Age of the Undead, page 17
part #1 of Zombicide Black Plague Series
“I said I would do it,” Alaric admonished the thief.
“Can’t have you paying for my mistake,” Gaiseric replied. He gripped the trapdoor and swung it up. “Besides, it’s safe…”
Before the thief could say anything else, something lunged at him from the darkness below. He was bowled over by a figure that pinned him to the floor. Alaric started for the attacker but was warned back when he saw a knife at Gaiseric’s throat.
“Explain yourselves, or he meets his ancestors.” The threat was made by a bedraggled-looking dwarf, her clothes torn and her ruddy skin darkened with dirt and blood. She had a wild look in her eyes and a firm grip on Gaiseric’s neck.
“Mistress Stonebreaker?” Drahoslav asked, stepping forward. His rapier was sheathed, but he had one hand resting on its pommel. Alaric had already seen the lightning speed with which he could draw the blade when he had to. “You remember me, I came here with Master Fluchsbringer.”
The dwarf gave him a sullen look. “The foppish bodyguard. That is hardly a recommendation.”
“Then how about this,” Alaric said. With all the other hazards they’d endured to get this far, he’d little patience for the dwarf’s paranoia. The longer they tarried, the worse things might be for the survivors at Vasilescu’s tower and the more time Brunon Gogol was denied the retribution he so justly warranted. “Except for you, we found nothing else alive down here. Your people are dead. You can’t be choosy about your friends right now.”
The knight’s words pierced the dwarf. She sagged back, stunned by his words. Her eyes roved across the room, moistening when she saw the dead bodies of other dwarfs. “All of them?” she asked.
“We didn’t see any sign anyone got away,” Alaric said. “How did the zombies get into your halls, Mistress Stonebreaker? It looks like this place is fortified to keep anyone out.”
“Yet somehow you found your way in,” the dwarf retorted, her sullen stare sweeping across the humans.
“It wasn’t easy,” Gaiseric gasped while her hand squeezed his throat.
“It should be impossible… for humans,” she growled. “The doors above were sealed. None of your people know how to unfasten doors locked by dwarfs.”
“Be grateful someone did, or you might have stayed in that hole.” Alaric drew her attention back to himself. “It seemed to me the mechanism was blocked by this.” He kicked the severed zombie arm across the room. “If we hadn’t found you, you’d have been forgotten. Your name lost to your kinfolk.” He thought that last part might touch a chord with her, knowing the importance dwarves placed on family and ancestry. He could see from the change in her eyes that he’d had some impact.
The dwarf relaxed her hold on Gaiseric and let the thief scramble away. “Ursola. My name is Ursola Stonebreaker,” she said. She pivoted and looked back at the cellar she’d been hiding in. “My cousin Nilfir ordered me to hide down there when the fighting began. Told me I was being entrusted with guarding the company treasury.”
Helchen crouched down beside the dwarf. “How did the zombies get in? What happened?”
“They came up through the cistern. Bubbled up from the water like dead fish. They must have gotten into the underground stream that fed our well,” Ursola said, suspicion still in her voice.
The witch hunter shot Gaiseric a guilty look. Alaric had heard their account of fighting in the underground. Now wasn’t the time to tell them, but judging by how many undead were strewn through the hall, there were certainly more of them than those they’d rescued the students from. The zombies had found some other way into the stream. What really worried him was if the creatures had discovered that route… or been shown it by someone like Gogol.
Alaric set his hand on Ursola’s shoulder. “We regret what has happened to your people, but we came here to try to save others.” He nodded at Helchen. “Some time ago, Ironshield did work for the witch hunters. Drahoslav tells me there might be a record of what was done.”
Ursola studied his face for some time. “What would you want those records for?”
“Several hundred survivors have taken refuge in Vasilescu’s tower,” Hulmul interjected. Alaric could see the dwarf recognized the mage’s name. “A moat filled with alchemical fire has kept the zombies at bay, but he’s worried the defense can’t last. He needs a book taken by the witch hunters to strengthen the flames.”
