“Can’t you do something about the living dead?”
“I’m casting every spell I know,” Otto replied, “but we’re surrounded. I can’t combat them all at once, I’m simply not strong enough for that.”
“Then don’t try—focus your spells ahead of me. Create a weak point!”
“I’ll try,” the priest said, closing his eyes. He spread out a hand, muttering oaths and incantations beneath his breath, urging the sea of undead ahead to part.
Kurt slashed at the skeletons in front of him and they collapsed into splinters, their bones made brittle by Otto’s magic. The captain took a step forwards and flashed his blade through the wraiths blocking his path. The sword sliced apart their cloaks, disintegrating their ghostly spirits. “It’s working,” Kurt snarled. “This way! Everybody move this way—now!”
The cohort surged forwards, Otto’s spells fracturing the undead horde. But their success was short-lived. Farrak was watching from his vantage point on Three Penny Bridge. He had savoured the spectacle of seeing a battle fought so close by, but the wizened smile on his taut, yellowed features died as the invaders threatened his position.
“I grow weary of your presence, insects,” he announced. “Let’s see how you cope when I cast a spell of my own, shall we?” The necromancer jabbed a finger at his undead warriors, muttering words to summon up a hellish vigour within them. In a trice their movements accelerated, so they were fighting at twice their previous speed. Another twitch of Farrak’s finger and their speed redoubled once more, so they became whirling dervishes of pain and terror and death.
Zombies and ghouls hurled themselves at the cohort with vicious abandon, collapsing the diamond formation back into an uneven circle of men, standing shoulder to shoulder against the horde. Skeletons and wights hacked and slashed at the watchmen and witch hunters with savage ferocity, sparks flying as their blades struck the swords of the cohort. The eleven fought back with all their depleted reserves, debilitated by days without sleep and the spell Otto had cast upon them earlier.
Auteuil was first to fall, his left arm severed by a wight’s blade inlaid with sinister runes. The enchanted weapon sliced through his bones as if they were butter, and the lost limb tumbled to the cobbles, blood spurting from its stump. The burly militiaman sank to one knee, his weapons lost in the melee, his one remaining hand clutched over the open wound where his left arm had been. Three of the witch hunters lost their heads in quick succession, the gouting crimson spraying Potts in the face, blinding the youth. He too dropped his weapon, unable to see, hands trying to wipe his face dry.
One of the wights pointed a bony finger at Otto, blackened lips whispering a curse at him. The priest flung a spell at the undead warrior, but it laughed at his attempt. The wight flung a sword at Otto, hilt-first. The heavy weight smacked the priest between the eyes, knocking him out cold. Otto crumpled to the cobbles. With him out of action, the cohort lost what magical protection they still possessed against Farrak’s forces.
Kurt took a spear between the ribs. The skeleton wielding it twisted the point inside Kurt’s torso, before ripping the spear back out again, ensuring the wound would not stop bleeding without the aid of a healer. Nathaniel lost the witch hunter on his left to a flesh-eating ghoul, and the witch hunter on his right was cleft in twain by the sword of a wraith. One of the spirit hosts brushed past Nathaniel and his legs went cold, collapsing underneath him. The last surviving witch hunter sprawled among the walking dead and the dying, numbness creeping up his spine, dulling the pain but not the anguish he felt.
Of the eleven in the cohort, only Bescheiden remained on his feet and unhurt. The terrified watchman stood back to back with Kurt, fending off the blades of their foe.
“Captain, what do you want me to do?” Bescheiden asked.
“Get out of here,” Kurt spat, still fighting off the enemy. “Take Potts and anyone else who can still walk. Go!”
“We can’t leave you—”
“I said go, Bescheiden. That’s an order, damn you!”
Belladonna and Holismus raced across Goudberg, surprised to find the streets eerily empty. They’d expected an impossible battle against Farrak’s fiends to reach the secret temple, but the district was a ghost town—without the ghosts. Having found the empty doorway with Nagel’s remains outside it, the pair drew their weapons and descended into the temple, ready for an attack at any moment. Still none came, just a trail of corpses littering the cold underground corridors, all wearing the symbol of Solkan on their chests.
