A WARHAMMER NOVEL

A MASSACRE IN
MARIENBURG

Marienburg - 02

David Bishop

(An Undead Scan v1.5)

This is a dark age, a bloody age, an age of daemons and of sorcery. It is an age of battle and death, and of the world’s ending. Amidst all of the fire, flame and fury it is a time, too, of mighty heroes, of bold deeds and great courage.

At the heart of the Old World sprawls the Empire, the largest and most powerful of the human realms. Known for its engineers, sorcerers, traders and soldiers, it is a land of great mountains, mighty rivers, dark forests and vast cities. And from his throne in Altdorf reigns the Emperor Karl-Franz, sacred descendant of the founder of these lands, Sigmar, and wielder of his magical warhammer.

But these are far from civilised times. Across the length and breadth of the Old World, from the knightly palaces of Bretonnia to ice-bound Kislev in the far north, come rumblings of war. In the towering Worlds Edge Mountains, the orc tribes are gathering for another assault. Bandits and renegades harry the wild southern lands of the Border Princes. There are rumours of rat-things, the skaven, emerging from the sewers and swamps across the land. And from the northern wildernesses there is the ever-present threat of Chaos, of daemons and beastmen corrupted by the foul powers of the Dark Gods. As the time of battle draws ever nearer, the Empire needs heroes like never before.

CHAPTER ONE

It was dawn when the skull wept blood. The Keeper had slumbered through the night, his dreams unblemished by fear or anguish. But that first glimpse of red trickles seeping from the empty, staring eye sockets sent an icy dagger of dread deep into the Keeper’s heart. He scribbled a frenzied, fearful message on a scrap of papyrus and pushed it up through the narrow gap on one side of the heavy oak trapdoor. He was rewarded with a curse from above, and the sound of heavy footfalls as the guard outside ran to summon the sentinels, the servants of Solkan, the Knights of Purity. Once he could no longer hear the guard’s running, the Keeper turned back to his home these past thirty years.

The chamber was an oubliette, a dungeon accessible only from a single entrance above the Keeper’s head. He had volunteered to be locked away in this space for life, entombed like a hermit or monk. Most would have thought his appointed task a living purgatory, sacrificing their existence to maintain a faithful watch over the objects stored within the oubliette. Of course, none but a handful among the Knights even knew of the dungeon’s presence, let alone the secrets contained inside it. Besides, the Keeper considered his post an honour. What greater prayer could a worshipper of Solkan offer than to give up their life in service to the god of vengeance? What greater blessing than to stand guardian to the treasures of Solkan, his most precious artefacts?

Greatest among them all was the skull. It sat atop a stone pedestal, nothing within two arms’ span of the ancient relic. The rest of the artefacts were packed into the walls of the oubliette, mere trifles in comparison to the importance of the skull. If you believed the credo—as the Keeper did—the skull had been placed there for safekeeping by Solkan himself. It was said the inanimate skull would remain exactly the same—without skin or flesh or sinew or sign of life—until the day Marienburg faced its greatest peril. When the Keeper saw the blood dripping from those black, pitiless sockets, he knew his own life would soon be forfeit. But he did not care, did not weep at the prospect of facing eternity.

“I have been a good servant to my god,” he whispered, dropping to his knees on the cold stone floor. The Keeper clasped his hands together in supplication, bowing his balding pate before the infamous relic. “I shall stand at his side when he returns to bring the gift of vengeance to all the unbelievers, all the servants of Chaos. So be it.”

* * *

Evil. That was the only word Captain Haaland could think of to describe the fog. Three days it had been behind Haaland’s vessel, a greasy yellow mist that swirled and crept across the water. Just looking back at the eerie cloud perturbed the captain. He had spent all his adult life as a sailor, more years than Haaland cared to remember at sea, yet he couldn’t recall ever seeing a fog so dense, so foreboding or forbidding. It gathered like a shroud on the horizon, a queasy pall of gathering gloom.

They had changed course several times in an effort to shake off this sinister mist, without success. No matter how much they turned and twisted on the sea, how close they went to the shoreline or how far the vessel lurched out into deeper water, the fog was always there. Waiting, lurking, grim and relentless. It was one of the crewmen who noticed no sea bird dared go near the mist. A vessel like the Altena churned up the waters as it passed, attracting a constant entourage of gulls and other scavengers, diving into the ocean to feast on fish foolish enough to venture near the surface. But the fog had driven away the sea birds, leaving naught but an unnerving silence in their place.

At first the captain had dismissed the fog as a freakish yet natural phenomenon, but his crew of nine refused to believe such reassurances. By the second day Haaland no longer believed himself, the hollow words mocking him as they slipped from his lips. By the third day, he found himself writing a new will and testament below deck, just in case. At the best of times Haaland’s handwriting resembled the crazed skitterings of a plague-stricken spider that had climbed out of an inkwell. But this was not the best of times, and the last words he would ever write were all but illegible.

It was the captain’s faithful first mate Frode who summoned Haaland back above deck. They had been at sea together nigh on twenty winters, surviving tempest and torments alike, but this voyage had always been planned as their last. Haaland was due to resign as captain come Geheimnistag, Frode replacing him at the helm of the Altena. Haaland had been looking forward to a quiet retirement in Marienburg, perhaps supplementing his meagre savings by piloting ships into port or working the ferries that criss-crossed the Rijksweg on an hourly basis. Now he’d merely be grateful to get home at all after three days of being followed by the queasy, shimmering mist.

Haaland climbed up on deck, heavy of heart. “What is it, Frode?”

His fair-haired first mate smiled, pointing ahead of them. “See for yourself.”

Against expectation, they were in sight of the grim fist of rock that served as guardian to the port of Marienburg and as an even grimmer offshore prison for the city’s criminals, misfits and political prisoners. “Sweet Shallya,” the captain muttered under his breath. “Never thought I’d be grateful to catch a glimpse of Rijker’s Isle.”

“You and me both,” the first mate agreed.

“How long until we pass the prison?”

“We’ve been making good speed all morning, thanks to a friendly breeze.” Frode glanced up at the sails. “Shouldn’t be more than…”

Haaland waited, but his first mate’s words did not continue. “Shouldn’t be more than what?”

When Frode still didn’t reply, the captain joined him in looking up at the ship’s sails. The grimy canvas was stained a deep, dank crimson, though the captain could not imagine how they’d become so. The sails were dead, not a breath of air in them to propel the vessel home. As he peered at the heavy cloth, something dripped from the sail overhead, splashing down his cheek. Haaland wiped the liquid from his face, studied the scarlet moisture that now wet his fingers. It was thick, almost viscous. He raised his fingers to his nose and sniffed. An aroma of warm iron cloyed his senses, bold and primal as the colour on his skin. Haaland licked a corner of the crimson with his tongue, just to get a taste: it was blood. The captain spat it back out, muttering a dark curse under his breath, the strong voice now a terrified whisper of naked fear.

The captain spun round to glare at the fog. Three days it had matched them for direction and speed, always maintaining the same distance. It’s as if the mist is following us, Haaland had written in his captain’s journal. No, not following—stalking us. Now the fog was accelerating towards them, billowing forwards, tumbling across the water to engulf the Altena. “That’s impossible,” Haaland said, shaking his head. “The air isn’t moving. How can the fog be catching up with us? It’s unnatural.”

“There’s nothing natural about it,” Frode muttered.

Then the mist was upon them, falling on the ship like a shroud, blotting out the sun in the sky. The screaming came a moment later.

Kurt Schnell woke with a start, one name on his lips: “Sara.” His wife had been dead for years, but he still dreamed of her most nights. At first these visitations perturbed him, the ghost of Sara haunting his sleep like some spectral wraith. But in time Kurt came to accept the nocturnal visions, even welcome them. Sara might be buried back in Altdorf, but so long as he could still dream about her, his wife’s memory remained alive for him.

That morning was different. A far more disturbing and unhappy dream had troubled Kurt’s slumber. He found himself moving from room to room in the watch station on Three Penny Bridge, a dull knife fit only for slicing bread clasped in one hand. For reasons Kurt couldn’t understand, he felt impelled to murder everyone he found inside the station. They stood or sat, making no attempt to defend themselves, terrified but frozen. Some dark force at the back of Kurt’s mind commanded him to use the knife on his watchmen, slicing it across their eyes.

They wept blood, but still it was not enough to satisfy the murderous urge driving Kurt on. He ground the blade back and forth across the wounded victims, until they were dead. As one fell to the wooden floor, Kurt moved on to another. He wanted to scream at them to run, or beg them to flee, but the twenty victims waited patiently to be slain. By the last few Kurt had no strength left in his arm, and his tunic was bathed in blood. The last victim was a child, a boy with features not unlike Kurt’s own. The youth did not speak, but the pleading for mercy was all too evident in his eyes.

In the dream Kurt had forced himself to turn and face whoever or whatever was making him commit these atrocities. “Please,” he had begged, “no more.” The thing that commanded his actions was hidden by shadows, but it shifted, about to emerge from the darkness. Kurt had always believed if he could see his enemy, he could defeat them. Now was his chance. In the dream his hand had tightened round the handle of the knife—

That was when he’d woken, Sara’s name on his lips. Kurt knew Sara was not the monster in the shadows. He had spoken her name as a reflex, the same way a crippled soldier still felt an itch where they’d lost a leg in some nameless battle years before. Sara was a constant absence in his life, the hole in his soul, though Kurt was not sure he believed in such things anymore. Not after all he’d witnessed over the years.

Perhaps I’ll ask Jan what he thinks, Kurt mused. Jan can usually find—

A sharp pang of realisation hit him in the gut. Jan was gone too, just like Sara. Another gap in his world, another lost friend. Worse still, today was the first anniversary of Jan’s death. Kurt got out of bed. Wallowing in grief did nobody any good, Jan had taught him that not long after Kurt first arrived in Marienburg, first joined the Watch. Don’t mourn the dead. Better to celebrate the lives of those gone. That had always been Sergeant Jan Woxholt’s simple but effective philosophy when it came to such matters. Well, they were planning to do a bit of both today, Kurt thought, a rueful smile passing across his face. Hope you understand, Jan—wherever you are.

It was the first anniversary of what people across Suiddock had taken to calling the Battle of Three Penny Bridge. As captain of the bridge’s watchmen, Kurt had led his motley band of law enforcers in a valiant defence of the station against hundreds of mercenaries and worse, triumphing against the odds, winning the respect of local citizens and criminals in the process. In truth, they had only prevailed thanks to an intervention by warriors from the House of Silvermoon, one of the noblest dynasties residing in Marienburg’s elf enclave, Sith Rionnasc’namishathir.

The watch captain had little patience with those fond of mythologising battles by giving them grand names. In his experience those who fought in such conflicts preferred to bury the memories, not celebrate them. Only the ignorant and the bystanders bestowed titles and valour upon wars and battlefields. For those who gave blood in defence of something important, victory was the greatest reward and survival the best hope. Anything else was irrelevant, be it medals, glory, a place in history or epic songs.

Kurt pulled on his uniform, insignia on the tunic demonstrating his rank, the gravy stains on his trousers evidence of a brawl with a band of drunken halflings the previous night. Unfortunately, the infamy accorded him by the battle a year before also made Kurt a target for any halfwit with enough ale in their bloodstream. Keeping his uniform clean would have been a full-time task, if Kurt cared about such things. He preferred his real job—maintaining law and order in the wild district of Suiddock.

Still, he did make one concession to the occasion, using a cut-throat razor to scrape away stubble from his chiselled jawline and gleaming scalp. Kurt regarded vanity with much the same derision as he did glorifying battles. But he paused by the looking glass over the washbasin, staring at the reflection of his ice-blue eyes. He imagined how it would feel to have a dull, rusted knife scraped across his own pupils, the pain and the terror it would inflict. His nightmare sat ill with him, an unhappy omen—but of what?

Belladonna Speer removed the hand resting on her left hip. “I thought you brought me here to help solve a mystery,” she sighed.

Captain Ruben Damphoost of the Suiddock River Watch smiled. “I like to combine business with pleasure.” His dark, gimlet eyes glinted with mischief.

Belladonna gestured at the two corpses floating in the canal that passed between Stoessel and Luydenhoek. Internal gases had bloated the bodies, stretching taut the blotched yellow and purple skin over bulging faces. “Well, if this is your idea of a romantic assignation, you’ll be waiting a long time before you sire any children.”

Damphoost pushed a cord of long, black hair away from his shrewd features. “I was wondering why I didn’t have a family yet. Thanks for clearing that up.”

She smiled, despite herself. “You’re welcome.”

The captain nodded at the corpses. “What do you see?”

“Bodies aren’t really my thing,” Belladonna reminded him. “You want a priest of Morr, or perhaps an apothecary. They know far more about—”

“It’s obvious these two drowned,” Damphoost cut in. “I don’t need anyone to tell me that, not after twelve years with the River Watch. But you see things others don’t, notice clues other watchmen miss. Tell me what you see.”

Belladonna let the watchmen comment pass. She was the first female member of the Watch in Marienburg history. A few had followed in her footsteps, but the collective term for Black Caps would probably always be watchmen, regardless of their gender. She concentrated her attention on the water around the corpses, and the bodies themselves.

“Bloating means they’ve been in the water several days, at least since Marktag. Their garb is expensive—imported cloth, fine stitching. No tears and rips, no obvious signs of a struggle, suggesting they were already dead or unconscious before being bound. The rope round their wrists was tied with a sailor’s knot—”

“Not much of a clue in Marienburg,” sneered the other occupant of the boat, a sour-faced River Watch sergeant called Grist. “Every other person in the city is a sailor or makes their living from the sea!”

A glare from Damphoost silenced his second-in-command.

“As I was saying,” Belladonna continued, “the rope was tied with a sailor’s knot, but whoever did it made a poor job. They tied a heavy weight to the bodies, hoping it would keep them underwater for months, perhaps years. But the knot came undone. No sailor or anyone else who makes their living from the sea would make that mistake.”

Grist grunted and spat over the side of the narrow wooden boat.

Damphoost smiled. “Anything else?”

“Hold on to my belt,” Belladonna commanded him.

“I thought I brought you here to study these bodies,” he said.

“I don’t want to fall overboard. Hold on to my belt. From behind.”

The captain did as he was told, grabbing the thick leather strap that encircled Belladonna’s slender waist, his knuckles digging into the small of her back. She leaned out of the boat, stretching close enough to kiss one of the corpses. Belladonna rested one hand on the corpse’s chest, gently applying pressure. A sigh escaped the dead man’s lips, as if his sleep had been disturbed a moment. Belladonna inhaled.

“Pull me back on board,” she hissed. Damphoost dragged her back into the boat.

“What was that in aid of?” Grist enquired, a snide tone in his voice.

“Almonds, I smelled almonds on his breath,” Belladonna replied.

“He was poisoned,” Damphoost realised. “That explains the absence of a struggle.”

“Arsenic,” Belladonna agreed. “It could be a business rival, but arsenic is most often a woman’s weapon when it comes to murder. These two men look alike, they’re probably brothers. Question both the wives, see if they’ll confess. With any luck the guilt will be playing on their minds. But the women would have needed help to weigh down and dump the bodies—a son, or a brother. Whoever stood to gain from the murder.”

“You got all that from sniffing a corpse?” Grist couldn’t keep the disbelief from his voice. “Never heard such arrant nonsense in all my life.”

“Captain Damphoost!” A young man in a River Watch uniform was standing on the bridge between Luydenhoek and Stoessel, looking down at them. “There’s a woman at the station says she wants to make a confession. Something about a double murder.”

“How does she seem?” the captain asked.

“Guilty. Sure as Sigmar’s sausage.”

Belladonna arched an eyebrow at Grist, who was busy muttering under his breath, trying to avoid her eye. Let him sulk, she decided. Damphoost believed in her, even if most of his men placed no stock in what she did. Before Belladonna could speak, a flicker of movement caught the corner of her eye. She looked round, but the corpses remained where they were, bobbing up and down in the water. “Did you see that?”

“See what?” the captain replied.

Belladonna stared at the bodies. “I could have sworn…” She shook her head. “Must have imagined it.” A bell tolled in the distance, its mournful chimes ringing across the water. “It’s getting on. I should have been back at the station by now.”

“Always hurrying home to Captain Schnell,” Damphoost sighed.

“You know the drill,” she said. “I’m happy to help the River Watch any way I can, but I’m still officially assigned to the watch station at Three Penny Bridge.”

“Apply for a transfer. We’d be grateful to have your expertise full-time.”

“I’ll think about it,” Belladonna said. “But I’m not making any snap decisions. Not until I’ve had a chance to talk about it with my captain.”

Kurt emerged from a humble house on the northern side of Three Penny Bridge, not bothering to lock the door. There was precious little worth stealing inside. Besides, the house stood directly opposite the station. If the steady flow of Black Caps coming and going from their task of patrolling Suiddock failed to stop thieves from entering the captain’s home, a heavy padlock on the oak door would do little to dissuade them.

Kurt had moved into the house out of necessity. The station was all but gutted by the battle for Three Penny Bridge, requiring massive renovation. In truth, Kurt was grateful for a chance to remodel the former tavern. There had been a makeshift quality to the place when he first reopened it. Now the interior was more to Kurt’s liking, a proper base for a working station. No longer did the insides reek of stale ale and rat droppings, nor did drunks wander in expecting to be served dregs or drugs.

Instead there was a purpose-built set of cells in the centre of the ground floor, ensuring those in custody were in plain view of anyone passing across the busy bridge. This had the effect of shaming potential prisoners into paying a swift fine to spare their blushes, or chastening them from offending in the first place. The old bar had been cut in half and converted into the desk sergeant’s domain, while Kurt had his own office on the ground floor, better to keep an eye on events as they happened.

Upstairs was devoted to sleeping quarters and ablutions, the kitchen and mess, plus secure storage for weapons and important evidence. The basement was now used for interrogations, but a jetty had also been built enabling ease of access to the waterways that comprised Marienburg’s fastest form of transport. Use of this was sometimes shared with Suiddock’s complement of the River Watch, though relations between those responsible for policing dry crimes and those policing wet crimes were often fractious.

Kurt arrived as the graveyard shift watchmen were pushing the last of the night’s drunk and disorderly culprits into the holding cells. Meanwhile each member of the dayshift was getting individual assignments from Three Penny Bridge’s desk sergeant, the formidable figure of Jacques Scheusal. “Silenti and Kramer, you two are patrolling Riddra today. It’s been all quiet there the last three days, so keep your eyes peeled.”

The two Black Caps given this assignment were new to the station, but had been doing good work so far, according to Scheusal. Both nodded their understanding of his orders. The sergeant barked out another two names, and their assignment.

“Holismus and Ganz, you’ve got Luydenhoek. Watch for smugglers trying to bring goods ashore from along the Bruynwater, we’ve been hearing whispers of a new kind of crimson shade being sold from the Anchor and Albatross.”

“Yes, sergeant,” Holismus said. But the watchman stood next to him was too busy glaring at Kurt to respond. There was little love lost between Kurt and Marc Ganz.

“Ganz!” Scheusal snarled, getting the Black Cap’s attention.

“Yes, sergeant.”

“Luydenhoek for you and Holismus!”

“Yes, sergeant.”

“That’s better.” Scheusal glanced over at Kurt, the two men exchanging a knowing look. Ganz was a powderkeg of resentment, waiting to explode. Of all the newcomers to the station in the last year, his arrival was the least welcome. Ganz was a good watchman, but his issues with Kurt were creating too much friction. Scheusal returned to the rest of the dayshift. A small, weasel-faced figure was lurking at the back. “Bescheiden, you and Speer will be staying close to home today. Stoessel for you two.”

The greasy-haired watchman cleared his throat. “I haven’t seen Belladonna yet today I think she said something about helping Captain Damphoost with a case.”

“Never heard it called that before,” Ganz hissed, just loud enough to make sure Kurt heard him. The others laughed, until Scheusal silenced them with a glare.

“Very well, you’re on your own until midday. Can you cope with that?”

Bescheiden nodded.

“Good,” Scheusal said, making a note in his logbook. “I want everybody back here, in full dress uniform, by noon. We march to the Temple of Morr where the ceremony will take place. Gerta will remain here in case of emergencies, but attendance is mandatory for everyone else, and absence will be punished by a month on graveyard shift.” There were some dark mutterings among the newer recruits. Scheusal slammed his logbook down on the desk, the mighty thud ending the complaints. “I know many of you were not here a year ago, were not involved with what happened then. I don’t care. Sergeant Woxholt and the other men we’ll be honouring today gave their lives to keep this station open. Without them, you wouldn’t have a job. The least you can do is mark their sacrifice, and hope you can equal their valour should you ever be called upon.”

“Yes, sergeant,” Holismus and Bescheiden replied in unison. Both had lived through those dark days, seen their friends and colleagues die beside them. The others nodded their agreement, however unwillingly.

“Very well,” Scheusal glowered. “Dismissed.”

The dayshift filed out, Ganz making sure his shoulder bumped into Kurt as they passed one another. The captain stood his ground, keeping a close check on his temper. Kurt did not suffer fools or the arrogant gladly, but the unfinished business between him and Ganz would have to wait. Scheusal was hovering in the background, eager to report on the night’s events across Suiddock.

Frode died first, screaming his mother’s name as bones extruded themselves from his body, one at a time. A hundred tiny slivers of white burst from the skin on his hands, followed by his ribs ripping their way free from his abdomen. The toes exploded next, spraying those nearby with blood and flaps of skin. The loss of his jawbone finished Frode off, a merciful ending to seventeen minutes of pain and terror.

Captain Haaland watched it all from his vantage point, floating in the air above the deck of the Altena. The vessel was trapped inside the fog, the air coloured a sickly yellow with smudges of darkness. Haaland choked on the bilious, foetid fumes. A pink spray soothed his face until the captain realised it was blood from one of his sailors, death made airborne, murder flung at him. Haaland gasped at the scenes all around him, unable to shut his eyes, no matter how much he willed the lids downwards.

When the last crewman had perished and only the captain remained, the malevolent mist parted to reveal its progenitor. Haaland gasped, a scream dying in his throat, trapped there and unable to escape, much like Haaland himself. A voice rattled in his mind, like a knife-edge on flint, razor on flesh—cutting, cruel, certain.

“Amazing how many bones there are in the human body, don’t you think?”

The terrified captain couldn’t reply, his larynx clutched in some unseen grasp.

“It’s only when we see them all laid out like this, one beside the other, that you realise just how many there are,” the voice continued. It had a sibilant tinge, but Haaland could determine no accent, no hint of where the speaker might once have called home. Then again, it only took one glance at what was speaking to know its place of origin: some hellish domain, where carnage was all that mattered.

Haaland had never been a religious man. He muttered and uttered the names of various gods as expletives when shocked or angry, he gave to various charities run by religions if they looked after retired seafarers, and he liked to believe there was a higher power behind the strange, inexplicable catalogue of events known as life. But no firm faith had ever been there to comfort him on the long, dark nights of the soul when the thought of dying shook the captain to his very core. On such occasions Haaland had always felt he was utterly alone in the world. This was such an occasion.

The thing that held him in its thrall moved closer. “I wonder how long you would survive if I broke your bones, one at a time?” Haaland heard a snap, not unlike a twig breaking underfoot in an autumnal forest. Then came the pain, a sharp, serrated edge of hurt that jagged up from his left foot. It was followed by a second snapping, and a third and a fourth. By the time the twenty-seventh bone in his body had broken, the captain was close to unconsciousness, unable to sustain each fresh assault on his nerves.

“No, no, no, no,” whispered his tormentor, cooing the words like a lover. But the breath was closer to stale game and rotten cheese, foul and bitter and flavoured by death. “I saved you until last for a reason. The others were experiments. You shall be my masterpiece. You shall be my vessel, just as this ship has been your vessel.”

Something punctured Haaland’s chest, stabbing into his torso just below the sternum. Once inside, a feeling both warm and insidious spread outwards from the fleshy barb lodged in the captain. Something was invading him, possessing him, consuming him. Haaland felt his insides being eaten away, gnawed and chewed and gnashed.

“Nothing to say? No final words, no grand statements?”

The captain wanted to respond, but his throat remained frozen.

Something sniffed at him, and a long, leathery tongue licked the side of his face.

No, Haaland had never been a religious man. But now he prayed for death.

“Two robberies, one allegation of attempted murder, three domestic disputes, a case of spying and the usual selection of drunkards who couldn’t make it home without urinating in places they shouldn’t,” Scheusal said, running his finger down the previous night’s page in his logbook. “Nothing out of the ordinary, to be honest.”

“You’re calling an allegation of attempted murder and spying nothing out of the ordinary?” Kurt laughed. They were sat in his office, going over arrest logs and paperwork. Having survived an ordeal by sword and claw a year ago, the station had won a reprieve from the city’s scheming watch commander. He now seemed intent upon drowning the Black Caps of Three Penny Bridge in paperwork instead, requiring an endless stream of reports, all filed in triplicate.

Scheusal shrugged. “I was trying to liven up our crime figures. The attempted murder happened next door at the bordello. A visiting sailor from Lustria tried to leave without paying and Molly took off his right earlobe with a flying dagger.”

“Let me guess—he was foolish enough to come in here, pressing charges?”

The sergeant nodded. “Didn’t seem to realise she was within her rights to claim a pound of flesh as compensation for his failure to meet his part of their contract agreement, as stipulated under Marienburg’s municipal mandates and bylaws.”

“He should count himself lucky it was the earlobe that got cut off,” Kurt observed.

“Our lusty Lustrian did, once I’d explained things to him. Allegation withdrawn.”

“And the spying?”

“Result of a citizen’s arrest, actually Cook from the Cormorant and Crab caught a customer copying down a list of thirteen secret herbs and spices used to make the tavern’s special Bretonnian fried seagull.” Scheusal jerked a thumb towards a sorry-looking, white-haired figure cowering in one of the holding cells. “Planning to open a chain of stalls selling his speciality, apparently. Nineteen secret herbs and spices.”

Kurt shook his head, never ceasing to be amazed at the lunatic schemes launched by some residents of Marienburg eager to make their fortune. “Anything else?”

Scheusal’s smile faded. “Yes. When are you going to do something about Ganz?”

“Not today, that’s for certain. We’ve got enough on our plate.”

“He’s not just disrespecting you, he’s disrespecting the whole station.”

“I told you, leave it alone.”

The sergeant sighed as he stood up. “Well, you can’t let it go on much longer. Either settle whatever’s going on between you two, or get him transferred. His attitude is tainting the other new recruits. We had to fight tooth and nail to get some decent Black Caps. Don’t let one bad apple spoil the rest.”

“Ganz isn’t bad. He was a good soldier.”

“Maybe he was, once. But he’s a liability now, captain.”

The Altena sailed out of the fog, though no breath of air touched its sails. The blood that had caked them was gone, borne away by some unseen power. The vessel gathered speed as it neared Rijker’s Isle, but there were no sailors on deck to acknowledge the sentries standing guard atop the prison walls. The single figure visible on board the ship stood behind the wheel, gripping the circle of wood, a rictus grin fixed upon his face. Haaland stared straight ahead, his features frozen as if utterly numb.

He was coming home, but it was already too late for the sea veteran. A pool of blood seeped into the wooden deck beneath his boots. The stench of death filled the captain’s nostrils, but he did not breathe it in, did not flinch, did not notice. A gaping wound lingered in the centre of his chest, and deep inside his body something was hungry. The feast of the flesh was come and all hell followed along behind.

CHAPTER TWO

The Knights gathered in a cold, stone chamber two floors above the oubliette, their faces hidden behind dark hoods, their clothing concealed by heavy cloaks. To be a worshipper of Solkan was uncommon in Marienburg, to say the least. The god of vengeance was full of wrath and fury, his followers were prone to extremism and pitiless rigour. But their strict adherence was nothing compared to the ruthless fervour exhibited by the Knights of Purity. Twice in the past this covert cabal had stepped forth from the shadows to strike down those thought to carry the taint of Chaos within the city’s hierarchy. The consequences had been bloody and bitter, whipping up a frenzy of retribution from the ten families that controlled most legitimate businesses in Marienburg.

The city was a tolerant, open-minded place, where the majority were willing to look the other way if it would benefit them. Marienburg depended upon its port for trade, inviting all and sundry to its docks, canals and narrow streets, so long as they brought valued goods or a rich purse. The merchants of Marienburg had little time for religious extremists, and the Knights of Purity were most certainly that. They were never officially banned—that was not the way things were done in the city—but their activities had been forced underground. Meetings were held in secret, no lists were ever made of disciples’ names and none spoke of their beliefs. After decades forced to remain in the shadows, the knights knew it was best to keep their identities hidden, even from one another.

As a consequence, none of the cabal at the hasty gathering dared look upon the face of another present. A few knew each other outside these walls—it was rumoured at least two of the knights were high-ranking officials within the city’s administration—but no names were ever spoken, no greetings exchanged. Rare was the occasion when more than three were gathered in Solkan’s name, lest they be discovered. Now twelve of them had come together in this place at the same time. They all knew the significance of this moment, the terrifying implications of their assignation.

One from among them stepped into the centre of the chamber, black leather gloves denoting his rank as leader of the cabal. “It has begun. As the sun rose above the city, the first tears of blood fell from the holiest of holy relics. The end is upon us.”

A murmur passed among the others, fear and excitement in equal measure. Generation upon generation had waited for this moment, to hear those words. Now it was here, the curse passed from father to son over the centuries come true. Fate had chosen them to stand before the coming tempest and not let it pass. Their leader held up a hand for silence, the slightest of movements enough to hush them, cold proof of his authority.

“We know not from where this doom comes, nor what guise it shall wear. We know only it is coming and the waters surrounding the city shall run red with blood. Return to your homes and your resting places. Make yourselves ready for whatever lies ahead, the torments to come. The city may fall, but we must not fail in our duty.”

A newcomer stepped into the chamber, sweeping past the outer circle to confront the leader. “It may already be too late for us and the city,” the late arrival said, his voice gruff and coarse. “My sentries have reported seeing a bleak, sinister mist on the horizon. It’s rolling towards Marienburg with unnatural speed.”

“It is merely another portent,” the leader replied. “No doubt one of many that will be seen in the days to come. We must not confuse signs and portents with danger.”

“You’re wrong,” the newcomer snapped. He swept back the hood from his head, revealing a swarthy face and dark, malevolent eyes that blazed like burning coals. The others gasped at his decision to stand revealed, especially as they all recognised him at once. The late arrival was Herman Prost, the deputy governor of Rijker’s Isle, a man notorious for converting prisoners into Solkan worshippers by any means necessary. Rumour suggested he had killed more men than the pox in his quest to instil purity and belief into the convicted criminals of Marienburg. His regime at Rijker’s was considered little more than barbaric. “It is the enemy, coming to storm the citadels of Marienburg. We have one chance to stop our foe—now, on the water, before it sets foot in the city.”

“You cannot know that for certain,” the leader said.

“I feel it in my bones. I feel it in my loins,” Prost spat back, clasping a hand across his groin. “Doom is coming, brothers, but we can prevent it—if we have the courage to come out of hiding now, to stand up for what we believe in!”

“No,” the leader replied, dismissing the exhortations with a brusque gesture.

“In the name of Solkan, why not?”

“We cannot risk everything on your gut instinct.”

Prost spat on the stone floor between their feet. “Then you’re fools. All of you!”

Another from among the knights stepped forwards, joining their leader. “You’re the fool, Prost. Showing yourself to make a point, challenging the authority and wisdom of our leader. This is about saving the city, not serving your ambition.”

Prost snorted. “Why should I take seriously the words of a worm who doesn’t even have the courage to show his face among brethren? What are you, men or mice?”

“You’ve said enough,” the leader replied, his voice devoid of emotion. “Go.”

The latecomer turned in a slow circle, glaring at the other knights one by one. “You’re making a terrible mistake here today. The people of this city will pay with their homes, their blood, with their lives and their souls for your folly. You could have stopped this horror before it began. You could have saved hundreds, perhaps thousands from what is to come. Remember that when this is over, assuming any of you survive the terror that awaits us all.” He marched from the circle, cursing under his breath.

It was the leader who stopped Prost, calling out a question after him. “What will you do if the prophecy comes to pass?”

Prost paused at the doorway, glancing back over a shoulder at the knights. “Don’t you understand, even now? The issue is when the prophecy comes to pass—not if.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“I’m returning to my post. At least there I know people will listen. From noon today Rijker’s Isle is off limits, closed to one and all. Anyone who questions that decision will be told the prison is under quarantine, due to an outbreak of the pox. When this is over, I will return to see who’s still standing. I doubt I’ll see any of you again in this life.” Prost stomped away, leaving those gathered to contemplate his bleak, belligerent words.

Kurt led the procession from Three Penny Bridge, wearing the full dress uniform of a Watch captain for only the third time in his career. Scheusal, Holismus and Bescheiden came next, as all three had fought alongside the fallen in that fateful battle a year earlier. The rest of the Black Caps from Three Penny Bridge followed, maintaining a steady pace, their boots clomping on the cobbles in perfect unison.

Only Scheusal’s wife Gerta remained behind, as it was forbidden for a station to stand empty and unmanned. She had fought in the battle, but volunteered to stay back. Since that bloody day Gerta had become an intrinsic part of the Black Cap presence on Three Penny Bridge. Officially she was the station’s cook, but the generously proportioned woman was as much a mother hen to the watchmen. Her marriage to Scheusal was a stormy affair, but they laughed and loved as often as they argued.

The procession made slow progress to the Temple of Morr on Stoessel, the middle island of Suiddock district. The passageways were choked with citizens, all wanting to pay their respects to those who had fallen in battle. Among those lining the route were Molly and her girls from the Three Penny Bridge bordello, and a complement of dock workers representing the Stevedores’ and Teamsters’ Guild of Marienburg.

Even Adalbert Henschmann was present, accompanied as ever by Helga, his hefty bodyguard. It was rare to see the master of the Thieves’ Guild away from his normal domain at the Marienburg Gentlemen’s Club on Riddra, let alone outdoors in the hours of daylight. But Henschmann owed his life to the actions of Kurt and the other Black Caps a year earlier. Honour demanded he acknowledge that debt, however uncomfortable being among the riffraff of Suiddock made the mighty Henschmann.

The procession reached the temple as a nearby bell chimed. In the distance a crier announced the time. The screech of gulls hung in the air, an ever-present backdrop to any activity in the maritime city. Waiting outside the temple was a tall, lean figure clad in the dark robes habitually wore by priests of Morr. Otto’s smooth, bald scalp glistened in the humid air, while his eyes were downcast. Once all the Black Caps had assembled outside the temple, Otto clapped his hands together three times, silencing the murmurs of those watching and waiting.

“Only the invited may attend the ceremony within this temple. They come to pay final respects to fallen brothers in arms, particularly Sergeant Jan Woxholt. May he—”

An almighty boom swallowed the priest’s solemn words.

Everything stopped, even the squawking of the gulls wheeling overhead. Kurt and his Black Caps looked at each other, uncertain what had just happened. A moment later screams could be heard in the distance, coming from the west. As the screams died away, a cloud of black smoke mushroomed into the air over the island of Riddra.

Scheusal placed a hand on Kurt’s left shoulder. “Captain, what should we—”

“Silenti! Holismus!” Kurt shouted. The two Black Caps stepped forwards, responding without question to the authority of his voice. “You’re our fastest runners. Get across to Riddra, find out what in the name of Sigmar just happened over there.” The two watchmen snapped a salute before sprinting away, back towards Three Penny Bridge. Kurt looked over his shoulder at the priest. “Sorry, but—”

Otto waved away the apology. “The safety of the living must come first. Go.”

Kurt nodded his thanks. He grabbed Bescheiden by the shoulder. “Willy, I want you to stay here, as our representative during the ceremony.”

“Why me?” the diminutive Black Cap protested, but Kurt wasn’t listening.

“We don’t know what we’re dealing with yet, but everyone in the district will have heard that noise and see the smoke rising. We need to seal off Riddra, make sure whatever has happened stays there. Back to Three Penny Bridge, quick as we can!”

Kurt and his watchmen moved as one, racing back along the narrow alleyway. In moments they were gone, leaving a bewildered Bescheiden alone with Otto. The priest patted the lone Black Cap on the back. “Come inside, and I’ll begin the ceremony.”

Silenti reached the western end of Riddra first, his lean physique and fleetness of foot outpacing the stockier Holismus. Silenti lived up to his name, being a man of few words. Anyone guessing at his age would have put it anywhere between thirty and fifty, but for a shock of silver hair that betrayed the fact he was nearer the end of his working life than the start. In the few months since Silenti was stationed on Three Penny Bridge he had earned a reputation for keeping himself to himself. But even his even, unruffled temperament was shaken by the chaos he found.

Like most parts of Marienburg, space was precious on the island of Riddra. Shops and houses clung to every scrap of land worth the name, teetering on the edges of the island. Many were the homes that hung out over the sea, their precarious existence supported by sturdy wooden beams that kept them above the churning waters below. But something had gone horribly awry on Riddra that day.

The island’s western tip had crumbled into the sea, taking with it all the houses that had previously clung to the coastline. The collapse sent walls, furniture and citizens into the water. Fires that had been safely contained by stone hearths were now raging out of control, consuming the wooden frames of the broken buildings. Bloodied and battered bodies littered the scene, as locals dragged victims and survivors from the burning wreckage. A rubble-strewn slope had appeared leading from street level down to the sea, where once there had been a sheer drop the height of two houses. The stench of raw excrement billowed from broken sewer pipes, their contents cascading into the water.

“Taal’s teeth,” Silenti whispered as his fellow watchman caught up to him.

Holismus grabbed a bewildered old woman as she staggered past, half her hair burnt off, her clothes little more than soot-stained rags. “What happened?”

The woman looked at Holismus glassy-eyed, staring right through him.

“What happened?” he demanded again, shaking her by the shoulders.

The violence of his actions penetrated her daze. “It was a boat.”

Silenti glanced round at the devastation. Peering at the water’s edge, he could make out a vessel half-submerged in the water, the front half embedded in the island. “A boat did all of this? How?”

“I saw it coming,” the woman continued, not even noticing his questions. “I like to watch the cargo ships come and go. My first husband was a sailor and I got in the habit of waiting for his ship to come home. Most days I sit by the window, watching the ships sailing back and forth past Rijker’s Isle. But this one… It didn’t stop. Just kept coming.”

Holismus shook his head. “One ship did all of this? Impossible.”

The old woman frowned. “Funny thing was, it didn’t have any crew on board.”

Silenti scratched at his stubble. “Maybe they had to abandon ship—that’s why it drifted into the island. But that would have been just a bump, nothing like this.”

“There was one man on deck,” the witness recalled. “Behind the wheel, he was. Never moved, not even when the ship was about to hit. Kept coming, faster and faster…”

“You’re saying the captain deliberately rammed his boat into Riddra?”

She nodded. “Strangest thing I ever saw.” The old woman’s eyes slid back into her head and she passed out, collapsing into Silenti’s arms. He lowered her to the cobbles.

“This doesn’t make any sense,” he hissed. “We’ve got to find whoever was in charge of that ship and question him, find out what he was trying to do.”

“We’ve got a bigger problem than that,” Holismus said.

Silenti stood up to see what the other watchman was pointing at. In the few minutes since they’d reached the wreck, several sloops and ketches had appeared in the water below. Hard-faced men were clambering out of the boats and tying ropes to the debris, knives clutched between their teeth. The newcomers were laying claim to anything that looked valuable amid the wreckage.

“Looters,” Silenti hissed.

“Not just them,” Holismus said. “Look!”

Two boatloads of men in uniform were paddling towards the carnage. They had leather jacks hanging from their belts, and heavy clubs by their boots.

“Just what we don’t need,” Silenti said. “It’s the bloody River Watch!”

Haaland’s body was catapulted into the sea when the Altena rammed itself into the side of Riddra. But the bloody, broken corpse was not finished yet. The stiffening limbs flailed at the water in a grotesque parody of swimming, propelling the dead weight towards the crumbling edge of the island. Blue, lifeless fingers clawed at the rock face, dragging the body upwards. Nobody noticed what looked like one more survivor returning to dry land, nor did they pay attention when the captain staggered away, lurching off like a drunken sailor in search of his next ale.

Haaland was dead, but his remains still had work to do.

Kurt arrived at the wreck in time to see the first punch thrown. He’d sent half his complement of Black Caps ahead to assist Holismus and Silenti, but the captain stayed behind at Three Penny Bridge to scrawl a hasty plea for help to the watch commander. Once that was away, Kurt led the rest of his men west across Riddra. It needed no skill to find the wreck, thanks to the pall of black smoke still rising from the burning buildings and the tumult of shouting.

Unfortunately, Willem Kramer was one of the Black Caps sent ahead to help secure the wreck. A cocky, swaggering figure, Kramer had arrived at Three Penny Bridge and immediately announced he expected a rapid promotion through the ranks. Kurt and Scheusal soon disabused him of that fanciful notion. Kramer was notorious for expecting to have assignments handed to him on a silver platter, an attitude reinforced by his powerful family connections and his last posting at Marienburg’s least crime-ridden district, Goudberg. Black Caps there rarely sullied their hands by actually having to arrest anybody. Keeping the peace at Suiddock was an altogether tougher task, as Kramer soon discovered. He’d been spoiling for a fight ever since.

The Black Caps were using buckets to fetch seawater up for fighting the fires still raging in the broken homes. But their counterparts from the River Watch seemed more intent on getting in the way, the maritime lawmen focused on driving off the looters and scavengers still searching through the debris. It didn’t take long for both sides to be shouting abuse at each other, claiming the crash was under their sole jurisdiction.

Any offence or incident that occurred on the many waterways of Marienburg was called a wet crime, and therefore the River Watch’s responsibility. Anything untoward that happened off the water was a dry crime, and thus fell under the purview of the Black Caps. In the normal course of events, the two branches of the Watch had little contact. Occasionally cases arose that blurred the boundaries between them, but a simple compromise could usually be found. This was an extreme example, and the involvement of a volatile individual like Kramer only made matters worse. Much worse.

Inevitably, it was Kramer who threw the first punch. He got lucky and connected with a boatman’s face, fracturing the unhappy target’s nose with a loud crack. Within moments the wreck degenerated into a free-for-all, unleashing years of resentment and niggling rivalries between the Black Caps and their water-borne colleagues. The looters and scavengers swiftly withdrew, not wanting to get caught in the sprawling skirmish. They scrambled away in their sloops and ketches, towing whatever treasures they’d stolen from among the debris, leaving the law enforcers to their private battle.

Kurt contemplated intervening, but could see no easy way of stopping the brawl going on around him. Instead he observed, seeing who among his men was best in a fight. Kurt’s father had always claimed the best way to assess the merits of any new recruit was to watch them in battle. Courage and cowardice were easy to spot when lives and honour were at stake, but bravado never lasted long when blood was being spilled. So Kurt watched, intrigued to see how the new Black Caps acquitted themselves.

Kramer displayed no shortage of anger, but his skills were limited. Holismus dealt easily with two River Watch attackers, and Scheusal was laughing as he batted away two boatmen with one mighty blow. It was clear Ganz’s army training had not been forgotten, as he dealt with his targets in a swift, merciless fashion. Most of the other Black Caps were holding their own against even odds, but one stood out from the melee for the simple reason that he chose not to fight. Silenti remained apart from the brawl, not diving into action like his brothers in arms. When one of the boatmen did clamber up towards Silenti, he sent them flying back towards the sea with ease. The lithe Black Cap nodded to Kurt before returning to his vantage point. Kurt made a note to keep an eye on Silenti. Any man who used his head while others let passion rule their actions was worthy of attention.

Scheusal appeared at Kurt’s side, a broad grin on his face. “Things had been too quiet to last,” he observed. “This’ll give the men a chance to blow off some steam.”

The captain sighed. “Let’s hope the watch commander agrees with you.” Kurt had endured several unhappy clashes with his superior. A brawl between Suiddock’s River Watch and Black Caps would not help relations.

Bescheiden wept bitter tears as the ceremony concluded inside the Temple of Morr. Smallest of the Black Caps in Suiddock, he had grieved the most for Jan Woxholt, even more than Kurt had for his sergeant and former mentor. The others credited this to the fact Woxholt had sacrificed his life to save Bescheiden when mercenaries attacked Three Penny Bridge a year earlier. What none of them realised was that Bescheiden had caused the sergeant’s death. He hadn’t held the blade that ended Woxholt’s life, but he entombed the sergeant in a tunnel crowded with armed killers. The result was murder in all but name.

Bescheiden had done many despicable things in his life. He had lied and stolen, cheated and betrayed. But he’d never been responsible for the murder of a good man, the slaughter of a honourable soul. The last moments of Woxholt’s life haunted him still: the disappointed look in the sergeant’s eyes as the tunnel door slammed shut, the sound of Woxholt’s screams as he died, the sight of his lifeless body being carried out of that hellhole after the fighting was done and the Battle of Three Penny Bridge won.

For the first time in Bescheiden’s life, he knew remorse. How he wished he was the one who’d died that day. Better to have perished than suffer this everlasting torment. Every night when Bescheiden slept Woxholt returned in his dreams, never speaking, just that disappointed look in his eyes, accusing Bescheiden with his silence. The little Black Cap had tried drink and drugs to blot out the memories and the guilt, all to no avail.

The ceremony at the Temple of Morr was the final torment. Perhaps now he might have some rest, some respite from this clinging dread, this certainty his crime and his complicity would be revealed. As the priest anointed Woxholt’s final resting place with oils and unguents, Bescheiden expected the sergeant to rise from his grave and point an accusing finger. But there was nothing, only the slow murmur of Otto’s prayers and the sound of gulls in the sky outside, their cries like some mocking laughter. You’ll never be free of this, Bescheiden felt they were calling to him. Never.

He collapsed to the temple floor, overtaken by grief.

Otto knelt by the fallen watchman, pressing a hand to his forehead. “Your friend is at peace now,” he whispered. “Let his rest be your rest too.”

“No rest for the wicked, is there?” Damphoost called from his boat as it approached the wreck. Belladonna was sat beside him, trying not to catch Kurt’s eye, while Grist worked the oars. “Any idea how this started?”

“Scavengers and looters,” Scheusal replied, saving Kurt the trouble of lying. “Things turned ugly when your men and ours tried to intervene.”

“Really?”

Kurt nodded. “That’s what will be in my report.”

Damphoost smiled. “Fair enough. Just so long as we all agree.” By now the brawlers had stumbled to a standstill, most sporting cuts and bruises, a few with broken bones. “So who’s taking charge of the scene?”

“We’re calling it a dry crime,” Kurt said.

“How’d you figure that?”

“There’s half a dozen homes been wrecked here. I’ve counted at least three bodies in the water, all of them Riddra residents judging by their clothes. That’s manslaughter, maybe even murder, plus malicious damage and Manann knows what else we’ll find.”

“All caused by a boat ramming itself into the side of an island. That’s as clear-cut a case of wet crime if ever I saw one,” said Damphoost.

“Forget it. My men were here first, it’s our case,” Kurt insisted.

The smile faded from the other captain’s face. “It’s a wet crime, and that’s final.”

“Sweet Shallya, why can’t you both deal with the case?” Belladonna asked, impatience obvious in her voice. She stood up in the boat, bracing her feet against both sides to maintain her balance. “The River Watch can investigate the boat’s background far more easily—where it came from, why it went off course. And the Black Caps can cover everything else, like identifying the dead and assessing the damage to Riddra. Surely discovering the truth is more important than who gets the glory for it?”

“She’s right,” Kurt said through gritted teeth.

“Agreed,” Damphoost added. He jumped from the boat to the newly formed slope, climbing up to where Kurt was standing. The River Watch captain extended a hand to his counterpart, both of them conscious all their men were watching. “Truce?”

“Truce.” Kurt shook the offered hand, but his eyes were fixed on Belladonna. She looked away, more interested in the splintered remains of the Altena.

“It’s clear where the investigation should start,” Damphoost said, taking in the scale of the devastation. “We need to discover how the wreckers succeeded in crashing a ship into Riddra in broad daylight. Why they did it is obvious, but not how.”

Kurt frowned. “You think wreckers did this?”

“Who else do you suggest?” Grist sneered from the water’s edge. “It had to be wreckers, no doubt working for the Thieves’ Guild.”

Scheusal snorted with derision.

Damphoost glared at the sergeant. “You disagree with our assessment?”

“You’re talking out the back of your—”

“Scheusal,” Kurt cut in, glaring at his sergeant to keep the peace.

“—out the back of your boat,” Scheusal said. “The Thieves’ Guild needn’t stoop to wrecking to claim its share of every cargo coming in and out of the city. Even if it did, the likes of Adalbert Henschmann would certainly never permit such an activity in broad daylight, let alone less than five hundred paces from his own office.”

“He’s right,” Belladonna said. “There’s something else happening here.”

“Indeed?” Damphoost grimaced. “Then how do you suggest we proceed?”

“There’s one obvious question that needs answering,” Belladonna replied. “A ship this size needs between six and nine men, including the captain. So where are the crew?”

Before anyone could answer, a hurried, rasping noise became audible. It seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, but it was getting louder by the moment—as if what was making the sound was getting closer. The Black Caps and the River Watch looked round, trying to discern the source. Scheusal grabbed Kurt by the arm, and whispered into his captain’s ear. “I’ve heard that noise once before—a year ago.”

Ganz was peering into a broken sewer pipe, two boatmen unconscious at his feet. “Whatever it is, the sound’s coming from in here!” he shouted. By now the noise was becoming thunderous, like the galloping hooves of a thousand steeds. Ganz moved closer to the shattered pipe. “I can see something moving inside.”

“Get away from there,” Kurt commanded. “For the love of Manann, move!”

The ex-soldier staggered back from the sewer pipe, shaking his head, his face ashen. “No, that’s impossible. It can’t be…” Ganz lost his footing and fell, sliding down a river of excrement into the murky water below.

Then the creatures came, bursting from first one sewer pipe, and then from another, and another—until the wreck was swarming with them. They were animals but they stood on their hind legs, hissing and spitting. They were vermin clad in armour, an obscene parody of an army. They moved with diabolical speed, vicious blades clutched in their grasp, murder in their eyes. Fangs jutted from their hissing snouts, gnashing and biting at the air. They glanced round at the surroundings, squinting their black, beady eyes against the sun’s dazzle and glare. They were rats the size of men.

Kurt swallowed, hard. He had seen these monsters before, even though they were creatures of legend and nightmare that most sane people believed did not exist. He had watched these monsters invade his station at Three Penny Bridge, brutally slaughtering dozens of mercenaries and beheading several of Kurt’s best watchmen. He had stood against them and prevailed, by the narrowest of margins and only with help from the elves. He had prayed never to look upon these fiends again and now they were walking abroad in daylight, something that should be anathema to them.

Kurt heard himself whisper the name these creatures called themselves: “Skaven!”

CHAPTER THREE

For a few brief moments everything froze. The ratmen stood blinking in the daylight, nearly a hundred of them, all clustered round the broken sewer pipes. The Black Caps and River Watch stared at the vermin, many unable to believe the evidence of their own eyes, unable to accept what was standing in front of them. Some of the men prayed, others soiled their uniforms. The rest stood their ground, transfixed.

Scheusal edged a step nearer to Kurt. “Captain, what are they waiting for?”

“I don’t know,” Kurt admitted.

“It’s a year today since their leader died at our station. Could this be revenge?”

“Maybe, but why here? It’d make more sense if we were still at the station.”

“Perhaps all this was a diversion,” Belladonna whispered. “The crash, the houses collapsing, all of it designed to lure us here.”

“And draw us away from Three Penny Bridge,” Kurt said, completing her suggestion. “Maybe, but what are they waiting for? If they’re going to attack, why not—”

A bellowing horn drowned out his words, the sound of it booming from the broken sewer pipes, deafening all those stood nearby. As the last echoes of the horn faded, dozens more ratmen burst from the pipes. They surged down the slope towards the wreckage of the Altena. Anyone standing in their way was driven backwards into the water, swept away by the tide of vermin running down the slope.

Kurt heard a skittering sound above him. He twisted round to see a fresh horde of ratmen appearing at the top of the slope, all armed to the fangs with blades and weaponry. “Sweet Shallya,” he gasped, before dropping to one knee.

“This is no time for prayer,” Damphoost snarled at him. “What about your men?”

Kurt drew two razor-sharp daggers from sheaths sewn into the sides of his boots. “I wasn’t praying,” he spat at the River Watch captain. “I was getting ready to fight!” Kurt stood up, punching the air with both fists, a blade in each hand. “Black Caps, together!”

The ratmen lining the top of the slope screamed, hissed, and attacked.

The battle was brutal, bloody and brief. Kurt’s Black Caps all had daggers and stilettos to hand, a legacy of events a year earlier. Too many good watchmen had died for the lack of weapons back then, so Kurt had ordered all his recruits to arm themselves. No more did the Black Caps of Suiddock go on patrol with only a leather jack, a club and a lantern by way of protection. Some kept crossbows slung over their shoulders, hidden beneath capes and cloaks. Others preferred the cold metal of a blade on their hip or secreted in their boots. Kurt had forbidden his men from ever talking about the ratmen, or what had happened during the battle for Three Penny Bridge. But a few of the survivors had seen the sort of weapons wielded by the ratmen that dark night, and adopted the vermin’s practice of carrying a handful of sharpened metal stars in a pouch. With enough training and endless hours of practice, these innocuous slivers could be deadly weapons.

When the ratmen charged down the slope, the Black Caps were ready for them. They formed into pairs or trios, better to protect one another from attack. Standing shoulder to shoulder, they hacked and slashed at the ratmen as the enemy surged past. Bolts flew from crossbows, puncturing armour and snouts, snapping back the heads and hearts of the slathering vermin horde. Throwing stars were just as effective, though none were augmented by the insidious, ravening poisons that coated the ratmen’s weapons.

The maritime watchmen were not so fortunate. They had never seen this enemy before, let alone fought against it. Most of the River Watch boatmen were frozen by sheer terror, unable to cope with the inhuman foe surging down the slope. The ratmen hissed and snapped their fangs, deadly blades slicing the air. They stank too, a stench of death and decay like rotting fruit and corpses. The vermin body odour was almost a weapon in itself, invading the nostrils and lungs, an aroma so ripe it made several boatmen vomit. Damphoost tried to rally his troops but they were overwhelmed, fighting alone against the enemy, with few weapons and even less hope of survival, let alone victory.

Grist was studying the wreckage of the Altena just before the ratmen appeared. The sergeant had been River Watch man and boy, joining the ranks before he was old enough to shave. Nearly thirty winters later, Grist had grown bitter in the knowledge he would never progress any further than sergeant. He was not a political animal, and had no stomach for the flattery and glad-handing necessary to win favour with those in the upper echelons, the people who made decisions about promotions from within the ranks. Nor did Grist have sufficient savings to buy himself a commission, as Damphoost had done.

Grist did his job and no more, gaining some petty satisfaction from offering as little help as possible to those above him in rank. When the chance arose, the sergeant was not above a little light pilfering to supplement his meagre earnings. Wreckers and all those who made good ships come to grief were despicable to Grist’s way of thinking, but he was less vehement in his condemnation of scavengers and looters. After all, wasn’t he all too often guilty of the same sin, however venal? While Damphoost and the Black Caps’ captain had been arguing on dry land, Grist was working his way through the cargo of the Altena, looking for the richest pickings from what still remained on board.

He couldn’t help admiring the workmanship of the Marienburg boat builders that had constructed the vessel. It had been rammed into the side of Riddra with enough force to bring down half a dozen houses, and caused the island’s northern tip to collapse into the sea. Despite that, the Altena was still structurally sound. The fact the island had given away with such ease suggested it was already weakened by centuries of tidal erosion, but for the boat that triggered the subsidence to retain the integrity of its hull was remarkable. Alas, the impact had destroyed much of the cargo, notably a load of Lustrian pottery.

But Grist did find a wooden casket, its heavy padlock suggesting whatever was inside must be valuable. The crash had broken apart one of the corners, and inside he could see something glinting. The sergeant smirked. It was a gemstone, luminous and green. Perhaps this was the payday he’d been looking for, a treasure trove that could fund his retirement. Anything was better than the prospect of spending his declining years at some mission for retired boatmen. Grist reached into the chest and closed his hand round the jewel. “Gotcha,” he whispered to himself as the ratmen burst from the nearby sewers.

