Jan marched to the station with two surly youths from Stoessel in his clutches, one clamped under each arm. They had been selling what was claimed to be an aphrodisiac in tiny clay bottles, saying it could turn the most flaccid of men into raging beasts of the bedroom. The pair were turning a healthy profit from housewives hungry for more action, until the sergeant intervened. When the gathered women protested, he made both youths drink several bottles of their merchandise. Unsurprisingly, neither was transformed into passion-crazed beasts by the apparent overdose. “What’s in these?” Jan had asked loudly, making sure everybody watching the spectacle could hear.
“Beetroot juice,” one of the sellers admitted in a whisper.
“Louder, so they can all hear you,” the sergeant prompted, twisting the youth’s ear violently.
“For the love of Shallya, it’s beetroot juice! We’re selling beetroot juice!”
A groan of disappointment went round the women, who shook their heads and wandered away, clucking to themselves about the youth of today and what a disgrace the boys were to their families. Jan had crushed all the bottles underfoot before marching the two culprits back to Three Penny Bridge. “I think your parents will have something to say about your little endeavour,” he promised.
“I doubt it,” one of the youths replied. “My mama swears that beetroot juice as an aphrodisiac.”
“Be that as it may, I doubt any apothecary would approve of your methods. Besides, selling goods under false pretences is a serious crime in a merchant city,” Jan said. But his determination to punish them faded when he saw what was happening on the bridge. Raufbold and Bescheiden were arguing with Scheusal in front of the station, while Narbig watched from the entrance. Holismus sat on the cobbles, gripping a bottle in trembling hands. Gerta stood next to him, a sack bulging with provisions by her feet and a stack of cooking pots beside it. “What in Manann’s name is going on here?” the sergeant demanded.
“We’re leaving!” Bescheiden shouted at him. “We’re not staying in that building for another minute. Everybody said it was cursed and they were right!”
“Lower your voice,” Jan warned, as he got closer.
“Why should I? We don’t have to stay here and wait to be slaughtered like Verletzung and Mutig!”
By now the sergeant was within spitting distance of the weasel-faced watchman. Jan let go of his two captives and they fled. Narbig moved to stop them, but Jan shook his head. “Don’t bother,” the sergeant snapped, before turning his attention to the other Black Caps. “Is this how all of you feel? Is little Willy here speaking for everyone here, or just himself?”
“I wish people would stop calling me little Willy,” Bescheiden muttered.
“You’ve had your say,” Jan snarled. “Open that festering hole of a mouth once more and I’ll shove my fist so far down your throat it’ll tickle your intestines -got it?” Bescheiden nodded, but did nothing to hide his unhappiness with the situation. The sergeant looked round the other men’s faces. “Well, is this how you feel? Are you so scared of your own shadows that you’re going to run away, like timid little children?”
Raufbold stepped forward, as always unafraid to offer his opinion. “We didn’t come here to get our throats slit or our limbs lopped off because of some vendetta between Schnell and Abram Cobbius.”
“That’s Captain Schnell to you. And who said Cobbius was responsible for Verletzung’s murder?”
“Stands to reason, doesn’t it?” Raufbold maintained. “He butchered Mutig, even carved his initials on the body. Verletzung’s corpse gets delivered to the front door of our station, with a note promising to see the rest of us dead. Well, I know where I’m not wanted and that’s Suiddock. This district got along fine without the Black Caps before we arrived and it’ll do fine without us once we’ve gone.”
“We’re not going anywhere,” Jan vowed. “What kind of men are you, running away the moment somebody threatens you? Since when do the Black Caps give in to intimidation and idle threats?”
“You call what happened to Hans-Michael and Helmut idle threats?” Raufbold sneered.
“No, I call it what it is-murder. And I’m staying here until I see those responsible brought to justice. That’s the difference between you and me, Gorgeous Jorg-I don’t need to swallow a fistful of crimson shade to find my courage. Yes, that’s right, the captain and I know all about your sordid little secret. He wanted to give you a fresh start-didn’t take you long to make a nonsense of that, did it?”
