Alyx watched from the shadows as the man worked, shovelling dirt out of the grave. He was hard to focus on-through her vampire's eyes, the graveyard was filled with much more interesting things. The ground was thick with death, lying low to the ground like fog, occassionally reaching upwards with tendrils like grasping fingers. One played around the digging man, who stopped for a moment as if he sensed something amiss. He turned and looked over the rim of the hole, squinting into the blackness beyond the dim circle of light cast by his covered lantern. He looked directly at the pool of darkness Alyx stood in but saw nothing and soon returned to his labor.
As well as the fog of death, the spirits of the dead wandered through the graveyard, lost and confused. Some wailed over their tombstones whilst others stumbled about repeating the same actions over and over, grasping at things and wondering why they could not touch them, unaware they were dead. Amongst them was the spirit of the butcher whose grave was in the midst of having its sanctity disturbed, playing over his murderous motions, stabbing at nonexistent figures again and again.
There was a thud as the grave robber hit wood. His pace sped up as he frantically cleared the dirt from around the coffin's lid. Without pausing, he worked it open and reached into the coffin, he avoided looking at the corpse's face as he grabbed its hand and worked the ring off its finger. Triumphantly, he held up his prize, a smile splitting his filthy face.
He started as the sound: A dry, leathery slapping as Alyx slowly clapped her hands, standing at the edge of the hole. Terrified, the grave robber backed away, treading on the corpse as he stumbled to the far end of the grave. Alyx took a step forward and landed gracefully on the narrow rim of the coffin. The man began to make noises as if trying to say something.
"Yes," she said to him "A vampire."
Losing interest in him, she reached down and took the body's hand. With a sawing motion, as easily as slicing a loaf of bread, she took it off with her claw and then repeated the action with the other hand. Holding up the hands, she appraised them. Yes, they would suit her purpose nicely.
The grave robber soiled himself, and as Alyx remembered he was there.
"You dig quickly," she said. "Therefore, you may live. Keep up your good work."
She waved one of the severed hands at him as if to say goodbye and then leapt out of the grave and walked away. "Yes, they would do nicely indeed."
Otwin keep towered above the half-timbered structures of the district around it. Although the houses, shops and tenements were clustered so closely that the lanes slithering between them scarcely allowed two men to walk abreast, the imposing stone tower stood alone. None had been bold enough to build close to the forbidding prison, unwilling for his home or business to lie within the keep's black shadow. A stretch of some fifty yards lay empty and vacant all around the keep, its expanse all the more unnatural and intimidating for the cramped cluster of the surround streets.
The tower itself was six floors of dank cells and dark corridors encased within grey stone walls as thick as a man's arm was long. Narrow slits peppered the face of the structure, angling down through the outer facade before reaching the chambers within. It had been no compassionate attempt to provide the keep's inmates with daylight, but a cruder one to improve the circulation of air and eliminate the stench of unwashed bodies and human filth. The little windows failed in both respects, acting only to funnel the cold grip of winter into the dungeons.
A crowd had gathered around the fruesome structure as Frantz led his retinue of mercenaries towards the keep. Most of them wore the livery of Count Valurn's personal guards, although there were others in the colours of the city watch. As Frantz watched, the soldiers busied themselves by adding to the pile of kindling that surrounded the keep, hurling broken furniture and splintered beams. Others prowled the edges of the heap, massive stone jars held in their hands, sloshing thick black oil onto the kindling. Some distance away a large bonfire burned, its flame illuminating the brutal tableau. Even through the thick walls, Frantz's ears could detect the shrieks and pleas for mercy rising from those confined within the keep.
Meisser was standing near the bonfire, dressed in the same dark mantle he had worn when Frantz first met him. The guard captain barked orders to the soldiers constructing the pyre, waving his hands and gesturing wildly to punctuate his commands. The image of a maestro conducting his orchestra in one of Eiklu's elegant opera houses flickered through Frantz's mind.
Frantz approached the swine-faced Meisser. Some of the soldiers working on the pyre turned to watch. Meisser started when he saw Frantz. But a smug look of superiorty spread across his face.
"Come to help me in my holy work, Frantz?" Meisser grinned. Frantz paused, the flickering light of the bonfire casting his profile in sharp relief. He studied Meisser for a moment. Then his hand released its hold upon his sword, curling into a fist as it bridged the distance and smashed into Meisser's nose. Meisser staggered backwards, a stream of blood oozing from his nostril, gawking as it stained his fingers, stunned that anyone should have the temerity to strike him. Dimly, Frantz was aware of movement to his right. He spun around, ready to defend himself. Some of the tension eased as he saw that the men closing upon him wore the gold of Reuss, and Silja Markoff was at their head.
"Frantz!" Silja cried out. "He means to burn down the keep with all the inmates locked inside!" Frantz nodded grimly, turning back to regard Meisser. The guard captain was still nursing his injured nose. His lip trembled as he saw his nemesis approach him. A quick glance at the soldiers standing by the pyre informed him he could expect no help from that quarter. The oaths they had sworn to Count Valurn bound them to their orders, it seemed, but not to their overseer. Frantz might beat him to a pulp and the soldiers would be content to do nothing more than watch.
Meisser's hand dropped away from his nose toward his tunic. At once he snarled in pain, as strong hands closed around his own and pulled his good arm behind his back. Meisser struggled in Sul's powerful grip, spitting invective at the brutish mercenary.
"Can't have you stabbing the gaffer now, can I?" Su growled, giving a tug on Meisser's arm that sent a fresh stab of pain through his body.
"Damn you..." Meisser hissed. "I have a proclamation...orders... in my pocket." He groaned again as Sul fumbled inside his tunic, his hand emerging with a folded sheet of parchment.