Grist tried to pull his hand clear, but couldn’t compress his fist enough to get it and the gemstone out of the casket together. By now the ratmen were gathered on the slope above him, pausing for Manann knew what reason. The sergeant tugged and pulled at his arm, determined to get it and his prize out of the casket. Then the ratmen charged down the slope to the water—straight towards the Altena.

Panic seized Grist like an icy fist closing round his heart. Bitter tears of frusuation welled in his eyes as the monsters charged at him, the sergeant’s arm now wedged within the casket. He couldn’t escape it, couldn’t get at the blade hanging from his belt, and couldn’t defend himself. He was going to die on a broken boat, his arm stuck in a box of delights he couldn’t open. Shame and guilt overwhelmed Grist. Finding a strength he’d never known before, the sergeant slammed the casket against a nearby mast. The wooden box cracked and split open a little further. Unable to believe his luck had changed at last, Grist ripped his arm free and held aloft his prize. At long last, he was rich.

The gemstone was glorious, glowing with an inner light that bewitched the sergeant’s gaze. Grist was so entranced by it he never saw the blade that decapitated him.

The battle felt like an eternity to those fighting for their lives against the vermin hordes, but in truth the tidal wave of ratmen was lessening within a minute. Their numbers became fewer, the thrust towards the sea less urgent. As the ranks of ratmen diminished, the width across which the battle was being fought narrowed. Soon Kurt found himself, Scheusal and Belladonna free of the enemy’s surge, better able to assess what was happening on the slope. Some of the ratmen were stopping to fight, but only when men stood in their way and the path to the sea was blocked. The rest of the vermin plunged into the water and vanished, swallowed by the inky darkness below the surface.

“They’re not attacking us,” he said, the realisation hitting him like a blow across the face. “They’re only engaging the men who attack them.”

Belladonna heard him and looked round, seeing what he was seeing. “You’re right. Tell the others to stand down, while they still can!”

Kurt nodded. He dropped his weapons and cupped both hands round his mouth. “Black Caps, put down your weapons and get out of their way. They mean you no harm!”

Ganz was among those closest to Kurt. “Are you insane?”

Scheusal threw down his crossbow. “The captain’s right. Drop your weapons!” The other Black Caps saw this and followed the sergeant’s example. The vermin swept by, ignoring the watchmen. But the River Watch kept fighting, and kept dying.

“Damphoost, tell your men to stand down!” Kurt shouted at his counterpart, bellowing to be heard above the melee.

“No! The River Watch never surrenders!”

“Do what Kurt says!” Belladonna shouted at Damphoost, her voice getting through to him in a way Kurt’s words could not. The River Watch captain looked round himself, and saw the ratmen running past the unarmed, defenceless Black Caps. But every boatman who engaged the enemy was being cut down without pity or mercy.

“River Watch, stand down!” Damphoost shouted. “That’s an order! Stand down!”

It was already too late for most of his men. The last ratmen threw themselves into the sea, some diving off the far end of the Altena, others dragging the bodies of their fallen with them into the murky depths. Once the water had recovered from this invasion, there was no sign the ratmen had ever passed this way, no evidence they even existed—but for the wounded, dying and dead members of the Watch left behind.

A few of the Black Caps were hurt, but none seriously. The River Watch had been slaughtered, half of them dead, the rest traumatised by what they had just experienced. Kurt sent Scheusal to check on the wounded, while Belladonna consoled Damphoost. The River Watch captain was bereft, his face white with rage, his hands trembling.

“Why? Why did this happen?” he demanded.

“We were in the wrong place, at the wrong time,” Belladonna suggested.

“They attacked us!”

“They fought those who tried to stop them,” Kurt said. “Soon as we let them pass, they went on their way. I’ve heard of this in other animals—it’s a survival instinct; fight or flight, the urge to preserve the species overtaking everything else.”

“Like rats leaving a sinking ship,” Damphoost said, bitterness in his voice.

“The sinking ship was incidental,” Belladonna observed. “They ignored the Altena, and its cargo. All they wanted was to get away from Suiddock.”

“Why?” Damphoost demanded.

“That’s the real question here,” Kurt agreed. “What could be so terrifying it would make those creatures flee? What do they know about that we haven’t discovered yet?”

His counterpart looked round at the fallen. “How do we explain what happened? I can’t make a report that talks about vermin that stand and fight on their hind legs, I’d be laughed out of the River Watch. What do I tell the families of those who died here?”

Belladonna took hold of his hands. “Tell them their men died as heroes, fighting against overwhelming odds. It’s the truth, and that’s all their families need to know. How they died doesn’t really matter, does it? Just that they died nobly, and well.”

Kurt nodded. “We’ll make the same report. Your men and mine fought a valiant action against looters, scavengers and mutants. The River Watch suffered the greater number of casualties, as the criminals made their escape by water rather than over land.”

Damphoost frowned. “And your superiors will believe that?”

“They’ll believe what they want to believe,” Kurt replied. “It’s Marienburg.”

Carts and stretchers were found to take the wounded for treatment, while the River Watch used its boats to ferry away the fallen. Death was no stranger in the maritime city, but burial grounds were few and far between in its overcrowded alleys and passageways. The richest families had their own crypts, burying their dearly departed deep beneath palatial mansions of marble and stone. Less wealthy merchants could still afford to buy a plot in one of the few graveyards or public crypts, usually adjacent to a temple of Morr. But even there, occupants were always buried in a shroud with a shovelful of quicklime, ensuring their resting place would be ready for a fresh corpse within a year.

Those with only a few guilders could have loved ones incinerated at one of the Doodkanaal crematoria, where chimneys belched black fumes and ash into the sky day and night. The rest took their chances, getting dumped into the nearest canal by sallow-faced creatures that called themselves undertakers. Grieving families considered it a kind of burial at sea. Most didn’t want to think what happened to the bodies beneath the water. Confronting mortality was never comforting, no matter how strong your faith.

Belladonna volunteered to stay at the wreck, eager to search through the wreckage for any clues why the Altena rammed into Riddra. Kurt told Holismus and Silenti to remain with her. “I don’t need protecting,” she protested.

“I want your report by sundown,” he said. “I’ve got a meeting of all the watch captains tonight, and the commander will be asking questions about what happened here.”

“What makes you certain I’ll find any answers?”

Kurt smiled, despite himself. “You see things others don’t, make the connections they can’t. You’ve a gift, Belladonna—and you’d be wasting it at the River Watch.”

“How did you—” She stopped herself.

“I see the way Damphoost looks at you,” Kurt whispered in her right ear. “He’s been wooing you for months. He wants what you can do. You’re his ticket to the top.”

Belladonna blushed. “I haven’t given him an answer yet. If you asked me to—”

Kurt shook his head. “I can’t make this decision for you. Do what you think best.” He strode away, taking the other Black Caps with him. Holismus and Silenti were already looking round the Altena, but Scheusal paused beside Belladonna.

“He’s too proud to say it,” the sergeant told her. “But things won’t be the same if you leave Three Penny Bridge. If you do go, make sure it’s for the right reasons.”

Gerta was still manning the desk sergeant’s post when Bescheiden returned from the temple, his eyes puffy and bloodshot. “You missed all the excitement,” she said.

“What happened?”

“Some lunatic rammed a cargo ship into Riddra, collapsed half a dozen homes. Then Kramer started a brawl with the River Watch. To top it all off, a pitched battle with looters left half of Damphoost’s men dancing with Morr. Leastways, that’s the official story.” The heavy-set woman tapped the side of her nose.

“What really happened?”

Gerta leaned across the desk, her ample bosom disrupting the inkwells and logbooks. “Ratmen. An army of them, all leaving Suiddock.”

Bescheiden paled, taking a step back. A year ago he’d had a ratman blade held to his throat, been that close to death. Now the monsters were on the move again —why? Before he could ponder that, the other Black Caps returned to the station, led by Kurt.

“Taal’s teeth, the ceremony!” The captain shook his head. “I forgot all about it.”

“It’s done,” Bescheiden said. “Sergeant Woxholt and the others are at peace.” The weasel-faced watchman wished he could say the same of himself.

Kurt clapped him on the shoulder. “Good. They deserved no less.” The captain looked at the distraught Black Cap. “Was there something else, Bescheiden?”

“Yes, captain. It’s about how Woxholt died. I—”

But Bescheiden never finished his confession. A messenger ran into the station, calling for Kurt. The captain acknowledged his name. “You’re from the commander’s office, aren’t you? I’m seeing him tonight. What’s so urgent it couldn’t wait until then?”

“You’re to come back to headquarters with me,” the messenger gasped.

“Now?”

“Immediately!”

“Very well. Give me a moment,” Kurt said, before turning to Scheusal.

“Must have heard what happened on Riddra,” the sergeant speculated.

“Maybe,” Kurt conceded. “You’re in charge until I get back. If I get back.” The captain nodded to Bescheiden on his way out. “Sorry, whatever you wanted to tell me will have to wait.”

Belladonna studied the crashed boat from every angle before boarding it, wanting to be certain she didn’t miss any clues. She even commandeered a river taxi to take her round the vessel, the better to check for any signs that the Altena had been shunted into the island. But there was nothing, no evidence beyond that to be expected from the impact. More curious was the absence of gulls around the wreckage. Normally they bedevilled any sailor or ship near Marienburg, their constant cries grating at the nerves. But the wreck was curiously bereft of gulls, or any other sea birds.

Having been born and grown up in the city, Belladonna had long since learned to ignore the airborne pests. But she was finding their absence more than a little perturbing. Despairing of finding any clues, she climbed on board the cargo boat where an impatient Holismus was waiting for her.

“Where’s Silenti?” she asked. “Isn’t he meant to be here with us?”

Holismus rolled his eyes and pointed beyond a tumble of broken pottery and crates nearby. A pair of boots jutted from behind the mess. Belladonna walked round the wreckage to find Silenti on the deck, cap pulled down to shield his face from the late afternoon sun. She kicked him in the ankles. “Wake up!”

The watchman edged his cap upwards with a single finger. “You finished wasting your time out on the water?”

“I was checking for evidence that would help explain the crash. There’s too many unanswered questions here.”

“Maybe, but the biggest question is here on this boat.”

“And what’s that?”

Silenti lowered his cap back down over his face. “What happened to the crew?”

Belladonna resisted the urge to kick him again, knowing he was right. She glared at Holismus instead. “How many should have been on board a ship this size?”

He shrugged. “At least seven, including the captain. An eyewitness to the crash said she only saw one man on deck before it hit.”

“So where are the others?”

“Could have jumped ship before the crash.”

“Maybe.” Something was troubling Belladonna, nagging at the back of her mind. She breathed in and caught a whiff of decay in the air—rotting fruit and ragged flesh. “Nobody’s looked in the cargo hold yet, have they?”

It needed both Holismus and Silenti to shift aside the heavy wooden cover that hid the hold from view. The moment it moved a rancid scent billowed upwards, choking all three of the Black Caps. They staggered away, gagging in horror at the foetid odour. Belladonna clamped a sleeve over her nose and mouth to blot out the worst of the stench. The other two followed her example, coughing and gasping as they finished pulling the cover aside, the smell from below engulfing them.

Belladonna peered into the darkness below. The hold was strewn with more Lustrian pottery, particularly jugs and huge pots, many with ceramic lids. There was no obvious reason for the stench still wafting upwards. “We need to get down there,” Belladonna said. Holismus fetched a rope ladder and fixed it to the side of the hatch. But he was hesitant to venture into the darkness, and Silenti made no move either. Sighing, the female Black Cap lit a lantern and clambered down into the hold, trying as much as possible to breathe through her mouth, not her nose.

The ladder didn’t quite reach the floor, so she had to let go and fall the last few feet. Belladonna landed awkwardly, her ankle threatening to turn over. She spat out a curse crude enough to have made the ship’s crew blush, if they were still alive. Liquid splashed round her boots, thick with the tangy aroma of iron and urine, its colour impossible to see in the darkness of the hold. It would be sundown soon, and Belladonna had no urge to stay on this death boat any longer than she needed. But the captain wanted answers and she was determined to find them. She looked round, using the lantern’s meagre glow to light her surroundings.

“What can you see?” Holismus shouted down.

“Some barrels, and enough Lustrian pottery to open my own market.” Belladonna tried the wooden barrels first, the lids coming away easily to reveal a variety of exotic spices—some black, some bright red, each with a distinct aroma that penetrated even the stench of rotting flesh that suffused the hold. The big pottery urns were not so eager to surrender their contents, the lids having been sealed with what looked like red wax. They were the same height as her waist, and wide as Belladonna’s hips before tapering to a narrower, circular lid. Belladonna retrieved a stiletto from a sheath sewn inside her left boot and used its tip to dig into the seal. The waxy substance resisted her efforts at first, but gradually it softened, giving way beneath the sharp, insistent blade.

“Nearly there,” she called up to the other Black Caps. “It seems to be—”

A spray of crimson across her face stopped any more words. Blood was spurting from the point where the stiletto had penetrated the seal. Belladonna backed off, spitting out the liquid that had splashed her mouth, hands struggling to wipe away the excess from her face. As the spurts slowed to a steady trickle, a noise escaped from the pottery urn. Belladonna stopped and listened. It sounded as if somebody inside the urn was breathing.

“Holismus, Silenti, get down here! Now!”

* * *

In a city full of thieves and a district notorious for its criminal elements, Massimo liked to think of himself as Suiddock’s most accomplished cutpurse. He had stolen from the great and good of Marienburg without any of them realising who was the culprit. Massimo had once removed the wheels from the watch commander’s coach while the leader of law enforcement for the city was busy berating the Black Caps of Three Penny Bridge. The thief had even dared to pick the pocket of Lea-Jan Cobbius, master of the Stevedores’ and Teamsters’ Guild, the most powerful man on the docks. But Massimo’s finest feat of legerdemain was relieving Henschmann himself of a purse heavy with a hundred pieces of gold during a visit to the Marienburg Gentleman’s Club.

None had managed such an achievement and lived to brag about it. Massimo’s only sadness was that he dared not share his exploits with anyone else, knowing all too well the fatal consequences that would result from such a boast. So he kept his own counsel, and his exploits remained unknown, and uncelebrated. Such was the cutpurse’s caution he never let alcohol pass his lips for fear of saying too much in the wrong company. Nor could he spend more than a fraction of his ill-gotten gains, for fear of alerting others to the success of his egregious endeavours. His fellow thieves considered Massimo rather dull and nondescript; too shy with words and far too parsimonious when it came to opening his money pouch. He expected to die alone and unmourned, but had learned to live with this. He was the best and that was what mattered, not acclaim.

Massimo was dawdling home from a fruitful day preying on travellers as they crossed the Niederbrug Bridge that linked Luydenhoek to the smallest and northernmost part of Suiddock, High Tower Isle. Foolish thieves plied their trade on the Hoogbrug, a magnificent bridge that stretched from High Tower Isle over the Rijksweg to Paleisbuurt. The Hoogbrug was the sole bridge connecting Marienburg’s northern and southern districts, and thus attracted far too much attention from the Black Caps in Massimo’s opinion. But the smaller Niederbrug span was just as busy and far less well policed. Suiddock’s overworked watchmen all but ignored Hightower Isle as so little crime happened there, especially in comparison to lively islands like Riddra and Stoessel. That made Niederbrug Bridge the perfect hunting ground for a crafty cutpurse like Massimo. He prided himself on never stealing less in one day there than the average stevedore could earn in a week from working on the docks.

Massimo didn’t need to pick the pocket of the drunken sailor he saw lurching about outside the Temple of Morr on Stoessel. It wasn’t greed that drove him to approach the swaying figure. Massimo was a compulsive thief—he simply couldn’t resist it.

“Are you all right, friend? You don’t look that steady on your feet.”

The sailor twitched and staggered a step, but didn’t respond.

“I know how you feel,” Massimo sympathised. “Found myself at the wrong end of a Bretonnian brandy bottle once or twice, too.” He studied the swaying, unsteady figure. There was something wrong with this one. Most drunks reeked of whatever alcohol they’d been imbibing, but this mariner reeked of something else, something the cutpurse couldn’t quite put his finger on. The sailor’s clothes were well made, suggesting he had attained the rank of first mate, or even captain on some vessel.

Massimo moved a step closer after a quick glance round to make sure they weren’t being observed. The narrow street was quiet, that wonderful hour when most people were home having their evening meal or drowning their sorrows in an alehouse. The thief delighted in this time of day, as it made his job so much easier. Streets should be bustling or deserted, anything in between was trouble. Right now, this part of Stoessel was deserted; all the better for what Massimo had in mind. He slid a supportive arm round his target’s shoulders. “Why don’t I help you find a place to rest?”

A gurgling sound crept from the sailor’s throat.

“No need to thank me, it’s what any decent soul would do for a fine sailor like yourself. You maritime men are the life blood of this city, you know.”

Massimo gave the sailor a nudge, sending him staggering sideways. The cutpurse grabbed his quarry by the arm with one hand, the other hand sliding inside the sailor’s pocket. Yes, there was definitely something inside. It felt soft and leathery, like a narrow kind of purse. Massimo gave the object a squeeze to determine how many guilders might be inside. But instead of the reassuring, welcome shape of coins, the object oozed wetness over the thief’s fingers. What in the name of Manann? Massimo withdrew his hand from the pocket and looked at his fingers. They were covered in tacky crimson, the colour and consistency of congealing red wine gravy. It was blood.

A white maggot crawled out from inside the cutpurse’s sleeve and along the back of his hand. He gasped, shaking his hand to get the tiny creature off him, but that only shook more maggots from inside his sleeve. The sailor twisted round towards Massimo, neck bones cracking and snapping against the effort. For the first time the thief looked into the eyes of his victim and saw only empty sockets, maggots twisting and crawling and feasting on the fresh blood there. The sailor reached a hand into the same pocket where Massimo had been delving, and pulled out the leathery flap, but it was no purse. It was a severed human tongue.

Massimo staggered backwards, suddenly unable to breathe in, gasping and gasping without letting his already full lungs expel. The thief tripped over his own feet and tumbled to the cobbles with a heavy thump. The dead thing that had been Captain Haaland offered the tongue to Massimo, as if in payment for some unknown debt.

The cutpurse shook his head, waving away the grisly trophy. “No, you keep it!”

Haaland’s blotched and bloody face twisted in an eerie attempt at a smile, the mouth flapping open to let thousands more maggots fall out. The dead sailor pushed the tongue into the mouth, but it would not stay there. All the while Massimo stared at this walking, shuffling atrocity, this corpse on legs, too terrified to run. Instead he crawled away, paying no heed to the cobbles shredding the skin from his knees and hands, ignoring the pain he was causing himself. All he knew was he had to get away from that thing, that monster, before it made him the same. Only when he was out of sight from Haaland did Massimo scramble to his feet, panting for breath, certain he must be trapped in some kind of nightmare yet knowing what he’d seen was all too real.

Then he heard the dead man’s moaning, a low lament of unworldly horror, speaking out loud a single word that resounded like the keening of a mother over their child’s broken, lifeless body: “Haaland.” The word bounced off narrow passageways and close walls, getting louder and louder, penetrating and impossible to keep out. Massimo clamped both hands over his ears, but couldn’t block the cacophony of torment. The cutpurse screamed, bellowing against the noise. And then it stopped. The thief peered round the corner and witnessed something that should have been impossible.

Outside the Temple of Morr, Haaland fell face-first on to the cobbles. But the captain’s body had ceased to be a thing of flesh and blood anymore. As it hit the cobbles, the corpse broke apart into a thousand tendrils of eldritch energy. These leapt into the air a moment, hanging like fireflies above where the body had disintegrated. Then they flew apart, some darting between gaps in the stonework of the nearby mausoleum, others crawling along walls and ceilings, insinuating themselves into homes and workshops. The rest of the tendrils sunk into the cobbles or found their way down drains and channels into the waterways around Suiddock. They were all gone by the time Otto emerged from his temple, perturbed by a noise he’d never heard before. “Is anyone there?” he asked, but got no reply. Massimo was already running towards Three Penny Bridge, determined to confess every crime he’d ever committed, every sin he’d been responsible for. He had to cleanse himself before the end came. He’d looked on the face of eternity and been found wanting.

* * *

On the water beyond Rijker’s Isle, the fog came alive. The sickly yellow mist had remained out on the Manannspoort Sea, as if waiting for something. The moment Haaland’s corpse transmuted into tendrils, the cloud rolled towards Marienburg. The fog became denser, heavier and ever more brooding as it crept past the prison island, paying no heed to those who had locked themselves within the forbidding stone structure, inmate and warder alike. The mist slid by, billowing onwards despite the absence of any breeze. Deep within the fog, something smiled.

CHAPTER FOUR

All three Black Caps stood in the hold of the Altena, staring at the urn. “There can’t be anything alive in there,” Holismus insisted. “It was sealed tight, you said so yourself.”

“But I heard a noise when I broke the seal. It sounded like breathing,” Belladonna insisted. “We have to open all these urns, see what’s inside.” She looked to Silenti for his opinion. He shrugged, before nodding his agreement.

“All right,” Holismus said, glancing at the square of sky visible through the cargo hatch overhead. “Whatever we’re doing, we’d best get on with it. The sun’s setting and I don’t want to be in here after dark. The tide’s close to turning. Once this boat comes free of Riddra, it could sink like a stone.”

Belladonna offered her stiletto to the others. “You want to finish what I started?” Both men shook their heads, Holismus fearful and Silenti rueful. “Fine,” she sighed. “You want a job done properly, you’re better off doing it yourself.” She stabbed the stiletto into the remnants of the seal and twisted the blade. The urn’s lid ground itself against the edge of her knife, before popping free.

Holismus closed his fingers round the lip of the lid. “Ready?” he asked.

Belladonna drew back her knife, while Silenti held his leather jack ready.

“Here goes,” Holismus said. He lifted the lid away, and the air around them was once more choked by the stench of death. The trio coughed and gasped, but took less time to recover than before, having got used to the acrid aroma. They peered inside the urn.

“Sweet Shallya,” Belladonna whispered. Holismus turned away to vomit. Silenti’s face went white, and he whispered a quiet prayer to himself.

Inside the urn was a crumpled human body. It had been stuffed into the pottery container without care or compassion, shoved inside with brute force. Bones had been snapped into pieces to ensure the corpse fitted into the urn, jagged white shards stabbing out through punctured flaps of skin. A broken hand was splayed across a screaming face, while one knee jutted up from below with a foot beside it. The scraps of clothing visible on the corpse suggested this was one of the crewmen, but the horror on his face was unlike anything the Black Caps had seen before. The mangled remains were sat in a jelly of congealing blood, and other unknown substances. Maggots were already crawling across the dead man’s wretched face. It was an atrocity packed in pottery.

Once the shock of seeing the body had passed, Belladonna leaned closer. As a girl she had studied with priests of Morr, learning what they knew about death and the effect it had on corpses. Most people in Marienburg did their best to avoid such encounters, but facing death held little fear for Belladonna. She knew she would perish one day, as would they all. Since that could not be avoided or altered, she had accepted it and moved on.

Her equanimity in the face of death and fascination for its many causes was one of the reasons she had never married, nor become the kept lover of a married man. Besides, Belladonna had other ambitions beyond the bedroom or bearing children. In Marienburg, that made her an outsider, a freak. Even the other Black Caps were never quite sure what to make of her passion for clues and evidence. They lacked her imagination, the gift for seeing what had happened from what was left behind.

“He was still alive when they put him into the urn,” she observed.

Holismus wiped the spittle from his bristle-covered chin. “How can you tell?”

“The terror and pain in his face, for a start,” Belladonna said. “It needed at least two people to shove him into this tiny space, even if he wasn’t fighting back. The broken bones happened before death. You can tell by how much blood escaped the ruptures to his skin. And there are scratch marks inside the urn, where he tried to claw his way out.”

“He was alive when the urn lid was sealed?” Silenti asked, disbelief in his voice.

Belladonna pointed at the interior of the urn lid, where more scratches were visible, along with a few broken fragments of fingernail embedded in the pottery.

Silenti swallowed, hard.

Holismus had recovered enough to look round the hold. There were five more urns, all similar in shape and size to that containing the crumpled crewman. “We’d better check the others. The whole crew could be down here.” But the turning tide had other ideas. The trio had managed to open three more urns, each jar with a dead sailor stuffed inside, when the timbers of the Altena creaked and groaned. The boat jerked backwards, away from Riddra, and the sea water splashing against their boots was up to ankle height.

“Time we got out of here,” Silenti urged.

“There’s only two more urns left to open,” Belladonna said.

“It doesn’t matter. Whatever’s inside them can’t be alive.”

“But we should still check,” she insisted. “We owe them that much.” The vessel lurched again, woodwork protesting at the undercurrents tugging it away from Riddra.

“Silenti’s right,” Holismus insisted. “This crew is dead already. We can’t make any difference to their fate, but I don’t want to drown in here with them—do you?”

Belladonna did not fear death, but she’d no wish to experience it any time soon. “Let’s get back to dry land while we still can,” she agreed.

Kurt waited in the antechamber, trying not to contemplate what fresh nightmare the commander of Marienburg’s City Watch had in store for him. Little more than a year ago Kurt had been summoned to this building and made a captain in the Black Caps—but that promotion came with all manner of strings attached. He was handed the poison chalice of reopening the watch station on Three Penny Bridge, in a district notorious for being the criminal stronghold of Marienburg. The commander gave Kurt twelve months to change all of that, but expected the new captain to fail within twelve days—if not twelve hours.

That Kurt succeeded in what should have been an impossible mission earned him no plaudits or congratulations. His promotion was made permanent, and braver members of the watch from other districts were now asking for transfers to Three Penny Bridge, a sure sign Kurt’s efforts to re-establish it as a beacon for law and order in Suiddock were working. But the new captain had been left waiting for the other shoe to drop, always expecting the commander to stamp upon him and his band of maverick Black Caps.

Now this summons, little more than an hour before Kurt was due to attend a regular meeting of every captain in the city, chaired by the commander. Why? What fresh stricture was the commander planning, what new knife would he twist in Kurt’s back? The doors leading to the commander’s office swung open, and an adjutant summoned Kurt forwards. Come into my chamber said the spider to the fly, Kurt thought to himself.

The commander sat behind his desk on its raised dais, glaring down at the new arrival. Leader of all the Black Caps in Marienburg, the commander had a piercing gaze that could make the bravest of men quail, and a perturbing grimace tugged at his saturnine features. Thinning hair swept back from a broad forehead, while a serpentine tongue moistened narrow lips. This was not a man to be crossed without weapons or company.

There was a fresh-faced figure standing to one side of the desk, a young man of no more than twenty winters, his hands clasped together like a nervous bride. Kurt ignored the stranger, knowing it was best to focus all his attention on the man in charge.

“Captain Schnell, thank you for coming so quickly,” the commander said, his voice a rasping wheeze of superciliousness. Kurt nodded, keeping his own counsel. But he could not keep the surprise from his features at what came next. “I need to ask you a personal favour, and I’d be greatly indebted if you agreed to undertake it.”

Kurt felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise, a sure sign of imminent danger.

The commander gestured at the young man. “This is my nephew, Erasmus Potts—my sister’s boy. He’s hoping to sit in this chair one day, as I’m sure you are too.” When Kurt still didn’t reply, the commander smirked. “Very good, Schnell. I see my faith in your cunning and intelligence was not misplaced. Truly, you are your father’s son.”

Kurt couldn’t suppress a frown at this sly comment. His father was Erwin Schnell, one of Altdorf’s most legendary generals, best known by the nickname Old Ironbeard. But Kurt had not seen his father for years. Their parting was so acrimonious, so fraught with guilt and trauma, that the mere mention of his father made Kurt’s blood boil.

“Erasmus has led too sheltered a life up to now,” the commander continued. “He needs to learn about life on the streets, passageways and canals of Marienburg. I did try placing him with another captain in a more salubrious part of the city, but that proved… incompatible. So I’m posting my nephew to your station instead. A few months in Suiddock will certainly open his eyes, don’t you agree?”

It sounded like a question, but Kurt knew better than to voice his true opinion. Twice before he had clashed with the commander and it was Kurt’s men who suffered, even died, as a consequence. This scheming, snide, sneering toad of a man held the power of life and death over every Black Cap in Marienburg. “Absolutely,” Kurt said in answer to the commander’s rhetorical query. “Visitors to Three Penny Bridge always leave with memories that last them a lifetime.”

“Precisely.” The commander nodded to his nephew. “Erasmus, why don’t you wait for Captain Schnell in my antechamber, there’s a good lad.” The young man smiled to his uncle and nodded to Kurt before hurrying out. Once the door was closed, all trace of warmth was vanquished from the commander’s features. “He’s next to useless and as liable to get your men killed as he is himself slaughtered. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Yes, commander,” Kurt agreed. “How long will he be assigned to my station?”

“A few months, a few years—as long as it takes.”

“Of course.” Kurt cursed inwardly, but his face betrayed none of this frustration.

“Your job is to make sure he stays alive and unharmed, no matter what happens. I trust you don’t need me to spell out what will befall you if Erasmus dies?”

“No, commander.”

“Good. Then we understand each other.” A distant chiming was heard, getting the commander’s attention. “Ahh, the captains’ meeting is upon us. Perhaps it would be useful for Erasmus to observe the gathering, get a sense of what life is like in the upper echelons of the City Watch. You never know, it might convince the young fool he’s better suited to the priesthood, or some other waste of time.”

The eerie fog rolled over the city at sunset, falling like a shroud upon the cobbles and canals. The mist brought with it tiny droplets of moisture that hung in the air, making everything they touched damp and moist. Marienburg stood at the mouth of the Reik, so it was not unusual for fogs to drift in off the Manannspoort Sea and settle over the city. But this cloud was unlike any other that had troubled the settlement.

Most fogs were pale white, perhaps tinted by any nearby naked flames or lanterns. But this fog was as yellow as it was black, greasy on the tongue when breathed in. It chilled to the bone, penetrating cloak and cloth like some icy embrace, like a haunt of winter less than a month after the summer solstice festival of Sonnstill. Those walking through it without covering their nose and mouth soon felt a queasiness gripping them, twisting their bowels and churning their stomachs. Visibility shrank to an arm’s length, until those still heading home after nightfall had to grope their way along the walls and passageways. More than a few took a wrong turning and fell into a canal.

The fog was thin over the north of Marienburg, but south of the Rijksweg it became denser and more dangerous. All the fumes and ash belching from the ever-burning chimneys in Doodkanaal district were adding to it, thickening the shroud-like gloom. Most fogs deadened noise in the city, throwing a hush across the streets and cobbles, but this was different. Strange new noises appeared from the mist, bouncing off walls and the low eaves of thatched roofs. Merchants and fishermen, traders and truants who got home told tales of hisses and muttered curses, whispers and moans issuing from the mist, terrifying and bleak murmurs spat from the all-encompassing cloud.

Belladonna, Holismus and Silenti escaped the Altena mere minutes before the sea claimed the splintered ship, sucking it down into the churning, restless waters north of Riddra. The Black Caps started back to the station so Belladonna could report her findings to Kurt, such as they were. But the rolling fog overtook them long before they reached the span between Riddra and Stoessel, the mist turning familiar streets and passages into a foreign land. Passers-by loomed out of nowhere, and buildings seemed to have rearranged themselves in the gloaming.

It was Belladonna who suggested they stop and seek help, but Holismus refused to contemplate such an embarrassment. “I’ve patrolled these streets for more than a year, I know them like the back of my hand,” he insisted.

“Maybe, but I can’t even see the back of my hand,” she replied, fast losing her patience with the other Black Caps. “Why can’t men ever swallow their pride and ask a stranger for directions? Is it that important nobody ever realises you’re lost?”

“We’re not lost,” Holismus snapped. “We’re just not sure where we are.”

“That’s the same thing.”

“No, it’s not!” he shouted, his angry words echoing back and forth between the glistening walls of stone. Holismus kept hearing his words long after they’d been said.

“Taal’s teeth, stop shouting!” Belladonna bellowed back at him.

“I’m not shouting,” Holismus said, making his voice as quiet as possible.

“Then why can I still—” Belladonna reached out of the mist, her hands finding his face, feeling the contours of his lips. “I can still hear you shouting in my head, but your mouth is shut.” She pulled away from Holismus. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Maybe we should ask someone for help. Silenti, what do you think? Silenti?” But there was no reply.

“Silenti?” Belladonna joined in, calling out the other watchman’s name. It echoed back at her, but there was no response. Nothing.

“This is wrong, this is all wrong,” Holismus muttered. “He was right beside me. I would have heard if he walked away Unless something took him.”

“We lost track of him, that’s all,” Belladonna said, but her words sounded hollow and unconvincing. A new sound crept out of the greasy mist, a noise like bloody meat dragging itself across the nearby cobbles. “What’s that?”

“I don’t know, but it’s coming towards us,” Holismus whispered.

Belladonna found a hand and took hold of it. “We’ll be all right so long as we stick together. I’ve got you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your hand, I’m holding your hand.” She squeezed it. His fingers were frozen.

“I don’t know whose hand you’re holding, but it’s not mine,” Holismus replied.

Belladonna didn’t want to turn her head and see who—or what—was next to her, but she couldn’t help herself. It was impossible not to look. She felt her head twisting round, her eyes searching the thick, choking mist. A face loomed forwards out of the fog, black and purple, blotched and bloody. It was the face of the dead sailor she’d found inside the pottery urn. The corpse puckered its lips, forming them into a grotesque parody of a lover seeking a kiss. Belladonna screamed.

The captains’ meeting had been civilised enough at first, but degenerated into accusations and anger after Georges Sandler bragged about another reduction of the crime rate in his district, Goudberg. Normally it was Kurt who clashed with the golden boy of the City Watch, but this time Bram Quist was the chief antagonist. Captain for the northern district of Noordmuur, Quist had little time for the pampered Sandler.

The two men could not have been less alike. Quist was a grizzled veteran of twenty years spent on the streets, defending the citizens of Marienburg. He’d earned his rank through hard work and stoic belligerence, as proven by the vicious scar that disfigured Quist’s face. By comparison Sandler was handsome, verging on beautiful. His thick mane of brown hair was swept back from a high aristocratic brow, while his jowls and bulging waistline hinted at a life of luxury and ease. It was common knowledge that Sandler’s wealthy parents had bought his commission. Besides, keeping the peace in Goudberg took no great effort. The district was full of rich merchant families, all of whom employed private militia to protect their valuable property.

Quist pointed this out once Sandler had finished boasting, and hinted darkly at other reasons for the lack of crime in Goudberg. “It’s amazing how few lawbreakers you’ll find in a district that’s got a puritanical vigilante force stalking the streets at night.”

Normally Sandler laughed off the accusations of others, but this made the flabby-faced captain see red. He shot to his feet, slamming a fist down on the circular meeting table. “The Knights of Purity were driven out of Goudberg months ago! I saw off those scoundrels myself. Besides, we all know they prefer to go hunting in Doodkanaal.”

“So you always tell us,” Quist sneered. “I think you protest too much.”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” the watch commander interrupted. “Much as I enjoy the parry and thrust of these discussions, we’ve more pressing matters at hand. Firstly, I want an explanation for the incident at Riddra earlier today. Secondly, there’s been a request for an increase in watchmen for the district of Goudberg.” He smiled at Kurt. “Captain Schnell, perhaps you’d like to deal with the former, since you’re in charge of Suiddock.”

That brought a laugh from the others. No captain of the Watch could ever hope to control Suiddock. It was an impossible task, akin to catching eels inside a barrel of oil. Kurt ignored the implied jibe, all too aware of the watch commander’s gaze and the presence of Potts behind him. He cleared his throat, allowing a moment for his anger at the implied insult to subside before answering.

“The facts are these: a Marienburg cargo ship called the Altena crashed into Riddra earlier today, causing the collapse of several houses and a number of fatalities. Both my Black Caps and the Suiddock River Watch investigated. There was a pitched battle between our forces and a gathering of heavily armed looters and scavengers, in which several maritime watchmen were killed, before we prevailed. At present the cause of the accident remains under investigation.”

The watch commander arched an eyebrow. “And you expect us to believe that?”

“That’s what will be in my written report,” Kurt replied, smiling despite himself. He hated all forms of paperwork and left the writing of reports to Scheusal and the more literate Gerta. Manann alone knows what they actually submitted to headquarters each month, as their handwriting was even less legible than Kurt’s own.

“I see,” the watch commander sneered. He nodded to his adjutant, who stood by the meeting chamber’s double doors. The underling opened these and ushered in Damphoost, the River Watch captain’s uniform still stained with blood and mud from the battle with the ratmen. The commander introduced him to the other captains, before inviting the maritime watchman to describe what had happened at Riddra.

Damphoost glanced at Kurt, who remained impassive.

“In your own words,” the commander growled.

Damphoost repeated what Kurt had said, almost word for word.

The commander’s face fractured into something resembling a smile. “And here was I led to believe you and Captain Schnell did not see eye to eye on most things. Yet both of you have given this meeting exactly the same report.”

“Captain Schnell and I only disagree on matters of opinion,” Damphoost replied. “When it comes to the truth, there can be little dispute.”

“So it would seem. Thank you for your time,” the commander said. “That is all.” The adjutant ushered Damphoost back outside, shutting the doors after him.

“I’ll keep you apprised of any further developments,” Kurt told the meeting.

“Yes,” the commander agreed, through gritted teeth. “Please do that.” He twisted round to glare at Sandler, who was sat opposite Kurt. “Now, perhaps the captain from Goudberg can convince us why we should give him the increase in manpower he seeks.”

Sandler nodded, all too aware of the angry undercurrent in his commander’s tone. “My watchmen have built up a network of contacts among the criminals of Goudberg—”

“What, both of them? Or have you got three criminals now?” Quist jeered.

“My district may have the lowest levels of lawbreaking in the city,” Sandler continued, “but I’ve good reason to believe a major incident is planned for Goudberg. I’m not able to reveal what that could be at this time, but trust that the good work my Black Caps have done will not be ignored by the Watch. I ask for a temporary—I repeat, temporary—increase in numbers for my district.”

“If any area needs more watchmen, it’s Suiddock,” Kurt cut in. “I’ve got the Thieves’ Guild plus the stevedores and teamsters on my doorstep. Half the crimes committed in Marienburg can be traced back to members from those organisations.”

“There are more important considerations than petty crime,” Sandler snapped.

“You’re calling murder, robbery and smuggling petty crime?” Kurt asked, unable to keep the disbelief from his voice. “What crimes do you have in Goudberg that are so much more important? Please, enlighten us!”

Sandler opened his mouth to respond, but the commander cut short the debate with his wooden gavel, slamming it down on the table. “Enough. Until Captain Sandler is able to offer more specifics, Black Cap allocations shall remain as they are now. That is all. We meet again seven days after Geheimnistag, barring emergencies. Dismissed.”

Sandler stormed from the chamber, his fellow captains Wout and Rottenrow hurrying after him. Kurt made sure he timed his own departure to coincide with that of Quist. They had clashed in the past, but the captain from Noordmuur was becoming something of an ally in these meetings. “Thanks for what you said,” Kurt muttered.

“Only speaking my mind,” Quist replied. Kurt waited until they were out in the corridor and clear of the other captains before asking what his colleague thought of Sandler’s request for more men. “Typical showboating, that’s gorgeous Georges all over,” said Quist. “Claims there’s some great threat to get him more men, increase his powerbase. Two meetings later he’d say the threat was averted thanks to the extra Black Caps, and they should become a permanent presence in his district.”

“He seemed angry enough when we challenged him.”

“Well, I don’t trust him. Sandler’s hiding something, always has been. I’ve heard whispers his wife was a secret Chaos worshipper before she killed herself.”

Kurt frowned. “How could he still be a captain, if that was true?”

Quist rubbed the fingers of his left hand together. “A substantial donation to the commander’s favourite charity from the wife’s family and it all went away. Trust me, there’s something rotten about Captain Georges Sandler.”

Belladonna staggered through the streets of Suiddock, unable to see the way for fog, her boots slipping and sliding on the greasy cobbles. The corpse was closing on her, and it had been joined by three others, all three risen from the watery grave of the Altena. The dead sailors were stalking her, playing with her. She rounded a corner, thinking there might be sanctuary ahead, only to find one of the corpses had got there ahead of her somehow. Belladonna couldn’t shake the feeling she was going in circles.

She tried hammering on doors and windows, but nobody answered, nobody came to her aid. She was on her own, alone and terrified. All her bravado about facing death without fear, of knowing what lay ahead for her—that was easily said in the light of day when you were warm and safe. But here in the mist-shrouded darkness, with death at her heels and greasy clouds of fog choking the breath from her body, Belladonna realised how flawed her bravado was. She’d been a fool and now she was going to die for it. Sweet Shallya, were they going to do to her what had been done to them? Stuff her in one of those pottery urns, breaking her bones and crushing the life from her lungs? Seal her inside forever as the final torment? Anything but that, she whispered, anything but that.

Holismus was running after Belladonna when his brother appeared out of the mist. Belladonna had fled into the fog, screaming in terror at something Holismus had not seen. He went after her, fearful she would come to harm. Holismus called for Silenti to follow him but heard no reply. Every time he got close to Belladonna she gave him the slip. He kept calling out her name, but it sounded strange to his ears, as if somebody else was speaking through his lips. Then Joost lurched into his path and Holismus forgot all about the other Black Caps. He had his own nightmare to confront.

Joost had been captain at Three Penny Bridge before Chaos addled and mutated him. Long thought drowned, Joost had reappeared to haunt and torment his younger brother when Holismus was assigned to help reopen the watch station in Suiddock. The witch hunters took Joost away to purge the heretic taint from his fractured body, but he had escaped to the marshes south of the city, where fen loonies roamed the forbidding wasteland. Holismus thought that the best place for his brother, and hoped never to see him again.

But now Joost appeared in front of him, large as life and twice as ugly as before. The mutating power of Chaos had rendered the fugitive all but unrecognisable. It was only the last glimmer of humanity still lingering in those eyes and the sibilant rasp of Joost’s familiar voice that proved his identity to Holismus. “Why do you run, little brother? You cannot hope to escape the same fate as me. It is inevitable, Lothar. It is your destiny to become like me. Don’t fight against your fate—embrace it.”

“Keep away from me,” Holismus warned him. “Don’t touch me!”

“Why not? Don’t you care about me anymore, little brother?”

“Stop calling me that,” Holismus spat. “You stopped being my brother when you surrendered yourself to Chaos. You shamed the family, you shamed us all.”

“Let me make it better,” Joost hissed, reaching out a blood-smeared hand. “Let me help you become like me. Let the sweet taste of Chaos claim your flesh and your soul.”

“Never!” Holismus sank to his knees on the cobbles, sobbing. “I’ll die first.”

It was a smell that lured Silenti away, a familiar scent on the air from his childhood. Every Festag after sundown his mother would boil water for the copper bathtub that hung on a hook behind the kitchen door. Then all the Silenti children would take it in turns to get scrubbed clean, washing away the grime accumulated from Wellentag to Angestag. First one in always complained the water was too hot, last one out always complained the water was too cold and dirty. So Mama Silenti kept a roster of whose turn it was next to wash first. As one wet child jumped out and their replacement jumped in, she sprinkled a handful of salts and dried herbs into the water to keep it smelling sweet, no matter how grubby the liquid might have become.

That was the smell that tugged at the Black Cap, the scent of dried herbs and bathing salts, an aroma so rich and powerful it transported him back to that room, that time, that place. Silenti wandered through the streets of Suiddock, seeing his brothers and sisters lining the cobbles. One by one they had died, taken by a pox that had no cure. Nine out of ten children died that year, but little Alfons had been the lucky one, the sole survivor. Even his mother succumbed to the pox, though most adults were immune. Not her. She perished in bed, pus-dripping sores blistering her skin, her eyes weeping blood.

She waited for him now, looking the same as the day she died, her face still creased by pain. Behind her was that same copper bathtub, steam rising from its surface to form a delicious mist in the air, the aroma of salts and dried herbs heavy and warm. “It’s your turn to go first, Alfons,” she cooed, though crimson tears stained her sunken, pock-marked cheeks. “I filled it for you specially.”

Silenti stumbled past her to the edge of the bathtub and looked inside it. But the liquid inside was boiling hot blood, not water. It bubbled and gurgled, releasing a fresh waft of aroma into the air. Silenti peered up at his mother. She seemed to tower over him, her arms broad as those of any stevedore. “I don’t want to,” he said.

“But it’s your turn, Alfons,” she insisted. “You’ve got to wash behind your ears.”

Silenti shook his head, but to no avail. A grip of iron clenched itself round the back of his neck and pressed his face down towards the bubbling bathtub of blood. The nearer he got to the surface, the hotter his features became. The liquid was boiling, hot enough to scald the skin from his face. Silenti tried to struggle, tried to fight back, but he was helpless in his mother’s grasp. That was how she’d always made him feel, utterly helpless. He’d been happy the day she died, free from her grasp at last. Now she was making him suffer for wishing her dead. Now she was killing him as revenge. Silenti stopped fighting as his face plunged towards the boiling bath of blood. He deserved to die.

CHAPTER FIVE

The watch commander thought his nephew should arrive at Three Penny Bridge in style, and arranged a private carriage to take Potts to Suiddock, even allowing Kurt to share the transportation. But the horse-drawn carriage skidded to a halt halfway across the mighty Hoogbrug. Kurt climbed out to see what was wrong. “It’s this fog; got the horses well and truly spooked,” the gruff man at the reins replied. “Sorry, but they won’t go another step across this bridge.”

Getting any driver to go west of the river was never easy in Marienburg, but for once Kurt could understand the objection. There’d been a thin mist in the air when they’d left City Watch headquarters, but nothing untoward for the time of year. Kurt had once escorted a prisoner from Doodkanaal all the way to Noordmuur. The western district basked in bright summer weather, but the temperature was half that further north after a sea mist rolled in, blotting out the sun. This time the conditions were reversed. The fog was so dense ahead of the carriage he couldn’t make out anything more than a stone’s throw beyond the unhappy horses. The cloud extended as far as the eye could see both north and south away from the bridge.

“There’s nothing for it,” Kurt said. “We’ll have to walk the rest of the way.”

“Good,” Potts replied, emerging from his uncle’s carriage. “I’d rather walk. It’ll give me a chance to see some of the district first-hand.”

Kurt smiled. He’d done much the same thing on his way to assume the captaincy at Three Penny Bridge. Perhaps Potts wasn’t the fool his uncle thought. “I’ll doubt you’ll see much of anything tonight. I’ve had pea and ham soup that was clearer than this mist, and a healthier looking colour.” He pressed coins into the driver’s hand, more than enough to pay for the journey, before striding west into the mist with Potts. They’d not gone more than ten paces when the fog closed in around them, blotting out everything in front and behind. The two men kept going, both wishing they’d thought to bring a lantern to light their way. It was a pleasant surprise when two glowing lights appeared in front of them, both held by men in dark caps. Kurt recognised them as Andries and Wijk, watchmen assigned to policing the curfew on the Hoogbrug after dark. It wasn’t easy to tell the pair apart when both had kerchiefs tied round their faces, hiding all but their eyes. Andries’ gruff Bretonnian accent gave him away.

“Captain Schnell?” Andries asked. “What are you doing out in this?”

“Trying to get home,” Kurt replied, introducing his new watchman to them. “Why have you two got your mouths and noses covered?”

“Stops the visions,” Wijk muttered.

“Visions?”

Andries nodded. “People who stay out in the fog too long start seeing things, it plays tricks with their reason. Happens when you breathe in too much of this mist.”

“Good to know,” Kurt said. “Can we borrow a lantern? It’ll take us forever to reach the station otherwise. I’ll send one of my men back with it at sunrise.”

The Black Caps agreed, Wijk surrendering his lantern. Kurt and Potts pressed on, both holding a tunic sleeve over their mouth and nose to filter out the fog. It took them twice the usual time to reach the western end of the bridge, such was the density and bone-numbing chill of the mist surrounding them. Kurt paused to look around before pressing on. “Hope none of my men are still out in this.”

Belladonna ran smack into a wall of stone, and was thrown backwards on to greasy, wet cobbles. She sprawled there gasping for breath, winded by the double impact. She could hear one of the creatures coming for her, closing in. Exhausted and spent, Belladonna twisted round to face her fears. Instead she saw Holismus crawling towards her, tears and snot streaming down his face, eyes bulging with stark terror.

“What happened? Where’s Silenti?” The watchman stared at her, unable to reconcile the words with what he saw. “Holismus, it’s me—Belladonna!”

He blinked, and recognition warmed his features. “Belladonna?”

“Yes, that’s right.” She scrambled over to him, helping her fellow Black Cap to his feet. “What were you trying to get away from?”

“My brother, Joost.” Holismus glanced over a shoulder, checking to make sure the Chaos-crazed sibling was not close by. “He came back for me.”

“Well, he’s not there now.” She slid a comforting arm round his shoulders. “I kept seeing the dead crewmen from the Altena. I thought they wanted to shove me into one of those Lustrian pottery urns. It felt so real…” Belladonna looked about, trying to make sense of their surroundings. The two of them had wandered into an alleyway beside a tall stone building. There were lights inside, visible through the distinctive shaped windows. “I know this place. It’s the Golden Lotus Dreaming House, the drug den.”

“How’d we end up here?” Holismus wondered.

“I don’t know.” Belladonna breathed in, taking a deep lungful of air. The sickly sweet smell of the drugs consumed inside the Golden Lotus habitually seeped from the building, so much so nearby citizens crossed the road when passing to avoid being affected by the vapours. But Belladonna found the aroma easing away her fear and terror, the belief she was being followed, even stalked. “It must be something in the fog,” she realised.

Holismus looked at her, one eyebrow raised.

“We’ve been seeing things, hearing things that aren’t here. The dead crewmen we found in those urns are at the bottom of the sea, trapped inside the wreck of the Altena. They can’t have been hunting me. And your brother is still out with the fen loonies, there’s no way he could have got back to Suiddock—not in this weather.”

“It was our minds, playing tricks on us?”

“Exactly,” Belladonna replied, smiling.

Holismus wasn’t so relieved. “We’ve got to find Silenti. Manann knows what he’s imagining is happening to him, but it can’t be good!”

With a lantern to light the way and cloth over their mouths to stave off the worst of the mist, Kurt and Potts made decent time to Three Penny Bridge. Curfew kept most law-abiding citizens at home after dark, and the sinister, unnatural mist had driven the rest back to wherever they lived and slept. The captain and his new recruit found the station ablaze with light, with more than a dozen people locked in the central holding cells, most of them screaming, ranting or raving.

Scheusal was hunched over the desk sergeant’s table, gently snoring. Kurt gave his sergeant a nudge in the ribs. “Not now, Gerta—I’m only human, you know.”

The captain cleared his throat. “Attention!”

Scheusal snapped awake, straightening up and saluting in one swift movement. He relaxed on seeing his captain’s wry smile, and the bemused young man at Kurt’s side. “How was your meeting with the watch commander?”

“I’ve had worse. This is Erasmus Potts, a new watchman for our ranks.” Kurt leaned close enough to whisper in Scheusal’s ear. “He’s the commander’s nephew, but best the others don’t know that. Understand?” The sergeant nodded and smiled.

“Welcome,” Scheusal said to Potts. “Is this your first time in Suiddock?”

“Yes,” the newcomer replied. He stared at the wild-eyed collection of prisoners in the holding cells. “Is it always like this here?”

“No, this is out of the ordinary, even for Three Penny Bridge,” the sergeant said. “They’ve been coming in all night, begging to be kept safe from whatever or whoever is chasing them. Everyone’s got a different story, but the gist is the same—”

“They’ve all been confronted by their worst fears and nightmares,” Belladonna interjected from the doorway. She and Holismus were dragging the unconscious figure of Silenti into the station, all three of them with scraps of cloth masking their noses and mouths. “We had the same thing, coming back from the wreck. The fog overtook us.”

“In every sense,” Holismus added. “We found Silenti trying to drown himself in a water trough. He’d have succeeded too, if we hadn’t pulled him out in time.”

“Get inside and shut those doors,” Scheusal urged. “Got enough half-crazed people in here already. I don’t want to join them.” He went over to help Holismus get Silenti upstairs to the sleeping quarters, while Belladonna joined Kurt at the sergeant’s desk. Potts introduced himself to her while the captain watched.

“Why don’t you go upstairs?” Kurt suggested to Potts, pointing at the nearest staircase. “Gerta should still be up, and she’ll have a hot meal available if you’re hungry. She’s also find you an empty bed, and show you where to do your ablutions.”

“Yes, captain, of course.”

Belladonna waited until Potts was gone before telling Kurt the cruel fate of the Altena crewmen. “I’ve never seen the like before, and I’ve witnessed plenty of deaths.”

“Who would do such a thing, and why?” Kurt wondered.

“What happened with the Altena, the way this fog came in so soon afterwards, and the effect it has on anyone who breathes in the mist—it can’t be coincidence, all this happening in the one district, not in such a short space of time,” Belladonna said.

Scheusal came back downstairs. “Silenti’s recovering, but he was badly shaken.”

“I know how he feels,” Belladonna sighed.

“Everything that’s happened today—the Altena, the battle at the wreck, the fog and what it’s doing to people—it all starts with that cargo ship,” Kurt decided. “What have we found out about it? Anything might help.”

“Bescheiden got hold of a manifest and a crew list from the docks after you got the summons,” the sergeant replied. “Captain’s name is—or was—Haaland.”

“Don’t say that name,” a frantic voice yelled from the holding cells. “Never say that name!” Kurt, Scheusal and Belladonna looked across at a small-boned man whose face looked as if it had been bleached white by fear.

“You recognise the name?” Kurt demanded, approaching the cells.

The prisoner nodded, his hands trembling. “I tried to pick his pocket.”

Kurt glanced across to Scheusal, who provided an introduction. “This is mighty Massimo, self-proclaimed king of Marienburg’s cutpurses. Lifted more money pouches than I’ve had hot dinners,” the sergeant said, patting his rotund, well-fed stomach.

Massimo grimaced. “I thought he was drunk, this sailor. He had a captain’s insignia, and a bulge in his pocket, so I figured it might be worth investigating. But it wasn’t a money pouch inside.” He pressed his face closer to the bars, lowering his voice to a whisper. “It was a human tongue.”

Belladonna folded her arms. “In normal circumstances…”

“There was nothing normal about this,” Massimo insisted.

“Haaland?”

“Don’t say that name!” the cutpurse hissed. “He tried to kill me, but I ran, fast as I could. That’s when I heard the name. Nearly deafened me, it did. Then he came apart.”

“Came apart?” Scheusal asked.

Massimo described the captain disintegrating into eldritch energy, the way each tendril had snaked away in search of some unknown destination or victim. “That’s when I ran. I needed to confess my sins, all my crimes. The end days are coming, and I don’t want anything on my conscience when I’m dancing with Morr.”

“We’ll see what we can do,” Kurt said, before ushering Belladonna and Scheusal out of the thief’s earshot. “Well, what do you think of his story?”

“Any other day I’d suggest he needs his head examining,” the sergeant observed. “But today… There could be some truth in his tale, however much he’s exaggerated it.”

“I agree,” Belladonna said. “Everything points to a malevolent force being let loose in Suiddock, maybe across the city. But we’re at the centre of what’s happening.”

Kurt nodded, his face a grimace of anger. “You’re both right, I’m sure of it too. Someone—or something—has unleashed dark magic upon Marienburg!”

* * *

The Keeper had been praying since dawn, his eyes fixed on the empty sockets of the skull, watching the steady trickle of crimson seeping from each of the hollow orbits. Sixteen hours on bended knee was enough to cripple the most faithful of believers, at least temporarily, but the Keeper did not surrender to his cramp and exhaustion until he heard the distant chimes of midnight. The noise echoed in the rooms above the oubliette, carried there by walls of stone from some other part of the subterranean temple.

The Keeper relaxed, easing himself back onto his withered haunches. He knew better than to try standing yet. It would be many minutes before the circulation returned to his weary legs. Besides, there wasn’t anywhere much to walk in this underground chamber. He knew every stone, every crevice and object within this place—how could he not? It had been his home since the age of eighteen. Sometimes the Keeper wondered how much the world outside these walls had changed. Did anyone still remember him?

There were days he feared even the guards who stood vigil above the oubliette might forget his presence beneath their feet. He had no way of leaving, unless someone unlocked and opened the hatch set into the ceiling overhead. Meals were lowered through a smaller hatch within the hatch, no wider than a man’s fist, while all his bodily waste vanished down a privy hole in one corner. Thirty years he had remained in this space, denying himself the sun, the moon and the stars. All for the love of his life: Solkan.

