“Captain, the situation outside has deteriorated overnight,” de Graaf reported. “All those who were at the gates trying to get in have gone.”
“Good,” Wout smiled, pleased to have his decision vindicated. “They must have found sanctuary elsewhere. See, I told you closing the gates was for the best.”
“If you’ll let me finish, sir,” the sergeant replied. “The live citizens have been replaced by the living dead. There must be more than a hundred corpses outside the gates, trying to get in. We won’t be able to launch any initiative to reclaim the streets of Tempelwijk today. We’re trapped inside the station.”
The captain shrugged. “No matter. Our position here is secure, until relief arrives.”
“Relief? From where?” de Graaf demanded. “Our sentries can see all the way to Oudgeldwijk and beyond, now the accursed fog has lifted. Aside from a small cohort of men near the Tempelwijk bridge, there’s not a single living soul on the streets.”
“The streets are empty?”
“No, sir—anything but.”
Wout frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“It’s better if you come and see for yourself.” The sergeant led his superior through the maze of corridors that honeycombed the station, carved out of the rock bastion that protected the rest of Tempelwijk from the sea’s fury. Eventually the two men emerged onto the battlements that overlooked the district. Far as the eye could see, the streets were choked by a stumbling, churning mass of decomposing bodies. Most of Tempelwijk had been lost to the undead horde, as had the districts of Oudgeldwijk and those beyond. The only street where cobbles were visible was the thoroughfare that ran from the station to the nearest bridge. The undead were shuffling away from the station towards the bridge, where there was a hole in the horde.
“Sweet Shallya,” Wout whispered. “All these creatures, where’d they come from?”
“Most climbed out of the canals and cuts according to our sentries,” de Graaf replied. “They watched it happening while the sun rose. Anyone still alive out on the streets got devoured. They died because we decided to save our own skins instead of helping the citizens of Tempelwijk—the people we were supposed to protect.”
“You mean because I decided to keep the station and everyone inside safe?”
“I meant what I said,” de Graaf replied, “sir.”
Wout glared at his sergeant. “If my choice was such a disaster, how do you explain what’s happening at that bridge? Seems somebody out on the streets is still alive, still fighting their way through the undead horde. How do you explain that?”
“I can’t.”
“So you don’t have all the answers after all, do you, sergeant?”
“No, sir.”
“You would do well to remember that in the coming days,” Wout sneered. “We are at war, sergeant. Dissent and insubordination will not be tolerated, not in my station.”
“Permission to take a team outside the gates, sir.”
“Why? What possible reason could you have for endangering yourself, the men you take and all those left behind inside the station?”
“I’ve been watching whoever is fighting for control of that bridge. They’re trying to reach the station,” de Graaf explained. “I believe they could be Black Caps.”
“You believe?”
“Yes, sir.”
“But you have no proof, do you?”
“No, sir, but—”
“But nothing, sergeant!” Wout raged. “Manann, save me from those who think they know best. I’ve had enough of your impetuous assumptions and accusations for one day, de Graaf. Taking a team outside these walls is suicidal. Permission denied!”
The sergeant opened his mouth to speak but Wout raised a finger for silence. “Say one more word and I’ll throw you over this wall myself. Understand?” The captain stalked from the battlements, muttering dark threats and curses under his breath. Those standing guard along the wall waited until Wout had gone before approaching de Graaf.
“It’s not right, he shouldn’t talk to you like that,” one of the watchmen said.
“He’s captain, he can do and say what he likes inside these walls,” de Graaf said. “Wout is right, we’re at war with the undead. Overruling him would be an act of mutiny, a treasonable offence, punishable by death. The captain’s not done anything that justifies removing him from office—yet. For now, we have to follow his orders.” The sergeant used a hand to shield his eyes from the rising sun, squinting to see what was happening on the bridge. “Let’s hope those men have been drinking deep of the Myrmidian Spring.”
“There’s no point in us trying to fight our way across the bridge with inferior numbers,” Kurt told his cohort. “We’d be slaughtered before we made it halfway, and that’s not going to happen. We need to find a way of evening the odds.”
Ganz came forward and whispered into the captain’s ear. Kurt listened, nodding at the suggestion. “Do we have enough to make that work?” he asked. Ganz smiled. “Very well.” Kurt called to the front those among his men who carried flintlocks and crossbows. All seven of the surviving militia were armed with such a weapon, while Denkers, Potts and Ganz also had them. The captain arranged them in two ranks, five militia kneeling along the front with the others stood behind. Kurt kept to one side while the rest of his watchmen guarded the backs of the standing rank.
Ahead of the cohort, the undead horde crowding the bridge were getting restless, their numbers swollen still further by undead joining them from the Tempelwijk side of the bridge. “Wait until they advance on us,” Kurt told the two ranks. “Don’t shoot until you see the red of their eyes, and don’t fire without a clear target. Our supplies of ammunition and bolts are limited, we’ve got to make them count.”
The press of bodies from the Tempelwijk side became too great, and undead spilled onto the Oudgeldwijk side of the bridge. Those closest to the cohort kept coming, shuffling and lurching towards the Black Caps and militiamen.
