“You cannot know that for certain,” the leader said.
“I feel it in my bones. I feel it in my loins,” Prost spat back, clasping a hand across his groin. “Doom is coming, brothers, but we can prevent it—if we have the courage to come out of hiding now, to stand up for what we believe in!”
“No,” the leader replied, dismissing the exhortations with a brusque gesture.
“In the name of Solkan, why not?”
“We cannot risk everything on your gut instinct.”
Prost spat on the stone floor between their feet. “Then you’re fools. All of you!”
Another from among the knights stepped forwards, joining their leader. “You’re the fool, Prost. Showing yourself to make a point, challenging the authority and wisdom of our leader. This is about saving the city, not serving your ambition.”
Prost snorted. “Why should I take seriously the words of a worm who doesn’t even have the courage to show his face among brethren? What are you, men or mice?”
“You’ve said enough,” the leader replied, his voice devoid of emotion. “Go.”
The latecomer turned in a slow circle, glaring at the other knights one by one. “You’re making a terrible mistake here today. The people of this city will pay with their homes, their blood, with their lives and their souls for your folly. You could have stopped this horror before it began. You could have saved hundreds, perhaps thousands from what is to come. Remember that when this is over, assuming any of you survive the terror that awaits us all.” He marched from the circle, cursing under his breath.
It was the leader who stopped Prost, calling out a question after him. “What will you do if the prophecy comes to pass?”
Prost paused at the doorway, glancing back over a shoulder at the knights. “Don’t you understand, even now? The issue is when the prophecy comes to pass—not if.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“I’m returning to my post. At least there I know people will listen. From noon today Rijker’s Isle is off limits, closed to one and all. Anyone who questions that decision will be told the prison is under quarantine, due to an outbreak of the pox. When this is over, I will return to see who’s still standing. I doubt I’ll see any of you again in this life.” Prost stomped away, leaving those gathered to contemplate his bleak, belligerent words.
Kurt led the procession from Three Penny Bridge, wearing the full dress uniform of a Watch captain for only the third time in his career. Scheusal, Holismus and Bescheiden came next, as all three had fought alongside the fallen in that fateful battle a year earlier. The rest of the Black Caps from Three Penny Bridge followed, maintaining a steady pace, their boots clomping on the cobbles in perfect unison.
Only Scheusal’s wife Gerta remained behind, as it was forbidden for a station to stand empty and unmanned. She had fought in the battle, but volunteered to stay back. Since that bloody day Gerta had become an intrinsic part of the Black Cap presence on Three Penny Bridge. Officially she was the station’s cook, but the generously proportioned woman was as much a mother hen to the watchmen. Her marriage to Scheusal was a stormy affair, but they laughed and loved as often as they argued.
The procession made slow progress to the Temple of Morr on Stoessel, the middle island of Suiddock district. The passageways were choked with citizens, all wanting to pay their respects to those who had fallen in battle. Among those lining the route were Molly and her girls from the Three Penny Bridge bordello, and a complement of dock workers representing the Stevedores’ and Teamsters’ Guild of Marienburg.
Even Adalbert Henschmann was present, accompanied as ever by Helga, his hefty bodyguard. It was rare to see the master of the Thieves’ Guild away from his normal domain at the Marienburg Gentlemen’s Club on Riddra, let alone outdoors in the hours of daylight. But Henschmann owed his life to the actions of Kurt and the other Black Caps a year earlier. Honour demanded he acknowledge that debt, however uncomfortable being among the riffraff of Suiddock made the mighty Henschmann.
The procession reached the temple as a nearby bell chimed. In the distance a crier announced the time. The screech of gulls hung in the air, an ever-present backdrop to any activity in the maritime city. Waiting outside the temple was a tall, lean figure clad in the dark robes habitually wore by priests of Morr. Otto’s smooth, bald scalp glistened in the humid air, while his eyes were downcast. Once all the Black Caps had assembled outside the temple, Otto clapped his hands together three times, silencing the murmurs of those watching and waiting.