Not once had he heard the voice of his god, or known for certain if he was truly doing Solkan’s will. He had to survive on the strength of his beliefs. True faith needed no proof, no certainty, no guarantees. True faith was enough, in and of itself. So when the skull spoke to him, the Keeper did not know what to think.

Are you a true servant of Solkan?

The Keeper blinked. “Who said that?”

Are you a faithful disciple of Solkan?

“How can you ask that?” The Keeper whirled round, trying to discern where the voice was coming from. He could see nobody else with him in the oubliette, no mouth from where the words could emit.

Are you willing to prove your devotion?

“Yes, my lord, of course! I am your chattel, to do with as you wish.”

Are you willing to die for me?

A jolt of realisation shook the Keeper. He was not hearing these words—they were being spoken inside his mind. How was that possible? Had he succumbed to madness after so long alone? Or was this the voice of Solkan, come to answer his prayers at last? How would he ever know which one of those alternatives was true?

By surrendering yourself, your life to me.

The Keeper nodded, his eyes still searching the oubliette for answers he knew they wouldn’t find. He was on his feet now, the pain and weariness in his legs forgotten in the excitement of the moment. “I am your vessel, lord. Your will is my command.” Then the Keeper saw where the voice was originating: the holy relic, the skull.

We must become one, it spoke into the Keeper’s mind. We must be as one.

“Tell me how and it shall be done.” The Keeper could not help staring at the skull. It had sat immobile and lifeless on the stone pedestal all the years he’d been guardian of the oubliette, awaiting the coming of prophecy. The weeping of blood was the first sign of the horrors to come. But none of the sacred texts of Solkan made any mention of what was happening now. The skull was coming to life before his eyes.

You must die so I may live again, it whispered in his mind.

The blood that had pooled round the skull was rolling back up its sides, adhering to the bone surfaces. The Keeper watched amazed as the liquid transmuted into flesh and sinew, vein and skin, as if thousands of years of decay were being undone in moments. Baleful eyes grew out of the empty sockets, while jet-black hair sprouted across the brow and billowed from the glistening scalp. The skull was recreating itself before him.

“What must I do, lord?” the Keeper asked.

Kill yourself, the skull urged. End your life so I might live again.

The Keeper was shaken. “But… I cannot.”

Why?

“Your laws forbid it, lord. Taking the lives of others in vengeance is the way of Solkan. But a true believer cannot take their own life, else they face damnation.” The Keeper didn’t understand. How could a god not know his own catechism?

You’re already damned, fool—like the rest of this city.

The skull’s eyes blazed with malevolent fury, an unearthly energy building up inside those black, soulless pupils. The Keeper wanted to tear his gaze away from them, wanted to run, but he was trapped inside the oubliette. He looked up at the ceiling, intending to hammer on the hatch for help, but it was there no more—gone. Vanished. There was no way out, no escape. The Keeper realised whatever was inhabiting the holy relic had nothing to do with Solkan. This was another kind of vengeance, something far more terrifying. Eldritch energy burst from the black eyes, boring twin holes into the chest of the Keeper. He screamed and screamed and screamed—

The Keeper jolted awake, his body stiff and sore on the cold, stone floor. He gazed round, trying to comprehend what had happened. Atop the pedestal the skull was the same as when his heavy eyelids had closed, gentle trickles of blood still oozing from the empty sockets. The voice, that terrible taunting voice— he had dreamed it. A nightmare, that was all it had been. The Keeper let himself relax, the furious thumping of his heart easing back down to a normal rhythm. But even as he let out a sigh of blessed relief, something was still troubling his thoughts.

The oubliette was supposed to be protected from attack by its position beneath the holiest temple to the glory of Solkan in all of Marienburg. During the Keeper’s many years in this cell, he’d never known a bad dream or had his sleep troubled by fear. How had this torment crept into his dreams? How had it penetrated the temple’s defences?

The Keeper did not notice the wisp of mist as it slid back down the privy hole and drifted out through the sewers to the sea. He did not know his death was now assured.

Stefan Rothemuur did not enjoy being heir to one of the richest fortunes in all of Marienburg. Sickly as a child, he had grown into a weak and often ill adult, prone to catching every cold, sniffle and sickness that passed by the door of the Rothemuur palace in central Goudberg. His father enjoyed a rude good health and Stefan often felt an overwhelming sense of shame from old Maximilian at having sired such a feeble boy. But that didn’t stop the patriarch trying to marry off his sole male heir as a bargaining chip in business negotiations with the House van de Kuypers.

The Rothemuur fortune was based on importing precious goods from two main areas—Araby and the New World. The House de Roelef was Maximilian’s competition for the Araby trade routes. He’d once tried to eliminate that competition by proposing marriage to Clotilde de Roelef, matriarch of the rival household—she’d laughed in his face. Now Maximilian sought to shore up his alliance with the Van de Kuypers over the New World trade routes by marrying Stefan to that household’s sole heir, a ruddy-faced, muscular woman called Geertruida.

The prospect terrified Stefan, who thought he’d be lucky to survive a night in their marital bed if the union went ahead. Geertruida was likely to crush him to death between her bulging thighs. But Maximilian was determined to see his son married profitably, and had invited the Van de Kuypers clan to a grand ball. Stefan spent the night hiding in various nooks and crannies of the gaudy Tilean-style palace, using its ornate fountains and pastel marble corners as refuges from the dreaded Geertruida. Eventually he retreated to one place Stefan was certain nobody would ever look for him: the family crypt.

Generation upon generation of Rothemuurs were laid out in stone tombs beneath the palace, each incumbent resting beneath the family crest of three blood-red circles on a golden shield. Stefan knew he was fated to spend eternity down here once his life was over, but had long found that prospect comforting. To know one’s last repose offered a reassurance most citizens of Marienburg could not hope for. As a Rothemuur his mortal remains would crumble away to dust in dignity without need for quicklime or the crematorium’s flames to hasten the process. It was natural, it was proper.

Stefan had played in the crypt since childhood, knowing few but him ever ventured down here, below the wine cellar and quarters for the family’s private militia. A dozen burly men resided under the mansion, ready to spring to the defence of the Rothemuurs. But there had never been an attack on the family, its home, its fortune or its status as one of the great merchant houses—one of the Ten. The only threat Maximilian and his kin faced came from business rivals, not armed assault.

It was no coincidence the name of Goudberg could easily be translated as Gold Mound. The district was home to a citizenry of conservative, upper middle class families, all devout followers of Manann or Haendryk—gods of the seas and prosperity. So the Rothemuurs’ private militia was fat and complacent, not nearly ready for what Stefan found when he sought refuge among his ancestors in the crypt.

The family heir unlocked the rusted, dusty metal gates and pushed his way inside. It was more than a year since he’d visited the crypt, not since his aunt Karin perished at a ripe old age. Stefan’s father had grumbled it wasn’t worth burying her: Karin was so old her body was dry and brittle as ancient papyrus already, but tradition was tradition. She had joined all the others, dressed in a splendid white gown of finest Araby cotton. Stefan was sorry for her passing, since Karin was the closest thing to a friend he had among the family. True, he was coming to the crypt to avoid Geertruida, but it was also a chance to pay Karin a visit, perhaps offer a last farewell to her.

He’d brought a lantern down with him, the light throwing strange, ragged shadows across the crypt. Bleak silhouettes moved back and forth across the walls and tombs, almost as if there were others down here with Stefan, scuttling from darkness to darkness. That was impossible, of course. The fine sheen of dust across the floor proved he was the first visitor since Karin’s committal.

Her tomb was at the far end of the crypt, where the walls curved up into the high, vaulted ceiling. Stefan never ceased to be amazed at how dry and arid the chamber was, when it stood so deep beneath the palace that it must be well below sea level. When Stefan reached his aunt’s tomb, he found the slab of stone that once sealed her resting place had been pushed aside, and the dust beside it was disturbed. Almost as if something from inside had forced a way out. Something, or someone…

“Looking for me?” The words were hissed from behind him, like an accusation.

Stefan recognised his aunt’s voice, but he knew she couldn’t be alive. They had all watched her die, skin stretched like taut linen across the bones of her face, the sickly yellow pallor, the wheezing gasps for breath fading to naught. They had seen her entombed down here, locked away for all eternity with no food, no drink and no light. She couldn’t still be alive. She couldn’t be. It was impossible, Stefan told himself.

A skeletal hand closed on his right shoulder, flaps of rotten skin hanging from jaundiced bones, a whiff of decay rising from the desiccated fingers. “If you wanted to see me, honey boy, all you have to do is turn around,” Karin’s voice whispered.

Honey boy was the nickname she’d given him. Only his dead aunt knew that name, it was their little secret. Karin had taken it to her final resting place, but now her tomb was empty and her voice was in his ear. Stefan felt something warm and wet running down the inside of his legs, as fear stole away control of his bladder. There were other noises in the crypt, the grinding of stone against stone as the lids atop other tombs slid sideways, and bony, decrepit hands emerged from inside.

“It’s been too long, honey boy,” Karin cooed. “Give your old aunt a kiss.”

Out of the corner of his eye Stefan could see her rotting face creeping towards him, lips puckering together. Grey hairs sprouted from above the lips and a fat, white maggot was worming its way out of her festering nostrils. It was all too much for the heir to the Rothemuur fortune. Clamping his eyes shut, he stumbled past his dead aunt, groping his way towards the crypt gates. “Guards!” Stefan shouted, his own voice sounding more like a hoarse croak than a cry for help. “Guards!”

“It’s happening across the city,” one of the Knights of Purity said. “All the dead in crypts below sea level are rising from their final resting places, demanding to be set free. Fortunately, only the richest families have crypts in their homes, and they also have private militia they can call upon to keep the problem under control.”

The cabal had come together in the secret temple at midnight, to hear reports of the past day’s events. The news was worrying, confirming the warning given by the Keeper at dawn—the prophecy was coming true. The cabal’s leader had listened and brooded, not speaking except to call for the next report. Once all the other Knights had finished, their leader strode to a tapestry on the temple wall. It showed all of Marienburg, each district signified by a different colour of thread. “You say these incidents, the dead rising from their tombs, are happening across the city?”

“Yes, where the tombs are set deep in the ground. That tends to be in the more prosperous, eastern districts—Goudberg, Guilderveld, Handelaarmarkt to a lesser extent, parts of Noordmuur, and obviously Paleisbuurt. We don’t know about the elf quarter, they keep themselves to themselves.”

The cabal’s leader nodded. “What about the fog?”

Another of the knights spoke, his accent betraying an upbringing in the city’s poorer parts, most likely Winkelmarkt. “That’s worst round the southern districts, but all of Suiddock’s being choked by it. The mist is thickening across parts of Tempelwijk and Doodkanaal. Curfew’s kept most citizens safe thus far, but when the sun rises…”

“If the sun rises,” the leader said. “It’s doubtful anyone south of the Rijksweg will be able to see the sky by morning at this rate. All these events are merely harbingers, the first jabs by the enemy to test our strength, and our resilience.”

“What can we do?”

“We are few and our foe is great. We will need help to defeat them.” The leader gestured at the tapestry. “This pattern reminds me of something an old soldier once said. Armies attacking an entrenched enemy would set fires of wet foliage upwind, to conceal their approach. Next, insurgents would be sent ahead to spread terror and unrest among any civilians, preparing the ground for the main attack. The fog that has swallowed Suiddock is a cover for what is to come, and these ghostly apparitions and skeletal uprisings—another feint. Our real enemy has yet to show itself, or its strength.”

“Meaning?”

“This is merely the beginning. The true horror’s yet to come.”

CHAPTER SIX

Kurt fell asleep in his office, deciding it was better to remain at the station overnight in case the problems caused by the fog worsened. His home might only be on the other side of Three Penny Bridge, but in a crisis every moment could be crucial. He dreaded what might happen when sleep took him, after the previous night’s dream about slicing out the eyes of his Black Caps. But Kurt knew exhaustion always impeded performance. With dark magic at work within Marienburg, he needed to be at his peak.

Kurt had no truck with magic of any kind, but accepted it was a part and parcel of life in the city, no matter how much he might resent that intrusion on reality. There was enough normal crime to keep Kurt and his Black Caps occupied at the best of times. Now the dark magic of Chaos had been loosed on Suiddock, the station’s troubles would be trebled. Despite his misgivings about magic, the captain had learned to respect those who possessed powers and abilities beyond his own. Priests and mages, elves and alchemists could be useful allies in the unending battle to maintain law and order.

Kurt had thought about going to Otto, to see if the disciple of Morr could find some meaning in the previous night’s disturbing dream, but such was the clamour of the day it had proven impossible. Instead the captain closed his eyes and hoped this sleep would be less troubled as Angestag became Festag. His hope was in vain.

He knew he was dreaming when his eyes opened; what other explanation could there be for his surroundings? Kurt was back in his old home at Altdorf, the bedroom he shared so joyously with Sara before the tragic events that stole her away. Kurt could smell sandalwood and jasmine blowing in through the open windows, ushered to him by a spring zephyr that caressed the room’s pale curtains. Another combination of aromas delighted his senses, cinnamon and honey-roasted pork drifting up from the kitchen below, a feast in the making. They would eat well tonight.

A boy ran into the room, his happy face beaming up at Kurt. “Papa, Papa, come and see! I made a fort out of the old armour you gave me—come and see it!”

Kurt crouched beside the child, ruffling a hand through the boy’s shock of sandy hair. “I’ll come in a minute, Luc. I need to talk to your mother about something first.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.” Kurt hugged the boy, kissing his freckled forehead. “Run back to your room now. I’ll expect to see two doorways on that fort, young man. Like grandfather says, always make sure you’ve two ways to retreat or attack from any defensive position.”

“Yes, Papa!” Luc ran back out, the enthusiastic stomps of his feet announcing where in the house he was, as always. Stealth was an art the lad had yet to discover.

Kurt stood, a smile on his chiselled face but sadness in his ice-blue eyes. How often he’d dreamed this fantasy; spending time with his boy, teaching Luc all the things Old Ironbeard had taught him, but tempering those lessons with love and affection too. In truth, Kurt had no idea if Luc had sandy hair or freckles, or how heavy his boy’s footfalls were. Father and son had never spent an hour in each other’s company, denied that by the righteous indignation of Kurt’s father. Would that it were different, that he could exchange the bitter reality of their true circumstances for this fantasy. But wishes and hopes were for others. All Kurt had was his dream, this fantasy to console him.

He walked to the window and looked out over the rooftops of Altdorf. The city he still considered home was so different from Marienburg. It was a wrench coming back here even in a dream, for Kurt knew he’d have to leave when the dream ended; it hurt.

“Deep in thought?”

Kurt smiled. He’d forgotten how soft, how musical her voice was. It brought a lilt to any words, a charm that had bewitched him from the moment they met. He could have listened to that voice for the rest of his life. Instead this was the only way they could ever be together again, a fantasy born of his need for the warmth and affection he’d lost. Sara stood behind him, her long and slender fingers idly massaging Kurt’s scalp through his hair. Back in Altdorf his locks had been long and full, a thing of quiet pride. He’d shaved them all off after arriving in Marienburg, not wanting any reminder of how much he’d lost. As if a haircut—however brutal—could still the dull ache inside his heart.

“Keep staring outside, and people will think you’re deep and moody,” she teased.

“You’re saying I’m not?”

Sara giggled, a sound like home to Kurt’s ears. “You have your moments.”

“I do my best.”

“Come to bed,” she whispered, one hand sliding round his waist and down between his legs. “Let’s have another moment.”

“Luc’s just in the next room.”

“Then shut the door so he can’t interrupt us.” Kurt heard her walk to the bed, the familiar sigh of the mattress as his wife slid beneath the covers. A brightly coloured dress landed on the wooden floorboards beside him. “Hurry up, or I’ll start without you, lover.”

Kurt needed no more urging. He strode to the door and pushed it shut, twisting a key in the lock. Shrugging off his clothing, he threw it across the nearest chair before turning to face the bed. Sara had snuggled down underneath the quilt, that musical giggle teasing him from her hiding place. “I can see you,” he warned.

“You just think you can.”

“Well, ready or not, here I come!” Kurt bounded over to the bed and pulled back the covers. This was when he always woke up, the pang of frustration at being denied one last embrace with Sara all too vivid, too painful. This time he didn’t wake up, but now he wished the dream would end as he stared at what lay on the mattress.

Rotting flesh hung from a ruptured carcass, worms the size of fingers writhing and churning from every opening. Somehow the body was still wet with blood, as if freshly butchered, but the blotches of black and yellow and purple spoke of a corpse many days on from death. Worst of all was the stench, decay and putrefaction blotting out everything else, while a cloud of flies buzzed and dived through the air, eager to feast on the succulent body of his dead wife. Of her sweet, beautiful face, only the eyes remained as they once were: warmest hazel, expressing all her love for him without words.

“What’s the matter, Kurt? Is something wrong?”

He shook his head, unable to answer.

She smirked. “Don’t you like what you see, lover boy?” She reached for him and—

Kurt jerked awake, almost falling from his chair to the floor, so strong was the jolt of reality. He was gasping for breath, his tunic soaked with sweat across the chest, under his arms and in the small of his back. “Taal’s teeth,” he whispered. “A dream, it was just a bad dream.” He shuddered at the last, lingering image still crowding his mind.

The captain rose from his chair and stretched, trying to push away any urge to sleep that might be lingering in his aching limbs and joints. The last thing he wanted was a return to that nightmare, another chance to have his fantasies desecrated like that. Kurt strode into the main part of the station. The prisoners were asleep, sprawled across the floor or leaning against the vertical bars of the holding cells, but none were getting much rest. They twitched and twisted, all of them fighting away imaginary visions and torments. Manann help them if their dreams are anything like mine, Kurt prayed.

Bescheiden was manning the desk sergeant’s post during the graveyard shift, his bleary eyes shot through with red, a haunted look to his face. “Couldn’t sleep, captain?”

Kurt shrugged. “Shouldn’t you be off duty?”

“Didn’t like the dream I was having, so swapped shifts with one of the new boys. It’s been all quiet since I took over. Fog’s cut the crime rate to zero in one night. Might be the most effective deterrent Suiddock’s ever had.”

“Maybe, but at what price?” Kurt asked.

Bescheiden frowned. “Not sure I follow you, captain.”

“I think this fog’s getting into people’s minds, tormenting their dreams.”

“Who could do such a thing?”

“I don’t know,” Kurt admitted. “But I know who does.”

Otto had been praying since the chimes of midnight heralded the start of Festag. His dry lips muttered incantations and holy words in an ever more urgent, needful voice. As a follower of Morr, the priest was attuned to the dreams of the living and the spirits of the dead. As a disciple of Morr, Otto was accustomed to being ignored and shunned by the people of Marienburg. Most had no wish to spend time in his company, Otto’s mere presence an all too vivid reminder of their own mortality. A few came to him seeking an oracle, someone to interpret the curious ways their mind wandered while at slumber, but that took bravery and courage the majority did not possess.

The coming hours and days were always Otto’s busiest time of the year, unless there was an outbreak of pox, military action or other catastrophe that caused a sudden surge in fatalities across the district.

Followers of Morr believed the dead communicated with the living via dreams, but these messages from beyond the grave were most common around two intercalary holidays—the witching day of Hexenstag, and Geheimnistag, the day of mystery. Otto did not need to look at any calendar to know this new day was also the last day of Vorgeheim. Tomorrow would be Geheimnistag, when the barrier between life and death was at its narrowest. The priest already knew this by the unquiet he felt among the dead of Marienburg. The spirits were not resting easy in their places of final repose.

But the anger and torment he was feeling from those beyond the mortal coil was unlike anything Otto had experienced before. Someone or something was stirring up the dark places, calling on the forces and energies held captive in the shadows of the living, preparing to unleash them upon the city. There was a storm coming, and the priest did not know if he had the strength to stand against it—so he prayed. Otto was not alone in this. He could sense other disciples of Morr across Marienburg all reaching out to their god, calling on him for strength and guidance. They were being tested, but by who, and why?

Otto was so intent on his prayers, exhortations and incantations, he did not hear the slabs of stone moving in the tombs beneath his temple. He was not aware of the movement of shuffling feet, boots and bones coming up the dusty, forgotten stairs that led from subterranean tombs up into the temple. He did not notice the handle of the ancient wrought iron gate at the top of those steps twisting to its left, a bony grasp opening the last barrier between below and above. Fortunately for Otto, the gate had not been used for years and the rusted hinges were much in need of oil. They protested as the gate swung open into the temple, alerting Otto to the peril at his back.

The priest spun round to see five dead bodies staggering towards him. Two were little more than skeletons, their bones yellowed by age and decay, a last few scraps of clothing hanging off them. The other three still had tatters of flesh and sinew and skin on from their calcified frames. Wizened grey hair sprouted across withered faces and scalps, lit candles on the wall behind them creating an unholy halo around their skulls.

“Morr, protect me,” Otto hissed, backing away from the spectres. He stared at them, uncertain if they were real or mere ghostly apparitions, wraiths born of a dream. They appeared solid enough, and a chalice thrown at the closest figure collided with a thump. But it wasn’t until Kurt came into the temple that the priest took the living dead for a certainty. The captain entered through a side door, coming in much closer to the walking dead than the retreating Otto. All five shifted their attention to Kurt, lurching across at him with alarming alacrity. He backed away, drawing a shortsword.

“Taal’s teeth! Where did they come from?” the captain asked.

Otto wasn’t sure, until he remembered where the open gate led. “There’s an old crypt beneath the temple. Hasn’t been used in my time because it’s below sea level during spring tides, and prone to flooding. I’d forgotten it was even there.”

Kurt kept his sword between him and the undead. “What do I do?”

“How should I know?” the priest retorted.

“I thought disciples of Morr were responsible for rooting out undead uprisings!”

“We’re in Suiddock. The closest this district’s ever got to an undead uprising was after the taverns ran out of ale during the brewers’ strike two summers ago.”

“But you must have had some training in how to deal with this situation, right?”

Otto stroked his chin, deep in thought. “I think so…”

“Anytime before dawn would be helpful,” Kurt added, the undead almost upon him by now. He kept backing away from the five shuffling figures, but what they lacked in speed they more than made up for with numbers and their relentless, remorseless drive.

“The head,” Otto shouted from the opposite corner. “Remove the head from the body and whatever force is controlling them should be vanquished!”

Kurt drew back his sword as the nearest of the undead got within arm’s length. Then Kurt lashed out with his blade, slicing it clean through the decayed bone and sinew. The skull bounced across the floor, coming to rest against Otto’s bare feet. The jaws snapped and bit at the air a few times, before clamping shut. But the skeletal body was still closing on the captain; hands of bone reached for his throat, intent on throttling the life from him. Kurt fended off the headless corpse by jamming a hand against its chest. But the other four surrounded him, cutting off any chance of escape.

“Any more suggestions?” Kurt snarled at Otto.

Molly was locking the front doors when she first heard the crying. As madam of the Three Penny Bridge bordello, it was her responsibility to open the business each day at noon, and close the doors once the final customers had sated their deepest desires. That could be anytime after midnight when the docks were empty and payday a distant memory, or closer to dawn when the quays of Suiddock were busy and the workers had a fresh supply of gold burning a hole in their money pouches.

It had been a quiet night thanks to the sinister fog dissuading any passing trade. Then a rowdy gang of drunken stevedores had staggered in, looking for refuge from the choking mist and its hallucinatory effects. They’d stayed for hours rather than venture back out into the bleak fog. Molly and her girls finally ran out of patience as dawn drew close, persuading the dockworkers to go home. Last to leave was a lecherous little fellow called Aperen, who’d spent a week’s wages indulging his more sordid fantasies before exhausting both his energies and the contents of his pouch.

Molly propelled Aperen out on to Three Penny Bridge with a firm punt to the posterior, before swiftly slamming shut the double doors and ramming home both bolts to stop him getting back inside. He hammered on the doors for several minutes, pleading to be allowed back in. “Don’t make me stay out here,” he protested. “This fog’s not natural.”

“Neither are you,” Molly replied. “Go home to your wife. She might be worried about you.” The madam stood at the door, listening for the sound of Aperen’s boots on the cobbles outside as he shuffled away. That was when she heard the crying. Molly wondered for a moment if it was one of her girls, but soon dismissed that notion. She ran a tight ship, making sure they were all well cared for and that no harm ever came to them.

It didn’t hurt that the Three Penny Bridge bordello stood adjacent to Suiddock’s watch station, as that kept away most potential troublemakers. Molly also had a pair of loaded pistols strapped to the underside of her bed. In her experience, few men were willing to argue for long while standing with their trousers round their ankles and an angry woman pointing both barrels at their family jewels. Molly’s reputation for having a temper as fiery as her mass of flame-red curls also helped keep the peace. In truth most of her temper was an act, but it helped protect her girls and Molly was grateful for that.

She crept through the bordello on tiptoe, searching for the source of the sobs. All the girls had turned in for a few hours before the doors opened once more at noon, and there was no sound from their rooms except the murmurs of sleep. Molly continued her search, and was shocked to discover the crying was coming from her own room, at the back of the bordello. Nobody was allowed inside there but her. The room was off limits to everyone, even the girls. This was Molly’s refuge from the world.

There was something unnerving about the crying. It was not sobbing born of pain or fear or suffering or even hunger. It sounded more like the cries of a child, sobbing for attention, craving affection. It sounded like a baby. Molly felt something tugging inside her chest, a yearning she’d long denied, even to herself. Sold as a slave while still a child, Molly had fought for years to attain her freedom. Finally she won custody of her life by using the one weapon at her disposal: sex. Offering men what they couldn’t get elsewhere, Molly had built a lucrative business. Inevitably, sharks moved in, looking to take over what she had founded. But Molly and her girls had maintained control out of their bordello, establishing themselves as a self-sufficient cooperative. But achieving and sustaining this freedom had come at a cost. Molly could never have children, not after what had happened when she was twenty summers old.

The madam pushed open the door to her room. A baby was lying on the bed, wrapped in swaddling clothes, its hands tiny fists clenching and unclenching. The infant gurgled and blew saliva bubbles from its mouth, a wisp of fiery red hair sprouting from the crown of its head. The child had emerald-green eyes, just like the madam. Molly collapsed against the doorframe, unable to believe what she was seeing. “Tomas? Is that you?” Molly whispered, her words a whisper of hope and fear.

The baby kicked its feet at the air and laughed.

This can’t be real, Molly told herself, but the suppressed memories flooded back, overwhelming her with grief. The brandy on her owner’s breath as he claimed her, the months of discomfit and fear while hiding her shame, the night of pain as Tomas came into the world, and the dawn that haunted her still. Molly didn’t want to think about what happened, how she weighed down the tiny bundle before throwing it into the canal, watching it sink without a trace. The everlasting guilt for what she’d done, the torments and pain she had suffered since that day—it was all too much.

She sank to the floor, sobbing, while the ghost of her past cried on the bed.

“I thought you said removing the head would stop them?” Kurt shouted. He was hacking at the five undead with his blade, slicing away heads and hands, limbs and legs. But still they kept coming, driving him backwards into a corner of the temple.

“It should,” Otto insisted. He was attacking the living dead from behind, beating at them with a hefty candle-stand, the base given extra weight by a lump of lead within it. Under his breath the priest was muttering in an arcane language, casting spells that should have stopped the undead in their tracks. But nothing either man did seemed to have much effect on the risen. Slicing off their legs debilitated them, and removing their arms stopped the clawing hands ripping at Kurt and Otto’s faces, but the undead were stubbornly refusing to become dead once more. “This is powerful dark magic, too powerful for my spells to overcome. A single priest of Morr is not enough, not against a dark magic incantation of this magnitude!”

It was a high window in the temple wall that saved Kurt and Otto. The first light of a new day broke through the rectangle, hitting a burnished bronze plaque of Morr hanging on the opposite wall, reflecting sunshine round the candlelit room. As the sunlight touched the undead they slowed and stumbled, their strength sapped. More and more sunlight came into the chamber, debilitating the attackers, bringing them close to a standstill. Realising what was happening, Otto ran to the door facing east and threw it open. Sunlight flooded the chamber. “Now,” the priest urged. “Now they will fall!”

Kurt lashed out, his blade cleaving bone from bone, slicing and severing, metal undoing the enemy. One by one the undead went down and stayed down, broken and beaten. Once the last of them had fallen still, Kurt sank to his knees, gasping for breath.

“Are you all right?” Otto asked from the doorway.

“Been better,” Kurt replied. “What happened?”

“It’s dawn. The rising sun is burning away the mist. Whoever’s behind this dark magic must have been using the fog as a link to the undead.”

“The sunlight severed that link, made the skeletons vulnerable,” Kurt realised.

Otto nodded. “All night I’ve felt disturbances in the barrier between the living and the dead, as if those beyond this mortal coil were trying to break back into our world.”

The captain got back to his feet, brushing the dust of the dead from his uniform. “The mist and the sea, there must be a connection.”

“Why?”

“You’ve got a mausoleum next door, filled with old bodies, but none of them came to life. Only those below sea level rose up, and they were sustained by the mist.”

“Of course,” the priest realised. “Mist is millions of moisture particles. It rolled in from the sea last night, as the sun was going down.”

“Exactly. Whoever’s behind all of this is out there, waiting to attack.” Kurt joined Otto at the doorway. Outside a few tendrils of fog still lingered in the air at street level, but the rising sun had diminished the sinister cloud’s grip on the city—for now. “I reckon we’ve the rest of today to get ready for what’s coming, so long as the sun keeps shining.”

“What if it doesn’t?”

Kurt grimaced. “We’ll be dancing with Morr by nightfall tomorrow.”

Paulo Arkensword had ridden through the night to reach Marienburg, leaning forward in the saddle to urge his steed onwards, his lean and muscular body matched by the flinty determination in his narrow face. He had accompanied his master on a barge from Altdorf for most of the journey, but left the vessel at dusk to ride ahead. The overland journey was far more dangerous, but Arkensword had not hesitated at his orders—years of training had ingrained absolute obedience deep into his core.

Twice attacks had been launched at horse and rider from out of the darkness, enemies intent upon bringing death to both steed and man. A trio of bandits came from the north, waving flaming torches and firing flintlocks. But such a display put no fear into Arkensword’s resolute heart, especially when the aim of his attackers was so poor and the torches they brandished merely served to light a way through their ranks. He had lashed out with both boots as he passed, breaking the jaw of one man and kicking another unconscious. The third bandit abandoned his brethren, running off into the darkness.

The second attack was more serious and cost Arkensword more time. Chaos-addled creatures lurched across the road when the rider was but an hour from the city. Dawn was close and the night thinning, but Arkensword could see no way past his foe. They showed far more tactical skill than the bandits, choosing a narrow passing place between two high cliffs of grey stone. The creatures locked arms, preventing any easy rupture to their chain, and they showed no fear when Arkensword made to ride them down. He pulled up at the last, his horse’s hooves skidding along the path.

“What do you want?” Arkensword demanded. “If it’s gold or valuables, I carry naught but the blades at my side. If you wish those, it will cost you dear in blood.”

“Flesh,” one of the creatures growled, its face ruptured by some hideous mutation.

“I’ve no meat with me. I ride with the wind, not provisions.”

“Your flesh we want,” the creature continued.

Arkensword glanced over his shoulder. Seven more of these monsters appeared from the gloaming behind him, blocking any easy escape. Even if he could go past them, this road was by far the quickest route into Marienburg. He would face a treacherous journey across wasteland and marshes to make the city otherwise, forced to go deeper into territory that these creatures called home. There was no alternative. He had to go forwards, or fail—and he would not countenance failure.

“Let me pass, or I shall ride you down,” he warned.

“Give us flesh,” the creatures’ leader replied. A forked tongue licked black, bruised lips, while throaty chuckles of delight escaped those behind the lone horseman.

“You give me no choice,” Arkensword said. “Come and get it.”

The monsters moved closer, their greed getting the better of them. Arkensword waited until they had reached the widest part of the pass. Then he jammed both boots into the sides of his steed, and the horse jumped forwards, racing at the attackers. The rider hunched low in the saddle, urging the beast on, until they were nearly on top of the creatures. Then Arkensword reared back in his seat, pulling hard on the reins. The horse leapt into the air, as it would over a tall hedge or obstacle on a battlefield. It couldn’t clear the creatures or the tall blades they brandished, but three of the monsters went down beneath its hooves and the others were scattered, their leader among them.

Arkensword rode on, grinning at his escape and the bravery of his steed. “Good girl,” he said, patting the horse’s neck. “Good girl.” They raced away from the monsters, maintaining a lightning pace until the attackers were left far behind. Only then did the rider let his mount ease down. As the horse slowed to a canter, its legs developed a stumble. The slower it got, the more pronounced the untidiness of gait became. Finally Arkensword was forced to stop altogether. He slid out of the saddle and dropped to the ground. One glance at his steed’s underside confirmed all his fears. The horse had suffered grave wounds from the attackers. Only adrenaline had kept her going this far.

The horse slumped to the ground, legs giving way beneath the mighty beast. Arkensword drew a stiletto and pressed it to his beloved horse’s neck. “I’m so sorry, girl.” He eased open her veins and she was gone in less than a minute, warm blood pooling beneath the steed, steam rising from the fatal wound. Better to end her suffering as soon as possible, Arkensword believed. He retrieved his meagre possessions from the saddlebags and continued his journey on foot, running towards Marienburg.

He could see the city in the distance now, an ominous dark cloud hanging above it. Arkensword would ensure his message was delivered no matter what, but even a man as relentless as him could not help but be shaken by the shape visible in the cloud over Marienburg: a death’s head skull, grinning like old Morr himself. Arkensword did his best to ignore the nagging sensation he was running to his own demise, and quickened his pace. The sooner he delivered this message and purchased a new horse, the quicker he could return to his master. But first he had to find his quarry, a shamed exile and former soldier. First he had to find Kurt Schnell.

Potts was one of the few Black Caps inside Three Penny Bridge to get a decent night’s sleep. He awoke with the dayshift, all of them complaining bitterly about a succession of disturbingly vivid dreams and nightmares. One grizzled watchman noticed the new recruit, silent among the others. “What’s your name, son?”

“Potts, Erasmus Potts. My uncle is—”

“None of my concern,” the Black Cap said. “If there’s one thing I learned from the army, it’s judge a man by his actions, not his family connections. I’m Ganz, Marc Ganz.”

Potts shook the offered hand. “You were in the army? I thought we only had the militia here in Marienburg.”

Ganz snorted his derision. “Militia? Hardly deserve the name. Bunch of fat, lazy, hired thugs, if you want my opinion. Real military, that’s another matter. I’m from Altdorf, originally. Served under Old Ironbeard himself, General Erwin Schnell.”

“You’re from Altdorf, like Captain Schnell?”

Ganz nodded. “He’s the general’s son.”

Potts looked startled. “I didn’t know that.”

“That’s not surprising, not after what happened last time he went into battle.” Ganz pulled up his tunic to reveal a livid red scar that ran the length of his torso. “I lost half the blood in my body thanks to our glorious captain. Only made it home alive because the general sent his private physician to tend me. Got invalided out of the army, ended up here in Marienburg.” Ganz muttered a curse and spat on the floor. “Of all the privy sheds in the city, they had to send me here, stuck me with that coward of a captain.”

By now the other watchmen had finished ablutions and were filing back into their quarters. Holismus shook his head as he listened to the veteran’s complaints. “Stop your damn bellyaching, Ganz. Captain Schnell’s one of the bravest men I’ve ever met.”

“Yeah? Well he was a coward where it counted—on the battlefield!”

The two watchmen were squaring up for a fight as Scheusal came in. The sergeant pulled the pair apart, his meaty hands grabbing both men by the front of their tunics. “Ladies, ladies—you know how I feel about fighting in the station. If you two have got a personality clash to settle, take it out on the streets. Better still, take it out on the district’s criminals. I’m sure you could find a few cutpurses and robbers who need disciplining.”

Ganz jabbed a finger at Holismus. “This isn’t over. The only reason you’re still here is because Schnell saved your sorry skin. Any captain worth the name would have sent you packing after that business with your brother. Yeah, that’s right, we heard all about you and jolly Joost the Chaos freak at my last station.”

“Climb out of the bottle and I might have some respect for you,” Holismus spat back at Ganz. “I’ve heard plenty of talk out of you, but I’ve also seen the captain risk his life for us again and again. Until you do the same, keep out of my damn way!” He stormed from the sleeping quarters, most of the other Black Caps going with him. Soon there was just Ganz, Potts and the sergeant left. Scheusal let go of Ganz’s tunic.

“Well, Potts, looks like I’ve found someone to partner you on patrol,” the sergeant announced. “You seem pretty eager to shoot your mouth off today, Ganz, so you can escort our newest recruit round the district. Show him what life is like in Suiddock. You’re on thin ice already, so try not to get him killed. One more reprimand on your file and it’ll be back to standing guard outside headquarters for you. Understand?”

Ganz glared at the sergeant, hatred and fury all too obvious in his expression.

Scheusal was something of a gentle giant, but he cut an imposing figure when roused. The sergeant loomed over Ganz, glaring down at the watchman.

“Understand?”

“Yes, sergeant,” Ganz muttered after a lengthy silence.

“That’s better.” Scheusal gave Potts a wink on the way out. “He’s all yours.”

Belladonna was waiting for Kurt in his office when he returned from Otto’s temple. She pushed an errant curl of warm brown hair back behind one ear. “Good, you’re here. I was beginning to wonder if you were avoiding me.”

“Why would I do that?” Kurt asked.

“I left a note saying I needed to see you here this morning.”

“You did?”

She pointed at a letter, in the centre of his desk, an inkwell stood atop it.

The captain coloured with embarrassment. “Sorry. Didn’t notice that. Well, I’m here now. What did you want to see me about?”

“I’m transferring to the Suiddock River Watch,” Belladonna announced. “I’ve already submitted my papers and headquarters have approved them. All I need is your agreement and I can join my new posting immediately.”

Kurt sank into his chair. “You’re sure that’s what you want?”

She nodded. “Damphoost lost half his men yesterday, he needs all the help he can get. He’s promised me special resources, an office of my own, maybe even a special unit to help me develop the procedures I’ve been trying here once he gets the local River Watch squad back on its feet. He takes what I do seriously.”

“So do I,” Kurt protested.

“Maybe, but you don’t support me. Every time I’ve asked for help, you’ve turned me down. Feels like I’m banging my head against a stone wall here.”

“Belladonna, you know what it’s been like. We haven’t had a full complement of Black Caps here since the day this station re-opened. You want to leave now, when this place is close to running properly at last? And how will Damphoost deliver on all his promises, when he’s so short-staffed? How do you know you can even trust him?”

She looked Kurt in the eyes. “I know.”

He sighed. “Then you’d best be with him, if he’s that important to you. I know you always follow your heart, Belladonna, so I hope you find what you’re looking for, but remember this: there’ll always be a place for you at Three Penny Bridge, if you want it.”

“Thanks.” She offered her hand to Kurt. He stood up to shake it, but his attention was distracted by a lone figure stalking into the station.

“It can’t be…” Kurt whispered.

Belladonna glanced round to see who he was looking at. “You know that man?”

The captain nodded. “All my life.”

Scheusal was on duty as desk sergeant. He questioned the newcomer, before pointing to the captain’s office. Kurt emerged to greet the arrival. “Paulo? Is that you?”

Arkensword marched over to Kurt. “I’ve a message,” he announced, his voice tight and formal, his face full of disdain and loathing. Arkensword had dark rings under his eyes, and his garb was flecked with blood and mud. It was clear he had seen plenty of combat but precious little sleep in recent days.

“You brought it all the way from Altdorf?” Kurt asked.

The newcomer shook his head. “The message is from your father. He wanted me to tell you two things. You should prepare yourself for a shock.”

Kurt’s smile faded. “What is it?”

“Your mother is dead.”

“No,” Kurt gasped. “When did she—?”

“Two months ago.”

“What? The old bastard waited two months to tell me? Why?”

Arkensword grimaced. “You know why.”

Kurt’s face darkened, his expression hardening. “What else? What’s the second thing he wanted you to tell me, Paulo?”

“My name is Arkensword, to you. Don’t presume to address me as a friend.”

Belladonna recognised the anger in Kurt’s eyes. He looked ready to kill.

“Fine,” he snarled. “What else are you here to tell me, Arkensword?”

“It was your mother’s dying wish that father and son be reunited.”

Kurt shook his head. “I’ve got nothing to say to the general.”

“You do not understand—”

“I understand all too well!” Kurt raged, his anger getting the better of him. “My father—the mighty warrior, the great general, Old Ironbeard himself—hasn’t got the nerve to come here and tell me face to face that my mother’s died. No, he waits two damn months before he sends his adjutant to do the dirty work. Now he deigns to come and grant me an audience, is that it? Well, you can tell your lord and master he’s not welcome here. He can do what he likes in the rest of the city, but if he sets foot on Three Penny Bridge he’ll be going over the side for a swim in the Rijksweg. Tell him that!”

Belladonna took hold of Kurt’s hand, but he shook her off. “What are you still doing here? Haven’t you got somewhere to go?”

She took a step backwards, stung by the venom in his voice. “Fine. I’ll go. One of the River Watch can come back and collect my things for me.” Belladonna strode from the station, fighting back tears as she departed.

Arkensword arched an eyebrow at this incident. “Still a hit with the ladies, I see.”

“Say your piece and get the hell out of here,” Kurt warned.

“Very well,” the adjutant agreed. “On her deathbed your mother asked that you and your son be reunited. The general has wrestled with this for several weeks but finally decided he could not ignore the dying wish of the woman he’d loved all his life. He is willing to pass Luc into your care, if you prove yourself worthy of that trust.”

“How?”

“The general’s barge will arrive in Marienburg a few days hence. He’s visiting old army friends who’ve settled here, and is bringing Luc with him. If your father’s satisfied you can be trusted with the boy’s upbringing, Luc will remain behind with you when the general goes home. If not, Luc will be taken back to Altdorf and you won’t see the boy.”

Kurt stared at the envoy, struggling to take in this news.

“I have done my duty,” Arkensword said. “Expect your father before the fifth of Nachgeheim.” He marched from the station, leaving Kurt stunned and speechless.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Potts was enjoying his patrol with the surly Ganz. Captain Sandler had never let the watch commander’s nephew out of the Goudberg station, for fear the young man would come to some harm or mishap. Potts did not enjoy his time in Goudberg, finding the district stuffy and lifeless. Sandler was a pompous, self-absorbed man too wrapped up in his own advancement to worry about what happened to the district’s citizens. In less civilised parts of Marienburg that would have been disastrous, but Goudberg was so well-to-do Sandler could prosper. Private militia did most of the dirty work, while the Black Caps were mere functionaries, marking time until retirement from active duty.

Suiddock was a far livelier place. In the space of a morning’s patrol Ganz had roughed up two thugs running a crude protection racket among stallholders on Stoessel, broken the fingers of a cutpurse who had the temerity to pick the watchman’s pockets on Hightower Isle, and attempted to seduce three buxom barmaids in three different taverns on Luydenhoek. Ganz had broken more rules than Potts could count, but the veteran was also remarkably effective in clearing away crime from the streets of Suiddock. It was a roughhouse kind of place and that suited Ganz’s roughhouse approach.

Throughout the morning the former soldier had regaled his rookie with salty tales of battles fought, women conquered and glories won. But Ganz’s mood soured when Potts was foolish enough to bring up the subject of Captain Schnell.

“Don’t call that coward a captain, not in my presence,” Ganz growled. “He doesn’t deserve that rank or any other. He’s a disgrace to the uniform he wears!”

“But weren’t you in the same regiment together? How could he have been a soldier if he was such a coward?” Potts persisted.

“His father got him in, of course. Old Ironbeard was a great general, but he had a blind spot when it came to his firstborn. Couldn’t believe his own son was afraid of anything or anyone. But I knew, I always knew.”

“How?”

Ganz sneered at the raw recruit. “Why are you asking so many damn questions?”

Potts shrugged. “I’m here to learn. You’ve got the most experience of anybody at Three Penny Bridge, so I can learn more from you than anybody else.”

The grizzled watchman glared at him. “That’s good thinking, boy. My first day as a soldier, General Schnell saw me boasting about something. He took me aside and told me I’d learn best by saying less and listening more. He was right, and so are you. Maybe we’ll make a Black Cap out of you yet, Potts! Now, where was I?”

“Telling me about Cap—About Kurt Schnell, how you knew he was a coward.”

“We were friends for a while, me and the general’s son, same regiment and everything. Thought I’d been wrong about him, that he was a chip off the old block after all—until the battle at Middenheim. We were given orders to advance, Archaon’s Chaos army was coming and we had to stop it. But the coward didn’t want to come with us, even dared to use his pregnant wife as an excuse. Made me promise I’d keep an eye on his younger brother, Karl, who’d joined the regiment. But the enemy was too strong and I lost Karl on the battlefield. By the time the coward turned up, his brother was dead. He left his own brother to die at the hands of Chaos. Now that’s what I call cowardice.”

Potts was shocked by what the watchman said, but noticed that Ganz absolved himself of any blame for what had happened at Middenheim. Perhaps there was more to the incident than Ganz was willing to admit. After all, hadn’t he agreed to protect the younger Schnell from the Chaos army? But Potts knew better than to question the former soldier any further. Ganz had long ago decided what he believed was the truth. In his eyes, Captain Kurt Schnell would always be a coward, no matter what.

Otto was praying for guidance when two of his brethren arrived at the temple. Like him, they wore the simple robes of a priest, but the quality of the cloth was ample evidence they resided in a wealthier part of the city. “Seth, Benedictus—thank Morr you’re here,” Otto said, getting up from his knees. “How was your journey?”

Seth smiled and shook Otto’s hand. He was the taller of the two visitors, his back still ramrod straight, skin unmarked by age. Seth had trained for the priesthood alongside Otto, and the two of them had been close friends before taking their final vows. “Difficult. We got your message, and came as soon as the mist cleared. But we were forced to take a riverboat, as the Hoogbrug was so choked by people leaving Suiddock. It seems many in the district were visited by ghostly visions last night. The message said you suspected dark magic was loose in Suiddock?”

“I’m certain of it now. The undead rose during the night, here, in the temple.”

The new arrivals glanced at each other, shocked at such an incident in a temple of Morr. “We feared as much,” Benedictus said. He was older and more infirm, his shoulders hunched by age and worry, but his eyes sparkled with the vigour of a far younger man. Benedictus had been mentor to both Seth and Otto during their training, guiding their spiritual journey. Age had withered his body, but the spirit was still strong. “The families of the Ten have all been plagued by similar incidents in the night, though few will talk of it in public.” The old priest told Otto about incidents of the dead rising up from crypts beneath wealthy merchants’ homes, such as the House of Rothemuur in Goudberg. “Fortunately, they all have recourse to their own private militia and could suppress the uprising. Thus far news of the resurrections has also been suppressed. But I fear that will not stand for long, once word reaches the witch hunters.”

Otto outlined his theory about the mist acting as a means of transmission for the dark magic. “What can we do to stop this, if the mist should return?”

“Not if, but when,” Benedictus said. “The mist will return, I feel that in my bones.”

“We saw a great fog reforming over the water as we crossed the Rijksweg,” Seth added. “It is already coming towards the city, blotting out the sun in some areas.”

Otto told them how his spells had failed. “Alone, I could not stop the undead, and this is our faith’s only temple in the district.”

Benedictus gave a grim smile. “Exactly. That’s why our master chose this part of the city as his base of operations. The rest of Marienburg is too well protected.”

Otto stared at his former mentor. “What did you just say?”

Benedictus straightened up, the joints in his spine snapping and cracking like frozen twigs underfoot on a cold day. The old priest sloughed off decades of physical debilitation as if he was shedding a cloak. “The accursed temples of Morr are too plentiful in other parts of the city, their interfering priests too strong in number to be easily overcome. But you stand alone here in Suiddock.”

Seth had moved close behind Otto, his face cast in sinister shadows. “One man of faith against an army of darkness—what chance do you have?”

Otto twisted round between the two priests, men he’d been proud to call friends. “I don’t understand. Is this a vision sent to torment me? Why are you doing this?”

Benedictus licked his lips, the blackened tongue that ventured out like some venomous serpent. “We must break you, Otto. We must destroy you before our master can set foot here.” He reached out a wizened hand and stroked the side of Otto’s terrified, trembling face. “Give in to us, surrender to our master and you can sit at his right hand.”

Seth leaned close enough to whisper in Otto’s ear, like a lover. “Why spend the rest of your days in this place, forsaken and forgotten, a lost soul in a sea of vice and filth? You can become like us, one with the master. You can become an immortal!”

Otto collapsed to the floor, overwhelmed by the whispers in his mind.

Belladonna found Damphoost asleep when she arrived at the boathouse and jetty that served as station for the Suiddock River Watch. Most of the men were out on the water, patrolling the canals and byways that splintered the district into island after island. But the door to the captain’s office was ajar, and Damphoost’s silhouette visible beyond it. Belladonna ventured inside, knocking on the door as she entered. “Ruben? It’s me.”

He jerked awake, his hair wild and unkempt. “Sorry?”

“Didn’t you get much sleep last night?”

Damphoost shook his head. “Very little, and none of that restful. Troubled dreams were common among my men too. I don’t know if it’s the trauma of what happened at Riddra yesterday, or side effects from this damned fog. Feel as though I’ve been drinking canal water after a spillage of lantern oil.”

“I know what you mean.” Belladonna sat opposite him. “Where do you want me?”

“Beg your pardon?”

“I’ve resigned from the Black Caps with immediate effect. Kurt—Captain Schnell—gave me leave to join the River Watch straight away.”

“That was fast.”

“Gave me leave is putting it kindly,” she admitted. “He practically threw me off the Three Penny Bridge. Couldn’t wait to get rid of me.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Well, it’s the truth. Don’t know why I stayed there so long, not when I could be doing something useful, working for someone who appreciates what I can do for them.”

Damphoost smiled. “Good. We’ll do great things here, in time. But for now it’s all hands to the pump, keeping this place afloat until we can get some more watchmen.”

“Do you always speak in nautical terminology?”

“Occupational hazard.”

She grinned. “Aye, aye, captain.”

There was a knock at the door and a messenger hurried into the office. “Sealed orders from headquarters, captain. You’ve got to sign for them.” Damphoost did as required, before sending the messenger away. Once the youth had gone, the captain pulled a stiletto knife from his boot and used the blade to break the wax seal. He skimmed the contents of his orders, shaking his head in dismay at the contents.

“What is it?” Belladonna asked. “What’s wrong?” Damphoost threw the document across to her. She read it, her brow furrowing. “They can’t really mean this, can they?”

It was noon when the mist fell upon Suiddock once more, coming in with the turning of the tide. The sun fought against the fog, throwing some light onto the benighted streets and canals below, but visibility soon shrank to a few paces on both land and water. The sunlight did dissipate the worst effects of the mist, keeping visions and hallucinations at bay, but all who dared venture into the streets without a cloth over their noses and mouths soon felt too ill to continue. The oily droplets induced vomiting and nausea, driving more and more people back to their homes. Then came the black gulls.

Sea birds were a constant presence in Marienburg, their cries a backdrop to every conversation that took place outdoors, their opportunistic swoops to steal away neglected food a frequent nuisance for stallholders and citizens alike. But the sky had been empty of birds ever since the fog first appeared away to the north, as if the greasy yellow mist had driven them away from the city.

When the fog returned to Suiddock, it brought a flight of black gulls, unlike any ever seen in the district. They flew in clusters of five and seven, always keeping tight formation, ranging backwards and forwards low above the streets and alleyways and canals as if they were on patrol. That was perturbing, but most people were prepared to ignore it, until the attacks started.

The gulls swooped down as a unit and set about unwary citizens, pecking and clawing at them with vicious beaks and talons. Hair was torn from scalps in bloody clumps, skin was ripped from hands and chunks of flesh were pecked away from arms and faces. One man was blinded in the middle of a fish market, both his eyes plucked out by the sinister black gulls. Traders and shoppers beat at the birds with any weapon they had to hand, but the birds kept pecking at the poor man until his eyes were gone. The fish market closed immediately, but word of the gull attack soon spread across the district.

Next came the snails, slithering their way up from the canals and waterways that honeycombed the district. Like the sea birds, they were a constant presence and nobody normally noticed them, except bearded Bretonnian immigrants who favoured the mollusc as a cooked delicacy. It was the profusion of snails that made them apparent, hundreds of the small creatures in their shells emerging from the water, creeping along the cobbles or sliding up the sides of walls. People put it down to the inclement weather, the amount of moisture in the air.

It was a child who first saw the snails blink. The boy was waiting for his mother outside a bakery when he noticed a snail stuck on a wall. The boy tapped the shell with a nail, as if it were the front door to a home. “Hello? Anyone in there?” He noticed the shell was softer in the middle, and there seemed to be hairs growing out of it in a semi-circle; short, soft hairs that curled up at the end. The boy brushed a finger along the hairs and they sprang upwards, taking the soft centre of the shell with them, to reveal an eyeball inside the shell. The eyelid blinked several times, the glistening black eye inside glaring out with a piercing malevolence. The boy screamed.

Across the city thousands upon thousands of eyelids opened on snails. Eyes swivelled about, taking in their surroundings, staring at all those who passed. The reaction of Suiddock’s citizens was swift and brutal. They’d already suffered through choking fog and freakish gull attacks. Now the streets were awash with snails, all of them with what looked like human eyeballs, glaring and staring. The result was an orgy of squashing the snails underfoot or against walls. But the more snails that were pulverised, the more that slithered their way up from the water.

Stallholders that had ventured out in the sunshine soon surrendered, heading home as fast as they could across the damp, slippery cobbles. With no markets left open for shopping, the streets emptied of any citizens still out in search of a bargain. The sickly, yellow cloud of mist also closed down the closest thing to a heartbeat that Suiddock possessed—the docks. No vessel had made it to port for two days, not since the cloud of fog had appeared beyond Rijker’s Isle. With no vessels coming in to unload, none were available to be filled with fresh cargo for export. The quayside was choked with fully laden vessels all waiting for a break in the weather so they could sail, perishables in their cargo rotting with unnatural haste.

The same was true of all Marienburg’s fishing boats. A few had dared to venture out that morning, when the rising sun burnt off the mist over Suiddock, but all had turned back when they reached Rijker’s Isle. Superstition was not uncommon among sailors, and stories were already spreading that the offshore fog was not of natural origin. Those who did bring back a catch found the fish rotting in their nets. Something was poisoning the waters around Marienburg, like a sickness blown in from the sea.

Whatever the cause, all that the port authorities knew for certain was their docks were at a standstill. That unleashed an army of disgruntled day workers up on Suiddock, burly men who depended on the docks to sustain them. By early afternoon Kurt was beset by a delegation from Suiddock’s council of concerned citizens, protesting about drunken dockworkers staggering around the district causing trouble; an emissary from Lea-Jan Cobbius at the Stevedores’ and Teamsters’ Guild, demanding amnesty from prosecution for his members due to the extraordinary circumstances; and a bloated merchant from the Market Traders’ Association seeking assurances that the port would reopen soon. Kurt sent them away, his temper frayed to the breaking point by their impossible demands.

The captain almost welcomed the news that Suiddock’s new alderman had called a meeting of all concerned parties, to take place an hour before sunset. Ulric Haan was elected to the Burgerhof earlier that year, swept into the lower house of Marienburg’s parliament by a groundswell of popularity. His predecessor in the Stadsraad, a bloated warthog of a man called Loodemans, had depended on the support of stevedores and boatmen for his place in the Burgerhof. But Loodemans asked for one backhander too many and was found floating face-down in the Rijksweg one morning, quite dead.

Haan was a charismatic leader who had won Kurt’s favour by not trying to meddle with the Black Caps. He had fought well for the interests of Suiddock in the Stadsraad and, to the surprise of everybody, appeared utterly resistant to blandishments, bribes and any inducements from special interest groups. It seemed the district had found itself the first honest politician in the history of Suiddock. Kurt was not sure how Haan had stayed alive so long, but was grateful when the alderman called the gathering. The captain was less enamoured of the venue: the Marienburg Gentlemen’s Club, better known as headquarters for the notorious Thieves’ Guild.

