—oOo—
Otylia Tischler shook her husband’s shoulder until he woke up.
“What is it?” he grumbled groggily, peering around the dark room.
She drew breath sharply and cradled her swollen belly. “I think the baby’s coming.”
Rald was out of bed in an instant, grabbing his breeches and trying to pull them on. He tripped over the chamber pot and stubbed his toe on the leg of the bed. “Dammit” he mumbled.
Otylia found a strikelight and used it to light a candle.
Rald had managed to dress himself and was struggling with his shoes. “I’m going to fetch Mrs Heuscher from next door,” he gasped. “Will you be alright without me?”
His wife smiled and nodded, then winced as a contraction took her.
Rald made for the door, turned, and hurried back to the bed. He took her hand and kissed it tenderly, then made his way into the little kitchen. There was a crash and a muttered curse as he collided with another unseen obstacle.
Within a few minutes he had come back. Mrs Heuscher followed him into the bedroom.
“There, there, dear,” she said comfortingly. “I’ve sent my daughter to fetch Mrs Libehilfe. She’ll be here shortly.”
Otylia nodded, then screwed up her face and grunted as another contraction racked her body. She had Rald’s hand in her own and near crushed it.
There was a brisk rap on the front door. Rald extracted his aching paw and headed to greet the guests, leaving his wife in his neighbour’s care.
It was Mrs Heuscher’s daughter, newly returned with Mrs Libehilfe, the midwife. She was a grave and modest woman, dressed in a plain brown dress, a clean white apron, and a prim bonnet. In her left hand she carried a basket with a cloth cover, and in her right was a small hatchet.
Rald invited her in. “What’s that for?” he asked, pointing to the cleaver.
“It is to be placed under her bed, to cut the pain and length of the labour,” replied Mrs Libehilfe. Superstition, she new, but it made the women that she helped feel better, and that was a good thing. She set her basket on the table and began to remove the contents. It held the various implements that might be needed, and bottled tinctures and jars of unctions of her own devising.
Ralf turned to head back into the bedroom but Mrs Libehilfe shooed him away. “The birthing bed is no place for a man,” she said curtly. “You can light the fire and set the kettle and the pots to boil. And when you’ve done that go and fetch all of the clean linen that you have. And make sure there is enough cut wood to keep the fire going.”
And that was what he did. Once the fire was blazing and the water was hot there was little to occupy him except pacing up and down. Occasionally his wife cried out, and when she did it was all he could do to stop himself entering the bedroom. Common sense won through, though; she was in the best care, and besides, what could he do anyway? Eventually Mrs Heuscher emerged with her sleeves rolled up and collected one of the pots of hot water.
“How is she?” Rald asked anxiously.
“Her confinement is almost done”
“When may I see her?”
The midwife appeared at the door. “Go and attend to your duties with the militia, or something like that,” she ordered. “You will be sent for when you are needed.”
Rald had no choice but to wait. Better in company, he thought to himself. He donned his heavy cape and with a last long glance at the bedroom door he headed off.
He found himself at the watchtower on the Nordküstestraße, where a few militiamen were standing sentry-go, warming themselves at a metal brazier. He told them what was happening and they were immediately forthcoming with that unique blend of crudity and sympathy at which soldiers excel. A big jug of spirit was produced and passed round “to wet the baby’s head”. Rald gratefully accepted.
And so the hours passed. Just before first light Brother Hans made his appearance and the corporal of the watch gave his report.
“And what are you doing here, Mr Tischler?” enquired the Priest.
Rald, tired and worried and just a little drunk, told of his imminent fatherhood. Brother Hans at once performed a blessing, but when he was asked to undertake the same service for the mother and child he declined.
“It is not proper for me to do so until the child is safely delivered and has lived for one full day,” he said gravely. “Besides, Mrs Libehilfe will carry out all of those ceremonies and rituals proper for Shallya, which are required during childbirth. And she’ll be with you for a few days yet.”
“How so?” asked Rald.
“Do you think poor Otylia will be recovered enough to do all of her chores? It is normal for the midwife to remain in the household for a few days to allow the mother to gain back her strength, you know.”
A few of the older militiamen grinned. They had children of their own and knew what Rald could expect.
“She’s a stern one is old Hedwig,” ventured one of the troopers. “You’re going to have to make sure your boots are clean and your neck is washed, that’s for sure!”
“And for the sake of Sigmar don’t call her Hedwig,” chimed in another, “or your first child will most definitely be your last!”
And just at that moment Mrs Heuscher’s daughter appeared. “Please Mr Tischler, Sir,” she panted, “but Mrs Libehilfe says that you are to return now.”
Brother Hans slapped Rald on the back and shook him firmly by the hand. “It is time to find out what your good wife has produced,” he said, grinning from ear to ear. The young man cast him a panicked stare and rushed off down the road.
He came to a halt outside of his house. From within came a choked squawking, the unmistakable wailing of an infant who has just found what its lungs are for. With his heart pounding he pushed open the door and peered anxiously into the kitchen. Mrs Libehilfe was there, preparing to do some washing.
She glanced up at him and smiled. “Congratulations,” she said, “you have a beautiful baby son. Both mother and child are doing well. You can go and see them now.”
—oOo—
Sergeant Felsen’s detachment tramped rather than marched along the bleak grey Feldweg, sidestepping the puddles and ruts and huddling into their doublets as measure against the spitting rain. All had shields slung over their shoulders and sheathed swords on their belts, and one of their number carried a small wooden casket.
The tall shingled barn that marked the edge of the village loomed out of the grey haze. They passed the damp structure and followed the track into the fenced paddock where the burning had taken place the previous night. The swordsmen filed through the gate, formed a line, and stood to attention. Their breath misted in the chill air.
