take his right arm over your shoulders, I’ll take his left.”

  “We’re going to drag him around Suiddock until he locates the source?”

  The witch hunter’s face was void of emotion. “You have a better suggestion?”

  Realising he didn’t, Kurt took up position to one side of Otto while Nathaniel supported the other. Together the unlikely duo helped the priest stagger from his home, out into the cold morning air. The sun was still keeping the sinister mist back from Suiddock, but for how much longer? “We must hurry,” the witch hunter said, glancing at the sky. “It’s already getting colder out here, I can feel it in my bones.”

  “Bones, bones, we all turn to bones in the end,” Otto muttered under his breath.

  “He’s babbling,” Kurt protested. “How can we make any sense of this?”

  “Instinct will lead him to the dark magic,” Nathaniel said. “That’s where we take over. If we can destroy the source, the quarantine can be lifted.”

/>   “And if we can’t?”

  “Then Suiddock will burn. My brethren cannot let the taint spread beyond this district. If it does, all of Marienburg would be forfeit to the darkness.” The three men staggered along an alleyway to a main thoroughfare that ran from Luydenhoek in the east right across Suiddock to Riddra in the west. On a normal day the street would be swarming with people, traders and market stalls. Today it was barren, no more than a chill breeze blowing along the empty cobbles. “Which way?” Nathaniel asked Otto.

  “Go west,” the priest whispered, his voice broken and hoarse. “To the bridge.”

  “Three Penny Bridge?”

  “Where else?”

  Kurt shook his head. What was it about Three Penny Bridge that always attracted trouble? Evil and darkness were drawn to the span, like moths to a flame. His predecessor had been driven mad by Chaos, while Kurt had almost lost his own life to an army of ratmen intent of slaying all those within the station. Now it seemed the source of all this dark magic and misery was also linked to Three Penny Bridge. Had some curse befallen the span linking Stoessel and Riddra?

  His musings were brushed aside when they reached the bridge. Otto pushed his helpers away and staggered into the centre of the span, his arms held out in supplication. He looked up into the heavens, filling his lungs with air, inhaling the scents on the wind. “This is where it ends,” Otto whispered. “This is where it—”

  But the priest never finished his sentence. He collapsed to the cobbles, his body giving way like a house of cards beneath a fist. Kurt rushed to his side, cradling the fallen priest in his arms. “Otto, are you all right? Otto, talk to me!” But there was no response, no reply. “He’s out cold. It was too much, his body couldn’t cope anymore.”

  Nathaniel didn’t seem to be paying any attention. His head was cocked to one side, listening for sounds in the distance. “Can you hear that?”

  “Hear what?” Kurt demanded.

  “Listen!”

  There were screams of pain and blades clashing with blades. Then came a roar of triumph and the noise of thousands of stamping feet, fading into the distance.

  The witch hunter’s shoulders sagged. “The quarantine is broken. It’s over.”

  “Trust me, this isn’t over. Not by a long way,” Kurt snarled. “What about Otto? For the love of Manann, he’s bleeding from his eyes!”

  Nathaniel strode over, dropping to one knee so he could examine the fallen priest. Crimson trickles were streaming from both of Otto’s eyes, and two more rivulets of blood were dribbling from his nostrils. “I’ve seen this before,” the witch hunter muttered. “Of course, I should have realised—but I didn’t think it was possible. Not again.”

  “What are you talking about?” Kurt hissed.

  “We should pray now,” Nathaniel replied. “It may be our last chance.”

  “Forget praying! Tell me what’s happening here—tell me!”

  “Necromancy, the darkest of magics. He’s coming for us, for all of us.”

  “Who’s coming?”

  The witch hunter got back to his feet, clutching a holy book to his chest. “Abandon all hope, Captain Schnell. When the necromancer conquers Suiddock, our souls shall be forfeit and our bodies his playthings. We’re as good as dead already.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Belladonna and Damphoost were both thrown into the water when the Ravensberg capsized their boat. They were far enough from the smugglers’ ship not to be dragged under, but others among the River Watch were not so fortunate. Belladonna had felt the strong currents tugging at her legs but managed to swim clear, back to the upturned hull of the wooden boat. She tried to right the craft but couldn’t overcome the buoyancy holding it upside down. So she hung on to its side, calling out the captain’s name, searching the surface for some sign Damphoost was still alive. He emerged from the water on the other side of the boat, gasping for breath.

  “Ruben, is that you?” Belladonna asked. She worked her way round the wooden craft, moving hand over hand, her teeth chattering from the chill in the water. Damphoost was clinging to the boat as best he could, a haunted look in his eyes. “What happened? What is it, what’s wrong?”

  “There’s something in the water,” he hissed.