Raufbold sniffed. “I haven’t touched the stuff since-”
“Liar!” Jan snarled. He grabbed Raufbold by the jaw and squeezed, forcing the Black Cap’s mouth open. Inside the gums were stained a virulent crimson, the mark of anyone who used the drug. “How long is it since you had a dose? A day? A few hours?” The sergeant pushed Raufbold away. “You disgust me!”
“What about my brother?” Holismus slurred from the cobbles. “He was cursed by this place. He got infected by Chaos here and now I’m here, he’s come back to haunt me.”
“We’ve all got our own daemons to face,” Jan replied, “our own dirty little secrets, our own guilty burdens. None of us are perfect, far from it. But that doesn’t mean we give in to our fears, nor should we simply surrender this station to the likes of Abram Cobbius and Adalbert Henschmann. I don’t doubt you saw your brother, Lothar. What happened to Joost was a tragedy-but that doesn’t mean it’ll happen to you too. We have to make a stand against Chaos, against the likes of Cobbius and Casanova. Their kind have ruled this district and too much of this city for too damned long!” “I worked on the docks,” Didier said, all too aware of the loaded crossbow pointed at his chest. The two Black Caps and the creepy priest of Morr had him pinned in a corner of the sewer junction, demanding answers. When somebody’s pointing a crossbow at your heart, you tell them whatever they want to hear, Didier reasoned. In this case, it also happened to be the truth, but that was more coincidence than choice on his part. “But you can’t work on the docks unless you join the guild, so I joined. Don’t know what I did to deserve it, but Cobbius decided I might make a useful foot soldier for his activities. He always needs fresh recruits and if you’ve got half a brain, that’s a bonus.”
“Cobbius? You mean Lea-Jan Cobbius?” the other Black Cap demanded.
Didier shook his head. “Not him, his cousin. Lea-Jan Cobbius always keeps his hands clean. But Abram, he couldn’t care less who knows what he does. I saw him drown a halfling fishmonger not long ago, just to take over his business without paying for it.” Didier noticed his captors exchanging a look that gave him hope. They must already know about what happened to the halfling, but now he was providing them with confirmation from an eyewitness. His value was rising, and faster than the tide of sewage round their ankles. “Afterwards Abram couldn’t stop bragging about what he’d done and how he’d done it, as if drowning a defenceless halfling made him the big man in Suiddock.”
The priest was frowning, apparently deep in thought. “Why would a thug like Cobbius want to take control of a fishmonger’s shop?”
Didier smirked. “It’s a front for his drug smuggling business, isn’t it? Abram’s got a fleet of fishing boats that go out to sea and meet up with smugglers coming back from other countries. They pack the drugs inside the fish and sell them from the market-right next door to your station.”
“That’s why the new manager put his prices up so high,” the woman said, realisation in her voice. “Cobbius isn’t selling the fish, he’s selling the drugs. The fish is merely the packaging to hide his product.”
“That’s right. Abram’s not the brightest, but he’s got plenty of animal cunning.”
“Torturing and murdering one of my watchmen, that wasn’t so cunning. Carving his initials into the dying man’s chest-that was an animal marking its territory,” the captain spat.
Didier shrugged and smiled. “Like I said, he’s not the brightest member of the Cobbius family.”
“You think this is funny?”
The prisoner looked down at his feet so the three captors couldn’t see his expression. “No, I don’t. And neither did Lea-Jan. Once he heard what his cousin had been doing, he had him taken off the street. Abram’s been propping up the members’ bar at the guild headquarters ever since, where Lea-Jan’s men can keep an eye on him. They know you won’t dare take him from the building. But Abram is getting bored. Eventually he’ll find a way to sneak out, go in search of some entertainment. That’s your chance to get him.”
“What else?” the captain demanded.
“What do you mean?” Didier asked, stalling for time until he could discover what his captors wanted to know from him.
“Why murder Verletzung?”
“He was following me. I thought he was something else.”
“Like what?”
Didier shook his head. “I’m not saying any more about that, not while I’m down here. You get me topside and I might say, but I’m not talking about them while I’m in these tunnels.” He folded his arms, making himself look as resolute as possible to convince them. The watch captain glared at him, eyes filled with naked hatred, before motioning for the priest to keep watch over Didier. The two Black Caps retired to the other side of the sewer junction, whispering to each other in voices so low Didier could not hear their words. Eventually the pair returned, having obviously come to some sort of agreement.
