[Marienburg 02] - A Massacre in Marienburg

by David Bishop - (ebook by Undead)

  “That’s seven years of your span I’ve taken,” the necromancer gloated. “Eight, nine, ten… How many do you have left I wonder?”

  Suddenly the pain stopped. Kurt opened his eyes and saw the necromancer talking to a crimson oval that hung vertically in the air. “You have it, you have the skull?”

  “Yes, master. I am bringing it to the Goudberg wharf now.”

  “Then my triumph is complete!” Farrak crowed.

  Kurt knew this was his last chance. He thought back over everything he’d been told about this monster, searching for some clue, some way of defeating the fiend. If only Farrak had not destroyed the Stone of Solkan. A glint of light blinded Kurt for a moment, the late afternoon sun glinting off the heavy ring on the necromancer’s right hand. The same hand that’s holding the blade of my sword, Kurt realised.

  Summoning every last ounce of strength left in his body, Kurt ripped the sword backwards, the blade slicing through Farrak’s fingers, cutting skin and bone until there was nothing left to cut. The necromancer howled with rage, turning back from the window of blood in time to see his fingers falling to the deck.

  On one of them was Farrak’s precious ring, the focus of his powers. Remove that and he was vulnerable, or so Nathaniel had said. Kurt hoped the witch hunter was right. Having freed the sword, he stabbed the blade deep into the necromancer’s gut and twisted. Farrak’s cry was anguish and pain in equal measure.

  “How does that feel, you vicious bastard?” Kurt demanded. “How long is it since you felt pain, since you felt anything? Try a taste of cold steel for once!” He pulled the sword back out and rammed it into the necromancer’s screaming mouth, pushing the hilt until it was jammed against Farrak’s teeth.

  The necromancer grabbed hold of Kurt, his touch stealing away three more years before the captain could wrench himself free. He kicked Farrak in the crotch, the blow so brutal it lifted Farrak clear off the deck. When he came back down, the necromancer staggered backwards, towards the side of the vessel. Then he fell, tumbling over the edge and into the murky waters of the Rijksweg, the river swallowing him up.

  Kurt sank to his knees, unable to believe he’d survived. It was over.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Kurt woke in a bed beneath a high vaulted ceiling, its curving surface adorned with a painting of the god Manann. He willed himself to sit up and regretted the effort, dizziness overwhelming him. The captain lay back down on the bed, contenting himself with raising a hand in the hope it would get somebody’s attention. “He’s awake,” a voice called out.

  A smiling man in clerical robes came over to Kurt. “How do you feel?”

  “Old before my time,” Kurt replied. “What happened? Where am I?”

  “Others can answer that question better than I,” the priest said. “You need rest.”

  “The necromancer, he was—”

  “Farrak’s gone,” another voice interjected. Otto appeared beside the bed. He sat down on a chair next to Kurt, and nodded to the other priest. “I’ll look after him for now.”

  Once they were alone, Kurt reached out a hand to Otto. “I thought you dead.”

  “I was lucky. Farrak cast me into the Rijksweg. Any further and I’d probably have been impaled on a steeple in Guilderveld.”

  “What about the others—Belladonna, Holismus, Bescheiden?”

  Otto frowned. “Not many people who stayed in the city survived, and even fewer of those who fought to defend Marienburg came through their ordeal unscathed. I’m sorry, Kurt, most of your Black Caps are dead.”

  “But some are still alive?”

  “Just,” Bescheiden said, approaching the captain’s bed. “I got Potts away from Suiddock. And they found Belladonna in some underground temple. She’s in the next chapel, actually. The healers and apothecaries have done wonders with her.”

  “What about the others?” Kurt asked. “Scheusal, Silenti…”

  Bescheiden shook his head.

  It was too much for Kurt. Exhaustion came at him in waves, and he surrendered to it, letting the blackness carry him away to rest.

  Three days passed before Kurt could sit upright, and it was another week before he could walk a few paces. He wanted to see Belladonna but the healers forbade it until more of his strength had returned. Instead Kurt asked questions of anyone who visited, piecing together what happened elsewhere in the city while he was on board Farrak’s vessel, and what came to pass after the necromancer fell overboard.

