—oOo—
The cat struggled down the low stone step into the little kitchen with a huge rat clamped between its jaws. It’s prize, still very much alive, wriggled and squirmed and managed to get loose. The cat watched it for a second and sprung, pinning it with its mouth. It rearranged its grip and straddled its catch, and then stumbled across the polished flags as bow-legged as a saddle-sore pistolier.
Once it had reached the hearth the moggy released its prey and sat down, folding its tail neatly around its legs and casually washing a paw. The terrified rodent, panting in tiny gasps, lay in front of it.
Meow!
“What’s the matter with you?” said Granny Schmidt. She struggled up out of her rocking chair and took hold of her walking stick. She hobbled around the scrubbed table, blinking short-sightedly, and peered down.
“What’s that you’ve got there?”
Meow! The cat had a smug look on its face.
The old woman poked at the rat with her stick. It squeaked loudly and dashed away. She shrieked and jerked backwards, only just keeping her balance.
The cat, all claws and teeth and malign intent, pounced after the creature, snatching it up in its jaws. Horrified, the old lady wobbled after it, waving her stick. The cat, none too keen on receiving a good prodding, disappeared under the table.
Something caught her attention on the narrow windowsill. The rat!
“How did you get up there?”
She looked reproachfully towards the cat’s hiding place and smacked her gums. “Some mouser you are, if you let it go again.”
She propped her walking stick against the table, shuffled over to the corner by the hearth, and took a hold of her broom. She turned carefully and squinted at the little brown beast, which was sitting on its hind legs and preening its whiskers.
“Shoo!”
Granny Schmidt swung the brush at the creature and it leaped away, landing with a plop on the floor. She shrieked again as it darted towards her and scurried over her shoe. She flailed wildly with the broom, stumbled, and fell heavily against the dresser. Crockery tumbled and smashed on the stony ground.
The cat dispatched its catch with a flick of its head, breaking the little creature’s neck, then raced off in pursuit of the new target.
Another of the little monstrosities appeared, scrabbling towards the open door into the main room. Granny Schmidt cried out again and hopped about frantically as it scampered past her, treading heavily on one of the broken plates. Her foot skidded away and she fell to the ground, dropping her stick.
More and more of the rats were appearing, boiling out of the cracks in the walls.
The cat, seriously outnumbered, leaped onto the table, bounded across it and jumped onto the dresser’s counter. It came face to face with another of the huge rodents, thought better about a confrontation, and sprang up onto the top of the heavy sideboard. And there it sat, licking its lips nervously, its tail puffed and flicking.
She tried to get up but her legs refused to work. She moaned weakly, flailing her arms in front of her face as the verminous swarm engulfed her. Suddenly she tensed. Her eyes bulged and her tongue lolled, and a series of convulsions racked her spindly frame.
Mrs Lieber, Granny Schmidt’s next-door-neighbour, rushed from her house out onto the mist-shrouded track that led off of the Feldweg. She peered to the left and right but there was no one else in sight. Even the old woman’s cottage was an indistinct grey shadow in the murk.
Another crash rang out.
Heide, her little daughter, trotted to the door behind her. “Mama, what’s happening?”
“I don’t know, sweetheart. Come along now.”
She took hold of the girl’s hand and walked carefully along to the house. She tried the latch, but the door was bolted from the inside.
“Hello, Agi?” She hammered on the wood with her fist. There was no reply.
She knelt beside the little girl. “Heide, I need you to run to the square and find some men. Bring them back here as fast as you can, you understand?” The child nodded and dashed off as fast as her little legs could carry her.
“Hurry now”, called her mother after her, then turned back to the house, beating on the door again. “Agi!”
Very shortly afterwards the girl returned with three watchmen, who she had chanced across a little way down the road. Mrs Lieber, keen to be of assistance, quickly related all that she had heard. The watchmen nodded and their senior man drew his pistol.
“Right-ho,” he said, “stand back please.” He cocked the weapon, then squared himself up and charged the door. It burst inward and he stumbled through, only remaining on his feet because he collided with the heavy kitchen table.
“Oh, Gods…”
The place was alive with rats. The verminous creatures streamed through the ruined doorframe, spilling out onto the lane in a wave of brown fur. Everyone hopped and shouted as they surged past, Mrs Lieber snatching up her shrieking child before it could come to any harm. Within moments the mass had disappeared, with only one or two stragglers visible. Soon even these had vanished.
The other two watchmen cautiously entered and joined their companion, who was leaning over the body of the old lady. She was covered in bites and scratches, quite dead.
Meow!
The watchmen near jumped out of their skin. It was the cat, still sat atop the dresser and watching them nervously.
—oOo—
The evening was drawing in by the time the jollyboat had returned the party to shore. A pony and trap had been sent to the quayside to meet them, and when promises of return visits had been made and the ebullient thanks had finally ceased it was quite dark. Fuchs felt drained.
“Well, Jürgen, do you think that was worth a hold full of smoked fish?” he asked as they clattered away.
The mate shrugged his shoulders and scratched his nose. “Dunno, Sir. Probably.” He paused for a long moment. “That woman, the one who gave you the runaround, begging your pardon. The mayor’s wife …”
“Mrs Starkleiter?”
“Yes, her. Seemed very interested in the ship. Why do you think that was?”
