David Bishop - A murder in Marienburg

“I think it was one of the fools who knocked themselves unconscious trying to hurt you,” the figure from the corner replied, emerging from the shadows. Kurt was surprised by the softness of the voice, and even more surprised when the hood was drawn back to reveal a beautiful young woman. Her chestnut-brown hair cascaded down to surround heart-shaped features, while warm eyes glittered excitedly at him. “Probably the one whose head is still embedded in that stone wall.”

“Good,” Kurt said. “The pain he’ll be feeling when he wakes in the morning might persuade him to think first before he hurls halflings next time.” Kurt surveyed the rest of the broken and bleeding bodies strewn about the tavern. “I notice you stayed out of the fighting.”

“I’m only here to deliver a message.”

“A message-who for?”

“You,” she replied, a smile playing about her lips. “I take it you are Kurt Schnell, watch sergeant for this area of the Goudberg?”

“You take it correctly. What’s the message?”

“You’re to report to the commander’s office at dawn, where you’ll be given a new assignment-and before you ask, I don’t know the details. I’m supposed to report back with my perceptions of you. Is there anything you’d like me to tell him?”

“The truth will do,” Kurt said, not interested in playing games or politics with this emissary.

She tilted her head to one side slightly. “Do you always trade in the truth?”

“I find it the easiest thing to remember. Lies require more effort.”

She nodded her agreement before turning away, her black cloak cutting an arc through the air. As she reached the outer door of the tavern, the woman paused to glance over her shoulder at Kurt. “My name’s Belladonna Speer, by the way. I suspect we’ll be seeing more of each other, Sergeant Schnell.” With that she was gone, vanishing into the dark night outside.

Inga reappeared from beneath the table where she’d avoided the melee. “Is it over yet?”

Kurt couldn’t suppress a smile. “I suspect the fun’s just getting started.” Arullen staggered through the darkness, not knowing where he was headed or how he kept going. His fingers had gone numb and his legs felt like stone, too heavy to lift out of the foul liquid that had now reached waist height in the catacombs. Still he trudged onwards, one hand clenched around the wound in his abdomen, while his other hand clawed him along the circular, slime-covered walls. He should be dead by now, Arullen was certain of that, but something kept him going kept drawing him forwards. The elf did not want to perish in this hole, carrion for vermin and other dark denizens of the sewers. He had come down into the catacombs with three of his brethren, lured here by tales of rare artefacts to be found in these misbegotten tunnels and chambers. According to the myths, an elf vessel had once crashed against the rocks of Riddra and spilled a cargo of the finest jewellery into these waters. Part of the haul had been recovered, but the rest was taken by the tide. If you believed the legends, much of the cargo had been washed into the catacombs by the same storm tides that had caused the ship’s demise. It had lain below ground for generation upon generation, waiting for elves brave enough and bold enough to venture into the catacombs and reclaim the cargo, to take it back to the elf quarter.

Arullen had persuaded three of his brethren to venture into the catacombs with him, but their quest had been foolish and tragic, not brave and bold. The others were dead, torn apart by those ravening monsters and all Arullen had to show for it was a single silver brooch, found when his hands brushed across it in the darkness. He pulled the brooch from inside his bloodied garb and stared at the fragment of stone set in the jewellery. A speck of light glimmered within the unpolished stone, whispering dark thoughts into Arullen’s mind, urging him to go back and surrender to those that stalked him. No, I won’t do that, he decided, hiding the brooch away from his gaze once more. I must get to the surface. Let me die with the moon’s light on my face and I could still die contented, he thought.

There was another reason to keep going: he had to warn his brethren, tell them of the coming cataclysm. Unless the alarm was raised, what lurked down here in the darkness would overwhelm all of Marienburg. It would make no distinction between elf and man, halfling or dwarf. And if Marienburg fell to these nightmares, it could loose an aeon of Chaos and unimaginable horror upon the Old World. The Empire was still embattled by the legacy of its war against Chaos, it could not withstand another war so soon. Arullen knew he would not survive long now, but he could still forewarn the city’s inhabitants and they could forearm themselves against the coming terror. He owed his fallen brethren that much. So he staggered on, his long, delicate features drenched in sweat, bleached white by fear and pain.