“What will it take to get you to talk?” the captain asked.
“I told you-get me topside and we’ll see.”
“Not about whatever’s got you so frightened-I mean talk about Abram Cobbius.”
Didier shrugged. “What’s on offer?”
“We don’t have you publicly executed for murdering Verletzung.”
“That’s outrageous!” the captive protested. “You can’t prove I murdered anyone!”
“We all heard you confess,” the woman replied.
“Besides, I have the dead man’s body,” the priest hissed. “You know what they say about followers of Morr, don’t you? We can make the murdered talk again. Imagine yourself standing on Three Penny Bridge, watched by every citizen in Suiddock, as your victim rises from the dead to name you as his killer. The people would tear you apart. I doubt the watch could save you from such a mob.”
“My men would probably help the mob,” the captain smiled.
“That’s not fair,” Didier whined, feeling himself close to tears of desperation.
“Was it fair when you murdered my recruit?”
“I told you, I didn’t know he was a Black Cap. I thought he was one of those…” The captive broke down, fear getting the better of his emotions. “Please, you’ve got to get me out of here. I can’t take it down in these sewers any longer. Please!”
“Perhaps we should leave him down here for a day or two,” the woman suggested to her captain. “Lash him to these corpses, see how he likes spending time with his dead comrades.”
“By Manann, anything but that! I’ll say whatever you want!”
“You’ll bear witness against Abram Cobbius?”
“Yes, anything! Anything! I’ll even give you his boss, if you want!” Didier begged, his last shred of self-respect torn away by terror. “I’ll give you Adalbert Henschmann himself-just get me out of here!”
“Abram Cobbius is one of Henschmann’s lieutenants?” the captain asked.
“Yes, of course he is. He’s-” The captive stopped, realising too late his mistake.
The captain smiled broadly. “Thank you, Deschamp. You’ve just made my day.”
Didier felt his legs gave way and he slid down the wall into the sewage, letting it swirl around him. “You make me repeat that in public and I’m a dead man,” he whispered.
“You say that as if it should mean something to us,” the female Black Cap replied. “It doesn’t.”
Didier trembled, his hands falling into the foul brown liquid. “You don’t understand. Henschmann won’t have me killed. He’ll have me tortured by the guards on Rijker’s. When my spirit is utterly crushed, he might bother to have me murdered. But I’ll spend every moment until that happens, knowing it’s coming dreading every day, every hour, every minute. I can’t cope with that,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. His fingers brushed across something sharp and metallic in the sewage-a blade! Someone must have dropped a dagger here earlier, and now he had it. Didier closed his fingers around the hilt, a last vestige of hope returning to him. The captive stood up again, holding the weapon he’d found against his own neck. “Now I don’t have to!”
The priest raised an eyebrow at him. “You intend to kill yourself?”
“What do you think?” Didier screamed, willing himself to plunge the dagger into his own throat.
“I recommend you slice up and down, rather than going from side to side. You’ll find the windpipe surprisingly resistant to that dull blade. But puncture one hole in the blue vein that runs vertically down beside it and you’ll bleed to death within moments. Your decision, of course.”
“What kind of ghoul are you, telling a man how best to kill myself?” Didier sobbed, his hand shaking as it tried to keep the dagger steady.
“I live with death, I walk in its shadow,” the priest replied. “I’ve seen men die with courage on their faces and others soil themselves as the darkness claimed them. I’m merely giving you the benefit of my experience. But I doubt you have the courage to kill yourself, Deschamp.”
“You’re playing a dangerous game,” the captain hissed out the side of his mouth.
“I’m not afraid to die!” Didier howled.
“Perhaps not, but you’re too weak to commit suicide,” the priest observed. “Surrender the knife.”
The captive pulled back the blade, as if about to plunge it into his neck, but his will deserted him. The weapon tumbled from his grasp and plopped back into the sewage. Didier wept for his lost courage, utterly ashamed. He watched as his captors relaxed, the female Black Cap lowering the crossbow slightly.
“What now?” she asked her captain.
