[Marienburg 02] - A Massacre in Marienburg

by David Bishop - (ebook by Undead)

  “Yes, where the tombs are set deep in the ground. That tends to be in the more prosperous, eastern districts—Goudberg, Guilderveld, Handelaarmarkt to a lesser extent, parts of Noordmuur, and obviously Paleisbuurt. We don’t know about the elf quarter, they keep themselves to themselves.”

  The cabal’s leader nodded. “What about the fog?”

  Another of the knights spoke, his accent betraying an upbringing in the city’s poorer parts, most likely Winkelmarkt. “That’s worst round the southern districts, but all of Suiddock’s being choked by it. The mist is thickening across parts of Tempelwijk and Doodkanaal. Curfew’s kept most citizens safe thus far, but when the sun rises…”

  “If the sun rises,” the leader said. “It’s doubtful anyone south of the Rijksweg will be able to see the sky by morning at this rate. All these events are merely harbingers, the first jabs by the enemy to test our strength, and our resilience.”

  “What can we do?”

  “We are few and our foe is great. We will need help to defeat them.” The leader gestured at the tapestry. “This pattern reminds me of something an old soldier once said. Armies attacking an entrenched enemy would set fires of wet foliage upwind, to conceal their approach. Next, insurgents would be sent ahead to spread terror and unrest among any civilians, preparing the ground for the main attack. The fog that has swallowed Suiddock is a cover for what is to come, and these ghostly apparitions and skeletal uprisings—another feint. Our real enemy has yet to show itself, or its strength.”

  “Meaning?”

  “This is merely the beginning. The true horror’s yet to come.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Kurt fell asleep in his office, deciding it was better to remain at the station overnight in case the problems caused by the fog worsened. His home might only be on the other side of Three Penny Bridge, but in a crisis every moment could be crucial. He dreaded what might happen when sleep took him, after the previous night’s dream about slicing out the eyes of his Black Caps. But Kurt knew exhaustion always impeded performance. With dark magic at work within Marienburg, he needed to be at his peak.

  Kurt had no truck with magic of any kind, but accepted it was a part and parcel of life in the city, no matter how much he might resent that intrusion on reality. There was enough normal crime to keep Kurt and his Black Caps occupied at the best of times. Now the dark magic of Chaos had been loosed on Suiddock, the station’s troubles would be trebled. Despite his misgivings about magic, the captain had learned to respect those who possessed powers and abilities beyond his own. Priests and mages, elves and alchemists could be useful allies in the unending battle to maintain law and order.

  Kurt had thought about going to Otto, to see if the disciple of Morr could find some meaning in the previous night’s disturbing dream, but such was the clamour of the day it had proven impossible. Instead the captain closed his eyes and hoped this sleep would be less troubled as Angestag became Festag. His hope was in vain.

  He knew he was dreaming when his eyes opened; what other explanation could there be for his surroundings? Kurt was back in his old home at Altdorf, the bedroom he shared so joyously with Sara before the tragic events that stole her away. Kurt could smell sandalwood and jasmine blowing in through the open windows, ushered to him by a spring zephyr that caressed the room’s pale curtains. Another combination of aromas delighted his senses, cinnamon and honey-roasted pork drifting up from the kitchen below, a feast in the making. They would eat well tonight.

  A boy ran into the room, his happy face beaming up at Kurt. “Papa, Papa, come and see! I made a fort out of the old armour you gave me—come and see it!”

  Kurt crouched beside the child, ruffling a hand through the boy’s shock of sandy hair. “I’ll come in a minute, Luc. I need to talk to your mother about something first.”

  “You promise?”

  “I promise.” Kurt hugged the boy, kissing his freckled forehead. “Run back to your room now. I’ll expect to see two doorways on that fort, young man. Like grandfather says, always make sure you’ve two ways to retreat or attack from any defensive position.”

  “Yes, Papa!” Luc ran back out, the enthusiastic stomps of his feet announcing where in the house he was, as always. Stealth was an art the lad had yet to discover.