“Oh, I see what you mean. Nothing sinister, Mr Hirsch, nothing sinister. Its because she’s got brains, you see.”
Jürgen frowned. “Captain, I don’t understand.”
“Look around you.” The Captain gestured broadly at the squalid warehouses and the dank wharves. “This village isn’t exactly the intellectual capital of the province, is it? If I were in her position I’d have made the most of a distraction, too.”
The mate grunted and nodded.
Fuchs pressed his palm against his forehead and wiped his hand down his cheek. “I need a drink.”
“Tavern, Sir?”
“No, I think not,” he replied after a few moments thought. “I’ve spent quite enough time with these good folk for one day. Once we’re back aboard I shall take brandy in my cabin, I fancy.”
“Right you are, Sir.”
—oOo—
A rat paddled frantically across the greasy waters of the creek. It held its whiskers above the surface, its eyes glinting red in the mist-filtered moonlight. Its nose twitched, guiding it towards the tempting odours wafting from the jetties ahead.
The creature brushed against an anchor cable holding a great sheer-sided cog in place. It managed to get a hold with its front paws and scrambled to pull itself out of the water. The massive cord was thick with algae and slime and the rat lost its tenuous grip, tugged gently away by the sluggish current.
It swam along the side of the hull and rounded the bows of the vessel, bobbing up and down in the chop, then struck off towards the dark pilings lining the shore. Chance brought it up against another cable, this one anchoring a sturdy coaster. It scrambled onto the topside of the line, stopped to shake a strand of green weed from a hind paw, sniffed the dank air, and then started upwards.
The vessel shifted slightly on its moorings, creaking gently. The rope gradually took up the weight and pulled taut.
As the line tensed the rat scrabbled for its footing, slipped, and performed an acrobatic spiral in the air. Its sharp claws found purchase in the rough hemp, leaving it hanging upside down above the water. Unfazed, it continued its climb.
A few moments more brought it up to the hawsehole. It clambered back onto the top of the thick rope and slipped through the opening, dropping to the rough deck with the softest of thumps. It paused for a moment among the coiled cordage, sniffing the air and surveying its surroundings, then scurried off along the scuppers.
There was a hiss and a flash, and a pained eeek! cut short. The blade thudded as it hit home, pinning the little creature to the planks.
A sailor, clad in a thick coat and oversized woollen hat, stepped from the scant shelter of the forecastle door and leaned down to retrieve his knife. He pitched the twitching carcass off of the blade and into the water, hawked loudly, and spat overboard.
“Vermin” he mumbled, his breath misting in the chill air, and wiped the steel clean on the leg of his filthy breeches. He surveyed the darkness for a few moments, found nothing of any interest, and ambled back into cover.
The moonlight caught a pair of eyes behind the larboard gunwale. They gleamed a bloody red, narrowed, then withdrew into the shadow.
—oOo—
KER-RASH! The door splintered under the weight of the militiaman’s shoulder and the noise echoed through the mist.
The squad charged into Willi Schwarz’s shutter-darkened cottage, closely followed by Brother Hans. Willi was sprawled face down on his squalid bed, still fully clothed except for one shoe, and smelled as though he had soiled himself. A half-empty bottle made of dark glass lay beside him.
The noise of the trooper’s entry had just filtered through to Willi’s addled brain, but he was finding it impossible to react.
One of the militia took a firm hold of the scruff of his neck and hauled him to his feet. He sagged and retched slightly, disorientated by the sudden movement, but he found his feet. He looked distinctly green and the early morning light filtering through the broken doorway made him squint.
“Don’t mind if we take a look around, do you?” asked Brother Hans.
“Ugh…” was the most comprehensive answer he could manage. He wobbled and steadied himself against a wall, fighting a wave of nausea.
The militiamen started opening the cupboards and rummaging around in the linen chest. One of them turned over the bed, revealing a sack that proved to contain no less than nine bottles, all filled with liquid.
“What have we got here then?” said Brother Hans, in a mock-surprised tone of voice. “You’ll coming with us.”
One of the troopers picked up the sack and he and his burly companions escorted Willi into the street. Brother Hans had one final check around, pulled the remains of the door closed, and joined them. A number of Willi’s neighbours had appeared at their windows, watching the early morning spectacle.
Willi suddenly doubled over and vomited, issuing a gush of filthy liquid. He coughed and spat, retched again, and wiped his face on his sleeve. “You done?” asked the trooper with the sack. Willi nodded and wobbled unsteadily to his feet.
They marched him to the square, to the horse trough outside the stables at the back of Die Silbermünze. When they reached it two of the militiamen picked Willi up and dunked him into the water.
He gasped and thrashed and came up for air but Brother Hans submerged him again. He surfaced once more and the soldiers lifted him out. He coughed and spluttered, streaming water and shivering violently from the cold.
Brother Hans sniffed him. “That’s better.”
They continued on to the chapel, entering through the side door that led into the vestry. Brother Franz was busy with his ablutions, stripped to the waist and shaving his head. His muscular frame was dark with hair and the skin on his back was laced with old scars. Brother Otto stood nearby, a towel draped over his arm and holding a mirror.
The Priest turned and stared darkly at the cowed and bedraggled figure in front of him. Brother Hans took the sack and nodded to the militiamen, who saluted him and left. He closed the door behind them.
“He had ten bottles,” said Brother Hans, “though he had drunk almost half of one of them. We found them under his bed. Looks like Marienburg geniver.”