“Only the invited may attend the ceremony within this temple. They come to pay final respects to fallen brothers in arms, particularly Sergeant Jan Woxholt. May he—”
An almighty boom swallowed the priest’s solemn words.
Everything stopped, even the squawking of the gulls wheeling overhead. Kurt and his Black Caps looked at each other, uncertain what had just happened. A moment later screams could be heard in the distance, coming from the west. As the screams died away, a cloud of black smoke mushroomed into the air over the island of Riddra.
Scheusal placed a hand on Kurt’s left shoulder. “Captain, what should we—”
“Silenti! Holismus!” Kurt shouted. The two Black Caps stepped forwards, responding without question to the authority of his voice. “You’re our fastest runners. Get across to Riddra, find out what in the name of Sigmar just happened over there.” The two watchmen snapped a salute before sprinting away, back towards Three Penny Bridge. Kurt looked over his shoulder at the priest. “Sorry, but—”
Otto waved away the apology. “The safety of the living must come first. Go.”
Kurt nodded his thanks. He grabbed Bescheiden by the shoulder. “Willy, I want you to stay here, as our representative during the ceremony.”
“Why me?” the diminutive Black Cap protested, but Kurt wasn’t listening.
“We don’t know what we’re dealing with yet, but everyone in the district will have heard that noise and see the smoke rising. We need to seal off Riddra, make sure whatever has happened stays there. Back to Three Penny Bridge, quick as we can!”
Kurt and his watchmen moved as one, racing back along the narrow alleyway. In moments they were gone, leaving a bewildered Bescheiden alone with Otto. The priest patted the lone Black Cap on the back. “Come inside, and I’ll begin the ceremony.”
Silenti reached the western end of Riddra first, his lean physique and fleetness of foot outpacing the stockier Holismus. Silenti lived up to his name, being a man of few words. Anyone guessing at his age would have put it anywhere between thirty and fifty, but for a shock of silver hair that betrayed the fact he was nearer the end of his working life than the start. In the few months since Silenti was stationed on Three Penny Bridge he had earned a reputation for keeping himself to himself. But even his even, unruffled temperament was shaken by the chaos he found.
Like most parts of Marienburg, space was precious on the island of Riddra. Shops and houses clung to every scrap of land worth the name, teetering on the edges of the island. Many were the homes that hung out over the sea, their precarious existence supported by sturdy wooden beams that kept them above the churning waters below. But something had gone horribly awry on Riddra that day.
The island’s western tip had crumbled into the sea, taking with it all the houses that had previously clung to the coastline. The collapse sent walls, furniture and citizens into the water. Fires that had been safely contained by stone hearths were now raging out of control, consuming the wooden frames of the broken buildings. Bloodied and battered bodies littered the scene, as locals dragged victims and survivors from the burning wreckage. A rubble-strewn slope had appeared leading from street level down to the sea, where once there had been a sheer drop the height of two houses. The stench of raw excrement billowed from broken sewer pipes, their contents cascading into the water.
“Taal’s teeth,” Silenti whispered as his fellow watchman caught up to him.
Holismus grabbed a bewildered
old woman as she staggered past, half her hair burnt off, her clothes little more than soot-stained rags. “What happened?”
The woman looked at Holismus glassy-eyed, staring right through him.
“What happened?” he demanded again, shaking her by the shoulders.
The violence of his actions penetrated her daze. “It was a boat.”
Silenti glanced round at the devastation. Peering at the water’s edge, he could make out a vessel half-submerged in the water, the front half embedded in the island. “A boat did all of this? How?”
“I saw it coming,” the woman continued, not even noticing his questions. “I like to watch the cargo ships come and go. My first husband was a sailor and I got in the habit of waiting for his ship to come home. Most days I sit by the window, watching the ships sailing back and forth past Rijker’s Isle. But this one… It didn’t stop. Just kept coming.”
Holismus shook his head. “One ship did all of this? Impossible.”
