[Marienburg 02] - A Massacre in Marienburg

by David Bishop - (ebook by Undead)

  “What about the militia?” Stefan Rothemuur asked. “Could they help with this?”

  “Thank you, that brings me on to the second half of my solution,” the commander replied, continuing smoothly on without a pause. “I suggest each and every militiaman, bodyguard and mercenary in the city be inducted into a new fighting force, with all of them under the command of my Black Caps. Many of my men have had the benefit of military experience, such as Captain Schnell. Others like Captain Quist in Noordmuur have been keeping the peace on our streets for decades. They are used to commanding men, fighting the difficult battles, and they know this city.” He glanced at Sandler before looking away. “A few among my captains do have less experience, but they can be kept in reserve, to be called upon as reinforcements if and when necessary.”

  “We should make all militiamen employees of the city?” Gyngrijk said.

  “Yes, and all the bodyguards and mercenaries we can find.”

  “Why?”

  “There’s no guarantee we’ll have time to rig the bridges to explode, and certainly no guarantees that will be enough to stop the necromancer’s unholy forces. At present there’s nothing to stop the undead army that occupies Suiddock from commandeering every boat moored at the docks and sailing across the Rijksweg to attack the northern half of Marienburg. This new fighting force could stand guard along the edge of the river.”

  “It could work,” Rothemuur said. “It wouldn’t be cheap, but…”

  The commander nodded. “The question you have to ask yourself is quite simple, gentlemen: how much is the future of this city worth to you? Right now Marienburg is fighting for its life against an enemy nobody knows how to stop, let alone turn back. Unless somebody else here has a better suggestion, I propose we take a vote on my plan.”

  Kurt noticed Sandler squirming. Something was troubling the Goudberg captain, and it wasn’t the humiliation heaped on him by their commander. But Sandler did not speak out or object to the proposals, keeping his own counsel as the vote was taken. The plan to rig the bridges was approved, as was a motion to put watch captains in charge of a militarised fighting force tasked with saving Marienburg from Farrak’s army of death.

  The meeting ended soon after, the commander basking in congratulations for his solution, however temporary its success might be. Kurt tried to intercept Sandler on his way out but the other captain eluded him. So Kurt waited for the throng around his superior to diminish before approaching the commander.

  “What about the southern half of Marienburg?” Kurt asked. “I notice your plan didn’t include much mention of districts like Tempelwijk or Doodkanaal.”

  “Both the Draaienbrug and Hoogbrug bridges will be dealt with,” the commander replied. “Or did you miss that detail in all the excitement?”

  “No, I got it. But how many from this new fighting force will be stationed south of the Rijksweg? Most of the talk was about protecting wealthy families and homes.”

  “I was playing politics, Schnell—tailoring my words to suit my audience. At least a third of those fighters will be sent across the river to defend our less affluent districts from Farrak. Indeed, I’m giving you personal command of those particular forces. Your men will be the ones tasked with rigging gunpowder to the Draaienbrug. But try not to blow up the bridge—or yourselves—unless it’s absolutely necessary, won’t you?”

  Holismus and the other watchmen who’d been guarding the Draaienbrug gathered near the southern end of the swing bridge, outside a tavern. From there they kept watch over the wights blocking the Draaienbrug’s Suiddock end. None of the living dead had made any movement to cross the span, nor interfered with its controls.

  Twisting the bridge sideways to make it impassable would have been the obvious choice for the watchmen, but in the mad scramble to evacuate fleeing citizens, Holismus had left the hefty key that unlocked the mechanism in place on the Suiddock side of the Braynwater. As a result the bridge was fixed in position across the canal, immoveable. Kramer had chided Holismus more than once about this lapse, until the other Black Caps suggested the cocky Black Cap prove his bravery by fetching the key back from the wights. Kramer seemed less enthusiastic about that option and took to sulking instead.

  Holismus took Bescheiden to an alleyway, apart from the others. They’d been among the first cadre of watchmen recruited to Three Penny Bridge, and both of them had suffered more than their fair share of traumas at the station. Despite Bescheiden’s weasellike features and greasy excuse for a moustache, Holismus was fast learning to appreciate his colleague. Bescheiden had demonstrated moments of courage verging on the suicidal in the past year. But his decision to stay behind and face the advancing wights alone—that didn’t look like courage to Holismus; that looked like a death wish.