  The undead army returned to death the moment Kurt severed the finger bearing Farrak’s ring. Skeletons collapsed into piles of brittle bones, while zombies slumped over, decomposition reclaiming their lifeless bodies. The wraiths drifted away on the wind, just their empty cloaks left behind, and spirit forms broke apart, tendrils of eldritch energy dissipating into the air. But no trace was found of the necromancer’s body. Farrak’s ship had come to rest against the wharf at Goudberg, and a dozen witch hunters had stormed the vessel, intent on assassinating its master. They found a delirious Kurt sprawled on the deck but no sign of their target, beyond a few severed fingers.

  The deadly fog returned as night fell, suffocating Marienburg one last time. The witch hunters standing sentry round the necromancer’s vessel saw a dark shape close by during the night, but visibility was so bad they could not be sure. When morning came the fog lifted for the last time to reveal the vessel had gone, sailing back out to sea during the night, though it had no undead crew left to man the rigging.

  Of Farrak’s body there was no sign, and little enthusiasm for dredging the Rijksweg to find it. Rumours abounded that a guard on Rijker’s Isle had seen a corpse matching Farrak’s description in the water nearby. But the fog had slid by the prison island soon after, hiding the body from view. When the guard returned with a boat hook to drag the corpse in to shore, it was gone.

  By the time Kurt was on his feet, life was returning to some semblance of normality in Marienburg. Those who’d fled the city were coming back and the first market since the crisis did brisk trade, proving there was life yet in the populace. Otto had been back to his temple and found much of Suiddock a wasteland, but the docks were soon open for business and Henschmann had reclaimed his home at the Marienburg Gentlemen’s Club. Some things never changed, even after all that had happened.

  Kurt got word his father had finally arrived in Marienburg with Luc, their journey much delayed by the deluge of people fleeing the city. But Old Ironbeard made no effort to contact his son, nor did he send any word about when Kurt might see the boy.

  Twelve days after Kurt’s final conflict with Farrak, Belladonna was well enough to receive visitors. Kurt found her on a cot among the female patients. Her hands were swathed in bandages and she looked pale, but the most striking evidence of her injuries was the black patch where her right eye should have been. “Gives me the look of a pirate, don’t you think?” she joked. “Now all I need is a wooden leg.”

  Kurt winced. “Please, don’t make me laugh.”

  Belladonna stared at the captain. “What happened? You look so…”

  “Old?”

  She nodded.

  “Farrak stole away twelve, thirteen years of my life. I lost count.”

  “So what does that make you now?”

  Kurt sighed. “Tired. Very, very tired. What about you?”

  “Don’t pick a fight with an undead acolyte in an oubliette, that’s what I learned.”

  “The skull, what happened to the skull?”

  Belladonna made sure nobody nearby was listening. “It was gone when I opened my eyes. The acolyte must have taken it. I suspect he was the one who got back on board the ship before it sailed, especially if he took Farrak’s body away with him…”

  Kurt nodded. “When Farrak recovers, he can assemble his undead champion and then hell breaks loose all over again. But we’ve got one thing in our favour.”

  “What’s that?”

  Kurt produced the necromancer’s ring. “I was holding this when th
e witch hunters found me on Farrak’s ship. I’m told my fingers were closed so tight around it they couldn’t prise the ring from my grasp. Took the healers several days to open my fingers. Otto kept it safe until I was ready to reclaim it.” The captain turned the ring in his palm, studying the malevolent band of metal. “Nathaniel told me this ring was the focal point for Farrak’s power. Without this it could be years, even decades before he’s strong enough to resurrect the undead champion. With luck, we’ll both be dead by then.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Belladonna replied, rubbing fingers across her eye patch. “I plan on living a very long time, and becoming an annoying, eccentric old woman.”

  It was the last day of Nachgeheim before Kurt was strong enough to leave the temple. He emerged into glorious sunshine, his eyes struggling to cope with how bright everything was outside. Kurt found it hard to believe this was the same city that had been all but broken by Farrak’s undead army and evil necromancy.