The Priest shook his head. “Ten bottles of geniver. That’s a lot for someone of your position!” He waved his razor dangerously. “And where did you decide to hide them? Under your bed! The first place anyone would look!”
“I’m sorry…”
“Tell me,” Interrupted Brother Franz, “where did you get them?” Brother Otto handed the Priest the towel and he dabbed at his scalp and temples.
“Er, off of one of the sailors on that boat about two weeks back,” answered Willi, “when we was bringing in that load of cloth. Real bargain. Traded ‘em for my old pistol and a couple of blades.”
“You got them when you were in my employ?”
Willi nodded miserably.
“I will not have it,” growled the Priest. “Nothing comes through without me knowing about it. Would you like to know why?
Willi nodded again.
“Its because you aren’t smart enough to keep your mouth shut or cover your tracks, that’s why. How do you think we discovered what you were doing? Then, before you know it, there’s revenue officers all over, they ask you lots of difficult questions, it leads back to me, and then life gets harder for everyone.”
“I’m sorry…”
“Sorry, Mr Schwarz, is not going to be enough.”
Brother Hans picked up one of the bottles and eased the cork out with the dip of his dagger. He smelt the neck and recoiled. “Is this what you’ve been drinking?”
Willi nodded.
Brother Hans replaced the cork. “It’s a miracle you haven’t gone blind. This isn’t geniver, it’s rot-gut of the worst kind.”
The Priest looked across to Brother Hans. “Take him outside and teach him a lesson.”
—oOo—
Captain Fuchs adored maps. He sat in his leather-padded chair, lost in the charts and plans spread before him on the table. They all depicted the northern parts of the Empire, particularly that region known as Nordland, and the southern and eastern reaches of the Sea of Claws. Some were on a larger scale, showing in detail the coastal flats disparagingly named Die Schlammländer, The Mudlands, by outsiders.
The topmost depicted the section of coast known as the Beträchtlichsalzsumpf, though almost all referred to it as the Weitflach. Coast was perhaps a generous term when describing the mist-cloaked expanse of streams, sodden marsh and tidal mudflats that almost imperceptibly merged with the great shallow expanse of ocean called the Flachmeer.
The largest river flowing through this maze of shifting waterways and lakes was the slow and silty Braunführung, rivalled in size only by the equally sluggish Schleimigbach. The two, along with their countless un-named and ever changing companions, emptied into a wide bay called the Feinkohlemündung. On the higher land the Gebremsterwald, a wind-sculpted forest of dwarf willow and birch, grew in profusion.
He took a sip of his wine.
The chart showed the Flußstraße, the main highway, which ran north from the interior following the Braunführung. At Kohlstadt, the largest community in the area, it crossed the river on a great stone bridge built at the expense of the Electors of Middenland.
A few miles further north it became the Küstestraße, the coast road. This track led east to Schlammigerdorf, a little fishing port on the banks of the Schleimigbach and the current anchorage of the Bösewicht. From there it continued on to the tiny hamlets of Rauchendorf, Trockener, and Osthügel. Other than that, the land was little more than isolated farms and barren wilderness.
Fuchs grinned to himself as he studied. The people of this area were infamous for their terse and direct nature, and the place-names only served to reinforce the myth. They certainly didn’t waste time with notions of romance or mystery. No Valley of the Flowers or Glade of Happiness here, that was for certain.
Back to the job in hand.
Fuchs selected a furled chart from a tall rack and unrolled it, weighing down the edges with his inkstand and the oil lamp. It showed the upper reaches of the Schleimigbach in great detail, marking the depths of the channels and the lie of the shore.
He selected a sharp pencil, a straight rule and a pair of brass dividers, and used them to mark out a series of precise crosses on a blank section of the vellum. He set about transferring the soundings and sightings from his notebooks onto the map, carefully checking the calculations for each. In his spidery hand he carefully noted the depths and bottom compositions against the marked points.
There was a soft thump from outside the shuttered windows.
The noise was almost imperceptible. Leopold Fuchs, however, was a man who had stood in the line of battle, and senses honed by years of soldiering and action tingled. He carefully put down his pencil and drew his pistol from the sash around his waist.
There was a muted creak from just behind the door into the wardroom, a chamber he knew to be empty. His stomach suddenly felt hollow.
He caught the faintest trace of a smell, a strange musty odour quite unlike the normal stinks and vapours that rose from the murky creek or the foul waters in the bilge. It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
He cocked the pistol’s lock, crooked his arm, and rested the weapon on his shoulder. There was another creak from beyond the shutters, but the Captain’s attention was wholly focused on the door handle. It slowly turned.
Click.
The door was locked.
The cabin suddenly seemed very dim and cramped, and the shadows loomed large indeed. An airless silence gripped Fuchs.
There was another slight creak from within the wardroom.
CRASH!
The door shattered inwards. Fuchs jumped and tensed, wide-eyed, his heart pounding. A shape rolled to a crouch, silhouetted by the wardroom light amid a cloud of fragments and splinters and drops of water.
The reek of marsh and mildew was overpowering.
The dripping monstrosity was, in its form, manlike. It was perhaps a little larger than a child, but stocky, and with a sinuous naked tail that doubled its length. It was for the most part covered in wet black fur, and was clad in saturated leather and rags that sculpted themselves to the contours of it’s muscular frame. It supported itself on three of its limbs, but the fourth grasped a long, wickedly curved knife.