  “Why didn’t you run when those things marched on the bridge?”

  Bescheiden shrugged. “Don’t know. I just… froze.”

  “Didn’t look that way to me. It was more like you wanted them to kill you.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Why would I want that?”

  “I don’t know,” Holismus conceded, “but we can’t afford to lose you. Most of the new recruits, I don’t even know their names yet. I’ve no idea how they’ll react when we have to fight what’s waiting for us across the canal. You I can depend on.”

  “Don’t,” Bescheiden said, his voice little more than a whisper.

  “Why not?”

  “When the worst comes, I can’t be trusted.” Holismus was going to ask what his colleague meant, but an anxious shout from Kramer put an end to the conversation.

  “You’d better get over here, we’ve got trouble!”

  Holismus and Bescheiden joined Kramer and the other watchmen outside the tavern. Brother Daniel and the other witch hunters were returning, their swirling black cloaks casting ominous shadows on the cobbles, faces hidden by their wide hat brims. The brethren stopped opposite the watchmen, but did not speak. Holismus waited what felt like an eternity, but still the witch hunters remained silent, a brooding presence.

  “Look, if this is about abandoning the blockade, we didn’t have a choice,” he said, awaiting the usual accusations of heresy. The Black Caps of Three Penny Bridge had crossed paths with witch hunters several times in the past year, so Holismus figured he knew what to expect. But the lack of response from those stood opposite was quite unnerving him. “Well, maybe we did have a choice, but we made the right one. Have you seen what’s waiting across the bridge? If we’d kept the quarantine in place, all the people now safe on this side of the canal would have been slaughtered by those things!” Still nothing.

  Holismus glanced at his fellow watchmen. Kramer shrugged, while Bescheiden was chewing on his nails. The others were just as nervous, and none of them had any answers or suggestions about how they should respond.

  “What do you want from us?” Holismus demanded. “Our first duty is to protect the people of Suiddock from harm, and that’s what we did. The quarantine had to come second.”

  The witch hunters remained silent, not making a single movement.

  Holismus lost patience with their tactics. He stomped over to Daniel, until they were within touching distance of each other. The witch hunter’s face was still cast down, as if fascinated by the cobbles. “At least have the decency to look at me, damn you!”

  “No, damn you,” a sibilant voice replied.

  “Fine, you want to provoke me into a fight? You got one,” the watchman snarled.

  “Holismus, don’t!” Bescheiden called out.

  But the Black Cap leader wasn’t listening. He swung a hand through the air, knocking off the witch hunter’s wide-brimmed hat. But what was underneath bore little resemblance to Brother Daniel. A thousand tiny specks of black were hovering round a skull, picking it clean of any fleshy morsels that might remain. The head tipped upwards, so its empty sockets could stare at Holismus.

  “You should have heeded your colleague’s warning.”

  The black cloth bro
ke apart into thousands upon thousands of tiny corpse flies, all of them swooping upwards into the air above the skeleton that had been Brother Daniel. All the other shrouds of black followed suit, revealing themselves to be formed by swarms of corpse flies. The witch hunters were nothing more than walking skeletons, black hats balanced incongruously on their skulls.

  “Now your flesh shall provide the feast.”

  Holismus was already running. “Into the tavern!” he bellowed at the other Black Caps. “Get into the tavern and lock the doors—now!”

  Kurt found Nathaniel waiting for him outside the Stadsraad building. He revealed his mission to rig the Draaienbrug with gunpowder. “I want to see Otto before I take my men south of the Rijksweg again,” Kurt said. “If he’s had any more visions or insights into what Farrak plans for the city, I need to know them.”

  The witch hunter escorted him to a nearby Temple of Manann, a massive cathedral of stone and glass, a building so beautiful it had been known to convert skeptics into followers. Inside was even more spectacular, a hush of reverence falling upon all those who entered. Nathaniel ushered Kurt into one of the side chapels, now converted for use as a place of healing.

