The Norscan snorted. ‘Here and there,’ he said. ‘Do you have the money?’
Eyll dropped a handful of coins into the Norscan’s hand. The blond brute gave a gap-toothed grin and bit down on one. ‘It’s good,’ he said and looked at his fellows. Eyll grimaced.
‘Of course it’s good.’
‘Only Tassenberg says maybe not always, huhm?’ the Norscan grunted. ‘Uli says maybe you tell us why you need these, hey?’ The Norscan swept his wolfish gaze across Eyll and his bodyguards, sizing them up boldly. ‘Can’t be selling to undesirables, Uli says.’
‘Undesirables?’ Eyll said. ‘I’m a Prince of the Dock!’
‘Blood don’t mean dung,’ the Norscan said. ‘Not to Tassenberg. Got to have standards. Can’t be selling valuable wares to daemon-lovers or sorcerers. Bad for business. Lot of girls,’ the Norscan continued, smiling. The coins had disappeared into his filthy hauberk and he fondled the hand-axe on his belt. ‘Why you need so many Eel? Maybe a party? Or something else?’
‘What?’ Eyll looked at the cut-throat. ‘It’s none of his concern. And certainly none of yours, oaf!’
‘Oh, but it is,’ the Norscan said, pulling his hatchet and gesturing off-handedly. ‘Tell us, Eel.’
‘Don’t call me Eel,’ Eyll said. ‘In fact, do not speak to me until spoken to. I am the Master of the soutch docks and you will show me–’
The Norscan’s fist shot out, and Eyll’s nose popped like an overripe cherry. He fell back into the arms of his bodyguards, his hands clawing at his face. The Norscan grinned. ‘And Tassenberg is the Master of Men, Eel. What he wants to know, you tell him, hey?’ The other cut-throats moved forward, drawing weapons. ‘Tassenberg heard you hired Fiducci the bone-fondler. He heard you’re planning something. Tassenberg wants to know what’s going on,’ he continued, stepping closer.
Eyll blindly fumbled at the pistol thrust through his sash. ‘Don’t come a step closer!’ he snarled thickly, aiming the weapon at the Norscan.
The big man hesitated, his eyes narrowing. ‘Only got one shot, hey?’ he said, after a minute. ‘Best make it count, Eel.’ He raised the hatchet.
‘There they are. And with their fingers right in the pie,’ Dubnitz muttered as he watched the skiff dock and Tassenberg’s men clamber onto the jetty to speak with their customers. He waved Goodweather back. ‘You keep those bells handy. If this gets bloody, the beasts will be on us in a frenzy. The rest of you, fan out. Horst, Molke, get those crossbows ready. Tarpe, Pudge, the rest of you... follow me. But be careful. This blasted mist is as thick as mud.’
‘Wait, what are you doing?’ Goodweather said, as Dubnitz made ready to step out of the shadows.
‘Arresting them. The quicker we do this, the quicker we get back up to the clean air and the quicker I can go to lunch. Fighting that beastie got my belly growling,’ he said, patting his stomach.
‘Listen, this mist... it’s not natural!’ Goodweather hissed, grabbing his wrist. ‘It feels wrong.’
‘Handle it then,’ Dubnitz said, gently pulling his arm loose. ‘That’s why you’re down here. And I’m here to arrest those buggers there.’ So saying, he thrust himself out into full view of the group gathered at the other end of the walkway and smashed a fist into his cuirass with a loud clang. The group of criminals spun, stunned. ‘Hoy! You’re done! Nicked! Nabbed! Give up and we won’t hit you too much!’ Dubnitz bellowed at the top of his voice.
A pistol snarled and one of Tassenberg’s men pitched backwards with a howl. Dubnitz reached the clustered criminals a moment later, the ’jacks just behind him. His sword swung out and crashed against a rapier as a man armed with the tools of a duellist intercepted him. The man was fast, dancing around the big knight, the tip of the rapier carving its signature in Dubnitz’s exposed flesh. Roaring, he managed to catch hold of the blade and jerked the swordsman off balance. He punched him in the face with the cross-piece of his sword and then gutted him with a casual swipe, kicking the body aside a moment later. ‘What part of “you’re under arrest” don’t you people understand?’ he snarled.