Some had the same emblem burnt into their faces, seared there by some unholy act of disfigurement. Among the corpses Belladonna recognised her replacement as adjutant to the watch commander. Half his face was missing, a handful of dust where the left eye, ear and cheek had once been. She’d never realised he was a disciple of Solkan, but it was not the kind of faith you could brag about openly and hope to have a career.
“Wonder why the corpses are still corpses?” Holismus whispered.
“They must be beyond the necromancer’s reach down here,” Belladonna speculated. “Pity that wasn’t enough to protect them from his emissaries.”
The pair crept onwards, blades poised in their hands. They did not sense Farrak’s acolyte behind them, his presence masked by an incantation clouding their minds.
“Did you hear something?” Scheusal asked. He was holding his left hand up against his chest, hoping that would stem the bleeding from scarlet stumps where his fingers had been. The pain when they were severed was beyond description, all the agonies Scheusal had suffered in his years gathered in one moment and multiplied by a hundred. After the initial shock he’d felt a rush of adrenaline that kept him going until they reached the underground temple. But now the adrenaline was draining away, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth and a flush of perspiration across his brow.
He felt sick to the stomach, and didn’t want to think about how he’d survive without fingers on his left hand. Right now it was better to concentrate on staying alive, and let tomorrow take care of itself. The sergeant was sure he could hear feet running towards the chamber, sprinting across the cold marble floors that ran throughout the temple. But they didn’t seem to be getting closer. “Silenti, I asked if you heard something?” No reply.
Scheusal peered over his left shoulder and saw the grinning, ghoulish face of a monster, covered in tattoos and scars. Silenti was stood next to the terrifying figure, the tip of a sword jutting out of the watchman’s mouth. The rest of the sword was visible behind his head. Scheusal recognised the blade; it was Silenti’s own weapon that had been stabbed through the back of his neck and out of his mouth. Farrak’s acolyte let go of the sword and Silenti sank into the pool of blood on the floor.
The sergeant backed away from the figure clad in crimson, axe at the ready. The acolyte gestured at the weapon and it dissolved into dust, the particles drifting away in the stagnant air. Scheusal smelled urine and fear, not wanting to admit it was his own. He pointed the bloody stump of his left hand at the acolyte. “You won’t find it. We—”
His hand turned to dust, the limb being eaten away in front of Scheusal, as if invisible insects were gnawing at the flesh and skin and bone, moving from the wrist to the elbow and on past that joint. The sergeant knew he had moments left to live. He thought of his wife Gerta, and was grateful she’d chosen to visit relatives in Altdorf when the fog first came to Marienburg. At least Gerta would be safe from the necromancer. Scheusal wished he could see her again, tell her how much he loved her, but—
The acolyte walked out of the chamber, past the pile of dust where the sergeant had stood. Elsewhere in the underground temple, the slaughter continued.
Kurt heard Auteuil cry for mercy before dying, Farrak snuffing out the militiaman’s life with a dismissive gesture. “I do not know mercy,” the necromancer sighed. “You’d think mortals would have realised that by now, wouldn’t you?” He nodded towards Otto, the unconscious priest suspended in the air beside Kurt, floatin
g above the cobbles of Three Penny Bridge. “What about this holy man? Do you think he’d beg for mercy if I pulled the bones out of his body one by one?”
“He’s a priest of Morr,” Kurt replied through gritted teeth. The spear that plunged between his ribs and ripped back out again had splintered two of the bones. Whatever dark magic Farrak was using to keep the captain off the ground was grinding the broken bones together inside him. “His kind do not fear death.”
“Who said anything about death?” Farrak smirked. “If I find a worthy adversary, I endeavour to keep them alive as long as possible. Even if death does claim them, I can bring my playthings back again and again and again. I had a River Watch captain here who died and lived again thirty times before eternity took him from me.”
“Damphoost,” Kurt murmured.
“You knew him? How delicious. I wonder, can you match his courage?”