“Front rank will fire first,” Kurt said, “but only on my command. Second rank will fire while the front rank reloads, and so on.”
The advancing undead got faster as they got closer, lurching becoming shambling.
“Take aim…”
The living dead were but seven paces away from the front rank. Auteuil twisted his head sideways to look at Kurt, uncertain if the order was ever going to come.
“Eyes front!” the captain snapped.
Five paces, four paces, three paces—
“Front rank—fire!” Kurt bellowed.
The first line of undead were mown down by bolt and fire from the flintlocks. No sooner had they fallen than the next line of resurrected were stepping over their bodies.
“Rear rank—fire!”
Another row of corpses tumbled to the cobbles. “Front rank—fire!”
More death, more bodies went down. “Rear rank—fire!”
And so it went, wave upon wave of reanimated corpses flinging themselves at the cohort, clambering over the still-twitching remains of their brethren to get at the living. The flintlocks were first to fail, barrels buckling from the strain, firing mechanisms unable to cope with such a frenzy of shooting. As each pistol fell silent, the owner dropped it to the ground and drew a blade. One by one those armed with crossbows were also abandoning their weapons, as the supply of bolts ran out.
It was Bescheiden who prompted Kurt to take the cohort on the offensive. He was among those guarding the backs of those firing, facing Oudgeldwijk. “Captain!”
“Not now,” Kurt snarled, concentrating all his attention on the way forwards.
“Yes, captain, now!” Bescheiden shouted, fear in his voice.
Kurt glanced over his shoulder to see a throng of undead advancing on them from Oudgeldwijk. There were hundreds of them, blocking any chance of escape, devastating any hope of retreat in that direction. The four men guarding the rest of the cohort would be swept away within moments, once the living dead reached them. Kurt spat a curse
.
“Get ready to move!” he bellowed at his troops.
“Which way?” Ganz demanded, his crossbow firing its last bolt.
“Forwards, over the bridge!”
“But it’s still full of them,” Potts protested.
“We cut their numbers in half, we’ve got a fighting chance,” Kurt insisted. “Draw your blades. On my mark, we charge them.” One last look back towards Oudgeldwijk—the undead were nearly upon the cohort. “Charge!”
The cohort split in two halves, each skirting round one side of the corpses piled across the cobbles. The undead were still climbing over their fallen, reacting too slowly to the sudden surge by Kurt and his men. The cohort used the element of surprise well, reaching the bridge without having to engage the enemy or sustain any losses. But the battle to cross the span was an altogether bloodier and more brutal affair.
Three of the militia were cut down in the first clash, the undead crushing the men against the sides of the bridge. Kurt kept Potts behind him, determined not to lose the watch commander’s nephew if he could help it. The captain formed a triangular wedge formation with Ganz at his right shoulder and Auteuil at his left, the burly militiaman proving an able blade in close-quarters combat. The trio thrust deep into the enemy horde, clearing a path for the Black Caps and militiamen behind. But the further they got across the bridge, the slower their progress became. The undead driven to the sides by the initial charge closed in around the cohort, stifling its momentum.
Kurt took the head off one of the living dead, but another got through his defences and clamped its teeth shut over his tunic sleeve, tearing at the coarse fabric with animal savagery. Fortunately, the biting teeth only grazed the side of Kurt’s wrist, not breaking the skin. He rammed the base of his other hand up into his attacker’s nose, driving bone backwards into brain, snuffing out the dark magic animating the corpse.
Denkers was not so fortunate. One of the undead lunged at him, its fingernails clawing their way through his right cheek and stabbing into his tongue. He screamed at those around for help, but the cries died in his throat as the corpse ripped open the side of Denkers’ face. His jawbone came away in the creature’s hand, taking flaps of skin and a curtain of blood with it. Realising he was as good as dead, Denkers held his blade out sideways in front of his neck and collapsed onto it, hoping the edge would decapitate him. All it did was end his life.
Moments later, his still warm corpse was back on its feet, searching for another victim. The undead watchman took down Ormston before the others realised what had happened. Burke stepped in and finished the job Denkers had started, slicing through the rest of his neck. He finished off Ormston as well, before fighting a path back to the others as they neared the Tempelwijk end of the bridge. Beyond was an empty road, leading all the way to the fortified station. If the cohort could get over this accursed bridge, they would have a clear run to the nearby sanctuary.
But one more militiaman died in the next two minutes, along with Burke, both losing their lives on a span that normally took no more than a few seconds to cross. The fifteen survivors had been cut in half. Only eight remained alive as Kurt cut down the last moving corpse between him and the empty cobbles. “We’ve done it!” he shouted back at the others. “This way, we’re nearly there!”
Farrak watched the battle on the bridge through his window of blood, savouring the killing and the carnage, admiring the courage and tenacity of the cohort—particularly the grim-faced man leading the fighters. “This Captain Schnell is proving quite pugnacious. He should have perished thrice over by now, if not several times more, yet he finds a path through the valley of death. What can you tell me about him?”
The corpse shuddered, a rotting larynx croaking its reply. “Kurt will never give up. Never surrender. You’ll have to kill him to stop him.”