The Sergeant followed his men to the gate then stopped in the cover of a bush that grew there. He stood for a few moments, then made his way back out onto the track, disappearing into the nebulous grey. He was absent for a minute or two, then reappeared at the entrance. He paused, walked over to the troops with a thoughtful look on his face, and began to pace up and down in front of them.
“Monke, Schwarz, Corporal Schmidt, you get that mess sorted,” he barked, pointing to the heap of charred timbers and ashes in the centre of the field. The stake still stood and steamed, and what was left of the creature hung obscenely from it. “Any bone, fur, or flesh, put it in the box, and put your gloves on before you start. Get to it, lads. Tascher and Beinmann, you’re with me.”
The three troopers set about their grisly work. The blackened skull was largely intact, along with the flesh-crusted upper parts of the ribcage and spine, though the jaw and the arms had fallen away. The pieces were pulled down and collected, and then the soldiers set to kicking through the rain-sodden ashes to look out any other fragments.
Sergeant Felsen and his squad ambled out of the field and back down the track again towards the barn. “You’ll notice, lads,” said the veteran, indicating towards the building, “that the left door is ajar. When we came past just a few minutes ago it was closed. I had a feeling we were being followed but I didn’t see anyone, so we’re going to take a little look.”
As the group neared the dark-walled structure they stopped and waited for a few moments. “Looks clear,” mumbled the Sergeant. “You two go in through the front, I’ll take the back.” He waited for nods of acknowledgement, then ducked off along the brambles and undergrowth that grew in profusion along the building’s edge, quickly disappearing from view in the murk. Both soldiers unslung their shields, drew their swords, and advanced cautiously. The leading man, Beinmann, eased the door open with his shoulder. It creaked softly.
There was an audible gasp from the gloom and a sudden movement. Straw fell and motes of dust danced in the air.
Beinmann burst in with his shield held before him and his sword in his hand, but not knowing his bearings paused for a moment to orientate himself. He caught sight of a shape disappearing into the hayloft, then Tascher pushed through next to him, blade at the ready. There was a creak from above as a door or shutter was opened. The two soldiers, braced for action, peered around and moved into the empty byre, cautious in case there were others hiding.
There was a crunch and a muffled “ooof!” from outside, and a few moments later the Sergeant walked in through the door with a wriggling, kicking youth held firmly under his arm. The lad, dark-haired and thin-faced and barely into his teens, was barefoot and splashed with mud and swore profanely at his captors. Sergeant Felsen set him down and cuffed him round the ear.
“You’re in enough trouble already, sonny. Might be best if you kept quiet.”
A quick search uncovered a trapdoor in the floor that had been partially covered in straw - the youth had been in the process of disguising it. When the hatch was pulled open a cellar was revealed, and in it were six barrels, two of a fine vintage of Marienburg brandy and four of strong geniver. From the look of them they had been there for at least a couple of weeks.
A search of their captive turned up, significantly, half a silver schilling. The youth bristled with indignation and fury at its loss.
“Assisting smugglers, boy, that’s a pretty serious charge,” growled Sergeant Felsen. “That makes you a smuggler too. You know what they do to smugglers, don’t you?
The lad stared straight ahead, his arms folded across his chest.
“They string ‘em up, that’s what they do! Stretch their necks, leave ‘em dangling and kicking and pissing in their breeches. Big men, the drop breaks their necks nice and quick, but a little squirt like you, it could take minutes. Reckon it hurts, too, what with that rough old rope cutting in. Nasty business.”
The boy had gone quiet.
“Seen an execution or two, ain’t we lads?” The soldiers mumbled agreement. “They like to make a bit of a show of it, keep the crowd entertained and all. Bit of a build-up, taunt you some, read out the charges. Then they put the rope round, but they make you wait before the drop, until … just … the … right … moment …, and … BANG!
The lad jumped near out of his skin.
“A really good hangman, well, he could keep you dancing for ten minutes even,” said the Sergeant. “The noose tight enough to kill you, but loose enough to do it nice … and … slow.” He leaned down towards the boy’s ear. “Ten minutes,” he whispered, “imagine that. Agony. Every second like an hour.”
The boy had gone very pale.
“Fancy it, do you? No? Well, if you were to mention who gave you this …” Felsen held up the half coin for dramatic effect “… maybe I could talk to a few people. You help me, I’ll help you. If not…” He clasped his fingers around his throat, contorted his face, and made a horrible choking noise.
The boy wobbled and swallowed, then looked up at the two soldiers either side of them. “I didn’t know, I’m not a smuggler, honest.” He sounded on the verge of tears. “Hans Kessel gave he that…” he pointed at the money with a trembling finger “… to come up here and cover over the trapdoor. That’s all. Please don’t hang me, I didn’t do anything!”
Sergeant Felsen stared at the boy, then nodded at the soldiers. “You two stay by the door and keep an eye on our little find,” he ordered, “while I go and check on the lads. I’ll take junior here with me.”
—oOo—
Where the brown waters of the Schleimigbach became the Feinkohlemündung, where the salt waters of the Sea of Claws gradually nibbled away at the flat wetlands, was a great expanse of sodden marshland. To outsiders it was little different to any other part of the swamps that covered this coast, but not to the men of the fens. To them it was unique and valuable. They called it the Unreinfluß.
It was an almost endless collection of ponds and lakes, some brackish and some of fresh water, linked by a shifting maze of shallow streams and saturated mud scoured smooth twice daily by the sea’s tidal flow. Occasionally, however, the flats bore great expanses of yellowed sedges, vast watery reed beds, and meadows of coarse long-stalked grasses. There were even stands of wind-sculpted willow here and there. It was treacherous and boggy, and almost always shrouded in fogs and mists.