Alaric nodded. “The few people still alive in Singerva are depending on us to get that book for Vasilescu. We need your help. The record of the traps built for the witch hunters will let us navigate their dungeons safely.”
Ursola was silent, pulling at her hair as she digested everything she’d been told. Finally, she reached a decision and pointed at the cellar. “Down there. To a dwarf, the record of our deeds is as precious as gold. The archives are there with the rest of Ironshield’s treasure.”
Alaric sighed with relief. “Can you show us the documents we want?”
“Naturally,” Ursola said. “The work done for High Inquisitor Elza and the Order will be recorded, just like any other transaction.” A shrewd look came over her face. “You will be fighting the undead?”
“Any and all of them that get in our way,” Gaiseric assured her as he massaged his bruised neck.
“Then before I agree to show you, you must come to an agreement with me,” Ursola said, fire in her eyes. “You must let me come with you.” She paused before adding a sentiment with which Alaric could empathize. “I’ve kinfolk to avenge.”
Hulmul smiled at her. “Of course, an engineer would be as useful as any record of the traps your kin built.”
Ursola smiled back at the wizard. “Oh, you’re mistaken. My forte isn’t building things, but demolishing them.” She patted a large satchel that hung at her side. Dipping her hand inside, she brought out an iron globe about the size of an apple.
“A firebomb.” Helchen paled, instinctively leaning away from the dwarf. “Captain Dietrich used one against the Witch of Unterhoff.”
The dwarf casually replaced the incendiary in her satchel. “With the right materials to work with, I could make much better. But you won’t find those this side of a dwarfhold.” Ursola’s eyes roved across the group, before settling on Alaric. “Is it agreed then?”
“It’s agreed,” Alaric said, extending his hand to her. Ursola spat in her palm, then shook his hand. The knight didn’t know if there was any insult implied or if it was simply a dwarf custom.
“She’s going to love Ratbag,” Gaiseric groaned.
Ursola darted a dark look at the thief. “Who’s Ratbag?”
One crisis at a time, Alaric thought. “He’s watching the entrance,” he said. After a pause, he added, “When you meet him, try not to blow him up.”
Chapter Thirteen
The Order’s temple-fort was an imposing structure, coiled like a stone viper across from the secular Halls of Justice where bewigged magistrates held court over more mundane crimes. Helchen knew there were detractors of the Order who’d point out the proximity to the courts rather than the cathedral as an indicator of where their priorities lay. Of course it was simple pragmatism. Those accused of sorcery and witchcraft were often charged with other crimes as well. The witch hunters had to act in concert with the king’s law, allowing these secular transgressions to be tried, either in tandem with the more mystical violations or prior to the prisoner being turned over for an entirely separate inquisition.
Helchen had never been to Singerva before. She knew from Captain Dietrich that a woman named Elza held the position of high inquisitor here, with a reputation for being a harsh disciplinarian who demanded total obedience from the witch hunters under her command. So the moment she saw the doors at the front of the temple-fort hanging open, she knew everything had gone wrong here.
“At least we won’t have to blast our way in,” Ursola said, a note of disappointment in her tone. The dwarf presented a much different figure than she had in the cellar of Ironshield and Company. Though there hadn’t been time to attend the dead, she’d availed herself of the opportunity to gather equipment for the trials ahead of them. Her ragged clothes had been replaced by a hauberk of bronze-colored mail, some exotic alloy known only to her people. A helmet with a wide nasal encased her head, leaving only part of her face and a long braid of golden hair exposed. She was draped in a wide array of satchels and bags in which she carried the destructive tools of a ‘demolisher’ as she termed herself. Bombs and explosive powders, fuses and acids, and other things to which Helchen couldn’t put a name. Finally, there was the massive warhammer she carried. Ursola had started out with a smaller weapon, but one look at Ratbag had sent her back down into the dwarf halls to retrieve the bigger sledge.
“That much noise would bring every zombie in this quarter staggering over to investigate,” Alaric told Ursola.
“Noodlin’ der stumpie brewzup der soup,” Ratbag laughed. “I long fer der carumpuz.”
