Dead Calm 
Joshua Reynolds


	When the wind died and the mist began to roll in across the Sea of Claws, Hermann Eyll knew the captain had come for his due. From the great bay window in his study, the master of Marienburg’s south dock watched as every billowing sail fell limp and the wine-dark sea became as still as glass. Flags from a dozen principalities drooped as seabirds swooped and screamed, hurtling inland in one vast, raucous cloud. On the docks, men and women stopped and stared upwards, watching in wonder. 
	Eyll ignored the birds and instead turned to face the thin, olive-complexioned man sitting behind his grandfather’s ancient claw-footed desk. ‘He’s coming. Just as I said, Fiducci. He’s coming for his due and I’m damned if I’ll pay it,’ Eyll said, fear turning his tones savage. A thin man with a whip-like build and clothes of expensive cut, Eyll was every inch the merchant-prince. Pale, manicured fingers did a rap-a-tap patter on the scrimshaw butt of a pistol rising from the colourful sash about his waist, and he began to pace. ‘You’re certain you can deal with him?’ he said. 
	‘As certain as one can be in these – hmm – these matters,’ Signor Franco Fiducci said, shoving his spectacles further up the bridge of his beak of a nose. ‘Necromancy is not as exact a science as we would wish, hmm?’ The little Tilean bared blackened teeth in a half-hearted smile. ‘But Kemmler made careful records, and the ritual itself is not so far out of the bounds of this sort of thing, eh?’ He waggled worm-pale fingers. ‘A prick of the thumb and something wicked will surely come, as they say.’
	Eyll grunted and eyed the necromancer. Fiducci came highly recommended, having performed certain services for certain people under certain conditions that could, at best, be characterised as stressful. He looked like a crow, dressed all in black and bobbing his head alarmingly as he spoke. But he was dangerous for all that. ‘It’s not his coming that worries me... it’s what he intends to do once he gets here.’
	‘Ah, just so, yes, eh?’ Fiducci waggled his fingers again. ‘No matter. The captain is old and hard and wild like the sea itself, but Franco Fiducci is an artist of the bones, eh?’ He made a tight fist, his knuckles popping unpleasantly. ‘We will trim his sails back, have no fear.’
	‘But his powers,’ Eyll said. ‘My grandfather said he was a sorcerer as well as...’ he trailed off and swallowed thickly, his mind shying away from the thought. 
	‘Yes. His kind are notorious for their sorcerous abilities. He likely possesses a far greater grasp of the winds of magic than my humble self,’ Fiducci said. His lips quirked in what might have been a grimace. One spidery hand splayed out possessively across a tumble of books, one of several that were stacked sloppily on the desk in haphazard piles. ‘But I am a quick study, eh?’ 
	‘You’d better be, for the price I’m paying you sorcerer!’ Eyll said and lunged, slamming his knuckles down on the desk hard enough to cause Fiducci to jump. ‘I hired you to protect me from that – that thing and I expect you to do it!’
	‘Of course,’ Fiducci said. ‘Let it never be said that Franco Fiducci does not have his employer’s best interests at heart.’
	Eyll glared at him for a moment longer, and then looked away. ‘Stromfels take me,’ he muttered, shoulders slumping. 
	‘I have no doubt he will, Signor Eyll. He, or one very much like him, takes us all in the end. Except for your captain, of course,’ Fiducci said, stacking the books neatly. ‘But I will see to that, I think, provided you get for me that which I require.’
	Eyll made a face. ‘I’ll have them this afternoon. Tassenberg drove a hard bargain, blasted flesh-peddler,’ he grunted. 
	‘But you got them? Twelve of them?’ 
	‘Twelve of them, yes.’ Eyll looked away. 
	‘And pure?’ Fiducci pressed, leering.
	‘Tassenberg said they would be, damn you,’ Eyll growled.
	‘Oh no, Signor Eyll. Damn you, in fact, if they are not. Only twelve pure souls can save yours, one for each generation the captain has prowled the seas, making you and yours rich.’ Fiducci smiled nastily, displaying his black teeth again. ‘Your ancestor employed him as a privateer, sinking the ships of his competitors until his coffers swelled. And eleven generations since have reaped the benefits of that bargain. Now you want to weasel out of it, like a good merchant. Well, just so, Franco Fiducci will help you.’ He rubbed a thumb and forefinger together. ‘And then you will help Fiducci, eh?’
	‘Yes,’ Eyll said quietly. 
	‘Good.’ The necromancer rose to his feet. ‘I must go and prepare. And you must gather our materials.’
	Eyll watched Fiducci leave, his fingertips tracing the patterns carved into the handle of his pistol. Like everything else in his possession, it was a hand-me-down from better times. He imagined putting a bullet in the little necromancer’s back, and then just as quickly dismissed the thought. Like pity, petty satisfaction was something he could ill afford at the moment. 