“Take Deschamp back to the station. Don’t put him in the cells on the ground floor, shackle him to the desk in my office and lock the door so nobody can get at him. You can tell Sergeant Woxholt what Deschamp told us, but nobody else. For all we know Henschmann has an informant planted among the Black Caps. If he does, they’ll report Deschamp’s capture and then our problems really start. Once you’ve got the prisoner secured, tell the sergeant to have a Black Cap keeping watch over the guild headquarters until I return, but not to make a move on Cobbius until I get back.”
“Get back? From where?”
He jerked a thumb towards the other tunnels. “I’ve got to go and find Faulheit. We’re already two men short, thanks to Cobbius and his friend here. I can’t afford to lose any more, even when they’re as bone idle and lazy as Martin Faulheit.” The captain turned to his other companion. “Otto, will you help Belladonna get the prisoner back to Three Penny Bridge? I know it’s not your responsibility, but-”
The priest cut him short with a nod. “It would be an honour.”
“Thanks.” The captain glared at Deschamp. “Give them any trouble and you’ll answer to me.”
Didier laughed. “Go down those tunnels and you’ll know all about trouble.” A moment later he had the point of the captain’s short sword jabbing at his chest.
“What do you mean? What’s down there?”
“You’ll see. Whether you’ll live to tell the tale-that’s another matter, captain.” A crowd of citizens had gathered to watch Jan confront his men. Word had spread the Black Caps were pulling out after only a few days on Three Penny Bridge. Now people were coming to jeer or cheer, depending upon how they felt about the Watch and its men. Instead they found Jan fighting to rally his men’s spirits. The sergeant glanced round and saw the people watching him and the rest of the Black Caps, waiting for the outcome. “Look about you, men. These are the citizens you’re supposed to serve. These are the people who pay your wages. They deserve better than to see us skulk away with our tails between our legs, simply because the powers that be here in Suiddock decide to frighten us off. If you leave now, you’re abandoning these people. This is probably the last chance the Watch will have to establish a meaningful presence in the district. Leave now and the next group that gets sent here won’t have a chance. Nobody will believe in them, because you fled when the going got tough!”
“Where’s the captain?” Bescheiden demanded. “How come you’re here, giving us the big speech about why we should stay? Why isn’t the mighty Kurt Schnell here to convince us, eh?”
“I told you before,” Jan growled. “He’s Captain Schnell to you. Learn to show him the proper respect, or else I’ll thrash it into you.”
“He’s gone down the sewers to gather evidence about who murdered Verletzung,” Gerta added.
“There,” Jan said. “He’s out doing his job! Why aren’t you?”
“Somebody told them the station was being shut down,” Scheusal replied. “I didn’t believe it, but some of them couldn’t wait to collect their things and get out of here.”
“Who told you that?” Jan demanded of Raufbold, but the Black Cap could only shrug. Bescheiden was the same when confronted. The sergeant shook his head, disgusted with them. “Leave this place now and you’ll be branded cowards for the rest of your lives. Even when people have forgotten your names or your faces, they’ll remember the watchmen who ran at the first sign of danger, the Black Caps who didn’t have the guts to stand and fight. Even when everybody else has forgotten that, one person will still know that you’re a coward-and that’s you. There’s no escaping your fear, but you can’t let that fear rule your lives!”
Narbig stepped forward, breaking his usual taciturn tendency to speak. “So what do we do?”
“We stay,” the sergeant said, fire and iron in his voice. “We see this thing to the end, no matter what that end is. I’ve known Captain Schnell from the first day he arrived in this city, and he never runs away from a fight. He may start more than his fair share of fights, but he also finishes them. Now, who’s going to do their duty? Who’s going to stand up for the people of Suiddock?”
“I will, sergeant,” Scheusal replied immediately. Narbig moved to his side and nodded.
“I’ll stay,” Gerta said. “Here’s as good a place as any to be, if I can’t be with my Engelbert.”
Holismus stood up, swaying as he did so. The bottle was still in one hand but his other hand was saluting Jan. “I’m with you, sergeant.”
Jan glared at Raufbold and Bescheiden. “What about you two?”
Raufbold shrugged. “I suppose I’ll stay too.”
Bescheiden looked at him, surprised. “If Gorgeous Jorg is staying, so am I.”