“Give me back my sword and we’ll see.”
Farrak laughed. “Bravo! I enjoy a prisoner with spirit. It’s much more satisfying to crush that spark of resistance from their soul.” He frowned at Otto. “Come to think of it, I do find the company of priests rather tiresome. All that praying and catechism, it can be rather tedious. With you to provide my entertainment, I’m not sure I need him.” Farrak pointed at Otto, before flicking the finger away, due north. The priest’s body flew into the sky, arcing across the heavens before plunging back down. The necromancer put a hand to his ear, as if listening for the sound of Otto’s impact. “He’s fallen in the water!”
“You sick, sadistic—” Kurt snarled.
But Farrak snatched a fist shut, cutting off the words in his captive’s throat. “Now, now, no need to take it personally. Like I said, priests are a tiresome lot. No sense of humour. Besides, once you break their faith, there’s nothing left. Few ever offer me any real fun. Once you’ve crushed one priest’s soul, you’ve crushed them all.”
Kurt muttered something, but no words came out.
Farrak unclenched his fist, restoring the power of speech. “You were saying?”
“Your arrogance will be your undoing, necromancer.”
“Such bravado would sit better if you weren’t already my captive. Soon my acolytes will have the relic I want and my sojourn in Marienburg will be over. But I’ve still time to kill, and you to provide my amusement. Do try to stay alive and defiant as long as possible, if you can handle it. Most mortals succumb far too easily.”
“You’re mortal too,” Kurt spat. “You can still die, Farrak.”
“I have lived for thousands of years and I shall outlast eternity,” the necromancer boasted. “Would I have let you get so close to me if I had anything to fear from you?” He flicked his right hand sideways and Kurt’s tunic ripped open to reveal the blood-soaked torso inside and the Stone of Solkan hanging round the captain’s neck. Farrak beckoned and the chain broke apart, allowing the amulet to fly into the necromancer’s grasp.
“Did you believe this trinket would protect you from me?” Farrak crushed the amulet into dust between his fingers, the delicate powder floating away on a sea breeze. He marched over to Kurt, until they were within arm’s reach of each other. “Never listen to witch hunters or fools, as their advice seldom differs in my experience.”
Kurt cleared his throat and spat the contents into Farrak’s eyes.
The necromancer chuckled, a dark rasp of despair. “Oh, yes, I’m going to enjoy breaking you, Captain Schnell. I’m going to tear your soul apart!”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Georges Sandler stood over the entrance to the oubliette, waiting. He had listened to his fellow knights dying one by one, but did not move. He heard Scheusal’s last words, and the whispers that passed between Holismus and Belladonna before they split up to search for him. But the captain of Goudberg district did not call out, could not risk letting anyone know where he was. Sandler was certain the necromancer’s acolytes were down here with them. Farrak’s fiends had slain thirteen defenders of the oubliette, but the Knights of Purity were not finished yet, not while Sandler still had life in his body.
He dropped to one knee, his hands clasping the hilt of his curved sword, the point of its blade buried in the wooden hatch to the oubliette. Sandler prayed, his eyes closed, his lips mouthing words but no sound coming from him, lest it draw the acolytes near. The watch captain gave thanks to the god of vengeance for giving meaning to his life, and offered up his life in service to Solkan. But Sandler could not stop himself from asking for a reprieve. My lord, Sandler prayed, let this torment pass me by if it is your will. I’ve been a good servant to you all my days. Let those days continue in your service, and I shall perform even greater deeds in your name. Praise be to Solkan!
When Sandler opened his eyes, he was no longer kneeling above the oubliette. He was standing before the watch commander, a jury of other captains stood on either side of the raised dais. “You dared humiliate and intimidate me,” the commander raged. “You used the Marienburg Watch to further the work of your pathetic religion, fulfilling the wishes of a dead god. You have disgraced your rank, your family and your district. You are a traitor to your kind and—worst of all—you are a failure!”