At its waist swung a pendant suspended from a braid of woven hair. It was a rat’s skull, with tiny red jewels set into the eye sockets. The motion was almost hypnotic.
It moved forward slightly. The lamplight illuminated a sleek almond-shaped head dominated by a toothy gape fronted by long yellow incisors. It twitched a rodent nose that sported long whiskers and shook ragged ears festooned with golden rings. It peered from side to side, sniffed, then fixed on Fuchs with its beady, soulless eyes.
The … thing … seemed as surprised to find him sitting in his chair as he was to behold it, and for an endless second Fuchs sat, enthralled by the exquisite detail. Another creak from behind the shutters broke the moment.
BOOM!
Fuchs fired the pistol over his shoulder, never once taking his eyes from the monstrosity in front of him. The lead ball smashed through the wooden screens and thudded into something behind them. A great puff of white sulphurous smoke billowed and hung in the air, and a shower of glowing sparks tumbled down the front of his doublet. The roar of the report left his ears whistling.
With a gurgling hiss the creature sprang.
As it leaped he hurled the discharged pistol with all of his might. The monster, already committed to its move, made an attempt to spin out of the way, but the brass-shod butt caught it just below the eye, impacting with a crunch. The beast crashed to the deck, its nose clipping the corner of the table as it fell. The gun clattered off into a corner.
Fuchs sat absolutely still and ever so slowly breathed out.
—oOo—
The shot and the commotion had woken up the ship. Fuchs listened as his crew tumbled from their beds and dashed towards his cabin. The first to arrive was Josef, the carpenter, who had been on watch. He peered in through the ruined door, then pushed at the splintered wood with his finger. The lock had not survived the impact, and what was left creaked open.
He sharply drew breath when he saw the thing on the floor.
The other sailors crowded into the wardroom and jostled to get a look, though none broke protocol and entered the Captain’s cabin. The last man to arrive was Jürgen, the mate. He muscled his way to the front.
“What in the name of Morr is that thing?” he said, prodding the creature gingerly with the toe of his boot. It twitched, and he backed off, mumbling prayers under his breath. The sailors grinned at his discomfort.
“Yes, I’m fine, thank you all for asking,” said Fuchs sarcastically. “Please feel free to come in.”
“Don’t just stand there gawking,” barked Jürgen, frowning at the men. “Sepp, Ernst, get some cord and tie that thing up. And be quick about it. Hermann, Max, everyone else, arm yourselves and search this tub from stem to stern. Stay in pairs, and shout if you see anything.”
As the sailors rushed to their duties Jürgen’s hand shot out and caught hold of a fistful of shirt, holding back the cabin-boy. “Not you, Lukas,” he said, letting go his grip “You’ve got a very important job to do. You’re going to guard our friend here.”
Jürgen opened his belt pouch and retrieved his blackjack. ”Take this”, he said, “if he even so much as twitches, whack him right between the eyes.” He handed the cosh to the wide-eyed lad, who took hold, gave it a few practice swings, and then hunkered down beside the prone form.
Fuchs eased himself out of the chair and nodded at the mate. “Jürgen, you’re with me”, he said. “I got something, out on the gallery.”
He retrieved his pistol from the corner, put it on the table, and selected a short, thick-bladed cutlass from a rack on the wall. He patted Lukas on the shoulder, nodded to the mate. He opened the tiny door in the larboard bulkhead, his lungs filling with the damp night air, and edged out onto the narrow walkway.
The older sailor opened the matching door on the starboard side, his dagger in his hand, and clambered through.
Fuchs paused and listened carefully. Silence, save for the waves slapping against the hull and the slow, lazy tolling of a distant bell. He edged himself to the corner, the weapon held before him, and stole a glance onto the stern part of the balcony. There was just enough light from the cabin to illuminate a bulky shape hanging over the rail.
He approached cautiously and prodded it with the tip of his blade, then grinned at Jürgen as his head appeared around the corner. “It’s dead, I think,” he said. “Looks rather like the thing in there. Lets get it inside.”
—oOo—
Sepp and Ernst returned in double-quick time, armed to the teeth and suitably equipped with ropes and twine and large sheets of canvas. For Lukas it wasn’t a moment too soon, and once they had relieved him of his prisoner he hurried to the shutters at the stern and opened them. The Captain and the mate manhandled the soaked, bestial corpse through the window and slung it onto the deck, climbing in behind it. A quick examination revealed a ragged and bloody wound in the neck.
The sailors set about trussing the creatures, stripping them of their weapons and equipment as they did so. Once they were suitably bound the bodies were hefted onto the squares of sailcloth, which were gathered up to form crude sacks and tied off.
“Hoist ‘em up on the mainyard and leave ‘em dangling,” said Fuchs. “We’ll deal with them in the morning. If the live one gives any trouble then hit it. And we’re posting double sentries from now on.”
“Captain, take a look at this,” said Ernst. “It’s a map case. The rat-thing that you shot had it tucked inside its rags.”
The captain took the damp tube. It was made of waxed brown hide and had a monogram, F.H., punched into the side. The lid was tight fitting and gave a hollow pop as it was opened, revealing a tarred interior that was quite dry and totally empty.
Fuchs frowned, then looked at the charts and papers spread out on his table.