  Kurt stood, a smile on his chiselled face but sadness in his ice-blue eyes. How often he’d dreamed this fantasy; spending time with his boy, teaching Luc all the things Old Ironbeard had taught him, but tempering those lessons with love and affection too. In truth, Kurt had no idea if Luc had sandy hair or freckles, or how heavy his boy’s footfalls were. Father and son had never spent an hour in each other’s company, denied that by the righteous indignation of Kurt’s father. Would that it were different, that he could exchange the bitter reality of their true circumstances for this fantasy. But wishes and hopes were for others. All Kurt had was his dream, this fantasy to console him.

  He walked to the window and looked out over the rooftops of Altdorf. The city he still considered home was so different from Marienburg. It was a wrench coming back here even in a dream, for Kurt knew he’d have to leave when the dream ended; it hurt.

  “Deep in thought?”

  Kurt smiled. He’d forgotten how soft, how musical her voice was. It brought a lilt to any words, a charm that had bewitched him from the moment they met. He could have listened to that voice for the rest of his life. Instead this was the only way they could ever be together again, a fantasy born of his need for the warmth and affection he’d lost. Sara stood behind him, her long and slender fingers idly massaging Kurt’s scalp through his hair. Back in Altdorf his locks had been long and full, a thing of quiet pride. He’d shaved them all off after arriving in Marienburg, not wanting any reminder of how much he’d lost. As if a haircut—however brutal—could still the dull ache inside his heart.

  “Keep staring outside, and people will think you’re deep and moody,” she teased.

  “You’re saying I’m not?”

  Sara giggled, a sound like home to Kurt’s ears. “You have your moments.”

  “I do my best.”

  “Come to bed,” she whispered, one hand sliding round his waist and down between his legs. “Let’s have another moment.”

  “Luc’s just in the next room.”

  “Then shut the door so he can’t interrupt us.” Kurt heard her walk to the bed, the familiar sigh of the mattress as his wife slid beneath the covers. A brightly coloured dress landed on the wooden floorboards beside him. “Hurry up, or I’ll start without you, lover.”

  Kurt needed no more urging. He strode to the door and pushed it shut, twisting a key in the lock. Shrugging off his clothing, he threw it across the nearest chair before turning to face the bed. Sara had snuggled down underneath the quilt, that musical giggle teasing him from her hiding place. “I can see you,” he warned.

  “You just think you can.”

  “Well, ready or not, here I come!” Kurt bounded over to the bed and pulled back the covers. This was when he always woke up, the pang of frustration at being denied one last embrace with Sara all too vivid, too painful. This time he didn’t wake up, but now he wished the dream would end as he stared at what lay on the mattress.

  Rotting flesh hung from a ruptured carcass, worms the size of fingers writhing and churning from every opening. Somehow the body was still wet with blood, as if freshly butchered, but the blotches of black and yellow and purple spoke of a corpse many days on from death. Worst of all was the stench, decay and putrefaction blotting out everything else, while a cloud of flies buzzed and dived through the air, eager to feast on the succulent body of his dead wife. Of her sweet, beautiful face, only the eyes remained as they once were: warmest hazel, expressing all her love for him without words.

  “What’s the matter, Kurt? Is something wrong?”

  He shook his head, unable to answer.

  She smirked. “Don’t you like what you see, lover boy?” She reached for him and—

  Kurt j
erked awake, almost falling from his chair to the floor, so strong was the jolt of reality. He was gasping for breath, his tunic soaked with sweat across the chest, under his arms and in the small of his back. “Taal’s teeth,” he whispered. “A dream, it was just a bad dream.” He shuddered at the last, lingering image still crowding his mind.

  The captain rose from his chair and stretched, trying to push away any urge to sleep that might be lingering in his aching limbs and joints. The last thing he wanted was a return to that nightmare, another chance to have his fantasies desecrated like that. Kurt strode into the main part of the station. The prisoners were asleep, sprawled across the floor or leaning against the vertical bars of the holding cells, but none were getting much rest. They twitched and twisted, all of them fighting away imaginary visions and torments. Manann help them if their dreams are anything like mine, Kurt prayed.

  Bescheiden was manning the desk sergeant’s post during the graveyard shift, his bleary eyes shot through with red, a haunted look to his face. “Couldn’t sleep, captain?”

  Kurt shrugged. “Shouldn’t you be off duty?”