The old woman frowned. “Funny thing was, it didn’t have any crew on board.”
Silenti scratched at his stubble. “Maybe they had to abandon ship—that’s why it drifted into the island. But that would have been just a bump, nothing like this.”
“There was one man on deck,” the witness recalled. “Behind the wheel, he was. Never moved, not even when the ship was about to hit. Kept coming, faster and faster…”
“You’re saying the captain deliberately rammed his boat into Riddra?”
She nodded. “Strangest thing I ever saw.” The old woman’s eyes slid back into her head and she passed out, collapsing into Silenti’s arms. He lowered her to the cobbles.
“This doesn’t make any sense,” he hissed. “We’ve got to find whoever was in charge of that ship and question him, find out what he was trying to do.”
“We’ve got a bigger problem than that,” Holismus said.
Silenti stood up to see what the other watchman was pointing at. In the few minutes since they’d reached the wreck, several sloops and ketches had appeared in the water below. Hard-faced men were clambering out of the boats and tying ropes to the debris, knives clutched between their teeth. The newcomers were laying claim to anything that looked valuable amid the wreckage.
“Looters,” Silenti hissed.
“Not just them,” Holismus said. “Look!”
Two boatloads of men in uniform were paddling towards the carnage. They had leather jacks hanging from their belts, and heavy clubs by their boots.
“Just what we don’t need,” Silenti said. “It’s the bloody River Watch!”
Haaland’s body was catapulted into the sea when the Altena rammed itself into the side of Riddra. But the bloody, broken corpse was not finished yet. The stiffening limbs flailed at the water in a grotesque parody of swimming, propelling the dead weight towards the crumbling edge of the island. Blue, lifeless fingers clawed at the rock face, dragging the body upwards. Nobody noticed what looked like one more survivor returning to dry land, nor did they pay attention when the captain staggered away, lurching off like a drunken sailor in search of his next ale.
Haaland was dead, but his remains still had work to do.
Kurt arrived at the wreck in time to see the first punch thrown. He’d sent half his complement of Black Caps ahead to assist Holismus and Silenti, but the captain stayed behind at Three Penny Bridge to scrawl a hasty plea for help to the watch commander. Once that was away, Kurt led the rest of his men west across Riddra. It needed no skill to find the wreck, thanks to the pall of black smoke still rising from the burning buildings and the tumult of shouting.
Unfortunately, Willem Kramer was one of the Black Caps sent ahead to help secure the wreck. A cocky, swaggering figure, Kramer had arrived at Three Penny Bridge and immediately announced he expected a rapid promotion through the ranks. Kurt and Scheusal soon disabused him of that fanciful notion. Kramer was notorious for expecting to have assignments handed to him on a silver platter, an attitude reinforced by his powerful family connections and his last posting at Marienburg’s least crime-ridden district, Goudberg. Black Caps there rarely sullied their hands by actually having to arrest anybody. Keeping the peace at Suiddock was an altogether tougher task, as Kramer soon discovered. He’d been spoiling for a fight ever since.
The Black Caps were using buckets to fetch seawater up for fighting the fires still raging in the broken homes. But their counterparts from the River Watch seemed more intent on getting in the way, the maritime lawmen focused on driving off the looters and scavengers still searching through the debris. It didn’t take long for both sides to be shouting abuse at each other, claiming the crash was under their sole jurisdiction.
Any offence or incident that occurred on the many waterways of Marienburg was called a wet crime, and therefore the River Watch’s responsibility. Anything untoward that happened off the water was a dry crime, and thus fell under the purview of the Black Caps. In the normal course of events, the two branches of the Watch had little contact. Occasionally cases arose that blurred the boundaries between them, but a simple compromise could usually be found. This was an extreme example, and the involvement of a volatile individual like Kramer only made matters worse. Much worse.