—oOo—
Jürgen climbed through the hatch from the forecastle cabin onto the beakhead. He took hold of the forestay, stepped up onto the gunwale and scaled the gammoning. Settling himself astride the bowsprit, he took a deep breath and cupped his hands around his mouth.
“Ahoy, Kaufmann von Altdorf” he bellowed. She was the closer of the two vessels anchored in the deep water, and the only one he could make out.
“Ahoy there” came back a muffled reply.
“Did you have any trouble in the night?”
“None. We heard a shot, though.”
“That was us,” yelled Jürgen. “All dealt with. And the Zweites Wagnis? Have you heard from her?”
“Aye, she’s sound.”
“Manann watch you” he called, and clambered back down.
The shouting woke Captain Fuchs. He lay perfectly still for a moment, trying to work out what was happening, then glanced round the room. The great cabin was dark, though a little daylight filtered in through the shutters.
He untangled himself from the blanket, clambered out of his cot, and stretched to loosen the knotted muscles in his shoulders. He was still in the clothes he had worn during last night’s action, and they had twisted uncomfortably while he slept. He stripped and washed, shivering in the chill air, and pulled on clean garments.
Once he was dressed he opened the shutters a crack to check the weather. It was a miserable grey morning, still and calm, and the air was filled with a drizzly mist that dampened noise and soaked through to the skin.
He lingered for a few moments over the ragged hole in the panel, gently stroking the splintered wood with the tip of his finger. He drew breath, closed his eyes, and mumbled a prayer of thanks to any god that was listening. It was blind luck that had guided his bullet to its target.
No time to waste pondering what might have been. He selected a pair of stout seaboots, slipped a long stiletto down beside his right ankle, and slung a baldric supporting a short cutlass over his shoulder. He checked his pistol and tucked it into the sash around his waist, jammed a broad-rimmed felt hat onto his head, and wrapped himself in a heavy boat-cloak. His toilet complete, he strode out through the wardroom onto the waist.
Vague echoes carried across the misty water, the sounds of the town waking up.
“Morning, Cap’n Sir” said Lukas, peering out from the forecastle door.
“Good morning, young man” replied Fuchs, treading carefully on the slippery planks. He looked up at the two bundles hanging from the yardarm. “Our prizes have given us no trouble, I trust.”
“No Sir” answered Lukas. “Not a squeak.”
Old Sepp the sailmaker was leaning against the quarterdeck rail doing his turn at sentry. “All’s quiet, Sir” he reported. He was wrapped in a thick blanket, under which he had tucked his musket to shield it from the penetrating damp. A short clay pipe was clamped between his teeth.
The captain nodded up at him.
“Nothing to report here” confirmed Anton. He was huddled miserably at the top of the foredeck companionway. His hands were clamped around a steaming tankard, and his musket hung from a crude sling around his neck. The brim of his oversize hat, heavy with beads of dew, drooped limply.
“Good, good” said Fuchs, and ducked through the door into the forecastle cabin.
The room was warm and dry and filled with the tantalising aroma of a cooking breakfast. The rest of the crew were inside, their chat half drowned by the sputtering and hissing of frying food. They were lounging on rolled bedding, and shuffled along a little to give him a space.
Ernst, busy at the galley fire, passed a broad platter to the Captain. It held bacon and eggs piled atop a slice of toasted bread and a bowl filled with thick porridge sweetened with honey. He tucked in, and washed it down with a pot of small beer that had been warmed in the embers at the edge of the hearth.
“Excellent, thank you.”
Captain Fuchs was something of a trencherman. He had experienced starvation during his years of soldiering, and when at sea the necessity of preserved food meant that the diet was bland and tedious. When fresh produce was available he made sure that he stocked the stores well, usually at his own expense. Since they had arrived in Schlammigerdorf the crew had eaten like the Electors themselves.
“What are we doing today?” asked Lucas.
“What have we been doing all week? What were we doing the week before?” replied Max, one of the deckhands, popping a morsel of bacon into his mouth. “If I see much more of this excuse for a river I’m going to organise a mutiny, I swear.”
“Is that right?” said Fuchs from around a mouthful.
“Yes Sir, Captain Sir” answered Max.
The other sailors grinned at them.
“This is quite an easy job, don’t you think?” Fuchs remarked. “And you seem to be enjoying the benefits, like your breakfast.” He gestured to Max’s empty plate.
“Yes Sir, Captain Sir” Max repeated.
The work was boring. Every morning they would row out to some forsaken spot a few miles downstream and wait for the captain to precisely establish his bearings. Once he was happy they would measure the depth of the water, examine the composition of the bed, and make other relevant observations. They’d move a few yards, then repeat the process, over and over, until the mists closed in and the daylight began to fade.
Fuchs took a sip of his drink. “Well then, today should be a real treat. We’re going ashore.”
—oOo—
Despite the isolated nature of communities along the northern coast news travelled with surprising speed, oft carried by the hunters and watermen who worked the marshes and fens. Word of Granny Schmidt’s unusual death had reached her granddaughter, Berdina Breitermann, who resided in Trockener, the same day as it had occurred. By that evening she and her husband had made the trip to Schlammigerdorf to see to the arrangements.
They were taken in at once by Mrs Starkleiter. She sat them down in her wood-panelled drawing room and once they were replete with warm cordials and cold meat she told them the circumstances of the old woman’s passing. Berdina blanched.
