[Marienburg 02] - A Massacre in Marienburg

by David Bishop - (ebook by Undead)

  “Started? It’s already over,” the captain snarled. “We need to evacuate the district, get people out of Paleisbuurt while we still can—out of the city.”

  “How? Every citizen north of the Rijksweg will be trying to get across the Messteeg Bridge—tens of thousands of people. What chance will our citizens have?”

  “Don’t you think I know that?” Bloom spat. He spun away from Jacobs, his mind racing. “How’d Farrak’s forces get past the bridge without us seeing?” The captain looked down at the water below the Hoogbrug, saw the dark shapes still crossing from south to north beneath the surface. “Manann, what fools we all were!”

  “Captain, skeletons are marching across the bridge. They’ll be here any minute.”

  “Let them come,” the captain sighed.

  “What about the barrels of gunpowder? Should we blow up the Hoogbrug?”

  Bloom contemplated the fuse wire at his feet. “What difference would it make?”

  “Not all Farrak’s forces can cross the river underwater,” Jacobs pointed out, “otherwise they would have done so already. Taking out the bridge might slow some of them down, give our people a fighting chance to escape the city.”

  “I suppose you’re right.” Bloom rested a hand on his sergeant’s left shoulder. “You go, Jacobs. You’ve a young family to worry about, I don’t. I’ll stay here, make sure nothing interferes with the fuse once it’s lit.”

  “Are you sure, captain?”

  “Go, and don’t stop for anything or anyone. It’s every man for himself now.”

  The sergeant snapped to attention and gave Bloom a crisp salute, before racing away into Paleisbuurt. Once Jacobs was out of sight, the captain used the flame from a lantern to light the fuse. He walked alongside the incendiary as it burnt a path south to the Hoogbrug’s highest point. The bridge reverberated beneath the stomping feet of skeletons marching north across the span, the sound of their approach growing ever louder.

  Bloom waited for them in the centre of the span, his arms folded, a snarl on his lips. Out the corner of his eye he could see the lit fuse snaking over the side of the bridge, down to the barrels secured beneath him. The skeletons kept coming, relentless and dreadful, their empty eye sockets staring straight ahead. Bloom knew he had but a few moments of life left before explosions ripped apart the bridge under his feet.

  He scowled at the skeletons. “You took your time. The slaughter’s already—”

  Captain Bloom never finished his sentence, the words ripped from him as the explosion devastated the bridge. The middle of the span collapsed into the Rijksweg, creating two massive shockwaves, one headed east, the other west towards Rijker’s Isle.

  Scheusal and Sandler were halfway across Paleisbuurt on their way back to Goudberg when seven ghouls lurched into their path. The two men had heard the screams of citizens in the distance and hurried past the corpses of those also torn apart by Farrak’s rampaging army of the undead, but didn’t encounter any of the fiends until the Hoogbrug exploded. The Black Caps stopped, their eyes drawn to the ball of fire and black smoke billowing up above the Paleisbuurt skyline. They exchanged a grim look but did not say anything. Words were meaningless now, only actions held any importance.

  The flesh-crazed ghouls staggered out of an alleyway, blocking the way past. All seven creatures were feasting on dismembered limbs torn from the bodies of unfortunate citizens, masticating teeth gnawing on broken bones, black and purple lips sucking the marrow from ruptured joints. Scraps of flesh hung from the ghouls’ gaping mouths, while fresh blood coated their chins and chests. A foul, acrid stench suffused the air around them, choking the lungs and burning the eyes of both watchmen. Seeing fresh meat so close, the ghouls abandoned their grisly trophies and advanced on the two men.

  The captain pulled his sword from its scabbard, the Araby blade curved like a crescent moon, while Scheusal opted for two hefty machetes, one in each hand. The blades were thicker and broader, cruder weapons than the sword in Sandler’s grasp, but no less effective. The two Black Caps nodded to each other before marching at the ghouls. Scheusal hacked his way into the enemy, slashing his machetes through arms and necks, severing noses and fingers, butchering the cannibalistic foe.