  Bescheiden was waiting for him outside the temple, as were Otto and Belladonna. “Where to?” Bescheiden asked. “Three Penny Bridge station hasn’t reopened yet, but I hear there’s plenty of vacancies for captains in other districts.”

  “Not sure I’m ready for active duty yet,” Kurt admitted. In truth, he wasn’t sure he’d ever be ready. Kurt had been pushed far beyond his limits, but still survived. There must be a reason for that. Life had given him a second chance, and Kurt knew he had to make the most of that. Honour and duty could wait. He looked round, but couldn’t see what he was searching for. “Any word from my father?”

  Belladonna shook her head. “I know he’s still in the city, but…”

  Kurt grimaced. “It’s past time Old Ironbeard and I—”

  “Captain Schnell?” a surly voice demanded.

  Kurt swung round to see a cluster of Black Caps marching towards him, led by a stern-faced sergeant carrying a scroll of parchment. “That’s me.”

  “You’ve been found guilty on charges of treason, cowardice and mutiny.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Bescheiden spluttered. “He saved this whole city!”

  The sergeant ignored this protestation, concentrating solely on Kurt. “You will accompany us to the headquarters of City Watch, where you will be sentenced.”

  “Sentenced?” Belladonna asked. “Doesn’t he have a right to a trial first? Some chance to defend himself against these ridiculous accusations?”

  “No,” the sergeant replied, his voice stern and resolute. “Marienburg remains under martial law until the Stadsraad reconvenes. The watch commander is therefore empowered with the ability to dispense summary justice. He’s exercising that power.”

  Bescheiden’s hand reached for the hilt of his sword, ready to defend the captain with metal and blood if need be. “I don’t care if our glorious leader has learned to dance on the head of a pin, that doesn’t give him the right to—”

  “It’s all right,” Kurt insisted. “Put your sword away. We’ve all seen more than enough fighting to last us a thousand lifetimes. I don’t want you shedding blood in my name without good reason. These men are merely messengers. Our quarrel is elsewhere.”

  Belladonna, Otto and Bescheiden accompanied Kurt to City Watch headquarters, but they were denied access to the sentencing procedure. Kurt was taken to an underground star chamber, his wrists and ankles clapped in irons, his uniform stripped of insignia. After a long, cold wait with silent guards for company, Kurt resolved to hold his temper no matter what provocations were flung at him. Logic and the truth must be his weapons.

  Eventually a door opened and the watch commander marched into the chamber, accompanied by two Stadsraad members Kurt recognised from the emergency meeting. A scribe was also present to take note of the proceedings. A handful of witnesses sidled into the chamber but remained hidden by shadows, where Kurt couldn’t see their faces.

  The scribe read aloud a brief summary of Kurt’s crimes. “Firstly, Captain Schnell was ordered to rig the Draaienbrug swing bridge with barrels of gunpowder so it could be destroyed if the necromancer’s forces moved against southern districts of the city. He ignored this order, mutinously preferring to pursue his own course of action, thus jeopardising the lives of every citizen south of the Rijksweg. What says the convicted?”

  “The infestation of Farrak’s forces had already swept south from Suiddock long before I was given those orders,” Kurt replied, “as I discovered on arrival in Noord Miragliano. It was not mutiny. We were fighting for the lives of every citizen around us.”

  “Can you offer any witnesses to corroborate your claim of mitigation?” the commander asked, smirking with ill-disguised glee. They had clashed too many times in the past year for Kurt to expect any mercy from his superior.

  “I’m not claiming mitigation, I’m telling you the truth! What evidence was offered to prove my guilt in this matter? What witnesses came forwards to accuse me of mutiny? Let them speak now in my presence, so I can challenge their veracity!”

  “This is a court of summary justice, Schnell. You may be able to appeal your conviction to the Stadsraad, once that august body is back in session. In the meantime, please restrict your answers to statements that are relevant to these proceedings.” The commander gestured for the scribe to continue his recitation.