Mrs Starkleiter was able to tell them that preparations were already underway. Before his own untimely death Granny Schmidt’s husband had seen to it that certain monies had been deposited to pay for the expenses of funerals for both himself and his wife, the cash being left in trust with the Church. And morbid though it was the chapel kept a supply of coffins, storing them in the attic of one of the barns they owned. An appropriate casket had already been chosen.
The next morning the chapel bell tolled, it’s slow peal echoing across the mist-shrouded fields and meadows.
Brother Franz and Brother Otto, dressed in all their ceremonial finery, met and greeted people at the door. Presently the entire congregation was gathered.
The signal was given and the pallbearers made their appearance. Brother Franz walked at their head, bearing before him the ceremonial hammer, and following him was Brother Otto, carrying a single lit candle. Behind them were the pallbearers, four stout militiamen who bore on their shoulders the linen-covered coffin. Finally came Berdina and her husband.
As the cortege passed through the doors and moved towards the altar the assembled congregation sang a solemn hymn. The coffin was laid on the ground, feet facing towards the altar, and the candle was placed at the head.
Brother Franz spent a few moments in contemplation, his eyes closed and his head bowed, and then he began. “Sigmar makes us a promise,” he said. “‘Because I live, so shall you live too’…”
And so began the liturgy of the Burial of the Dead.
The Priest, an eloquent orator, spoke with clarity and power, telling of the balance between life and death, and urging the bereaved to accept their loss and from it to take hope in the promise of the life still to come. Another hymn was sung, and prayers and blessings were offered.
Next he summed up the life of Agathe, telling of her good deeds, remembering her husband, a fine soldier, and her three children, all of whom she had outlived. Finally he turned to Berdina, her granddaughter, and encouraged the community to support and aid her as she returned to the duties of her life.
A further blessing was said, and Brother Franz concluded with a prayer, raising his arms and looking towards the heavens.
“And now our dear sister dwells at the great hall of Sigmar Heldenhammer. Within, death is destroyed, disgrace is removed, and joy is unending. There will be prepared a rich banquet for all peoples, of aged wine and the best of meats and the whitest of bread. There will be soft fleeces on which to lie, the company of all of those who are dear to us, and nought to pursue but that which is our heart’s true desire. This our Lord hath spoken and told us, and in Him we trust. Let us rejoice and be glad in His salvation. Amen.”
The congregation filed slowly out of the church, leaving behind only the priests and the pallbearers. Overhead the bell tolled mournfully.
The plot where her husband and two sons were buried lay close to the wall in the little square of consecrated ground behind the chapel. The sexton had opened the grave, the grass and brambles had been trimmed back, and the aged board that marked its position had been replaced with a new marker that now included Granny’s name.
The mourners had gathered by the graveside, among them Mrs Starkleiter and Mother Kessel. All were dressed in their best church clothes.
The cortege, led by Brother Franz, made its way out of the chapel and into the graveyard. The bearers lowered the coffin to the ground, resting it across a long pair of leather straps, then lowered their heads respectfully. The congregation, as is the custom, stood for a few moments in silent contemplation.
Everyone gradually became aware of noises – little scratches and scrapes that were difficult to pinpoint.
“Down there!” One of the militiamen was pointing into the grave.
A large clod of damp clay fell from about halfway up the wall of the excavation, and a whiskered nose protruded from the hole. A huge rat, apparently quite unaware of its audience, squeezed through the gap and dropped down onto the floor of the grave.
It suddenly caught a scent of the people around it and scuttled about, trying to find an escape. Berdina shrieked in horror.
“They killed her, the filthy little beasts,” she sobbed. “Will they not now let her rest in peace?”
Hobard Schaufell, the sexton, who had been standing a respectful distance away, dashed forward. He leaped into the hole and brought down his shovel with a solid thud, cutting short a squeak as the wretched creature darted hither and thither to escape. He picked the little corpse up by the tail and clambered out again, dangling his prize before him, and hurried away to dispose of it.
Berdina’s husband, a strapping fisherman with a full beard, put his arm around her and pulled her to his chest while she wept. A slow, steady rain had started.
Brother Franz cleared his throat and indicated to the militiamen. They each took a hold of one end of a strap, and together they gently raised the casket and lowered it down into the hole. When they were done the straps were pulled out and they stepped back.
“In the sure and certain hope of our eternal place amongst the honoured dead who sit in the great hall of Sigmar Heldenhammer, I commend to the protection of Our Lord our sister Agathe Berit Schmidt, nee Fische. And so we commit her empty body to the ground; earth to earth; ashes to ashes; dust to dust;…”
Each of the mourners threw a handful of damp soil down onto the coffin.
“… Sigmar watch her and keep her and grant her rest and peace. Amen.”
“Amen” echoed the congregation.
—oOo—
The jollyboat bumped up to the pilings supporting the wooden quayside, coming to rest next to the ladder and beneath a wooden crane. Sepp secured the craft to the blackened posts while the others scrambled to the top. Hermann disappeared off, busy about some duty, and Jürgen set about rigging a block and tackle on the scaffold. Soon the cargo was being hoisted up.
Lining the square were tall, narrow buildings, little more than dark shadows within the haze. Many were warehouses, built of imported wood and brick, and for the most part dark and empty. Light spilled from the windows of Der Lustige Seemann and Die Silbermünze, the village’s two taverns, bright and welcoming against the enveloping gloom.