  “Didn’t like the dream I was having, so swapped shifts with one of the new boys. It’s been all quiet since I took over. Fog’s cut the crime rate to zero in one night. Might be the most effective deterrent Suiddock’s ever had.”

  “Maybe, but at what price?” Kurt asked.

  Bescheiden frowned. “Not sure I follow you, captain.”

  “I think this fog’s getting into people’s minds, tormenting their dreams.”

  “Who could do such a thing?”

  “I don’t know,” Kurt admitted. “But I know who does.”

  Otto had been praying since the chimes of midnight heralded the start of Festag. His dry lips muttered incantations and holy words in an ever more urgent, needful voice. As a follower of Morr, the priest was attuned to the dreams of the living and the spirits of the dead. As a disciple of Morr, Otto was accustomed to being ignored and shunned by the people of Marienburg. Most had no wish to spend time in his company, Otto’s mere presence an all too vivid reminder of their own mortality. A few came to him seeking an oracle, someone to interpret the curious ways their mind wandered while at slumber, but that took bravery and courage the majority did not possess.

  The coming hours and days were always Otto’s busiest time of the year, unless there was an outbreak of pox, military action or other catastrophe that caused a sudden surge in fatalities across the district.

  Followers of Morr believed the dead communicated with the living via dreams, but these messages from beyond the grave were most common around two intercalary holidays—the witching day of Hexenstag, and Geheimnistag, the day of mystery. Otto did not need to look at any calendar to know this new day was also the last day of Vorgeheim. Tomorrow would be Geheimnistag, when the barrier between life and death was at its narrowest. The priest already knew this by the unquiet he felt among the dead of Marienburg. The spirits were not resting easy in their places of final repose.

  But the anger and torment he was feeling from those beyond the mortal coil was unlike anything Otto had experienced before. Someone or something was stirring up the dark places, calling on the forces and energies held captive in the shadows of the living, preparing to unleash them upon the city. There was a storm coming, and the priest did not know if he had the strength to stand against it—so he prayed. Otto was not alone in this. He could sense other disciples of Morr across Marienburg all reaching out to their god, calling on him for strength and guidance. They were being tested, but by who, and why?

  Otto was so intent on his prayers, exhortations and incantations, he did not hear the slabs of stone moving in the tombs beneath his temple. He was not aware of the movement of shuffling feet, boots and bones coming up the dusty, forgotten stairs that led from subterranean tombs up into the temple. He did not notice the handle of the ancient wrought iron gate at the top of those steps twisting to its left, a bony grasp opening the last barrier between below and above. Fortunately for Otto, the gate had not been used for years and the rusted hinges were much in need of oil. They protested as the gate swung open into the temple, alerting Otto to the peril at his back.

  The priest spun round to see five dead bodies staggering towards him. Two were little more than skeletons, their bones yellowed by age and decay, a last few scraps of clothing hanging off them. The other three still had tatters of flesh and sinew and skin on from their calcified frames. Wizened grey hair sprouted across withered faces and scalps, lit candles on the wall behind them creating an unholy halo around their skulls.

  “Morr, protect me,” Otto hissed, backing away from the spectres. He stared at them, uncertain if they were real or mere ghostly apparitions, wraiths born of a dream. They appeared solid enough, and a chalice thrown at the closest figure collided with a thump. But it wasn’t until Kurt came into the temple that the priest took the living dead for a certainty. The captain entered through a side door, coming in much closer to the walking dead than the retreating Otto. All five shifted their attention to Kurt, lurching across at him with alarming alacrity. He backed away, drawing a shortsword.

  “Taal’s teeth! Where did they come from?” the captain asked.

  Otto wasn’t sure, until he remembered where the open gate led. “There’s an old crypt beneath the temple. Hasn’t been used in my time because it’s below sea level during spring tides, and prone to flooding. I’d forgotten it was even there.”

  Kurt kept his sword between him and the undead. “What do I do?”

  “How should I know?” the priest retorted.

  “I thought disciples of Morr were responsible for rooting out undead uprisings!”

  “We’re in Suiddock. The closest this district’s ever got to an undead uprising was after the taverns ran out of ale during the brewers’ strike two summers ago.”

