by David Bishop
What he got was a tavern brawl of such brutality and vigour only four people were still standing by the finish, and two of them were halflings. The other two were the brooding figure from the corner and, naturally, Kurt. The fighting had started when somebody decided to engage in a little recreational dwarf-tossing. Since there were no dwarfs to hand, one of the half-cut halflings was press ganged into service, flying gracelessly through the air before landing face-first between Inga’s considerable breasts.
This had sent Kurt’s meal into the air, but on a considerably shorter journey. Both uneaten sausages landed neatly in the tankards of two burly stevedores, who took no end of offence at having their precious ale sullied. From there it took mere moments for the chaos to quickly become a particularly violent brand of mayhem. Kurt watched wistfully as fists connected with faces, boots battered bodies and benches became battering rams. He did his best to stay out of the carnage, until one of the stevedores decided to pick on someone his own size after drop-kicking a halfling into the ceiling.
“You!” snarled the drunken stevedore, managing to slur even this single syllable. “You’re the one whose sausage-”
Kurt silenced the accusation by bludgeoning the burly bruiser. For a mountain of a man used to shifting weights that could cripple most beasts of burden, the stevedore was not much of a fighter and went down in an untidy pile of limbs. His drinking companions did not take kindly to this and backed Kurt into a corner, four of them forming a semi-circle around him. The watch sergeant retrieved his black cap from inside his waist belt and held it up for them to see. “I’m a duly appointed representative of the law in this city. It is my job to keep the peace. If you attempt to do me harm-”
But the warning went unheeded, as the nearest stevedore lunged at him. Kurt swayed aside from the attack, letting the charging figure run headfirst into a solid stone wall. One down, three to go. The next came straight at Kurt, arms thrown out sideways to ensure he’d got some kind of grip on the watch sergeant. Kurt smacked his club against the attacker’s right cheek, the lump of lead inside the bludgeon shattering bone and bringing a howl of dismayed pain.
Two down, two to go. These stood at either side of Kurt, watching him warily, looking for an opening. They’d seen him deal with their brethren one on one, but surely a dual attack would win? They nodded to each other and charged, not noticing the overhead beam that ran diagonally from one wall to the other. Kurt sprang into the air, tucking his long legs up underneath him to avoid the attack. The stevedores collided head-first with each other. The almighty crack of their skulls was followed by the duller sound of them slumping to the damp, beer-stained floor.
Kurt swung his legs back and forth twice to gain some momentum before letting go of the overhead beam. He landed nimbly on his feet beyond the three unconscious men and their whimpering companion, who was too busy nursing his shattered face to attempt another attack. The rest of the brawlers had gone down fighting by this time, either unconscious or groaning in pain, leaving only two halflings and the brooding figure in the corner. Inga was beneath one of the tavern’s tables, although her groans had nothing to do with pain, judging by their frequency and the presence of the Seagull and Spittoon’s owner underneath her. “Inga, for the love of Manann, keep it down!” Kurt yelled, before repeating his question about the halfling-tossing incident that had started the trouble.
“I think it was one of the fools who knocked themselves unconscious trying to hurt you,” the figure from the corner replied, emerging from the shadows. Kurt was surprised by the softness of the voice, and even more surprised when the hood was drawn back to reveal a beautiful young woman. Her chestnut-brown hair cascaded down to surround heart-shaped features, while warm eyes glittered excitedly at him. “Probably the one whose head is still embedded in that stone wall.”
“Good,” Kurt said. “The pain he’ll be feeling when he wakes in the morning might persuade him to think first before he hurls halflings next time.” Kurt surveyed the rest of the broken and bleeding bodies strewn about the tavern. “I notice you stayed out of the fighting.”
“I’m only here to deliver a message.”
“A message-who for?”
“You,” she replied, a smile playing about her lips. “I take it you are Kurt Schnell, watch sergeant for this area of the Goudberg?”
“You take it correctly. What’s the message?”
“You’re to report to the commander’s office at dawn, where you’ll be given a new assignment-and before you ask, I don’t know the details. I’m supposed to report back with my perceptions of you. Is there anything you’d like me to tell him?”
“The truth will do,” Kurt said, not interested in playing games or politics with this emissary.
She tilted her head to one side slightly. “Do you always trade in the truth?”
“I find it the easiest thing to remember. Lies require more effort.”
She nodded her agreement before turning away, her black cloak cutting an arc through the air. As she reached the outer door of the tavern, the woman paused to glance over her shoulder at Kurt. “My name’s Belladonna Speer, by the way. I suspect we’ll be seeing more of each other, Sergeant Schnell.” With that she was gone, vanishing into the dark night outside.
Inga reappeared from beneath the table where she’d avoided the melee. “Is it over yet?”