A rusty squeaking announced Hermann’s return, and soon he emerged from the gloom pushing a dung-covered tumbrel. The two sacks were dumped into the barrow and the chest was settled beside them.
They set off along the Nordküstestraße, which took them past fishermen’s huts, upturned boats, damp gardens, and rickety fences. They halted at the watchtower at the edge of the village where two guards crouched around a brazier filled with glowing coals. Fuchs strolled over to gossip, and after a few minutes rejoined his men.
Beyond the perimeter ditch the grandly named highway became an ill-maintained and badly rutted track, passing through sodden watermeadows which gave way to swampy scrub. Those few locals whom they passed were less than curious, shunning the party.
After perhaps a half mile of trudging they came to the corner of a high brick wall, over which could be seen the tops of trees. They followed it for some hundred yards until they came to a gate of stout timbers studded with iron nails. Captain Fuchs tried the heavy iron handle. It lifted, and with a heavy creak the door swung open. Fuchs strode through and the sailors followed.
It was like walking into another land.
The wall enclosed a huge garden, wild in verdant profusion yet perfectly cultivated, fringed by trees red with autumn foliage. The last bees of the season hummed across a lawn of wild clover, which was bordered by full hedges and beds of late blooms. Amid the splendour was a rambling house, the lower floor solid walls with arrow slits, the upper all beams and chimneystacks and gable windows. A manicured path led to a porch thick with ivy.
There was an air of calm and tranquility that left the sailors staring in astonishment. Fuchs, who had visited a number of times and was quite unfazed by the beauty, marched off towards the house. He paced up the steps to the door and knocked loudly. The sailors gathered behind him.
After a few moments a spy-hatch slid open. There followed a series of mechanical clicks and the door opened a fraction. A frowning, sour-faced woman glared at them. Her grey hair was pulled back into a tight bun, and she wore a plain, sensible dress. In her hand she carried a rolling pin.
“Good morning, Mrs Schüssel” oozed the captain, beaming a broad smile. He swept his hat from his head and executed a perfect bow. “I wish to speak with your master.”
The sailors plucked off their caps and held them against their chests, shuffling their feet awkwardly. Hermann, holding the handles on the barrow, lowered his eyes and bobbed his head frantically. Something about the woman turned battle-hardened mariners into naughty schoolboys.
The housekeeper drew herself up and peered down her nose. “You can go round to the back, Mr Fuchs, and you can take your … friends … with you. Someone will be there to meet you shortly.” She turned and strode back through the door, slamming it behind her. The boom echoed inside the hall.
Fuchs replaced his hat. “Lovely woman …” he mumbled to himself, and turned back to the crew. “Gentlemen, if you please …”.
He followed the path to an archway that led through into an enclosed kitchen garden. Within was a rolled lawn, and behind it was a vegetable plot filled with neat rows of ripe produce. Bushes heavy with fruit grew in trained profusion against the walls, spilling over two long sheds made of glass and filled with luxuriant growth.
Hermann set the barrow down and looked around. “Captain, what is this place?”
“The residence of Doctor Cornelius Ungerade, our employer. He is something of a gardener, but you’ve probably already guessed that.”
The back door opened and two figures walked out. “Ah, Doctor!” exclaimed Fuchs. “We were just talking about you.”
Cornelius Ungerade was surprisingly young, with thick brown hair pulled back into a ponytail and a sparse beard on his chin. He wore ordinary clothes, though cut from fine material, and clasped a small metal trowel. He peered solemnly at the sailors, then shook the Captain’s hand.
His assistant, Rüdiger Schlechtmann, a rather hunched, elderly fellow with a bald dome fringed with long grey hair, accompanied him. The man squinted myopically at the guests and waddled over to the barrow. “What’s in ‘ere then?” he asked, prodding at the sacks. One twitched obligingly and he jumped back.
Hermann hefted the bundles off of the barrow and dumped them on the ground. He undid the bindings holding the canvasses together and they fell open. The limp corpse rolled onto the grass, but the live creature struggled against its bindings and thrashed it’s tail.
“Oh, my word” said the Doctor. “This is very exciting, very exciting indeed. I’ve never seen anything more than dubious bones and scraps before.”
He leaned forward to examine the body and poked it experimentally with the trowel. “Quite a lot like rats, don’t you think? Note the teeth and the whiskers, and of course the tail. Prehensile fingers, interesting. This will answer a lot of questions.” He gestured to his assistant. “Mr Schlechtmann, would you oversee getting them down to the cellar?”
Fuchs retrieved his bag and cases and indicated to Hermann to bring the chest. The Doctor led them into the house, down a long hallway, and through into a humid conservatory.
The Captain had never seen so much glass before. The walls and ceiling were made of hundreds of panes, each no bigger than the palm of his hand, set into a latticework of wood and supported by ornately sculpted beams. It was truly a wonder.
The room was full of all manner of potted plants, some no more than seedlings, some grown almost up to the ceiling, and others of every size and shape between. Among the masses of creepers and foliage were benches, strewn with clippers and dibbers and all manner of esoteric horticultural tools. In the very centre was a clear area, in which were set a pair of comfortable chairs and a small table.