“Good,” the sergeant said. “We’re two men down, so I’m reorganising the shifts until the commander deigns to give us some reinforcements. From now on it’ll have to be two shifts-one day and one night. Raufbold, you’ll be on days with Speer, Faulheit and me. Scheusal, you’ll take charge of nights. Narbig, Bescheiden and Holismus will be reporting to you. Any questions?” Jan waited but the only reply was silence. “Good. Well, you’ve got your assignments, get to them. Raufbold, get out on patrol-”
“But I was on graveyard shift until dawn!”
“Tough. With all that crimson shade in your system, you won’t need to sleep for days yet. Go on, get out on your patrol. I’ll see you on the streets. The rest of you, go get ready for night shift. From now on the night shift patrols in pairs, so you can back each other up. Go!”
The night shift wandered into the station, Narbig and Holismus helping Gerta get the provisions and cooking pots back inside. Raufbold stalked off towards Stoessel, muttering under his breath. The sergeant watched him go with quiet satisfaction, before looking at the gathered citizens. “Well, what you waiting for? Move along! There’s nothing to see here.” Kurt waited until Otto and Belladonna had taken Deschamp away before he went in search of Faulheit. If the prisoner’s cryptic warnings about what was waiting down the tunnel were accurate, Kurt didn’t want the others coming back to help him. Better to face whatever was ahead alone, rather than risk all three of their lives. He edged his way into the tunnel Faulheit had taken, short sword drawn and ready. He had heard a shriek of fear from Faulheit not long after the flabby Black Cap had crawled into the tunnel, suggesting something surprising was not far along the circular shaft.
Kurt took another step forward but his foot slid out from under him, as the floor abruptly tilted downwards. He tried to recover but lost his balance and fell, the impact bouncing him forwards. Then he was sliding feet-first down a steep slope, accompanied by sewage sluicing him down into darkness. Just as he was getting used to the sliding effect, the tunnel ended and Kurt fell into a brick-lined chamber, splashing to a halt amidst piles of bones and scraps of skin.
“Taal’s teeth!” He fought to extricate himself from the clinging mess of rotting body remnants, scrambling to his feet. As Kurt stood up, he became aware of a glowing green light that bathed him from above. But this was no phosphorescence. This light came from thousands of tiny shapes, wriggling across the ceiling. Beyond them he could see more bones and human remains, held above the sewage-soaked floor in a cat’s cradle of skin and sinew. Kurt realised he had fallen into some kind of charnel pit, a storehouse of flesh and blood for Sigmar knew what kind of monster.
“Captain? Is that you?” a weak voice asked from the shadows.
Kurt spun round to see his missing recruit cowering in a corner, the terrified Black Cap hugging his knees to his chest. “Faulheit? Are you hurt?”
The fat man shook his head, fear etched into tear-stained features. “They haven’t come for me yet,” he replied, before gesturing to the opposite corner of the chamber. “He wasn’t so lucky.”
Steeling himself, the captain looked over his shoulder at where Faulheit was pointing. It was a man’s body-at least, what was left of it. Both legs were gone, one completely and the other from the knee down. The flesh above that joint had also been stripped away, revealing the thighbone, white and exposed. There were scratches on the bone, Kurt thought. No, not scratches. Bite marks. Vicious incisors had gnawed at the bone in their eagerness to get the last morsel of flesh from it. One of the arms was just as bad, but the right remained intact. The face was sickening. Something had feasted on the cheeks, eaten through them and taken the tongue from inside the mouth as well. Kurt fought back the urge to retch as he regarded the hollow, empty spaces where the dead man’s eyes should have been. Perhaps most terrifying of all was the fact this person had been chained to the wall, to stop them escaping. Kurt recognised the padlocks used to secure the chains, they were a common type sold by ironmongers across Marienburg. That suggested the prisoner had been left here by people from above the surface, offered as a sacrifice for whatever resided in the catacombs below Suiddock. The captain silently prayed the victim had not survived too long, else the horror of being slowly eaten alive would have driven them mad.
Something about the body rung a bell in Kurt’s memory, despite its horrific state. He moved closely and stumbled over a submerged skull on the floor. He tumbled to the floor, soaking himself in the process. But the liquid down here was mostly sea water, not the mess of sewage that had clung to him in the higher tunnel. That suggested the catacombs were regularly flooded by the rising tide. How long was it until the next high tide? Kurt couldn’t remember precisely, especially after having been underground for what felt like a lifetime. The sooner he and Faulheit got out of here, the better.