  “Secondly, you ignored a deliberate order to relocate half of all your men to the district of Goudberg. Instead you chose to send a much smaller complement of Black Caps, jeopardising the defence of a crucial district—an act of treason. What say you?”

  Kurt shook his head. “Captain Sandler and I agreed there was no need for me to send as many watchmen as stipulated in the order. He said—”

  “Shame the late Captain Sandler can’t corroborate you,” the commander sneered.

  “That’s not my fault!” Kurt exclaimed.

  “Perhaps if you’d followed orders, he might still be alive to help you in this matter. Nevertheless, sentencing on the treason charge shall be suspended, pending further investigations at a date to be determined.”

  The scribe resumed his reading. “Thirdly, the charge of cowardice—”

  “I am no coward,” Kurt spat. “I challenge any man to have been through what I have and let himself be called a coward!”

  “Then you challenge this court,” the commander retorted. “We’ve all suffered, just as the city has suffered. But you abandoned the Black Caps of Tempelwijk station when Farrak’s forces attacked them. You saved yourself, rather than help other watchmen. What say you? Is there anything you can offer by way of mitigation for this cowardice?”

  “The charge is a gross falsehood! My men and I tried to get into Tempelwijk but Captain Wout would not allow us entry. When the living dead attacked the station, we had no way of helping those within. We had no choice but to stage a tactical retreat.”

  “You ran to protect yourself,” the commander accused.

  “Let me call witnesses and I will refute that utterly,” Kurt insisted.

  “Too little, too late—you’ve already been found guilty, remember? I merely asked if you wished to make any mitigating statements for your crimes.”

  “I’ve never heard so many lies, distortions and half-truths in my life,” Kurt snarled. “It’s worse than sitting through an election campaign for the Stadsraad!”

  “We’ll ignore your political views—”

  “You’re ignoring the truth!” Kurt shouted. “My men and I stopped Farrak, we saved the city—doesn’t that count for something?”

  “It’s the only reason you’re not facing the death penalty.” The commander gestured to those sat in the shadows. “Does our key witness have anything to add?”

  Potts stepped into the light. “No, sir—it all happened exactly as you’ve said. Captain Schnell was a disgrace to his uniform and this city.”

  “Potts? You’re the star witness?” Kurt gasped. “But I saved your sorry skin half a dozen times! Is this how you repay me?”

  “Enough,” the command
er interceded. “You may sit down, Captain Potts.”

  Kurt laughed, shaking his head in disbelief. “You made him a captain? Surely a promotion to sergeant is sufficient reward for lying under oath!”

  “Silence!” The commander banged his gavel on the table in front of him. “One more outburst and it will go the worse for you, Schnell.”

  Kurt gave a short, bitter laugh, but said no more.

  Satisfied, the commander resumed his oration. “Captain Kurt Schnell, you have already been found guilty of the charges brought. It is the sentence of this court you be stripped of your rank and dishonourably discharged from the City Watch of Marienburg. In addition, you will serve a minimum of two consecutive life sentences for your crimes, beginning immediately. Have the prisoner transported to Rijker’s Isle forthwith.”

  Kurt hurled a torrent of abuse at the commander as the sergeant and five other Black Caps surrounded him, hatred in their eyes. Kurt was still protesting his innocence when he caught sight of two figures departing the seats in the shadows. One was tall and powerfully built, with silver hair cropped close to the scalp and a taciturn face. Beside him was a young boy, a shock of sandy hair sprouting from his head. No, it couldn’t be, Kurt thought, hoping and praying he was wrong. But the muscular figure leading the boy out had a pronounced limp, exactly the same limp that had troubled General Schnell for more than twenty years since he’d nearly lost a leg in battle. Kurt took a chance, knowing the likely consequences, but also certain he had to know the truth.

  “Luc! Luc!” The boy looked over his shoulder at Kurt, responding to his name.

  The general hustled the lad away, the old man’s face filled by a thunderous rage.

  “No, wait, please!” Kurt shouted after them.

  But the door closed and they were gone.