Inevitably, it was Kramer who threw the first punch. He got lucky and connected with a boatman’s face, fracturing the unhappy target’s nose with a loud crack. Within moments the wreck degenerated into a free-for-all, unleashing years of resentment and niggling rivalries between the Black Caps and their water-borne colleagues. The looters and scavengers swiftly withdrew, not wanting to get caught in the sprawling skirmish. They scrambled away in their sloops and ketches, towing whatever treasures they’d stolen from among the debris, leaving the law enforcers to their private battle.
Kurt contemplated intervening, but could see no easy way of stopping the brawl going on around him. Instead he observed, seeing who among his men was best in a fight. Kurt’s father had always claimed the best way to assess the merits of any new recruit was to watch them in battle. Courage and cowardice were easy to spot when lives and honour were at stake, but bravado never lasted long when blood was being spilled. So Kurt watched, intrigued to see how the new Black Caps acquitted themselves.
Kramer displayed no shortage of anger, but his skills were limited. Holismus dealt easily with two River Watch attackers, and Scheusal was laughing as he batted away two boatmen with one mighty blow. It was clear Ganz’s army training had not been forgotten, as he dealt with his targets in a swift, merciless fashion. Most of the other Black Caps were holding their own against even odds, but one stood out from the melee for the simple reason that he chose not to fight. Silenti remained apart from the brawl, not diving into action like his brothers in arms. When one of the boatmen did clamber up towards Silenti, he sent them flying back towards the sea with ease. The lithe Black Cap nodded to Kurt before returning to his vantage point. Kurt made a note to keep an eye on Silenti. Any man who used his head while others let passion rule their actions was worthy of attention.
Scheusal appeared at Kurt’s side, a broad grin on his face. “Things had been too quiet to last,” he observed. “This’ll give the men a chance to blow off some steam.”
The captain sighed. “Let’s hope the watch commander agrees with you.” Kurt had endured several unhappy clashes with his superior. A brawl between Suiddock’s River Watch and Black Caps would not help relations.
Bescheiden wept bitter tears as the ceremony concluded inside the Temple of Morr. Smallest of the Black Caps in Suiddock, he had grieved the most for Jan Woxholt, even more than Kurt had for his sergeant and former mentor. The others credited this to the fact Woxholt had sacrificed his life to save Bescheiden when mercenaries attacked Three Penny Bridge a year earlier. What none of them realised was that Bescheiden had caused the sergeant’s death. He hadn’t held the blade that ended Woxholt’s life, but he entombed the sergeant in a tunnel crowded with armed killers. The result was murder in all but name.
Besche
iden had done many despicable things in his life. He had lied and stolen, cheated and betrayed. But he’d never been responsible for the murder of a good man, the slaughter of a honourable soul. The last moments of Woxholt’s life haunted him still: the disappointed look in the sergeant’s eyes as the tunnel door slammed shut, the sound of Woxholt’s screams as he died, the sight of his lifeless body being carried out of that hellhole after the fighting was done and the Battle of Three Penny Bridge won.
For the first time in Bescheiden’s life, he knew remorse. How he wished he was the one who’d died that day. Better to have perished than suffer this everlasting torment. Every night when Bescheiden slept Woxholt returned in his dreams, never speaking, just that disappointed look in his eyes, accusing Bescheiden with his silence. The little Black Cap had tried drink and drugs to blot out the memories and the guilt, all to no avail.
The ceremony at the Temple of Morr was the final torment. Perhaps now he might have some rest, some respite from this clinging dread, this certainty his crime and his complicity would be revealed. As the priest anointed Woxholt’s final resting place with oils and unguents, Bescheiden expected the sergeant to rise from his grave and point an accusing finger. But there was nothing, only the slow murmur of Otto’s prayers and the sound of gulls in the sky outside, their cries like some mocking laughter. You’ll never be free of this, Bescheiden felt they were calling to him. Never.
He collapsed to the temple floor, overtaken by grief.
Otto knelt by the fallen watchman, pressing a hand to his forehead. “Your friend is at peace now,” he whispered. “Let his rest be your rest too.”
[Marienburg 02] - A Massacre in Marienburg Page 3