However, it teemed with life. There were crabs and lobsters and all manner of things in shells, fish small and big, and birds, including bitterns, ducks, geese, cranes, gulls, and even noble, elusive harriers. Birds made a welcome addition to the diets of the neighbourhood, and those who braved the wetlands to hunt them could make a decent living.
A particularly favoured spot for such wildfowl was a broad mere called the Entewasser. It had many drier areas around its edges that were ideal for setting camp, and the lie of the land was good for netting. Wolfgang Müller and Gunter Braun had been there since before dawn.
“Eight,” mumbled Gunter from around a huge bite of meat pie. “That’s not bad. And I only lost one arrow.” Occasional drops of rain fell, accentuating the intense odour of humus and decay. He glanced up at the layer of heavy grey clouds.
His dog, sitting at her master’s feet and transfixed by the food, sensed his distraction and made a move for the wedge of cheese he was holding in his other hand. “Down, Heidi, bad dog!” he shouted, spitting crumbs of pastry.
Wolfgang grunted. He was never the most vocal of men.
“Of course, if I’d been luckier I might have bagged more, but I shouldn’t be greedy. Eight is quite reasonable.” The huntsman took another huge bite of pie and brushed a lock of wet hair from his eyes. “And what with your six, not a bad catch at all.”
Heidi whined.
“In a minute, girl,” said Gunter in a firmer tone of voice. But the dog didn’t quieten. It got to its feet and padded to the waters edge, all the while growling.
“What’s got into her?”
Wolfgang shrugged.
They felt it more than heard it at first, a resonating, deep and bass, which seeped up through the ground and made the water ripple. The vibration seemed to lessen a little, but was overtaken by a solid, heavy thud. The shock of the crash became another dull rumble that gradually faded to nothing. The silence held for just a moment, then startled birds began shrill calls. Heidi, trembling from her nose to the tip of her tail, barked and growled.
Gunter stared at his friend with wide eyes. “What in the name of Taal was that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Should we go and look?”
“We should.”
Both men snatched up their packs and equipment and hurriedly donned them. “Go, Heidi!” shouted Gunter, and the dog streaked off into the mist. They dashed after her.
They followed the length of the promontory on which they had made camp and splashed across an expanse of firm, damp mud dotted with clumps of stranded seaweed. The mud merged into the flowing waters of a stream, on the far side of which was an irregular, fence-like shore of tall green reeds. The fog hung in dense banks above the sluggish waters, but the shadowy outlines of trees indicated that there was firmer footing beyond.
The dog, barely visible in the grey drizzle, waded through the water, sniffing back and forth along the thick stalks. Eventually she found a game trail and pushed her way through. The hunters, who had paused to catch their breath, exchanged glances and set off after her.
The stream was almost knee-deep in the middle but became shallower again towards the reeds. Wolfgang shouldered his way in among the stiff green stems and Gunter followed, eventually emerging onto a marshy shore covered in sedges and sphagnum. The ground gently trended upwards into the mist, becoming firm enough to support a few twisted and black-barked willows that were barely as tall as a man.
Heidi was only a few yards off, sniffing the ground again and whining. She looked across at her master and then was away. The men exchanged glances and set off after her. They laboured up the slope, crested the rise, and stared in astonishment.
The centre of the island had collapsed.
The subsidence, which was loosely triangular in shape and had a curiously regular quality about it, had to be near twenty yards along its longest edge. Here and there flecks of white could be seen. The interior was a mess of mud and roots and debris, and gnarled timbers, blackened and ancient, jutted skywards from the centre.
Gunter pointed into the hole. “Its deeper than the water,” he said, “but it ain’t flooding.” Something worried him. He pulled his bow from his quiver, fished his bowstring from an inside pocket, unrolled the tough twine, and strung the weapon.
Wolfgang grunted. “I’m going to look at those beams. There’s a few schillings-worth there, I’d wager.” He tested his footing on the loose slope and began a measured, careful slide down towards the centre. Heidi, who was now silent, sniffed her way around the edges of the fall.
Gunter watched his friend work his way down, then made his way to the cusp of the slope where the vertical straight edge first became apparent. The dense layer of moss and grasses that had grown above it now hung down in a torn and ragged screen.
A fragment of white caught his attention, gleaming amid the clods of umber earth just at the very top of the slump. He knelt down, placed his bow beside him, and carefully excavated with his knife. He unearthed a stone the size of a fist, creamy white along a fresh break but otherwise caked in layers of clay and dirt. He picked off the worst of the mud with his fingers, revealing a face that had been finished. Splashes of rain carried away trickles of the remaining soil, revealing a filigree of carving.
“What is this place?” he whispered to himself as he tucked it inside his snapsack, nestling it below the ducks he had caught earlier.
Something moved a few yards from Wolfgang … a clod of dirt dropped from view. A hole was appearing in the spoil around the wood.
“Gunter…”
A rat scurried out of the hole and along one of the beams. It sat on its haunches, cocky as you like, sniffing the air and peering around. It was a sturdy beast with beady eyes and long yellow incisors. Its dark fur was matted with dried mud. Wolfgang stared at it.
Heidi had frozen. She began a deep rolling growl.
A swarm of rats emerged, boiling out of the hollow, squeaking and swarming over the ground. The hole widened as their weight and scurrying claws pulled lumps of muck and dirt away. The dog, staring loll-tongued from the rim of the fall, tensed for a second and then sprang, diving among the panicking vermin and snatching the creatures up in its jaws. It joyfully despatched each victim with a savage flick and sprang after more.
From the hole there emerged a clawed hand clasping a jagged-bladed knife, followed by a head, as big as that of a child but quite inhuman. The snout was long and scab-crusted, the small red eyes gleamed, the round pink ears were torn, and the stained yellow teeth were chipped and uneven. Its pelt, or at least what could be seen of it, was scarred and the brown fur grew in untidy clumps. It seemed to be struggling to get free.