He made a grab for the pistol-man, whose terrified features struck him as familiar in the moment before one of Tassenberg’s men struck at him with a halberd. Dubnitz sank to one knee and blocked the strike, then twisted, forcing himself up and his sword down through his opponent’s skull. ‘Don’t run! I hate running!’ he said, as the pistol-man began to flee towards a nearby set of stairs. If he got to the upper level, Dubnitz knew he would lose him in the confusion of the docklands.
Behind him, he heard weapons rattling and a man screamed. The mist was thigh-high and swirling around them like serpents. Dubnitz ploughed through it and made a lunging grab for the fleeing man’s cloak. He snagged it and jerked the man around. He gave an oath as recognition hit him like a brick. ‘You!’
Hermann Eyll snatched the dirk out of his belt and made a desperate stab. The blade broke on Dubnitz’s armour and the knight drove a knee into the other man’s codpiece. The prince collapsed with a shrill scream. Dubnitz grabbed the back of his collar. ‘Oh, Ogg will just love this, won’t he? And the Lord Justicar too!’
‘No!’ Eyll wheezed, clawing weakly at the iron grip that held him. Dubnitz grimaced.
‘Yes. You’re for the yardarm jig, I’m afraid, milord.’
‘A dance of inestimable amusement, I’m given to understand, providing you’re not the one performing it,’ a chipper voice interjected. Dubnitz looked up. At the top of the stairs, a black-clad little form grinned at him.
‘Fiducci!’ Dubnitz rasped.
‘Hello, Erkhart. And, alas, goodbye,’ Fiducci said as he raised a peculiarly shaped bosun’s whistle to his thin lips. As the echo of its unpleasant trill faded, the abominable sound of heavy, slippery bodies splashing out of the mist filled the air.
‘Oh no,’ Goodweather said, rising to her feet, her bells hanging forgotten in her hand. The two crossbowmen looked at her nervously. The rising mist had made it impossible for them to get a shot off and now one of them said, ‘What’s that sound? Is it the beasties?’
‘It’s all of the beasties,’ Goodweather muttered, the hairs on the back of her neck prickling unpleasantly, though whether from the dank touch of the sorcerous mist or the sound of flabby bodies splashing closer. She peered through the mist, trying to spot the man in black she’d caught sight of just a moment earlier. The sound of the whistle had alerted her immediately to the danger. Goodweather was by no means the most experienced member of the Order of the Albatross, nor was she the most popular. Women and boats didn’t mix, or that was the assumption in some quarters. In truth she could haul sail with the best of them, and knew the stars like the freckles on her own hips. And she damn well knew the sound of one of Kadon’s Whistles and what it meant.
Carved long ago by the infamous beastmancer at the behest of one of the first merchant-princes, the whistles could summon or disperse the nastiest inhabitant of Manann’s realm. Sharks, whales, sea-wyrms and other things fell under the power of the whistle. So too, evidently, did Stromfel’s Children. As far as she knew, they were also all locked up in the temple of Manann. How someone had gotten their hands on one of them was a mystery to her, and for another time at that. Right now, survival was the priority.
Cursing, she raised her bells and dug in her pouches for sea-salt. Flinging the latter out in wide curves, she was rewarded by an immediate withering of the mist around her. Whatever was causing it didn’t like the touch of the Blessed Salts, no two ways there.
‘What are you doing?’ one of the ’jacks said. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Quiet!’ Goodweather snapped. She pulled a handful of seagull feathers out next and flung them up, hoping she wasn’t going to see what she knew she would. A stiff sea-breeze hissed through the Shallows, shoving the mist aside and revealing a horde of tumbling, savage bodies. Some of them looked like otters or eels, while others looked like sharks and octopi. They heaved and squirmed through the water, forcing their way past
the wrecks and small reefs of netting and barnacles towards the far end of the walkway, where Dubnitz and the others struggled. Goodweather froze for a moment, struck dumb by the horror. Bulbous eyes rotated behind filmy membranes and something that was like a frog and a fish and lion scrambled up onto the dock and scuttled towards them, jaws snapping. The crossbowmen screamed and fired as one. The beast snapped forward, jackknifing as the bolts thudded home. It slid across the wet wood towards them, thrashing in its death throes. More of the beasts began to follow its course however.
‘Stay close!’ Goodweather said, and then saw that it was no use. Both men were already turning to flee. She ignored their final moments and concentrated on keeping herself from joining them. ‘Manann bless and keep me from the beasts of the sea,’ she whispered, scattering salt around her and grabbing for her shark’s teeth. The creatures were of Stromfels, and the priests of Manann had long since devised methods for keeping such monstrous afterbirths in check. Squeezing the teeth in her hand hard enough to draw stripes of blood from her palm, she shook them and threw them into the water, hoping that she wasn’t too late.