	Striding to the bell-rope dangling in the corner near the door, he gave it a yank, summoning a servant. 
	It was time to collect the captain’s due. 
	‘Don’t move,’ Erkhart Dubnitz growled. Water trickled from the docks above and ran down the piscine designs engraved on his sea-green armour. Sword in hand, he reached for the back of the priestess’s green robe. ‘Just... don’t... move.’
	‘Why?’ Esme Goodweather, novice of the temple of Manann, said from between suddenly clenched teeth. Young and slim, she was a striking physical contrast to the bluff, broad knight reaching for the hood of her robe. Above her head, she could hear the clatter of iron-shod wheels and the babble of voices as Marienburg went about its business, unaware of what went on below their feet on the unterdock. 
	The unterdock was an open secret... an artificial world beneath the massive docklands that occupied Marienburg’s northern coast. Built in an ad hoc fashion by generations of smugglers, merchants, pirates and beggars, the rickety wooden walkways spread like a massive spider’s web beneath the docklands, cutting between the shallows and the surface. Stairs, ladders, fishing nets and overturned dinghies occupied the spaces between wooden planks, and formed natural landmarks. The air was muggy and thick with sea-salt. Barnacles clustered in patches like moss and things moved beneath the water. Things Goodweather didn’t particularly like to think about. 
	‘Because it’s watching you,’ Dubnitz said.
	‘What’s watching me?’ Goodweather gulped.
	‘Don’t worry about it. Go limp,’ Dubnitz said. He grabbed a handful of her robe and yanked her backwards. Something sprang out of the shadows that collected beneath the dock and Dubnitz sent the priestess tumbling unchivalrously to the soggy wood of the unterdock as he lunged forward to meet it. It was an ugly something, all iridescent scales and teeth, like a cross between a frog, alligator and shark. Dubnitz bellowed out a bawdy hymn to Manann as his sword sliced through the gaping mouth, shattering teeth and spraying the water with stinking blood. The creature squealed and crashed into a tangled bed of flotsam and fishing net. It twisted and leapt onto Dubnitz, its claws scrabbling at his armour. Roaring, Dubnitz head-butted it and the bulbous bearded metal face of Manann that served as his visor sank into the malformed flesh, causing the beast to flop backwards into the dark water. It croaked and tried to rise. Dubnitz pinned it in place a moment later with an awkward two-handed thrust. 
	Giving the sword a vicious twist, he jerked it free and kicked the spasming creature into the water. ‘Back to Manann, you blubbery fiend,’ he grunted, lifting his visor to watch it sink. 
	‘What was that?’ Goodweather snarled, clutching the trident icon that hung from her neck. ‘What was that thing?’
	‘One of Stromfel’s children,’ Dubnitz said. He grabbed a handful of the priestess’s sleeve and cleaned his sword. ‘The Chaos-things breed like roaches down here and no two of them are the same, besides the teeth and the bad attitudes. Incidentally, that’s why you’re here, isn’t it, to ward these buggers off?’ 
	Goodweather jerked her sleeve free of Dubnitz’ grip and grimaced as the barb struck home. ‘Yes. It just surprised me.’ She hesitated. ‘I’ve – ah –I’ve never seen one of them before.’
	‘Well, now you have,’ Dubnitz grinned. ‘Who did you annoy to get sent down here on this little expedition then?’
	‘No one,’ she said, looking around suspiciously as if waiting to see what else might leap out. 
	‘It must have been someone.’ Dubnitz scraped blood off of his cuirass and flung it aside. ‘No matter, I suppose. You’ll get used to the Shallows soon enough...’ He looked past her at the motley gang of sewerjacks clustered behind them. Made up of condemned prisoners, mercenaries and disgraced watchmen, the sewerjacks patrolled the unterdock as well as the sewers and under-canals of Marienburg. These looked particularly shamefaced as Dubnitz glared at them. ‘You lot, on the other hand should already be bloody used to them!’ he snarled and several of the ’jacks flinched and edged back from the big knight. ‘By Manann’s scaly nether-regions, are you professionals or mewling infants? How did you miss that thing?’ 
	‘Nobody talks to Big Pudge like that!’ one of the ’jacks growled. Big and bald, Pudge shoved his way through his compatriots, nearly knocking one or two of them off into the water as he forced his way nose-to-nose with Dubnitz. ‘Nobody calls Pudge a baby!’