Kurt had clashed several times with the guild’s leader Adalbert Henschmann, but the two men had forged an uneasy truce by not crossing each other’s paths. This meeting put that peace in distinct peril, but the captain decided the benefits outweighed the risks. Now more than ever, Suiddock needed leadership. Putting his misgivings to one side, Kurt put Scheusal in charge of the station and set off to the meeting on Riddra. He arrived to discover a plethora of bodyguards glaring at each other in front of the club. There were powerful people inside, but all had respected the rules and left their thugs outside.

Kurt was last to arrive at the meeting, held upstairs in the boardroom of the Thieves’ Guild. Henschmann’s hefty bodyguard Helga was reluctant to let him in, until the host snapped at her to stand aside. Kurt surveyed those sat round the table, amazed to see them all present in one room, and at such short notice. It was a testament to Haan’s success in building bridges between the different parts of Suiddock’s diverse community, but mostly it was proof of how seriously everyone was taking the crisis faced by the district.

The alderman was sat at the head of the table, Haan’s shrewd face framed by unruly hair that had as much silver as it did black. Henschmann was to his left, dark hair slicked back close to the scalp, a permanent sneer on his heavyset features. Sat opposite was Lea-Jan Cobbius, master of the Stevedores’ and Teamsters’ Guild, his short, silver hair a stark contrast to skin bronzed by a lifetime spent working the docks, both legally and illegally. Kurt was surprised that Otto was not present, as the priest of Morr could offer some valuable insights on the threat they were facing. But Captain Damphoost from the River Watch was there, dark bags beneath his weary eyes. Next to him was sour-faced Albert Loodemans, guild-master for the Brotherhood of Seamen and Pilots, and younger brother to the late alderman for Suiddock. There was no love lost between him and Haan, for obvious reasons. Last but not least was Arkat Cloverhill, spokesman for the district’s stallholders and market traders. He sold the best sausage pies in Suiddock and was rather too fond of sampling the merchandise, judging by his bulging waistline.

Haan gestured for Kurt to take the last seat at the table, before calling the meeting to order. “I don’t think it’s too much of an exaggeration to say Suiddock is facing a crisis. This accursed fog has closed the docks, rots cargoes in their holds and sickens all who breathe it in. Businesses have been forced to shut, the markets are closed and citizens are afraid of falling asleep tonight for fear of what nightmares they may face. We need a strategy to deal with these problems until the fog moves on. Suggestions?”

There was a long silence, with each of the men round the table watching each other, seeing who would speak first. Finally, Damphoost broke the silence. “This isn’t a solution, but you might as well hear this from me now, rather than find it out later. The commander of the River Watch has decreed that all maritime traffic to and from Suiddock should be suspended, effective immediately. The docks are already closed, but he wants to prevent any vessels large or small from coming to or leaving the district.”

“Why?” Henschmann demanded. “What possible justification can he have?”

“There’s a feeling in other parts of the city that this is a Suiddock problem. Seers have predicted a great darkness is going to befall Marienburg, spreading outwards from our district like a plague. My commander hopes to stop that with a maritime blockade.”

“That’s outrageous!” Loodemans shouted, banging a fist on the table. “You’re denying my members their livelihoods. How are they supposed to work, supposed to put food on their tables if you paralyse the rivers and canals?”

“Don’t worry, it’ll never work,” Cobbius said. “The docks may be shut, but the River Watch can’t hope to stop everyone in a private boat. Then there’s all the smugglers and other, more disreputable elements, most of whom are armed and ready to fight.” Cobbius paused to look at Henschmann. “You’ll never stop all of them.”

“He’s right,” Kurt observed. “You’re short-staffed as it is. Taal’s teeth, how are you supposed to maintain a blockade with only a handful of watchmen?”

Damphoost grimaced. “The commander’s reallocated half of all River Watch craft in the city to the blockade. The boats are forming a barrier out on the water right now.”

Henschmann snorted. “How long do you think this blockade will hold?”

“I don’t know,” Damphoost conceded. “But I have my orders.”

“This is madness,” Cloverhill protested. “There are only two bridges connecting Suiddock with the rest of Marienburg, the Hoogbrug to the north and the Draaienbrug to the south. You’ll choke both of them by stopping river traffic. Most of the goods sold in this district come from the docks, or over water from other parts of the city. People will be running out of food by this time tomorrow. There’ll be riots across Suiddock!”

“And my members will be at the head of them,” Loodemans promised.

“Gentlemen,” Haan cut in. “We need solutions, not threats and accusations.”

“Until this fog lifts and the port reopens, there are no solutions,” Cobbius retorted. “This district, this whole city lives and dies by the health and prosperity of its docks. Without trade Marienburg will suffer a slow death that could take months, even years. Without the docks or river traffic, Suiddock will perish within weeks, maybe days.”

The meeting broke down into arguments and accusations, leaders from each faction shouting to be heard over one another. Damphoost slumped back in his seat, unable or unwilling to get involved. Kurt could hear the sound of stomping boots outside the building despite the arguments within. The stomping was getting louder, closer, but the others inside the meeting room ignored it. Kurt rose from his seat and went to the nearest window. What he saw through the fog below sent a shudder down his spine.

The captain gestured to Haan, and the alderman joined him by the window. Below were a dozen men in long black cloaks, wide-brimmed hats casting their grim faces in shadow. The twelve marched at the club, intent on entering the building. The bodyguards united against this common foe, coming together to block the way. The battle was swift, savage and its outcome never in doubt. Once the bodyguards had been dealt with, three from among the twelve marched into the building.

Haan’s shoulders slumped. “Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Kurt said. “You did everything you could. What happens next, nobody can blame you for that.”

“But they will,” the alderman sighed.

The sound of fighting on the stairs outside the meeting silenced the arguments between those still at the table. Henschmann stood, uncertainty evident on his face. “Helga? What’s happening out there? Helga?”

The door swung open and an imposing figure entered, black cloak swirling around him. The shadow cast by his wide-brimmed hat hid most of his face, but Kurt could still recognise the cruel mouth and thin lips. One hand clutched a holy book, the other a flintlock pistol. “How kind of you all to gather in one place, it saves me having to repeat what I’m about to say—”

“How dare you storm in here!” Henschmann raged. “This is private property. You have no jurisdiction over this place, or anyone within it!”

“I suspect he does,” Kurt said, stepping between the two men. “Allow me to introduce Brother Nathaniel of the Temple Court. The good brother is a stickler for rules and regulations—bell, book and candle, you might say.”

“Witch hunters,” Loodemans snarled, spitting on the floor. “Shouldn’t allow them inside the city walls. Get more sense out of a fen loony.”

“Silence!” Nathaniel produced a roll of parchment and threw it on the meeting table. “You will see from this document—signed by the leaders of the Stadsraad and commanders from both the City and River Watch—that I have every right and authorisation for my actions. The entirety of Suiddock and its surrounding waterways are now under my jurisdiction, until I see fit to surrender that jurisdiction.”

Haan picked up the parchment, casting a cursory eye across the scrawl of black ink, appended with several signatures and a seal of red wax and gold ink. “It’s the truth.”

“Of course it’s the truth,” Nathaniel said. “Lying is anathema to a witch hunter.”

“Enough,” Cobbius broke in. “Say what you came to say, Brother Nathaniel.”

“My brethren have detected the foul stench of dark magic in Suiddock. Until we find, root out and destroy the source of that dark magic, this entire district is hereby placed under quarantine. No vessel can come or go by sea until further notice—”

“You’re a bit late with that,” Cloverhill said, bitterness in his voice. “Damphoost and his River Watch have already set up a blockade around Suiddock.”

Nathaniel nodded his appreciation to the captain. “Glad to see somebody in this benighted district has the sense to put appropriate measures in place.”

“What else?” Kurt asked.

“Nobody may leave Suiddock by any means, on land or by sea. My brethren are cutting off all traffic at the two bridges that connect this district to the rest of Marienburg. However, our numbers within the city are limited, and much of our time and resources must be devoted to finding those responsible for this infestation of dark magic. So another agency will be principally responsible for manning the bridges, and stopping anyone from entering or leaving Suiddock.” Nathaniel smirked at Kurt. “I hope your Black Caps are up to the challenge, Captain Schnell. Those that fail or shirk their responsibilities will be declared heretics and made to stand trial.”

“Are you quite mad?” Kurt demanded. “The moment word of this quarantine leaks out, the first thing every citizen in Suiddock will do is try to get out of the district. You expect my handful of men to stop them? Armed with what—harsh language?”

“How you implement my edicts is your choice,” Nathaniel replied. He leaned closer to Kurt, hissing in his ear. “I told you last year I would make your Black Caps suffer for impeding my investigations. Consider this task your payment for that.”

Cobbius got to his feet with steely resolve, before marching round the table to confront Kurt, Damphoost and Nathaniel. There was no trace of anger in his voice, just a flinty determination that spoke far louder than any shouting. “I don’t care who has given you authority or jurisdiction, what gods you believe in or what credo you may preach. Know this: any attempt to put Suiddock under quarantine will fail.”

“Is that a threat?” Nathaniel demanded.

“Consider it a warning,” Cobbius replied as he walked out. “Sound advice from a concerned citizen. This district will be in an uproar when the people hear about your plans, Brother Nathaniel. Once that happens, there’s nothing you can do to stop them.”

Kurt stepped in front of Cobbius, to prevent him leaving. “If news of the quarantine were to leak out before dawn, the consequences could be devastating. Imagine what would happen if everyone in Suiddock tried to flee from the district tonight. You’ve heard about the hallucinations, the nightmares. Now multiply that by every single person in the district, trying to get away in boats or across two narrow bridges. It’d be carnage, innocent citizens trampling each other to death in the darkness, unable to see where they’re going in this damn mist. I’m sure nobody wants that on their conscience.”

Cobbius glared at Kurt for a long moment. “No, I’m sure they don’t. But I’m just as certain that everybody will hear the truth about this quarantine first thing tomorrow.” He pushed past the watchman, and strode from the meeting room.

Nathaniel arched an eyebrow at Kurt. “You gave him tacit permission to unleash anarchy on this district at dawn, Captain Schnell.”

“I’m ensuring as many people as possible get through this alive, that’s all.” Kurt jabbed a finger in the witch hunter’s chest. “You might want to think about doing the same. What’s the point in saving this city from the clutches of dark magic, if there are no souls left alive in Marienburg when the battle’s been won?”

Kurt stalked from the meeting room, leaving a thoughtful Nathaniel by the windows while greasy yellow fog swirled outside. The witch hunter didn’t notice the slime of a dozen snails that glistened on the glass.

CHAPTER EIGHT

At Three Penny Bridge the eve of Geheimnistag was spent organising the Black Caps into two fighting forces, one led by Scheusal, the other by Holismus. Ganz grumbled about not being given leadership, until Kurt took a show of hands among the other watchmen to find whom among them wanted Ganz to take charge. Nobody raised a hand in support of the former soldier. He stormed from the station, muttering curses at his colleagues and Kurt in particular. The captain was grateful Ganz had gone, as such a sour presence would have been a massive drain on morale.

Kurt let Scheusal and Holismus pick the members of their teams. “Take the men you know best, the men who instinctively understand your tactics. The decisions you make now could determine who’s alive this time tomorrow.” Scheusal opted for Silenti and Potts, the sergeant knowing the watch commander’s nephew had to be protected from harm. Holismus took Bescheiden and Kramer, having often patrolled with both of them. Neither could be claimed as the city’s best fighters, but Holismus knew their strengths and that would be important for what lay ahead.

The rest of the Black Caps got divided evenly between the groups. All were new recruits who’d joined in the past year, some so recently Kurt was still discovering their capabilities, their strengths and weaknesses. While Holismus and Scheusal chose their troops, Kurt released all remaining prisoners from the holding cells and sent them home. He didn’t want their fate on his conscience, but mostly he didn’t want any witnesses from outside the Black Caps to hear what he had to say next.

Once the forces were forged, Kurt told the watchmen about the challenge ahead. “When word of the witch hunters’ quarantine spreads—and it will spread, trust me on that—there will be panic. Expect everything from begging mothers carrying babies, pleading to be let out into the rest of the city, through to armed gangs of stevedores and teamsters charging the bridges with hurt in their hearts. Do not use force unless force is required. These are our neighbours, our friends, some of them may even be family—but none of them can pass. This quarantine must remain in force as long as possible.”

Potts raised a hand. “You don’t have to ask permission to speak,” Kurt told the new recruit, getting a laugh from the other Black Caps.

“Why is there a quarantine?” Potts asked.

“Suiddock is tainted by dark magic,” Kurt replied. “Personally, I suspect the taint has already spread well beyond this district, but the witch hunters believe it can be contained here and they’re in charge—for now. That could well change, but not yet.” The captain looked at his sergeant. “Scheusal, I want you and your men to take the Hoogbrug bridge. I know it’s asking a lot, but we must hold it as long as we can.”

“Why the Hoogbrug?” the sergeant asked. “We could achieve much the same effect by blocking the Niederbrug between Luydenhoek and Hightower Isle. It’s a smaller bridge, easier to hold and still cuts off the only dry route north.”

“True, but our orders stipulate the Hoogbrug, like it or not. Most people may not consider Hightower Isle part of Suiddock, but it is to the witch hunters.” Kurt turned to Holismus. “Your first task at Draaienbrug is to disable the swing-bridge facility, otherwise people south of the Bruynwater could use that against you.”

Holismus nodded. “From what time do you want the quarantine enforced?”

“Dawn,” the captain replied. “I’m not having any of you out in this fog overnight. Any fool stupid enough to go out in the mist deserves what they get. Better that we all try and get some sleep tonight. Geheimnistag is going to be a very, very long day.”

Damphoost had given his maritime watchmen orders to leave the water by sunset. All but one of the boats were back as the sun finally surrendered its uneven battle with the fog over Suiddock, and darkness swallowed any last lingering shafts of light and hope. As the temperature dropped across the district, so the mist thickened until visibility was less than an arm’s length on land and water. The last riverboat drifted into the jetty an hour later, but of the two crewmen there was little evidence. Belladonna had the wooden boat brought indoors for further study, but what she found offered no comfort.

“Who was out in this?” she asked once the other watchmen had turned in.

“Kemp and Ragan,” Damphoost said. “Good men, both of them.”

“I’m sorry, but they’re almost certainly dead.”

The captain ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “How can you tell?”

Belladonna showed him scratch marks on the boat’s underside. “These were made by fingernails, somebody clawing at the wood, trying to get a grip on it.” Next she pointed out a crimson spray on the inside of the hull. “That’s human blood. See the way it’s spattered the interior? That’s what you could expect if someone’s throat had been cut or sliced open.” Finally, she pulled a human tooth from the opposite edge of the boat. “This was embedded with massive force. I’d say someone or something rammed a head down on this edge. The impact would have knocked them out, if not killed them.”

Damphoost studied the tooth. “This must belong to Ragan. Kemp lost his own teeth years ago, liked to wear a false set he’d carved himself from wood.”

“Two things may have happened here,” Belladonna concluded. “Either your two watchmen went insane and beat each other to death out on the water—”

“Unlikely. They’d been patrolling together for years. I’ve known brothers who were not as close as Kemp and Ragan.”

“—or else something attacked and slaughtered them; probably the latter.”

Damphoost looked at her. “And you can tell all of that, simply by examining this old wooden boat for a while?”

“It’s what I do, what I’m best at.” She touched a hand to the side of his face. “You look tired, Ruben—exhausted. You need to sleep.”

“I will,” he said, but was already pulling on his coat.

“Where are you going?”

“To tell Kemp’s wife and Ragan’s daughter what we think has happened. They deserve to know, and I doubt there’ll be a chance to inform either of them tomorrow.”

Not far from the Rijksweg, captains from the city’s northern districts and wards were gathering at the Red Cock Inn in Guilderveld. Well known for its superior ale and hot food, the tavern was also said to be a favoured haunt for smugglers and those looking to disappear. Innkeeper Donat Tuersveld’s alleged connections to the Thieves’ Guild made the tavern an unlikely place to find five senior watchmen, but that was precisely why Quist had chosen it. The captain for Noordmuur had no wish for word of their meeting to spread and Tuersveld’s alehouse guaranteed discretion for all—even Black Caps.

Titus Rottenrow from Rijkspoort arrived second, his bushy red beard and barrel-chested physique making him easy to spot. Next was Guilderveld’s own Arthur Zeegers, a pinch-faced individual with darting eyes and foul breath, followed by the altogether grander Cornelius Bloom from Paleisbuurt, his regal bearing and garb befitting the captain for Marienburg’s richest district. Scurrying to a seat mere moments before the appointed hour, Samuel Mulder was nervous and hesitant, the narrow-hipped captain from Ostmuur sliding himself into one of the tavern’s chairs like a serpent.

Quist waited until the others had finished exchanging small talk before raising his voice and calling them to order. “I’m grateful to you all for coming tonight, and on such short notice. No doubt you’ve heard what’s happening at Suiddock—”

Mulder piped up, interrupting Quist in a sibilant voice. “Is Georges coming? Should we be starting without him, I mean? Seems a bit rude, not waiting if he—”

“Sandler was not invited to this meeting,” Quist said, struggling to keep his temper with the agitated figure to his left. “He made his attitude quite clear at the last meeting of captains. All he cares about is Goudberg, and advancing his own career.”

“Nevertheless, you should have invited me,” an aristocratic voice broke in. The captains twisted round to see Sandler approaching, a tankard of ale in his grasp. The late arrival took a chair from an empty table nearby and positioned it next to Rottenrow. “Still, I’m here now, so no harm done.” He sat down and supped his ale, before gesturing at Quist. “Please, carry on with what you were saying.”

Quist continued, a scowl etched into his grim features. “No doubt you’ve heard what’s happening at Suiddock. The witch hunters have been given total jurisdiction over the district, usurping Captain Schnell, the local River Watch and all other authorities in Suiddock. The Stadsraad believes bottling up the problems there will save the rest of the city. Both houses of our parliament have abdicated all responsibility. But it’s not just the citizens of Suiddock who’ll suffer. Quarantining that district cuts off all land routes between the northern and southern halves of the city. It’ll cause anarchy within hours.”

The scar-faced veteran of twenty years glared round the others. None contradicted him, but neither did they have the courage to speak up—except one. “I don’t understand what you want us to do about this,” Sandler said between sips of ale. “Much of what you say is true—”

“All of it is true!” Quist raged.

“Perhaps, but you know the adage; what happens in Suiddock, stays in Suiddock.”

“So you think we should turn a blind eye, leave Schnell, Damphoost and the others to cope with a riot? We should deny them any help of any kind?”

“What do you suggest we do?” Rottenrow asked, stroking his beard. “We cannot stand against the authority given to the witch hunters, we’d be branded as heretics.”

“Titus is right,” Mulder agreed. “This is a Suiddock problem, a local matter. It doesn’t affect our districts, our wards. Why should we worry?”

“What about the dead rising from any crypts below sea level?” Quist asked.

“Isolated incidents,” Rottenrow said. “Tiny ripples spreading outwards, as happens after someone has thrown a large stone into a pond. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“You honestly think this dark magic can be kept to Suiddock?”

“Probably not,” Bloom told Quist with a condescending tone in his voice. “But my district of Paleisbuurt is overflowing with private militia only too starved of an outlet for their aggression. Perhaps a few light skirmishes will do them some good.”

Quist sprang to his feet, his chair tipping over backwards as he slammed a fist down on the tavern table. “Fools! That’s what you are! Suiddock is only the beginning, a foothold for the enemy that is coming. By abandoning that district to fight against this dark magic alone, you are dooming it to failure. Once Suiddock is lost, the rest of the city shall fall within days, if not hours. When that happens, you will remember this and you will hang your heads in shame —if you still have your heads by then!”

Quist stomped away from the table, but one voice made him stop. It was Zeegers, Quist’s oldest friend among the captains. “Bram, where are you going?”

“To prepare for war,” Quist snarled. “Those of you who have any sense will do the same, before it’s too late. Mark my words and mark them well; this fight will be ours before Geheimnistag is over. Unless you want to see your districts on fire and your citizens being sacrificed to Chaos, you’ll mobilise what forces you have—tonight!”

An hour later, the Knights of Purity met in their star chamber above the oubliette. “What happened at the meeting?” one of the cabal asked. The leader’s face was hidden from the others by a hood, but the shake of his head was still evident to them all. “Why did they not listen? Why did they not rise to the challenge?”

“It is prophecy coming to pass,” the leader said. “The other captains walk in the footsteps of destiny and do not even realise they are walking to their dooms.”

“There must be something we can do.”

“I shall seek help from other sources, other places. We have the benefit of knowing where the prophecy leads, and of having prepared ourselves for the dark days and hours ahead. We have seen the coming of this threat for time beyond reckoning. Now we must rise to the challenge and take our place in the final, terrible battle.”

* * *

Brother Nathaniel surveyed the great and the good of Marienburg not long after the chimes of midnight. He’d summoned one representative from each of the ten wealthiest families to the City Watch headquarters, using the threat of excommunication to bring them to heel when some refused to leave their homes. Now he stood on the raised dais in front of the watch commander’s desk, glaring down on the gathering.

“You should be ashamed of yourselves,” he said. That brought a murmur of angry dissent from the richest people in Marienburg, but none dared raise their voice against the witch hunter. “The district of Suiddock is dying and you do nothing to help it. The citizens there are being tormented by dark magic, their lungs choked by a fog that steals away their lives little by little, their futures hanging in the balance. But you—the leaders of this city, those who should be setting an example—hide away in your palaces of marble and stone, hoping and praying to be spared the same fate. I’m here to tell you this simple fact: your prayers will not be heard, nor will they be answered. If you are not willing to help your fellow man, you deserve no sympathy for your own slaughter.”

Stefan Rothemuur stepped from the shadow of his more illustrious counterparts. “But we have our own troubles to deal with. Our houses are beset from within, the skeletons and corpses of our own families are rising up to attack us.”

The witch hunter nodded. “We already know of your plight and we have a solution, if you are willing to help us with Suiddock.”

That brought more appreciation from those gathered. Thus far Nathaniel had been browbeating them with the usual hellfire and brimstone treatment all had heard too many times in the past from his kind. But to have a witch hunter offer them help, now that was worth listening to. “What kind of help?” Stefan asked.

“One of my brethren shall come to each of your homes, accompanied by a priest of Morr. Together they will drive out the daemons that afflict your palaces and mansions before dawn. In return, you must allocate two-thirds of your private militia forces to our control, to do with as I see fit. What say you?”

The ten summoned to the meeting turned to one another, debating the merits of this offer. Nathaniel did not bother to watch, instead turning to the man sat behind the desk. “You seem confident they will accept your deal,” the watch commander said.

“They may be little better than idolaters paying homage to the gods of wealth and indulgence, but nobody wants to be throttled in bed by the corpses of their ancestors. They will haggle, but they will also agree. It’s in their best interests to do so, just as it was when I confronted the Stadsraad earlier. It is inevitable. In a way, it is destiny.”

On the waters beyond Rijker’s Isle, a face split open into a wolfish grin. Eyes stared into a pool of blood, watching the meeting in the commander’s office, savouring each word Brother Nathaniel was saying. The fool spreads his witch hunters too thin. He has traded his strength for force of arms, when mortal men with their flintlocks and blades cannot hope to stand against the fury to come. His blunder shall be the undoing of Suiddock, and bring the devastation of this entire city.

A hand swept across the blood pool’s surface, wiping away the image, as black lips muttered incantations so evil, so twisted that few had dared speak them aloud for decades, perhaps centuries. When the ripples had ceased disturbing the crimson liquid, a new image appeared on the surface. A bald man with thin, delicate fingers was writhing on a floor of stone, hands clutched to his temples, torment contorting his features.

“This one is too strong for his own good. He must be broken. His spirit must be taken from him and crushed before his eyes. His will must be rent asunder, and his belief undone. He must be broken.”

A single, wizened finger stabbed into the pool of blood where Otto’s face was. The priest of Morr screamed in pain, his cries echoing outwards into the shroud of fog that hung over the water. “Cry for me, sob for me, bleed for me.” Dark, forsaken lips whispered the words like some perverted lullaby of pain and torture. “Dance for me, holy man, sing for me, shaman. Say your prayers and chatter your credo, but it shall do you no good. Your soul is already forfeit, your life is mine to end, and your temple shall be my privy when this is over. Your death is but a bloodbath away.”

An hour before dawn, the assembled ranks of the River Watch were gathering for their final orders before the quarantine around the waters of Suiddock was put into full effect. More than a hundred boats were moored round the district, each to be manned by four crew sent from every part of the city. Finding a room big enough to house all the maritime watchmen had not been easy, until Belladonna suggested the Temple of Manann on Hightower Isle. It could seat a thousand of the faithful, with room for another two hundred worshippers on the balcony overlooking the interior. Damphoost addressed his men from the balcony, making it easier for all of them to hear what he had to say.

“I wish I could offer some special words of comfort or wisdom, provide a stirring speech of great inspiration and insight to see you through the ordeal that’s ahead of us all. Alas, I’m probably just like you—an ordinary man who loves being on water, and who thought joining the River Watch could make that love into a living. Now we find ourselves all in the same situation, the same boat you might even say. We have been given the unenviable task of stopping vessels from leaving or approaching Suiddock.”

There was a murmur of disapproval among the boatmen. The vast majority were from elsewhere in Marienburg and couldn’t understand why they’d been chosen for this mission around the waters of Suiddock. None were looking forward to it.

“In truth, I would call it an impossible task,” Damphoost continued. “There’s no point in me standing here and lying to you by saying otherwise. The River Watch have never been properly armed for combat, nor are our boats strong enough to withstand any vessel stupid enough to ram us. But we have a job to do and we will do it to the best of our abilities, because it is impossible. We are River Watch and we do the impossible every day. We have stopped smugglers and thieves, prevented catastrophes and turned back enemies far more formidable than anything seen on land in this city. We are River Watch, the forgotten peacekeepers, the people who battle against time and tide, who stand with honour against storm and squall. We are River Watch and we’re the best damned collection of mariners this city has ever seen! We are River Watch.”

By now the boatmen were cheering their leader, surprised and excited by his words, proud to be part of this rare gathering. Damphoost let the men calm down before continuing with his words. “We will do what is asked of us, and we will do it well, better than anyone has a right to expect. Citizens will come to you in boats and dinghies and every other craft imaginable, pleading to be let past —you must turn them back. Smugglers may threaten you or even offer bribes—you must turn them away. Vessels may sail straight at you, fast as they can, expecting you to retreat from their fury—you must stand and take what is thrown at you. You are River Watch and you shall be firm, you shall be resolute and you shall be triumphant! What are you?”

“We are River Watch!” the men below bellowed.

“I can’t hear you,” Damphoost shouted. “What are you?”

“We are River Watch!”

“Yes, you are—and never forget that simple fact. You have your orders, you have your positions, you have your weapons and you have your crewmates. You know what to do. You are River Watch, and today you will do this city proud. Dismissed!”

Kurt watched his Black Caps leave the station as dawn approached, marching out into the swirling fog, masks of cloth secured over their noses and mouths to keep out the worst of the mist. He’d little doubt the stevedores and teamsters were poised to spread news of the quarantine as soon as it was sunrise. The captain could not help smiling at that; who knew when anyone on Suiddock would see the sun rise again?

Yesterday it had driven away the sinister clouds for a few hours, but now visibility was worse than ever. The rising sun would make it possible to move around on the streets and cobbles, but that would only make matters worse once word of Suiddock’s confinement spread.

The captain closed the front doors to his station. For all intents and purposes, Three Penny Bridge no longer had a complement of Black Caps. They had become jailors for all of Suiddock’s citizens, charged with keeping captive thousands of people whose only crime was living in this district. Kurt wondered how they would fare, his watchmen and the people he’d come to think of as his own. How many would perish, how many would lose their lives due to the follies of others? He’d never felt more helpless in his life, at least not since the deaths of his brother in battle, and his wife after childbirth.

“Wondering what the day will bring?” a familiar voice asked. Molly was standing outside her bordello, a cloth held over her nose and mouth, but that mass of red hair couldn’t belong to anyone else. “Or can’t you sleep either?”

“Don’t want to,” Kurt admitted. “Bad dreams.”

“Nightmares.”

He nodded. “How long would it take you and your girls to evacuate?”

“Depends when we’d be coming back.”

“Maybe tomorrow, maybe never.”

Molly lowered the cloth from her face a moment. “Things are that bad?” Kurt didn’t reply. He didn’t need to. “I could have the girls out of here within six minutes.”

“Cut that in half and you might still make it out of Suiddock.” Kurt explained about the quarantine. “Take your girls south, over the Draaienbrug swing bridge. The witch hunters will be fewer there, most people will try to escape by crossing the Rijksweg. Once you’re out of Suiddock, go east, away from the sea, as far across Kruiersmuur as you can. If things go badly, you can get out of the city from there.”

Instead of hurrying inside, Molly came and kissed Kurt on the mouth. “Thanks.”

He smiled. “I thought bordello workers never kissed anyone on the mouth.”

Molly shrugged. “Rules are made to be broken. Besides, there’re not many that would bother to warn the likes of my girls and me. I wanted to show my appreciation.”

Andries was grateful to hear the sound of heavy boots stomping towards him over the Hoogbrug. He and Wijk had been patrolling the bridge all night, marching back and forth in the mist, only just able to make out each other’s silhouette in the greasy murk. Both had three kerchiefs tied over their faces, one on top of the other, to ward off the disturbing visions suffered by those who breathed in the insidious mist. It would be a blessed relief to get indoors and away from the fog.

He listened to the footfalls as they got closer. Having spent two successive nights patrolling amid the cloud, the Bretonnian immigrant had become adept at detecting who was coming solely from the sounds of their approach. The oncoming boots were not the Black Caps’ standard issue, and there were more than two people advancing towards him and Wijk. Andries drew his sword. “Who goes there? Come forward and be recognised!”

The dark shapes emerging from the mist were wrapped in dark cloaks and wide-brimmed hats hid their faces, but the uniform was all too familiar. “Witch hunters,” Wijk said.

One of the newcomers stepped forward to confront the watchmen. “You are hereby relieved. This bridge is now under our jurisdiction.”

“By whose authority?” Andries asked.

“Does it matter?” the witch hunter sneered.

Andries and his partner exchanged a glance. No, it didn’t matter to either of them.

“Where is your station?” the witch hunter continued. “Suiddock or Paleisbuurt?”

“Paleisbuurt,” Wijk replied. “We report to Captain Bloom.”

“Then return there, and consider yourselves fortunate.”

Andries thought to ask why they should, but dismissed the question as soon as it formed in his mind. In his experience Black Caps who asked too many questions did not last long, nor did they have the happiest of times. Instead the watchman tipped his cap to the witch hunter and dragged Wijk away, across the bridge to Paleisbuurt. As they marched over the rest of the Hoogbrug towards home, they passed a dozen witch hunters—more than either man had ever seen before in their whole lives. That settled it for Andries. He wanted no part of whatever was happening across in Suiddock.

Back in the centre of the Hoogbrug, Brother Nathaniel was saying his farewells to the other witch hunters. “You have your orders. Do not deviate from them, no matter what horrors you may witness or terrors may confront you. Here and on the Draaienbrug is where we must make our stand, if this accursed dark magic is to be vanquished.”

The others nodded, their faces grim and resolute as that of Nathaniel.

He marched off towards Suiddock, vanishing into the fog long before the sound of his boots faded into the distance. Then he was gone, as if the mist had consumed him.

CHAPTER NINE

Otto staggered naked through the mausoleum, eyes closed, hands held up in front of his face. “No more,” he begged, “please, no more.” But his torments were unending, as the ghosts of those laid to rest in crypts and tombs around him rose up. They hovered and swayed in the air, before diving through the priest’s fevered body, every penetration like a stab of ice, cold shame to his soul. As each ghost entered his body, Otto felt what they felt, sensed what they sensed, suffered as they suffered.

The priest experienced the final moments of their existence and the numbing horror of their death. The mother whose life ebbed away in a pool of her own blood as the stillborn baby lay on the cobbles, sobbing in anguish while uncaring people stepped over them both. The innocent boy stabbed to death in a senseless rage by his eldest brother, all reason torn away by years of crimson shade abuse. The elderly crone who suffered years of pain as the tumours grew inside her, eating away at liver, kidneys and lungs. The rich merchant drowned by his second wife on their wedding night, killed for a fortune she never got to spend during her brief sojourn to Rijker’s Isle. The fabled explorer who lied all his life about the lands he claimed to have discovered, perishing in an alleyway as the heart he had neglected ground to a halt, choked by years of banquets and rich food.

All of these deaths Otto endured and dozens more, over and over again, each torment more excruciating than the last. It was an endless cycle of darkness, seeing the nothingness that lay beyond the grave, the bleak wallow of eternity these unhappy spirits had found in the world after death, the terrifying void where they had expected paradise. For hours the priest had denied these visions, decrying them as hallucinations, visions sent to plague him, lies and falsehoods born of dark magic.

But as dawn came to Suiddock, the horrors became too much. Otto ran from the spirits, lurching through the mausoleum back to his temple, the house of stone and sorrows he called home. But more nightmares waited there, these torn from the bones and bodies that had attacked him and Kurt. Somehow despatching them had undone the binding between body and soul, unleashing them as avenging spirits bent on revenge. We died once but we rose again, they whispered in the priest’s mind. We were resurrected and you stole that resurrection from us. You’re a murderer. Murderer!

“No, I’m not,” Otto whimpered, sinking into a corner of the temple, paying no heed to how cold the stone was against his skin, not caring anymore if he lived or died. “I couldn’t kill you, I couldn’t. You were already dead—already dead!”

Not anymore, they screamed into his thoughts. We’ll live again inside you!

“No—nooooooo!”

Kurt was en route to see how his Black Caps were faring with the blockades when he heard a terrified cry from nearby. The captain had never got used to the sound of men screaming, though he’d heard it often on the battlefield and more than a few times since arriving in Marienburg. There was something unnatural, almost inhuman about male screaming. It was a sound that simply could not be ignored.

At first Kurt couldn’t tell from where the scream had come, the fog still making it all but impossible to see beyond an arm’s length ahead. But as he groped his way towards the sound, the captain’s hands found the sign of Morr on the wall ahead and Kurt realised where he was. More shocking was the fact he couldn’t remember where he’d last seen or heard from Otto. It could have been hours, even days, but the watchman was unable to put the pieces of memory together in his mind. Was it another side effect of the accursed mist, Kurt wondered, before pushing that aside. It didn’t matter, finding Otto and stopping whatever was making the priest scream had to be the priority now.

Kurt felt his way along the wall, knowing the entrance must be close. His hand fell on the handle as a beam of sunlight penetrated the greasy yellow gloom all around. It was dawn. It was Geheimnistag. Kurt pushed his way into the temple. As he entered, the screaming stopped, as if cut off at the source.

The interior was dark, a single lit candle providing the only illumination. Kurt peered round the temple, trying to discover Otto among the torn tapestries and broken stonework. The rooms had been a mess when he left, but something far worse had happened since. That was underlined when Kurt found the priest hunched in a corner, stark naked and sobbing, his eyes staring at worlds beyond vision.

“Otto, it’s Kurt,” the captain said, crouching on one knee by the trembling figure. “It’s Captain Schnell, from Three Penny Bridge. You remember?”

The priest blinked once but gave no other response.

“You helped us with a memorial service for Jan Woxholt, and all the other Black Caps who died last year, when the mercenaries attacked the station.”

Another blink, but nothing else.

“I’m going to find your robe, Otto. You can’t stay like this, you’ll catch your death in the cold,” Kurt said, getting back to his feet. “Where’s your robe, Otto?”

“Catch your death,” the priest whispered.

“That’s right.”

Otto pointed to the opposite corner, where a torn and tattered garment had been flung. Kurt retrieved it and brought the robe back to the priest. He helped Otto up and slipped the robe over the naked man’s head and shoulders. “That’s better. Last thing you want to do is run around Suiddock naked. Not today, not on Geheimnistag.”

“When the dead talk to the living through dreams,” Otto said, still shaking.

Kurt nodded, before gesturing at the carnage inside the temple. “What happened?”

“Kept seeing visions of death, and horror. Torturing me, tormenting me. Over and over, over and over,” the priest replied. “Couldn’t escape them, couldn’t find a way out.”

“Do you know where these visions came to you from?” Otto stared at the captain.

“Yes.”

“Can you lead me to the source?”

“Not that, don’t ask me to do that,” the priest said. “Anything but that!”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’m not strong enough. When you came in, I was all but broken, my mind…”

“By these visions of the dead?” Otto nodded.

“But you’re a priest of Morr. You worship the god of dreams, the protector of the dead. You work with the deceased every single day—how can you be afraid?”

“There are worse things than death,” Otto hissed. “Far worse.”

“Like what?”

But the priest didn’t reply, only shook his head.

Kurt wouldn’t be denied. “Like what, Otto? Tell me!”

“He can’t,” another voice interjected. Kurt swivelled round to see the temple door opening. A lone figure stood outside, bathed in a mixture of mist and sunshine, dark cloak swirling around them. The wide-brimmed hat tipped back, revealing the face of Brother Nathaniel underneath. “If he tells you, he becomes a heretic.”

Kurt shook his head in disbelief. “Is that why you’re here, to brand this poor priest as an unbeliever? Maybe take him away for torture and interrogation by one of your brethren, followed by a few decades of indoctrination and incarceration?”

The witch hunter strolled into the temple. “Quite the contrary—I’m here to help.”

* * *

Frau Silvia Vink was not in the habit of venturing outside her home, except on Marktag when she went shopping for provisions. It had been different when her husband Titus was alive, he could eat like a horse, but she’d been alone since his murder. Halflings were few and far between in Suiddock, so Silvia held out little hope of meeting another from her kind that she wished to invite into her home, let alone her bed. Once the murderer had been punished, Frau Vink decided it was time to move on from the house she’d shared with Titus on Three Penny Bridge. His killing had soured too many happy memories, and she wanted to make a fresh start. So the widow sold her home and shifted to a quiet corner of Stoessel, remaking the house to suit her needs.

She had not gone out since the fog first settled over Suiddock. One breath of the foul mist convinced the little woman it was best avoided. She bolted the front door and shuttered the windows, content to read by candlelight and spin yarn on a wheel. Three days passed in this fashion, with only an occasional visit from a friend or neighbour to disturb her peace. But the morning of Geheimnistag brought a battering on her front door.

Roused from sleep, Frau Vink flung open the shutters on her bedroom window to look down on the cause of the racket. She found this gave her a height advantage over those below, something a halfling did not often experience. The foul fog had dissipated enough for her to see a hulk with tattooed arms and a soot-smeared shirt bashing her front door. “What in Manann’s name do you want?”

“Witch hunters have put the district under quarantine,” he replied, after spotting where she was.

“Nobody’s allowed in or out of Suiddock, and that includes the docks as well as the bridges. River Watch are blockading every waterway too.”

“Why?”

“Dark magic, or so they say. All the stevedores and teamsters are going round every home in Suiddock, asking people to help us break the quarantine. They are leaving us to rot here, hoping it’ll save the rest of the city. Why should we die for them?” As he talked other men were hammering on doors up and down the alleyway, repeating the same phrases to concerned citizens. Residents were already spilling out of their homes, carrying satchels laden with clothing and other possessions. “So, you coming or not?” the stevedore demanded. “We march on both bridges within the hour.”

“I’m staying put,” the widow replied. “I’ve already moved once this year, I’m not moving again. When I leave this house they’ll be carrying me out in a burial shroud.”

“Have it your own way,” the hulk shrugged. He moved on to her neighbour’s door and the hammering resumed. Frau Vink watched for a few minutes before withdrawing into her own little world, closing the shutters on the tumult outside.

“Dark magic,” she muttered to herself. “Who believes in such nonsense?”

Scheusal stood in front of the Hoogbrug, Silenti flanking him on one side, Potts on the other. Six more watchmen were behind them, blocking any access to the bridge across the Rijksweg. The rising sun had done its best against the insidious fog, but swirls of the mist were already forming above Suiddock. For the first time in days, Scheusal found himself wishing the fog to return. The sergeant and his contingent of Black Caps had been standing guard over the Hoogbrug since dawn, following Kurt’s instructions to the letter. Behind them two clusters of witch hunters were standing on the bridge, ready to send back any citizens who broke through the blockade of watchmen.

For the first hour it had been quiet, so quiet Scheusal wondered if all their preparations had been wasted effort, the promised revolt a figment of the imagination less substantial than the mist. But one by one the citizens came, laden with possessions and anger, all of them wanting to escape Suiddock. The first few were bemused and polite, but as their numbers swelled and the Black Caps stood firm, the mood turned ugly. It was a standoff, an explosive situation waiting for someone to strike the first match.

Scheusal knew his men could repel ordinary citizens in small groups with little trouble. But once the burly stevedores and teamsters from the docks arrived, the begging and verbal abuse would soon turn to violence. The watchmen were under orders to use force to defend the bridge and themselves, no more. If the standoff turned into a riot, the captain had been clear: nobody was to take a life except to defend their own or that of another Black Cap. The witch hunters could look after their own men, according to Kurt, and the sergeant was more than happy to agree. He’d already been forced to batter back several attempts by citizens, all of them intent on getting past the blockade. Once they got organised, it was liable to be a bloodbath. Even the fog was preferable to that.

“This isn’t so bad,” Potts said. “What was the captain worried about?”

“Them,” Silenti replied, jerking his head towards a delegation marching through Hightower Isle, towards the blockade. There were more than forty heavily muscled men in the gang, all armed with clubs or longshoreman’s hooks.

“Taal’s teeth,” the new recruit whispered.

“Let’s hope we’ve still got some teeth when this is over,” Silenti said.

The delegation forced its way through the crowd of citizens that stood twenty deep around the blockade, until the armed men were facing the Black Caps. Lea-Jan Cobbius emerged from among the newcomers, his hands empty of any weapon. He stood opposite Scheusal, arms folded, face resolute and stern.

“We wish to pass,” Cobbius announced, his voice loud enough for all to hear.

“Suiddock is under quarantine, by order of the Stadsraad and the witch hunters,” the sergeant replied. “None may leave the district, by land or by sea.” He gestured to the Rijksweg, running underneath the bridge. A string of River Watch boats bobbed in the water, extended out east and west as far as the eye could see. “If you wish to object or complain about the quarantine, we suggest you take it up with the proper authorities.”

“And how do you suggest we contact these authorities, since they are safely outside the district while you are holding us prisoner inside the district?” Cobbius demanded. His question brought yells of approval and support from those behind him.

Scheusal shrugged. “We didn’t choose to be here either. We’re prisoners of this situation, just like all of you.”

“Except you’re prisoners who also hold the key to freedom.”

The sergeant jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the waiting witch hunters. “In case you hadn’t noticed, the real warders are behind us. Any citizen who attempts to get past them will be summarily excommunicated. Your souls will be forfeit—or so I’ve been instructed to tell you. Better for everyone if you all go home, and wait there.”

“What if we don’t wish to wait?” Cobbius asked. “What if we force the issue?”

“Then force will be met by force, however painful that may be. For all of us.”

Cobbius nodded, before turning to his men. “Do what you must.” He walked past his army of thugs, and on through the assembled citizens, back into Suiddock. Once he was out of sight, the delegation of stevedores and teamsters closed ranks, their weapons ready for action. Silenti leaned over towards a pale and pasty Potts.

“Now do you see what the captain was worried about?”

Damphoost had chosen to be in the River Watch boat furthest to the west of Suiddock, floating between Riddra and Rijker’s Isle, and Belladonna had chosen to be with her new captain. Plenty of citizens had tried to flee the district in a variety of vessels, but all had been turned back by the maritime watchmen. Several river taxis approached the blockade from other parts of the city, but none had the stomach for a direct confrontation with the River Watch. Damphoost was not anticipating trouble from them.

It was the smugglers that worried him most. Suiddock was a haven for dubious ships carrying unregistered cargo. With the port closed for several days in succession, the smugglers’ need to shift their contraband was becoming ever more urgent. Sailing out of the harbour while the mist had fallen on Suiddock and its waterways was too dangerous. Now the sun had driven the fog back, it was a golden opportunity for smugglers to make a break for open water. Not all of them could expect to break through the blockade, but even the heavily reinforced River Watch had little hope of stopping everyone. Once the smugglers reached the cover of fog near Rijker’s Isle, their escape was assured.

They came as a distant bell tower chimed nine. It must have been a pre-arranged signal for action, as Belladonna could hear screams drifting across the water, and the sound of a flintlock pistol being fired. The smuggling ships emerged from the port entrance and sailed due west, straight for the flotilla of River Watch boats commanded by Damphoost. “How do we stop them?” Belladonna asked, all too conscious that the dagger in her trembling hand was little use against a large ship coming at ramming speed.

“I’m not sure we can,” Damphoost admitted. “But we’ll try.”

Archers appeared on the decks of the approaching ships. Belladonna watched in horror as the bowmen loaded their weapons with flaming arrows. She was sitting in a wooden boat, as were all the River Watch vessels. They’d no defence against fire, except the sea-water lapping around them. Then the arrows were flying through the air, raining down on the line of wooden boats. The man to her left took an arrow through the eye, and fell overboard screaming. Damphoost was to her right. He threw his body over her, pressing Belladonna down inside the boat, out of harm’s way. Several River Watch vessels nearby were not so fortunate, three catching fire and others capsizing as the crew fell into the water, punctured by burning arrows.

The smugglers’ ships kept coming, brutal and relentless.

It was Potts who fired the first shot at the Hoogbrug. The surly gang of dockworkers had marched towards the watchmen, clubs and hooks at the ready, spoiling for a fight. The Black Caps braced themselves, Scheusal growling at his men to stand their ground. But the sergeant didn’t see the trembling recruit behind him pull out the flintlock, or aim it at the oncoming horde. It was Silenti who intervened, throwing his weight sideways into Potts as the pistol fired. The shot went into air, out of harm’s way, but the shock of it still brought the dockworkers to a halt.

“They’ve got pistols!” a woman cried out from among the gathered citizens.

“They mean to kill us!” another shouted.

“They can’t stop us all,” the tallest of the dockworkers snarled, gesturing for the crowd to follow him and his men on to the bridge. “Let’s get ’em before they get us!”

“Sweet Shallya,” the sergeant muttered. “Here they come!”

Scheusal and his men fought valiantly against the horde, knocking back most of the dockworkers and even the first few citizens to fling themselves at the watchmen’s blockade. But sheer weight of numbers won the day, hundreds and hundreds of citizens proving far too many to repel for less than a dozen men. Scheusal could see people falling to the cobbles, getting trampled underfoot in the mob’s haste to escape the district. Realising the situation was hopeless, he pulled a whistle from his tunic and blew on it three times. “Withdraw, Black Caps—withdraw!”

Silenti bundled Potts and several other watchmen to one side of the bridge, out of harm’s way, while Scheusal took the rest with him to the opposite side. They watched as the crowd surged up the Hoogbrug’s mighty span, towards the waiting witch hunters, where the battle was replayed. But a small army of militia had crossed from the northern end of the bridge to support the witch hunters. The first skirmish was over, but the war for control of the Hoogbrug raged on, pitting citizen against paid soldiers.

Once the crowd had passed, Scheusal called his watchmen together to help those left behind, the wounded and the dying. Twenty-two had been crushed in the rush to escape Suiddock, and not all of them would survive the day. “Silenti, find me a healer and an apothecary, these people need help!” The Black Cap raced away in search of medical aid, while Scheusal pulled a horrified Potts away from the injured. “Who told you to bring a pistol to the blockade? Who gave the order to fire your flintlock?”

“No one,” the young recruit whispered, tears welling in his eyes. “I wanted to help, to protect the blockade, that’s all.”

Scheusal pointed at those crushed in the stampede. “You’re partly responsible for what’s happened here today. I want you to memorise the face of every one of these citizens. It’s our job to protect them. Potts, that’s what is important. If one of them dies, their blood will be on your hands. Everything we do has consequences. Remember that!”

Captain Gralish enjoyed the spectacle as his archers shot wave after wave of burning arrows at the line of wooden boats. The River Watch had been a thorn in the sides of Marienburg smugglers for years, but blockading the waters around Suiddock was a step too far. Word of the quarantine had reached Gralish and his rivals the previous night, as they drowned their sorrows at being fog-bound. Lea-Jan Cobbius himself had come to the Anchor and Albatross, a disreputable tavern lurking in the shadow of the docks, to spread the news. “Should anyone feel the urge to sail at dawn once the sun burns away some of this damn mist,” he had said, “it wouldn’t surprise me if they got all the help they need from any dockworkers that might be standing idle nearby.”

Gralish didn’t need to be invited to a fight twice. He’d headed straight back to his ship, a sprightly sloop called the Ravensberg, and ordered the crew to get it loaded. The captain had a cargo of stolen perishables that needed to leave the city within a day or be dumped, and the client waiting for his delivery would not brook any excuses about unnatural fog or witch hunter quarantines. Gralish might be a man you didn’t cross without a guide and an armed guard, but his client was considerably more violent and prone to rages that made witch hunters look like princesses in comparison.

Hiring archers as a first-strike weapon against the River Watch’s wooden boats was a brainwave of one of Gralish’s rivals, but the captain was happy to play along. He’d stationed seven bowmen at the front of the Ravensberg. Once they were within range of the quarantine, he’d ordered them to open fire. The blazing arrows transformed the floating blockade into a chaotic rabble within minutes. While the River Watch was scrambling to recover, the Ravensberg was picking up speed, a breeze from the shoreline of Suiddock driving the ship towards the burning boats and capsized crews.

“Ramming speed!” Gralish bellowed at his men. “We destroy anything that dares block our way. We’re getting out of this city while the getting’s good. Move yourselves!”

The Ravensberg sliced through the burning boats like a stiletto through silk, crushing one and tipping over two others. The smugglers sailed on towards Rijker’s Isle, Gralish laughing at the sight of his old foe floundering in the ship’s wash. But his first mate was looking ahead at the dirty yellow cloud that clung to the water by the prison island, so dense it was impossible to see through the mist.

“Captain, what about the fog?”

Gralish snorted his derision. “We’ve just vanquished the River Watch in a single skirmish, and you’re worried about a cloud? Where’s your courage, man? You’re a smuggler, not an old woman!” But the smirk died on his lips as the Ravensberg neared the fog. The stiff breeze that had driven them out of port and on past Rijker’s Isle vanished, so Gralish’s vessel was left drifting into the mist ahead. As the Ravensberg got close, the fog billowed outwards, swallowing all the smugglers and their vessels. Visibility sank to nothing, forcing them to drop anchor for fear of colliding with each other. Then came the sound of something approaching them through the water.

“What is it?” the first mate hissed. “One of ours?”

Gralish shook his head. A lifetime at sea had taught him the ways of the ocean and what noises different vessels made as they cut through the water. Whatever was headed their way, it was unlike anything he’d heard before. “Break out the weapons,” Gralish told his crewmen. “Stand by to repel boarders! If they think to take the Ravensberg, we’ll give them the fight of their lives, mark my words.”

But his bravado was forgotten as soon as the mighty ship appeared from the mist. All Gralish could hear as the vast vessel bore down on them were his own screams, begging for divine intervention—but none came.

It was Nathaniel who convinced Otto to lead him and Kurt to the source of the dark magic. The witch hunter whispered in the priest’s ear, muttering things Kurt could not hear. Whatever was said had the desired effect, reviving Otto enough for the priest to nod in agreement. But his body was too weak to walk after suffering so many hours of torment from the spirits infesting the temple. “We’ll have to help him,” Nathaniel said. “You take his right arm over your shoulders, I’ll take his left.”

“We’re going to drag him around Suiddock until he locates the source?”

The witch hunter’s face was void of emotion. “You have a better suggestion?”

Realising he didn’t, Kurt took up position to one side of Otto while Nathaniel supported the other. Together the unlikely duo helped the priest stagger from his home, out into the cold morning air. The sun was still keeping the sinister mist back from Suiddock, but for how much longer? “We must hurry,” the witch hunter said, glancing at the sky. “It’s already getting colder out here, I can feel it in my bones.”

“Bones, bones, we all turn to bones in the end,” Otto muttered under his breath.

“He’s babbling,” Kurt protested. “How can we make any sense of this?”

“Instinct will lead him to the dark magic,” Nathaniel said. “That’s where we take over. If we can destroy the source, the quarantine can be lifted.”

“And if we can’t?”

“Then Suiddock will burn. My brethren cannot let the taint spread beyond this district. If it does, all of Marienburg would be forfeit to the darkness.” The three men staggered along an alleyway to a main thoroughfare that ran from Luydenhoek in the east right across Suiddock to Riddra in the west. On a normal day the street would be swarming with people, traders and market stalls. Today it was barren, no more than a chill breeze blowing along the empty cobbles. “Which way?” Nathaniel asked Otto.

“Go west,” the priest whispered, his voice broken and hoarse. “To the bridge.”

“Three Penny Bridge?”

“Where else?”

Kurt shook his head. What was it about Three Penny Bridge that always attracted trouble? Evil and darkness were drawn to the span, like moths to a flame. His predecessor had been driven mad by Chaos, while Kurt had almost lost his own life to an army of ratmen intent of slaying all those within the station. Now it seemed the source of all this dark magic and misery was also linked to Three Penny Bridge. Had some curse befallen the span linking Stoessel and Riddra?

His musings were brushed aside when they reached the bridge. Otto pushed his helpers away and staggered into the centre of the span, his arms held out in supplication. He looked up into the heavens, filling his lungs with air, inhaling the scents on the wind. “This is where it ends,” Otto whispered. “This is where it—”

But the priest never finished his sentence. He collapsed to the cobbles, his body giving way like a house of cards beneath a fist. Kurt rushed to his side, cradling the fallen priest in his arms. “Otto, are you all right? Otto, talk to me!” But there was no response, no reply. “He’s out cold. It was too much, his body couldn’t cope anymore.”

Nathaniel didn’t seem to be paying any attention. His head was cocked to one side, listening for sounds in the distance. “Can you hear that?”

“Hear what?” Kurt demanded.

“Listen!”

There were screams of pain and blades clashing with blades. Then came a roar of triumph and the noise of thousands of stamping feet, fading into the distance.

The witch hunter’s shoulders sagged. “The quarantine is broken. It’s over.”

“Trust me, this isn’t over. Not by a long way,” Kurt snarled. “What about Otto? For the love of Manann, he’s bleeding from his eyes!”

Nathaniel strode over, dropping to one knee so he could examine the fallen priest. Crimson trickles were streaming from both of Otto’s eyes, and two more rivulets of blood were dribbling from his nostrils. “I’ve seen this before,” the witch hunter muttered. “Of course, I should have realised—but I didn’t think it was possible. Not again.”

“What are you talking about?” Kurt hissed.

“We should pray now,” Nathaniel replied. “It may be our last chance.”

“Forget praying! Tell me what’s happening here—tell me!”

“Necromancy, the darkest of magics. He’s coming for us, for all of us.”

“Who’s coming?”

The witch hunter got back to his feet, clutching a holy book to his chest. “Abandon all hope, Captain Schnell. When the necromancer conquers Suiddock, our souls shall be forfeit and our bodies his playthings. We’re as good as dead already.”

CHAPTER TEN

Belladonna and Damphoost were both thrown into the water when the Ravensberg capsized their boat. They were far enough from the smugglers’ ship not to be dragged under, but others among the River Watch were not so fortunate. Belladonna had felt the strong currents tugging at her legs but managed to swim clear, back to the upturned hull of the wooden boat. She tried to right the craft but couldn’t overcome the buoyancy holding it upside down. So she hung on to its side, calling out the captain’s name, searching the surface for some sign Damphoost was still alive. He emerged from the water on the other side of the boat, gasping for breath.

“Ruben, is that you?” Belladonna asked. She worked her way round the wooden craft, moving hand over hand, her teeth chattering from the chill in the water. Damphoost was clinging to the boat as best he could, a haunted look in his eyes. “What happened? What is it, what’s wrong?”

“There’s something in the water,” he hissed.

“I know, the smugglers—they nearly drowned us all.” Belladonna peered over the top of the boat at the fog cloud. “Don’t worry, they’ve gone into the mist. We’re safe.”

“No, not on the water,” Damphoost insisted. “Below the surface, beneath us. Something was grabbing at my legs, trying to pull me down. Felt like… human hands.”

“Couldn’t be, we’re the only ones out here.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

As if in answer to his warning, a mighty horn bellowed from inside the fog. There were sudden screams for help, men begging for mercy. But the cries were cut off one after another, severed like fingers being cut from a hand. Damphoost swallowed hard, his face blanched white by fear, his eyes wide and staring.