Even as something that was more jellyfish than cormorant flapped squishily towards her, a red shape tore it into wet rags. Two more shapes joined the first and the phantom shapes of long-dead sharks spun lazily through the air around her, their ghostly teeth reducing even the boldest of the mutant beasts to ruin. She hurried towards Dubnitz and the others, blood dripping steadily from her hand. The spell wouldn’t last long, and there was safety in numbers. Or so she hoped.
As the knight of Manann was bowled over by one of the Shallows-beasts, Eyll found himself hauled to his feet by Fiducci. The necromancer flashed his black teeth and laughed wildly. ‘It works! It works!’
‘What works? What did you do?’ Eyll sputtered, yanking himself free of the little man’s surprisingly strong grip.
‘It is the answer to your prayers, Signor Eyll,’ Fiducci said. ‘But only if we have the bait. Where are they?’
‘In the – the skiff!’ Eyll yelped, turning. The slaver’s skiff rocked in the water as the beasts thundered past it, drawn by the whistle up onto the walkway. For the moment, they were ignoring it, but that wouldn’t last long. ‘Make them go away! We have to get to that skiff!’ he shouted, grabbing two handfuls of Fiducci’s robe.
In reply, Fiducci blew hard on the whistle. The roiling mass of beasts split and fell back as the necromancer began to walk down the steps, Eyll close behind. ‘Did you know that armoured buffoon who attacked me?’ he said, looking around for the knight. ‘Who was he? He seemed to know you...’
‘Dubnitz,’ Fiducci said, giving the whistle another toot. ‘Erkhart Dubnitz. He tried to hang me for practicing my art. Can you imagine? I was only doing as my clients asked, and the girl’s parents were so happy to have her back, when all was said and done. What’s a few maggots between family, eh?’
Eyll shuddered. His eyes were riveted on the beasts as they thrashed over and gnawed on the bodies of Tassenberg’s men and the sewerjacks. Eyll’s surviving bodyguard had vaulted into the skiff, obviously realising that the beasts were ignoring it. He watched them approach wild-eyed, his rapier extended.
‘Good man, Stromm,’ Eyll said as he dropped down into the skiff.
The man nodded jerkily. A moment later, his head disappeared down the gullet of the frog-thing that rose out of the water and grabbed hold of the skiff. Eyll screamed and fell backwards. The monster reached for the closest of the girls, its talons puncturing the poor wretch’s chest like a knife through a water-skin. With a triumphant croak it began to pull the whole lot overboard, the chains that bound them inextricably together rattling. Eyll grabbed on from the other end and a momentary battle of tug-of-war ensued. Then, something red and horrible reduced the monster to squealing wreckage. Eyll gaped up at the spectral sharks as they dove and curled through the air.
Fiducci dropped into the boat and felt for the dead girl’s pulse. ‘Fie! Dead!’
‘She’s the last, bone-licker,’ a voice growled. Fiducci and Eyll looked up. Dubnitz stood above them, his sword extended, his helmet missing, his armour covered in deep scratches and dents. ‘The last one ever.’
Fiducci reacted like a striking snake, grabbing Eyll and pressing a blade he produced from his sleeve to his employer’s throat. ‘Drop the sword or the Signor dies!’
Dubnitz hesitated, and that was long enough. Eyll elbowed Fiducci back and swung his pistol up. He had reloaded on the walk, and the weapon barked. The knight staggered back, a wash of red suddenly covering his face. Fiducci howled with glee and blew on his whistle. Monstrous shapes closed on the reeling knight, diving upon him hard enough to splinter the weakened wood of the walkway. The struggling knot of man and monsters plunged down into the dark water, causing the skiff to bob alarmingly.
Eyll twisted, shoving the smoking barrel of the pistol beneath Fiducci’s nose. ‘Are you mad?’
‘Eccentric, possibly,’ the necromancer said. ‘Grab an oar, Signor. We must go! Now, before there are any more interrup–’
A hand rose out of the frothing water and fastened on the edge of the skiff. Eyll scrambled back, thinking for a moment that it was the knight. But as he moved, he caught sight of more shapes, swimming forward in the mist. The chill on his soul returned, and suddenly, the struggling monsters behind him did not seem as bad as he’d first thought.