The fall had dumped Kurt right beside the unfortunate, half-eaten body. Now he was close to it, the captain studied the dead prisoner’s face, the initial shock of its ravaged appearance having passed. He could make out a mass of black, curly hair round the scalp and the nose had a distinctive hook in it. A worrying thought occurred to the captain. He reached across to the dead man’s remaining hand, noticing for the first time that it was gloved. Kurt peeled away the glove and, sure enough, found six fingers, not five. “Fingers Blake!” the captain exclaimed. “But what’s he doing down here?”
“Fingers who?” Faulheit asked.
“It’s too much of a coincidence,” Kurt mused to himself. “Somebody must have known about his involvement with the murdered elf and brought Blake down here, knowing what would happen to him.”
“Captain,” his recruit hissed. “We need to get away from this place!”
“No, not somebody-Deschamp. That’s why he was down here last night. He must have dumped Blake in this place and was returning to the surface when Verletzung confronted him. As far as we were concerned, Blake would have simply vanished.” Kurt rose and went to Faulheit, offering a hand to help him up. “Come on. We’ve got to get out of here.”
The Black Cap hauled himself up from the corner. “That’s what I’ve been telling you!”
“Good.” Kurt peered up at the opening high in the wall of the charnel pit. “Not much chance of going back up that way.” The chamber had two exits at ground level, one to their left and one to their right. “You got any preferences which way we go?”
Faulheit shook his head. “I’ve been smelling the sea coming from that direction,” he said, pointing to the right exit. “I’ve heard things moving from the other side, but nothing you’d call reassuring.”
The captain took a deep breath and nodded. “That’s good enough for me. Right it is!” Belladonna was grateful to have Otto helping her get Deschamp to the station. Twice the prisoner tried to escape while they were still in the sewers, but the priest dragged him back. Once they had manhandled Deschamp up the ladder to the alleyway beside the Golden Lotus Dreaming House, Otto removed his rope belt and used it to tie the prisoner’s hands. Deschamp responded by screaming about Black Cap brutality and pleading with passers-by to intercede as they marched to Three Penny Bridge. Belladonna soon tired of his whining and called a halt. She removed her left boot, slipped a stocking off her leg and stuffed it into his mouth to shut him up. “Thank Morr for that,” Otto sighed.
The unlikely trio continued the rest of their journey without speaking, their progress accompanied by bemused whispers from people on the cobbled streets and the cries of seagulls circling overhead. Once they reached the station, Otto retrieved his belt and bid farewell to Belladonna. She pushed the prisoner inside, where Woxholt was talking with Gerta by reception. “Who’s your friend?” the sergeant asked. Belladonna removed her stocking from Deschamp’s mouth so he could introduce himself. Instead the prisoner let loose a tirade of curses and abuse so foul it made the drunks and pickpockets in the holding cells cringe. “Quite the charmer,” Woxholt observed. “Gerta, have you got anything to wash out this man’s filthy mouth?”
“There’s a cake of soap in the ablutions room, but it’s been near Bescheiden’s feet-”
“That’ll do nicely,” the sergeant decided and shoved Deschamp towards the east stairs. Belladonna followed them up to the first floor, explaining Kurt’s instructions to Woxholt. “This detestable worm is willing to bear witness against Cobbius and Casanova?” Woxholt asked.
“If we can keep him alive long enough to do so,” she said. They found a set of shackles and used them to chain Deschamp to the captain’s desk. Woxholt locked the office door and pocketed the key, yawning heartily. Black rings ran beneath his eyes, evidence of the sergeant’s exhaustion.
“You should get some rest,” Belladonna urged. “I can watch over the station for an hour or two.”
“I’m in charge of the day shift,” he said. “It’s my responsibility to-”
“You’ll be no use to anyone if you collapse on the job,” she interrupted. “Get some sleep. Now.”
The sergeant smiled. “Who put you in charge?”
“Call it my maternal streak coming out,” Belladonna replied. “Trust me, it doesn’t happen often.”
“I hope so. Gerta’s been mothering the station since she got here, we don’t need two like her.”
“Stop changing the subject and go.”