	‘Right. Noted. In fact, you’re far too ugly to be a baby. Maybe you’re an orc instead, eh?’ Dubnitz barked, his beard bristling. A fist the size of a cooked ham swung out, but Dubnitz ducked his head and the blow caromed off of his helmet. Pudge yelped and stepped back. Dubnitz stomped on his instep and shoved him off the wooden walkway into the grimy water. The man howled and thrashed in the water. 
	‘Stop screaming. It’ll only attract more of the beasties,’ Dubnitz said, sinking awkwardly to his haunches. He cast a glare at the other ’jacks. ‘I hope someone thought to bring a rope. Otherwise I’m leaving him.’
	As the ’jacks hauled their fellow up, Dubnitz joined Goodweather. ‘Every day is an adventure,’ he said, smiling. 
	‘I’ll take your word for it,’ Goodweather said, pulling her robes tighter about herself. ‘I hate this.’
	‘Probably shouldn’t have gotten yourself sent down here then, eh?’
	‘It wasn’t my fault!’ she snapped. ‘And besides, you’re one to talk you great oaf!’ She glared at him. ‘Aren’t you down here because of that stunt you pulled with an uncooked octopus and a drunken goat?’ 
	‘Lies and calumny,’ Dubnitz said, flushing. ‘That goat was hardly drunk.’ He hesitated. ‘You – ah – you heard about that then?’
	‘The whole temple district heard about it! Ogg makes enough noise for three men twice his size!’ Goodweather said, her distaste evident in her tone. 
	Dubnitz couldn’t find the heart to fault her for it. Grand Master Ogg, leader of the Order of Manann, was an acquired taste. The bad-tempered, trident-handed Ogg was famous in Marienburg both for his bull-headed bravery and his political paranoia. His knights were fast becoming figures of familiarity in the households of the mighty of the city; he rented his warriors out as advisors, bodyguards and celebratory decorations alike, and it was said that whatever they heard, so too did he. 
	Granted, not everyone approved of Ogg’s expansionism. Dubnitz had no feelings either way. He chuckled. ‘He did, didn’t he? I’m hardly old Oggie’s favourite fish at the moment, eh?’ 
	Goodweather snorted and looked away. ‘You deserve to be down here with these cut-throats,’ she said, gesturing surreptitiously towards the sewerjacks as they took turns kicking the water out of Big Pudge’s lungs. 
	‘And you don’t?’
	‘No,’ she muttered. 
	‘Ha!’ Dubnitz shook his head. ‘Girl, you wouldn’t be down here if you didn’t deserve it for some reason. For now though, lets concentrate on why we’re here... where are they?’
	Goodweather sank smoothly onto her haunches and pulled a handful of seashells and shark’s teeth out of one of the pouches dangling from her harness. Like all members of the Order of the Albatross she wore a tarjack’s harness over her robes, with dozens of pouches and reliquaries tied to it, as well as a hooked knife carved from the tooth of some unpleasant deep-sea leviathan and a handful of silver bells. She scattered the shells and teeth across the dock. All of the teeth pointed in the same direction. ‘soutch dock,’ she said, looking up. 
	‘Hmp. The Eel’s territory,’ Dubnitz said, stroking his beard. ‘He’s a touchy one is Prince Eyll. We’ll have to tread lightly.’
	‘Surely our remit extends past his,’ Goodweather said, collecting her shells and stuffing them back in her pouch. 
	Dubnitz looked at her and grunted. ‘In theory.’ He sighed. ‘In practice, on the other hand...’ He clapped his hands together, the metal of his gauntlets clattering loudly. ‘Well, nothing for it but to do it. Form up you pack of half-drowned rats!’ he said, directing the latter towards the ’jacks. ‘On your feet Pudge, you orc-stain. All of you, get to trotting. soutch dock! On the double!’
	The group moved quickly and quietly, save for the creaking of hauberks and the rattle of weapons. The ’jacks, for all their slovenliness, were professionals and they knew their job. At the moment, that happened to be the interception of a shipment of human chattel being delivered by Uli Tassenberg’s men to a buyer on the docklands. Tassenberg was the boldest purveyor of human flesh in Marienburg, taking captives to the water wherever it flowed. They said he could get any hue of flesh or size or build, guaranteed. It was one of the current Lord Justicar’s pet-peeves. Aloysious Ambrosius, the Marsh-Warden and supreme judicial champion of Marienburg, had few bees in his bonnet, but slavery was one of them. The one-eyed former knight hated the practice with a loathing most people reserved for mutants or orcs. 
	Dubnitz was against slavery as well, in a general sort of way. He had never been one and had no intention of becoming one, but felt that it was a relatively simple state of affairs to change, man or woman, if you really wanted to do so. Simply kill the bugger holding the other end of the chain. No man, no problem. In this case, the man was Tassenberg. 