  Priests and apothecaries moved among the many patients, tending to those who could be treated and offering whatever comforts were available to those less fortunate. Otto was lying on a cot in a corner, watched by two others from his holy order. Kurt thanked Nathaniel for his help. “It’s the least I could do after my follies in Suiddock,” the witch hunter replied. “I let the sin of pride blind me to the real threat.”

  “You could do me another favour,” Kurt said. “I want my Black Caps with me when I cross the Rijksweg. Could you arrange to have them stood down from guarding the Hoogbrug? Most haven’t slept in at least a day, and Manann knows the last time any of them had a meal. If they’re going to follow me into hell, I prefer they didn’t have to do it on an empty stomach while exhausted and already spent.”

  The witch hunter nodded and withdrew. Kurt went across to Otto’s bedside and introduced himself to the two priests. The younger disciple of Morr named himself as Seth. “Otto and I studied together, under the tutelage of Benedictus here.” The other, more elderly priest nodded to Kurt, his hunched shoulders further bent over by prayer. “We’ve both been worried about Otto, felt his disquiet. We planned to travel south and visit his temple, but the fog and the quarantine…”

  “I understand,” Kurt said. “How is he?”

  “Not good,” Benedictus sighed. “His proximity to the necromancer’s dark magic has drained Otto’s spirit, leaving his body weak and defenceless.”

  “You know about Farrak?”

  Seth grimaced. “It’s impossible to be a priest of Morr and not be aware of such an evil, malevolent presence in our midst. Necromancy rends asunder the veil between life and death, destroys the delicate balance our faith seeks to preserve. Most of our fellow priests have been debilitated by the events of recent days. Several of them are here, receiving palliative treatment.” He gestured to a row of bald men on cots, all of them shivering or muttering, their faces distraught, eyes rolled back into their heads. “But there’s nothing the healers can do to reverse what’s happening. The priests of Morr are dying, their life force draining away, one by one.”

  Benedictus laid a hand on Otto’s forehead. “He was my strongest pupil. He will be the last among us to succumb, if I add my energies to his.”

  Seth shook his head. “Benedictus, no—”

  “Don’t contradict me!” the old priest snapped. “You were the same as a student, always too impetuous, too headstrong, believing you knew best. Trust that those of us who have lived much longer than you might also have acquired some wisdom along the way.”

  “You’re certain this is what you want?” Seth asked. Benedictus nodded, an eerie calmness in his movements.

  Kurt frowned. “What is it, what’s going on?”

  Seth led him away by an elbow. “Better you don’t witness it for yourself.”

  “Witness what?”

  Behind Kurt the old priest cried out, but Seth stopped the captain from turning round. A white light burst past them both, followed by a sudden intake of breath. Kurt shook himself free of Seth and twisted round in time to see Benedictus crumple to the cold floor of stone, his aged body little more than a wizened husk. On the cot Otto was sitting upright, his eyes wide open, gulping air in short gasps.

  “What happened?” the revived priest asked as Kurt hurried over.

  “That’s just what I was asking,” the captain replied.

  Seth joined them. “Benedictus sacrificed his life for you.”

  Otto noticed the desiccated body by his bed. He closed his eyes, and offered up a brief prayer to Morr, before regarding his colleague. “Is it really you, Seth?”

  “Of course it is. Why wouldn’t—”

  “You and Benedictus attacked me in a vision. Got so bad I couldn’t tell what was real and what was hallucination anymore.” Otto took in his surroundings. “Where am I?”

  Kurt explained what had happened, Farrak’s presence in the city and the mission to rig the Draaienbrug with gunpowder. “I know it’s asking a lot, but will you be strong enough to come with us, Otto? A priest of Morr would be a powerful weapon for us.”

  “Not for another day or two,” Seth interceded. “The sacrifice Benedictus made saved Otto’s life, but he needs time to recover from the ordeals that brought him here.”

  “I can still advise you,” Otto volunteered. “How far has Farrak’s influence spread? Has he reached out beyond Suiddock yet to bolster his forces?”