Then came the mighty ship, bursting from the mist, twice the height of the Ravensberg. The ship was unlike anything Belladonna had ever seen. Its hull was clad in vast sheets of metal, forged by some unholy furnace, with bones clamped over the joints like some macabre attempt at decoration. No name was visible on the ship’s side. True horror does not need a name, Belladonna thought —it exists for its own sake. Vast sails stole what little breeze was in the air for their power. The canvas cracked and shook, but as the vessel drew closer she realised the sails were made of another material. They were human skin, stitched together with intestines.

A slavering, jabbering crew of miscreants were standing along the sides of the massive vessel, laughing and cackling amongst themselves, a few pointing bony fingers at the River Watch adrift in the churning waters. The crew were neither living nor dead, but somewhere in between. Many were little more than skeletons, scraps of skin hanging from their yellowing bones. Others among them were less decayed, but even more monstrous in appearance, decomposing corpses brought back to a semblance of life by vile corruption, summoned up to crew this foul ship of misrule.

Black seagulls circled round the vessel, some diving down to peck clumps of rotting flesh from the living dead walking back and forth on the deck. But none dared go near the figure standing proud and alone at the prow of the vessel. As the ship loomed closer, Belladonna could see he was head and shoulders taller than the walking corpses around him. Robes of black and blood-red hung from his imposing frame, but the skin was stretched taut like ancient papyrus across the jutting bones of his skeletal face. He was laughing, the open mouth revealing a rancid hellhole of fangs, while his eyes burned with malevolent hatred.

The mighty ship sailed towards the watchmen adrift in the sea. One of them couldn’t swim away from the vessel in time, and was caught by a shard of bone jutting out from the hull. As it pierced his body the watchman screamed in agony and anguish, his flesh rotting and decaying within moments, leaving only bones where his body had been. These slid back down into the water and were lost in the inky blackness below. The other survivor from Damphoost’s boat was swimming back towards the captain and Belladonna. But something black and wet grabbed him by the hair, dragging the boatman down into the water. Brief screams swallowed by the sea were stark evidence of others taken from below, pulled beneath the surface by unseen hands, to an unknown fate.

Then came the harpoons. The undead crew brought forth barbed javelins of rusted metal, balancing the deadly spears in their hands, taking aim at the half-drowned targets bobbing up and down in the water. At a bellowed command from their leader, the monsters flung their harpoons with venomous accuracy. The shafts of metal punctured at least ten members of the River Watch, stabbing through their chests and exploding out their backs. The barbs lodged in the wounds, preventing any escape for the dying men. Each of the harpoons trailed a chain of corroded links behind it, the far end tied to a railing round the edge of the vessel. As the mighty ship sailed on, the skewered souls were dragged away behind the ship, like hooked bait on a line. Belladonna saw black, sleek creatures rising up through the water to feast on the captives, the petrified watchmen turned into chum for the nameless creatures following the mighty ship into shore.

“Cut them loose, you monsters!” she screamed at the vessel’s crew.

They turned as one to look at her, the sound of a woman’s voice carrying to them through the screaming of their victims and the cries of black gulls overhead. The last crewman on the sinister vessel lifted up a harpoon and took aim at her.

“Belladonna, get under the water,” Damphoost hissed.

But she was frozen, unable to tear her eyes away from the barbed spike of metal intended for her, the tip glistening with fresh blood from some lost soul.

“Belladonna, move!”

Still she couldn’t respond. Belladonna felt as if she’d been mesmerised, as if a husky voice in her head was commanding her to stay where she was, treading water. The cadaverous crewman pulled back his arm and flung the harpoon. It flew at Belladonna with unerring accuracy, the length of chain dancing in the air behind the metal shaft.

In the last moment before the harpoon hit, Belladonna felt nothing but terror.

On Three Penny Bridge Kurt shook Nathaniel by the shoulders, demanding answers. “How can you be so sure this is necromancy? Do you know who’s doing all of this?”

The witch hunter shook his head. “I’ve been so blind, unable to see the proof in front of my eyes. Would that I had a flail to hand, so I could punish myself for my pride and stupidity in not recognising the signs sooner.”

Kurt backhanded Nathaniel across the face. “I’ll happily beat you black and blue myself if it’ll get me some answers! Who is this necromancer? What’s his name?”

“Farrak, I believe his name is Farrak.”

“Never heard of him.”

The witch hunter nodded. “I’m not surprised. He hasn’t been seen for more than a century. It was thought he must have perished. Perhaps we hoped more than believed it.”

“Who hoped? The witch hunters?”

“Yes. It took many of my brethren to defeat Farrak last time he surfaced, and then the necromancer was in the wilderness with but a handful of acolytes by his side. Now he has an entire city at his disposal, to lay waste and raise up as his disciples.”

Kurt rubbed a hand across the stubble on his jaw-line, unable to remember the last time he slept or ate, exhaustion nagging at his judgement. “But the witch hunters have defeated him before, so you can defeat him again, right? I mean, necromancers are still human, even after all their spells and incantations and dark magic?”

Nathaniel laughed, but it was all bitterness. “You know nothing of what you speak.”

“Fine. Teach me.”

“There isn’t time. If Farrak is coming, we’ve already lost.”

“He must have been human once, maybe we can use that against him.”

The witch hunter shook his head. “Farrak was a pitiless wizard who traded every trace of humanity to escape death, believing dark magic could preserve him forever.”

“And will it?”

“All things perish eventually—”

“Good, then there’s still a chance—”

“—but a necromancer of Farrak’s power could survive for millennia,” Nathaniel concluded. “Surrender yourself to the truth, Captain Schnell. The situation is hopeless.”

“No,” Kurt replied. “I don’t believe that. I’ve stared death in the face more times than I can remember, so I’m not going to give in to it now. And I’m surprised to discover a witch hunter from the Temple Court despairs so easily. Where’s your faith?”

“You don’t know what Farrak’s capable of, the atrocities committed in his name.”

“Maybe that’s an advantage,” Kurt snapped. Behind him the unconscious priest lying on the bridge gave a loud moan of pain. “Otto’s coming to his senses. We need to get him out of here. He’s in no fit state to face Farrak or whoever is behind all of this.”

“True,” Nathaniel agreed. “With the quarantine broken, we can get him away from Suiddock. Better he’s not here when Farrak comes ashore. Better for all of us.” The two men strode over to the priest and lifted him up from the cobbles.

“Why do you believe the necromancer will come ashore here?” Kurt asked.

“Before he collapsed, Otto said this is where it ends—here on Three Penny Bridge. That was a prophecy. The fog is one of Farrak’s favourite weapons, the perfect way to debilitate and torment his foes. Suiddock has taken the brunt of that weapon thus far, so it seems there is something here that Farrak wants. Put that with the prophecy and it doesn’t take a genius to deduce our enemy will likely be coming ashore here.”

“This from the man who’s only just figured out what we’re fighting after two days and nights of ghostly visions, nightmares, deadly fog and corpses rising from the grave!”

Nathaniel shrugged. “Nobody’s perfect.”

“You think this is funny?” Kurt snapped. “Open your ears and listen. People are dying, and that’s not going to stop anytime soon!”

Belladonna closed her eyes, expecting an explosion of pain at any moment as the harpoon punctured her chest. Instead she heard it rip through another person’s terrified scream. She opened her eyes to see the barbed end of the harpoon protruding from Damphoost’s chest, his arms thrown out sideways, his head tilted back in a spasm of unimaginable pain. He had dived in front of her, sacrificing himself in her stead, surrendering his life for Belladonna’s. “You’ve got to warn Kurt and the rest of the city,” he gasped. “Tell them what’s coming. Tell them—”

Then the chain attached to the harpoon went taut and Damphoost was ripped backwards through the air, his barbaric howl of pain far worse than the cries of any wounded animal. Belladonna turned away, unable to watch her lover’s torment as he was dragged off by the mighty vessel of bones and metal sailing towards Suiddock. She clung to the capsized River Watch boat, her tears falling uselessly into the sea.

Kurt saw the necromancer’s ship above the buildings on Stoessel as he and Nathaniel dragged Otto east. The priest kept drifting in and out of consciousness, his body a dead weight between the two men as they retreated from Three Penny Bridge. The huge vessel towered over the houses and storehouses of Suiddock, its prow taller than the windows of homes occupied by people who lived above their shops and workplaces. “Taal’s teeth, that thing’s a monster,” he hissed, half in awe and half in horror.

“According to legend Farrak sailed the world for generations,” the witch hunter said, “laying waste to everywhere he landed. Sailors unfortunate enough to encounter him at sea were offered a choice; join his crew of the damned, or suffer an eternity of pain at the hands of that crew. No ship’s ever survived such a meeting.”

Kurt saw citizens inside their homes peering out, terror all too obvious on pale faces. “There are hundreds of people still here in Suiddock. Good people who didn’t listen to the warnings of Cobbius, people who chose to stay home rather than risk excommunication by your brethren on the bridges. What will Farrak do to them?”

“If they’re lucky, they’ll be slaughtered and their bodies pressganged into service as an undead army,” Nathaniel admitted.

“And if they’re unlucky?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“Yes, I do,” Kurt insisted. “It was you who decided to quarantine Suiddock. Now the people of this district will suffer for your folly. Their blood’s on your hands.”

“I know,” the witch hunter said. “When the time comes, I will give penance for my sin of pride. For now I must do everything in my power to warn my brethren and the rest of the city. The sooner Marienburg knows what it faces, the better.”

“Pious to the end,” Kurt sneered. “You make me sick.”

Molly and her girls had sprinted across Suiddock in an effort to beat the blockade, but still arrived at the southern tip of Luydenhoek too late. Holismus and his men had already manoeuvred the Draaienbrug swing bridge out across the Bruynwater, so it ran parallel with the canal instead of spanning it. Most people soon gave up and headed north to the Hoogbrug, knowing that the bridge could only be barricaded. But Molly told her girls to stay where they were, Kurt’s warning still fresh in her memory.

Every fool in Suiddock would be fleeing over the Hoogbrug, given half a chance. For once, the path less travelled might be the better route to safety and an escape from the city, if needs be.

So she told her girls to use all their skills on the men guarding the bridge controls, and see if they couldn’t be persuaded to retract the Draaienbrug. Molly focused her attention on Bescheiden. The short, weasel-faced watchman had been a frequent customer at her bordello before the battle of Three Penny Bridge, though where he’d found the funds to pay for his pleasures was never clear. But Bescheiden had not darkened the doorstep once since the battle, scuttling past with a guilty look on his face. He stood to one side of the gathered Black Caps, glowering and alone.

“And how’s little Willy these days?” Molly asked, one hand gently caressing the watchman’s stringy upper arm. “Not looking for love in all the wrong places, I hope?”

Bescheiden brushed off her hand. “Keep away from me.”

“Why? Everyone deserves a little fun in their life.”

“Not me,” he said, shaking his head. Molly peered into Bescheiden’s dark, beady eyes. There was that guilt again, the inability to hold her gaze more than a few moments.

“Yes, Willy, even you,” she continued. Her fingers had found their way to his waistband, wandering lower to tease him into life.

Bescheiden shook his head. “No, I don’t.”

“You really mean that,” Molly realised. “Why? What it is, what’s wrong?” He didn’t reply. “You can tell me, Willy, whatever it is. Trust me, I’ve seen it all and done more than most. There’s nothing you can say that’ll shock me.”

“I murdered someone,” he hissed, before clamping a hand across his mouth, mortified the words had been spoken aloud.

“Who?”

Bescheiden didn’t reply.

“Taking a life hardly makes you unique,” Molly said. “We’ve all done things of which we’re ashamed.” Her eyes wandered to the canal beyond him, while her thoughts went back to that dawn when the last vestiges of her innocence were drowned. Before she knew it, Molly was crying, tears streaming down her freckled face.

The watchman stared at her. “You understand,” he whispered.

Molly nodded, wiping her face dry.

“I know I’m already damned,” Bescheiden said, “but if I told you my confession, would you listen? If I could just share the burden with someone else…”

She smiled. “I will, once this is over. But first I need you to do something for me.”

Brother Daniel was busy elsewhere when the Draaienbrug bridge swung back into place. He’d been given command of all the witch hunters posted south of Suiddock. A hundred men drafted from various private armies were supposed to be bolstering the blockade below the Bruynwater. But the militiamen had all retired to the nearest taverns and bordellos when they saw the swing bridge was impassable. Daniel threatened them with excommunication, but the motley crew of mercenaries and roughnecks couldn’t care less.

They were the dregs of the militia, the drunks and the dullards, men nobody cared about. They’d been sent to enforce the southern quarantine because their rich paymasters north of Suiddock couldn’t care less what happened to working class districts such as Winkelmarkt, Doodkanaal and Kruiersmuur. So long as the mansions of Paleisbuurt and Goudberg were safe, the fate of those living south of the Rijksweg was of little concern.

Daniel raged at the militia until he was puce with anger, but it did him no good. He sent half his witch hunters after the deserters, while the other half remained in place. But an unholy apparition above Doodkanaal put paid to Daniel’s efforts. The district’s crematoria burned night and day, belching black fumes and ash into the air, creating a permanent cloud above the chimneys. It was one of Daniel’s brethren who first saw the grisly shape in the sky. Brother Bartholomew dropped to one knee and held out a holy book as a defence, his thin lips muttering incantations to dispel the evil overhead.

“Bartholomew, what is it?”

The other witch hunter didn’t reply, but jabbed a finger upwards. Daniel looked and saw what had so disturbed his colleague. A grinning skull had appeared amidst the cloud of ash and smoke. The mouth opened and shut, as if the death’s head was laughing at them, at their attempts to stem the tide of dark magic sweeping out from Suiddock. Daniel had no doubt what this apparition signified.

“Necromancy,” he hissed, recognising the symbol of unholy resurrection. The witch hunter hailed from Altdorf. He had never been south of the Rijksweg before that day, did not know the area. But his praying colleague had been born and raised within five minutes’ walk. “Bartholomew, what’s making those clouds?”

“The crematoria—that’s where the people of Marienburg burn their dead.”

Daniel stared at the darkness overhead. “That means every particle, every speck inside that cloud is a tiny fragment from an incinerated corpse?”

Bartholomew nodded, the horror of creeping realisation engulfing his face.

“If a necromancer’s behind the dark magic, those chimneys are fuelling the fog,” Daniel snarled. “We have to stop the furnaces, before they choke the whole city.”

“What about guarding the bridge?”

“Look at the sky!” Daniel spat, his finger stabbing at the cadaverous apparition mocking them from the cloud of ash and fumes. “Does it look like the quarantine’s keeping the dark magic confined to Suiddock? Forget the bridge—we’ve souls to save!” The witch hunter stalked off, followed by his brethren.

No sooner had they gone than the Draaienbrug swung back into position, reconnecting Suiddock with the rest of Marienburg’s southern archipelago. Molly and her girls poured across the span, carrying their worldly goods. The madam paused to wave goodbye to Bescheiden and the other Black Caps. “Watch your backs!” she shouted.

The mighty ship slid along the side of Riddra, grinding its hull of metal and bones against the buildings and stone to slow down. It came to a halt beside the cut that divided Riddra from Stoessel, the waterway spanned by Three Penny Bridge. A spiked anchor was thrown from the back of the ship, and another from the front, mooring the sinister vessel across the northern end of the cut. Skeletons clambered up the rigging, gathering in the sails of skin and securing them to the yardarms with hanks of human hair. At a bellowed command from the ship’s captain, a gangplank was extended from the side of the ship until it rested on the side of Three Penny Bridge, passing between buildings.

Farrak was first to go ashore, striding along the gangplank with a contemptuous swagger before jumping down onto the bridge. He crouched to kiss the cobbles, his crimson and black robes splaying out around him. Having desecrated the bridge, Farrak stood and clicked his fingers, an ostentatious gesture. The crew poured across the gangplank, cackling and laughing with glee at the sight of their new domain. On board the vessel a hatchway was opened in the deck, releasing yet more of Farrak’s crew upon Suiddock.

Skeletons crawled out of the hold, the joints of their ancient bones clicking as they made for dry land. Zombies staggered and lurched, their rotting flesh providing carrion for the black gulls that flew and dived round the deck. Ghouls and wraiths drifted up from the ship’s interior, floating through the air like the clouds of fog that were rolling back in from the sea. The necromancer’s crew gathered around him on Three Penny Bridge, eager to hear their master’s voice, to carry out his commands.

Farrak smiled on his children. “You know your mission. Go forth and make this place our own. Find me an army and make them my slaves. In short: unleash hell!”

* * *

Henschmann was still packing his belongings when Helga burst in with the news. “Sir, the quarantine’s been breached. People are pouring across the Hoogbrug to Paleisbuurt, escaping the district, and your lookouts report that smugglers have broken through the River Watch’s blockade in at least two places.”

“Good. Perhaps this madness is over now.” The crime boss was relieved. He’d no wish to flee his home or his base of operations. The Marienburg Gentlemen’s Club on Riddra was the perfect place from which to command his empire, pulling the strings of a hundred corrupt political puppets and collecting a healthy portion of the takings from every crime committed in the city—on land or sea.

Helga shook her head. “The last runner to make it back from the frontline said some kind of vessel has docked by Three Penny Bridge, crewed by the undead. Sir, the runner said it looked like Suiddock was being attacked by an unholy invasion force.”

“Dark magic—the witch hunter was right, curse him.” Henschmann grimaced. “If they’ve taken the bridge, that cuts off any chance of escape over land.”

“You still have the sloop,” his bodyguard suggested.

“The last thing I want is some dolt from the River Watch impounding all of this,” Henschmann snarled, gesturing at a fortune in precious gems spilling from his bags. “No, I’ll have to use the tunnels, find a way out via the catacombs.”

“That will be easier since the ratmen evacuated them.”

The crime boss snorted. “I should have followed their example.” He shoved a last handful of gems in his satchel before tying off the leather straps that secured the contents. The bulk of his fortune had to remain inside the building —it was simply too heavy to carry. Henschmann trusted his vicious reputation would keep it secure until he could return. He pointed at two similar satchels already packed and sealed. “Can you carry both of those, and a lantern? I’ll need your help to find a path through the maze beneath us.” Helga smiled.

“It’d be an honour, sir.”

Haan was among the first to die at the hands of Farrak’s undead horde. The alderman had been going from door to door across Suiddock all morning, reassuring citizens there was no need to flee the district. He did not believe in the witch hunters’ claims that dark magic had infested Suiddock, so he would not be leaving his home on Stoessel. Haan appealed to those still left to stay in their homes, promising they would be safe from harm there.

Most doors on which he knocked brought no response or a torrent of abuse from citizens who’d already been visited by stevedores or teamsters. So it proved again when he ventured up the quiet alleyway where Frau Vink lived. The first five homes stayed quiet when he knocked, while two others flayed his ears with curses. The eighth door belonged to the halfling widow. She opened her shutters and leaned out to remonstrate with him, but her expression changed on seeing Haan standing below her window.

“Is that you, alderman?” Frau Vink asked in a querulous voice.

“It is. How are you keeping, my dear?” Haan had been friends with her late husband, and visited the widow twice after Titus was murdered.

“Better now those thugs belonging to Cobbius have chosen to leave us in peace! You’d think they had more profitable things to do with their time than disturb ordinary, law-abiding citizens. It’s a disgrace, alderman, an absolute disgrace.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” he said. “I’ve got a much different message to offer—”

“No need to repeat yourself,” the widow interjected. “I heard what you said to my neighbour. Forgive that flat-nosed hussy, she’s all the manners of a streetwalker.”

Haan couldn’t help smiling. “I thought she was a streetwalker.”

“Not lately. Put her back out last week, hasn’t worked since.”

“There’s not much gets by you,” the alderman observed.

Frau Vink tapped the side of her nose. “Not if I can help it. I find that—” But she stopped in mid-sentence, the words dying on her lips.

“Are you all right?” Haan asked, perplexed by the sudden silence.

The widow shook her head, eyes widening in terror.

“Is something wrong?”

Frau Vink pointed a trembling finger along the alleyway. Haan glanced over his shoulder, wondering what could silence a woman who could talk the sea into submission. What he saw stayed with the alderman for the rest of his life, but that wasn’t long.

An undead horde was moving through Suiddock like some evil stain. A horde of skeletons marched with military precision along the cobbles, spears clutched in one bony hand, rusted metal shields in the other. Three ghouls lurched along behind them, ravening creatures with blotched skin and snarling lips, row upon row of jagged teeth visible within their slavering mouths. Next floated a pair of wraiths, cloaks billowing out to reveal nothing but an eternity of darkness inside, pitiless as the night. Last came a zombie quartet, lurching and staggering, the stench of rancid, rotting flesh three steps ahead of the undead corpses. Fresh blood stained their chins, and scraps of angry red flesh hung from dull, chomping mouths. It was an army of horrors, a gathering of foul and festering evil unlike anything Haan had ever witnessed or imagined.

The alderman stood quite still, transfixed by terror. He heard wooden shutters slamming shut above him, dimly aware Frau Vink had retreated to the relative safety of her home. But there was no such sanctuary nearby for Haan. He wanted to run, to flee screaming from this narrow alleyway, this deadly corridor into which he’d come with such good intentions. The alderman recalled an old adage his father used to mumble after one too many ales: no good deed goes unpunished in Marienburg. The old man had been a fool and a drunkard, but for once Haan wished he’d listened to his father’s wisdom.

The skeletons marched by, not bothering with a lone, unarmed figure. They were warriors resurrected from battlefields of centuries past seeking foes worthy of fighting. The ghouls were not so discriminating. All three of them lunged at Haan, their mouths already masticating the air as they attacked. The alderman cried in pain as the trio sank their teeth into him, jaws tearing away at cloth and skin, ripping chunks of flesh from his bones. The searing pain they inflicted broke the terror that had held him spellbound.

Haan lashed out with his fists, beating and battering the ghouls, smashing their bones and bludgeoning their bodies. He fought his way free of them, staggering forwards to the next wave of attackers—the wraiths. Their skeletal faces had just enough flesh and skin left to produce some leering mockery of a smile at his approach. Haan stumbled into one of the wraiths, his bloody right arm plunging inside the dark cloak. The alderman howled in anguish as cold and terror numbed his limb to the bone, the skin crackling like dry autumn foliage in a child’s fist. The other wraith slid an ethereal arm into Haan’s chest, squeezing his right lung until it collapsed with a hollow pop.

The wraiths swept onwards past the dying man, their chuckles at his plight like the rattling of dried husks. Haan gasped, unable to get his breath. He staggered two more steps towards safety, but the four zombies were waiting, their eyes betraying an evil hunger. They finished what the ghouls had begun, feasting on the alderman’s flesh, supping on his life blood as it pulsed away, licking the crimson spoils from the cobbles. Haan’s last thoughts before they broke open his skull to eat his brain were fishing off the Hoogbrug as a boy, and the look on his mother’s face when the citizens of Suiddock had elected him alderman. She’d been so proud that day, so proud.

* * *

Frau Vink shivered as she listened to the alderman’s screams for mercy, hands trembling beneath the shawl, her toes cold as ice. But the fear got worse when Haan’s voice was silenced, cut off by Manann knew what horror. At least she was safe inside, the door bolted and barred, sturdy wooden shutters closed across the windows. She’d enough food to last a week if needs be, plenty of water and wine to drink, candles for light.

The widow closed her eyes, but couldn’t stop the images of skeletons and ghouls lurching along the alleyway that burned inside her memory. None of the monsters could get into the house, of that she was certain—this was sanctuary. But the halfling woman had not noticed the spirit hosts outside, their ghostly presence lost amid the melee of bones and blood and flesh-eating horrors. She had not reckoned with the ability of these lost souls to walk through walls and doors as if such barriers were insubstantial as them.

The spirit hosts glided into her sanctuary, floating above the flagstone floor as if wafted in on a spring breeze. They shimmered with unnatural lights, no word escaping their silent lips, their presence both incorporeal and terrifying. Frau Vink’s eyes widened as the monsters came, her last thoughts of poor, dead Titus as the ghosts reached out for her. One touch and her heart stopped, frozen by fear and terror. The blood in her veins and arteries ceased to move, and her frail body crumpled to the floor. One last breath escaped those wizened lips to whisper a final prayer: “Forgive me…”

The spirit hosts drifted onwards, seeking out other souls to consume, fresh life to steal away for their master. Behind them the corpse of Frau Vink cooled, awaiting the command to arise and take its place among the ranks of Farrak’s grisly army of death.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“The killing’s started.” The Keeper knelt in the centre of the temple, twelve Knights of Purity stood around him in a circle. The cabal watched the Keeper mutter and whisper, pupils rolled back into his head, eyelids fluttering like butterfly wings, lips mouthing silent words and incantations between bulletins from beyond the temple. “The necromancer stands within Marienburg now. His taint is spreading, spreading…”

The Keeper stabbed the air with a finger. “Suiddock! He makes Suiddock his domain. He bleeds it dry, stains it with his daemonic seed, eats of the citizens, devours them flesh and bone, blood and soul, body and mind. He is come, he is come.”

“A name,” the cabal leader hissed. “We need a name.”

The Keeper shook his head. “He sees me, he knows I am watching…”

“Give us his name!”

“Farrak—his name is Farrak.”

That brought an audible gasp from the cabal leader, and murmurs of fear from among his brethren. “Then there can be no doubt any longer. Doom is upon us, and the prophecy has come to pass. Our time in the shadows is over. We must emerge.” The leader pushed back his hood and stood revealed.

One by one, the other cabalists followed his example. Three were members of the Stadsraad, four came from the families of the Ten, and one was the watch commander’s adjutant. They looked at each other, finally able to acknowledge the identities of their brethren. The leader gave a rueful smile. “Strange that it should take such catastrophe to bring us together at last, but Solkan works in ways far beyond our understanding or our comprehension. His will is our command, his ways our beacon.”

“Please,” the Keeper gurgled, blood pouring from his eyes and nostrils. “Let me die before the necromancer claims me. Don’t let me become his weapon against you.”

The leader nodded to his fellow knights. As one they drew ceremonial daggers and stepped forwards, plunging them into the body of their medium. The Keeper died with an expression of beatific gratitude on his face, released from his burden of torment. As his blood pooled out across the floor, the cabal leader muttered a prayer of benediction.

“Solkan, we thank you for the life of this messenger. He served you well all the years of his life, most of them locked inside an oubliette protecting your holy relics. Now he has made the ultimate sacrifice in your name. Take him unto you as a true servant of Solkan, and let him know all your splendour and glory.” The others echoed his words, all the while wiping the blood from their daggers. Once finished, the knights returned to their places at the edge of the circle, waiting for their leader to speak.

“Thanks to the prophecy, we know what comes next,” he told them. “We all have our roles to play in the coming tragedies. The gutters and waterways of Marienburg shall run red with blood and the people shall suffer torments beyond imagining. But if we stay true to our course, keep to our beliefs and our credo, we shall emerge triumphant.” He looked round the circle, seeing fear in some eyes, excitement in others. “Ours is a god of vengeance and we are his instruments. We shall defend our holy trust until death and beyond. We shall be the true servants of Solkan, a light against the darkness. We shall prevail, if we keep faith. You know what to do, so go forth my brethren. Now is the time of our greatest test, our greatest torment and our greatest triumph. Farewell.”

The leader strode from the room, hands hidden inside his cloak so the others would not see him trembling. Each new commander of the cabal was given access to a single scroll seen by no other living member, a lone sheet of papyrus that carried a fragment of prophecy deemed too great a burden to be shared. Once they had seen the words on that papyrus, every leader prayed to Solkan the prophecy would not come true in their lifetime. This leader had done the same in his turn, but he could not escape the fate entrusted to him. He could only hope the fatal prophecy was wrong, otherwise Farrak would remake Marienburg into a city of the dead within days and there was nothing any living soul could do to stop that. Dear Solkan, the leader prayed as he strode from the temple, let it not be so. But if it is so, let me die before the necromancer takes my soul.

Ganz staggered from the tavern on Luydenhoek, his breath reeking of ale. He’d been drinking since dawn, delighted to find most of the alehouses between Three Penny Bridge and Hightower Isle standing empty and unguarded. The managers had abandoned their posts, no doubt hastened on their way by the stevedores and teamsters bleating about dark magic and the injustice of quarantines. Let them run, the former soldier had decided. Just leaves all the more for me to sup, and free of charge too.

Now well lubricated, he decided it was well past time to confront the man who’d ruined his life—Captain Kurt Schnell. They had joined Old Ironbeard’s regiment at the same time, but it was always Kurt who got promoted first, Kurt who won the medals and commendations for valour. What was once a friendly rivalry became a searing, bitter hatred that consumed Ganz like some malignant tumour. Maybe somewhere, at the back of his mind, Ganz knew Kurt had earned those accolades. It was common knowledge that General Schnell was a bluff, distant father who never uttered a word of praise for his firstborn. But all Ganz saw was a favoured son getting preferential treatment.

It was Sara who drove the men apart forever. Ganz and Kurt had been together the night she met her future husband, but it was Ganz who made the first move. He tried in vain to woo her, but the beautiful young woman only had eyes for the general’s son. When they married, the news was like someone thrusting a dagger of ice into Ganz’s heart. When Kurt announced his blushing bride was with child, Ganz drank enough Bretonnian brandy to drown the world’s sorrows, without finding remission for his own.

The battle for Middenheim was savage and severe, a slaughterhouse conflict that cost more lives than Ganz thought possible. In the midst of this carnage, Ganz found himself playing nursemaid to Kurt’s little brother. Karl was another chip off Old Ironbeard’s block, another rising star in the ranks. Given custody of the young soldier, Ganz took his revenge for ten years of humiliations and perceived slights at the hands of Kurt bloody Schnell. In the heat of battle, Ganz found himself alone with Karl, a broken sword once wielded by a warrior of Chaos lying nearby. When Karl wasn’t watching, Ganz snatched up the weapon and plunged it into the younger man’s back, sliding neatly through a vulnerable gap in the recruit’s armour. Karl bled to death, still unable to grasp it was Ganz who had murdered him, asking bewildered questions as his life ebbed away.

Afterwards, the shocking, terrible truth of what he’d done shook Ganz back to reality. He had murdered a comrade, a fellow soldier, as some petty act of vengeance. He had broken every rule, every code of conduct he held dear. Ganz knew he must pay for this treachery, must confess his crime, and the sooner the better. But he was still weeping over Karl’s corpse when the general found them both, bringing the newly arrived Kurt. The words Ganz had said then still haunted him: “This wouldn’t have happened if Kurt had been here.” They were not meant as accusation, but sounded that way to the general.

Kurt was dishonourably discharged, and Ganz was left to consider what he’d done. Unable to face his crime, Ganz try to kill himself with the same blade that had slaughtered Karl. But cruel fate chose to save him, the general discovering the fallen soldier bleeding to death. The regimental healer was called and Ganz’s life was saved. All his suicide attempt did was end a promising military career. Ganz was invalided out and sent home. But there was no reason to go back, no family waiting for him. Unable to face returning to Altdorf, he’d drunk his way through a succession of taverns and menial guard jobs before stumbling into Marienburg and joining the Watch on a whim.

When Ganz was transferred to Suiddock, he had been excited. There was talk of a dynamic new captain turning around the city’s most lawless district. Ganz didn’t think to ask the name of this charismatic new leader before he arrived, never dreaming it could be the same man who had so tormented him. Far as the former soldier was concerned, being assigned to Kurt’s detail was just one more kick in the teeth from fate, destiny or whatever cruel deity watched over his miserable excuse for a life. Every time he made an effort to set aside the past, Kurt was there to scupper his chances. The humiliation of being rejected for leadership of a simple quarantine blockade was the final straw for Ganz. He’d stormed out of the station, determined to drink himself into a stupor until this crisis ran its course. But no matter how much he supped, Ganz couldn’t find the oblivion he wanted. So now it was time to report back for duty.

He lurched out of the tavern and sniffed the air. The fog that had soured all of Suiddock these past few days was in abeyance for now, but something else was fouling the breeze—a ripe aroma like rotting fruit and rancid meat, vile and sour on the tongue. Ganz had been drunk when he staggered from the alehouse. But when he looked around for the source of the rancid stench, what he saw sobered up the bleary-eyed watchman in moments. Two ghouls were gnawing on the bones of an old man, using their razor-sharp teeth to tear strips of flesh off their victim’s legs. That was shocking enough in itself—the fact the old man was still alive, still trying to fight back against his attackers, beggared belief.

Ganz retched his stomach dry as the ghouls shifted attention to their victim’s loins and belly, the old man’s intestines spilling out as merciful death claimed him. Wiping the flecks of vomit from his jowls, Ganz drew two short swords from the sheaths at his waist. “Leave him be,” the Black Cap growled at the ghouls. One ignored him altogether, the other hissed a warning: stay back or you’re next. “Have it your own way,” Ganz said.

He took the hissing ghoul’s head off, swiping both blades through the air towards each other so they crossed while severing the creature’s blotchy neck. The other ghoul clambered over the old man’s corpse to get at Ganz, its deadly claws flashing through the air so like so many tiny blades, drips of poisonous black slime flying from the nails. The watchman jumped backwards, keeping his body one step clear of those vicious weapons. He let the ghoul come at him, retreating further and further back so it had to attack from a lurching position, off balance. As the ghoul staggered on a loose cobble, Ganz sliced through its right wrist, the hand still twitching as it fell.

The ghoul snarled at him, baring row upon row of jagged, sharpened teeth. “All the better to eat me with, right?” Ganz taunted. “Come on, handsome—come and get me.” He didn’t notice the half-eaten corpse lying in the shadows behind him until it was too late. The watchman tumbled over backwards, the thump of impact spilling both blades from his grasp. Before he could get up the ghoul launched itself at him, the poisonous claws of its left hand aimed straight for Ganz’s fearful face.

Kurt waited on an empty street, the unconscious Otto slumped against him. Brother Nathaniel had dashed away down an alley, promising to be back in a moment. But moments had turned into minutes and still the witch hunter did not return. Kurt knew they had to get across the narrow bridge into Luydenhoek before the undead horde overtook them. Without the delirious priest to slow them down, the witch hunter and the watch captain might still make it to the Hoogbrug unimpeded. But Otto was a dead weight, the burden made worse by his twitching and jerking, no doubt caused by whatever unknown torments were plaguing his subconscious.

At last Nathaniel reappeared, a burning torch in each fist. He threw one to Kurt.

“What are these for?”

“I got them from Otto’s temple. They’ve been blessed with magic, imbued by the power of Morr. Ordinary weapons are no match for many of the undead, but these flames could save our lives.” The witch hunter slid an arm round Otto, sharing Kurt’s burden.

They moved with all possible haste, but were not far into Luydenhoek when the first monsters appeared on the cobbles ahead, five wraiths drifting across the street to block the way. “Don’t let them touch you,” Nathaniel hissed.

Kurt glanced over a shoulder to see a horde of skeletons approaching from behind, their movements jerky and unnatural but all of them marching in unison, moving as one. He could hear citizens screaming nearby, pleading for mercy, and the sounds of flesh and cloth being torn apart. “Well, we can’t stay here,” he spat at Nathaniel. “We’ve got to keep moving. You’re the witch hunter—stopping unholy monsters like this is your mission in life, isn’t it? How do we fight an enemy we can’t even touch?”

“With fire,” Nathaniel said, a sly smile playing about the corners of his mouth. He jerked his head towards the line of wraiths blocking their escape. All five were naught but shadows, only their ancient cloaks giving them substance. “There’s nothing inside those cloaks but death. Burn their cloaks with the right flame, you destroy the wraiths’ vessels. Without that they’re no worse than the breeze.”

Kurt weighed the flaming torch in his hand. “Let’s hope you’re right.” Letting Nathaniel take Otto’s full weight, Kurt advanced on the wraiths. The first drifted towards him, a shimmer of foreboding darkness across the cobbles. Kurt swiped his torch through the air, the handle passing straight through his foe, but the flames caught on the wraith’s cloak.

The fabric burned like tinder-dry leaves, dark clouds of smoke billowing from the impromptu funeral pyre. The wraith screamed as it burned, ghostly images of faces and lifeless eyes floating away into the sky.

The others closed in on Kurt, moving to surround him. He wielded his torch like a rapier, slicing the flames through the air with ease, engulfing each of the ghostly enemy with utter immolation. Then they were gone, not a cinder where they had stood, every speck burnt away to nothing. Only the screams of their pain lingered, an echo of pain.

Nathaniel dragged Otto over to Kurt. Behind them the advancing skeleton horde was less than ten paces away, and getting closer by the moment, the onward march of bone both relentless and tireless. “Come on!” Kurt snarled at the witch hunter.

Lying prone on the cobbles, Ganz kicked his feet up into the air, ramming them into the ghoul’s chest. The creature swiped thin air with its poisonous claws, jaws snapping in frustration at being denied fresh meat. The watchman knew he had mere moments before the ghoul realised it could start with his legs and work its way up to the rest. Ganz flung out an arm sideways, fingers scrabbling for one of his swords.

The ghoul closed its mouth over the watchman’s right boot, powerful jaws crushing the foot inside, but not penetrating the leather—yet. Ganz kicked at the monster with his other foot, smashing the heel into its head again and again and again until the cursed thing was forced back a step. Then he dived over to his sword, hand closing round the hilt as a smirk of satisfaction crossed his face. Ganz whirled round, his blade taking off the ghoul’s head and remaining hand with a single stroke. The fiend went down and stayed down, convulsing and contorting. Ganz kicked the head away, watching as it rolled towards a nearby canal before falling into the water with a wet plop.

“Anyone for any more?” he asked.

Three more ghouls burst from a doorway behind him. Only the watchman’s quick reflexes saved him, Ganz dropping to a crouch to avoid their flailing arms and poisonous claws. He rolled away from them, over and over, before scrambling to his feet. Half a dozen more ghouls were climbing out of the canal, one clutching the severed head of their fallen brother. Ganz didn’t wait to see how many more horrors were lurking in wait. He cut and run, sprinting towards Hightower Isle and the safety of the blockade. He left one of his swords behind but Ganz didn’t care, and he certainly wasn’t going back for it. One blade had saved his sorry hide, so one blade would have to be enough.

Holismus heard the screams first, long before he saw the citizens running towards the Draaienbrug. Howls of pain and torment, children sobbing for their parents, women screaming for their children, men crying out for mercy. The watchman looked to his colleagues, all of them clustered round the northern end of the Draaienbrug. Since Molly and her girls had persuaded Bescheiden and the other Black Caps to reinstate the swing bridge, fewer than two hundred citizens had taken their chance to escape Suiddock to the south. The watchmen presumed everyone else had gone over the Hoogbrug, or chosen to stay home. They couldn’t know half the citizens had fallen victim to an undead army sweeping east across the district, slaughtering everything in its path.

Then came the stampede—men, women and children running for their lives, charging towards the Draaienbrug like frightened animals. Some fell and were trampled beneath the boots and feet of their neighbours, nobody stopping to help those who went down, nobody caring about anything except escape. The Black Caps were supposed to be blockading the swing bridge, but had made nothing more than a cursory effort since moving the Draaienbrug back into its usual position across the Bruynwater canal. There was no sign of militiamen or witch hunters at the far end of the span, no evidence of the threatened excommunications, and thus no need to worry about letting people past.

So the watchmen stepped aside and let the fleeing citizens by, making no effort to impede the stampede. One of those who’d fallen in the rush got back up, the child’s clothes torn and skin broken in places, but they were still able to hobble. The boy struggled to the bridge, wincing in pain, glancing back over his shoulder again and again. He got as far as the Draaienbrug before his legs gave way, too weak to continue. The child collapsed into the arms of Holismus, his small face ashen, his teeth chattering.

“He’s going into shock,” Holismus realised, wrapping his cloak round the boy. The watchman ordered his colleagues to go help those who’d been trampled underfoot, to see if anything could be done for them.

Once they’d gone, he picked the boy up in his arms and they crossed the bridge, leaving Suiddock behind them. “What happened?”

“M-Monsters,” the child whimpered, breathing in short, quick gasps. “They took my papa, my elder brother too. Ate them like they were meat from a market stall.”

“Ate them?”

“L-like they were meat.”

Holismus didn’t know if he could believe what he was hearing. But the stomping of boots on the bridge behind him soon removed any doubts. Kramer burst past him and the boy, moving faster than Holismus had ever seen before.

“Run for your lives! Run!”

The other Black Caps were close behind, several of them carrying other stampede victims, all with the same terrified expressions on their faces. Holismus didn’t look back, didn’t want to know what was behind him. He did what the others were doing—he ran.

There was no such stampede across Hightower Isle to the Hoogbrug. Those who could get out that way had already fled. The streets were eerily silent as Ganz sprinted towards the bridge, sword clenched in one fist, his other hand spread over the muscle pain in his side. The thump of his boots on the cobbles echoed off the walls and buildings, as if mocking his retreat. Ganz put such thoughts from his mind—a good soldier knows better than to stand and fight against impossible odds. A good soldier falls back to a stronger position, in the hope of winning a better victory than mere death.

Ganz slowed as he rounded the last corner, knowing the southern entrance to the Hoogbrug was up ahead. He didn’t know what to expect—a throng of citizens protesting outside a blockade, a bridge swarming with witch hunters and militiamen spoiling for a fight, or an army of ghouls, ghosts and other undead entities. Instead he found the remnants of the Black Caps, strewn about the cobbles tending to dead and dying citizens. Ganz spotted Scheusal among the watchmen and ran over to the sergeant.

“You’ve got to get everyone over the bridge—now,” the former soldier gasped.

“We’re not going anywhere,” Scheusal replied, his voice gruff and low. The sergeant nodded to Potts, who was stood nearby with a shroud. The new recruit knelt by the citizen Scheusal had been tending and laid the cloth over the dead woman’s body.

“You don’t understand,” Ganz insisted, his breath returning at last. “I just killed two cannibals back on Luydenhoek, and narrowly avoided getting eaten by six others.”

The sergeant stood, muttering a prayer under his breath before grabbing Ganz by the tunic and dragging him to one side. “You stink of alehouse. How long have you been drinking—since dawn, or before then?”

“Yes, I’ve been drinking, for all the damn good it did me, but I’m not lying about this. Something’s been loosed on Suiddock, the like of which I haven’t seen outside the armies of Chaos; flesh-eating creatures that feast on living human flesh and who knows what else. Utterly merciless, utterly relentless and no more than fifty paces behind me!”

“I don’t care if you’ve the wolves of Ulric behind you, we’re not leaving. I told the captain we’d hold this position until he gave us fresh orders, and that’s what we’ll do. Desert if you want, but I’ll pay tuppence and a sword before I abandon my post.”

“S-sergeant,” Potts called out, his voice strained and close to breaking.

“Not now!” Scheusal snarled, before jabbing a finger into Ganz’s chest. “I don’t know what your problem with the captain is. Maybe he did you wrong in the past, maybe it’s guilt because you survived the war and most of your brothers-in-arms didn’t. I don’t know and I couldn’t give the contents of two privies to find out. But if you want to keep being a Black Cap, you’ll learn to follow orders no matter who’s giving them!”

“Sergeant Scheusal!”

“Taal’s teeth, what is it, Potts?”

The recruit pointed to the corner round which Ganz had come a few moments before. Nathaniel was staggering towards the bridge, dragging Otto as best he could, while Kurt was behind him with a short sword in one hand and a burning torch in the other. For a moment the three men were on their own, scrambling towards the canal crossing. Then a horde of skeletons marched round the corner, all of them carrying a blade and shield.

“A little help wouldn’t go amiss,” the witch hunter called out.

Scheusal was already running towards Nathaniel, Silenti and Ganz close behind. Several more watchmen sprinted after them, leaving Potts with those crushed earlier. The sergeant got hold of Otto’s free arm and helped Nathaniel drag the priest away from the advancing horde. “The rest of you, help the captain!” Scheusal bellowed.

The Black Caps formed a line across the cobbles, most of them on one side of Kurt, Silenti and Ganz on the other. “Take off their arms and their heads,” the captain snarled, “that seems to stop them!” He demonstrated with three swift blows from his sword, slicing off limbs and decapitating the nearest foe. The skeleton crumpled to the cobbles, all animation gone, reduced to a pile of bones once more. But there were more than a hundred in their ranks, all marching towards the bridge.

Ganz and Silenti both followed their captain’s example, disabling two of the living dead warriors with a succession of blows. Even as the enemy fell, two more skeletons moved forwards to take those empty places in the front rank. The enemy fought as a single unit, advancing with one mind, one purpose, one relentless resolve. The other Black Caps attacked as well, hacking and slashing at the oncoming horde. Down went the skeletons, one after another after another, but sheer weight of numbers was driving the watchmen back towards the bridge. Kurt glanced over at the corpses on the cobbles.

“What happened to them?”

“Trampled in the crush to get over the bridge,” Silenti hissed, blocking an attack by two skeleton blades, before slicing off the bony hands that held them.

Scheusal and the witch hunter dragged Otto past a petrified Potts. “Move, boy!” the sergeant roared. “Get yourself onto the bridge, while you still have time!”

“What about the injured?”

“It’s too late for them,” Nathaniel replied. “Look!”

The crushed citizens were coming back to life, brushing off their shrouds and climbing back to their feet. Some had broken necks or punctured lungs, others had perished from heart failure, but none of that mattered now. Another force was making them rise from the dead, resurrecting bodies still warm from the life they once possessed.

Potts stared at the corpse nearest him, transfixed by the face of the child he had nursed as it died. A little girl, no more than six summers old, she had thanked him for the kindness of a drink Potts had fetched from a nearby water trough. Now she sat bolt upright, her face already blackened from bruises, the vicious gouge in her chest forgotten. She grinned at the recruit, the effort twisting her face as if responding to the invisible strings of some unseen puppeteer. “So sweet, so young,” the girl gurgled, a stream of dark black blood pouring from her lips. But the voice was that of another, a man hissing and spitting at Potts with venom and hatred. “Let me kiss you, sweet boy.”

“Get away from me,” Potts whispered, drawing the blade sheathed at his side.

“One little kiss, that’s all I want,” the girl teased in her mannish voice.

“Get away from me!” Potts yelled, stabbing his sword deep into her skull, ramming it so hard and so fast the point punched out the back of her head.

“That’s not very polite,” she observed.

“Shut up,” Potts replied, trying to pull his blade free.

“If you don’t want to kiss me, you only have to say so.”

“I told you to shut up!” The recruit braced a boot against the girl’s chest and used both his hands to rip the sword free. It tore away a quarter of her skull, brain and blood spilling out in a fountain of viscera. Potts staggered back, gagging on his own bile. Around him the other bodies were getting up, some licking their lips, others lurching towards the bridge where Scheusal and Nathaniel had dragged Otto.

The girl touched a hand to the cavity in her head, before lifting the palm up so Potts could see the blood covering her fingers. “It’s sticky!” The recruit sliced off her head at the neck with a single swipe of his crimson-stained blade, silencing her at last.

Scheusal came back to help Potts, cutting off the heads from two more corpses while the recruit dealt with a third. A swift kick in the stomach sent the next one tumbling into the Rijksweg, while the last was so badly crushed in the stampede it couldn’t get up off the cobbles. Potts finished that one with two strokes of his blade, not noticing the spray of blood that covered his face and tunic as a consequence. He kept on stabbing the corpse long after it had ceased to move. It took Scheusal’s intervention to drag him away.

“It’s over, Potts—you did it,” the sergeant whispered. “It’s dead, again.”

“That’s twice I killed them,” the recruit replied.

Scheusal didn’t say anything. The lesson was learned.

Kurt and the other watchmen were still being driven backwards to the bridge. They’d cut the skeleton horde down by two-thirds, but exhaustion was getting the better of the Black Caps. No matter how many limbs they severed or heads they decapitated, yet another skeleton stepped into the front rank, ready for battle.

“Fall back to the bridge,” the captain shouted. “It’ll be easier to defend there!”

The watchmen hastened their retreat, taking care to step over the headless corpses littering the cobbles. Within moments all the Black Caps were on the bridge, Kurt side by side with Ganz and Silenti, the others flanking their position on the Hoogbrug. Scheusal and Potts were carrying Otto over the span, while Nathaniel remained behind.

“We can’t let them get any further,” he yelled to Kurt. “If these things make it across the Rijksweg, the rest of Marienburg will be forfeit!”

“You think I don’t know that?” the captain snarled. “Go make sure Otto gets to a healer, we’ll give you as long as we can.” Kurt turned back to his Black Caps, not waiting to hear the witch hunter’s reply. “Stand your ground, men—stand your ground!”

Bescheiden had stayed behind at the southern tip of Luydenhoek while the others fled across the swing bridge, fighting the instinct that told him to run. Sergeant Woxholt died because of me, the watchman told himself, because of my cowardice. Maybe now I can repay that debt, redeem myself. But even Bescheiden’s powerful urge to sacrifice himself was shaken when he saw what was coming towards the Draaienbrug.

They marched in armour of bronze and black iron, rusted by the centuries. They carried weapons riven with corrosion, blades, sickles and spears inscribed with evil runes. By rights their bodies should have been incapable of movement, let alone marching, so decayed and worn out were the husk-like shells that advanced on Bescheiden’s position at the edge of the bridge. The watchman had heard of such creatures in dark legends, the sort of bleak, terrifying tales parents used to frighten their children. He’d never believed such monsters existed in the real world, and now dozens of them were coming for him.

“Wights,” Bescheiden whispered, fighting the urge to void his bowels where he stood. “Sweet Shallya, they’re wights!”

Still the creatures kept coming, their boots and bones stomping in perfect unison as they approached the northern end of the swing bridge. Bescheiden heard a voice behind, calling for him to fall back. It was Holismus, screaming at him to run. But Bescheiden would not let himself obey every instinct in his body, every sane thought in his head. If this was his day to die, so be it. Let this be an end to his unending misery.

He took one step back onto the bridge as the wights closed in, bracing himself for the moment of death. Bescheiden knew his soul was damned, but he prayed to whatever deity might be watching over him—at least let my end be swift. Let it be now. He closed his eyes and tensed himself for the deathblow. But it never came.

After what felt like an eternity of waiting, Bescheiden opened his eyes. The wights had stopped one pace short of the bridge. They stood in formation, rank upon rank, row upon row, blocking the way on and off the bridge. But not one of them set foot on the span, nor made any movement towards Bescheiden. He was within reach of their blades, but they did not strike, did not cut him down. The wights waited, immobile.

* * *

It was the same at Hoogbrug, where Kurt and his watchmen had fallen back two paces from the edge of the bridge. The remains of the skeleton horde blocked the cobbles that led up to the span, but none stepped on to the Hoogbrug. They stood frozen, their empty eye sockets staring forwards, their weapons held ready for war. “Taal’s teeth,” Kurt hissed. “What madness is this?”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Farrak studied two pools of blood that floated in the air before him, their surfaces like scarlet looking glasses. The necromancer smirked as he watched the standoff by the Hoogbrug in one blood pool, and Bescheiden’s disbelief via the other. “How long do you think they’ll stand there, waiting for my troops to attack?” the necromancer asked. There was no reply from either of the captives hanging upside down in the air, their severed throats providing the steady flow of blood that fed the looking glasses. “It matters little,” Farrak mused out loud. “I can spend all the time I want moving my pieces into position, while they puzzle over my strategy. Suiddock is mine now. A place to call home, if you will.”

“You’re insane,” a lone voice replied. “They’ll reclaim this district, no matter how many men or how many months it takes. They’ll drive you back into the sea.”

Farrak’s harrowed face split into a smile of delight. “Ahh! One of my prisoners still has the power of speech—how delightful. You’ve no idea how I long for intelligent conversation, the cut and thrust of measured debate. Building an army of the undead is a time-consuming business, I find my opportunities to stop and talk are few and far between. Besides, ghouls, wraiths, wights, skeletons and spirits may make for a fearsome fighting force, but they’re not much on lively conversation.”

“I just wish I might still be alive when they finish you off,” the voice said. Farrak spun round to face the prisoner who’d dared speak out. A hundred captives had been brought to Three Penny Bridge for the necromancer’s amusement. Most were Suiddock citizens found cowering in the corners and basements of their homes, but a few of the River Watch had also been taken alive. The voice came from a dying man with a bloody chasm the size of a fist through the centre of his chest. His face was pale and drawn, flecked with blood and spittle and fear. But his eyes burned with fierce resolve and raging anger. Farrak marched across the cobbles to confront the prisoner.

“What’s your name?”

The prisoner shook his head, refusing to answer.

Farrak stuck a wizened, bony finger into his captive’s chest cavity, rasping the nail up and down the exposed heart. The organ beat faster, unable to hide the prisoner’s stark terror. “I asked for your name. Tell it to me, or suffer a thousand agonies. I can stop your heart’s beating with a touch, or curdle what little blood remains in your veins. Tell me your name and I will spare you such… indignities.”

Still the prisoner would not reply.

Farrak leaned closer, his foul breath worse than the stench of any canker as it violated the dying prisoner’s nostrils. “Tell me your name or others will suffer in your stead.” The necromancer snapped his fingers and the two men suspended upside down in the air danced like puppets tugged by invisible strings, human marionettes ripping their own bodies apart by the violence of their thrashing, frantic movements. They died screaming, tearing themselves apart for the amusement of Farrak’s undead horde. Ghouls scrabbled forwards to feast on each limb as it fell to the cobbles, fighting each other for the tasty treats. Farrak snapped his fingers once more and the puppets were stilled, their lives snuffed out, their existence ended on the whim of a madman. “Well?”

The prisoner fought to hold the necromancer’s gaze but eventually succumbed, his defiance broken by the monster. “Damphoost, my name is Ruben Damphoost.”

“That’s better,” Farrak smiled. “Are you from round these parts?”

“I’m captain of the River Watch for Suiddock district.”

“Splendid. A little local knowledge is just what I need.”

“I won’t help you,” Damphoost vowed. “I’d rather die first.”

“So be it.” Farrak closed his hand round the exposed heart and squeezed, crushing the life from it. Damphoost died in an instant, his eyes staring glassily at oblivion.

Two hours passed with no movement from the skeleton horde. It made no attempt to storm the Hoogbrug, though the watchmen blocking the bridge could not have withstood any attack for more than a few minutes, and there was no hint of the undead army’s next move. Even the pernicious fog that had so plagued the district was holding off, the greasy yellow clouds staying just above the tallest building in Suiddock. Kurt and his Black Caps remained poised, ready to repel the army of bones and blades. But as one hour passed and nothing happened, followed by another hour of eerie silence without movement, the captain ordered his men to stand down and stand easy. Silenti volunteered to remain on guard at the Suiddock end of the bridge, aided by Potts and two other watchmen.

Kurt told the others to step back and regroup, but warned them to maintain readiness for the moment when they were needed. Satisfied, he strode away towards Paleisbuurt, in search of answers. Kurt looked down at the Rijksweg as he crossed the bridge, searching the river below for any sign of the River Watch blockade around his district. But the water was empty, the only evidence of the maritime quarantine a mess of broken wood and upturned hulls floating beneath the Hoogbrug on the tide.

At the span’s midpoint Kurt encountered Nathaniel and a cluster of witch hunters, all arguing how best to contain the necromancer’s hordes. “Has anyone notified the authorities about what’s happened today?” he asked. “They deserve to know the truth.”

Nathaniel nodded. “Messengers were sent to the watch commander, and both houses of the Stadsraad. Our brethren elsewhere in the city have also been notified.”

“What other brethren?”

“A deal was struck with the Ten. In exchange for half their militiamen, one witch hunter was stationed in each home of Marienburg’s wealthiest families. They’ve all had problems with the dead rising from ancestral crypts beneath their mansions and palaces.”

Kurt shook his head. “You made a tactical error, dividing your forces like that. The moment anyone from the Ten discovers what’s waiting for them on the other side of this bridge, they’ll evacuate themselves and their money out of the city. Once they go, everyone else north of the Rijksweg will follow their example. It’ll be anarchy.”

“You can’t be certain of that,” Nathaniel insisted.

“Call it an educated guess. There’s an old adage about a fool and his money soon being parted. The Ten are no fools. If they flee, the consequences would be catastrophic.”

A messenger ran across the bridge, coming south from Paleisbuurt, wearing the garb of a Stadsraad page. He skidded to a halt before the cluster of witch hunters, cowed by their glowering presence. “Sorry, I’m looking for Captain Schnell—is he nearby?”