Gaiseric looked over at the dwarf. “Ratbag agrees with you. He’d like to fight some zombies.”
Ursola scowled at both the thief and the orc. “I didn’t come along to amuse morons.”
Helchen wondered exactly why the dwarf had come along. Ostensibly, she claimed it was to avenge her dead kinsfolk, but the witch hunter was dubious if that was all. Certainly, self-preservation played its part. Ursola had better chances of survival in a group than she did on her own. But she couldn’t help thinking about the possessiveness she exhibited toward the records regarding the work the engineers had done for the witch hunters. She’d shown Drahoslav where they were but had quickly appropriated the copper sheaves before anyone could examine them. The only inspection she’d permitted was Helchen’s quick glimpse at the Order’s seal to verify that they were indeed the right ones.
Worries about the dwarf and what secrets she might be keeping made Helchen think about Vasilescu and her nagging doubts about the mage. As far as the Order was concerned, Vasilescu was a valuable asset, one of the few dependable wizards. If she expressed concerns about him to her superiors, they’d have dismissed her fears with a wave of their hand. Yet she couldn’t silence the suspicions she harbored. There was that curious rune he’d placed on Hulmul’s arm and that grisly collection down in his vault. She felt in her gut there was something wrong about it all. She had to keep her own counsel on the subject, certain the others would simply chalk it up to the prejudice of a witch hunter towards spell-casters in general.
Helchen set aside her concerns. Right now, she needed to focus on the temple-fort.
“Well?” Hulmul asked, visibly disturbed by being on the threshold of a place no wizard regarded without fear. “Where do we start?”
The witch hunter was pensive a moment. “If Singerva’s temple-fort follows a similar layout to others I’ve been in–”
Gaiseric interrupted her with a hollow laugh. “I doubt the Order would be so predictable as to use the same architect wherever you set up one of these… venues. Your people don’t exactly…”
“There will be rooms that naturally complement each other,” Helchen stated, annoyed by the thief’s tone. “It makes little sense to put the kitchen distant from the larder.”
Alaric nodded. “That follows. But we aren’t looking for the kitchen.”
“No, but there’ll be a pattern we can follow,” the witch hunter explained. “The cells, for instance, will be near the interrogation theater.”
“And catacombs for disposing of suspects who expire under torture will be close by for ease of transport,” Hulmul growled, anger straining through his fear.
Helchen gave the wizard a stern look, refusing to let any hint of doubt show. “So will those executed by the Order. The corpses of any necromancer or suspected necromancer are far too dangerous to consign to a normal cemetery.” She pounced on the subject, raising a point she knew Hulmul would have to concede. “The body of Marius the Damned was stolen and no one knows where it was taken. They say his disciples built a secret crypt for him somewhere under Singerva.”
“So, the temple-fort has catacombs as well as dungeons beneath its foundations.” Gaiseric shook his head. “As though this place could be more sinister. Even when you die, they don’t let you leave.”
“The catacombs and dungeons will be the most heavily defended areas in the temple-fort,” Helchen said. “Both to keep prisoners from escaping and to guard against unruly spirits rising from the catacombs.”
“Being the best guarded, that’s also where the Order would keep anything of value,” Alaric added.
“Many inquisitors keep the artifacts confiscated by their witch hunters, securing them in a protected vault.” Helchen pointed her finger at the ground. “Somewhere down there.”
Ursola looked through the documents she’d brought from Ironshield’s archives. “High Inquisitor Elza must have figured that dwarves are the best engineers to employ working underground, so maybe she had a bit more sense than most of you tall-legs.” She pointed at Helchen. “You’ve the right of it. What we’re looking for will be below, not above. I’d suggest trying to find some stairs going down.”
“So, we look for some stairs,” Alaric stated. He motioned the group forward but had only taken a few steps before he immediately stopped before reaching the door.
“There’s an ominous sign,” Hulmul said, gesturing with his staff at a wide streak of blood that spread away from the temple-fort’s doors. It looked like the trail of some sanguinary slug.
