David Bishop - A murder in Marienburg

As watch sergeant for the eastern end of Goudberg, Kurt was tasked with carrying out these weekly inspections. Once satisfied with the results, he was routinely offered his choice of mains from the menu for free. He always insisted on paying, all too mindful of the slippery slope that started with taking the occasional backhander. His men had grumbled about being forbidden to accept such gratuities at first, but soon learned to live with it or move on to other, less honest postings. As a consequence, this part of Goudberg enjoyed one of the lowest crime rates in Marienburg.

The fact there was little worth stealing in Goudberg didn’t hurt either, but Kurt had long since learned to take his triumphs where he could get them. Life had a habit of kicking you in the jewels when you least expected, so it was better to enjoy success when it was available. He smiled as the tavern’s buxom serving wench approached, her ample dйcolletage drawing admiring glances from all the other men in the Seagull and Spittoon.

“So, Inga, what’s the special of the day?” Kurt asked. “Dumplings, by any chance?”

The blonde woman blushed and giggled, shaking her head at his comment. “You shouldn’t ask such things, Sergeant Schnell,” she replied, placing a tankard of foaming ale in front of him on the rough-hewn wooden table. “It will only get you in trouble at your new station.”

“My new station?” Kurt forced himself to nod, as if he knew what she was talking about. The promotion he had been pushing for the last six months had finally been approved, it seemed. But, as always in Marienburg, gossip moved far faster than bureaucracy. If you wanted to know what was happening on the narrow streets and numerous canals of this city, make for the nearest tavern and open your ears-that was what Kurt’s first sergeant had once told him. It was as true now as it had been then, if not more so. “You’re quite right, Inga. I’ll have to watch my back where I’m going.” He waited, but the well-rounded woman merely nodded her agreement, offering no more clues to what she knew. Kurt sighed and took off his black cap, the headgear that gave the Watch its nickname. “So, what is the special of the day-cormorant and coriander? Marsh-pig and mustard cress? Rat and radish?”

Inga shook her head, grinning playfully. “Meat and turnip sausage surprise.”

“What meat?” Kurt wondered, but held up a hand to stop her saying the inevitable reply. “Don’t tell me-it’s a surprise, right?”

“How did you guess?” Inga asked sulkily, having been denied her fun for the night.

“I’ve been inspecting the kitchen,” he said. “Trust me, there are no surprises on your menu.” Kurt squinted to see through the tavern’s obligatory pall of pipe smoke so he could read the choices crudely chalked up on a stone wall behind the bar. “I’ll have the… garlic and garamond.”

“Garlic and gammon,” Inga corrected him.

“Even better,” Kurt agreed.

“Chipped, mashed or boiled vegetables?”

“Mashed.”

“And for dessert?”

Kurt shook his head. “Last time I ate here I was peppering the privy for three days afterwards. Let’s see if I can stomach the sausages first, before getting courageous enough to order a second course.”

“Very wise,” she said. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.” The serving wench sashayed to the kitchen, pausing to slap the face of a halfling that tried to look up her soot-smeared skirt.

Kurt sipped his ale, savouring the belligerent flavours of hops and honey while his eyes scanned the other drinkers. Most were familiar faces: stevedores from Suiddock who made enough from their daily toil on the docks to live on a less violent and dangerous isle of Marienburg; weary travelling merchants tired from a hard day traipsing up and down the city’s narrow, tortuous alleys and passageways; a cluster of half-cut halflings looking to cause trouble with anyone who caught their eyes; and a solitary figure in the far corner, draped in a dark cloak with the hood up to hide their features, using the shadows as a disguise. That one needed watching, Kurt had little doubt about it. He’d been in more than his share of bar brawls and fought on far too many blood-soaked battlefields not to recognise trouble when he saw it. Kurt let his spare hand slide nonchalantly across to the heavy club secured by a leather strap at his waist. The threat of violence hung in the air, vicious and angry, like a thunderstorm rolling in from the sea. The only question was whether he’d get the chance to eat his meal before something ignited the festering rage in the tavern. The stranger led Arullen through a bewildering maze of tunnels and passages, some so narrow the elf was forced to turn sideways before edging himself into the claustrophobically-tight gaps. Each forward step in the foetid, deepening waters was harder than the last. The tide must be coming in, Arullen realised- I’ve been underground so long I’ve lost track of time. Meanwhile, the sound of skittering grew louder as those hunting the elf got closer. Their stench got stronger too, funnelling ahead of them like the spray from a mighty wave. Finally, the noise and the rancid odour were too much for Arullen. He turned back to face the oncoming horde, his dagger held tautly in a clenched fist.

Arullen could see movement in the dark, shapes racing ever closer, tiny glimpses of their faces chilling the blood in his veins. “They’re coming,” he hissed to the stranger. “It’s too late, they’re coming!”

Then he was wrenched sideways, his skull smashing against the corner of a stone passageway. Grasping fingers pulled him into a gap so narrow, it tore the fabric of his tunic both front and back. Still the stranger’s hands pawed at Arullen, ripping his garments, jagged fingernails slicing at skin, piercing flesh and scraping across bone. The elf looked at his hands and realised the dagger was gone. He was without any weapon to claim the enemy before it claimed him. It was over, Arullen thought.

A torrent of hunters surged past the end of the passageway, racing forwards down the tunnel in which the elf had been standing mere moments before. On and on the wave of ravenous creatures went, dozens upon dozens of them, whispering to each other in some hideous, guttural tongue of their own devising, rage glinting across their black, pitiless eyes. Arullen listened as they passed, counting the horde. More than a hundred of them had passed before the surge slowed. A hundred more passed in the minute that followed. Finally, the last of them went on its way, limping as it staggered by, the weakest of the pack.

Arullen held his breath as it went by, willing himself to be silent as the grave. Only when the skittering had become inaudible did he open his eyes. “This way to salvation,” the stranger said. “Come, they will realise their mistake soon and return. We don’t have long to reach safety.” Arullen let his guide drag him further along the passageway, its walls getting ever closer to each other. Just when it felt he could go no further, the passageway abruptly opened out into another underground chamber-and this one had a tiny, barred window set into its roof, allowing a glimpse of the night sky. The elf looked up and felt the sickle moon bathe his face with its reflected glory.

“Thank you,” Arullen said, turning to look at his saviour.

The stranger held up the elf’s lost dagger. “Mine?”

“Yours,” Arullen agreed, “if you get me out of here alive.”

The stranger’s face fell. “Mine!” It stabbed the dagger deep into Arullen’s abdomen before twisting the blade inside the wound. The stranger ripped the weapon back out of the elf’s body and licked the blade clean, a trickle of blood escaping his suppurating tongue, dripping onto his shroud.