Wolfgang was scrambling backwards, trying to get away from the thing. He couldn’t seem to find his footing.
Gunter grabbed his bow and stood up. He pulled an arrow from his quiver, nocked it in the string, drew a bead, and let fly.
Thwack!
The shaft pierced the creature just below the eye, killing it instantly. It went rigid for a moment and then limp, dropping back down the hole. Wolfgang looked across to his friend and spun round onto all fours, scrabbling up the loose dirt.
“Come on!” yelled Gunter. He turned and sprinted down the slope and into the scant cover offered by the willows. The mist hung in tendrils around the trees and made it difficult to see. He caught his breath and pulled two arrows from his quiver, clamping one between his teeth and nocking the other into the bowstring.
Just for a moment the mists parted and he saw Wolfgang, in grey silhouette, crest the rise. There was the sound of a high-pitched canine yelp, cut painfully short, from behind him. Wolfgang tripped and fell, sprawling on the ground.
“Come on!” he mumbled from around the arrow, his arm outstretched in a futile gesture of aid. The mists closed again.
Something moved ahead of him. His fingers returned to the string. “Wolfgang?” he called, his voice distorted by the shaft between his teeth, but the only response was a sudden burst of footsteps moving to his right. He tracked the movement and squinted through the gloom, then caught a glimpse of a form. He drew back the string and fired.
Thwack!
His target collapsed backwards with a shriek, slipping down the muddy bank and writhing grotesquely, grasping ineffectually at the shaft jutting from its abdomen. Mercifully the mists swallowed it up, though he could still hear its muffled squeals and grunts.
Even before his target had fallen Gunter had nocked the other arrow.
A shape loomed out of the murk, off to his left and little more than a shadow. He fired again, more on instinct than aim, and was rewarded with another fleshy thwack. There was a heavy thud as the target tumbled, a sudden burst of violent thrashing, then silence.
A shriek rang out from ahead of him. It took him a moment to realise that it was Wolfgang.
Gunter drew another arrow from his quiver and nocked it into the string, then began to back away. He was panting, he realised, his hands were shaking, and he was clammy with sweat. From all around he heard noises.
They’d got Wolfgang. And Heidi. If he stayed, he reasoned, they were going to get him too. Sigmar alone knew how many of the horrors there were. The only sensible thing to do was to leave.
He backed towards the reeds, keeping his eyes towards the willows.
The mist seemed to be lighter away from the trees, and again he caught a glimpse of movement. More of them, at least three … no, four. He could barely make them out, but they seemed to have caught his scent and were peering towards him.
The nearest pair of the creatures uttered high-pitched shrieks and launched forward. For just a moment he thought about firing again, but chose against it and struggled his way into the reed bed. They were chasing him.
Fear lent him wings. He crashed noisily through the tall stalks, glancing back and catching sight of the plants behind him whipping back and forth, betraying the positions of his pursuers. A treacherous root tripped him and he lost his footing, stumbling and nearly falling flat on his face. He dropped his bow and the arrow as he fought to retain his balance, then tumbled with a splash into the stream.
He dragged himself to his feet, coughing and streaming water, and loped towards the mud. He struggled up it, the thick mire sucking at his boots and slowing him to a painful crawl. Gasping for breath and with his muscles aching he dragged himself onto firmer land. He drew his knife and surveyed the shore, searching back and forth for any sign of movement. There was none.
He turned and ran as fast as he could to where he and Wolfgang had moored their punt. He cast off and made for home with the greatest possible haste.
—oOo—
Captain Langer, clad in his plain armour and with a rain-dampened cape around his shoulders, walked through the narthex and into the nave. The building was plain and clean and the air was heavy with the heady aroma of incense. He paused to bow towards the altar and make the sign of the hammer across his chest. A brother-initiate, busy in one of the transepts, took slow, measured paces to his side.
“I am Brother Otto,” he announced. “How may I assist?”
“I wish to speak to Brother Franz.”
“I’m sorry,” replied the clergyman, “he’s away tending to the needs of one of the parishioners at the moment. He may be some time.”
“Hmmm.” The Captain idly tapped a finger on the pommel of his sword. “Then maybe you can tell me who possesses the byre and paddock on the far northern side of the village?”
“On the Feldweg? Both the barn and the paddock are part of the church’s holdings. They are generally used to store tithes, and when they are needed they can be used by the local folk. For a small fee, of course. I believe they are under lease even now. I am sorry, but I do not have the appropriate papers to show you at this time.”
“Do you know who is responsible for checking their usage, perhaps?”
“Both myself and Brother Hans. One or the other of us inspects all of the various properties and holdings of the church every week to ensure that no harm has come to them.”
“And this Brother Hans, would he by any chance be one Hans Kessel?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Related to one Georg?”
“Yes,” answered the Priest. “Hans is his younger brother.”
“Thankyou,” breathed Captain Langer, looking up to the heavens and making the sign of the hammer across his chest again. Brother Otto looked at him strangely.
“Barrels of contraband spirits were found in a cellar within that property, Brother Otto. An individual was apprehended in the act of hiding that contraband. Under questioning he revealed that he had been paid by one Hans Kessel to hide the barrels. I made certain enquiries and discovered that the said building is currently under lease to one Georg Kessel, who, you have just informed me, is the older sibling of Hans Kessel. I smell conspiracy to defraud, Brother Otto.”
The priest’s mouth opened and closed as thoughts raced through his mind, though no sound emerged.
“You have implicated yourself too, Brother Otto,” continued Captain Langer. “Those barrels have been there for some time, so either you are a party to the activities that placed them there, or you have been negligent in your duties to the church, in that your searches to guarantee the security of the building have been less than thorough. Which, of course, brings into question all of the other duties that you’ve performed. There will doubtless be … consequences. All of the obvious secular drawbacks, of course, with trials and fines and executions and the like, but then there would be the ecclesiastical repercussions as well.”