"This looks to be what hes's whining about." Sul said, proffering the document to Frantz. The mercenary captain unfolded it and began to read. As he did so, the greasy smile returned to Meisser's face.
"Release him," Frantz ordered. Sul stared at his captain, wondering if he had taken leave of his senses. "He has orders from Count Valurn himself. The count is very concerned about the concentration of disease in this keep. This, it seems, is the solution." With a sigh of disappointment and a last savage twist of his arm, Sul pushed Meisser away. He fell to the ground, another cry of pain escaping as he landed on his bad arm.
"But Count Valurn was the one who ordered the sick to be brought here," protested Silja. Frantz handed the document over to her, allowing her to examine the seal and satisfy herself as to its authenticity. For his part, there was no need for further inquiry. A scheming rat like Meisser would never have been brazen enough for so bold a deception.
"No doubt he had his second order already in mind when he gave the first," Frantz commented. Which, he wondered, was the worst monster at large in the city now: The plague, the foul beast, or possibly His Excellency Count Valurn?
"It was decided at a meeting of all the great and good of the city," Meisser spat as he regained his feet. He stabbed an accusing finger at Silja. "Your father was the one who proposed this action to the count." Silja's face turned white. The housecarls to either side of her stepped forward to support her suddenly weakened legs. Frantz glowered at the conniving captain, sorely tempted to finish the job of breaking his nose.
"I don't care who the orders come from," Silja insisted. "You can't do this! For Verbum's sake, the Brothers of Saint Maizus are still inside!"
"You would consign the holy servants of the god of light to a hideous death?" Frantz demanded. His words were intended not only for Meisser's jaded ears. The soldiers around the walls of the keep began to back away, eyes downcast as an intense shame welled up within them.
"They refused to leave," Meisser protested. "They insisted on defying the Count's orders."
"Because they were foolish enough to think that even you would not set fire to the keep with them still inside." Frantz snapped back. He turned his gaze towards the soldiers. "You men have honoured your oath and displayed your willingness to obey your masters, no matter how distasteful the task they give you. But this order is an evil!" He leaned toward the bonfire, holding the count's proclamation against the flames. "Lords and masters may demand many things from the men whose loyalty they command, but no man has the right to ask another to damn his immortal soul!" Frantz held the parchment high so that the soldiers could watch it burn. Their faces betrayed the uncertainty they felt. Not one of them had been without his doubts, but now each saw he was responsible for his actions to powers far greater than that of Count Valurn.
As Frantz was beginning to think the count's hideous intentions had been thwarted, there was a sudden movement close behind him. Meisser had seized his chance, lunging at the bonfire, ripping a burning brand from the fires. He had allowed Frantz to usurp his authority once before, but not this time. Before anyone could react, Meisser hurled the burning stick into the oil soaked pile surrounding the keep. The kindling burst into an upsurge of flames, swiftly racing away to spread across the rest of the pile.
Frantz ripped the cloak from his shoulders, his mercenaries following his lead. A large number of the soldiers grabbed spears, swords and whatever else was at hand to attack the blaze. The screams from inside the keep rose into an ear-splitting din, distinct and terrible, despite the thick stone walls and the roar of the flame.
"Keep it from reaching the door!" a soldier wearing a sergeant's pectoral cried out, a look of horror on his face. The mercenary captain threw down the smouldering cloak in his hand. The sergeant's voice was a piteous moan. "Captain Meisser had my men cover the floors in straw soaked with pitch!" he declared. Frantz's eyes mirrored the horror as he looked to the keep's ironbound doors, the tiny serpents of flaming slithering toward them from the piled kindling. Even as he called out for the men to redirect their efforts, he knew it was too late. The screams from the keep rose in intensity as the fire raced inside. A group of soldiers fought to force the massive doors open, trying to hack through the portal with axes until the heat of conflagration drove them back. By degree, the men abandoned their efforts, retreating from the fire as it became obvious that their fight was in vain.
Frantz stalked back towards the bonfire, trying to ignore the chorus of screams shrieking into the night. He looked for Silja Markoff, but he could find no trace of her. Meisser's words had done their work well, penetrating her strength and determination wounding the woman inside. Silja seemed to have few weaknesses, but her devotion to her father was beyond question. Frantz hoped she would not do anything rash.
Nearby, Frantz found Sul, grinning at him from above the crumpled form of Meisser. The guard captain had been relieved of his weapons, presumably after Sul's fist had knocked the wind from his stomach.
"Keep your animal off me!" Meisser demanded. The mercenary captain glared back, ripping his sword from his sheath. The guard captain cringed away, eyes wide with horror.
"You should be begging HIM to keep ME away from you," Frantz snarled, his grip tightening on the blade.
"I was only following orders!" pleaded Meisser, pressing his face against the cobblestones so that he might not see the coming strike. Slowly, with an effort of will, Frantz released the blade, slamming the sword back into its sheath.
"Stabbing you in the gutter like a dog is not disgraceful enough an end, Captain Meisser." Frantz declared, his voice dripping with disgust. He glanced aside at his henchman. "Sul, take this parasite to the barracks. Get him out of my sight."
Sul pulled Meisser back to his feet, shoving him acrtoss the plaza. "Count yourself lucky he's the gaffer." he hissed in Meisser's ear. "I'd have no qualms about putting an arrow in that slimy brain of yours."
Frantz did not watch his mercenary leave, turning instead toward the blazing Otwin Keep. Its flames rose into the night sky like some infernal hellfire. Some soldiers were still harrying the edges of the conflagration, but most of them had withdrawn. The mercenary captain looked in the direction of the Castle Reuss, wondering if the count had a good view of what outside help could bring.
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Topic: Battle of the Gods V (Read 27576 times)