The dead man heaved himself up, his puffy, blackened flesh encrusted with algae and barnacles. Mutely, he glared at Eyll. ‘The... bargain... has... come... due,’ the corpse said, in a voice like oil sloshing in a lantern. A rotting hand reached for him. Fiducci interposed himself, teeth bared. Uttering several gurgling syllables, he tapped two fingers to the corpse’s head. It’s unseeing eyes rolled up in their sockets and it slumped back into the water.
‘He’s found me!’ Eyll shrieked. ‘He’s come for me!’
‘Of course he has,’ Fiducci said, wiping his fingers against his robes. He made a face and looked at the dead girl. ‘We will need to be clever, yes? Grab an oar!’ More zombies made their way through the water even as the two men got the skiff moving. Bloated hands reached for them, plucking at the oars and their arms as they made their getaway into the ever-thickening mist.
Dubnitz hit the bottom of the Shallows and silt exploded upwards, blinding him. He’d instinctively taken a breath before hitting the water, but it wasn’t going to save him, he knew. Claws scraped at him and he jabbed an elbow into a hideous face, shattering saw-edged teeth. With painful slowness, he chopped out with his sword, trying to drive off the rubbery forms of his assailants. His armour, a boon on land, was anything but beneath the water. It made his limbs feel as if they were wrapped in anchor chains. He struggled to disengage from the beasts now chewing on his limbs before his lungs exploded. It would be humiliating to drown in less water than filled a rich man’s tub.
Then, there was a flash of crimson and a wafting cloud of blood sprang into being around him. Waving it aside, he saw spinning ethereal shapes drive off his attackers and fade away into nothing. And beyond them he saw... what? Lungs burning, he peered closer, trying to make out the dim, dark figures plodding through the water away and out into the harbour. Finally, unable to stay down any longer, he thrust himself up. The water splashed against his cheeks and throat as he surfaced, and he clawed at the supports of the walkway, trying to haul himself up.
‘Give me your hand!’
Dubnitz looked up at Goodweather. ‘I’m too heavy,’ he gasped.
‘Just give me your hand, oaf!’
He did so, his gauntlet slapping into her hand. With a groan, she helped him clamber back up onto the wooden walkway. Stromfel’s Children had departed as swiftly as they’d come, leaving behind only bodies and the stink of blood and death on the close air. ‘Are they...?’ Dubnitz said.
‘All of them,’ Goodweather said grimly, rubbing at a scrape on her face. Her robes were torn in a dozen places and blood and ichor stained them. Her
hands too were bloody, and they trembled noticeably. ‘We’re the only survivors. Other than–’
‘Fiducci,’ Dubnitz growled and thumped the walkway with a fist. ‘That foul little bog-stench.’
‘Fiducci?’ Goodweather said.
‘A necromancer. And a bad one. Why was he here? Why in the name of Manann’s drooping tail would he need a skiff full of women?’ He raised his hand as Goodweather made to speak. ‘Never mind. I know why.’ He growled again and pushed himself to his feet. ‘Did you see them?’
‘See who?’
‘Fiducci’s little friends,’ Dubnitz said harshly. ‘In the water. Dead men by the dozens. Walking along as if they were out for a stroll.’
‘The water-logged dead...’ Goodweather whispered, her face going pale.
‘We have to get after them,’ Dubnitz said, looking around. He spotted the steps and pointed. ‘He came from up there. And I’d bet fifty Karls he’s heading to the soutch dock.’
‘The soutch dock? Why?’ Goodweather said.
‘Because of who’s with him,’ Dubnitz said grimly. Stepping over the bodies of the dead, they made their way to the stairs and then up. There were access points to the docks above strewn throughout the unterdock. Forcing the wooden cover aside, Dubnitz gagged as more of the foul-smelling mist poured down onto him and spilled down the stairs. ‘Gods below, it smells even worse than it did before!’
‘It’s growing stronger,’ Goodweather said, through the torn strip of robe she’d pressed to her nose and mouth.
‘What is? What is it?’
‘An abomination,’ the priestess said curtly as Dubnitz helped her topside. The mist had settled between the structures and buildings of the docklands, obscuring the sight of the few people still about their business. Dubnitz heard the rattle of armour and saw a troop of watchmen hurry past, their faces tight with fear.
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