“How do you mean?”
“Matters of this nature will quickly come to the attention of your See at Salzenmund, perhaps even to the eyes of the Lector himself. What with the empty Electoral seat being run from Middenheim and the resulting growth of the church of Ulric, the followers of that god now outnumber Sigmar’s faithful within this Province. Your church’s revenue and influence are dwindling, Brother Otto, and your Prelacy will be less than pleased to discover that you have been doing harm to their good name at such a crucial time.”
He paused for dramatic effect. “The Electors themselves may even pressure them to do some housekeeping, and where would that leave you, or Brother Hans, or Brother Franz even?”
“Would you excuse me for … just…” mumbled the cleric as he strode down the nave and out through the doors. Captain Langer clasped his hands behind his back, paced over to the wall, and peered at the carved wooden frieze running around them. It was almost the only decoration and depicted mighty fur-clad barbarians locked in savage combat with all kinds of monsters and terrors. The composition was excellent and the actual detail was exquisite.
It didn’t take Brother Franz long to appear. He stormed in, his scarlet robes streaming and an ornate hammer clasped in his hand. Initiates and lay brothers trailed in his furious wake. “What’s all this I hear?” he bellowed.
Captain Langer smiled amiably. “Fine carvings you have here. Really very good workmanship.”
“What?”
“I’m a great admirer of ecclesiastical architecture. I see quite a lot in the course of my work. The quality of the woodwork is really very fine. Some of the best I’ve seen on the northern coast.”
“Never mind that!” the Priest thundered. “You have been making accusations!”
“I have?” Captain Langer looked up at the roof. The beams and trusses were all very neat and true, and turned bosses were set at all the joints. “Maybe it’s the tradition of building boats that accounts for it,” he said to no one in particular. “Exceptional, quite exceptional.”
The Captain’s disinterest seemed to have drawn the Priest’s rancour; he was used to people paying attention when he raised his voice. He took a deep breath. “We should talk.”
Captain Langer met him with a steady gaze. “Yes, we should,” he answered. “Would you prefer to go over things here, or do you have a chamber where we may enjoy a little privacy?”
Once they were safely away and seated the Captain once more explained the situation. Brother Franz sprang to his feet and denied all knowledge, placing the blame squarely onto the Initiates under his advocacy. He raged and fumed, and Langer let him do so. Eventually the severity of the situation took a hold in the Priest’s mind, and miserably he sat back down.
“What is to be done, Captain?” he asked.
“I’m sure that in return for your co-operation we could come to some mutually beneficial arrangement.”
“And what exactly do you mean by co-operation?” For a moment the light of hope shone in the Priest’s eyes. A pay-off, perhaps? Or a favour owed in return for silence?
At that moment Captain Langer knew for certain that Brother Franz was deeply involved in whatever nefarious activities were being carried on. And who, in all honesty, could blame him? The Church provided little support for such a backwater, the area was poor in resources, there were constant dangers, and there was precious little return for the taxes that were paid to the Province.
The Captain fished around in a pouch on his belt and recovered a small flask, taking a draught of the spirit it contained. He offered it but it was refused.
“My duties are more than as a mere inspector of revenue,” he said. “Such a role is useful, though, for it gives me a great deal of access to places and to information. Mr Abdecker and myself have been charged with hunting down and destroying creatures of the kind that you killed last night.”
He took another swig of the liquor.
“For reasons that still escape me” he continued, “certain authorities within our great Empire dismiss the notion of these creatures existing. It is rather like a fellow who dismisses the existence of a tree, and all the while he is standing in a forest. Fortunately there are a few of our peers who are more enlightened. It is they who have charged us with our mission and provided the means for us to carry it out. But in order to do that we will need two things from you.”
“I … see,” said the Priest slowly. “And these things would be?”
“Firstly, we require intelligence. We have been tracking a large group of these creatures for many months. We know that their nest is nearby, but the exact location escapes us still. I would consider it beneficial…” he laid a heavy emphasis on the word “… if your good Brothers could go and talk to the parishioners, particularly those who spend time in the marshes, and gather all of the stories about strange happenings that they tell. Be sure to send men who can write, so that they may note down all of the details, and when they are done have them bring those reports back to me. And with all haste, too – before the day is out, ideally.”
The Priest nodded. “That can be arranged.”
“Second, I suspect that there is going to be a big fight, and I will need your men when that time comes.”
“A battle? With whom?” asked the Priest.
Captain Langer was incredulous. Who else would it be? “Those creatures,” he replied acidly. “They’re called Skaven, you know. They have a considerable force.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. If there were an army around here I’d surely know of it.”
“They are out there, Brother. Every man, woman and child in this town, and in the other communities around these parts, is in the gravest danger. There are not ten of these creatures, or twenty, or fifty even. There are thousands. We are terribly outnumbered by them, and you have angered them.”
“You exaggerate numbers, surely? Someone would have seen such a force. Besides, how would there be enough food for that many?”
“No, Brother Franz, I do not exaggerate at all. These creatures, for the most part, live in tunnels that they excavate, and I suspect that for the moment at least they have provisions. I believe that they gained those provisions from merchant barges on the lower reaches of the Schleimigbach. Several looted and burned hulls were discovered about a week ago, along with evidence that strongly suggests that Skaven were responsible.”
“This is nonsense…”
“It is not. Soon they will be hungry, and I have seen the effect of that. All they leave behind is desolation and pestilence and death.”
“If what you say is true, Captain, then we are doomed. Our only sensible course of action is to abandon this place while we still can.”
Captain Langer snorted. “You would give up these folk’s homes so easily? All that they have toiled and sweated for?”