  “But you must have had some training in how to deal with this situation, right?”

  Otto stroked his chin, deep in thought. “I think so…”

  “Anytime before dawn would be helpful,” Kurt added, the undead almost upon him by now. He kept backing away from the five shuffling figures, but what they lacked in speed they more than made up for with numbers and their relentless, remorseless drive.

  “The head,” Otto shouted from the opposite corner. “Remove the head from the body and whatever force is controlling them should be vanquished!”

  Kurt drew back his sword as the nearest of the undead got within arm’s length. Then Kurt lashed out with his blade, slicing it clean through the decayed bone and sinew. The skull bounced across the floor, coming to rest against Otto’s bare feet. The jaws snapped and bit at the air a few times, before clamping shut. But the skeletal body was still closing on the captain; hands of bone reached for his throat, intent on throttling the life from him. Kurt fended off the headless corpse by jamming a hand against its chest. But the other four surrounded him, cutting off any chance of escape.

  “Any more suggestions?” Kurt snarled at Otto.

  Molly was locking the front doors when she first heard the crying. As madam of the Three Penny Bridge bordello, it was her responsibility to open the business each day at noon, and close the doors once the final customers had sated their deepest desires. That could be anytime after midnight when the docks were empty and payday a distant memory, or closer to dawn when the quays of Suiddock were busy and the workers had a fresh supply of gold burning a hole in their money pouches.

  It had been a quiet night thanks to the sinister fog dissuading any passing trade. Then a rowdy gang of drunken stevedores had staggered in, looking for refuge from the choking mist and its hallucinatory effects. They’d stayed for hours rather than venture back out into the bleak fog. Molly and her girls finally ran out of patience as dawn drew close, persuading the dockworkers to go home. Last to leave was a lecherous little fellow called Aperen, who’d spent a week’s wages indulging his more sordid fantasies before exhausting both his energies and the cont
ents of his pouch.

  Molly propelled Aperen out on to Three Penny Bridge with a firm punt to the posterior, before swiftly slamming shut the double doors and ramming home both bolts to stop him getting back inside. He hammered on the doors for several minutes, pleading to be allowed back in. “Don’t make me stay out here,” he protested. “This fog’s not natural.”

  “Neither are you,” Molly replied. “Go home to your wife. She might be worried about you.” The madam stood at the door, listening for the sound of Aperen’s boots on the cobbles outside as he shuffled away. That was when she heard the crying. Molly wondered for a moment if it was one of her girls, but soon dismissed that notion. She ran a tight ship, making sure they were all well cared for and that no harm ever came to them.

  It didn’t hurt that the Three Penny Bridge bordello stood adjacent to Suiddock’s watch station, as that kept away most potential troublemakers. Molly also had a pair of loaded pistols strapped to the underside of her bed. In her experience, few men were willing to argue for long while standing with their trousers round their ankles and an angry woman pointing both barrels at their family jewels. Molly’s reputation for having a temper as fiery as her mass of flame-red curls also helped keep the peace. In truth most of her temper was an act, but it helped protect her girls and Molly was grateful for that.

  She crept through the bordello on tiptoe, searching for the source of the sobs. All the girls had turned in for a few hours before the doors opened once more at noon, and there was no sound from their rooms except the murmurs of sleep. Molly continued her search, and was shocked to discover the crying was coming from her own room, at the back of the bordello. Nobody was allowed inside there but her. The room was off limits to everyone, even the girls. This was Molly’s refuge from the world.

  There was something unnerving about the crying. It was not sobbing born of pain or fear or suffering or even hunger. It sounded more like the cries of a child, sobbing for attention, craving affection. It sounded like a baby. Molly felt something tugging inside her chest, a yearning she’d long denied, even to herself. Sold as a slave while still a child, Molly had fought for years to attain her freedom. Finally she won custody of her life by using the one weapon at her disposal: sex. Offering men what they couldn’t get elsewhere, Molly had built a lucrative business. Inevitably, sharks moved in, looking to take over what she had founded. But Molly and her girls had maintained control out of their bordello, establishing themselves as a self-sufficient cooperative. But achieving and sustaining this freedom had come at a cost. Molly could never have children, not after what had happened when she was twenty summers old.