Kurt pushed through the throng to reach the new arrival. “I’m Schnell.”

“The watch commander’s summoned you to attend an emergency meeting at the Stadsraad in an hour. You’ll be expected to make a full report on the current situation in Suiddock, and offer reassurances that the rest of Marienburg is not in any danger.”

The captain gave a short, bitter laugh. “He can expect all his wants, but I’m not leaving my men or my district to satisfy his need for knowledge. Tell the commander if he wants to know more about the situation in Suiddock, he can come here and kiss my—”

“The watch commander was most insistent,” the messenger interjected. “He said if you did not attend, it would go the worst for you when your father arrives in the city.”

“That bastard,” Kurt muttered. “How does he—”

“The commander expects you to return with me,” the messenger added. “Now.”

Damphoost opened his eyes and gasped as his wounded body came back to life. The shock of being revived was overwhelming, white spots dancing in front of his eyes, his breath coming in short, sharp pants. After a few moments he found himself adjusting, growing accustomed to being alive again—then came the pain. It lanced through his body, stabbing into every extremity, until he was screaming for relief.

Farrak let go of his prisoner’s heart. “Welcome back, Captain Damphoost. Tell me, what was death like? Perhaps a white light, or someone you once loved with all your heart beckoning you towards oblivion?” The necromancer leaned closer, his black and pitiless pupils staring into the captive’s eyes. “There’s nothing there, you know. No glory, no wonders, no happy reunions. Death is death—the end, no more, just an eternity of darkness. Anyone who tells you otherwise is a fool or a liar. Which are you, captain?”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what—killing you and bringing you back?” Farrak glanced to an acolyte nearby, a hunched creature sheltering behind a cloak and cowl. “How many times have I murdered and revived this particular prisoner so far?”

“Twenty-seven, my lord Farrak.”

The necromancer nodded. “Twenty-seven deaths, and twenty-seven revivals. Most people only live once, Damphoost—you should consider this an honour, being slain and resurrected so many times. Tell me, how painful is the moment of death?”

“I don’t know,” the captain whispered.

“Why, weren’t you paying attention? Well, you’d better try again, hadn’t you?”

“No! Noooooooooooo—” Damphoost screamed, but another squeeze from that malevolent fist and the captain was dead once more, his life snuffed out. Farrak looked up at the afternoon sun, watching the black gulls swooping across the sky. They called to him, crying out in some unutterable language only he could understand. The necromancer nodded at their report, before relaxing his grip on the tired, wounded heart.

Damphoost opened his eyes and gasped, as his wounded body came back to life. Again he struggled against the shock of resurrection, fighting to adjust—and then came the pain. Once he’d finished screaming, Farrak put himself back in the prisoner’s line of sight. “That’s death number twenty-eight. So, how was it for you?”

“I’ll never tell you what you want to know. I’ll never betray this city.”

The necromancer laughed, a rasping, sinister chuckle of amusement. “My, my, it appears the noble young captain is labouring under something of a misapprehension. This is not an interrogation. I want no secrets you may possess, I’ve no interest in whatever knowledge you may hold about the city or its defences. I don’t wish you to betray anything or anyone. Nothing could interest me less.”

“Then what… do you… want?” Damphoost gasped, as the powerful hand closed round his heart once more. “Please… tell me…”

“I want to know what it feels like to die,” Farrak said, and squeezed. He soon let go again, and the prisoner came back to life. “Congratulations. Most men can only withstand dying and being revived a dozen times before their bodies give out completely. Never have I met a man I could kill and resurrect twenty-nine times in succession.”

“No more,” Damphoost pleaded. “Please, no more.”

“Then tell me what I want to know.”

“I can’t remember—I can’t!”

Farrak frowned. “How unfortunate.” He nodded to another acolyte, who took the necromancer’s place in front of Damphoost. It set to work on the gaping hole in the prisoner’s chest, smearing strange oils and unguents across the edges of the wound, muttering dark incantations. Damphoost watched, amazed, as tendrils of skin stretched themselves across his chest, criss-crossing the wound until the hole in his body was gone. The acolyte moved round to the prisoner’s back and set to work there.

Meanwhile Farrak was pacing back and forth across the bridge, hands forming a steeple shape in front of him. “I’m horrified by death, always have been. As a youth I was encouraged to become a priest of Morr, but to always walk in the shadow of death… It was not for me. The knowledge that I would cease to exist one day, that every thought and feeling and dream and memory I’ve ever had would die with me—that I found unconscionable. So I sought another discipline, another answer to the question of life and death, another faith if you will. I devoted myself to the study of necromancy, travelling the world in search of those dark arts that would allow me to cheat death, to escape my own demise. The irony is that I’ve learned how to resurrect creatures dead for moments or millennia, but I cannot revive myself from death. So I’ve postponed and delayed the inevitable, fought off fate and outdone destiny. As a consequence I’ve lived for many, many years beyond memory and yet I have no idea what it must feel like to die.”

The acolyte finished its work and stepped aside, nodding to Farrak. He returned to Damphoost and inspected the repairs. “I have given you back your flesh. My minions have returned you to the full flush of health. From this day forth you could live for several decades, assuming ill health, injury or incident did not shorten your span. In short, you are a healthy male adult with a full life ahead of him.”

Damphoost stared at his tormentor. “You’re insane. You’ve spent so many centuries cheating death, you’ve forgotten what it is to be human!”

“Perhaps I have,” Farrak conceded. “Perhaps you can educate me?”

Damphoost spat in the necromancer’s right eye.

“I’ll take that as no then, shall I?” Farrak asked. “So be it.” He plunged his fist clean through the torso so recently healed, punching a hole in the prisoner’s spine. “Enjoy eternity,” the necromancer whispered to Damphoost as the captain died for the thirtieth and final time. “Rest assured, I won’t be joining you there.”

Nathaniel accompanied Kurt to the emergency meeting. The messenger escorted them to the Stadsraad building in Paleisbuurt. It was the witch hunter’s suggestion he should come along, but Kurt welcomed it. The captain knew his own testimony could easily be dismissed, but few in authority had the nerve to call a Temple Court representative a liar to their face, even in a city like Marienburg where trade tended to trump religion.

Kurt wasn’t sure what to expect when they arrived. In a city notorious for its relaxed attitude to power, corruption and lies, the Stadsraad was the most visible example of that flexibility. Marienburg’s parliament was a dumping ground for those with political ambitions but insufficient clout to enforce their will on others. Anyone who loved both the sound of their own voice and arguing with others was certain to fit right in. The Rijkskamer upper house was little more than a rest home for elderly nobles, priests and academics. The Burgerhof was an altogether livelier place, prone to angry debates and even brawls among the aldermen and guild representatives elected to the lower chamber. In truth the Stadsraad’s main function was agreeing to decisions laid down by an executive council, the Directorate. That was where true power was wielded.

Kurt had never been inside the Stadsraad building. He’d expected something grander, at least the equal of City Watch headquarters. Instead he and Nathaniel were escorted along tawdry, wood-panelled corridors to a debating chamber. There the great and good of Marienburg were assembled around a circular table, standing in small groups whispering to each other.

All but a few were his senior by twenty winters, and none looked like they had battlefield experience. Most were well fed and wealthy, judging by their grand garb. Kurt recognised representatives from the Ten, plus priests of different faiths, aldermen proudly wearing their chains of office, and several of his fellow captains. It was a gathering of the great and good, such as Marienburg had to offer. The captain’s heart sank. No good decision was ever taken by committee, and this looked like the worst kind of committee, one packed with too many generals and not enough foot soldiers.

The watch commander saw Kurt arriving and strode round the table to confront him. Away from the trappings of office, the commander looked much less of a man, lacking the firm authority he abused with such ease. It would have normally amused Kurt to discover he stood half a head taller than his superior, but the captain was still boiling with anger over the threat used to get him to the meeting. “How do you know about the consequences of my father’s visit?” Kurt hissed, once his superior was within earshot.

The commander smirked. “I have my sources. You needn’t worry, Schnell. I’ve no interest in whether or not you take custody of your son. Luc, that’s his name, isn’t it?”

“Then why threaten me with that happening?”

“I knew it was the one thing likely to drag you away from duty.” The commander pulled Kurt away from Nathaniel. “Is it true? Has Suiddock fallen?”

“Why should I tell you before anyone else?” Kurt sneered.

His superior never got the chance to answer that question, as the meeting was called to order. Kurt took the nearest seat, not bothered where he was positioned in the room. Many of those present wasted several minutes securing the best chairs, closest to those with most power. Eventually the speaker of the Burgerhof, a chubby man called Gyngrijk with white hair and a piercing gaze, brought them to heel.

“As most of you know by now, Marienburg is facing a crisis unequalled in our lifetimes. The city has been invaded by dark magic, with the infestation centred on the commercially vital district of Suiddock. No ship has come into port or successfully sailed from the harbour for days now. Food supplies are running low, businesses are grinding to a halt and our commercial links with the Empire are already suffering from this problem. Unless the situation is reversed, it could cause chronic, perhaps irreversible damage to our import and export businesses, not to mention harming trade links with the likes of Bretonnia, Ulthuan and key cities such as Altdorf. It’s a matter of urgency that the crisis be resolved. I now call on the watch commander to provide us with an update.”

Gyngrijk sat, and all eyes turned to Kurt’s superior. The commander thanked the speaker, but swiftly passed the request for an update to Kurt. “Captain Schnell has come to this meeting directly from Suiddock, at my request. He can tell you far more about the situation than I could hope to offer. Indeed, I charged him with the task of stopping this threat from spreading. Tell us, Captain Schnell, what success have you, your men and the River Watch had in driving the dark magic out of Suiddock?”

Kurt cleared his throat, conscious of having so many powerful people all watching him. He started to outline the deteriorating situation at Suiddock, but was interrupted within a few sentences by an elderly man on the far side of the table. “Speak up, damn you! Can’t hear a word you’re saying—stop mumbling!”

Kurt saw the watch commander motion at him to get up. Soon as he got to his feet, Kurt felt more in control of his audience. He imagined them as a gaggle of unruly recruits and made certain all of them would hear what he had to say. “Suiddock is lost, taken by an undead army led by a notorious necromancer, known as Farrak. He has driven most of the citizens and dock-workers out of the district with his twin tactics of terror and torture. We believe Farrak’s hordes are systematically slaughtering all those people still alive in Suiddock. Once they’re dead, he can resurrect them, adding to the undead army at his command.” Kurt described the range of creatures Farrak had used to take over the district. “So far the only positive sign we’ve witnessed is the necromancer’s decision to remain in Suiddock. His forces have not attempted to storm either bridge that offers overland access to the rest of Marienburg, and they’ve shown no inclination to use boats to reach the city’s other southern districts, or to cross the Rijksweg.”

“Why do you think that is?” Gyngrijk asked.

“I’ve no idea,” Kurt admitted. “Any other questions?”

“How many men would you need to retake Suiddock?” a young man in rich garb to the captain’s left enquired. He did not bother to identify himself, a sure sign he was a representative from one of the Ten. Kurt studied the speaker’s face and recognised him as one of the Rothemuur family, with whom the captain had had an encounter in the past. The young man must be the heir, Stefan. “The city’s wealthiest families all have their own private militia. Some of those men have been seconded to act as a fighting force for the witch hunters. There must be thousands all told, if every militiaman in Marienburg was pressed into service, and just as many Black Caps. How many of them would be required to take back the docks and the rest of the port from this Farrak?”

“I’m not sure there’s enough men in all of Marienburg to stop this monster,” Kurt replied, and sat down.

Dark murmurs passed round the circular table, fat old men with double chins shaking their heads in dismay at Kurt’s stark assessment. Kurt could see the watch commander frowning, but didn’t care. He could see no point in lying about how bad things were, not when the city was in danger of going the same way as Suiddock.

“Thank you for that frank if somewhat disturbing report,” Gyngrijk said. “Let us hope your bleak view of the situation is overstating the case.”

“It isn’t,” Nathaniel interjected, getting to his feet. “The day of judgement is upon all of Marienburg and your city has been found wanting.”

“Could we keep matters of faith out of this?” Gyngrijk suggested. “Not all of us share your fervour, but we all share your concern for our fair city.”

“You cannot pretend matters of faith have nothing to do with this, not when you have a master of dark magic lurking like some malevolent, poisonous spider in the heart of your city!” Nathaniel raged. “Farrak cannot be defeated by force of arms alone, he must be stopped by a person of belief, someone who’s willing to sacrifice themselves for the greater good. If that is not an article of faith in this city, I don’t know what is.”

“Be that as it may, we need facts and not theology to judge the way forward.”

Nathaniel held up a hand, acknowledging the speaker’s request. “Very well, I shall confine myself to the facts. Captain Schnell is quite accurate in his assessment. Suiddock is lost. It’s only a matter of time before Farrak’s hunger for power grows too great to be sated by a single district. His undead army will march forth to consume the rest of Marienburg and your lives will be forfeit. My brethren have fought this necromancer in the past, and his lust for power is beyond all reckoning.”

“What does he want?” Stefan interjected. “Could we strike a bargain with him, a negotiation, perhaps offer something in return for his cooperation?”

“You are not confronted with an aggressive new competitor or businessman,” Nathaniel hissed. “This is a necromancer, a dealer in death and destruction. He has no interest in anything you want to offer him. He follows his own agenda, regardless of what you’re used to encountering. Left unchecked, Farrak will turn Marienburg into a living necropolis, a city of the dead with its people as his playthings. From here he can launch a war against the Empire, having already crippled it financially by stopping all trade on the Reik. Farrak’s coming foreshadows an era of darkness that could last generations. That is the true horror that faces us all here today. The decisions you make in this room could determine the fate of hundreds of thousands. The future is now in your hands.”

The witch hunter sat back down, his fiery words still echoing round the room. Some of those gathered slumped back in their seats as if wounded, while a few laughed at his doom-laden pronouncements. Others summoned aides to their side, dictating hasty messages and sending them out of the chamber. Among those present, three stayed silent and unmoved by the commotion, as if the words already spoke came as no surprise.

One of them was Sandler, the Black Cap leader responsible for Goudberg. To Kurt’s eyes his counterpart appeared preoccupied, as if wrestling with some internal struggle. He watched as Sandler took a deep breath, and rose from his seat. But the sound of trumpets and running feet outside the chamber silenced those within, and Sandler sank back down into his chair, a frown of dismay evident on his well-fed features.

The double doors that led into the room burst open and a lone elf warrior strode in, his sharp features riven by anger, two halves of a torn scroll clutched in a fist. For a moment Kurt thought the new arrival was Tyramin Silvermoon, a highborn warrior who had led the intervention that saved Three Penny Bridge from the ratmen a year earlier. Had the elves come once more to rescue Suiddock in its hour of greatest darkness?

The newcomer threw the halves of torn scroll into the centre of the chamber. “Who among you dared summon the elves to this feeble gathering?” he demanded. The only response from those present was a stunned silence.

Kurt got a good look at the newcomer, and realised he was just a messenger, not Tyramin Silvermoon. It seemed the elves would not be saving them this time.

Andries and Wijk had been pulling corpses out of the Rijksweg all morning. Most were boatmen from the River Watch, though it was only the remnants of their uniforms and insignia that made this apparent. The bodies had been savaged by Manann knows what kind of monsters. Limbs were torn in two or gone altogether, while faces had been eaten away and torsos gutted. Mixed in with the boatmen were a few other corpses, their identities much harder to determine. The presence of maritime tattoos suggested sailors, while others had body piercings in intriguing places. “What do you think—smugglers?” Wijk asked his Black Cap colleague.

“Looks like it,” Andries agreed. “Never seen no merchant with rings through his nose and his loins before. Smugglers must have tried to run the blockade, collided with the River Watch and drowned the lot of them. Boats probably churned up the bodies.”

“Maybe,” Wijk said. “But what about the teeth marks?”

Andries shrugged, rasping a hand across his stubble. He’d been scrupulous about shaving when the two of them had been stationed on the Hoogbrug. You never knew when the watch commander or their captain might decide to go south of the Rijksweg, and it didn’t do to encounter either man with more than a few hours’ growth on your chin. But now they were reassigned to patrolling the shoreline where Paleisbuurt met Marienburg’s major canal, keeping up appearances was of no great importance. He didn’t want to think about what had really happened to the River Watch and the rest of the corpses. All Andries knew for certain was he hadn’t joined the Black Caps to pull bodies out of the water. Unless things changed soon, he needed to find another job.

“Sweet Shallya, here comes another one,” he complained as a body drifted towards him. It was sprawled over half a River Watch boat, the hands turned blue by the cold. The summer solstice wasn’t that long gone, but sea currents kept the Rijksweg a chill temperature all year round. Andries used the end of his lantern staff to hook the broken boat and pull it closer to shore. But try as he might, the Black Cap couldn’t get to the body without stepping one foot into the water. He hissed a curse at the cold water filling his boot, and grabbed the body. To his shock and amazement, it fought back. Such was his surprise, the watchman fell backwards into the canal, swearing and spluttering.

Wijk jumped over to see what was wrong and found himself face to face with a shivering woman, an angry snarl on her lips. “Tell your friend if he touches me there again, I’ll expect a proposal of marriage or his family jewels as my earrings.”

“Who the hell are you?”

Belladonna glared at him. “Let’s save the introductions for later, and help me get out of this damned canal before I freeze to death.”

Gyngrijk stood to face the elf’s wrath. “I sent a scroll to Elf town inviting you to this emergency meeting, as what’s decided here will affect the future of all who live in Marienburg—man or elf. A necromancer called Farrak has seized control of Suiddock. We believe he plans to claim the rest of the city, and use it as a beachhead for an assault on the Empire. If he’s to be stopped, it must be now before any more lives are lost. Marienburg stands at a crossroads. The elves are a vital part of this city, and I believed you should be involved with our discussions here today.”

The messenger sneered. “We already know what has taken place to the south of our enclave. Did you honestly believe it could be otherwise?” Gyngrijk sat down, cowed by this angry presence. The elf looked round the room, searching the faces of those present. “This city stands on the shoulders of an ancient port built by my kind, long before the coming of man. We are as much a part of this place as anyone here, and more so than most. My people know this Farrak of old. He’s had many names, but his evil is unswerving his savagery unparalleled.”

Kurt rose to address the newcomer. “I’m Captain Kurt Schnell, son of General Erwin Schnell, born of Altdorf. Will you stand with us against Farrak’s evil?”

The elf shook his head. “This is your battle, not ours. We have withdrawn to our enclave and shall remain there, until the conflict is ended—one way or another.”

“But what about the necromancer, his army of undead?” Stefan Rothemuur protested, springing to his feet. “Won’t he raise up your dead and send them against you?”

“Our walls are high, and our magic strong. My brethren will be safe from this evil if we remain within Sith Rionnasc’namishathir,” the messenger replied, preparing to leave. “Do not ask for our aid again, it shall not be forthcoming.” He strode out.

The speaker rose, his face flushed red with anger. “The elves have abandoned us to our fate, whatever that may be. I’m throwing this meeting open to any suggestions for stopping the necromancer’s dark magic. We must defeat this Farrak, or Marienburg may well perish at the hands of his undead army. So, how can we save our city?”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The watch commander leaned forwards in his chair. “Brother Nathaniel, earlier you said the witch hunters had fought Farrak more than once. How was this necromancer stopped then? If we knew the method by which he was defeated, we might be able to use that against him again.” His comments brought a murmur of approval from those nearby.

Nathaniel shook his head. “Alas, it is impossible. The ancestors of my faith were able to isolate Farrak away from his resurrected horde, diminishing his defences. Then one man got close enough to strike the fiend a mortal blow. Farrak did not die, but the wound weakened him for centuries afterwards. The necromancer retreated to the darkest corners of the world to recover, leaving the Old World in peace—until now. In truth, we do not know if he can ever be truly vanquished, but his terror can be postponed.”

“Postponed is better than nothing,” the watch commander maintained, “but you haven’t explained how he was struck a mortal blow. Was it a special weapon? A blade inlaid with ancient runes? Or a spell cast by some powerful mage that laid Farrak low?”

“It was a rare gemstone, set inside a special amulet that focused the gem’s power. Whoever wore the amulet was protected from a necromancer’s dark magic. It could not turn away weapons such as blades or bows, but the amulet made the wearer immune from magic so they could strike at the likes of Farrak. But that protection has limitations. The amulet’s power is lost to the bearer forever the moment they wound a necromancer. All who have worn the amulet into battle against the likes of Farrak have died.”

“Still, there are many brave men in this city who would willingly sacrifice their life to save all those who live in Marienburg,” the watch commander persisted. “Where can we find this amulet, so it might be used against Farrak?”

Nathaniel looked away, distraught. “We do not know. Whether forgotten by history or cast aside by some hand with malice aforethought, the amulet is lost to us. Even the name of the amulet has been forgotten in the mists of passing time.”

“Then we have no weapon that can stop this necromancer?”

“None known to my brethren or the Temple Court,” the witch hunter admitted.

Brother Daniel argued for hours with the crematorium owners of Doodkanaal, urging them to stop their furnaces. But they refused to accept the witch hunter held any authority over their business, and kept the fires burning. Daniel despaired as he watched all the chimneys belching fresh clouds of black smoke and ash into the sky, adding to the fog that lingered above the city. No new corpses had been delivered to the crematoria from the north of Marienburg that day, thanks to the quarantine around Suiddock, but families from nearby southern districts such as Winkelmarkt and Kruiersmuur were still bringing their dearly departed to the furnaces for immolation.

Daniel gathered his brethren and issued a new edict. “I believe these businesses are in league with the dark magic that infested Suiddock. Whether they are doing so knowingly or unwittingly doesn’t matter. As representatives of the Temple Court, we have authority to excommunicate all those who aid and abet dark magic. Therefore, I hereby cast out the crematoria of Doodkanaal, their owners and all those whose mortal remains are burned there, effective immediately. We’ll post notices on all the doors and patrol the approaches to the buildings. If we deny the furnaces anything to burn, they’ll be forced to stop by sundown to spare their fuel stocks.”

The other witch hunters nodded their approval. Daniel set half his brethren to work writing and posting the notices of excommunication, while the rest went on patrol, spreading the news to those who could not read for themselves. In the meantime he returned to the crematoria and warned the owners of his new edict. “Stop the furnaces of your own free will and your soul shall not be forfeit,” Daniel told them. “Continue with this madness and you will suffer an eternity of torment. It’s your choice.”

The decision was taken from all their hands after the first crematoria shut down its fires. Daniel went outside to watch as the chimney stopped smoking, a last few clouds of smoke and ash drifting upwards into the air. But something strange happened as the rising fumes reached the fog above Doodkanaal; the dirty yellow mist moved. The change was all but imperceptible at first, a tiny circle appearing directly over the chimney. Gradually the circle got larger, expanding outwards, while the epicentre became darker by the moment. The witch hunter realised the fog was spinning round in a circle above the crematorium, forming itself into a vortex. Not only could he see the tornado forming in the sky, he could hear it, the wind whipping into a frenzy, building from a low hum to a roaring the likes of which Daniel had never experienced. The witch hunter dropped to his knees and prayed, as the rising winds tore off his hat and whipped the air with his cloak.

The tiny particles of human ash inside the fog cloud were coming back to life.

“If we cannot kill Farrak, we must find a way to contain him,” the watch commander told the emergency meeting. “We believe this necromancer’s taint has largely been confined to Suiddock thus far, yes?” He looked around the room, as if daring everyone to contradict him.

“Not completely,” Captain Sandler said. “Several families in my district have been attacked by their own ancestors, rising up from subterranean crypts.”

“But these attacks have been stopped by private militia, haven’t they?”

“Yes.”

“And only those bodies stored below the level of the Rijksweg have resurrected?”

Sandler nodded.

“In other words, dark magic incidents outside Suiddock have been contained.”

“Yes, but—”

“But nothing, Sandler,” the commander cut in, his voice making it plain he would brook no further opposition. “You would do well to remember your rank, captain. Best if you leave the important decisions to those with the experience necessary to make them.”

Kurt would have enjoyed the moment more if he hadn’t felt Sandler was making a valuable point. Despite their differences, the captain from Goudberg had been correct in pointing out the exceptions to sweeping generalisations about Farrak’s hold over the city. But Kurt also recognised the steely resolve in his superior’s voice. The commander was not going to be denied his moment of glory, and certainly not in front of the city’s most important and influential people.

“My solution to containing Farrak is simple,” the commander continued. “There are but two bridges linking Suiddock with the rest of Marienburg. Destroy those and you destroy his easiest means of attacking other parts of the city. We should strap barrels of gunpowder to the Hoogbrug and Draaienbrug bridges, and rig them both to explode.” When several powerful merchants raised their voices in protest, he smiled and raised a hand for silence. “Please, let me finish. We should rig both bridges with gunpowder. However, I am not suggesting we detonate either structure, not without good cause. We would only blow up the bridges should one of Farrak’s undead army set foot upon them. The crossings are too valuable to the city to destroy otherwise, especially the Hoogbrug.”

“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 broke 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 noise 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.”

“All dark?” the innkeeper asked. “Shouldn’t be. The chute doors were open before I came up. Expecting a delivery before sunset. Should have been here by now.”

“Sweet Shallya,” Kramer gasped. “The darkness—it’s moving!”

The corpse flies burst from the hatchway, surrounding the terrified watchman. He’d time for one scream before they attacked him, flying in through his open mouth and down Kramer’s throat to consume him from the inside out. The rest dived at his exterior, eating through his clothes and skin in moments, before gnawing their way down to the bones beneath the surface. Holismus and the others watched, transfixed.

It was Acco and Ormston who saved them, brought back into the taproom by Kramer’s abruptly silenced scream. Recognising the other Black Caps would be next to die, Ormston ran to the tavern door and ripped it open. “Out, everybody out!” Acco was shoving the other watchmen out into the street, breaking their reverie.

“They’re right,” Holismus realised. “Evacuate! Bescheiden, get down here—now!”

The watch commander was too busy congratulating himself to pay much attention when his adjutant announced three members of the Stadsraad and a quartet of representatives from the Ten families were waiting to see him. He sat behind his desk on the raised dais in his office, ready to receive his visitors. No doubt they were coming to add their praises to those already bestowed upon the commander after the emergency meeting. Yes, his star was truly on the ascendant. So long as this Farrak was kept in his place, the commander was confident his days stuck in charge of Marienburg’s City Watch would soon be behind him. He’d always felt certain a shrewd cunning like his was destined for greater things; now that destiny was fast becoming a reality—and not before time.

The adjutant opened the double doors and ushered in the delegation. But rather than introduce them and depart, the adjutant remained. More curious was the fact he appeared to be leading the delegation, despite his far lowlier position in Marienburg’s political hierarchy.

“Commander, we need your help,” the adjutant said.

“Indeed? And who is this ‘we’ of which you speak?”

“You know our public faces, the positions we fill in the Stadsraad, the Directorate and here at your headquarters. But we’ve another, private identity,” the adjutant replied.

The commander frowned, perplexed by his underling’s tone of voice. Adjutants came and went, the commander never paid them much mind. But this one was now speaking to him with an authority and presence that belied his rank. For the first time in his memory, the commander studied his adjutant. The minor functionary was tall, with an athletic build and piercing green eyes that blazed from an intense face. Strange, never to have noticed his adjutant’s eyes were green, the commander thought. But they were always cast down and looking away, never confronting him as now. “Well, don’t keep me in suspense. What’s this alter ego you all possess?”

The adjutant gestured at the delegation. “We are worshippers of Solkan, god of vengeance. We drive out the unclean, all those guilty of the heresy of mutation. We are the enemies of Chaos and dark magic. We are the Knights of Purity!”

“You’re the Knights of Purity?” The commander burst out laughing. “But you’re just an adjutant, a humble functionary who comes and goes at my beck and call.”

“A ruse on my part to gain access to you, in anticipation of this day.”

“What day? What are you talking about?”

The adjutant grimaced. “We have known about the coming of Farrak the necromancer for generations. Our greatest prophets foresaw this day, this crisis. All of us have been trained since birth in anticipation of this war for the soul of Marienburg.”

The commander stood, his patience wearing thin. “Very droll, but you’ve had your fun. Time to get back to work.”

“No!” his adjutant thundered. Pulling a dagger from inside his sleeve, he leapt on to the dais and stabbed the blade deep into his commander’s desk. The symbol of Solkan was etched into the hilt, a symbol kept hidden for centuries by followers of that deity. “You no longer have authority over me, or anyone else in this city. We’re taking control of the situation before it’s too late!”

“Impossible,” the commander spluttered. “My position is for life.”

The rest of the delegation produced daggers, all bearing the symbol of Solkan. Their faces were grim and resolute, no trace of pity in their expressions. The threat did not need to be spoken, their gesture was explicit enough.

“You will remain as commander, all orders will still be issued in your name,” the adjutant hissed. “But until the crisis ends, you will answer to our commander, our leader.”

“And who’s that?” the commander whispered, his gaze still fixed on the dagger buried in his desk. The double doors behind the delegation swung open and a lone figure entered, wearing a hooded cloak. They marched past the other Knights of Purity and up the dais to stand beside the adjutant. Finally, hands clad in black gloves pushed back the hood, revealing the face of the cabal’s leader.

“From now on, I’m giving the orders,” Captain Georges Sandler announced.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Kurt was on his way out of the Paleisbuurt temple when a familiar face caught his eye. All the patients being treated in the side chapel were male, but a handful of women were lying on cots in a nearby annex. One of them was sitting up, knees hugged into her chest. She looked pale and distressed, brown curls pulled back from her face, red-rimmed eyes staring dead ahead. Kurt wasn’t certain this fragile creature could be the same headstrong woman he knew so well. “Belladonna? Is that you?” At first she didn’t respond, her mind elsewhere. Kurt moved nearer, stepping into her line of sight. “Belladonna?”

His words filtered through whatever was troubling her. “Kurt?”

He sat on an empty cot to one side of Belladonna. “What are you doing here? Where’s Captain Damphoost—Ruben?”

“Haven’t you heard?”

Kurt shook his head.

“He’s dead,” Belladonna said, fighting to control her feelings. “They’re all dead.”

“The River Watch?”

She nodded, her body wracked by sobs. Kurt waited until her emotions subsided before asking what happened. Belladonna told him about the floating blockade and the smugglers’ attack, how the River Watch had endured flaming arrows and smugglers ramming the small wooden boats. Then came the ship of horrors, and the creatures pulling men underwater, and Captain Damphoost throwing himself in front of a harpoon meant for her. The memory of that fatal moment broke her spirit. Kurt shifted over to sit beside Belladonna on the cot, sliding a comforting arm round her shoulders.

“After the death ship had passed,” she said, “all of us who survived were left in the water. None of our boats were intact and the tide was dragging us out past Rijker’s Isle. We clung on to pieces of wreckage as best we could, but the water was so cold, so cold.” She shivered at the memory and Kurt hugged her closer. “After a few hours the tide turned, sending us back past the prison. That’s when the monsters came back for us.”

“Do you mean Farrak?”

“Who?” she asked. Kurt described the necromancer’s undead army of ghouls, wights, skeletons and other horrors. Belladonna shook her head. “No, these monsters were underwater, they never broke the surface. All we could see were glimpses of them when they came up to claim another victim. You were safe so long as you didn’t leave any part of yourself hanging down in the water, but we didn’t have many pieces of wreckage large enough to protect ourselves. We realised there would be no rescue, not with our own quarantine keeping boats away from open water. Some of the men tried swimming for Suiddock—but the things under the water took them, one by one. The rest of us let the current take us where it would. By the time two Black Caps pulled me out of the water near the Hoogbrug, I was one of the few still alive. Most of the others have died since then.” Belladonna looked Kurt in the eyes. “Guess I might take up your invitation and come back to Three Penny Bridge station, once all this is over—if your offer’s still open.”

“Always,” he smiled. “But I’m not sure there’ll be a bridge left standing by then, let alone a station.” The captain brought her up to date on Farrak’s invasion of Suiddock, and the plan to explode the Hoogbrug and Draaienbrug bridges if the necromancer tried to expand his domain. “So far my Black Caps have been far luckier than the River Watch, but that can’t last much longer. I’m taking my men and a small army of militia across the canal by boat tonight, under cover of darkness. We’ve been given the task of rigging the swing bridge with gunpowder. I’m hoping Holismus, Bescheiden and the others are still alive, and we can find them while we’re over there.” Kurt moved his arm away from Belladonna’s shoulders. “We could do with someone like you along to help. I could.”

She smiled, but it didn’t last long. “Thanks, but I want to see if I can find any more survivors from the River Watch, and reform the unit first—in honour of Ruben.”

“Of course.” Kurt stood. “I’d better be going. There’s a lot still to do before—”

“Be careful, captain.”

He laughed. “You know me, I’m always careful.”

“No, I mean when you’re crossing the Rijksweg. There are things beneath the surface that nobody else knows about yet. I saw figures moving beneath the water. It looked like they were crossing from Suiddock, moving north under cover of the canal.”

“How many?”

She shrugged. “I’m not sure, but more than enough to tear Marienburg apart.”

Kurt bit his bottom lip. “The watch commander, the Stadsraad, all the wealthy families—they think we’ve got Farrak isolated in Suiddock. They believe blowing up the bridges and posting a few guards along the northern shore of the Rijksweg will keep the necromancer contained. If he’s already moving his undead army into position around districts like Paleisbuurt and Guilderveld, that means Farrak can attack the northern districts of Marienburg at any time. Occupying Suiddock’s just a ruse, another trick.”

“What will you do?” Belladonna asked.

“There’s nothing I can do,” he replied, bitterness all too evident in his voice. “The watch commander’s made it quite clear. I follow orders, or suffer the consequences.”

“But the citizens—”

“—are the people who’ll really suffer.” Kurt ran a hand across the closely cropped stubble on his scalp. “Can’t save everyone. Not even sure if I can save myself anymore.”

Goudberg was chosen as a staging point for all those headed south with Kurt. The captain had no wish to spend time on Sandler’s territory, but the bulk of all militiamen were based there or in the neighbouring district of Paleisbuurt, so the location made tactical sense. As Scheusal noted when Goudberg was chosen, at least the men might have some comforts to enjoy before leaving on what felt increasingly like a suicide mission.

Kurt’s Black Caps had enjoyed a brief respite since Suiddock’s fall, replenishing their reserves of energy and weaponry. Fresh bolts were gathered for crossbows, broken blades replaced with newer swords and daggers, while those armed with flintlocks sought out pouches of dry blackpowder. The watchmen of Goudberg even donated some clean clothes to their counterparts from Suiddock, though the sizes left something to be desired.

Sandler invited Kurt to his office before the men set off. The room was spacious and plush in its furnishings, as befitted the watch captain for one of Marienburg’s richest districts—a stark contrast to the threadbare lodgings Kurt and his watchmen had on Three Penny Bridge. “How many troops have you been assigned?” Sandler asked.

“Close to a hundred militia, for all the use they’ll be, and the eight Black Caps that came across the Hoogbrug with me.” Kurt mentioned the other watchmen he hoped to find south of the Rijksweg. “Holismus is a strong leader, he’ll have kept them together.”

“So you’re confident of locating them?”

“Hopeful might be nearer the mark—why?”

Sandler opened a drawer and produced a roll of parchment. He pushed it across the desk to Kurt. “That came for you from the commander, not long before you arrived.”

“You already know what this says?”

“There was no seal on it.”

Kurt unrolled the parchment, dreading what fresh nightmares it might contain. The commander had scrawled a brief message in black ink, the scratchy words betraying haste but the hand still unmistakeable. Kurt read the orders, his anger rising with each sentence. Once finished, he threw the message to the floor, disgust etched into his features. “The man’s lost his senses! He expects me to leave all but two of my Black Caps here, to help you defend Goudberg. Why? What possible reason could he have for doing that?”

Sandler shrugged. “I couldn’t speculate on his state of mind when he wrote that.”

“You put him up to this, didn’t you?” Kurt demanded, jabbing a finger at his counterpart sat opposite. “You’ve been whining for months about how much Goudberg needs more watchmen—looks like all that moaning has finally paid off! But why now? This is when I need my Black Caps most, when their presence could be the difference between my mission succeeding and failing. Why now, Sandler? Tell me that much!”

“I made another request and this time he listened. That’s all I can tell you.”

“All you can tell me, or all you will tell me?”

Sandler smiled. “There’s a difference?”

Kurt shot to his feet, cursing the other captain’s name, questioning his parentage and suggesting ways Sandler could attempt procreation without the aid of a partner. Kurt’s host waited until the storm of vitriol had calmed before dignifying the abuse with a reply.

“From what I hear you’re already on shaky ground with the commander, Schnell. Your father’s due in Marienburg any day, and your future with your son is at stake. Do you really want to jeopardise that over some territorial skirmish with me?”

“If you think I’m leaving any watchmen here, you can think again,” Kurt vowed.

“You can and you will, or it will go the worse for you when this is over.”

“Sweet Shallya, we’ll be lucky to get through this alive!”

“I prefer sound tactics and ample preparation to relying on luck, fate or chance,” Sandler said, his supercilious voice still as smooth as silk. “I’ll let you select which men you leave behind. I’ve no wish to steal away your best Black Caps. Well, not all of them.”

Kurt resisted the urge to smash Sandler’s teeth out, knowing it would destroy any chance he had of reclaiming his son Luc from Old Ironbeard. But Sandler came within a hair’s breadth of taking all his future sustenance in liquid form.

“What do you mean, I’m not coming with you?” Scheusal spluttered at Kurt. “Why not?”

“Orders from the watch commander. You and three other men have to stay here, help Sandler protect his little empire—Manann knows why. By rights, I should only be taking two Black Caps with me, but Sandler and I came to an arrangement.”

“He got four of us and you didn’t get brought up on murder charges?”

“Something like that,” Kurt laughed, despite his anger. “Personally I think it would have been justifiable homicide, at worst. Anyway, I’ll take Ganz and Potts with me. You want to recommend two more from among the newer recruits?”

“Ganz and Potts? Have you developed a death wish like Bescheiden?”

Kurt shook his head. “For all his bellyaching, Ganz is one of the best fighters I’ve ever seen in close quarters combat. And Potts is my responsibility. If he dies, I don’t want you catching the blame for that from his damn uncle. So, two others?”

The sergeant scratched the back of his neck, pondering the question. “Burke and Denkers are good, in their own ways. Burke’s got a vicious streak that should come in handy, and Denkers is the best shot I’ve ever seen with a crossbow. Could take the eye out of a fly from a hundred paces—in the dark.”

“If you’re exaggerating, don’t tell me.”

“I won’t,” Scheusal agreed. “What’s so special that I’ve got to stay here in Goudberg and guard it for Gorgeous Georges?”

“You’ll discover your new assignment soon enough,” Sandler interjected as he strolled into the ablutions block where Kurt and the sergeant were talking.

“Can’t wait,” Scheusal sighed, walking out of the room. “Excuse me.”

Sandler watched him go, before facing Kurt. “Your militiamen are here.”

Both captains marched to a courtyard outside the station, where a slovenly rabble was waiting in uninterested clumps. Most were unshaven and out of shape, their blades dull and listless, their garb ill-fitting and badly kept. “Charming,” Kurt muttered. He strode forwards to speak, introducing himself to the men. “I’ll be leading you across the Rijksweg when the moon reaches its apogee. We’re taking twelve boats, eight men per boat. Has anyone among you served with the River Watch or other maritime units?”

Little more than a dozen raised their hands.

“Fine. Each of you will be in charge of a boat for the crossing. How many of you have seen active duty in the past five years, either with the Watch or the military?”

A similar number from among the militia nodded.

“What about the rest of you?” Kurt asked, his voice loud enough so all could hear. When nobody responded, he pointed at the nearest man, a heavyset figure with dull eyes. “How did you choose to become a militiaman?”

His subject shrugged. “Seemed like easy money, living off the Rothemuurs.” Others around him laughed, bringing a smile to the militiaman’s face.

“What’s your name?” Kurt asked.

“Auteuil.”

“He’s one of those idiots from Bretonnia!” someone shouted from the back of the militiamen, getting a bigger laugh from most of those assembled.

Kurt silenced them with a curse, spat out at the militiamen like poison. “I couldn’t care less where any of you came from, or what you did before today. All that matters to me is what you do while you’re under my command. Judging by the amount of levity, nobody’s told you where we’re heading is a suicide mission—at best. We’ll be lucky if half of us make it back across the Rijksweg alive. So, who wants to make a joke about that?”

Nobody did, silence proving far more than eloquent as a response.

“That’s better,” Kurt said. “Get yourselves together into units of eight, and make sure each unit contains at least one man with maritime experience and one man with combat experience. We move out on the hour, so make whatever preparations you need between now and then. Make peace with whatever deity you worship now, while you have the chance. There won’t be time for prayers when the fighting starts. Dismissed!”

He strode back into the station, followed by Sandler. “Nice speech,” the Goudberg captain commented. “Inspirational stuff—I can see why your men are so loyal to you.”

“Save it, you sanctimonious sausage-sucker,” Kurt snarled.

It was nightfall that saved Holismus and the surviving Black Caps from Suiddock stuck south of the Rijksweg. They’d fled eastwards from the tavern after the insidious corpse flies consumed Kramer where he stood. The watchmen lost one of their comrades crossing the bridge from Doodkanaal into the halfling district, and another while leaving Kleinmoot. A third fell as they entered the Tilean ghetto of Noord Miragliano in the Kruiersmuur district. The Black Caps hammered on doors as they ran, but there was no answer from within any of the homes. The watchmen couldn’t tell if the houses had been evacuated, or those inside were simply too terrified to offer anyone sanctuary. Whatever the truth, the streets were empty and abandoned, lifeless.

Fortunately for the watchmen, the setting sun threw an inky blackness across Marienburg’s southern archipelago, at least until the moon rose. Seeing anything might be all but impossible in the gloaming, but the same was true for the swarm of corpse flies pursuing the four Black Caps. Holismus, Acco, Ormston and Bescheiden groped their way along the streets until they found a Temple of Manann, its doors wide open and lighting spilling out into the street from welcoming candles burning within. They dove into the church, slamming shut the doors after them. An aged priest emerged from one of the side chapels, summoned by the sudden cacophony of their arrival.

“Is something wrong?” he asked. “I don’t normally expect visitors after dark, but I like to keep my doors open, offering sanctuary to those who might need it. My policy must be paying off. You’re the second group of strangers I’ve had in here today.”

“Thank you,” Holismus gasped. “You’re a life saver!”

“I am?” The priest smiled. “Well, that’s very kind of you to say so.”

“Water,” Bescheiden gasped. “Have you any water?”

The priest bumbled away to fetch some refreshments, leaving the watchmen to catch their breath. “We have to get a message across the Rijksweg, tell them what’s happening on this side of the canal,” Holismus decided.

“You saw those things in Suiddock,” Acco said. “There’s no going through them.”

“So we go around,” Ormston suggested. “Take a boat over the canal. The Rijksweg is at its narrowest here, between Noord Miragliano and Luigistad.”

“I’m not sure you want to do that,” a woman’s voice interjected. The watchmen were amazed to see Molly and her girls approaching, carrying earthenware jugs and pewter tankards. “Local fishermen have seen strange shapes in the water that they can’t explain. Nobody from these parts has gone out on the canal and come back alive all day.”

“Molly? Astrid? W-What are you doing here?” Holismus spluttered.

“Same as you, I’d guess,” the Three Penny Bridge madam replied. “We’ve been headed east all day, and this was the only place willing to take in our kind. Just about the only open door we’ve seen since crossing the Draaienbrug.” Molly surveyed the faces of the Black Caps. “Where are Kramer, and the others?”

Bescheiden told them about the plague of flesh-eating flies.

The flame-haired madam shook her head. “Thought I’d seen everything there was to see from my line of work. Guess I was wrong.”

The kindly priest returned. “Everything all right?”

“It is here,” Holismus said, “but I wouldn’t want to speak for anywhere else.”

Kurt’s men marched south-east from Goudberg, passing through Indierswijk and Rijkspoort on their way to Luigistad. The twelve boats chosen for the crossing had already been assembled, carried overland from a nearby builder’s yard. Each had room for eight men, though they could take double that number before the boats risked capsizing. At midnight the dozen wooden craft went into the water and the militia took their places.

Kurt chose to keep all the Black Caps with him—Ganz and Potts, Burke and Denkers. The captain’s boat had an ex-River Watch sailor called Dretsky at the helm, while heavyset militiaman Auteuil and his bulky colleague Willis were chosen to man the oars. Manann knows what kind of fighters they are, Kurt thought, but they’ve got enough heft to make certain we cross the Rijksweg in good time. If Belladonna was right about the undead creatures lurking below the surface, he didn’t want to spend a moment longer out on the water than was absolutely necessary.

No sooner had he thought about her than she appeared, running towards the jetty where the boats were moored, a small, oblong bundle in her grasp. She beckoned Kurt over to her, out of earshot from the leering militiamen. “I wanted to give you this,” Belladonna explained, handing him the bundle. Kurt undid the waterproof cloth wrapping to reveal a clutch of crossbow bolts, the sharpened end coated with a glittering, purple substance. “That’s a special kind of flash-powder I’ve been experimenting with. Scratch it across a rough surface, like a cobble or a wall, and the bolt will catch fire no matter how damp the conditions. Fire the bolt into the sky and it will cast a flare of purple light into the air, visible from anywhere—even the thickest of fogs. I will come find you.”

Kurt arched an eyebrow at her. “You think I’ll need rescuing?”

“I hope not, but in case of emergency…”

“Thank you.” He rewrapped the bolts and tucked the slender bundle into a pouch slung over one shoulder. “I’d better head off. Places to go, necromancers to slay.”

“Just another day in Suiddock,” Belladonna smiled.

“Something like that.”

“I’d better go, Brother Nathaniel’s waiting for me.”

“The witch hunter?”

She nodded, smiling at Kurt’s bemusement. “He’s helping me search for other survivors from the River Watch blockade. I think he feels guilty about what happened.” Belladonna studied the captain a moment, before darting forwards and kissing him on the lips. “For luck,” she whispered in his ear, before hurrying away. Kurt watched her go, inhaling the whiff of perfume she left behind. He couldn’t help wondering if they’d ever see each other again. Ganz made a show of clearing his throat.

“We’re ready whenever you are, captain,” he muttered from the boat.

Kurt strode across and stepped into the Black Caps’ vessel. He gave a strong, clear signal for all the boats to slip their moorings and head out across the river. Auteuil and Willis strained at the oars, sending the craft forwards into the expanse of water that cut Marienburg in half. Kurt couldn’t help looking at the black, bleak surface of the Rijksweg, wondering what horror was lurking below it.

Farrak clenched his left hand into a fist, the dry and wrinkled skin rasping against itself. The corpse of Captain Ruben Damphoost twitched and flinched in the sky, old wounds splitting open to let fresh blood flow from within. The crimson liquid cascaded down into a pool that hung in the air, defying gravity. Farrak preened in the scarlet reflection, before muttering a sinister incantation. The blood’s surface shimmered, transforming from a mirror into a window upon events elsewhere in the city.

Skeletons marched across the bottom of the Rijksweg clambering over debris left by centuries of trade and trauma, boats broken in battle or scuttled by smugglers. Above them ghouls floated north on the water’s surface, their debased bodies still needing breath to survive. As the undead passed each sunken vessel, the remnants of those who had once crewed the ships rose up to join them. Some were little more than skeletons themselves, their bones picked clean by sea creatures. Others were encrusted with barnacles and coral, a few with fish living inside their skulls and ribcages. The rest were more recent arrivals in the Rijksweg—corpses dumped from the Hoogbrug during the dead of night, or lost overboard from death barges transporting the bodies south to the crematoria at Doodkanaal. All of them were long dead, and all had been resurrected by Farrak’s dark magic, his spells and invocations.

The necromancer fluttered his eyelids and the window of blood showed the Rijksweg from above, bathed in moonlight. From this viewpoint he could just discern a dark mass moving across the bottom of the river, like a black cloud beneath the surface. The leading edge of that dark mass had already reached the northern archipelago of Marienburg, and parts of his undead army were marching along the cuts and other waterways that honeycombed districts like Schattinwaard and Rijkspoort. They kept themselves below the surface, a secret army unseen by blithe mortals who could not imagine any fighting force could remain underwater for more than mere moments.

Two areas remained unmolested. The elf enclave of Sith Rionnasc’namishathir was unsullied by Farrak’s undead army, driven off by powerful spells of protection. The other district still free from infiltration by the living dead was Goudberg. For reasons known only to the necromancer, his minions were bypassing that part of Marienburg. Farrak smiled, but on his taut and ancient features the expression best resembled a hideous leer. He had other plans for Goudberg, plans that needed more than brute strength and overwhelming weight of numbers. Finesse could be just as powerful a weapon in the right hands. The necromancer clenched his fist once more, squeezing a fresh torrent of crimson from Damphoost’s corpse, as if he was extracting the juice from a blood orange.

A flotilla of small craft was creeping across the Rijksweg, moving from north to south, seeking to hide beneath the cover of a passing cloud’s shadow. Farrak considered letting them pass unhindered, as whoever was on board could pose no meaningful threat to the empire of death he was sculpting from Suiddock and surrounding districts. But the audacity of those who sent the boats deserved punishment, not reward. Crush the vessels and all who sailed in them, so their fate might be an example to all who dared defy him.

Farrak licked his dry, wizened lips in hungry anticipation. Without another living soul left alive in Suiddock to torment, he felt the need for some sport. The fools on the canal should provide ample amusement until the rest of the undead army was in position. “Let the fun begin,” the necromancer murmured to himself.

The boats were two-thirds of the way across the Rijksweg when the attack came. Kurt could see lights along the shore of Noord Miragliano, and even make out the stained-glass windows of a temple, the black silhouette of its steeple the highest point on the district’s skyline. But all thoughts of reaching Marienburg’s southern archipelago were torn away when the boat on Kurt’s left broke apart, tipping its passengers into the cold, black water. The militiamen cursed and swore, complaining about shoddy workmanship by the builders, not realising the danger fast approaching.

“Quick, help them into other boats,” Kurt commanded. He leant over the side and extended a hand towards a militiaman. “Come on, we need to get you out of the water.”

“Thanks, it’s freezing in—”

But the militiaman’s words were cut off as unseen hands pulled him beneath the surface. One moment he was talking to Kurt, the next he was gone, a few bubbles and ripples on the water’s surface the sole evidence of his disappearance.

“Taal’s teeth,” the captain hissed. “It’s happening again, just like Belladonna said!”

“What’s happening?” Ganz demanded.

Another of the spilled militiamen vanished below the surface, followed by another and another. Four down, four to go. By now the others in the water had seen what was happening to their brothers-in-arms. They kicked and thrashed their way towards the nearest boats, desperate to reach safety. But each of them was plucked from below, taken one at a time to some unknown, underwater torment. The last man had made it to Kurt’s boat, where Ganz and Potts had hold of his arms. They were dragging him aboard when the monsters below the surface came to claim him. It became a brutal tug of war, with the militiaman being almost torn in two. Such was the strength of those dragging him down, it was threatening to capsize the watchmen’s boat, tipping them all into the sea.

“Let him go,” Kurt snarled.

“We can save him!” Potts protested.

“No, you can’t. You’ll get us all killed,” the captain hissed. “Let him go.”

“He’s right,” Ganz told the new recruit, releasing his own hold on the terrified militiaman. “Let him go, you fool.” Potts shook his head, refusing to give in, but without the help of Ganz he couldn’t match whatever was beneath the river’s surface. The militiaman sank beneath the water, until his screaming face was swallowed by it.

Finally, Potts let go, tumbling over backwards in the boat. His head hit against the wooden hull with a dull crack, and he didn’t move again. Kurt spat out a curse, climbing over Burke and Auteuil to reach Potts.

“Leave him,” Ganz snarled, “the young fool’s not worth bothering about.”

“Unfortunately, he is,” Kurt replied. “Potts is the watch commander’s nephew.” He pressed an ear to the raw recruit’s chest and listened. “He’s just out cold.”

Cries for help from further across the water rang out, followed by another set of shouts and screams. Ganz stood up in the boat. “We just lost two more crews. I don’t know what’s doing this, but we need to reach dry land—now.”

“Get rowing, all of you!” Kurt bellowed at the other boats. “Double time!”

Auteuil and Willis were still regaining their momentum when the first barnacle-covered corpse burst from the water and landed inside the boat. “Sweet Shallya! Now they’re throwing dead bodies at us,” Willis shrieked, dropping his oar into the water.

The corpse rolled over and opened its eyes, glaring at the militiaman. “Look who’s talking,” it hissed, before sinking a mouthful of fangs deep into Willis’ neck.

Andries and Wijk had spent their afternoon rolling barrels of gunpowder to the northern end of the Hoogbrug. The fact neither watchman knew anything about fuses spared them the dangerous task of rigging the mighty bridge to explode. Instead they were reassigned to the Paleisbuurt wharf, where they helped Brother Nathaniel make a private boat ready to sail. The witch hunter had commandeered a vessel owned by Anton van Raemerswijk, heir of the House van Raemerswijk and scion for one of the Ten. The family crest of a gold coin over a ship on a black shield was emblazoned on every possible surface.

The watchmen wanted to know how the witch hunter had secured the sleek, elegant vessel from the foppish youth, but didn’t dare ask. Instead they set about loading the vessel with weapons and provisions, careful to follow every instruction Nathanial gave. Things improved with the appearance of a beautiful young woman, incongruously clad in River Watch garb. Andries sidled over to her and made a few suggestions about what they could do below deck, while the witch hunter was looking the other way.

The woman slapped his face, the blow making a resounding smack and leaving a telltale hand print on the Black Cap’s left cheek. “You’ve already had your hands on me once today,” she hissed, “and that was once too often. Try it on again and I’ll tell the witch hunter all about your guilty secrets.”

“I don’t have any guilty secrets,” Andries protested.

“Everyone has guilty secrets,” Belladonna replied. She shivered and coughed, still suffering the effects of her recent ordeals.

“You’re the woman Andries pulled out of the canal earlier,” Wijk realised.

“Now he tells me,” his partner muttered.

Nathaniel returned to the vessel, bringing blankets and dry clothes. “That’s all of it. If we find anyone still alive out on the water, we’ll be able to keep them alive until a healer and apothecary can treat them.” He peered at Belladonna beneath the lanterns and moonlight that illuminated the wharf. “Sure you want to do this?”

She nodded. “Anyone who’s still alive out there won’t survive until morning. If we’re going to save them, it has to be now.”

The two of them clambered into the sleek boat, Nathaniel ordering the Black Caps to cast off the lines linking it to the wharf. Andries and Wijk used boat hooks to push the vessel towards open water, where tidal currents drew it further away, out into the canal. The watchmen didn’t notice the three figures climbing out of the water, all clad in crimson cloaks that glistened like wet blood, or hear the blades slide from within sheaths made of human skin. Andries was still thinking of Belladonna’s beauty as his throat was slit from side to side. Wijk had a moment longer of life, enough to see his partner die, before he too was dancing with Morr. The bodies of both Black Caps were slid into the water, where grabbing hands spirited them away for hungry mouths. Farrak’s acolytes nodded to one another before melting into the shadows.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Burke was first to react in the boat laden with watchmen. He pulled his short sword from its scabbard and decapitated the barnacle-encrusted creature attacking Willis in a single, swift motion. The body toppled over the side of the boat, but the head remained attached to its victim, a death spasm locking the jaws tight round his neck. Blood gouted from the wound while Willis screamed out in pain and horror. Ganz glanced at Kurt: “Overboard?”

The captain nodded. Willis was already good as dead, better to get rid of him as soon as possible, so he couldn’t impede their progress. “Cut off his head first.”

“What?” Auteuil gasped. “You can’t do that, he’s not—”

“Do it!” Kurt commanded.

Pushing the other militiaman aside, Ganz decapitated Willis before shoving both heads and the dead man’s body over the side of the boat.

“You’re insane,” Auteuil spluttered. “You just murdered him!”

“Better him than us,” Burke said, wiping clean his sword’s blade.

“Denkers, Ganz—start rowing,” Kurt snapped. “The rest of you, weapons ready!” He stood up in the boat to see what was happening to the rest of the flotilla. Half the boats were gone, and most of the militiamen from the sunken craft were gone too. As he watched, two more boats tipped over, spilling everyone into the dark, murderous water. “Make for shore, fast as you can!” Kurt bellowed. “Don’t stop for anyone or anything!”