“And what would you have me do, good Captain?” snapped back the Priest. “Leave them to be slaughtered by monsters? Is that what you suggest?”
The Captain took another gulp from his flask. “No, there is another way. We draw them out and attack them at a place and a time of our own choosing.”
“And how exactly do you propose we do that?”
“To be honest, Brother, I can’t yet answer that question. But I will need the Militia, and above all I will need you to lead and inspire them. And I also need to be confident that when the time comes you will carry out my orders.”
“You have no idea of the strength of your enemy, other than that there are some thousands of them, while we can barely muster two hundred. You have no real idea of where this enemy is, or how you will go about fighting them…”
Captain Langer held up his finger. “Not true!” he interjected. “I do know how to fight them.”
“So the choice I have comes down to becoming your lackey on a suicidal enterprise, or…”
“… or not. In which case I hand my findings over to the appropriate authorities, and we let justice take its course. Assuming that you’re still alive to face whatever charges may be brought against you.” Captain Langer grinned affably. “The choice, of course, is entirely yours.”
The Priest furrowed his brow and scowled. “So be it. I will assist you.”
—oOo—
The atmosphere in the jolly boat was miserable. Everyone huddled into their cloaks, their hats pulled down over their ears, damp and bored and wishing they were back aboard the Bösewicht The rain landed in big heavy splashes, sending a fine spray off of the water and making the boards slick. The chill grey mist hung heavy, laden with the stink of seaweed and stagnant water and mud.
A fishing line trailed from the gunwale of the little boat.
Captain Fuchs had spent the morning trying to take sightings from his fixed points. The most prominent was a small island, about a mile off, on which there stood a single willow tree. Others included a number of distinctively shaped banks of reeds and mud flats that only submerged at the highest tides. However, they were only visible when the weather was clear, and on a foul day like today there was little to be done.
Jürgen had assured them that the weather would lift by the middle of the day at the latest, and his judgement was rarely wrong. But it seemed that today he could be mistaken.
“Gentlemen,” said the Captain from within the folds of his muffler “I have to announce that I consider our task to be done. We are now crossing old ground, or rather old water, to check our previous findings, and I am glad to inform you that our results remain the same. As such I see little benefit from remaining here catching our deaths of colds.”
There was a general murmur of approval from the others.
“I propose to complete the chart this evening – it is all but done anyway – and present it to Dr Ungerade either on the morrow or the day after. We shall then get our money and be away.”
“Got one!”
Josef’s shout startled everyone. The fishing line had gone taut.
Max retrieved a net from the kit lying in the bottom of the boat and rushed to Josef’s side. His movement set the little craft rocking from side to side and earned him a tirade of curses.
“Easy, you brute,” muttered Josef to the fish.
He wound the line around a belaying pin that he used for the purpose. With muscles straining he hauled in his catch, but the creature was strong. He let it run out a little, a few loops of the twine jerking over of the end of the pin, then hauled again.
Everyone peered to see what he had snared. Presently they were rewarded with a flash of silver-green amid the dark waters.
The battle continued back and forth until the beast became exhausted. When it was close enough Max scooped it into the net. Jürgen went to help, and the pair of them brought aboard a mottled green pike of impressive proportions. It thrashed and gasped in the shallow rainwater sloshing around in the bottom of the boat.
Josef cracked it a mighty blow on the base of its skull with the belaying pin. Then he hit it again, just to be sure. The fish had a muscle spasm that set its flanks twitching.
“That’ll make a fine supper,” said Jürgen. “Do you think Ernst will know how to cook it?”
“It’ll be muddy,” announced Anton. “All of them are, from these waters, ‘cos of the silt. You want to get rid of the muddy taste, you put them in a tank of running water for about a week or so. Alive, of course. Then they taste good. That was a trick my old grandpa had.”
Fuchs held out his hand and tested the weather. The rain was definitely easing and the visibility did seem to be improving.
“Jürgen, you seem to have been proved right,” he announced. “I do believe we shall continue here until the end of the day, just to be sure. Have good cheer, lads, for our work is very near done.”
Those last few hours were really going to drag.
—oOo—
The afternoon was dull and dreary, but somehow Mr Abdecker’s darkened chamber seemed gloomier and less welcoming than the bleak outdoors. Captain Langer glanced at the litter of charts and depositions scattered about the room and settled deeper into the chair by the fire. He wrapped his long cloak a little tighter around his legs, glad to be out of his armour.
Mr Abdecker prepared himself, setting his accoutrements before him; the brazier, filled with glowing embers and with the brass bowl set upon it, a single candle set into a golden pricket, and an earthernware washbowl. This he filled with water, muttering a prayer of protection while the liquid settled mirror still.
He settled himself cross-legged on the floor next to the circle he had drawn the previous night. He opened his notebook and thumbed through the leaves until he found the appropriate page. He referred to a particular set of notations and began a soft, low chant, words of power and invocation, only occasionally glancing back to the spidery jottings.
The water in the washbowl seemed to ripple, as though blown by a gentle breeze. He could feel its ghostly caress on his skin and it filled his nostrils with the pungence of fur and breath and blood. But the flame on the candle was steady and the papers lay flat and unmoving on the floor.
“Through this sacrifice, I invoke and stir the winds of Ghur. He pricked his thumb and squeezed a few drops of blood into the hot bowl atop the brazier. It hissed briefly and evaporated. “Transport my essence so that I become one with my servant, bound by me to become my vessel.”
The water in the washbowl transfixed him, it’s surface again limpid. It seemed to draw him in. His head swam and for a moment he felt nauseous.
He seemed to be floating above his own head.
Everything became like a half-remembered dream. The room around him bowed and stretched away into infinity, though he could still see the far wall. The taste of wine in his mouth, the hard wood below his buttocks, even the texture of his clothes against his skin, all were distant and nebulous and were sensations belonging to someone else. The only remaining fragment of reality was the water.
