“You’re insane,” a lone voice replied. “They’ll reclaim this district, no matter how many men or how many months it takes. They’ll drive you back into the sea.”
Farrak’s harrowed face split into a smile of delight. “Ahh! One of my prisoners still has the power of speech—how delightful. You’ve no idea how I long for intelligent conversation, the cut and thrust of measured debate. Building an army of the undead is a time-consuming business, I find my opportunities to stop and talk are few and far between. Besides, ghouls, wraiths, wights, skeletons and spirits may make for a fearsome fighting force, but they’re not much on lively conversation.”
“I just wish I might still be alive when they finish you off,” the voice said. Farrak spun round to face the prisoner who’d dared speak out. A hundred captives had been brought to Three Penny Bridge for the necromancer’s amusement. Most were Suiddock citizens found cowering in the corners and basements of their homes, but a few of the River Watch had also been taken alive. The voice came from a dying man with a bloody chasm the size of a fist through the centre of his chest. His face was pale and drawn, flecked with blood and spittle and fear. But his eyes burned with fierce resolve and raging anger. Farrak marched across the cobbles to confront the prisoner.
“What’s your name?”
The prisoner shook his head, refusing to answer.
Farrak stuck a wizened, bony finger into his captive’s chest cavity, rasping the nail up and down the exposed heart. The organ beat faster, unable to hide the prisoner’s stark terror. “I asked for your name. Tell it to me, or suffer a thousand agonies. I can stop your heart’s beating with a touch, or curdle what little blood remains in your veins. Tell me your name and I will spare you such… indignities.”
Still the prisoner would not reply.
Farrak leaned closer, his foul breath worse than the stench of any canker as it violated the dying prisoner’s nostrils. “Tell me your name or others will suffer in your stead.” The necromancer snapped his fingers and the two men suspended upside down in the air danced like puppets tugged by invisible strings, human marionettes ripping their own bodies apart by the violence of their thrashing, frantic movements. They died screaming, tearing themselves apart for the amusement of Farrak’s undead horde. Ghouls scrabbled forwards to feast on each limb as it fell to the cobbles, fighting each other for the tasty treats. Farrak snapped his fingers once more and the puppets were stilled, their lives snuffed out, their existence ended on the whim of a madman. “Well?”
The prisoner fought to hold the necromancer’s gaze but eventually succumbed, his defiance broken by the monster. “Damphoost, my name is Ruben Damphoost.”
“That’s better,” Farrak smiled. “Are you from round these parts?”
“I’m captain of the River Watch for Suiddock district.”
“Splendid. A little local knowledge is just what I need.”
“I won’t help you,” Damphoost vowed. “I’d rather die first.”
“So be it.” Farrak closed his hand round the exposed heart and squeezed, crushing the life from it. Damphoost died in an instant, his eyes staring glassily at oblivion.
Two hours passed with no movement from the skeleton horde. It made no attempt to storm the Hoogbrug, though the watchmen blocking the bridge could not have withstood any attack for more than a few minutes, and there was no hint of the undead army’s next move. Even the pernicious fog that had so plagued the district was holding off, the greasy yellow clouds staying just above the tallest building in Suiddock. Kurt and his Black Caps remained poised, ready to repel the army of bones and blades. But as one hour passed and nothing happened, followed by another hour of eerie silence without movement, the captain ordered his men to stand down and stand easy. Silenti volunteered to remain on guard at the Suiddock end of the bridge, aided by Potts and two other watchmen.
Kurt told the others to step back and regroup, but warned them to maintain readiness for the moment when they were needed. Satisfied, he strode away towards Paleisbuurt, in search of answers. Kurt looked down at the Rijksweg as he crossed the bridge, searching the river below for any sign of the River Watch blockade around his district. But the water was empty, the only evidence of the maritime quarantine a mess of broken wood and upturned hulls floating beneath the Hoogbrug on the tide.
At the span’s midpoint Kurt encountered Nathaniel and a cluster of witch hunters, all arguing how best to contain the necromancer’s hordes. “Has anyone notified the authorities about what’s happened today?” he asked. “They deserve to know the truth.”
Nathaniel nodded. “Messengers were sent to the watch commander, and both houses of the Stadsraad. Our brethren elsewhere in the city have also been notified.”
“What other brethren?”
“A deal was struck with the Ten. In exchange for half their militiamen, one witch hunter was stationed in each home of Marienburg’s wealthiest families. They’ve all had problems with the dead rising from ancestral crypts beneath their mansions and palaces.”
Kurt shook his head. “You made a tactical error, dividing your forces like that. The moment anyone from the Ten discovers what’s waiting for them on the other side of this bridge, they’ll evacuate themselves and their money out of the city. Once they go, everyone else north of the Rijksweg will follow their example. It’ll be anarchy.”
“You can’t be certain of that,” Nathaniel insisted.
“Call it an educated guess. There’s an old adage about a fool and his money soon being parted. The Ten are no fools. If they flee, the consequences would be catastrophic.”
A messenger ran across the bridge, coming south from Paleisbuurt, wearing the garb of a Stadsraad page. He skidded to a halt before the cluster of witch hunters, cowed by their glowering presence. “Sorry, I’m looking for Captain Schnell—is he nearby?”