Hermann put down the chest, touched his cap, and departed. Fuchs opened the box to reveal the creatures’ effects, then took a seat.
“Fascinating” said Cornelius. He gingerly picked up one of the long-blades knives. “This looks nasty.”
“I’ve completed the survey, Doctor. It’s quite interesting. There’s a dome under the water, close to the mouth of the Schleimigbach, in just about the place you said.” He produced the chart he had made and indicated the spot.
Cornelius dropped the weapon and came to look. “You know,” he said, “I can’t help but wonder if the two creatures were sent to stop you finishing this work.”
It was an unpleasant thought, and a point that they discussed at length.
—oOo—
The housekeeper galloped to the conservatory door, slithered to a halt on the polished tiles, paused for a moment to compose herself, then rapped on the panels. Without waiting for a reply she bustled through.
“Mrs Schüssel …!” started Cornelius, peering out from behind a leafy frond.
“Oh, I am sorry Sir, but Brother Franz has come with some men from the village. They’ve got weapons and are demanding to speak to you!” She was breathless and flustered. “Mr Schlechtmann and the visitors are arguing with them outside.”
Fuchs and the wizard jumped up, knocking over the table in their haste, and raced to the garden.
Jürgen was standing with his hands on his hips, scowling furiously and blocking the arch through to the rear of the house. He was eye-to-eye with a stocky, bald man clad in a long scarlet robe and hefting an ornate hammer. Max and Sepp loitered behind the mate, watching a group of armed locals who lurked on the lawn and stared coldly back. Everyone ignored Schlechtmann, who babbled and hopped back and forth.
The priest used their arrival to extract himself from the mate’s gaze. “Doctor Ungerade, I understand you are looking after something for me?”
“I’m sorry?” enquired the wizard, wheezing slightly after the running.
“The creatures. I’m here to collect them.”
“I think not. They are far safer here, where I can study them …”
“Study? STUDY?” The priest’s face turned red. “Such monsters are not for understanding, for no sane man could withstand the horrors such enquiries would reveal!” He took a deep breath. “No, Doctor, foolish scholars would be consumed by foul passions, and their essence would be twisted and corrupted. These beings, these horrors, they are to be scourged from the world, they are a cancer that needs to be cut away.”
“In order to, ahem, scourge this menace, perhaps we should understand it a little.” interjected Cornelius.
“We know all that we need to know. They bear the mark, the taint of disorder. We cannot suffer them to live.” He raised the hammer with one hand and shook it with righteous indignation. “I warn you, Doctor, if you don’t hand them over we will take them by force.”
The wizard lowered his head and gazed out from under his brows. Suddenly he seemed much taller and darker, almost rippling with unearthly power. “Through me flows the Wind of Ghyran, the force of Life, and even now you stand in the midst of my sanctuary. I wield power beyond your understanding.” His voice was low and laden with menace. “Would you dare threaten me here?”
The groups of men tensed, ready for trouble, but unwilling to provoke forces they had little hope of defeating.
“CALM DOWN” shouted Fuchs. His pistol was in his hand.
He had their attention.
“Unless someone recompenses me pretty sharpish no-one is taking MY prisoners anywhere.” He looked to the militiamen. “Me and my men are skilled with the sword and the fist. Would you really risk injury or even death over possession of … well, such monsters …? And you should know that one of them is already dead.”
The band of cut-throats looked to one another but they held their ground. The sailors shifted their gaze between the Captain and the priest, who drew himself up and opened his mouth to speak.
“As you wish”, said the Captain loudly, before the man had a chance to utter a sound. “I’ll cut the live one loose and let it run back to whence it came. The body, well, I’ll just dump it somewhere.”
“No no no no no” stammered the cleric. “That is not acceptable, not acceptable at all.”
“Then perhaps we could trade them in kind” suggested Fuchs helpfully.
“I would give a … er, a whole round of cheese, to make good any damages” offered Cornelius, “in order that I may continue my examinations. When I am done I would happily turn over any remains so that they may be properly disposed of.”
“This is ridiculous” mumbled the priest. “I’m not going to stand here bidding over ownership of the Spawn of Pestilence.”
“Fair enough” replied Fuchs. “Well, Doctor Ungerade, it seems that you are the proud possessor of two …”
“One moment, please” interjected the priest. “I’m sure we can come to some compromise. To my mind there is less harm in studying the remains, the empty shell as it were, than being in the presence of a living servant of darkness. And in truth there is wisdom in knowing your enemy. The Doctor can perform his … investigations … on the corpse, if it is agreed that the body is given into my care when he is done. I will take the … thing …with me.”
Fuchs raised his hands. “And what do I get?
“Perhaps a firkin … no, two … of smoked fish?
Fuchs looked back to Cornelius, who nodded in approval.
“Gentlemen, we have an agreement.”
Hands were shaken and arrangements finalised, and the living beast was manhandled, still firmly trussed, out of the cellar. The thing’s eye was swollen, and where the fur around the socket was thin the flesh looked bruised. It was dumped unceremoniously onto the barrow and trundled off, the priest chanting prayers of cleansing and the grim-faced militia providing an escort. Schlechtmann trotted after them and secured the gate once they had gone.
Hermann grinned.
“And what exactly are you smiling at?” asked Jürgen.
“I wasn’t looking forward to taking the barrow back. I didn’t exactly ask when I borrowed it.”
—oOo—