And then there was darkness. It surrounded him and smothered him, enveloping him forever and yet for no time at all.
Not total darkness. Here and there were areas of light, or rather not so dark. It was almost as though he was peering through a fish bowl. Gradually he became aware of colours, greys and greens and shades of red, but they were dull and hollow. And then the smell! Intense wafts and pungent odours, a thousand subtleties contained within a single zephyr. Some were warm and familiar and comforting, but others, sharper and keener, were laden with menace and danger. Stronger feelings sleeted through him, warmth and cold, gnawing hunger, and overwhelming, saturating fear.
Mr Abdecker gasped for breath. His brow was furrowed and beaded with sweat.
He was not alone. He was in the presence of teeming masses, hordes of scurrying shapes and fleeting shadows… There were other things, beings, indistinct but tall and upright, and with them came that same deep sense of fear.
And darkness again, sudden and intense. The shock of it bowled him over backwards.
He opened his eyes. For a moment he was disorientated. He was lying on his back and Captain Langer was crouching down beside him.
“Are you all right, old fellow?” the soldier asked, concern etched across his face.
Mr Abdecker nodded. He eased himself back upright and gave himself a few moments to regain his composure. When he was ready he reached inside his shirt and retrieved a pendant, a natural crystal shaped like a teardrop and hung on a golden chain. He lifted it over his head and suspended it from the fingers of his right hand, then held his arm out vertically.
“The map,” he croaked.
Captain Langer scrabbled for the charts and spread them out on the floor. He selected a sketch of the town and placed it below his companion’s hand.
“May the winds of Ghur sway this my talisman.” intoned Mr Abdecker.
The crystal began to circle, but with every loop its orbit became more oval, until finally it swung back and forth in a direction that the compass rose indicated as north by west. To be certain Captain Langer gave the vellum a quarter turn. Gradually the crystal’s swing became circular, then settled into an oval, and finally became a back and forth motion that was again north by west.
“The map of the marshes, quickly.”
Captain Langer scrabbled around and found the appropriate chart. It was poorly detailed, but it had marked on it the rudimentary positions of the major streams, the larger lakes, and the islands. He slid it under Mr Abdecker’s outstretched arm. The crystal began to circle again, and once more the swing became an oval. Captain Langer and Mr Abdecker exchanged glances. Eventually it settled into a back and forth motion that was a little south of west.
Mr Abdecker lowered his hand and the Captain passed him a tankard of beer. He took a mouthful. “So, west of the marshes and north-west of the town,” he said, “which places our little friend squarely in the waters of the Schleimigbach.”
“Could it be swimming?”
“No. It was clearly in a dry place. There were … other … things there as well. They could have been men. I couldn’t tell.”
Captain Langer got up and walked over to the window. His eyes came to rest on the little brig bobbing at anchor. “Could it perhaps have been aboard a ship?”
Mr Abdecker looked at him. “I do believe it could,” he replied.
Captain Langer picked up some of the depositions from the floor, then settled himself back into the chair by the fire. “The priest has been very prompt in producing these,” he said. “They make interesting reading. A lot are mere gibberish, and I have set them aside. Of those which are pertinent, about a half relate to people losing livestock, and about two thirds of the remainder are sightings of our quarry. These we will study in greater detail, for they may reveal valuable clues.”
He waved the papers he clutched. “But, all of the stories that are left, they relate to the activities of a group of sailors, the ones on that foreign-looking ship in the harbour.”
“Schlammigerdorf doesn’t have a harbour, to be precise,” countered Mr Abdecker. “Big vessels anchor in the deepwater channel. There is a part that escapes the worst effects of tide and current, though it is exposed to the weather. Shallow-draught vessels and small craft may make it up to the pilings, but they get beached at low tide.”
The Captain blinked at him.
“Erm, well, yes. These sailors spend all their days among the marshes to the north of the town,” he said, “and every few days the Commander of this group visits a rather reclusive individual by the name of Dr Cornelius Ungerade. The fellow maintains a large estate along the Nordküstestraße. However, I should stress that this Ungerade is very well spoken of.”
“Indeed.” Mr Abdecker began to pack away the items, blessing each as he did so. When he was done he put on his coat and hat. “You and our brave young Ensign should continue about your martial duties,” he suggested. “I believe I will pay a visit to our friends aboard that ship.”
Captain Langer nodded. “I agree. However, if you’re going visiting, you’re taking someone to watch your back. Sergeant Felsen will assign you an escort, just to be safe.”
—oOo—
Mr Abdecker and a squad of five soldiers were ferried out to the Bösewicht aboard one of the grubby little smacks. The grizzled old fishermen who manned the helm and trimmed the sails hailed the ship as they approached.
Lukas peered down from the forechains and scanned the visitors, then disappeared from view. A few moments later old Sepp’s head appeared, followed by Ernst’s, and then the pair ducked back out of sight. The sound of hushed conversation filtered down, then Lukas appeared at the waist.
“You may come aboard,” he called.
The boat was brought alongside, and with more agility than his rangy frame would have suggested Mr Abdecker climbed through the entryport and onto the deck. He straightened his clothing, adjusted his hat, and surveyed his surroundings. “Where is your Captain, young man?” he asked.
“He is about his duties, Sir. He will be back soon, within the next half-hour, I’d wager.”
“I shall wait.”
The handgunners following behind him were making a meal of coming aboard. One barked his shin on the port lip and swore, stopping his climb and in turn holding up everyone behind him. The three sailors hurried to the aid of the lubbers, and while they were distracted Mr Abdecker strode off to the aft companion ladder. In a moment he was in place on the quarterdeck, and there he remained, pacing back and forth, until the Bösewicht’s crew returned.
And had Lukas actually put money down he would have won.