Kurt pushed through the throng to reach the new arrival. “I’m Schnell.”
“The watch commander’s summoned you to attend an emergency meeting at the Stadsraad in an hour. You’ll be expected to make a full report on the current situation in Suiddock, and offer reassurances that the rest of Marienburg is not in any danger.”
The captain gave a short, bitter laugh. “He can expect all his wants, but I’m not leaving my men or my district to satisfy his need for knowledge. Tell the commander if he wants to know more about the situation in Suiddock, he can come here and kiss my—”
“The watch commander was most insistent,” the messenger interjected. “He said if you did not attend, it would go the worst for you when your father arrives in the city.”
“That bastard,” Kurt muttered. “How does he—”
“The commander expects you to return with me,” the messenger added. “Now.”
Damphoost opened his eyes and gasped as his wounded body came back to life. The shock of being revived was overwhelming, white spots dancing in front of his eyes, his breath coming in short, sharp pants. After a few moments he found himself adjusting, growing accustomed to being alive again—then came the pain. It lanced through his body, stabbing into every extremity, until he was screaming for relief.
Farrak let go of his prisoner’s heart. “Welcome back, Captain Damphoost. Tell me, what was death like? Perhaps a white light, or someone you once loved with all your heart beckoning you towards oblivion?” The necromancer leaned closer, his black and pitiless pupils staring into the captive’s eyes. “There’s nothing there, you know. No glory, no wonders, no happy reunions. Death is death—the end, no more, just an eternity of darkness. Anyone who tells you otherwise is a fool or a liar. Which are you, captain?”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Doing what—killing you and bringing you back?” Farrak glanced to an acolyte nearby, a hunched creature sheltering behind a cloak and cowl. “How many times have I murdered and revived this particular prisoner so far?”
“Twenty-seven, my lord Farrak.”
The necromancer nodded. “Twenty-seven deaths, and twenty-seve
n revivals. Most people only live once, Damphoost—you should consider this an honour, being slain and resurrected so many times. Tell me, how painful is the moment of death?”
“I don’t know,” the captain whispered.
“Why, weren’t you paying attention? Well, you’d better try again, hadn’t you?”
“No! Noooooooooooo—” Damphoost screamed, but another squeeze from that malevolent fist and the captain was dead once more, his life snuffed out. Farrak looked up at the afternoon sun, watching the black gulls swooping across the sky. They called to him, crying out in some unutterable language only he could understand. The necromancer nodded at their report, before relaxing his grip on the tired, wounded heart.
Damphoost opened his eyes and gasped, as his wounded body came back to life. Again he struggled against the shock of resurrection, fighting to adjust—and then came the pain. Once he’d finished screaming, Farrak put himself back in the prisoner’s line of sight. “That’s death number twenty-eight. So, how was it for you?”
“I’ll never tell you what you want to know. I’ll never betray this city.”
The necromancer laughed, a rasping, sinister chuckle of amusement. “My, my, it appears the noble young captain is labouring under something of a misapprehension. This is not an interrogation. I want no secrets you may possess, I’ve no interest in whatever knowledge you may hold about the city or its defences. I don’t wish you to betray anything or anyone. Nothing could interest me less.”
“Then what… do you… want?” Damphoost gasped, as the powerful hand closed round his heart once more. “Please… tell me…”
“I want to know what it feels like to die,” Farrak said, and squeezed. He soon let go again, and the prisoner came back to life. “Congratulations. Most men can only withstand dying and being revived a dozen times before their bodies give out completely. Never have I met a man I could kill and resurrect twenty-nine times in succession.”
“No more,” Damphoost pleaded. “Please, no more.”
“Then tell me what I want to know.”
“I can’t remember—I can’t!”
Farrak frowned. “How unfortunate.” He nodded to another acolyte, who took the necromancer’s place in front of Damphoost. It set to work on the gaping hole in the prisoner’s chest, smearing strange oils and unguents across the edges of the wound, muttering dark incantations. Damphoost watched, amazed, as tendrils of skin stretched themselves across his chest, criss-crossing the wound until the hole in his body was gone. The acolyte moved round to the prisoner’s back and set to work there.
Meanwhile Farrak was pacing back and forth across the bridge, hands forming a steeple shape in front of him. “I’m horrified by death, always have been. As a youth I was encouraged to become a priest of Morr, but to always walk in the shadow of death… It was not for me. The knowledge that I would cease to exist one day, that every thought and feeling and dream and memory I’ve ever had would die with me—that I found unconscionable. So I sought another discipline, another answer to the question of life and death, another faith if you will. I devoted myself to the study of necromancy, travelling the world in search of those dark arts that would allow me to cheat death, to escape my own demise. The irony is that I’ve learned how to resurrect creatures dead for moments or millennia, but I cannot revive myself from death. So I’ve postponed and delayed the inevitable, fought off fate and outdone destiny. As a consequence I’ve lived for many, many years beyond memory and yet I have no idea what it must feel like to die.”