“That much is obvious,” the necromancer snapped. “I want to know his weakness, the weapon that will break his spirit, crush his soul.”
“Sara.”
“A woman? Intriguing. Where does she live?”
“She died, years ago, in Altdorf.”
“Beyond even my powers of resurrection,” Farrak sighed.
“Kurt once told me he dreamed of her,” the corpse rasped. “Every night.”
“That sounds more promising. You will tell me everything about this Sara.”
“Yes, master.”
Farrak stroked the corpse’s face, paying no attention to the worms that slid from the decaying features, no heed to the stench of rotting flesh. “Then will you prepare a welcome for this Captain Schnell, should he ever make it back to Three Penny Bridge.”
The decomposing remains of Jan Woxholt nodded. “Yes, master.”
The slime had done its work on the sea wall, scouring a succession of holes for hands and feet that led up the side of Tempelwijk station. The barnacle-encrusted monsters emerged from the crashing surf to make the slow ascent to the battlements that looked out to sea. The watch maintained a constant guard on the battlements facing inland but no sentries ever stood atop the sea wall, as it was believed impossible to scale. Farrak’s horde clambered upwards, intent on showing those inside the station the folly of their ways.
Wout was sat in his office, detailing the night’s events for the watch commander, when de Graaf burst into the room. “Sir, we need to open the front gates—now!”
The captain slammed shut his official journal. “How dare you enter without first gaining my permission, sergeant! Have you lost all leave of your senses?”
“I apologise, but we need you urgently—”
“Stuff and nonsense! There’s nothing so urgent in this life that requires such an anarchic attitude to authority and the proper chain of command, de Graaf.”
“Yes, sir, and I have apologised for my mistake.” The sergeant fell silent, waiting for Wout’s permission to speak.
“Well, what is it then?”
“The unit we saw fighting for the bridge, they’ve broken through the undead horde and are heading for the station. We should open the front gates and let them in, but you forbade anyone from doing so without your express permission.”
“You were right to come to me with this,” Wout said, rising from his seat. “However, I must assess the situation myself before granting any such permission.”
“Yes, sir, of course,” de Graaf agreed, already hurrying from the office. His captain followed, not noticing a shadow pass over the window that looked out to sea, as one of the undead climbed the station’s exterior.
Potts reached the gates of Tempelwijk station first, youth giving extra speed to his legs, while the rest of the cohort followed close behind. Those at the rear were still battling the living dead, keeping them back with scything blades. But more and more of the walking corpses were pouring across the bridge and into Tempelwijk. It wouldn’t be long before they overwhelmed the seven men still at Kurt’s command.
“Open the gates!” Potts cried out, banging on the massive oak gates. They were the height of three men, stood one atop the other, and just as wide. His fists made next to no noise when beating on the wood, so the raw recruit used the hilt of his short sword instead. That reverberated against the gates. “Please, you’ve got to let us in!”
Kurt was next to arrive, adding the hilt of his sword to the hammering of Potts. “My name’s Kurt Schnell, I’m captain of the City Watch contingent for Suiddock. Open these damn gates!” The others joined in, all but Ganz and Bescheiden beating at the gates. The two watchmen stood guard over the others, watching the advancing horde of corpses. The cohort had less than a minute before the undead caught up with them.
“Sometime this morning would be helpful,” Ganz shouted, risking a glance at the sentries stood on the battlements above them. “If it’s not too much trouble!”
Wout looked down upon the men clustered outside his station, and assessed the dark mass of corpses approaching. “It’s too late,” he told de Graaf. “We’d never be able to open the gates, get th
em inside and seal the gates again before the undead reached the station. You should have called me sooner.”
The sergeant’s mouth fell open in disbelief. “Captain, I begged you to let me take a unit out earlier, to help those men, but you refused to allow it.”
“That would have been suicidal, just as opening our gates now would be. Then you would have sacrificed yourself and the lives of your men on a lost cause; now you would be risking the lives of every man, woman and child inside this station.”
“Captain, please! We can still save those men if we intervene.”
Wout turned away. “My decision is made. That’s all. Don’t disturb me again today, de Graaf. I’ve had more than enough of your interruptions for one day.”
The sergeant grabbed Wout by the arm. “No, captain, that’s not good enough.”
“How dare you! Unhand me now, or suffer the consequences.”
“Do what you want to me, but I’m giving the order to open the gates. I won’t see another life sacrificed on the altar of your cowardice—sir!”
Wout ripped his arm free and backhanded de Graaf across the face. “You are under arrest for gross insubordination, sergeant. Guards, put this man in the cells.” But the sentries stood nearby were not looking at their captain; they were looking past him. “Did you hear me? I said put this man in the cells—immediately!” Still the sentries ignored his orders. “What in the name of Manann is the matter with you all?”
One of the guards pointed past Wout to the other side of the battlements. The captain twisted round to see what had so transfixed his men. Twenty barnacle-encrusted corpses had clambered over the sea wall, and were moving round the battlements towards Wout and his men. More of the monsters were topping the wall, climbing up from the churning waters far below, making an ascent everyone had believed was impossible.
[Marienburg 02] - A Massacre in Marienburg Page 26