Another encrusted creature burst out of the water. It arced through the air and smashed into Kurt’s back. He cried out in pain as his legs went numb, toppling the captain into the water. Down and down he plunged into the dark, bubbles racing by him. Kurt forced his eyes open underwater. What he saw was like some atrocity exhibition.

Creatures as much fish as human were feasting on the fallen militiamen, ripping away chunks of skin and flesh and hair from still thrashing figures. The dark water was stained blacker still by the flood of blood from all the wounds and corpses. Bodies with half-eaten faces drifted in between those still dying, while monsters with both limbs and tentacles toyed with drowning men, mimicking their death throes. One of the monsters noticed Kurt and swam towards him, legs kicking as one like a fish’s tail.

Kurt pulled his knees up into his chest, so he could grab the dagger hilts inside his boots. As the creature swam closer, the captain lashed out with both feet, kicking it in the head. He plunged first one dagger deep into the monster’s neck, then the other, before ripping the blades in opposite directions, severing the head. Blood burst from the open neck wound, creating an inky cloud around Kurt. He used that to hide himself as he swam back up to the surface, dragging the still-bleeding body with him. Only when he was certain fresh air was close did he abandon the corpse, letting it float away as another distraction in an underwater battlefield clogged with bodies and blood.

One last kick of his legs and Kurt broke the surface, gasping in lungful after lungful of air, white dots dancing in front of his eyes. He looked round but couldn’t see any of the boats. Had the water currents been that strong below the river’s surface? Which way had the tide taken him? But the sound of Ganz barking orders in the distance changed Kurt’s mind. Squinting in the darkness, he could make out two boats rowing away from him, already close to the shoreline. No sooner had he seen the craft than something dragged him back down into the melee of corpses and creatures. Ganz and the other Black Caps had followed Kurt’s orders; they had left him to die.

“You want us to secure a home for widows and orphans?” Scheusal stood in Sandler’s office at the Goudberg watch station, slack-jawed with astonishment. “You made Captain Schnell leave four of us here so we could stand guard over a charity headquarters—why?”

“I didn’t make him do anything,” Sandler replied, waving at a roll of parchment bearing the watch commander’s seal of office. “The orders came direct from the top.”

“Do they give any reason?” the sergeant persisted.

“No. The instruction is simple: defend the Brotherhood of Purity’s building at any and all costs. You must be willing to sacrifice your lives for this cause, if needs be.”

“What cause? I’ve no idea what we’re trying to protect. How can I explain to my men why this target is worth dying to protect, if you can’t explain it to me?”

Sandler shrugged. “Sorry, I’m simply the messenger in this matter.”

Scheusal snorted, disbelief getting the better of him. “I’m no fool, captain —and neither are you. We both know the Brotherhood of Purity’s charitable organisation is a facade, behind which lurks another group obsessed with purity.”

The captain shot to his feet, all trace of nonchalance abandoned. “You’re making a serious allegation, sergeant. I hope you’ve the proof to back it up!”

“Permission to speak freely, sir.”

“Permission granted.”

“Before transferring to Three Penny Bridge, I spent two years with the Watch in Rijkspoort, under the command of your good friend Titus Rottenrow.”

“That’s Captain Rottenrow to you, sergeant.”

Scheusal leaned forwards, resting his knuckles on the edge of Sandler’s desk. “Captain Rottenrow’s not a bad man, but he’s a bad drunk. Can’t hold his liquor to save his life. One night I drew the short straw of pouring him into bed, after he’d been visiting you here in Goudberg. Not only can’t Captain Rottenrow hold his drink, he’s not much better with secrets, either. Kept mumbling four words, over and over: pure knights, Gorgeous Georges. Took me a while to put the pieces together; it wasn’t long after I first came to Marienburg from Bretonnia. Months later someone told me about a vigilante cabal, men so obsessed with driving out mutations and the merest hint of Chaos, they’d happily burn whole districts to eradicate the taint of either. The Knights of Purity, they call themselves—rather a grand name for a gang of thugs so frightened of discovery they have to hide behind cloaks and hoods, widows and orphans. That’s what this is about, isn’t it, Captain Sandler? You brought us here to hide your dirty little secret, didn’t you?”

“You can go about your duties now, sergeant.”

“How long have you been one of the knights, sir? Is that how you rose so quickly through the ranks? Is that why you always get preferential treatment, while good men like Captain Schnell get the poison chalices and the suicide missions?”

“Stand down, sergeant!”

“No, sir, with all due respect, I won’t stand down—not until I’ve said my piece!”

“You’ll stand down or face demotion. You’ll be cleaning privies the rest of your days unless you hold your tongue, Sergeant Scheusal!”

“I’d rather be cleaning privies than doing your dirty work, sir!”

Sandler turned away, his fists clenching and unclenching, his whole body shaking with rage. Scheusal waited, knowing the next few moments would determine his future, not daring to breathe. Finally, Sandler’s shoulders relaxed and his fists unclenched.

“You’re quite right, sergeant,” he began. “I’ve no right to ask or expect you to undertake this task without knowing what’s at stake. I will tell you, on the condition you do not share this privileged information with others, even your more trusted brothers-in-arms. My life would be forfeit if my brethren knew I was telling you this, but that seems to matter less now all our lives could soon be forfeit.” Sandler swung back round to look at Scheusal. “Captain Rottenrow spoke the truth. I am a member of the Knights of Purity. We worship Solkan, lord of vengeance, and drive out those who offend him.”

“You mean murder them.”

“Yes, when it’s deemed necessary.”

“And who makes that judgement—you?”

Sandler nodded. “It is. For the past three years I’ve been commander of the cabal, as you describe it. I am the leader of the Knights of Purity.” Scheusal’s mind rebelled at this revelation, but that was nothing compared to the disbelief he felt when Sandler explained why the home for widows and orphans had to be protected.

Two boats reached Noord Miragliano from the twelve that had left from Luigistad; one crewed by militia, the other by Black Caps. Burke and Auteuil helped the dazed and confused Potts off the boat, while Dretsky went ahead with the other militiamen, to the nearby temple where a welcoming light was visible through the stained-glass windows. Denkers waited until the other watchmen had all left the boat before grabbing the sole remaining oar. He used that to twist the craft round in the water, so its prow faced out into the Rijksweg. But when Denkers tried to paddle away from shore, the boat refused to do his bidding. “Where do you think you’re going?”

Denkers twisted round to see Ganz tying the boat to a mooring. “To help Captain Schnell, he’s still alive out there, I’m sure of it. Untie that rope and let me go.”

“You heard what the captain said—”

“He told us not to stop for anything or anyone, and we didn’t. We kept going, we got everyone else to shore. Now I’m going back for him.”

Ganz stepped onto the boat. “Don’t be a fool. He’s dead by now. Go back out there and you’ll end up the same—eaten by those things, or becoming one of them.”

Denkers stood up, the boat rocking unsteadily beneath both men. “You’re loving this, aren’t you? The chance to take over from Captain Schnell, that’s what you’ve always wanted. But the chance to leave him out there to die simply by following his orders—this must be your dream come true, Ganz!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. We can’t risk taking this boat back out on the river tonight, not for one man who’s almost certainly already dead. We’re going to need both these boats to get back across the Rijksweg if they blow up the Hoogbrug.”

“You’ve hated the captain from the moment you arrived at Three Penny Bridge—”

“Wrong! I hated Kurt Schnell long before I got assigned to Suiddock, long before I even came to Marienburg. But that doesn’t make any difference to this, here and now. I won’t sacrifice another life on a hopeless search for a dead man.”

“Listen to him, Denkers, he’s making a lot of sense,” a familiar voice said. Kurt swam out of the darkness and into view, his face scratched and bleeding but showing no other signs of his ordeal. He reached the prow of the boat. “Now, will one of you help me out of this bloody river? I’m not sure I’ve got the strength left to climb out myself.”

* * *

At times like these, Zachirias Wout appreciated being captain of the watch station with the best fortifications in all of Marienburg. Tempelwijk was not considered a prestigious posting by most reckonings. Home to Baron Hemyk’s College and many of the students learning there, the temple district suffered from having something of a split personality. Half the citizens were Tempelwijk natives, a surly people who scraped a living from providing various services to the college, its tutors and students. The other half was made up of students and teachers, most having little to do with the locals. Few people born in Tempelwijk ever got the chance to study at the college, creating a simmering resentment about having to wait on those with the opportunities of learning.

Maintaining law and order in Tempelwijk was all about keeping the two halves of the district’s citizenry apart, wherever possible. When they did collide, the consequences often involved violence and retribution. Resentment and snobbery were not a happy mix, so Wout’s watchmen spent most of their time punishing troublemakers and negotiating truces. When the college was closed for one of its frequent holidays, the population of Tempelwijk plummeted while students and teachers went elsewhere, and life became much easier for the Black Caps. For a brief spell, the district became like other parts of the city, where drink and domestic conflict provoked much of the public disorder.

The intercalary holiday of Geheimnistag should have heralded just such a period of relative peace and quiet, the college having been shut for a week beforehand and not due to reopen until a week after the day of mystery. But this Geheimnistag was different. Tempelwijk was flooded with refugees from Suiddock and the rest of Marienburg’s southern archipelago. They’d been pouring into the district for hours, some carrying their life’s possessions on their backs, others dragging carts and sledges across the cobbles. The population of Tempelwijk doubled in a few hours, and doubled again by nightfall, putting a massive strain on the district’s boarding houses, inn and taverns.

Wout and his watchmen were overwhelmed by the problems this created, with more incidents of violence and theft in a single day than the district had experienced in total since Sommerzeit. Understaffed and unable to cope with the demands on his time and his men, Wout took an executive decision at sunset. He ordered his men to close the front doors of the station and barricade the entrance. Let all those outside cope with their own problems, the captain thought. The temple district was Marienburg’s most westerly region, it was always first to face the extremes of weather that swept in from the sea. Wout knew Tempelwijk citizens were a hardy lot—they could survive anything. The evacuees choking the streets and passageways would have to fend for themselves.

Refugees were hammering on the sturdy wooden doors of the station long into the night, but Wout ordered his watchmen to pay no heed to the cries for help. The station was built into Tempelwijk’s powerful sea defences, where the stone was so thick it had withstood wars and every kind of weather imaginable. Nothing was bringing that wall down anytime before eternity. The rest of the building was made from similar material, strong and resolute, designed to withstand any attack. None of the other stations could match the defences at Tempelwijk, not even Goudberg or Paleisbuurt.

So Wout was not worried when word reached him of the necromancer’s atrocities in Suiddock, not even as the taint of dark magic seeped into Doodkanaal and out across the Rijksweg towards Marienburg’s northern archipelago. The captain felt so confident, he called together his watchmen and told them not to worry. Wout stood on a balcony overlooking the cobbled courtyard that was the station’s heart. Painfully thin with waspish features, his patrician aspect made him authoritative, if not widely liked. He held fingers together in a steeple shape in front of his chest, as if musing.

“No doubt you’ve all heard about what’s been happening elsewhere in the city —the dead rising from their final resting places to attack the living, deadly fogs that choke the breath from your body and drive all reason from your mind. You’ve probably heard whispers about a powerful necromancer invading Suiddock. Some of those stories may be true, but most of them are lurid exaggerations, whispers built upon whispers until there’s precious little truth in any of them. I can’t offer much more about what’s happening beyond our district, because my sources of communication were cut off when those in charge elsewhere chose to quarantine Suiddock. Typical of those in other parts of the city to put their own safety ahead of us, but we’re used to that, aren’t we?”

There were murmurs of agreement from among his men, and their families. When the troubles elsewhere became apparent, Wout had told his men to bring their relatives into the station, use it as a sanctuary from harm. Such gestures earned him strong loyalty from those at his command. Blaming the troubles of Tempelwijk on Marienburg’s richer northern districts was also a guaranteed crowd-pleaser. Wout held up a hand for silence.

“We have enough food and water within the station to remain sequestered here until Erntezeit, if needs be. But we will not cower inside this keep. Once morning comes, we will go out into the district and offer assistance to all those who need it. Until dawn, we will remain within the safety of these walls. There may be those outside the district who will accuse us of cowardice for waiting until sunrise to venture outside, but I see no value in sacrificing the district’s only stronghold to the enemy. Our mission as watchmen is to maintain the peace by helping the citizens, and that will be better served by waiting until morning to go forth and reclaim the streets of Tempelwijk.

“For tonight, we shall maintain our guard and wait to see what the dawn brings. In what remains of the night you may well hear people outside these walls pleading for our help, begging to be allowed inside. All such entreaties must be ignored, for the sake and safety of those within this station and its fortifications. We dare not let them in during the hours of darkness, lest they bring the taint of dark magic with them. Be certain of this: right now, you’re in what may well be the safest place in all of Marienburg. So go and get a good night’s sleep. We’ve many long days and nights ahead of us. Savour this respite while you can. Tomorrow the fight back begins in earnest. Dismissed!”

Wout watched the men, women and children gathered inside the station disperse. Some were shaking their heads, unhappy at the thought of abandoning those outside the thick walls of stone. Let them mutter all they want, Wout thought, it won’t change my mind. He believed in his decision, no matter how craven it might be. He didn’t realise his station’s peerless defences were already in jeopardy. He didn’t know about the acidic slime seeping into the sea wall, eating steps and footholds into the most impregnable part of the fortress. The captain couldn’t imagine the security of his station at Tempelwijk, the very thing that made it the safest of places, would turn it into a killing jar.

Like Molly and her girls, like Holismus and the other watchmen, Kurt and all those who’d survived crossing the Rijksweg were drawn to the temple of Manann in Noord Miragliano. Coloured light shone from the temple’s stained-glass windows, inviting all those who could see it to come closer. The front doors were closed but voices inside made it obvious the building was occupied. Dretsky and his fellow militiamen were first to reach the temple. They hammered on the doors until a surly figure answered, peering out through a tiny spy-hole. “What do you want?” a suspicious voice demanded.

“Sanctuary!” Kurt demanded as he approached the temple entrance. “And some dry clothes wouldn’t go amiss either.”

“Captain, is that you?”

“Yes, Bescheiden, it is. Now open these doors before I put you on report.” Bolts and barriers were moved aside, allowing the Black Caps and militiamen into the temple. No sooner were they inside than Bescheiden was securing the entrance once more.

There was a happy reunion within the temple, as those left behind in the southern half of the city compared notes with Kurt and his watchmen. Introductions were made between the Black Caps and militiamen, while Molly and her girls brought food and drink prepared by the friendly priest. Kurt borrowed clerical robes to wear while his own clothes were drying. He got changed while talking with Holismus, apart from the others. Counting themselves, they had a fighting force of nineteen men. There were ten militia, including Dretsky and Auteuil, and nine watchmen. Acco, Ormston, Bescheiden and Holismus were the sole survivors from the group that had been guarding the Draaienbrug, while Kurt still had Ganz, Denkers, Burke and the dazed Potts at his side.

“Not much to fight a war,” Holismus said when told of the threat posed by Farrak.

“We’re not fighting a war,” Kurt replied. “We’re fighting for survival. Besides, there are other stations south of the Rijksweg besides Suiddock—we’re not alone in this.”

“We might as well be, captain. I don’t know if every street between here and the swing bridge has been evacuated or slaughtered, but we’ve hardly seen a soul since the black flies drove us away from Suiddock.”

“They fled,” Molly interjected, joining the two watchmen. “All the people from Suiddock who came across the Draaienbrug, they spread the word about what was happening there. Anybody who could get out of Doodkanaal or Kruiersmuur did.” She gave Kurt a grim smile. “You were right to send us east once we came over the bridge. Two of my girls went west to Winkelmarkt, hoping to get out of the city by crossing the Gisoreux road bridge. They came back this afternoon, said it was jammed with horses and carts and people, all trying to flee south. Those who can’t get out that way went towards Tempelwijk, but Manann knows what happened to them.”

Kurt grimaced. “They won’t find much sanctuary there, knowing Captain Wout. He looks after his own kind first, and damn the consequences for anyone else. But he’s got the most strongly fortified station in the city, so his forces should still be intact. If we need to launch an assault on Suiddock, we’ll need Wout’s help to make it happen.”

“So what is the plan?” Holismus asked.

Kurt told him and Molly about the directive to rig the Draaienbrug with barrels of gunpowder so it could be blown up if the undead army sought to expand its territory.

“That’s futile,” Holismus said, shaking his head. “It might work at the Hoogbrug, but Farrak’s taint has already taken hold in Doodkanaal.”

“I don’t believe blowing up the Hoogbrug will make much difference either,” Kurt replied. “The necromancer’s moving his troops into place underwater, where nobody can see them. Once he’s ready, Farrak can attack almost any district in the city at will.”

“So what’s he waiting for?” Molly wondered.

“I don’t know,” Kurt admitted as the old priest approached them.

“Perhaps you’d like me to tell you,” the Manann worshipper said, with a smile.

“Sorry?”

“You seem so interested in what I have planned,” the priest continued. “Of course, if I did tell you my strategy, I would have to kill all of you.”

Molly noticed a trail of red leading to where the priest stood. It was blood. His hands were held together in front of him, as if in prayer, but crimson drops were falling from his wrists. Flaps of skin hung off the bone, where a blunt object had been scraped back and forth with vicious abandon. She studied the priest’s kind face. It was pale, drained of life, an empty shell animated by some outward force. “Farrak,” she whispered.

The priest’s head twisted to glare at her, one eyebrow arching upwards as if pulled by an invisible thread. “You’re a brave woman, speaking the name of a necromancer inside a holy place like this. Don’t you fear excommunication, Molly? Or do you feel your soul’s already damned, since you drowned your own baby?”

The madam staggered back. Tripping over her own feet, she fell to the floor.

In an instant, both Kurt and Holismus had drawn their short swords, ready to strike down the priest if he made a movement against them. “Such anger, such violence,” Farrak’s voice chided them, speaking through the dead priest’s lips. “Perhaps there are some unresolved issues that have made you so dangerous. It can’t be easy having a brother who surrendered himself to Chaos so easily, can it Lothar Holismus? And as for you, Kurt Schnell—the dead wife, the butchered brother, all the other injustices you’ve suffered. It’s a surprise you haven’t taken your own life before now, as this priest just did. Seems he couldn’t cope with luring all of you to death in exchange for his own life.”

“What do you mean, luring us to death?” Kurt demanded.

Something resembling laughter escaped from the priest’s mouth, but it sounded more like a death rattle, empty husks rasping against each other in his throat. “You didn’t think it strange all of you should end up in the same temple? I drew you here, channelled all of you to this one place. This is a trap, a charnel house, naught but an abattoir for your souls. I brought you here to die and die you shall—in abundance!”

Kurt took the priest’s head off with a single sword swipe, but the respite was brief. The temple windows exploded inwards, raining shards of stained glass on all those within, as hundreds of black seagulls flung themselves into the temple. The first wave of birds was shredded by the impact; they fell to the marble floor, spewing noxious green pus. Once the windows had been destroyed, more black gulls flew in unharmed. They swarmed high above the watchmen and militia, close to the vaulted ceiling, before tipping their wings over to dive at those below.

The gulls turned themselves into missiles, flying straight down at their targets, making no attempt to save themselves. The black birds were projectiles, death from above for anyone caught in their path.

Dretsky was first to die, the former River Watch oarsman killed when a gull impaled itself in his throat. As it perished the crazed creature thrashed its beak about in Dretsky’s neck, tearing open his windpipe so the militiaman perished with a hollow gasp. Two more militiamen were taken out by the death dives, while their brethren and several Black Caps were injured.

“Under the pews!” Kurt bellowed, struggling to be heard above the horrific sound of squawking gulls flinging themselves into the marble floor. “Get under the pews, it’s safer there!”

The others followed his orders, diving beneath the nearest wooden bench. The black gulls kept raining down on the temple interior, but nobody else suffered for their sacrifice. Only when the marble floor was caked with the bodies of dead birds did the onslaught cease, the swarm of sinister gulls depleted. But each smashed corpse was giving off a sickly green vapour, the acrid mist floating above the marble surface. As the last gull’s cry perished, the greasy mist sought out the besieged men and women with pernicious accuracy. Kurt took one breath of the putrid fog and lost whatever food still lingered inside his stomach. The others were retching too, their bodies going into spasm against the foul stench escaping the dead birds.

“We’ve got to get out,” Molly coughed at Kurt from beneath the next pew.

The captain rolled out from under the bench and got to his feet. “We’re being poisoned,” he shouted at the others. “Everybody outside—now!” Kurt stumbled across to the church doors, still coughing and retching. He lifted the heavy wooden beam that had been used to secure the doors, letting it drop to the floor. Using his last breath, he slid aside the iron bolt and pulled on the handle. The doors shuddered backwards into the temple, and fresh air swept into the building. The Black Caps and militiamen staggered to the church entrance, several of them helping Molly and her girls.

Kurt had his sword poised for battle, expecting to find an army of undead waiting for them—but the cobbles outside the temple were empty. He staggered into the street, filling his lungs with the cool night air, the others following him out.

It would be dawn soon, but night or day made no great difference to the likes of Farrak. The necromancer’s undead army had no need for sleep or rest. They could fight until eternity, powered by dark magic and sheer malevolent force of will. If the watchmen were to have any hope of stopping Farrak, they needed reinforcements. Crossing the Rijksweg again was not an option, not in the fragile wooden craft that had borne them across from Luigistad. They needed to reach Tempelwijk, consolidate their forces with those of Wout.

As the others recovered from the poison gas attack, Kurt took Holismus, Auteuil and Molly to one side. He outlined his plan to cross the southern districts to Tempelwijk. Holismus agreed, while Auteuil was less enthusiastic. “We came here to help you rig a swing bridge with gunpowder, not start a war,” he protested.

“The war’s already started, or hadn’t you noticed?” Holismus sneered.

“Enough,” Kurt told his colleague. “Remember, we’re all on the same side.” He turned to Auteuil. “If you want to stay here, that’s your choice, and none of my men will blame you. If you want to find another sanctuary, or cross back over the Rijksweg, so be it, but you’ll be doing that without us. You might make it safely across—but I doubt it.” The militiaman went away to consult with his brethren.

“What about my girls?” Molly asked.

“Where we’re going, I can’t ask you to go too. This is little more than a suicide mission, and none of you deserve that,” Kurt said. “Head for Kruiersmuur’s most easterly point. From there take a boat up the Reik to Altdorf or somewhere else. Get away from Marienburg and stay away until it’s safe to return.”

“And when is that going to be?”

The captain didn’t have an answer for that question. “Please, just go—while you still can. The longer you stay, the more likely you’ll get recruited into Farrak’s army. Dead or alive, that’s not a fate I’d wish on my worst enemy. Just go.”

Molly nodded. She led her girls away to the east, where the first glimmers of light were bruising the horizon. Burly Auteuil returned from talking with the other militiamen. “We figure there’s a fighting chance if we throw our lot in with you Black Caps.”

“Thank you,” Kurt said. “Are your men fit to run?”

Auteuil nodded. “It’s been a long night, but we’ve had worse.”

“Then let’s go. The sooner we reach Tempelwijk, the better.” At a signal from Kurt the group of sixteen set off running west, away from the rising sun. In the gloaming before dawn, they couldn’t see the waterways boiling and bubbling, the waft of greasy yellow gas rising up from the surface. Fingers emerged from beneath the sluggish waters, some digits still coated with flesh and skin, others mere bone, all of them discoloured by so long spent under the water. Every dead body ever tossed into a canal or a cut was coming back to the surface, rising up in search of the living. The war for Marienburg’s southern archipelago was nigh, a slaughterhouse in the making.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Kurt and his cohort had reached Winkelmarkt when the first few barnacle-encrusted corpses lurched into their path. The stench of death and rotting flesh had been growing ever stronger the further west Kurt and the others went, so the running men knew trouble was coming. But smelling a decomposing body and having to fight it were two different things. The first purple- and black-blotched figure staggered into Kurt’s way, dripping water and worms onto the cobbles. The captain already had his sword drawn, so he kept running straight at the creature. It reached for him with suppurating hands.

Roaring with rage, Kurt sliced off his foe’s arms with a single, savage blow, before decapitating it with another. The thing went down and stayed down, whatever foul animation it had possessed now banished by the captain’s blade. Kurt ran on, his pace not once slackening. The others followed close behind, ignoring the last twitches of the corpse on the cobbles, concentrating their energies on the dangerous journey ahead.

Two came at them in the next attack, and were dealt with just as summarily, then three, and then seven. By now the cohort’s pace was slowing, those at the front forced to stop and fight, while those behind stood their ground, guarding the flank from attack. Blades hacked at sodden, slime-coated limbs, while crossbows fired deadly bolts through mottled scalps, puncturing brains and shattering bones. Some of the living dead went down harder than others, fighting on even when their limbs were lost. The fresher the corpse, the more tenacious it proved. Recently drowned bodies still had their musculature and were better able to fight back against blade and bow.

By the time the cohort crossed a narrow bridge into the rundown district of Oudgeldwijk, their progress has slowed to little more than stumbling pace. The press of corpses ahead and to either side was making it increasingly difficult to swing a sword, no matter how short the blade. There simply wasn’t room for such an ostentatious weapon. Realising he could no longer make good use of his sword, Kurt rammed his long blade in the chest of a walking corpse, and switched to daggers, ordering his men to follow suit.

The militia stuck with their long-bladed weapons, but these were ill kept and out of use. Ornamental hilts prove ineffective in close-quarters combat, the steady flow of blood and viscera making the grip unreliable. Those who favoured the flintlock soon discovered the flaw in a weapon that needed such frequent reloading. Human foes were cautious when facing pistols, unable to combat the weapon’s range and devastating effect. But the living dead had no such fear of the flintlock, no emotions and no urge to save themselves from harm. The risen dead were weapons themselves, and weight of numbers was their greatest strength. They did not tire like the out-of-shape militiamen, nor did they despair of ever reaching safety. They knew only death and killing, driven ever onwards by the implacable urgings of their murderous master and his dark magic.

It was the watchman Acco who succumbed first, his boot slipping on the spilled intestines of a butchered corpse. He fell to one knee, the impact jarring loose a crossbow from his grip. The others kept going around him, too busy fighting their own life-or-death battles to help Acco back to his feet. He stretched out a hand to reclaim his weapon. One of the living dead fell upon him, burying its jaws in his neck, biting clean through his larynx, stifling Acco’s cry for help.

Denkers nearly tripped over his fallen colleague, but just kept his balance. He watched in disbelief as Acco’s eyeballs filled with blood, before bursting from their sockets with a wet plopping sound. The watchman’s skin changed colour to a sickly pallor, black veins spreading through his face and hands like cracks across a thawing ice sheet. Within moments Acco was getting up again, but whatever humanity he’d possessed was long gone, banished by the bite of a resurrected corpse.

Denkers stared at Acco, unable to reconcile what had happened in front of him. It was Auteuil who intervened, chopping off Acco’s head with a short-handled axe. The decapitated watchmen tumbled back to the cobbles, joining the corpses strewn across the narrow street, dead again. “You killed him,” Denkers spluttered at the hefty militiaman.

“He was already dead, and you were next,” Auteuil said, pushing past Denkers. “Keep moving, unless you want to join your friend in eternity.”

Kurt had seen all of this while grappling with a pair of vicious corpses, their rotten teeth biting the air in front of his face. “Auteuil is right, we’ve got to keep moving! We can’t let ourselves get bogged down in street fights or we’ll never reach Tempelwijk station. Keep moving!” The captain buried a dagger in the head of one resurrected corpse, stabbing deep into its brain before twisting the blade. The creature went down, but the other one used Kurt’s distraction to lurch a step closer. The ghoulish monster’s head tilted back, about to lunge at the captain’s neck.

A wooden bolt punctured the attacker’s head and it was gone, ripped aside by the bolt’s vicious momentum. Kurt looked to see who’d saved him. Potts was standing close by, a crossbow clutched in trembling hands. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Potts whispered. The raw recruit was so focused on what he’d done, he didn’t notice one of the living dead monsters burst past the ring of militiamen behind him, didn’t realise the imminence of his own death. Kurt tossed a dagger from his left hand to his right, catching it by the blade’s tip, and flung the weapon past Potts’ face. The dagger pierced deep into the corpse’s forehead and it slumped to the cobbles, restored to death forever. Kurt strode past the ashen-faced Potts to retrieve his blade.

“Keep moving!” Kurt bellowed, his shout galvanising the young man into action. The cohort pressed on, the rising sun at last throwing some light and warmth across the corpse-choked streets they were traversing. But still the walking dead came, relentless and inevitable, wave upon wave of corpses without number. Kurt and his men fought their way close to a bridge that connected Oudgeldwijk and Tempelwijk, but the captain didn’t want to think how many more resurrected were still waiting between them and sanctuary. He was close to collapsing from exhaustion, the initial surge of adrenaline long past, just the bitter taste of metal in his mouth remaining. But they had no choice. They had to keep going, or face an eternity in the service of the necromancer. Kurt could cope with dying, but he had no intention of serving as a foot soldier to Farrak’s dark magic.

The cohort burst through a line of corpses and rounded a corner. Ahead was the last bridge between them and Tempelwijk. Beyond that they could see the watch station towering over the rest of the district, its fortified walls strong enough to withstand almost any attack. Reach that and they would be safe. But first they had to cross the bridge, a narrow span packed solid with the living dead. The undead warriors stretched from one side of the bridge to the other, standing shoulder to shoulder, at least ten deep. There was no way round, no easier route. To reach sanctuary, Kurt and the fourteen men alongside him had to slaughter more than a hundred slathering, slime-covered atrocities.

Wout rose with the dawn and breakfasted on a cold collation of meats and cheeses, a small beaker of Bretonnian brandy with the meal. He had slept well, confident his watch station could stand alone against the dark magic infesting Marienburg for weeks, even months if needs be. Hammering on the door to his quarters forced the captain to emerge, despite not having had the chance to shave yet. “Yes, what is it?”

Wout’s sergeant, Marcellus de Graaf, was waiting outside. Young for his rank, handsome of face and forthright in his opinions, de Graaf had challenged Wout about bolting shut the station’s entrance overnight. The sergeant felt they had a responsibility to those still outside, but Wout had overruled these objections. Having made up his mind, the captain would not be altered from his chosen course of action. Besides, de Graaf was far too ambitious for his own good, and Wout enjoyed crushing the upstart’s suggestions.

“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 them 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.

“Sweet Shallya,” the captain whispered as he stared death in the face.

It was de Graaf who reacted first, drawing his sword and running towards the oncoming horde. He cut down the leading corpse, and hacked limbs from the second, before the third and fourth overwhelmed him. They tore the sergeant apart, one of them feasting on his flesh while the other plucked off his limbs. Wout lost control of his bowels as he watched de Graaf die. More of the risen dead were pouring into the station, spilling over the sea wall like an infestation of insects. “Forgive me,” Wout murmured.

* * *

Screams reverberated from atop the battlements, silencing the cohort’s efforts to get the gates open. A body was flung down from above, smashing feet first into the cobbles in front of the station. Such was the impact, the legs were driven up into the corpse’s torso, knees punching through the chest, splaying out the rib bones like spindly fingers. Only the head remained intact. The frightened face of Captain Zachirias Wout screamed silently at the cohort. His body tried to get up, but such was the damage his corpse could not rise from the ground. “So much for sanctuary,” Ganz observed, bracing for the coming onslaught of relentless corpses lurching towards him and the others.

“All brilliant suggestions welcomed,” Kurt said, shaking his head in frustration.

“Captain, over here!” Holismus shouted. He pointed at the north of the gates, where a narrow pathway crept out round the side of the station. It kept going where the rest of Tempelwijk stopped, disappearing out of sight. “Not sure where that leads, but it’s got to be better than staying here, right?”

“Any other ideas?” Kurt asked. When nobody responded, he shoved Potts and Bescheiden towards the pathway. “Go with Holismus, find out where that leads.” The captain moved so he was standing shoulder to shoulder with Ganz, and Auteuil came to join them, flanked by the two surviving militiamen. The five of them created a semi-circle around the pathway, blocking the undead from getting to it.

The onslaught of corpses hit with savage force, driving the five men backwards. Kurt and the others lashed out with their blades, slicing away arms and clasping hands, severing heads and cutting open torsos. But no matter how many of the enemy they slaughtered, there were always more. It was a hopeless situation, with exhaustion and death the only certainties. Ganz broke his blade on one of the living dead, and had to turn the crossbow slung over his shoulder into an impromptu club, beating back the undead with the heavy wooden stock. “Taal’s teeth, what I would give for some more bolts now!”

The words snarled through gritted teeth shook loose a memory from the depths of Kurt’s mind. Bolts, he still had some bolts in a pouch hooked over his back, the ones that Belladonna had given him before he left on this ill-fated mission south of the Rijksweg.

Potts reappeared from round the bend in the pathway. “Captain, it’s a dead end! The path goes round the outside of the station, but stops short of halfway.”

The others cursed at this news, but Kurt was already reaching for his pouch. “Are there rocks beneath the pathway, or could a boat get in close to the wall?”

“There’s a mooring buoy, so boats must stop there sometimes,” the recruit said.

“Good! Get back round there, we’ll be with you soon,” Kurt commanded. He offered Ganz his sword. “Swap you this for the crossbow.”

The watchman smacked aside one of the undead before replying. “Why?”

“I’ve got a fistful of bolts inside my pouch.”

“We’ll need five hundred bolts to get us out of this!”

“I’m hoping five will be enough,” Kurt said.

“Whatever you say,” Ganz replied, snatching the blade from his captain’s hand and replacing it with the crossbow. “But I’d rather put my trust in a sword any day.”

Kurt took a step back, leaving the other four to fight their attackers while he unslung his pouch. Inside was the wrapped bundle, the handful of bolts within it, all still bearing their purple coating. Kurt scraped the sharpened end of one bolt against the station wall, and sparks flew from the end. As he watched the bolt began to glow with unearthly intensity and brightness. Closing his eyes to stop himself being blinded, Kurt slotted the bolt into place on the borrowed crossbow, before firing directly into the sky.

Ganz saw what the captain was doing. “Are you mad? You should be firing those at the living dead, not at the damn clouds!”

“I know what I’m doing,” Kurt insisted as he fired a second dazzling bolt into the air overhead. By now the first had reached its apogee, the blazing tip creating a magical purple glow among the clouds. Another followed, and another, until Kurt had exhausted the supply Belladonna had given him. Now all he could do was hope she had seen the signal, and was close enough to respond. Otherwise they were dead men for certain.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Belladonna and Nathaniel had spent the night sailing back and forth on the Rijksweg, searching for survivors and bodies from the River Watch’s failed blockade of Suiddock. In truth they had found no more than a handful, but all were alive. When the Black Caps had pulled Belladonna from the river at Paleisbuurt, the water was awash with corpses. But all those bodies had vanished, no doubt claimed by Farrak’s necromancy.

Belladonna and the witch hunter returned to the Paleisbuurt jetty at dawn so Nathaniel could gather reports on Farrak’s most recent manoeuvres. Belladonna was keen to head back out into open waters as soon as possible, but Nathaniel refused to let her leave. He pointed at an ominous row of witch hunters standing on the Hoogbrug, looking down on them. “I must speak with my brethren. You must not go without me.” Nathaniel stalked away, not bothering to wait for her reply.

“It’s not like I have much choice,” Belladonna called after him. “Takes two people to keep this thing on the water!” She watched the witch hunters leave the bridge to meet with Nathaniel. Another man joined the group, but he wasn’t wearing usual witch hunter garb. Belladonna couldn’t see his face, but there was something familiar about him.

“It’s Captain Sandler,” a friendly voice said. Belladonna was startled by the unexpected words, but happy to see who had spoken them.

“Scheusal? What are you doing here?” she asked. The sergeant was standing on the jetty, arms folded across his broad chest, a smile on his warm features.

“Sandler borrowed me from Captain Schnell, with a few of the other watchmen from Suiddock. We’re stationed in Goudberg now.”

Belladonna nodded her head towards Sandler, Nathaniel and his brethren. “You know what that’s all about? Looks like he’s giving them orders.”

“He probably is,” the sergeant agreed.

“A watch captain, telling witch hunters what to do?”

“There’s a lot more to Sandler than meets the eye.”

“There’d have to be,” Belladonna replied. The nearby meeting broke up, with the other witch hunters vanishing into the early light of day. Nathaniel returned to the boat, accompanied by Sandler. The captain nodded to Scheusal before addressing Belladonna.

“I have something for you to carry,” he said.

Perplexed, Belladonna held out a hand, and Sandler pressed an amulet into her palm. She studied the small piece of jewellery. A translucent gem was lodged inside the sliver of metal, the stone’s interior flawless but for a tiny fleck of glimmering black at its heart. “This doesn’t mean we’re engaged, does it?”

The captain dismissed her attempt at levity with a withering look. “When the time comes, you will know to whom you should give this.” He strode away, beckoning for Scheusal to follow. The sergeant gave Belladonna a quick wave before running after him.

“Events are accelerating,” Nathaniel announced once the two Black Caps had gone. “We should sail immediately, while we still have the chance.”

“Not until I get some answers. You can start by telling me what’s going on.”

“I’ll explain everything once we’re on the water.” The witch hunter grabbed her hands, and cupped them in his. “Please, you’ve got to trust me. We must leave. Now.” Belladonna did as he asked, taking them out past the most easterly point of Suiddock.

“Hard to believe this all started with a boat ramming into Riddra,” she said, before throwing the anchor overboard. “Time for answers, Nathaniel. We’re not moving from here until you tell me what I want to know.”

“I can’t tell you anything,” he replied, “not yet. Too many lives are at stake.”

“Spare me the cryptic sanctimony,” Belladonna snarled. “I want the truth!”

At that moment the clouds overhead turned purple.

“The signal,” Belladonna gasped. “Kurt—Captain Schnell—he’s in trouble!”

“The sky changes from blue to purple and the cobbles run red with blood,” Nathaniel whispered. “The endgame is upon us. The massacre has come.”

She watched the horizon as fresh streaks of blazing purple light flashed upwards. “That’s coming from Tempelwijk district. What’s he doing there?”

“From the places of temples an avenger shall arise,” the witch hunter intoned.

“Stop talking in riddles, and help me pull up this anchor,” Belladonna said. The truth would have to wait; Kurt and the others needed help.

As the last purple bolt faded, Kurt ordered Ganz, Auteuil and the other two militiamen to retreat along the narrow ledge. “You’re mad,” Ganz spat. “There’s no way back from there. Once we go out on that, we’re trapped there.”

“Once we’re out on that ledge, only one of the undead can attack us at a time. It’s much easier fighting one of Farrak’s fiends than it is trying to fend off dozens all at once.” No sooner had the words left Kurt’s mouth than a militiaman fell victim to the undead, slipping on the blood-soaked cobbles and tumbling forwards into their clutches. Within moments he was borne away, his life extinguished as quickly as his screams. That was enough for Auteuil and the other survivor of the hundred-strong force Kurt had led across the Rijksweg. They ran for the ledge, leaving the captain and Ganz behind.

The two ex-soldiers were driven backwards to the ledge, sheer weight of numbers forcing Ganz to obey the Kurt’s orders. As they reached the narrow shelf of stone, Ganz pushed the captain onto it first. “You go,” he snarled. “I’ll hold them off as long as I can.”

“You don’t have to do this,” Kurt insisted. He pointed at a boat approaching the station. “That’s Belladonna coming for us. We can still make it away from Tempelwijk.”

Ganz shook his head. “I owe this to you and your brother.”

“What do you mean? What’s this got to do with Karl?”

Ganz shoved Kurt away. “Just go, damn you—before I come to my senses!”

The captain made his way round the narrow ledge, his back pressed against the station wall, hands gripping the damp stone for support. Twice his boots nearly slipped out from under him, the ledge made slippery by water and green slime. As he rounded the corner, Kurt risked one last look back at his former brother-in-arms. Ganz was flailing at the undead with Kurt’s blade, hacking and slicing and slashing, blood spattering his face. But the warrior did not notice the barnacle-encrusted hands reaching up from the water below until they clasped hold of his boots and tipped him into the water. “Damn you!” Ganz cried out, before disappearing beneath the surface.

Kurt looked away. He’d never know what Ganz had meant, never know the truth about what had happened to Karl on that battlefield years earlier. Right now, it did not matter. That war was long over; the war for Marienburg was still being fought. The captain resumed edging round the ledge, until he could see Belladonna tying her boat to the mooring buoy. Nathaniel was encouraging the cohort’s survivors to leap across the water. The craft pitched about erratically, defying all those intent on reaching it safely.

Holismus was first to jump, landing feet first on the deck. Bescheiden went next, catching his feet on the side and almost falling backwards into the water before Nathaniel dragged him on board. Holismus shouted at Potts to jump but the raw recruit shook his head, fear etched into his young face. Auteuil had no such qualms, flinging himself across the divide. The other militiaman took two deep breaths and jumped—but a heavy wave swirled the boat away while he was still in the air. The militiaman lunged into the sea, his terrified cry swallowed as he sank below the surface. He did not reappear.

That just left Kurt and Potts. The captain could hear the undead coming round the ledge after him, the bones from their rotting fingers and feet scraping against the stone. It was now or never. He edged his way along to Potts, and slid an arm round the recruit’s shoulders. Potts was shaking so much his hands were a blur of movement. “You can do this,” the captain said, keeping his voice low and calm.

“I c-can’t,” Potts stammered.

“You can,” Kurt insisted. “We’ll jump together.”

“I can’t!” Potts shoved the captain away, the push so hard Kurt almost fell off the ledge into the seething waters below. Somehow he regained his balance and leaned back against the wall. The undead were almost upon him, just three paces away now. Those already on the boat were screaming at them to jump, begging them to leap across.

Kurt shot out a hand and grabbed hold of Potts’ tunic. “You’re coming with me. Either we make it into the boat or we drown in the sea, but you’re coming with me. I made a promise to your uncle I’d keep you alive and I never break a promise.” Taking a deep breath, Kurt hurled himself and Potts off the ledge, moments before the undead reached them. The two watchmen flew through the air, towards the boat. We’re going to make it, Kurt thought, we’re going to make it. Then a cruel wave bounced back off the wall and pushed the craft further away from them.

The captain and Potts slammed into the side of the boat, before tumbling into the water. They sank in the inky black waters, grabbing hands clawing at their clothes and skin from below. But those on board had boat hooks already over the side of the vessel. Kurt saw one of the staves stab through the water nearby, and grabbed it. His other hand clung to Potts. Kurt tugged the staff and was pulled up, dragging the recruit with him.

It took the combined strength of everybody on board to haul the captain and his charge into the boat from the bone-chilling water. Once that was achieved, Belladonna ran to the mooring buoy and cast off the boat. The swirling tide swept them away from Tempelwijk. They drifted out into the Rijksweg, safe for the moment on the grand canal, while Farrak’s undead army was left behind on dry land, frustrated and impotent.

Once he’d recovered his breath, Kurt joined Belladonna and Nathaniel at the prow. They watched Tempelwijk as it became ever more distant. “It’s all his now,” Kurt said. “The necromancer controls every part of Marienburg south of the Rijksweg.”

“All it took was a few days and an army of corpses,” Belladonna observed, with a shiver of dread. “How long before Farrak controls the rest of the city? How long before his army marches east?” Before anyone could answer, a flash of light blazed across the sky, followed a moment later by the sound of a massive explosion. Everyone on the boat looked to the east where a fireball was mushrooming up into the sky.

“The Hoogbrug,” Kurt said. “They blew up the bridge.”

“Too little, too late,” Nathaniel sighed. “Farrak’s forces have already moved into positions all around the northern districts. The city will die today, unless we stop this evil at its source, unless we defeat the necromancer.”

“Defeat Farrak? Look around,” Belladonna said. “We can’t even slow him down.”

“There is a way,” the witch hunter maintained. “But it will be dangerous, it will be costly, and the price will be blood; our blood.”

Cornelius Bloom was the man who blew up Marienburg’s most important bridge. Leader of the Black Caps for Paleisbuurt, it was Bloom’s responsibility to ensure none of the undead army made it across the Hoogbrug from Suiddock into the city’s northern districts. The pompous captain had personally supervised the placement of barrels laden with gunpowder round the bridge, selecting the mighty arch’s apogee as its vulnerable point. Bloom kept watchmen standing guard over the charges day and night once the barrels were put in place, confident he could ensure not one of the ghouls, wights, wraiths or skeletons could cross the Hoogbrug. Marienburg’s southern archipelago might have succumbed to the necromancer’s dark magic, but the captain was determined he would get the credit for stopping the taint of dark magic dead in its tracks.

He was standing at the Paleisbuurt end of the bridge when the undead rose up from the waterways that honeycombed the northern districts. Bloom could hear the screaming of unwary citizens confronted by the dead emerging from cuts and canals, intent on finding flesh for feasting. Farrak’s army had lain underwater for hours upon hours, waiting. Now they were hungry, now they were ready. The slaughter was swift and merciless, the brutality beyond measure in Marienburg’s long history. In the first few minutes hundreds of citizens died in Rijkspoort, Noordmuur and Schattinwaard. The undead invaded Guilderveld and Paleisbuurt, Ostmuur and Luigistad. It was a massacre.

The captain listened to the nearby screaming, heard the terror, but was unable to comprehend its meaning. How could the enemy have got past him? He had been vigilant beyond reproach, done everything that was asked of him and more. Stood in his finery by the Hoogbrug, Bloom felt a cold fear grip his heart like some unseen, frozen fist. He heard the sound of someone running towards him across the bridge, and drew his flintlock pistol, ready to fight for his life. But the lone figure was that of his sergeant, Jacobs. “They’re coming, they’re coming!” he shouted, waving both arms in the air.

“They’re already here,” Bloom called back. “Listen!”

The sergeant’s pace slowed as he heard the screams of dying citizens in the distance, getting louder and closer by the moment. “Sweet Shallya,” he gasped on reaching the detonation controls where Bloom was standing. “It’s started?”

“Started? It’s already over,” the captain snarled. “We need to evacuate the district, get people out of Paleisbuurt while we still can—out of the city.”

“How? Every citizen north of the Rijksweg will be trying to get across the Messteeg Bridge—tens of thousands of people. What chance will our citizens have?”

“Don’t you think I know that?” Bloom spat. He spun away from Jacobs, his mind racing. “How’d Farrak’s forces get past the bridge without us seeing?” The captain looked down at the water below the Hoogbrug, saw the dark shapes still crossing from south to north beneath the surface. “Manann, what fools we all were!”

“Captain, skeletons are marching across the bridge. They’ll be here any minute.”

“Let them come,” the captain sighed.

“What about the barrels of gunpowder? Should we blow up the Hoogbrug?”

Bloom contemplated the fuse wire at his feet. “What difference would it make?”

“Not all Farrak’s forces can cross the river underwater,” Jacobs pointed out, “otherwise they would have done so already. Taking out the bridge might slow some of them down, give our people a fighting chance to escape the city.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Bloom rested a hand on his sergeant’s left shoulder. “You go, Jacobs. You’ve a young family to worry about, I don’t. I’ll stay here, make sure nothing interferes with the fuse once it’s lit.”

“Are you sure, captain?”

“Go, and don’t stop for anything or anyone. It’s every man for himself now.”

The sergeant snapped to attention and gave Bloom a crisp salute, before racing away into Paleisbuurt. Once Jacobs was out of sight, the captain used the flame from a lantern to light the fuse. He walked alongside the incendiary as it burnt a path south to the Hoogbrug’s highest point. The bridge reverberated beneath the stomping feet of skeletons marching north across the span, the sound of their approach growing ever louder.

Bloom waited for them in the centre of the span, his arms folded, a snarl on his lips. Out the corner of his eye he could see the lit fuse snaking over the side of the bridge, down to the barrels secured beneath him. The skeletons kept coming, relentless and dreadful, their empty eye sockets staring straight ahead. Bloom knew he had but a few moments of life left before explosions ripped apart the bridge under his feet.

He scowled at the skeletons. “You took your time. The slaughter’s already—”

Captain Bloom never finished his sentence, the words ripped from him as the explosion devastated the bridge. The middle of the span collapsed into the Rijksweg, creating two massive shockwaves, one headed east, the other west towards Rijker’s Isle.

Scheusal and Sandler were halfway across Paleisbuurt on their way back to Goudberg when seven ghouls lurched into their path. The two men had heard the screams of citizens in the distance and hurried past the corpses of those also torn apart by Farrak’s rampaging army of the undead, but didn’t encounter any of the fiends until the Hoogbrug exploded. The Black Caps stopped, their eyes drawn to the ball of fire and black smoke billowing up above the Paleisbuurt skyline. They exchanged a grim look but did not say anything. Words were meaningless now, only actions held any importance.

The flesh-crazed ghouls staggered out of an alleyway, blocking the way past. All seven creatures were feasting on dismembered limbs torn from the bodies of unfortunate citizens, masticating teeth gnawing on broken bones, black and purple lips sucking the marrow from ruptured joints. Scraps of flesh hung from the ghouls’ gaping mouths, while fresh blood coated their chins and chests. A foul, acrid stench suffused the air around them, choking the lungs and burning the eyes of both watchmen. Seeing fresh meat so close, the ghouls abandoned their grisly trophies and advanced on the two men.

The captain pulled his sword from its scabbard, the Araby blade curved like a crescent moon, while Scheusal opted for two hefty machetes, one in each hand. The blades were thicker and broader, cruder weapons than the sword in Sandler’s grasp, but no less effective. The two Black Caps nodded to each other before marching at the ghouls. Scheusal hacked his way into the enemy, slashing his machetes through arms and necks, severing noses and fingers, butchering the cannibalistic foe.

Sandler danced through the ghouls, his movements light and supple, his blade vicious and deadly. He shifted his weight from foot to foot with an elegant grace, while his weapon sliced through the ghouls with delicate precision. The captain’s cuts were more like those of an artist wielding a brush than a warrior with a sword, but his blade devastated all those it touched. Heads went flying, severed from necks with a deft flick of the wrist, while torsos were cleft in twain in the blinking of an eye. Black blood turned the air a grey spray. The skirmish was swift and severe, no quarter given. At its end the ghouls were a disorderly pile of sliced limbs and sundered torsos, their threat undone.

But the sounds of carnage attracted other undead invaders. A host of resurrected spirits drifted through the wall of a nearby tavern, intent on touching the living and stealing away their strength, blocking any retreat back the way Sandler and Scheusal had come. Meanwhile a cadre of warrior wights marched into the thoroughfare ahead of the watchmen, blocking their way forwards. They were trapped, hemmed in by the undead. The sergeant arched an eyebrow at Sandler. “Options?”

“Only one: attack.” Drawing back his curved sword, the captain charged at the wights, roaring his rage at them. Scheusal was at his side, a machete clutched in each mighty fist. The two watchmen threw themselves at the wights, hacking and slashing, chopping and slicing deep into the ranks of the living dead warriors.

Bram Quist’s cohort of Black Caps and militiamen were driven out of Noordmuur by the undead in less than two hours. The hundred-strong fighting force could keep the ghouls and zombies at bay; those enemies were slow-moving and more interested in eating flesh than conquest. The wights were far deadlier, each blow struck by their enchanted weapons carrying far more power than that of any mortal warrior. But Quist’s cunning tactics stymied that threat, luring the wights into narrow passageways and alleys where hammers and machetes made better weapons than long blades inlaid with runes.

The ghostly wraiths could be vanquished, but only by archers and crossbowmen armed with flaming arrows and bolts that had been blessed by a priest. Fire one of these burning projectiles into the cloak of a wraith and the creature was undone, dispersing into helpless clouds of fury that drifted away into the sky. But the spirit hosts were beyond Quist’s tactics. Farrak’s unholy spells bound together these spectres and shades. They drifted through stone and straw, their progress inexorable, their triumph unstoppable. Retreat was the only defence, the spirit hosts driving the defenders backwards across Noordmuur and on through the district of Handelaarmarkt.

Those foolish enough to fight the oncoming enemy died from a single touch, their blood frozen by the deadly spectres. Some reached into the chests of their victims to stop their hearts beating, others dismissed any attackers with a brush of ghostly fingertips. What Quist found most perturbing about the spirit hosts was the utter silence with which they moved, floating off the ground. Ghouls and zombies stomped feet on the cobbles, the gnawing of their mouths a sickening sound. Wights marched with military precision, the noise of their approach regular as a drummer’s beat. Even the wraiths hissed and breathed, their passing a dry rustle of death along the streets.

But the spirit hosts were utterly silent. They gave no warning of approach, made no sound as they moved through solid objects, shrieking no triumphant cries at their inevitable victories. They floated ever onwards, silent and relentless, utterly deadly. Time and again Quist heard himself commanding his watchmen and militia troops to fall back, until they were standing beside the Messteeg Bridge, the sole land crossing for those still looking to escape northern Marienburg. From there citizens could flee to the east along the Middenheim Road, vulnerable to attack from bandits and other, less deadly monsters. Better to take their chances in open country than remain in the city to die.

Quist had not been invited to the previous day’s emergency meeting, but word of what was said there soon spread among the watch captains from those present. News of the terror facing Marienburg moved even more quickly among the wealthiest families, the Ten. They evacuated themselves and their wealth with remarkable haste, taking what jewels and other valuables they could carry, locking their mansions and palaces. Rumours soon spread and by dawn the Messteeg was choked, queues of refugees stretching all the way back to Paleisbuurt— until the undead rose up from the canals and cuts. The orderly evacuation became a thing of carnage, grown men trampling children and the elderly underfoot in their haste to flee the city. By the time Quist’s men were driven back to the bridge, the queue was gone—as were the bodies of all those who’d perished there.

But waiting for the captain and his cohort was the first glimmer of hope they’d had since dawn. Five hairless men stood before the Messteeg Bridge, all of them clad in the simple clerical robes favoured by priests of Morr. Their leader introduced himself to Quist. “My name is Seth. We will protect this bridge with our lives, to allow the people of Marienburg an escape from Farrak and his undead army. We will stand with you against the necromancer’s evil. Few welcome our company in normal circumstances, but these times in which we live are far from normal. With our spells and incantations we can turn back those enemies you and your men cannot. Will you stand with us, captain?”

Quist nodded. “Aye, we will. We’ll stand with you, and die with you if needs be.”

“Marienburg is dying,” Nathaniel told all those on the boat, as it rode out the passing shockwave from the Hoogbrug’s collapse. “Farrak’s forces have already laid claim to the southern archipelago. Now they are attacking the city’s northern districts, butchering every citizen they find. No sooner does a citizen die than they become one more weapon in the necromancer’s arsenal, another resurrected murderer to hunt other citizens. The rich have been fleeing the city all night, getting out before the slaughter began, but thousands of others—those less fortunate—are dying. Even strengthened with men from private militia, districts like Noordmuur and Rijkspoort cannot stand for long against the growing army that the necromancer’s dark magic is creating.

“But there is hope, however slender it might be. It is impossible to stop Farrak’s undead horde. They are too many, too strong, and the taint they carry is beyond our ability to combat—not the scale that’s required. But we don’t need to stop the army; we need only stop its commander. We have to get to Farrak himself. We have to destroy him, or at least disable him. Once his evil spell over the city is broken, the necromancer’s forces will return to death and be beyond his reach. Marienburg will be safe.”

Bescheiden stared at the witch hunter, his head shaking in disbelief. “Listen to what you’re saying! Destroy or disable Farrak—how in Manann’s name are we supposed to do that? He’s got an army between him and us. He’s a necromancer. His kind can cast spells that can make anything they touch age centuries within seconds. He can shoot bolts of dark magic out of his eyes that rot the flesh from your bones. He can’t be stopped!”

“He can,” Kurt interjected. “There’s one weapon that can be used against Farrak, a magical amulet containing a rare gemstone, but both have been lost for centuries. It’s been missing for so long nobody even knows what the amulet was called.”

“The Stone of Solkan,” Nathaniel said. “Sometimes it is called Farrak’s Bane, but those who worship the god of vengeance called the amulet the Stone of Solkan.”

“Who cares what it’s called?” Bescheiden replied. “The weapon’s still lost, right?”

“Wrong,” Belladonna said, revealing the amulet hung on a chain round her neck.

“Taal’s teeth, where did you get that?” Kurt demanded.

“Captain Sandler gave it to her, knowing we would need it,” the witch hunter said.

“Gorgeous Georges had it? Why didn’t he say so at the emergency meeting?”

“The time was not right. He had to wait until prophecy came to pass.”