  Sandler danced through the ghouls, his movements light and supple, his blade vicious and deadly. He shifted his weight from foot to foot with an elegant grace, while his weapon sliced through the ghouls with delicate precision. The captain’s cuts were more like those of an artist wielding a brush than a warrior with a sword, but his blade devastated all those it touched. Heads went flying, severed from necks with a deft flick of the wrist, while torsos were cleft in twain in the blinking of an eye. Black blood turned the air a grey spray. The skirmish was swift and severe, no quarter given. At its end the ghouls were a disorderly pile of sliced limbs and sundered torsos, their threat undone.

  But the sounds of carnage attracted other undead invaders. A host of resurrected spirits drifted through the wall of a nearby tavern, intent on touching the living and stealing away their strength, blocking any retreat back the way Sandler and Scheusal had come. Meanwhile a cadre of warrior wights marched into the thoroughfare ahead of the watchmen, blocking their way forwards. They were trapped, hemmed in by the undead. The sergeant arched an eyebrow at Sandler. “Options?”

  “Only one: attack.” Drawing back his curved sword, the captain charged at the wights, roaring his rage at them. Scheusal was at his side, a machete clutched in each mighty fist. The two watchmen threw themselves at the wights, hacking and slashing, chopping and slicing deep into the ranks of the living dead warriors.

  Bram Quist’s cohort of Black Caps and militiamen were driven out of Noordmuur by the undead in less than two hours. The hundred-strong fighting force could keep the ghouls and zombies at bay; those enemies were slow-moving and more interested in eating flesh than conquest. The wights were far deadlier, each blow struck by their enchanted weapons carrying far more power than that of any mortal warrior. But Quist’s cunning tactics stymied that threat, luring the wights into narrow passageways and alleys where hammers and machetes made better weapons than long blades inlaid with runes.

  The ghostly wraiths could be vanquished, but only by archers and crossbowmen armed with flaming arrows and bolts that had been blessed by a priest. Fire one of these burning projectiles into the cloak of a wraith and the creature was undone, dispersing into helpless clouds of fury that drifted away into the sky. But the spirit hosts were beyond Quist’s tactics. Farrak’s unholy spells bound together these spectres and shades. They drifted through stone and straw, their progress inexorable, their triumph unstoppable. Retreat was the only defence, the spirit hosts driving the defenders backwards across Noordmuur and on through the district of Handelaarmarkt.

  Those foolish enough to fight the oncoming enemy died from a single touch, their blood frozen by the deadly spectres. Some reached into the chests of their victims to stop their hearts beating, others dismissed any attackers with a brush of ghostly fingertips. What Quist found most perturbing about the spirit hosts was the utter silence with which they moved, floating off the ground. Ghouls and zombies stomped feet on the cobbles, the gnawing of their mouths a sickening sound. Wights marched with military precision, the noise of their approach regular as a drummer’s beat. Even the wraiths hissed and breathed, their passing a dry rustle of death along the streets.

  But the spirit hosts were utterly silent. They gave no warning of approach, made no sound as they moved through solid objects, shrieking no triumphant cries at their inevitable victories. They floated ever onwards, silent and relentless, utterly deadly. Time and again Quist heard himself commanding his watchmen and militia troops to fall back, until they were standing beside the Messteeg Bridge, the sole land crossing for those still looking to escape northern Marienburg. From there citizens could flee to the east along the Middenheim Road, vulnerable to attack from bandits and other, less deadly monsters. Better to take their chances in open country than remain in
the city to die.

  Quist had not been invited to the previous day’s emergency meeting, but word of what was said there soon spread among the watch captains from those present. News of the terror facing Marienburg moved even more quickly among the wealthiest families, the Ten. They evacuated themselves and their wealth with remarkable haste, taking what jewels and other valuables they could carry, locking their mansions and palaces. Rumours soon spread and by dawn the Messteeg was choked, queues of refugees stretching all the way back to Paleisbuurt— until the undead rose up from the canals and cuts. The orderly evacuation became a thing of carnage, grown men trampling children and the elderly underfoot in their haste to flee the city. By the time Quist’s men were driven back to the bridge, the queue was gone—as were the bodies of all those who’d perished there.