The acolyte finished its work and stepped aside, nodding to Farrak. He returned to Damphoost and inspected the repairs. “I have given you back your flesh. My minions have returned you to the full flush of health. From this day forth you could live for several decades, assuming ill health, injury or incident did not shorten your span. In short, you are a healthy male adult with a full life ahead of him.”
Damphoost stared at his tormentor. “You’re insane. You’ve spent so many centuries cheating death, you’ve forgotten what it is to be human!”
“Perhaps I have,” Farrak conceded. “Perhaps you can educate me?”
Damphoost spat in the necromancer’s right eye.
“I’ll take that as no then, shall I?” Farrak asked. “So be it.” He plunged his fist clean through the torso so recently healed, punching a hole in the prisoner’s spine. “Enjoy eternity,” the necromancer whispered to Damphoost as the captain died for the thirtieth and final time. “Rest assured, I won’t be joining you there.”
Nathaniel accompanied Kurt to the emergency meeting. The messenger escorted them to the Stadsraad building in Paleisbuurt. It was the witch hunter’s suggestion he should come along, but Kurt welcomed it. The captain knew his own testimony could easily be dismissed, but few in authority had the nerve to call a Temple Court representative a liar to their face, even in a city like Marienburg where trade tended to trump religion.
Kurt wasn’t sure what to expect when they arrived. In a city notorious for its relaxed attitude to power, corruption and lies, the Stadsraad was the most visible example of that flexibility. Marienburg’s parliament was a dumping ground for those with political ambitions but insufficient clout to enforce their will on others. Anyone who loved both the sound of their own voice and arguing with others was certain to fit right in. The Rijkskamer upper house was little more than a rest home for elderly nobles, priests and academics. The Burgerhof was an altogether livelier place, prone to angry debates and even brawls among the aldermen and guild representatives elected to the lower chamber. In truth the Stadsraad’s main function was agreeing to decisions laid down by an executive council, the Directorate. That was where true power was wielded.
Kurt had never been inside the Stadsraad building. He’d expected something grander, at least the equal of City Watch headquarters. Instead he and Nathaniel were escorted along tawdry, wood-panelled corridors to a debating chamber. There the great and good of Marienburg were assembled around a circular table, standing in small groups whispering to each other.
All but a few were his senior by twenty winters, and none looked like they had battlefield experience. Most were well fed and wealthy, judging by their grand garb. Kurt recognised representatives from the Ten, plus priests of different faiths, aldermen proudly wearing their chains of office, and several of his fellow captains. It was a gathering of the great and good, such as Marienburg had to offer. The captain’s heart sank. No good decision was ever taken by committee, and this looked like the worst kind of committee, one packed with too many generals and not enough foot soldiers.
The watch commander saw Kurt arriving and strode round the table to confront him. Away from the trappings of office, the commander looked much less of a man, lacking the firm authority he abused with such ease. It would have normally amused Kurt to discover he stood half a head taller than his superior, but the captain was still boiling with anger over the threat used to get him to the meeting. “How do you know about the consequences of my father’s visit?” Kurt hissed, once his superior was within earshot.
The commander smirked. “I have my sources. You needn’t worry, Schnell. I’ve no interest in whether or not you take custody of your son. Luc, that’s his name, isn’t it?”
“Then why threaten me with that happening?”
“I knew it was the one thing likely to drag you away from duty.” The commander pulled Kurt away from Nathaniel. “Is it true? Has Suiddock fallen?”
“Why should I tell you before anyone else?” Kurt sneered.
His superior never got the chance to answer that question, as the meeting was called to order. Kurt took the nearest seat, not bothered where he was positioned in the room. Many of those present wasted several minutes securing the best chairs, closest to those with most power. Eventually the speaker of the Burgerhof, a chubby man called Gyngrijk with white hair and a piercing gaze, brought them to heel.
“As most of you know by now, Marienburg is facing a crisis unequalled in our lifetimes.
The city has been invaded by dark magic, with the infestation centred on the commercially vital district of Suiddock. No ship has come into port or successfully sailed from the harbour for days now. Food supplies are running low, businesses are grinding to a halt and our commercial links with the Empire are already suffering from this problem. Unless the situation is reversed, it could cause chronic, perhaps irreversible damage to our import and export businesses, not to mention harming trade links with the likes of Bretonnia, Ulthuan and key cities such as Altdorf. It’s a matter of urgency that the crisis be resolved. I now call on the watch commander to provide us with an update.”
Gyngrijk sat, and all eyes turned to Kurt’s superior. The commander thanked the speaker, but swiftly passed the request for an update to Kurt. “Captain Schnell has come to this meeting directly from Suiddock, at my request. He can tell you far more about the situation than I could hope to offer. Indeed, I charged him with the task of stopping this threat from spreading. Tell us, Captain Schnell, what success have you, your men and the River Watch had in driving the dark magic out of Suiddock?”
Kurt cleared his throat, conscious of having so many powerful people all watching him. He started to outline the deteriorating situation at Suiddock, but was interrupted within a few sentences by an elderly man on the far side of the table. “Speak up, damn you! Can’t hear a word you’re saying—stop mumbling!”
[Marienburg 02] - A Massacre in Marienburg Page 19