“Screw prophecy!” Kurt snarled. “We could have used that weapon against Farrak before this started. We could have saved thousands of citizens from the necromancer’s undead army. Did he think about that? And don’t talk to me about prophecy, I couldn’t gave a damn about soothsayers, seers or visions—I want the truth!”

“Captain Sandler leads the Knights of Purity in Marienburg,” Nathaniel explained.

“Those vigilantes who kill anyone they think’s tainted by Chaos?” Holismus said. “Sweet Shallya, they make the witch hunters look like sane, reasonable citizens.” Auteuil jabbed an elbow into the watchman’s ribs. Holismus blushed, abruptly remembering that Nathaniel was a representative from the Temple Court. “Not that there’s anything wrong with the witch hunters, obviously.”

“Subtle,” Bescheiden said, shaking his head. “Very subtle.”

“The Knights of Purity are unusually zealous in their quest to root out and destroy Chaos,” Nathaniel conceded, “but they have another mission. Their order is entrusted with a storehouse of sacred and profane relics, rare and precious items linked to prophecies that span a thousand years. The knights believe Farrak’s attack upon Marienburg is a ruse, the massacre an act of misdirection to conceal his true purpose. He wants one of the relics protected by the Knights of Purity.”

“The necromancer is slaughtering tens of thousands of innocent people, laying waste to an entire city, just to steal a relic?” Kurt spluttered. “What is it?”

“A skull decapitated from the body of an unkillable warrior thousands of years ago. Every hair, every morsel of flesh, every scrap of skin has been eaten away by time, but the skull still holds the essence of a fighter who can never be destroyed. Instead his body was cut into a thousand pieces, and the fragments hidden across the world, never to be brought together again. For decades Farrak has been travelling the globe, seeking out and laying claim to each fragment. Now only one piece remains beyond his reach.”

“The skull,” Auteuil surmised.

Nathaniel nodded.

“Can’t it be destroyed?”

“Like the eternal warrior whence it came, the skull cannot be vanquished.”

“Wouldn’t it make more sense for us to protect the skull, instead of taking on Farrak himself?” Bescheiden asked. “I mean, if that’s what all this is really about…”

The witch hunter shook his head. “The city will die unless we deal with the necromancer. Besides, it is the destiny of others to stand guard over the unholy relic in Goudberg. Our path leads to Three Penny Bridge.”

The words shook Kurt to the core. “That’s what Otto said, last time we stood on the bridge. He told us, that was where everything would end. I thought he was delirious.”

“He was,” Nathaniel agreed. “But he was also seeing the truth, and our future.”

“What happens if Farrak gets this skull?” the militiaman asked.

“He can rebuild the undead champion, using his powers of resurrection to revive a mighty warrior that can never be stopped, never be defeated. With the champion at his side, Farrak can conquer the Empire, the New World, and everywhere in between. The death of Marienburg will be the precursor to an eternity of darkness, with the necromancer as lord of a world bathed in death and blood and terror.”

All those on the boat fell silent, absorbing what the witch hunter had told them. It was Potts who spoke, his first words since being pulled from the water at Tempelwijk. “Then I guess we haven’t got a choice. We’ve got to stop Farrak, or die trying. If we fail, we’ll all die anyway. Might as well go down fighting, right?”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Nathaniel directed the others to sail east until their boat was within sight of Suiddock’s western and central islands, Riddra and Stoessel. Three Penny Bridge was hidden behind Farrak’s vessel, the mighty ship still moored across the cut that divided the islands. But instead of approaching Suiddock, the witch hunter bid the others be patient. He refused to explain why, leaving them to whisper with one another or study the shattered remnants of the Hoogbrug. Nathaniel seemed content to be alone, praying by the prow.

The motley crew did not have long to wait. Another vessel sailed across the river to them from Paleisbuurt, half a dozen figures crowding its deck. All but one of them were witch hunters, holding on to their wide-brimmed hats against a stiff breeze. The other figure stood alone, weak sunshine glinting on his head. As the craft drew closer, Kurt could not help smiling when he recognised the single man in priestly garb. “Otto? Is that you?”

The new vessel swung round so it could come alongside. Ropes were thrown across from both boats and the vessels tied together. The five witch hunters clambered over to join Nathaniel, while Kurt and Holismus helped Otto across the divide. He had recovered much of his strength, but still appeared frail to the captain’s eyes.

“I came to help,” the priest of Morr said. “To defeat your enemy, you must first know them. You will need more than blades and bolts to penetrate Farrak’s defences.”

“Right now we haven’t many of either,” Holismus replied with a rueful grin. He jerked a thumb at the witch hunters. “What about the doom and gloom brigade?”

“They too are here to help,” Otto said. “Faith and prayer can be powerful weapons against this great an evil.” As he spoke the witch hunters threw aside their black cloaks to reveal a bewildering arsenal of blades and bolts strapped to their bodies. “Of course, more conventional weapons can also be useful.”

Kurt studied the sky. It would be dark within a few hours, and the debilitating mist that had been absent since Geheimnistag dawned was gathering overhead once more. “I don’t want to be fighting Farrak and that accursed fog at the same time. The sooner we do this, the better. Where’s Belladonna?” She emerged from behind the crowd of witch hunters. “You’d better give me the Stone of Solkan, we’ll need it.”

“Why should I give it to you?” she asked. “I’m coming too.”

The captain shook his head. “Not this time, not where we’re going.”

Belladonna grabbed hold of Kurt’s arm and dragged him to one side. “You’re sending me away—why? It better not be because I’m a woman,” she hissed, keeping her voice low so the others wouldn’t hear. “I’ve risked my life a dozen times over for you, and now you’ve got the gall to send me away when you’re walking into certain death? My place is at your side, Kurt. Damphoost is dead. You’re my captain now.”

“Don’t you understand?” he whispered. “This has got nothing to do with you being a woman, or the fact you transferred to River Watch.”

“Then what is it about?” Kurt turned away, battling with his emotions. Belladonna twisted him back round to face her. “Tell me, damn it!”

He stared into her eyes. “I care too much about you. I don’t want to see you die.”

She stepped back, staggered by the strength of his feelings, and her own reaction.

“Go with Holismus. I want the two of you in Goudberg, with Scheusal and Silenti, helping Sandler protect that bloody skull. Can you do that for me?” Kurt pleaded.

Belladonna nodded, unable to refuse him.

“Thank you.” The captain beckoned Holismus over and ordered him to accompany Belladonna back to shore in the other boat. While they made their way across to the other vessel, Kurt asked Nathaniel to give them directions to the temple where Scheusal and Silenti were standing guard. “Make the best speed you can. If this prophecy’s even close to being correct, keeping the skull safe is far more important than anything the rest of us can do. There’s more at stake here than the future of Marienburg—much more.”

Kurt gave the rest of his cohort a chance to join Holismus and Belladonna on the other boat. “Nobody will think any the less of you for going with them. Either path probably leads to the grave, or worse, but your chances may be better in Goudberg.” The witch hunters stood resolute, as did Otto. Bescheiden stared out towards Rijker’s Isle, his weasel-like face offering no hint of his feelings. Potts bit his nails but stayed where he was, while Auteuil simply shrugged. “So be it,” Kurt said, before bidding farewell to Holismus and Belladonna. “Good speed to you.”

The mooring ropes between the two craft were untied, and the other boat drifted away, making towards the ruins of the Hoogbrug and the district of Goudberg beyond. Kurt did not watch it go, preferring to concentrate his attention on the coast of Suiddock. He didn’t think about anything or anyone else now but Farrak, in case it distracted him.

Otto and Nathaniel joined the captain by the prow. “There’s a spell that may help us slip past the first line of Farrak’s defences,” the priest said. “To a necromancer and his acolytes, their enemies appear as blood-red smears, pulsing with life. I can cast a spell that will drain the strength and energy from our bodies, enabling us to move among the undead without drawing attention to ourselves.”

“What’s the catch?” Kurt asked.

“The spell debilitates those upon whom it is cast,” Otto said. “This is not some mere illusion or conjuror’s trick. We will be weak, less able to defend ourselves.”

“It’s like fighting a battle after five nights without sleep,” Nathaniel added.

“Risky,” Kurt said, “but so is everything we do from now on.” He glanced at the mighty ship, where undead patrolled the deck, keeping watch over the Rijksweg. There was no quick path to Three Penny Bridge that could not be seen from that vantage point. If the cohort was to reach Farrak before nightfall, Otto’s suggestion seemed their best chance. “Very well, cast your spell Otto—and what will be, will be.”

It was the sound of distant screaming that most unnerved Silenti. The watchman had been standing guard outside the Brotherhood of Purity’s Home for Widows and Orphans for hours. The building behind him was empty, the residents evacuated several days earlier. But Silenti knew the home was not under threat, it was the hidden temple underneath he had been sent here to protect. Scheusal had shared the true purpose of their mission before departing with Captain Sandler at dawn, but Silenti was forbidden from telling Nagel and Ravensberg, the other Black Caps assigned to this duty. They were both new to the watch and Sandler never trusted anybody who hadn’t been vouchsafed to him by others.

The screaming started not long after dawn. Silenti thought it was coming from Rijkspoort at first, but the screaming seemed to move, convincing him the trouble was now at Ostmuur. Soon the cries for help and mercy were coming from every direction. They grew louder and louder, but the Black Cap believed that was due to the sheer number of people screaming, and not because those screaming were getting any closer.

Whatever was causing such terror, it did not seem interested in Goudberg. The streets around the vacant home remained empty, quiet of all noise except the distant screaming and the boots of the watchmen as they patrolled round the refuge for widows and orphans. Nagel and Ravensberg both complained to Silenti about the assignment. Neither man could see the value in guarding a vacant building, especially not when other citizens nearby were so obviously in need of their aid. But Silenti refused to let the two watchmen leave their posts. He knew what was coming, and that they represented the first line of defence against it. The Black Caps must stand their ground.

Ravensberg died first, while he was on the far side of the building, halfway round yet another circuit. He saw a lone figure strolling towards him from the shadows, clad in a crimson cloak that glistened like wet blood. “Stop and identify yourself—friend or foe?”

The approaching figure ignored his challenge, and kept coming at him.

Ravensberg raised his crossbow, aiming it at the stranger’s chest. He still couldn’t make out their face, the features well hidden behind the shadow of a heavy hood. “I order you to stop and identify yourself, or it’ll go the worse with you. Are you friend or foe?”

Still they ignored the Black Cap’s challenge. The stranger raised a hand, the fingers crooked and wizened by age, yet eldritch energy danced about their tips.

Ravensberg swallowed, hard. “One more step and I will fire!” When this went unacknowledged, the watchman pulled the trigger on his crossbow. The bolt flew straight and true, but the intended target snatched the speeding projectile clean out of the air. One touch of their hand and the wooden shaft crumbled to dust, while the sharp metal tip was dissolved by rust, its residue lost on a passing breeze. The watchman struggled to load another bolt in his weapon, backing away from the stranger as they loomed ever closer.

“I’m warning you,” Ravensberg shouted, his voice full of fear. “Stay back!”

The bolt fell from his trembling fingers, so the quick-thinking watchman swung the weapon round, turning the heavy wooden stock into a club with which to ward off this implacable figure. He flailed at the stranger with his crossbow, but they brushed aside the blow, and the weapon fell apart in Ravensberg’s hands. He took another step backwards and found himself trapped against the side of the building, black cap tumbling from his head. “Nagel! Silenti!” he cried out.

The stranger brushed back their hood to reveal a face criss-crossed by scars and tattoos, the eyes blazing with malevolent fury, black lips parting to display a mouth full of broken, decaying teeth. The stranger rested a hand across Ravensberg’s face, almost tender in their touch, like the caress of a lover. The watchman had time to scream once before dark magic overtook him. His limbs grew heavy, too heavy to support his rapidly aging body. Grey hair sprouted from his puckering scalp, turning white as it billowed outwards. Wrinkles coursed across his features and infirmity thickened his arteries until they closed, shutting off the blood supply to his brain and heart. Ravensberg crumpled to the cobbles, ancient skin flaking away like autumn leaves, his bones turning to dust inside his body, clothes changing to rags before dissolving altogether.

Silenti and Nagel came running, having heard the cry for help from the far side of the building. By the time they reached Ravensberg, his remains were naught but a pile of dust, blowing away on the light afternoon breeze. Only his discarded black cap gave any hint of what had happened to the unfortunate watchman. Farrak’s acolyte had melted away into the shadows, their blood-red cloak wrapped around them like a shroud.

“Silenti! Where the hell are you?” a voice bellowed.

The two watchmen sprinted back round to where Silenti had been standing guard. Sandler and Scheusal were waiting for them, the captain pointing at an empty black space where a wall had been before. Through the doorway a staircase could be seen, descending into the secret temple beneath the empty building. “You left your post, and look what happened,” Sandler snarled.

“We were gone for less than a minute,” both watchmen protested. “Something killed Ravensberg, turned him to dust. He cried out for us.”

“A trick, to lure you away,” Scheusal sighed.

“Dust, you say?” the captain asked.

Silenti nodded.

“He was killed by some foul incantation,” Sandler surmised. “Only a necromancer or one of their acolyte apprentices could cast such a spell without being consumed by it.”

Scheusal was nursing his left hand. The right sleeve from his tunic had been torn off, and wrapped round the injured hand. “What happened?” Nagel asked.

“The enemy took his fingers,” the captain replied. “Scheusal, Silenti—come with me. Nagel, you remain here on guard. Don’t let anybody else in or out of here. Defend this entrance with your life.” Sandler strode through the doorway and raced away down the staircase, followed by the sergeant. Silenti lingered a moment, looking at Nagel.

“Good luck,” he said, before going inside.

“To us all,” Nagel replied, a flintlock clutched in both his trembling hands.

Farrak watched through the window of blood as his apprentice murdered Ravensberg. Good, the skull of the undead champion would soon be in his grasp. It had been amusing to torment and tease the citizens of Marienburg, but the necromancer was tiring of this place. He had far grander plans than the subjugation of a single city. Farrak had an entire world to conquer and remake in his image. And then? Then he would become a god.

The rotting remains of Jan Woxholt shuffled into view, the corpse given but a semblance of life, no more than a plaything. “Outsiders have entered your domain, lord.”

“Have they now? How bold of them, and also how foolish. Still, it might provide some sport while I wait for the return of my apprentices with the spoils of their mission.” Farrak glared at the window of blood. “Show me!”

Kurt and his cohort let the boat drift into the side of Riddra, not far from where the Altena had rammed the island a few days earlier. When their arrival brought no response from above, they slid over the side of the craft and clambered up a set of steps cut into the side of the island. The cohort emerged beside the Golden Lotus Dreaming House, not far from Three Penny Bridge. Kurt hadn’t been sure what to expect on Riddra. Any citizens left behind on the island would have long since been discovered and slaughtered by Farrak’s horde, before being resurrected to bolster his undead army. Only the bravest or the most foolish would attempt to retake Suiddock from the necromancer by force of arms, so Farrak had no need to post guards within the district. But Kurt still expected they would encounter stronger resistance before they got within sight of Three Penny Bridge.

The captain dropped into a crouch, holding a clenched fist by his chest to signal all those behind to wait. He wanted to get the lay of the land before charging into combat against Farrak’s forces. The spell cast by Otto seemed to have done its job well enough, keeping their approach a secret from the enemy. But the side effects left Kurt weak as a baby, his limbs heavy, his breathing laboured and his stomach churning over with nausea. Manann knows when he’d last been able to eat a proper meal. They’d snatched at food brought by Otto and the witch hunters before embarking on this suicidal mission, but now the sickness in Kurt’s stomach was questioning the wisdom of that. He felt in no fit state to fight a battle, let alone fight for his life or the future of an entire city. But how he felt made no difference now. Fight they must to have any hope of victory.

Kurt could see the long street that led to Three Penny Bridge, and the span itself, rising up as it curved over the cut between Riddra and Stoessel. The road ahead was empty, the cobbles bereft of any impediment. The walking dead shuffled about on the bridge, their actions inexplicable from this distance. A tall man stood out among them, head and shoulders above the resurrected corpses clustered around him. The imposing figure wore robes of black and blood-red. His skin looked yellowed by age or jaundice, his scalp barren of hair. Kurt could not see the man’s face, but the way the ghouls and skeletons surrounding him were paying deference, it left no doubt to his identity. Nathaniel crept up to join Kurt, squinting to see what was happening on the bridge.

“That’s Farrak,” the witch hunter confirmed.

“How can you be sure?”

Nathaniel pointed at the necromancer’s right hand as Farrak directed his servants with an imperious gesture. The sun caught a glint of metal on one of the long, spindly fingers. “See that ring? It’s the focus of his powers.”

“So if we can remove that, he’s vulnerable to our weapons?” Kurt asked.

“Would that defeating a necromancer were so simple.” The witch hunter rested a hand on Kurt’s shoulder. “Let my brethren and I go first. We can test the strength of Farrak’s bodyguard, winnow their numbers.”

“No. You’d be throwing your lives away, along with any element of surprise we have. We need to get as close as we can, before attacking with all our forces at once.”

“As you command,” Nathaniel agreed.

The sun was sliding across the sun and down towards the horizon, casting long shadows down one side of the road. Patting a hand against his chest to ensure the Stone of Solkan was still hanging safely inside his tunic, Kurt rose to his feet and motioned for the others to follow. They crept towards Three Penny Bridge, hugging the shadows as they advanced. Nathaniel stayed close to Kurt, the other five witch hunters behind him. Auteuil and Bescheiden were next, with Otto and Potts bringing up the rear. The cohort was almost within crossbow range when Farrak swivelled round to glare at them.

“Gentlemen! Welcome to Suiddock. Welcome to my domain.”

Nagel emptied his flintlocks into the two figures advancing at him, their crimson cloaks like shrouds of wet blood. One of the creatures swept back its hood to gaze at the watchman, and Nagel felt the skin across his face tighten until the pain was intolerable. He touched a finger to his right cheek and it blistered, the skin peeling away in black flakes. Flesh withered before the malevolent gaze, sloughing away from the bones of Nagel’s face. He wanted to cry out, such was the pain lancing through his body, but the watchman was dead before he could give voice to his torment.

Nagel collapsed in front of the black doorway, reduced to a clatter of bones and cloth. Farrak’s acolytes stepped over the body, hitching up their cloaks so as not to have them stained by the watchman’s remains. They swept down the staircase, into the dark.

The sound of Nagel’s pistols was audible in the chamber where the Knights of Purity had met so often in recent days. All twelve of them stood in a circle now, watched from one side by Scheusal and Silenti. Captain Sandler addressed his brethren, all of them armed with blades and bows. “Prophecy is upon us, my brothers. The necromancer’s apprentices have come to claim that which Farrak would cherish as his own. Our duty is clear, our purpose is pure, and our faith is resolute. Go forth, friends, and do the will of Solkan!”

“The will of Solkan!” the other knights echoed, raising their left hands in salute. As one they marched from the chamber, the watch commander’s adjutant among them. He nodded to Sandler in passing, but did not acknowledge the other Black Caps. Once his brethren had gone, the captain called Scheusal and Silenti to the centre of the room.

“Below this chamber is an oubliette, storehouse to many precious relics and unholy artefacts. That is what Farrak’s fiends seek, and what we must defend with our lives. I will not tell you where the entrance is, lest you be taken and tortured to reveal its location. Remain here and kill anyone you do not recognise. Understand?”

The sergeant nodded, but Silenti had a question. “What happens if the intruders capture you, or one of the other knights?”

“We will kill ourselves before we forsake what we know. That is the strength of our faith.” Sandler strode from the chamber, a short dagger in each fist.

Scheusal stroked a hand across his beard. “I suggest we stand back to back, that way nothing should be able to sneak up on us—agreed?”

Silenti nodded. His boot slipped in something sticky. Looking down, the watchman realised he was standing in a pool of congealing blood. “Charming,” he muttered, before moving to stand back to back with the sergeant. Already the sounds of a bitter, bloody conflict could be heard echoing along the tunnels, blade clashing against blade, men crying out for help from Solkan. The killing had begun.

Kurt and his cohort fought a savage battle against ghouls and skeletons, zombies and wights. They hacked and slashed, shot and sliced their way through wave after wave of attackers. The cohort took up a diamond formation, with Kurt at the front and Auteuil at the rear. Otto stayed in the middle, surrounded by the watchmen and witch hunters, while Potts moved about inside the diamond, handing fresh ammunition to those with projectile weapons. But for each step forwards the cohort made, a new attack wave of walking dead joined the battle, forcing them back two steps. Kurt realised they were being driven back from Three Penny Bridge, away from their target: Farrak. “Otto, get up here!” he shouted.

The priest forced his way forwards between the witch hunters and watchmen, until he was close behind Kurt. “Captain?”

“Can’t you do something about the living dead?”

“I’m casting every spell I know,” Otto replied, “but we’re surrounded. I can’t combat them all at once, I’m simply not strong enough for that.”

“Then don’t try—focus your spells ahead of me. Create a weak point!”

“I’ll try,” the priest said, closing his eyes. He spread out a hand, muttering oaths and incantations beneath his breath, urging the sea of undead ahead to part.

Kurt slashed at the skeletons in front of him and they collapsed into splinters, their bones made brittle by Otto’s magic. The captain took a step forwards and flashed his blade through the wraiths blocking his path. The sword sliced apart their cloaks, disintegrating their ghostly spirits. “It’s working,” Kurt snarled. “This way! Everybody move this way—now!”

The cohort surged forwards, Otto’s spells fracturing the undead horde. But their success was short-lived. Farrak was watching from his vantage point on Three Penny Bridge. He had savoured the spectacle of seeing a battle fought so close by, but the wizened smile on his taut, yellowed features died as the invaders threatened his position.

“I grow weary of your presence, insects,” he announced. “Let’s see how you cope when I cast a spell of my own, shall we?” The necromancer jabbed a finger at his undead warriors, muttering words to summon up a hellish vigour within them. In a trice their movements accelerated, so they were fighting at twice their previous speed. Another twitch of Farrak’s finger and their speed redoubled once more, so they became whirling dervishes of pain and terror and death.

Zombies and ghouls hurled themselves at the cohort with vicious abandon, collapsing the diamond formation back into an uneven circle of men, standing shoulder to shoulder against the horde. Skeletons and wights hacked and slashed at the watchmen and witch hunters with savage ferocity, sparks flying as their blades struck the swords of the cohort. The eleven fought back with all their depleted reserves, debilitated by days without sleep and the spell Otto had cast upon them earlier.

Auteuil was first to fall, his left arm severed by a wight’s blade inlaid with sinister runes. The enchanted weapon sliced through his bones as if they were butter, and the lost limb tumbled to the cobbles, blood spurting from its stump. The burly militiaman sank to one knee, his weapons lost in the melee, his one remaining hand clutched over the open wound where his left arm had been. Three of the witch hunters lost their heads in quick succession, the gouting crimson spraying Potts in the face, blinding the youth. He too dropped his weapon, unable to see, hands trying to wipe his face dry.

One of the wights pointed a bony finger at Otto, blackened lips whispering a curse at him. The priest flung a spell at the undead warrior, but it laughed at his attempt. The wight flung a sword at Otto, hilt-first. The heavy weight smacked the priest between the eyes, knocking him out cold. Otto crumpled to the cobbles. With him out of action, the cohort lost what magical protection they still possessed against Farrak’s forces.

Kurt took a spear between the ribs. The skeleton wielding it twisted the point inside Kurt’s torso, before ripping the spear back out again, ensuring the wound would not stop bleeding without the aid of a healer. Nathaniel lost the witch hunter on his left to a flesh-eating ghoul, and the witch hunter on his right was cleft in twain by the sword of a wraith. One of the spirit hosts brushed past Nathaniel and his legs went cold, collapsing underneath him. The last surviving witch hunter sprawled among the walking dead and the dying, numbness creeping up his spine, dulling the pain but not the anguish he felt.

Of the eleven in the cohort, only Bescheiden remained on his feet and unhurt. The terrified watchman stood back to back with Kurt, fending off the blades of their foe.

“Captain, what do you want me to do?” Bescheiden asked.

“Get out of here,” Kurt spat, still fighting off the enemy. “Take Potts and anyone else who can still walk. Go!”

“We can’t leave you—”

“I said go, Bescheiden. That’s an order, damn you!”

Belladonna and Holismus raced across Goudberg, surprised to find the streets eerily empty. They’d expected an impossible battle against Farrak’s fiends to reach the secret temple, but the district was a ghost town—without the ghosts. Having found the empty doorway with Nagel’s remains outside it, the pair drew their weapons and descended into the temple, ready for an attack at any moment. Still none came, just a trail of corpses littering the cold underground corridors, all wearing the symbol of Solkan on their chests.

Some had the same emblem burnt into their faces, seared there by some unholy act of disfigurement. Among the corpses Belladonna recognised her replacement as adjutant to the watch commander. Half his face was missing, a handful of dust where the left eye, ear and cheek had once been. She’d never realised he was a disciple of Solkan, but it was not the kind of faith you could brag about openly and hope to have a career.

“Wonder why the corpses are still corpses?” Holismus whispered.

“They must be beyond the necromancer’s reach down here,” Belladonna speculated. “Pity that wasn’t enough to protect them from his emissaries.”

The pair crept onwards, blades poised in their hands. They did not sense Farrak’s acolyte behind them, his presence masked by an incantation clouding their minds.

“Did you hear something?” Scheusal asked. He was holding his left hand up against his chest, hoping that would stem the bleeding from scarlet stumps where his fingers had been. The pain when they were severed was beyond description, all the agonies Scheusal had suffered in his years gathered in one moment and multiplied by a hundred. After the initial shock he’d felt a rush of adrenaline that kept him going until they reached the underground temple. But now the adrenaline was draining away, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth and a flush of perspiration across his brow.

He felt sick to the stomach, and didn’t want to think about how he’d survive without fingers on his left hand. Right now it was better to concentrate on staying alive, and let tomorrow take care of itself. The sergeant was sure he could hear feet running towards the chamber, sprinting across the cold marble floors that ran throughout the temple. But they didn’t seem to be getting closer. “Silenti, I asked if you heard something?” No reply.

Scheusal peered over his left shoulder and saw the grinning, ghoulish face of a monster, covered in tattoos and scars. Silenti was stood next to the terrifying figure, the tip of a sword jutting out of the watchman’s mouth. The rest of the sword was visible behind his head. Scheusal recognised the blade; it was Silenti’s own weapon that had been stabbed through the back of his neck and out of his mouth. Farrak’s acolyte let go of the sword and Silenti sank into the pool of blood on the floor.

The sergeant backed away from the figure clad in crimson, axe at the ready. The acolyte gestured at the weapon and it dissolved into dust, the particles drifting away in the stagnant air. Scheusal smelled urine and fear, not wanting to admit it was his own. He pointed the bloody stump of his left hand at the acolyte. “You won’t find it. We—”

His hand turned to dust, the limb being eaten away in front of Scheusal, as if invisible insects were gnawing at the flesh and skin and bone, moving from the wrist to the elbow and on past that joint. The sergeant knew he had moments left to live. He thought of his wife Gerta, and was grateful she’d chosen to visit relatives in Altdorf when the fog first came to Marienburg. At least Gerta would be safe from the necromancer. Scheusal wished he could see her again, tell her how much he loved her, but—

The acolyte walked out of the chamber, past the pile of dust where the sergeant had stood. Elsewhere in the underground temple, the slaughter continued.

Kurt heard Auteuil cry for mercy before dying, Farrak snuffing out the militiaman’s life with a dismissive gesture. “I do not know mercy,” the necromancer sighed. “You’d think mortals would have realised that by now, wouldn’t you?” He nodded towards Otto, the unconscious priest suspended in the air beside Kurt, floating above the cobbles of Three Penny Bridge. “What about this holy man? Do you think he’d beg for mercy if I pulled the bones out of his body one by one?”

“He’s a priest of Morr,” Kurt replied through gritted teeth. The spear that plunged between his ribs and ripped back out again had splintered two of the bones. Whatever dark magic Farrak was using to keep the captain off the ground was grinding the broken bones together inside him. “His kind do not fear death.”

“Who said anything about death?” Farrak smirked. “If I find a worthy adversary, I endeavour to keep them alive as long as possible. Even if death does claim them, I can bring my playthings back again and again and again. I had a River Watch captain here who died and lived again thirty times before eternity took him from me.”

“Damphoost,” Kurt murmured.

“You knew him? How delicious. I wonder, can you match his courage?”

“Give me back my sword and we’ll see.”

Farrak laughed. “Bravo! I enjoy a prisoner with spirit. It’s much more satisfying to crush that spark of resistance from their soul.” He frowned at Otto. “Come to think of it, I do find the company of priests rather tiresome. All that praying and catechism, it can be rather tedious. With you to provide my entertainment, I’m not sure I need him.” Farrak pointed at Otto, before flicking the finger away, due north. The priest’s body flew into the sky, arcing across the heavens before plunging back down. The necromancer put a hand to his ear, as if listening for the sound of Otto’s impact. “He’s fallen in the water!”

“You sick, sadistic—” Kurt snarled.

But Farrak snatched a fist shut, cutting off the words in his captive’s throat. “Now, now, no need to take it personally. Like I said, priests are a tiresome lot. No sense of humour. Besides, once you break their faith, there’s nothing left. Few ever offer me any real fun. Once you’ve crushed one priest’s soul, you’ve crushed them all.”

Kurt muttered something, but no words came out.

Farrak unclenched his fist, restoring the power of speech. “You were saying?”

“Your arrogance will be your undoing, necromancer.”

“Such bravado would sit better if you weren’t already my captive. Soon my acolytes will have the relic I want and my sojourn in Marienburg will be over. But I’ve still time to kill, and you to provide my amusement. Do try to stay alive and defiant as long as possible, if you can handle it. Most mortals succumb far too easily.”

“You’re mortal too,” Kurt spat. “You can still die, Farrak.”

“I have lived for thousands of years and I shall outlast eternity,” the necromancer boasted. “Would I have let you get so close to me if I had anything to fear from you?” He flicked his right hand sideways and Kurt’s tunic ripped open to reveal the blood-soaked torso inside and the Stone of Solkan hanging round the captain’s neck. Farrak beckoned and the chain broke apart, allowing the amulet to fly into the necromancer’s grasp.

“Did you believe this trinket would protect you from me?” Farrak crushed the amulet into dust between his fingers, the delicate powder floating away on a sea breeze. He marched over to Kurt, until they were within arm’s reach of each other. “Never listen to witch hunters or fools, as their advice seldom differs in my experience.”

Kurt cleared his throat and spat the contents into Farrak’s eyes.

The necromancer chuckled, a dark rasp of despair. “Oh, yes, I’m going to enjoy breaking you, Captain Schnell. I’m going to tear your soul apart!”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Georges Sandler stood over the entrance to the oubliette, waiting. He had listened to his fellow knights dying one by one, but did not move. He heard Scheusal’s last words, and the whispers that passed between Holismus and Belladonna before they split up to search for him. But the captain of Goudberg district did not call out, could not risk letting anyone know where he was. Sandler was certain the necromancer’s acolytes were down here with them. Farrak’s fiends had slain thirteen defenders of the oubliette, but the Knights of Purity were not finished yet, not while Sandler still had life in his body.

He dropped to one knee, his hands clasping the hilt of his curved sword, the point of its blade buried in the wooden hatch to the oubliette. Sandler prayed, his eyes closed, his lips mouthing words but no sound coming from him, lest it draw the acolytes near. The watch captain gave thanks to the god of vengeance for giving meaning to his life, and offered up his life in service to Solkan. But Sandler could not stop himself from asking for a reprieve. My lord, Sandler prayed, let this torment pass me by if it is your will. I’ve been a good servant to you all my days. Let those days continue in your service, and I shall perform even greater deeds in your name. Praise be to Solkan!

When Sandler opened his eyes, he was no longer kneeling above the oubliette. He was standing before the watch commander, a jury of other captains stood on either side of the raised dais. “You dared humiliate and intimidate me,” the commander raged. “You used the Marienburg Watch to further the work of your pathetic religion, fulfilling the wishes of a dead god. You have disgraced your rank, your family and your district. You are a traitor to your kind and—worst of all—you are a failure!”

The commander snapped his fingers and Farrak marched into the courtroom, accompanied by a terrifying silhouette. The pitiless black figure had eyes that blazed like hot coals, while their ink-black skin bulged with thick cords of muscle amid angry crimson veins. This was the undead champion, twice the height of a normal man. Every step the champion took shook the floor, every breath it exhaled blasted flame across the room. Sandler felt his hair singed away by the ferocity of this monster’s hisses.

Farrak gestured at the hulking brute like some proud father. “With this eternal warrior at my side, I shall bring the world a darkness that lasts an eternity—and beyond. I have decreed his first victim should be the fool who betrayed his own people and told us where to find the lost skull. Come, Captain Sandler! Come and receive the just reward for your betrayal. Come and receive your death!”

Belladonna had not been convinced she and Holismus should separate to search the underground temple, but it was honeycombed with tunnels and parting doubled their chances of finding someone else still alive down here. She heard a cry that sounded like Scheusal and hurried toward it, emerging from a long dark tunnel into a large chamber. A cloud of dust hung in the air, making her cough and choke as she breathed in some of the dry, scratchy particles. But it was Silenti’s corpse that left her gasping.

She hadn’t known the watchman well, as he’d arrived at Three Penny Bridge not long before she left. Yet Belladonna found his death far more affecting than she’d ever expected. It should have been merely one more body among so many, both dead and resurrected, she’d encountered in recent days. Perhaps it was the mournful chamber in which Belladonna stood, a room filled with regrets and lost chances. Whatever the cause, she found herself sobbing uncontrollably, tears coursing down her dusty cheeks.

“Don’t weep for me,” a voice said.

Belladonna gasped. Silenti’s lips were moving, but it was the voice of Ruben Damphoost that spoke through them. “I died to save you,” he whispered.

“This can’t be happening,” Belladonna insisted.

“I died for you, my love.”

“You can’t talk with his voice, that’s impossible.”

“All I want is one last kiss, my love.”

“No, this is a lie, a trick!”

“One last kiss from your beautiful lips and I can rest easy forever.”

“No,” Belladonna said.

“Don’t look at this body. It’s just a shell. That’s all our bodies are, in the end.”

“You’re dead, I can’t be hearing your voice, Ruben.”

“Close your eyes and listen to my words.”

“No!” Belladonna snapped.

“If you ever truly loved me, you’ll do as I ask, my love…”

“Stop calling me that!”

“One last kiss, that’s all…”

“No!” Belladonna strode past Silenti’s corpse and ripped the sword from the back of his head. She slammed the blade sideways through his neck, slicing the head clean off. It rolled away into a corner, where someone was lurking in the shadows. They stepped into the light, their wizened body wrapped in a cloak so red it resembled warm blood.

“One last kiss,” the acolyte said, speaking as Damphoost. “Before you die.”

Holismus stood face to face with his brother, staring at the features corrupted by Chaos—the ruptured lips, the black slither of a tongue, eyes gleaming with the darkest of taints. “I don’t believe this is you, Joost. I’ve seen this trick before, when the fog fell on Suiddock, back when all of this began. Those visions fooled me then, but not now. Not again.”

“How can you be sure it’s a trick?” the acolyte replied, speaking as Joost. Farrak’s emissary drew a blade from the sheath sewn into his skin, all the while walking round Holismus in a slow, hypnotic circle. “How can you be certain I’m not your brother? Ask me anything you want, and I’ll prove to you that I’m Joost.”

Holismus shook his head. “You’re creating this hallucination from my memories. There’s no question I could ask for which you don’t already have the answer.”

“But there must be something you’ve always wanted to ask me, yes?”

The watchman closed his eyes, all too aware of the threat getting ever closer to him. “There is one thing you never told me, you never explained.”

“And what’s that, little brother?” the acolyte asked, stretching his weapon out until the tip was a hair’s breadth away from Holismus’ neck.

“Why? Why did you give in to Chaos? Why did you shame our family? Why did you surrender to the one stain that could never be washed away, the one sin that could never be forgiven or forgotten? Why, Joost? Tell me why, and I’ll believe it’s you.”

“Be careful what you wish for, little brother—you might not like the answer.”

Bescheiden and Potts fled through the back alleys and narrow passageways of Riddra, keeping to the shadows wherever possible. Once Farrak had captured Kurt and Otto, the necromancer lost interest in the other members of the cohort. The undead warriors went back to guarding the approaches to Three Penny Bridge, leaving the two watchmen free to make their escape. Potts had got the blood out of his eyes, but the raw recruit was still trembling from his brush with death. Bescheiden felt cheated of his destiny. He had come on this mission hoping to find a heroic end for his life. Instead he seemed doomed to survive once more, cursed to carry on with the burden of his guilt.

The watchmen dashed across a street to the Golden Lotus Dreaming House. All they need do was climb down the nearby steps leading to the boat waiting on the water below and they could escape Suiddock. But someone was waiting in the shadows of the drug den, a figure from the past come back to haunt Bescheiden. “Going somewhere?” Woxholt asked as he stepped into their path, the rotting remains of his bulky frame still enough to block their escape. “We have unfinished business.”

Farrak marched up the gangplank and on to the deck of his vessel, Kurt dragged along behind him by two of the undead crew. Once both were on board, the necromancer snapped his fingers and the gangplank retracted itself. Mooring ropes braided from human hair undid themselves from brass rings on the side of Three Penny Bridge, while the ship’s anchors rose up from the depths. Once all was ready, Farrak blew at the sails of skin and they billowed, pulling the ship away from the edge of Suiddock. “My acolytes should have completed their mission in Goudberg by now,” the necromancer announced. “Time I went to collect them. Besides, I tire of southern Marienburg. Let’s see what the view is like from the northern shores of the Rijksweg shall we?”

Kurt could not reply, his voice once more stolen away by Farrak. He hung in the air, an invisible grasp crushing his ribs together, fresh blood still seeping from the wound to his torso. The spell Otto had cast over the cohort was fading at last. Kurt could feel the strength returning to his limbs, but the pain from his wound was increasing too. He had not realised Otto’s incantation had helped dull the hurting, until the side effect was gone.

Satisfied with the course he’d set, Farrak gave his attention back to the prisoner. “Tell me, Captain Schnell, which do you prefer—pleasure or pain?” The necromancer eased the tension in Kurt’s throat, allowing him a voice again.

“Pleasure,” he replied.

Farrak smirked. “You’d be surprised how many say pain. They think it’s a trick question, that asking for pain will spare them suffering somehow. But I’ve no need of such ruses and follies. If it is pleasure you prefer, pleasure you shall have.” He snapped his fingers and Kurt fell to the mighty ship’s deck, the impact cracking two more ribs. The captain cried out in pain, unable to stifle the hurting. “Of course, even pleasure must come at a price,” the necromancer added. He snapped his fingers again and a cabin door opened to reveal a beautiful woman stood inside, a diaphanous gown shimmering round her young, ample curves. “I believe you two know each other?”

Kurt didn’t believe what he was seeing, but he still wanted it to be true. “Sara?”

Sandler approached the acolyte, eyes cast down, his curved sword offered to Farrak’s disciple. “I humbly ask that the undead champion kill me with my own blade.”

“And why should my champion grant you this boon?”

“I shall be your most faithful of servants in death, but ask to leave this life in a manner befitting one of my kind,” the captain said, his head bent forwards in obeisance.

“Your request is denied. My champion has no need of your weapon. But if you must die by that blade, feel free to take your own life.”

“Thank you,” Sandler whispered. He pressed the curved blade against his throat until it drew blood, his eyes closed, his hands trembling.

“End your life, worm. From this moment forth, you shall be my servant.”

Sandler smiled. “I don’t think so.” His blade flashed through the air, decapitating the acolyte. The head bounced away, a howl of fury still on its lips. Sandler wiped his sword clean on the twitching corpse once it had slumped to the floor beside the wooden hatch. “I’m a true disciple of Solkan. Your feeble visions have no effect upon me, fool!”

Belladonna stepped closer to the second acolyte, a dagger clutched behind her back. “One last kiss,” she agreed, preparing to bury the blade in his chest. But the distant howl of the first acolyte betrayed her, Belladonna was unable to stop herself from reacting to the cry. In that instant her quarry stabbed a finger at her face, deep into Belladonna’s right eye socket. She screamed as the acolyte ripped out her eyeball, blood spurting from the wound.

Blinded by pain, Belladonna stabbed at him with all her might, plunging the dagger into his chest and neck—over and over and over. She stabbed him so many times the acolyte’s head was hanging free, just a flap of bloody skin attaching it to his body. Belladonna pulled the knife away and he slumped to the floor, quite dead. But she had paid a heavy price for the victory; his collapsing corpse crushed her lost eyeball.

“I embraced Chaos because it was the truth,” the acolyte whispered at Holismus, his words like the wooing of a lover. “Order, religion, belief—these are placebos for the empty hole in your chest you call a soul, the void in your thoughts that cannot be stilled or made silent. Chaos is the true answer, the only answer to the questions that plagued me, just as they plagued you. Embrace the darkness, become one with Chaos and you shall be rewarded a thousand times upon a thousand times. Join me, little brother.”

Holismus opened his eyes. “Nice speech, very eloquent—it’s just a shame Joost was never that articulate in real life.” He stabbed his stiletto backwards, burying it deep in the acolyte’s chest. The crimson-cloaked figure staggered backwards, dropping the blade he’d been holding at the watchman’s throat. The acolyte stared at the stiletto.

“Is that the best you can do?”

The decomposing remnants of Woxholt lurched at Bescheiden, staggering past Potts. The recruit had fainted, his body surrendering to fear. “You left me to die,” the sergeant slurred. “You trapped me in that tunnel with those mercenaries. You left me to die.”

“I didn’t have a choice,” Bescheiden pleaded.

“There’s always a choice—live or die, kill or be killed.” Woxholt flailed at the watchman, his rotting arm hitting nothing but thin air.

“You’re right, and I chose to live, so you had to die.” Bescheiden sidestepped another lunge, not realising each attack was driving him back into a corner. “But I’ve hated myself ever since. Time and again I’ve tried to trade my life for others. I know I don’t deserve to live, but can my death at least have some meaning?”

“No,” Woxholt thundered, his swinging arm catching Bescheiden in the chest. The weasel-faced watchman flew backwards into the corner, the impact winding him.

“Please,” Bescheiden gasped. “If there’s anything left of the Woxholt I knew—”

“There isn’t,” the dead man hissed, closing his putrefying fingers round the watchman’s neck. “Jan is dead and you killed him!”

Kurt stared at his wife. His mind rebelled against the evidence of his senses, telling the captain what he saw was a vision, an illusion, a hallucination created by Farrak’s dark magic. But Kurt’s heart cried out for Sara, the need to be with her again like a black hole sucking the life from inside him. “Is that you?” he asked.

“Yes,” Sara smiled, walking across the deck of Farrak’s vessel toward Kurt, footsteps as gentle as blossom falling from a cherry tree. But an invisible barrier was blocking her path, preventing Sara from getting close to her husband. She glanced at the necromancer. “Can you let him free? Let me touch him —please.”

Farrak nodded, the slightest of gestures banishing the barrier between her and the captive. Sara knelt by Kurt, caressing his weary face with a soft hand. “You look tired.”

“I am,” he whispered. “Feel as if I haven’t slept properly since…”

“Since I died?”

Kurt couldn’t answer, emotion choking his throat.

Sara leaned closer and kissed him, her lips gentle against his. She giggled, rasping a hand across the stubble on his chin. “You could do with a shave, too.”

Kurt breathed in the scent of her, savouring the moment, never wanting it to end.

“We can be this way forever, if you wish,” she whispered in his ear.

“How?” Kurt asked, looking over her shoulder at the necromancer.

“Pledge yourself to Farrak’s service and he will make you immortal.”

“But this is just a dream. It isn’t real.”

“If it is a dream, you need never wake up. We can be together for all time.”

Kurt wanted to say yes, wanted to lose himself in the fantasy. Every part of him screamed to be with this woman, to throw away the cares and worries and pain of mortal life, to embrace the delusion she was offering. Kurt closed his eyes. “What must I do?”

CHAPTER TWENTY

Belladonna staggered through the temple, one hand clamped over the barren, empty hole where her right eye had been, blood seeping from between her fingers. She discovered Holismus on the ground, lying in a pool of his own rotting flesh, the watchman’s arms and legs nothing but gleaming white bones.

A stiletto protruded from his stomach, and another knife was buried in his throat. Holismus opened his lips to speak, but all that came out was a wet gurgle of despair. He stared up at her ruptured face and mouthed two words to Belladonna: I’m sorry.

She knelt beside Holismus while he died, keeping him company to the end.

“Listen to me,” Bescheiden gasped, struggling to speak with the dead sergeant’s hands round his neck. “You were Jan Woxholt once. If any part of him is still alive in you—”

“Stop talking and die,” the living corpse snarled.

“Remember what you were like when you were alive—”

“I said die!” Woxholt tightened his grip, choking the life from Bescheiden.

“Was… r-revenge what… y-you did…?”

The watchman’s eyes rolled up into his head as his body surrendered. Woxholt kept squeezing, but the pressure exerted by his rotting fingers grew less. The pupils of his eyes dilated, and he lurched back a step, letting go of the little watchman.

Bescheiden slid to the ground. After a moment he gasped in a lungful of air, and his eyes opened wide. “W-What happened?”

Woxholt dropped to the cobbles beside him. “You were right… I didn’t believe in revenge… not when I was alive…”

Bescheiden nodded. “You were better than—”

But the words died in his throat, stopped by shock as Potts sliced off Woxholt’s head. The raw recruit kicked the body to one side, a smile of triumph on his face. “I did it,” he beamed. “I saved you from the monster!” Potts pulled Bescheiden to his feet.

The watchman looked at Woxholt’s remains. The body crumbled away to dust, Farrak’s power over the sergeant vanquished forever. “Thank you,” Bescheiden said.

The last of the acolytes found the wooden hatch open, the entrance to the oubliette standing unguarded. It dropped through the square hole, landing nimbly on both feet inside the secret chamber. The skull rested on the pedestal, waiting where it had waited for generation upon generation, hidden away from the world and those who would take it for their own nefarious purposes. The acolyte smiled, triumph in its eyes, and reached out a wizened hand to take the relic.

A blade took the hand, slicing through bone and skin and ligaments. Blood gouted from the stump, creating a crimson aerosol inside the oubliette. The acolyte screamed, enraged. It spun round to face Sandler, the last survivor from the Knights of Purity.

“That must sting a little. You should get it seen to by a healer, maybe an apothecary too. You know how easily diseases can creep into an open wound.”

Sandler lashed out, his sword taking the acolyte’s other hand. Farrak’s emissary howled its pain and fury, as more blood sprayed the oubliette.

“Clumsy me,” Sandler taunted the acolyte. “How ever will you cast your spells without any fingers to direct them? I mean, are apprentice necromancers issued with wands? Even if they were, you’d have to hold your wand between your teeth. Or maybe you could be the first fiend in Farrak’s army to cast a spell with their toes?”

“Enjoy your mockery,” the acolyte snarled. “These taunts shall be your last, fool!”

“I don’t think so,” Sandler replied, drawing back his sword with both hands, preparing himself for the killing blow. “There’s plenty more where they came from.”

The acolyte’s eyes turned black and Sandler felt his arms growing strangely warm. He watched in horror as the skin around his hands blistered away, the flesh and tendons and muscles along his arms withering away until only the bones remained. “Solkan, protect me!” The acolyte’s gaze shifted to Sandler’s face, burning away cheeks and eyes, tongue and tonsils. The captain’s head collapsed in on itself, his brain boiling away in his skull. Sandler died, vanquished by dark magic and his own arrogance.

Satisfied, the acolyte turned back to the pedestal, but Belladonna was in the way. “I’ve already lost an eye today. You want this damn skull, you’d better kill me too.”

“To become immortal, you must first take your own life,” Farrak said, smiling at Kurt. “Free your spirit of its earthly shackles and become one of my resurrected. You’re a brave and brilliant warrior, Captain Schnell. With you as my general, there’s no army my forces could not conquer, no city that could stand against us, no war we could not win.”

“You will become a soldier again,” Sara enthused. “And when you come back home to me as the conquering hero, we will be together forever. We always said our love was immortal, that we would love each other even in death. Now we can.” She kissed him and Kurt responded, unable to stop himself. Sara had been dead for more years than he cared to remember, but her touch, her scent, her beauty, the taste of her lips and the sound of her voice—they all intoxicated him still. He was swept away, utterly lost.

Once Sara had stepped away from him, Kurt went down on one knee before Farrak, pledging his allegiance to the necromancer. “Hand me a weapon, my lord, so I might become your servant for all eternity. I am yours forever and ever.”

Farrak moved a finger and a viciously sharp sword slid across the deck, coming to rest in front of Kurt. “Stab that through your heart, and I shall make you immortal.”

Kurt took up the blade in both hands, holding the point to his chest. “Goodbye, my love,” he whispered to Sara.

“You’re not worthy of my attention,” the acolyte spat, barging Belladonna aside to claim the skull from its resting place on the pedestal. She fell to the oubliette’s floor, her hand finding the curved sword that had tumbled from Sandler’s grasp.

“Don’t brush me aside,” she said, swiping the blade behind the acolyte’s knees. Farrak’s emissary went down, howling in pain and cursing her. Belladonna lashed out again, hacking hunks from her foe’s arms and torso.

The acolyte rolled over and fixed her with that deadly gaze. Belladonna could feel her hands burning. More by instinct than anything else, she held the curved blade in front of her face, the flat surface between her and the acolyte. Farrak’s emissary screamed as the dark magic was reflected back into its face, burning out its black eyes.

The acolyte lashed out with both legs, kicking the sword from Belladonna’s scorched hands and smashing her backwards into the floor. A terrible darkness engulfed her and she knew nothing more.

Kurt lunged at Farrak, swinging his sword through the air in a scything arc. But the necromancer was ready for this attack and caught the blade between his hands. Try as he might, Kurt could not rip the weapon free, nor could he finish what he’d started. The captain was trapped, staring into the face of oblivion.

“How disappointing,” Farrak sighed. “For a moment I believed the love of a good woman might be enough to turn you.”

“My wife’s dead. Desecrating her memory would never win me over!”

The necromancer closed his right hand round the sword, while opening out his left palm for Kurt to see. “Have you ever witnessed a spell called the hand of dust? It’s a remarkable and terrifying weapon. All I need do is place my hand on an enemy and it causes them to age at a vastly accelerated rate. Not just the enemy, but their possessions too. At its most savage, the hand of dust can age the target by centuries within a second, stealing away their life in the time it takes a heart to beat once, reducing them to dust. Would you like to see a demonstration, Captain Schnell?”

Kurt could not move, his body frozen by the will of Farrak. The necromancer reached out his left hand towards Kurt’s face. “I’ll go easy on you at first. My fingers will steal away one year from your remaining lifespan for every second they touch you. Tell me, Captain Schnell, how old are you at this moment?”

Kurt did not want to speak, but could not resist. “Thirty-three.”

“Then this will come as quite a shock to you,” Farrak smirked.

He slapped his hand over Kurt’s face and the captain screamed.

Inside the oubliette, the acolyte got back to its feet, using the sword from Belladonna’s hand as an impromptu crutch. It hobbled over to the pedestal and snatched the skull. No more defenders leapt out to stop the acolyte, no secret traps were sprung to prevent the theft. The acolyte summoned up a window of blood, using the scarlet pool forming beneath Belladonna’s body to create the portal.

Kurt felt his body dying. His limbs were growing heavier, his muscles sagging and atrophying. Pain lanced across his back, and joints stiffened with each passing moment. It felt to Kurt as if he was being sucked dry, his essence draining away from him. Still Farrak kept his hand pressed to Kurt’s face, stealing another year and another.

“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 the 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 commander 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.

“That was my son,” Kurt told the watchmen as they closed in, clubs raised. “You’ve got to let me see him, talk to him!”

The sergeant shook his head. “You heard the commander; two life sentences, beginning immediately. That means now.”

“You don’t understand! I haven’t seen my son since—” A deluge of blows rained down on Kurt and darkness took him, bludgeoning away that last lingering glimpse of his only son.

The watch commander returned to his office, a satisfied smirk playing about his thin, cruel lips. The charges against Schnell were trumped up, unable to withstand close scrutiny, but they’d served their purpose. Having the disgraced captain’s father and son present to witness the abject humiliation—that had been needlessly harsh, even by the commander’s standards. But he’d enjoyed every moment of Kurt’s abasement.

His happiness was short-lived. Belladonna was waiting in the commander’s office, her body language making it plain she was spoiling for a fight. “Is it true?”

“How did you get in here?” the commander demanded, ignoring her question.

“I worked as your adjutant long enough to know every secret passageway and hidden entrance in this building,” Belladonna hissed. “Is it true that you’ve convicted Captain Schnell of treason, cowardice and mutiny? That you’ve sent him to Rijker’s?”

“Two consecutive life sentences.”

“You know he’s innocent!”

“Nobody is innocent,” the commander said.

“You know what I mean,” Belladonna insisted.

“I’ve no doubt the Stadsraad will give him a full pardon once it’s reconstituted—services to Marienburg and all that. I doubt he’ll serve more than a year in total.”

“Kurt has sent dozens of dangerous criminals to that prison. He’ll be lucky to survive more than a week inside that place.”

“I find your lack of faith in our penal system disturbing,” the commander said.

Belladonna suggested where her superior could shove his disturbance, ideally accompanied by a few links of seagull and sweet potato sausages.

“I’ll forget you said that,” he replied. “Leave now and you might still retain your place in the Black Caps. If not, I’ll send you to join Schnell on Rijker’s—understand?”

EPILOGUE

Kurt came to as the prison barge approached Rijker’s Isle, a forbidding fist of clenched rock outside the mouth of the Rijksweg. The setting sun cast a warm orange hue across the bleak walls of stone, but the former watch captain had few illusions about the warmth of the welcome that awaited him there. Kurt found himself one of half a dozen prisoners, all manacled together. Two of the men wept as the vessel drew near their new home. They would be dead before dawn, if the reputation of Rijker’s Isle was true.

Kurt had no illusions about his life expectancy once incarcerated on the island. Too many old enemies languished inside these walls, many of them banished to this purgatory for the rest of their years. The chance to get vengeance upon the man responsible for their plight would be irresistible, especially as killing Kurt would add nothing to their sentences. There’d be no friends waiting for him inside, so he’d need all the allies he could get to survive. One thing was certain—if he wanted to stay alive, he would have to win an appeal and pardon in record time, or else escape.

Of course, the latter course of action brought its own challenges. Nobody had ever escaped Rijker’s Isle and lived to tell the tale. Any sane escapee would keep their success to themselves, but escape attempts were next to non-existent, such were the odds against success. Better to die on the forsaken rock that attempt the impossible; that was the inmates’ motto. But nobody had ever fought the necromancer Farrak and lived to tell the tale—Kurt had. There had to be a first time for everything.

Kurt cursed the commander for having General Schnell and Luc at the sentencing. I could have borne the humiliation, the lies, the callous disregard for the truth, Kurt thought as the barge tied up alongside a set of stone steps cut into the side of Rijker’s Isle. But making me suffer all that in front of my son… There will be a reckoning when I get back to Marienburg, Kurt vowed. The commander’s scheming had cost Kurt any chance of knowing his own son. For that the duplicitous creature would pay dearly.

A rasping, venom-drenched voice ripped Kurt from his plotting.

“Welcome to Rijker’s Isle, worms!” All the prisoners looked up to see a swarthy figure with dark, malevolent eyes glaring at them from atop the staircase. “My name is Herman Prost, and I’m deputy governor of this prison. From the moment you set foot on this rock, I own you—body and soul. You have no rights, you have no hope and you have no future. You live and die at my whim. You stand or fall at my will. Forget whatever life you once had, whatever love you once knew, whatever pleasure you once felt. From this day forth, you are nothing but worms, waiting to be crushed under the heel of my boot!”

Gimlet eyes watched from windows by the water line as the barge’s human cargo was unloaded. The ratmen had abandoned their home beneath Suiddock to escape the arrival of Farrak, having smelled his sorcery on the wind. But they had found a new lair beneath the prison, a labyrinthine mass of old sewers and tunnels to make their own. The ratmen had a new home, and they had unspeakable plans for the inhabitants of Rijker’s Isle.

Scanning and basic
proofing by Red Dwarf,
formatting and additional
proofing by Undead.