The commander snapped his fingers and Farrak marched into the courtroom, accompanied by a terrifying silhouette. The pitiless black figure had eyes that blazed like hot coals, while their ink-black skin bulged with thick cords of muscle amid angry crimson veins. This was the undead champion, twice the height of a normal man. Every step the champion took shook the floor, every breath it exhaled blasted flame across the room. Sandler felt his hair singed away by the ferocity of this monster’s hisses.
Farrak gestured at the hulking brute like some proud father. “With this eternal warrior at my side, I shall bring the world a darkness that lasts an eternity—and beyond. I have decreed his first victim should be the fool who betrayed his own people and told us where to find the lost skull. Come, Captain Sandler! Come and receive the just reward for your betrayal. Come and receive your death!”
Belladonna had not been convinced she and Holismus should separate to search the underground temple, but it was honeycombed with tunnels and parting doubled their chances of finding someone else still alive down here. She heard a cry that sounded like Scheusal and hurried toward it, emerging from a long dark tunnel into a large chamber. A cloud of dust hung in the air, making her cough and choke as she breathed in some of the dry, scratchy particles. But it was Silenti’s corpse that left her gasping.
She hadn’t known the watchman well, as he’d arrived at Three Penny Bridge not long before she left. Yet Belladonna found his death far more affecting than she’d ever expected. It should have been merely one more body among so many, both dead and resurrected, she’d encountered in recent days. Perhaps it was the mournful chamber in which Belladonna stood, a room filled with regrets and lost chances. Whatever the cause, she found herself sobbing uncontrollably, tears coursing down her dusty cheeks.
“Don’t weep for me,” a voice said.
Belladonna gasped. Silenti’s lips were moving, but it was the voice of Ruben Damphoost that spoke through them. “I died to save you,” he whispered.
“This can’t be happening,” Belladonna insisted.
“I died for you, my love.”
“You can’t talk with his voice, that’s impossible.”
“All I want is one last kiss, my love.”
“No, this is a lie, a trick!”
“One last kiss from your beautiful lips and I can rest easy forever.”
“No,” Belladonna said.
“Don’t look at this body. It’s just a shell. That’s all our bodies are, in the end.”
“You’re dead, I can’t be hearing your voice, Ruben.”
“Close your eyes and listen to my words.”
“No!” Belladonna snapped.
“If you ever truly loved me, you’ll do as I ask, my love…”
“Stop calling me that!”
“One last ki
ss, that’s all…”
“No!” Belladonna strode past Silenti’s corpse and ripped the sword from the back of his head. She slammed the blade sideways through his neck, slicing the head clean off. It rolled away into a corner, where someone was lurking in the shadows. They stepped into the light, their wizened body wrapped in a cloak so red it resembled warm blood.
“One last kiss,” the acolyte said, speaking as Damphoost. “Before you die.”
Holismus stood face to face with his brother, staring at the features corrupted by Chaos—the ruptured lips, the black slither of a tongue, eyes gleaming with the darkest of taints. “I don’t believe this is you, Joost. I’ve seen this trick before, when the fog fell on Suiddock, back when all of this began. Those visions fooled me then, but not now. Not again.”
“How can you be sure it’s a trick?” the acolyte replied, speaking as Joost. Farrak’s emissary drew a blade from the sheath sewn into his skin, all the while walking round Holismus in a slow, hypnotic circle. “How can you be certain I’m not your brother? Ask me anything you want, and I’ll prove to you that I’m Joost.”
Holismus shook his head. “You’re creating this hallucination from my memories. There’s no question I could ask for which you don’t already have the answer.”
“But there must be something you’ve always wanted to ask me, yes?”
The watchman closed his eyes, all too aware of the threat getting ever closer to him. “There is one thing you never told me, you never explained.”
“And what’s that, little brother?” the acolyte asked, stretching his weapon out until the tip was a hair’s breadth away from Holismus’ neck.
“Why? Why did you give in to Chaos? Why did you shame our family? Why did you surrender to the one stain that could never be washed away, the one sin that could never be forgiven or forgotten? Why, Joost? Tell me why, and I’ll believe it’s you.”
[Marienburg 02] - A Massacre in Marienburg Page 30