  But waiting for the captain and his cohort was the first glimmer of hope they’d had since dawn. Five hairless men stood before the Messteeg Bridge, all of them clad in the simple clerical robes favoured by priests of Morr. Their leader introduced himself to Quist. “My name is Seth. We will protect this bridge with our lives, to allow the people of Marienburg an escape from Farrak and his undead army. We will stand with you against the necromancer’s evil. Few welcome our company in normal circumstances, but these times in which we live are far from normal. With our spells and incantations we can turn back those enemies you and your men cannot. Will you stand with us, captain?”

  Quist nodded. “Aye, we will. We’ll stand with you, and die with you if needs be.”

  “Marienburg is dying,” Nathaniel told all those on the boat, as it rode out the passing shockwave from the Hoogbrug’s collapse. “Farrak’s forces have already laid claim to the southern archipelago. Now they are attacking the city’s northern districts, butchering every citizen they find. No sooner does a citizen die than they become one more weapon in the necromancer’s arsenal, another resurrected murderer to hunt other citizens. The rich have been fleeing the city all night, getting out before the slaughter began, but thousands of others—those less fortunate—are dying. Even strengthened with men from private militia, districts like Noordmuur and Rijkspoort cannot stand for long against the growing army that the necromancer’s dark magic is creating.

  “But there is hope, however slender it might be. It is impossible to stop Farrak’s undead horde. They are too many, too strong, and the taint they carry is beyond our ability to combat—not the scale that’s required. But we don’t need to stop the army; we need only stop its commander. We have to get to Farrak himself. We have to destroy him, or at least disable him. Once his evil spell over the city is broken, the necromancer’s forces will return to death and be beyond his reach. Marienburg will be safe.”

  Bescheiden stared at the witch hunter, his head shaking in disbelief. “Listen to what you’re saying! Destroy or disable Farrak—how in Manann’s name are we supposed to do that? He’s got an army between him and us. He’s a necromancer. His kind can cast spells that can make anything they touch age centuries within seconds. He can shoot bolts of dark magic out of his eyes that rot the flesh from your bones. He can’t be stopped!”

  “He can,” Kurt interjected. “There’s one weapon that can be used against Farrak, a magical amulet containing a rare gemstone, but both have been lost for centuries. It’s been missing for so long nobody even knows what the amulet was called.”

  “The Stone of Solkan,” Nathaniel said. “Sometimes it is called Farrak’s Bane, but those who worship the god of vengeance called the amulet the Stone of Solkan.”

  “Who cares what it’s called?” Bescheiden replied. “The weapon’s still lost, right?”

  “Wrong,” Belladonna said, revealing the amulet hung on a chain round her neck.

  “Taal’s teeth, where did you get that?” Kurt demanded.

  “Captain Sandler gave it to her, knowing we would need it,” the witch hunter said.

  “Gorgeous Georges had it? Why didn’t he say so at the emergency meeting?”

  “The time was not right. He had to wait until prophecy came to pass.”

  “Screw prophecy!” Kurt snarled. “We could have used that weapon against Farrak before this started. We could have saved thousands of citizens from the necromancer’s undead army. Did he think about that? And don’t talk to me about prophecy, I couldn’t gave a damn about soothsayers, seers or visions—I want the truth!”

  “Captain Sandler leads the Knights of Purity in Marienburg,” Nathaniel explained.

  “Those vigilantes who kill anyone they think’s tainted by Chaos?” Holismus said. “Sweet Shallya, they make the witch hunters look like sane, reasonable citizens.” Auteuil jabbed an elbow into the watchman’s ribs. Holismus blushed, abruptly remembering that Nathaniel was a representative from the Temple Court. “Not that there’s anything wrong with the witch hunters, obviously.”

  “Subtle,” Bescheiden said, shaking his head. “Very subtle.”

  “The Knights of Purity are unusually zealous in their quest to root out and destroy Chaos,” Nathaniel conceded, “but they have another mission. Their order is entrusted with a storehouse of sacred and profane relics, rare and precious items linked to prophecies that span a thousand years. The knights believe Farrak’s attack upon Marienburg is a ruse, the massacre an act of misdirection to conceal his true purpose. He wants one of the relics protected by the Knights of Purity.”