A deep, jagged pain sliced through his body, bringing an involuntary cry of anguish from his lips. He stopped and leant his back against the curving wall, closing his eyes against the hurt. Something sharp was inside the wound, nagging at his intestines, slowly rending them apart. The tip of his dagger must have broken against a bone within him. Now it was making for the heart, working its way upwards to finish the job of killing him.

How ironic, the enchantment laid on his blade to make sure the dagger always claimed its target was now claiming his life. Arullen’s mother had always said meddling with magic would be the death of him. As always, fate was proving her right. But this was no time for self-pity.

Arullen opened his eyes once more and gasped. The tunnel was lighter than it had been before, illumination spilling along the shaft from a curve ahead of the elf. He stopped and listened for any hint of the hunters that had stalked him down here, but there was only the sound of liquid lapping at the walls. Arullen forced himself towards the bend in the tunnel and the light beyond. Perhaps it was merely caused by another cluster of flesh-eating glow worms, but it gave him a reason to go on. The elf laughed out loud when he came round the curve and saw the true cause. A narrow, stone staircase wound its way upwards from the catacombs. The light was pouring down from the top of the steps, along with the first clean air Arullen had smelled for hours. He’d made it, against all odds he had found a way out of this maze.

Had he been able, the elf would have run to the staircase. Instead he staggered, gasping for breath, every step driving the dagger’s tip closer to his heart. Arullen reached the steps and grabbed hold of the ancient metal railing that led up and around to the surface. “Help…” he cried out, but his voice was feeble and weak. “Please, somebody-help me…” But nobody heard, nobody came to his aid. So the dying elf dragged himself up the steps, one at a time, crawling towards freedom. The occasional glimpses of moonlight kept him going, urging him upwards, beckoning him to its embrace.

He emerged on a narrow ledge, jutting out over a narrow side canal. Arullen knew not where he was within Marienburg, and he no longer cared. He had escaped the torments underground and that was all that mattered. The elf edged his way along the ledge to a wider path. He could see nobody on the path but that would not be the case for long. Marienburg rarely slept, the pulsing heart of its merchant economy requiring constant attention and forward momentum to sustain itself. Arullen paused, looking in either direction for somebody, anybody to aid him. His family would pay a handsome reward to those who saved their son, he was certain of that.

Heavy footsteps strode towards him from behind. At last, Arullen thought, relief surging through him. He turned to face the approaching figures, smiling at them weakly. “Please, I need help…” he began. Then his eyes saw the long, green-stained blades being drawn and the murderous, malevolent glint in their eyes. He hadn’t escaped after all. They had come up here after him, and now they were going to finish the job that warped stranger had started. Whatever happened, they must not discover the brooch on his body. He staggered backwards, flailing one arm at the approaching enemy to distract them while his other hand retrieved the brooch from inside his garb. Once it was in his grasp, he let it drop into the shadows before running at the dark, foreboding figure ahead of him. “The sons of the House of Silvermoon do not fall easily, monster!” he snarled. “Your death shall be my legacy!” A howl of animalistic pain and suffering echoed briefly along the Three Penny Bridge, but nobody reacted, nobody came running to see what was happening or what help they could offer the suffering soul. This was not that sort of place. In much of Marienburg a cry in the night brought neighbours and concern. Along the Three Penny Bridge and the stone-cobbled streets that approached it, nobody listened and fewer cared. No shutters opened to see what was happening, nobody lifted a finger to help Arullen Silvermoon as he died. Of all the areas in this maritime metropolis, he had inadvertently chosen exactly the wrong district in which to be murdered. The rule of law had no meaning near the Three Penny Bridge.