Kurt couldn’t suppress a smile. “I suspect the fun’s just getting started.” Arullen staggered through the darkness, not knowing where he was headed or how he kept going. His fingers had gone numb and his legs felt like stone, too heavy to lift out of the foul liquid that had now reached waist height in the catacombs. Still he trudged onwards, one hand clenched around the wound in his abdomen, while his other hand clawed him along the circular, slime-covered walls. He should be dead by now, Arullen was certain of that, but something kept him going kept drawing him forwards. The elf did not want to perish in this hole, carrion for vermin and other dark denizens of the sewers. He had come down into the catacombs with three of his brethren, lured here by tales of rare artefacts to be found in these misbegotten tunnels and chambers. According to the myths, an elf vessel had once crashed against the rocks of Riddra and spilled a cargo of the finest jewellery into these waters. Part of the haul had been recovered, but the rest was taken by the tide. If you believed the legends, much of the cargo had been washed into the catacombs by the same storm tides that had caused the ship’s demise. It had lain below ground for generation upon generation, waiting for elves brave enough and bold enough to venture into the catacombs and reclaim the cargo, to take it back to the elf quarter.
Arullen had persuaded three of his brethren to venture into the catacombs with him, but their quest had been foolish and tragic, not brave and bold. The others were dead, torn apart by those ravening monsters and all Arullen had to show for it was a single silver brooch, found when his hands brushed across it in the darkness. He pulled the brooch from inside his bloodied garb and stared at the fragment of stone set in the jewellery. A speck of light glimmered within the unpolished stone, whispering dark thoughts into Arullen’s mind, urging him to go back and surrender to those that stalked him. No, I won’t do that, he decided, hiding the brooch away from his gaze once more. I must get to the surface. Let me die with the moon’s light on my face and I could still die contented, he thought.
There was another reason to keep going: he had to warn his brethren, tell them of the coming cataclysm. Unless the alarm was raised, what lurked down here in the darkness would overwhelm all of Marienburg. It would make no distinction between elf and man, halfling or dwarf. And if Marienburg fell to these nightmares, it could loose an aeon of Chaos and unimaginable horror upon the Old World. The Empire was still embattled by the legacy of its war against Chaos, it could not withstand another war so soon. Arullen knew he would not survive long now, but he could still forewarn the city’s inhabitants and they could forearm themselves against the coming terror. He owed his fallen brethren that much. So h
e staggered on, his long, delicate features drenched in sweat, bleached white by fear and pain.
A deep, jagged pain sliced through his body, bringing an involuntary cry of anguish from his lips. He stopped and leant his back against the curving wall, closing his eyes against the hurt. Something sharp was inside the wound, nagging at his intestines, slowly rending them apart. The tip of his dagger must have broken against a bone within him. Now it was making for the heart, working its way upwards to finish the job of killing him.
How ironic, the enchantment laid on his blade to make sure the dagger always claimed its target was now claiming his life. Arullen’s mother had always said meddling with magic would be the death of him. As always, fate was proving her right. But this was no time for self-pity.
Arullen opened his eyes once more and gasped. The tunnel was lighter than it had been before, illumination spilling along the shaft from a curve ahead of the elf. He stopped and listened for any hint of the hunters that had stalked him down here, but there was only the sound of liquid lapping at the walls. Arullen forced himself towards the bend in the tunnel and the light beyond. Perhaps it was merely caused by another cluster of flesh-eating glow worms, but it gave him a reason to go on. The elf laughed out loud when he came round the curve and saw the true cause. A narrow, stone staircase wound its way upwards from the catacombs. The light was pouring down from the top of the steps, along with the first clean air Arullen had smelled for hours. He’d made it, against all odds he had found a way out of this maze.
Had he been able, the elf would have run to the staircase. Instead he staggered, gasping for breath, every step driving the dagger’s tip closer to his heart. Arullen reached the steps and grabbed hold of the ancient metal railing that led up and around to the surface. “Help…” he cried out, but his voice was feeble and weak. “Please, somebody-help me…” But nobody heard, nobody came to his aid. So the dying elf dragged himself up the steps, one at a time, crawling towards freedom. The occasional glimpses of moonlight kept him going, urging him upwards, beckoning him to its embrace.
He emerged on a narrow ledge, jutting out over a narrow side canal. Arullen knew not where he was within Marienburg, and he no longer cared. He had escaped the torments underground and that was all that mattered. The elf edged his way along the ledge to a wider path. He could see nobody on the path but that would not be the case for long. Marienburg rarely slept, the pulsing heart of its merchant economy requiring constant attention and forward momentum to sustain itself. Arullen paused, looking in either direction for somebody, anybody to aid him. His family would pay a handsome reward to those who saved their son, he was certain of that.