  “The necromancer is slaughtering tens of thousands of innocent people, laying waste to an entire city, just to steal a relic?” Kurt spluttered. “What is it?”

  “A skull decapitated from the body of an unkillable warrior thousands of years ago. Every hair, every morsel of flesh, every scrap of skin has been eaten away by time, but the skull still holds the essence of a fighter who can never be destroyed. Instead his body was cut into a thousand pieces, and the fragments hidden across the world, never to be brought together again. For decades Farrak has been travelling the globe, seeking out and laying claim to each fragment. Now only one piece remains beyond his reach.”

  “The skull,” Auteuil surmised.

  Nathaniel nodded.

  “Can’t it be destroyed?”

  “Like the eternal warrior whence it came, the skull cannot be vanquished.”

  “Wouldn’t it make more sense for us to protect the skull, instead of taking on Farrak himself?” Bescheiden asked. “I mean, if that’s what all this is really about…”

  The witch hunter shook his head. “The city will die unless we deal with the necromancer. Besides, it is the destiny of others to stand guard over the unholy relic in Goudberg. Our path leads to Three Penny Bridge.”

  The words shook Kurt to the core. “That’s what Otto said, last time we stood on the bridge. He told us, that was where everything would end. I thought he was delirious.”

  “He was,” Nathaniel agreed. “But he was also seeing the truth, and our future.”

  “What happens if Farrak gets this skull?” the militiaman asked.

  “He can rebuild the undead champion, using his powers of resurrection to revive a mighty warrior that can never be stopped, never be defeated. With the champion at his side, Farrak can conquer the Empire, the New World, and everywhere in between. The death of Marienburg will be the precursor to an eternity of darkness, with the necromancer as lord of a world bathed in death and blood and terror.”

  All those on the boat fell silent, absorbing what the witch hunter had told them. It was Potts who spoke, his first words since being pulled from the water at Tempelwijk. “Then I guess we haven’t got a choice. We’ve got to stop Farrak, or die trying. If we fail, we’ll all die anyway. Might as well go down fighting, right?”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Nathaniel directed the others to sail east until their boat was within sight of Suiddock’s western and central islands, Riddra and Stoessel. Three Penny Bridge was hidden behind Farrak’s vessel, the mighty ship still moored across the cut that divided the islands. But instead of approaching Suiddock, the witch hunter
bid the others be patient. He refused to explain why, leaving them to whisper with one another or study the shattered remnants of the Hoogbrug. Nathaniel seemed content to be alone, praying by the prow.

  The motley crew did not have long to wait. Another vessel sailed across the river to them from Paleisbuurt, half a dozen figures crowding its deck. All but one of them were witch hunters, holding on to their wide-brimmed hats against a stiff breeze. The other figure stood alone, weak sunshine glinting on his head. As the craft drew closer, Kurt could not help smiling when he recognised the single man in priestly garb. “Otto? Is that you?”

  The new vessel swung round so it could come alongside. Ropes were thrown across from both boats and the vessels tied together. The five witch hunters clambered over to join Nathaniel, while Kurt and Holismus helped Otto across the divide. He had recovered much of his strength, but still appeared frail to the captain’s eyes.

  “I came to help,” the priest of Morr said. “To defeat your enemy, you must first know them. You will need more than blades and bolts to penetrate Farrak’s defences.”

  “Right now we haven’t many of either,” Holismus replied with a rueful grin. He jerked a thumb at the witch hunters. “What about the doom and gloom brigade?”

  “They too are here to help,” Otto said. “Faith and prayer can be powerful weapons against this great an evil.” As he spoke the witch hunters threw aside their black cloaks to reveal a bewildering arsenal of blades and bolts strapped to their bodies. “Of course, more conventional weapons can also be useful.”

  Kurt studied the sky. It would be dark within a few hours, and the debilitating mist that had been absent since Geheimnistag dawned was gathering overhead once more. “I don’t want to be fighting Farrak and that accursed fog at the same time. The sooner we do this, the better. Where’s Belladonna?” She emerged from behind the crowd of witch hunters. “You’d better give me the Stone of Solkan, we’ll need it.”