“I’m going!” Woxholt dawdled towards the watchmen’s sleeping quarters, but paused in the doorway to look back at her. “Raufbold’s out on patrol but he should be back soon. Send him to keep watch over the guild’s headquarters until the night shift come on duty.” Kurt and Faulheit crept through the catacombs, increasingly aware of disturbing sounds nearby. Skittering and scratching noises echoed through the tunnels, like talons or claws scraping against stone. High-pitched, inhuman cries rent the air, setting both men’s nerves on edge. The smell of sea air was getting stronger all the time, and the catacombs were becoming lighter, both causes for hope. But still the noises grew in volume. The pair pressed on, relieved to realise the path was leading them upwards to a higher level. At last they rounded a corner and saw a hole in the wall. Grey sky was visible through its rusted metal bars. The pair quickened their pace, eager to get out of the oppressive catacombs. To Kurt it felt as though they had been trapped underground for hours, marching through tombs of stone. Now, finally, escape was close.
He reached the window first and looked out. Water lapped at the wall directly below, so they were still lower than street level. In the distance he could see an island, but the water between it and Riddra was much choppier than that usually seen in the Rijksweg. “That’s Rijker’s Isle,” he realised. “We must have been travelling west all this time. This is the far end of the Riddra.”
“Like I care,” Faulheit replied. “Are we getting out of here or what?”
The captain stepped back to get a better look at the bars across the opening in the wall. They were part of a frame bolted into the stone, but the joints were corroded from years of exposure to seawater and the elements. “Give me a hand, see if we can move these bars.” Faulheit grabbed one side while Kurt took hold of the other. Both men leaned backwards, but the frame didn’t budge. “We need to get more leverage. Brace your legs against the wall and pull harder.”
Faulheit did as he was told, following Kurt’s example. They strained and strained but, although the metal frame creaked and complained, the bars stayed in place. “It’s no good,” Faulheit gasped, after abandoning his efforts. “We’ll never move it. We have to find another way out.” As if in reply to his words, a fresh scream of animal hunger bellowed from the catacombs behind them. Meanwhile the rising tide was starting to lap at the base of the window, the first few drops of seawater finding their way inside. Within a few minutes those drops would become a flood and the Black Caps would have to flee.
“I don’t think there is another way out,” Kurt snarled. “Now put your back into it!” Together they resumed their unequal battle with the bars, the captain slamming both feet against the wall and leaning back with all his weight. Faulheit did the same and was rewarded with a first bolt breaking free. “It’s going!” Kurt yelled. “Keep pulling, keep pulling!”
When the frame gave way, it dumped both Black Caps on to the floor with a sudden jolt. The two men lay there for a moment, catching their breath. Kurt was about to rise when something caught his attention and he stopped to stare at the stone ceiling overhead. Faulheit got back to his feet and measured his bulky waist against the width of the empty window. “I think I can get out through here.” He looked back down at the captain, who was still lying on the floor. “What’s going on? I thought we were getting out?”
“In a moment.” Kurt pointed up at a series of inscriptions and drawings carved into the stones that covered the ceiling. The images were crudely done, not work that would fill any artist with pride, but still told a vivid story. Elves in grand ships arrived at a cluster of rocks. The rocks became castles. Bridges appeared between the castles. Men and small figures appeared. Soon the settlement was a mass of people and shapes, evolving into the organised anarchy of a city. Beneath all this was a series of recurring symbols. Sometimes there were many symbols, while in some areas they shrank to a few, the amount ebbing and flowing like the tide. “It’s the story of the city,” Kurt realised. “It’s the story of how Marienburg was founded and grew.”
Faulheit pointed at the recurring symbols beneath the drawings. “So what do those mean?”
“I’ve seen something like them once before,” Kurt said with a shudder. “They are the mark of a race of monsters, terrifying creatures meant to exist only in nightmares and legends-the stuff of myth and fables. Beasts that hunt in packs and feed on human flesh for their succour, vile vermin that walk on two legs and stand tall as any man.” The captain looked at Faulheit. “You know what they are, don’t you?” The Black Cap shook his head, but his eyes told the truth. “Say it, Faulheit.”
He swallowed hard, his words when they came little more than a whisper. “Ratmen.”