Heavy footsteps strode towards him from behind. At last, Arullen thought, relief surging through him. He turned to face the approaching figures, smiling at them weakly. “Please, I need help…” he began. Then his eyes saw the long, green-stained blades being drawn and the murderous, malevolent glint in their eyes. He hadn’t escaped after all. They had come up here after him, and now they were going to finish the job that warped stranger had started. Whatever happened, they must not discover the brooch on his body. He staggered backwards, flailing one arm at the approaching enemy to distract them while his other hand retrieved the brooch from inside his garb. Once it was in his grasp, he let it drop into the shadows before running at the dark, foreboding figure ahead of him. “The sons of the House of Silvermoon do not fall easily, monster!” he snarled. “Your death shall be my legacy!” A howl of animalistic pain and suffering echoed briefly along the Three Penny Bridge, but nobody reacted, nobody came running to see what was happening or what help they could offer the suffering soul. This was not that sort of place. In much of Marienburg a cry in the night brought neighbours and concern. Along the Three Penny Bridge and the stone-cobbled streets that approached it, nobody listened and fewer cared. No shutters opened to see what was happening, nobody lifted a finger to help Arullen Silvermoon as he died. Of all the areas in this maritime metropolis, he had inadvertently chosen exactly the wrong district in which to be murdered. The rule of law had no meaning near the Three Penny Bridge.
CHAPTER TWO
Belladonna Speer had always possessed a fascination for corpses. Not so much the corpses themselves, more for deducing why they had become corpses. What turned a living, breathing person into an empty, barren husk? Where did their spirit, their essence go once they were dead? And how had that spirit been driven from their body? Most of all, she enjoyed the puzzle of solving these riddles, even though she knew many of them were enigmas no mortal could hope to explain or understand. Belladonna had seen her first corpse at the tender age of seven, when she found her mother’s father dead outside the family home in Guilderveld. Other children would have been traumatised, horrified, emotionally scarred for life. Belladonna was simply intrigued: why had her grandfather died, and what had killed him? The Black Caps had glanced at the wrinkled, wizened corpse and immediately announced anyone who lived long enough to see their seventh decade must have died of old age.
A priest of Morr was called to deal with the body, prior to Ruben Speer taking his place at the family mausoleum in Doodkanaal. Belladonna had watched the priest from her window as he anointed the body with various unguents and potions. The bald-headed holy man noticed her interest and invited the girl to come down. “You do not fear me?” he had asked, a wry smile at the corner of his pale, grey eyes.
“Why should I?”
“Many associate us with their own, inevitable mortality. Few wish to be near us, yet you display no such fear. Are you accustomed to death, my child?”
Belladonna shook her head. “I’d never seen a body before today. But everybody dies, don’t they?”
“Yes.”
“So what is there to be afraid of?” She had smiled, satisfied by her childish logic. It was Belladonna who noticed the scent of almonds on her grandfather’s breath when the priest accidentally leaned on the dead man’s chest. When she pointed this out to him, he repeated the motion and was rewarded with another waft of almond-tinged air escaping the corpse’s nostrils.
“Poison,” the priest whispered to himself, more a statement of fact than a question. He paused in his ministrations to study the corpse’s pupils and gums. He lifted up the fingers of both hands and sniffed at them. But it was Belladonna who found the abandoned hipflask, a trickle of almond-scented alcohol still inside it. She was about to taste the liquid for herself until the priest slapped it from her grasp. “Don’t!” He retrieved the flask and again sniffed at it. “Definitely poison-possibly from Araby.” Another deep breath. “Is your grandfather a merchant?”
“Yes. He deals with Araby all the time,” Belladonna said. “But one of the other merchants, Clements, wants my grandfather to retire and sell the business to him.” When the priest raised an eyebrow at this information coming from a young girl, Belladonna smiled sweetly. “I heard my grandfather arguing with Clements outside my window last night. Their shouting woke me up. Clements said he couldn’t wait any longer for my grandfather to retire from the business, he would have to take drastic action.” She looked at the lifeless remnants of her grandfather. “I’d never heard those words before, that’s why they stuck in my head. Is this what drastic action looks like? Did Clements poison my grandfather?”
“Yes, my child-I’m afraid he may have done. But you must not speak of this to anyone, do you understand?” the priest asked. “If Clements knows we suspect him, he will flee the city-or worse.”
So began Belladonna’s fascination for corpses and how they had died. Clements had confessed when confronted by Black Caps and was taken to the prison on Rijker’s Isle, where he died in a brawl. Belladonna would have liked to see his body, to study the clues it offered-but girls didn’t do such things.
There were no words to describe her talent for seeing what others did not. It was more than mere instinct or intuition. She could look at a body and instantly know what had happened to it, where others only saw grief or pain. As the
years passed, the priest of Morr let her observe his duties, learning from him the many ways of slaying a person. Belladonna’s interest lay more with the methods of murder than the corpses left behind. As a woman she could never become a priest of Morr, but she had little wish to spend a lifetime in drab clerical robes that frightened everyone else away. She loved life too much to lock herself away in a temple or a mausoleum for the rest of her days.
Of course, her fascination with killings and manslaughter did not go well with her family. Young women from wealthy merchant families were usually destined for a choice from three roles in life: wife, mother or mistress. Some managed to pursue all three activities with equal vigour, but most kept themselves to one or two of these choices.