  “I know, the smugglers—they nearly drowned us all.” Belladonna peered over the top of the boat at the fog cloud. “Don’t worry, they’ve gone into the mist. We’re safe.”

  “No, not on the water,” Damphoost insisted. “Below the surface, beneath us. Something was grabbing at my legs, trying to pull me down. Felt like… human hands.”

  “Couldn’t be, we’re the only ones out here.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

  As if in answer to his warning, a mighty horn bellowed from inside the fog. There were sudden screams for help, men begging for mercy. But the cries were cut off one after another, severed like fingers being cut from a hand. Damphoost swallowed hard, his face blanched white by fear, his eyes wide and staring.

  Then came the mighty ship, bursting from the mist, twice the height of the Ravensberg. The ship was unlike anything Belladonna had ever seen. Its hull was clad in vast sheets of metal, forged by some unholy furnace, with bones clamped over the joints like some macabre attempt at decoration. No name was visible on the ship’s side. True horror does not need a name, Belladonna thought —it exists for its own sake. Vast sails stole what little breeze was in the air for their power. The canvas cracked and shook, but as the vessel drew closer she realised the sails were made of another material. They were human skin, stitched together with intestines.

  A slavering, jabbering crew of miscreants were standing along the sides of the massive vessel, laughing and cackling amongst themselves, a few pointing bony fingers at the River Watch adrift in the churning waters. The crew were neither living nor dead, but somewhere in between. Many were little more than skeletons, scraps of skin hanging from their yellowing bones. Others among them were less decayed, but even more monstrous in appearance, decomposing corpses brought back to a semblance of life by vile corruption, summoned up to crew this foul ship of misrule.

  Black seagulls circled round the vessel, some diving down to peck clumps of rotting flesh from the living dead walking back and forth on the deck. But none dared go near the figure standing proud and alone at the prow of the vessel. As the ship loomed closer, Belladonna could see he was head and shoulders taller than the walking corpses around him. Robes of black and blood-red hung from his imposing frame, but the skin was stretched taut like ancient papyrus across the jutting bones of his skeletal face. He was laughing, the open mouth revealing a rancid hellhole of fangs, while his eyes burned with malevolent hatred.

  The mighty ship sailed towards the watchmen adrift in the sea. One of them couldn’t swim away from the vessel in time, and was caught by a shard of bone jutting out from the hull. As it pierced his body the watchman screamed in agony and anguish, his flesh rotting and decaying within moments, leaving only bones where his body had been. These slid back down into the water and were lost in the inky blackness below. The other survivor from Damphoost’s boat was swimming back towards the captain and Belladonna. But something black and wet grabbed him by the hair, dragging the boatman down into the water. Brief screams swallowed by the sea were stark evidence of others taken from below, pulled beneath the surface by unseen hands, to an unknown fate.

  Then came the harpoons. The undead crew brought forth barbed javelins of rusted metal, balancing the deadly spears in their hands, taking aim at the half-drowned targets bobbing up and down in the water. At a bellowed command from their leader, the monsters flung their harpoons with venomous accuracy. The shafts of metal punctured at least ten members of the River Watch, stabbing through their chests and exploding out their backs. The barbs lodged in the wounds, preventing any escape for the dying men. Each of the harpoons trailed a chain of corroded links behind it, the far end tied to a railing round the edge of the vessel. As the mighty ship sailed on, the ske
wered souls were dragged away behind the ship, like hooked bait on a line. Belladonna saw black, sleek creatures rising up through the water to feast on the captives, the petrified watchmen turned into chum for the nameless creatures following the mighty ship into shore.

  “Cut them loose, you monsters!” she screamed at the vessel’s crew.

  They turned as one to look at her, the sound of a woman’s voice carrying to them through the screaming of their victims and the cries of black gulls overhead. The last crewman on the sinister vessel lifted up a harpoon and took aim at her.

  “Belladonna, get under the water,” Damphoost hissed.

  But she was frozen, unable to tear her eyes away from the barbed spike of metal intended for her, the tip glistening with fresh blood from some lost soul.

  “Belladonna, move!”

  Still she couldn’t respond. Belladonna felt as if she’d been mesmerised, as if a husky voice in her head was commanding her to stay where she was, treading water. The cadaverous crewman pulled back his arm and flung the harpoon. It flew at Belladonna with unerring accuracy, the length of chain dancing in the air behind the metal shaft.

  In the last moment before the harpoon hit, Belladonna felt nothing but terror.

  On Three Penny Bridge Kurt shook Nathaniel by the shoulders, demanding answers. “How can you be so sure this is necromancy? Do you know who’s doing all of this?”

  The witch hunter shook his head. “I’ve been so blind, unable to see the proof in front of my eyes. Would that I had a flail to hand, so I could punish myself for my pride and stupidity in not recognising the signs sooner.”