Fuchs and the men, having spotted their visitors, remained quiet until the jollyboat came alongside the brig. The Captain scaled the side and glanced at the soldiers, who stared impassively back, then took charge as his sea chest was swung aboard. When it was safely on the deck he headed aft. He paused at the wardroom door and looked up to the quarterdeck rail. “I am retiring to my cabin, Sir,” he called. “You may join me, if you wish, or you may continue to take the air.”
Captain Fuchs had shed his cloak, had taken a seat, and was sipping from a goblet of wine by the time Mr Abdecker knocked at his door. The man had to duck to avoid knocking his head on the low beams. Fuchs offered him a seat. “Wine?” he asked. “It’s Estalian, you know, and very nice too. The sun shines bright on that land and the grapes grow sweet.”
To the Captain’s surprise the man accepted. Somehow he had expected him to be an abstainer. It just went to show that you couldn’t tell by looking.
“So, Mr…”
“Abdecker. Julius Abdecker,” the visitor provided.
“How exactly can I help you?”
“Your activities for the last couple of weeks have been very interesting. Very interesting indeed.”
“I wouldn’t say that, exactly. My men are bored half to death.”
Mr Abdecker gave him a look. “And what work are you conducting?”
“Very strange, Sir, that you find my work so fascinating, but you don’t know what it is that I do,” answered Fuchs.
“You have been seen to leave this vessel and row out to the edge of the marshes, and there conduct … activities. Of a nature you are unwilling to discuss.”
“I am working discreetly, yes, but at the request of my employer. Who is well thought of in these parts, I should add.” He paused as a thought came to the fore. “You think I’m smuggling!”
“I’m more than a simple revenue officer, Captain. I have been entrusted with other duties, as has my companion, Captain Langer. Presently I am investigating whether your actions were … worse … than mere smuggling.”
Captain Fuchs frowned. “Worse?”
Mr Abdecker’s voice was calm. “Consorting with our enemies,” he replied. “Undermining the fabric of the Province of Nordland and the Empire, and thereby the lawful rule of Karl Franz himself. Treason, Sir.”
“Treason?” Fuchs snorted in contempt. “You’re mad! A few barrels short of a full hold, that’s for sure. Have I been accused by someone?”
“No, Sir”, replied Mr Abdecker, retaining his icy composure. “No accusations have been made. However, I have other means of knowing such things. An agent was sent, and revealed that you and certain, how shall I say, enemies, shared a common place and time. My investigations have revealed that you have had similar engagements for a number of weeks. Ergo, Sir, it is treason.”
For a moment Fuchs was speechless. “An agent, you say? Well, he’s got it wrong. The whole thing is ridiculous. We never saw a single soul, not once, friend nor foe alike. We were in a boat the whole time, on the water. I suggest, Sir, that you hire a more reliable agent in the future, for this one seems to have made a patsy of you.”
“In a boat? That is most interesting. And yet my agent most clearly revealed the presence of dry land. Is there not, perhaps, some island or firm place among the reeds? A spot where you might put ashore?”
“I will admit that there are shallower places, and banks and bars that become exposed at low tides. In fact, one of the sighting points that I use is an island with a single tree growing upon it. But there are no dry areas anywhere near where we were about. The only place we have put ashore in the whole time we have been here has been in the town.”
Fuchs paused and thought. “But then, would you believe the word of a supposed traitor? Perhaps it would be best if you returned ashore and asked among those who have lived on this coast all of their lives. They would know the land, or rather the water, far better than I. They could tell you if there was a spot where I could have landed.”
Mr Abdecker nodded. “I will,” he answered, and took a sip of his wine. “But before I depart, perhaps you would care to enlighten me as to what you are about in your boat for all those days. I shall find out in the end, in truth.”
Fuchs pondered for a moment, then seemed to come to a decision. “We are making a precise chart of the area,” he said. “Our day is spent taking sightings to ensure an accurate position, and taking soundings to measure the depth of the water. Our employer is Dr Ungerade, with whom I am sure you’re familiar.”
The Captain got up and opened the chart locker, selecting a rolled sheet of vellum. He brought it back to the table and unfurled it, holding down the curling edges with a decanter and one of the glasses. It showed, to the untrained eye at least, very little. The paper was covered with a mass of dots and crosses with tiny numbers written next to them, along with a series of curved and straight lines. In one corner there was a scale and a compass rose.
Mr Abdecker looked blank. “What is this?”
“This, Sir, is the said chart. It depicts the lower reaches of the Schleimigbach, where those waters become the Feinkohlemündung. To be more precise, Sir, it shows the contours of the seabed below the water. The depth is measured in fathoms and feet. The higher the number, the deeper the water.”
“And why would Dr Ungerade commission such a work?”
Fuchs shrugged. “I don’t know. He is something of a natural philosopher and has all manner of interests. So does the charge of treason still stand against me?”
“As I said, I am still investigating…”
There was the sound of a commotion from the fore, the thumping of running feet and a clamour of voices. Captain Fuchs snatched up his pistol and took his perspective glass from its shelf. He rushed out through the wardroom and onto the deck, Mr Abdecker hot on his heels.
“Report, Mr Hirsch, if you would be so good,” he called as he scaled the companion ladder onto the quarterdeck.
“There’s a light on the shore, Sir, fine on the Larboard quarter,” answered Jürgen. “A big one. It just suddenly started.”
Fuchs focused his glass on the distant glare, then lowered it. As Mr Abdecker came to a halt beside him he passed the instrument to his guest. “Take a look, Sir,” he said sombrely.
Mr Abdecker raised the glass to his eye and focused on the distant image. It appeared to be a pyre around a stake. The flames were engulfing … it was difficult to make out … a figure, who was secured to the upright. The figure was writhing.
—oOo—