  “Not so far as I know,” Kurt replied, “beyond raising the dead from any crypts or mausoleums below sea level. He seems content to consolidate his position on Suiddock.”

  “It’s a ruse,” Otto said. “When Farrak was sending visions to attack me, I was able to gain some insight into his plans. The necromancer’s self-belief is so great, he thinks nothing can stop him, so he did not bother to shield his thoughts from me.”

  “His arrogance will be his undoing,” Seth said.

  “Still believing you know best?” Otto asked, but for a moment his voice was that of Benedictus, the stinging criticisms of the older priest brought back to life. “Farrak is gathering his strength, preparing to raise an army that will lay waste to Marienburg. To do that, he needs cannon fodder, foot soldiers to do his bidding.”

  “The necromancer has an army of skeletons to fight his battles,” Kurt said.

  “He will want a hundred armies, and not just skeletons—ghouls and ghostly spirits, wraiths and wights, zombies and Morr knows what other horrors,” Otto replied, his own voice restored. “Farrak raises the dead. So where will he go for reinforcements?”

  “Only rich citizens get their own crypts,” Seth said, “and quicklime accounts for most other burials in Marienburg. The crematoria in Doodkanaal burn the rest.”

  Kurt shook his head. “Not all, not even close. Most people in this city can’t afford burial or burning. I’d say half the bodies get dumped in the water around Doodkanaal.”

  “That will be Farrak’s next target,” Otto said. “If he lays claim to that district and its waterways, he could multiply his forces by a factor of three to five, maybe more. Should that happen, Marienburg will surely die in the necromancer’s grasp.”

  * * *

  Holismus closed the last window shutter while his Black Caps shoved cloths into the gaps between the tavern door and the worn flagstone underneath it, shutting out the swarm of voracious corpse flies. “The fire, stoke the fire,” he yelled at a terrified Kramer, who was cowering by the hearth. “They could still come down the chimney!”

  Kramer spun round, stumbling away from the glowing embers. Bescheiden pushed him aside before emptying a basket of logs across the hearth and into the fireplace. Nothing happened for a few moments until a tongue of flame leapt up to lick the dry wood. Another followed and then another, until the fire was roaring. All the no
ise from the sudden influx of watchmen brought the innkeeper up from his cellar. Ruddy-faced and pot-bellied, he smiled at the newcomers. “Sorry to keep you waiting, lads, but I was just changing a barrel. We’re not officially open yet, you know—regulations and all that.” He noticed the fire. “Feeling the cold, are you?”

  “Not exactly,” Holismus replied. “Are there are other entrances or exits?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Have you got any other doors and windows elsewhere in the building?”

  The innkeeper scratched his chin, thinking long and hard about the answer. “Well, now, let me see. There’s four windows upstairs in my bedroom, a door and two windows out back in the kitchen, and the privy’s got a door too—but that’s outside.”

  Holismus pointed at two of the newer Black Caps. “What are your names?”

  “I’m Acco,” a watchman with too many freckles replied, before jerking a thumb at his colleague, a balding, burly figure with a black, bushy moustache. “He’s Ormston.”

  “Go to the kitchen, seal the door and shutter the windows—go!” They rushed out.

  “I’ll get the windows upstairs,” Bescheiden volunteered, already on his way.

  “Good man,” Holismus agreed.

  “What about the beer?” Kramer asked.

  “I was going to ask if you fancied a tankard,” the innkeeper smiled.

  “It’s no time to think about drinking,” Holismus snarled.

  “No, I mean where does the beer come from,” Kramer explained.

  “The cellar,” their perplexed host said. “We get a new delivery most weeks.”

  “And how do the barrels get into the cellar? They can’t come in the front door, it isn’t wide enough,” Kramer observed, pointing to the tavern’s narrow entrance.

  “You’re right,” Holismus realised. He rounded on the innkeeper. “Well, how do the barrels get down into the cellar?”

  “They roll down a chute from the street, of course.”

  Kramer ran to the hatch that led to the cellar, and peered down into the blackness. “There’s nothing down there. It’s all dark, I can’t see any light from the street.”