David Bishop - A murder in Marienburg

Arullen sank to one knee, his hands trying to hold the wound closed without success. The stranger slashed at those hands, slicing them open and forcing them away from the gaping, jagged hole. Arullen slumped backwards against the slime-covered wall, his breath coming in quick gasps. The stranger moved closer and dipped knotted fingers into the wound, squirming them around inside the flaps of skin, bathing them in the elf’s blood. When the hands came away, they left with a sucking sound and something tumbled out with them, splashing in the water as it fell from Arullen’s body.

He watched disbelievingly as the stranger raised his bloody hands and offered the crimson digits to the moonlight, accompanied by a hysterical voice babbling an incantation, words jumbled into each other, without meaning or sense. The stranger stopped and listened, as if expecting the sickle moon to reply. Apparently satisfied, he shuffled over to a stone column that ran the height of the chamber. The stranger slapped his bloody hands on the column repeatedly, like so much meat on a butcher’s slab, again accompanied by the nonsensical ranting. When the stranger took his hands away, Arullen could have sworn he saw blood being absorbed into the stone structure, as if it were drinking the crimson smearings.

“I was monarch of this place once,” the stranger muttered. “This was my realm, my domain-until the madness claimed me, the anarchy brought revolution to my flesh and my soul.”

“King of the catacombs, were you?” Arullen gasped, trying to keep the bitterness from his voice. “Sovereign of the sewers, lord of the longdrops?”

“Not down here, foolish elf.” A misshapen finger jabbed towards the moon beyond the metal bars high overhead. “Up there! That was my world, my place-my home.”

Finding previously unknown reserves of strength, Arullen hurled himself across the chamber. He shoved the stranger down into the soup of sewage and seawater, forcing their pustule-pocked face beneath the surface, savouring the thrashing of the other’s limbs. “You’ve killed me,” the elf snarled. “Now it’s my turn!” He held the stranger down for what felt like forever, waiting until long after the thrashing had stopped. Finally, he staggered backwards, panting and breathless, all too aware of his own life seeping away from the wound at his waist. A wave of dizziness overtook him and Arullen stretched out an arm to the wall for support, his bloody hand resting against the stone column.

It sucked at his skin like an infant at a nipple, guzzling the blood from his palms, hungry for more. The wounded, dying elf managed to tear his arm away, cursing his own forgetfulness. Whatever horror was beyond that column, he had no wish to feed it further. Arullen’s only thought now was of finding the surface, warning others about what he had witnessed down here in this watery torment. He glanced about and chose an archway leading off into darkness. Going back the way he’d come through the narrow passageway was no longer a choice. That path had been hard enough when he was unhurt, but he would certainly die now if he attempted to retrace his steps. Arullen did not savour the prospect of spending eternity with his bones wedged between the walls, until they were finally washed out to sea. “Archway it is,” the elf winced and staggered in that direction. “I’m only going to ask this once,” Kurt announced, making sure he projected his authoritative voice so it reached all those still conscious inside the Seagull and Spittoon. “Who tossed the first halfling?” The brawl had been inevitable. Unfortunately, it broke out just as Inga was bringing Kurt his meat and turnip sausage surprise. The serving wench was giving the watch sergeant her best come-to-bed smile, but she often did that on Aubentag. Her husband was usually away from home on the second day of the week making deliveries to the inmates and warders out on Rijker’s Isle. That left his wife alone-and Inga was notorious for liking a warm bed. Kurt had carefully avoided her advances in the past and certainly had no intention of succumbing to her wanton charms tonight. All he wanted was something to eat, perhaps another tankard of ale and a quiet night’s rest in his own bed-without Inga for company.

What he got was a tavern brawl of such brutality and vigour only four people were still standing by the finish, and two of them were halflings. The other two were the brooding figure from the corner and, naturally, Kurt. The fighting had started when somebody decided to engage in a little recreational dwarf-tossing. Since there were no dwarfs to hand, one of the half-cut halflings was press ganged into service, flying gracelessly through the air before landing face-first between Inga’s considerable breasts.

This had sent Kurt’s meal into the air, but on a considerably shorter journey. Both uneaten sausages landed neatly in the tankards of two burly stevedores, who took no end of offence at having their precious ale sullied. From there it took mere moments for the chaos to quickly become a particularly violent brand of mayhem. Kurt watched wistfully as fists connected with faces, boots battered bodies and benches became battering rams. He did his best to stay out of the carnage, until one of the stevedores decided to pick on someone his own size after drop-kicking a halfling into the ceiling.

“You!” snarled the drunken stevedore, managing to slur even this single syllable. “You’re the one whose sausage-”

Kurt silenced the accusation by bludgeoning the burly bruiser. For a mountain of a man used to shifting weights that could cripple most beasts of burden, the stevedore was not much of a fighter and went down in an untidy pile of limbs. His drinking companions did not take kindly to this and backed Kurt into a corner, four of them forming a semi-circle around him. The watch sergeant retrieved his black cap from inside his waist belt and held it up for them to see. “I’m a duly appointed representative of the law in this city. It is my job to keep the peace. If you attempt to do me harm-”

But the warning went unheeded, as the nearest stevedore lunged at him. Kurt swayed aside from the attack, letting the charging figure run headfirst into a solid stone wall. One down, three to go. The next came straight at Kurt, arms thrown out sideways to ensure he’d got some kind of grip on the watch sergeant. Kurt smacked his club against the attacker’s right cheek, the lump of lead inside the bludgeon shattering bone and bringing a howl of dismayed pain.

Two down, two to go. These stood at either side of Kurt, watching him warily, looking for an opening. They’d seen him deal with their brethren one on one, but surely a dual attack would win? They nodded to each other and charged, not noticing the overhead beam that ran diagonally from one wall to the other. Kurt sprang into the air, tucking his long legs up underneath him to avoid the attack. The stevedores collided head-first with each other. The almighty crack of their skulls was followed by the duller sound of them slumping to the damp, beer-stained floor.

Kurt swung his legs back and forth twice to gain some momentum before letting go of the overhead beam. He landed nimbly on his feet beyond the three unconscious men and their whimpering companion, who was too busy nursing his shattered face to attempt another attack. The rest of the brawlers had gone down fighting by this time, either unconscious or groaning in pain, leaving only two halflings and the brooding figure in the corner. Inga was beneath one of the tavern’s tables, although her groans had nothing to do with pain, judging by their frequency and the presence of the Seagull and Spittoon’s owner underneath her. “Inga, for the love of Manann, keep it down!” Kurt yelled, before repeating his question about the halfling-tossing incident that had started the trouble.