Helchen stepped nearer and pointed out something even more ominous. “Whatever left all that blood didn’t stay where it fell,” she said. A line of crimson footprints led away from the outline of a body picked out in dried gore. They turned back into the temple-fort.
“Cadavaz,” Ratbag growled. Helchen thought he was referring to the footprints, but the orc indicated Fang. The wolf’s ears were pressed back against its skull, its fur bristling. It was staring ahead at the doorway and the darkness beyond.
“I guess we won’t be finding this place as deserted as Ironshield and Company,” Gaiseric muttered. Immediately he turned and offered Helchen an apology. “I forgot these people were your colleagues.”
The witch hunter shook her head. She’d learned long ago to avoid emotional attachments. Helchen was stuck with the ones she’d brought with her when joining the Order, like her brother and his family, but Dietrich had impressed on her that it was weakness to form new ones. Even with other witch hunters. At all times, she was taught to strive only for the convictions of the Order, regardless of who had to be sacrificed for those convictions.
“What’s done is done. There’s no changing it,” Helchen said. She inspected her crossbow and walked toward the gaping doors. “Make torches. It’s dark inside.” Her eyes roved across the shadowy threshold, almost hoping for a zombie to show itself. There was nothing she could do about slaughtered initiates of the Order, or the murder of its officials, but she could put a stop to the profanation of the temple-fort.
The undead would discover there was nothing so brutally impersonal as the vengeance of a witch hunter.
•••
Hulmul’s skin crawled and he felt a heaviness constricting his chest the moment he entered the temple-fort. Your nerves, he told himself. If there had been any anti-magic wards or similar protections, they’d have been much more definitive about pushing him out.
No, it was the mere fact that he, a wizard, was walking into a place that held such terror for those of practiced magic. However meticulous and scrupulous a wizard was about what was learned and how it was used, there always remained the fear. The fear that the Order would latch onto some spiteful rumor or a black lie spread by an enemy. The merest accusation, at the right time and in the right ear, might see anyone investigated by the witch hunters. Put to the question in their torture chambers. Perhaps a great man like Vasilescu was immune to such worries, but for Hulmul, the dread of being dragged into the dungeons of the Order had always been there.
“Be concerned about zombies,” Helchen told the wizard as the group filed into the bleak entry hall. “Singerva’s witch hunters won’t be accusing anyone of necromancy any time soon.” While she spoke, she glanced meaningfully at the walls and floor. By the crackling torches, Hulmul could see that there was blood everywhere, sometimes with a grisly, more substantial reminder of the human form.
“There are no bodies,” Hulmul said. “That means whoever left all that blood must have risen again as one of the undead.”
Drahoslav paced along one side of the hall, careful to anchor his flank with a solid wall. “It would have taken a lot of zombies to overcome the witch hunters,” he objected, nodding at Helchen. “They wouldn’t have gone down without a fight, and people in your profession know how to kill a zombie and make it stay dead.”
Hulmul thought over the duelist’s remark as they marched deeper into the building. The witch hunters hadn’t been exactly austere when they furnished the temple-fort. The floor, where it wasn’t spattered with blood, consisted of checkered tiles of white marble and malachite. The walls were covered by lush tapestries depicting scenes from the Ten Heroic Classics, the most revered of the kingdom’s literary works. Gilded lamps hung from sconces along the walls. They were dull now, their oil consumed in the long hours since calamity struck the temple-fort.
Alaric moved to the first door that opened out into the hall, the rest following behind while Drahoslav kept watch in the corridor. The room within looked to have been a guardroom of some sort, little larger than an alcove, with a few chairs and a broken table. A rack of halberds rested against one wall while a shelf with several bundles of arrows was on the other. Here too, Hulmul saw the evidence of bloody battle but no bodies.
“Something’s taking the dead away,” the wizard declared, expressing what he thought they all must be thinking.
“Zombies aren’t that clever,” Gaiseric protested. He crouched near the broken table and started plucking silver coins off the floor from amid a litter of playing cards and broken flagons.