	‘I grew up with him, you know,’ he said out loud. Goodweather, following behind him, looked up. 
	‘What?’
	‘Tassenberg the Slaver. I grew up with him. Fat little bastard, even then. Hard too. We boiled horse-hide and made leather and glue like the other orphans in the Tannery.’ Marienburg was like an apple riddled with brown patches, and of those patches the Tannery was one of the worst. Located in the maze of streets that played host to the city’s tanneries, it was a squalid, foul-smelling territory and the gangs of mule-skinners and cat’s meat-men who made it their home were as dangerous as any dock-tough or river-rat. And now that he was powerful, Tassenberg made it his fortress. ‘Me and Uli and Ferkheimer the Mad and Otto Schelp, the Sewer-Wolf. Gods yes, got out as quick as I could too.’
	‘I thought you to be of noble birth to be a knight,’ Goodweather said.
	‘Who says I’m not?’ Dubnitz said. ‘Maybe I was switched at birth, eh?’ She looked at him, not quite knowing how to respond. Dubnitz gave a belly-rattling guffaw of laughter and clapped his hands. ‘Or maybe Ogg, bless his crusty little heart, wanted fighters first and fops second. He was no nobleman himself. Just a merchant seaman with a love of politics and esoteric Tilean pornography.’
	‘What?’ Goodweather said again, her eyes widening in disgust.
	‘Of course one has little to do with the other,’ Dubnitz went on, swinging an arm out. ‘At least in Ogg’s case. No, he picked the roughest, toughest, saltiest rogues he could find to form the core of the most holy and violent Order of Manann. And isn’t that what knighthood is about, really? Hitting people so hard that blood comes out of their ears? Of course it is!’ 
	Out in the darkness of the unterdock, something shrieked. Dubnitz roared back. Silence fell. Goodweather scrabbled for the net of bells that hung from her hip and raised it, giving it a shake. There was the sound of something heavy splashing in the darkness of the Shallows. Then it faded. 
	‘Handy,’ Dubnitz said.
	‘Shouldn’t you try to be more quiet, perhaps?’ Goodweather said, lowering the bells. Several of the sewerjacks made noises of agreement.
	‘Being quiet only attracts ’em, the buggers,’ Dubnitz said. ‘They equate creeping with weakness, so I’d hurry up the pace if I were you.’ He strode on, one hand on his sword. The group followed at a slightly increased pace. 
	Behind him, Eyll sensed his bodyguards shifting. One of them tapped him on the shoulder and murmured, ‘They’re here, my lord.’ The two men were the best money could buy. Both were professional killers, skilled with the rapier and the dirk and honed to the peak of excellence in a hundred street-brawls and duels. He touched his pistol where it rested in his sash reflexively, reminding himself that he wasn’t helpless himself. He looked and saw a skiff sliding through the debris of the Shallows towards the unterdock, a hooded lantern marking its dim path through the thick, corpse-white mist. 
	Seeing the mist, Eyll felt a clammy chill squeeze his backbone with tender fingers. It had permeated the docklands, curling around ships and buildings alike, seeping into the canals and into cellars and hidden jetties. Despite the cool, he felt beads of sweat pop to life on his face. Somewhere out there, in the mist, a daemon waited to take his soul. A daemon with red eyes and teeth like knives and... fiercely, he shook himself. 
	Fiducci had assured him that he could bind the captain. Bind and break him. It. And once that was done, what? Eyll, like any man of his position, had a mind like quicksilver when it came to ambition. Once bound, what could a monster like the captain be turned to? Maybe his ancestor had had the right idea, to use the daemon to break and batter the fleets of his rivals. That was how the Eylls had made the soutch dock the power that it was today. But what could it become in the future?
	‘Let them know we’re here,’ he said, fear momentarily buried beneath eagerness. One of his men held up a lantern and twisted the shutter-cap, sending the signal. The skiff approached and an anchor chain was looped around a wooden post. Five men climbed up onto the dock. One of them, a rangy Norscan, waved cheerily. 
	‘Hello Eel,’ he rumbled. ‘We brought your wares.’
	Eyll ignored the nickname and looked at the skiff. A number of huddled forms occupied the centre of the boat, chained together, their heads obscured by burlap sacks. ‘Where did you get them from?’ Eyll said, trying to ignore the stifled sobs. It was harder than he’d thought. 
	‘Does it matter?’
	‘Would I have asked otherwise?’ he said. It didn’t really matter. But he felt he needed to know, for some indefinable reason. If he was spilling their blood to save his own, he owed it to them to at least know where they had come from.
	The Norscan snorted. ‘Here and there,’ he said. ‘Do you have the money?’
	Eyll dropped a handful of coins into the Norscan’s hand. The blond brute gave a gap-toothed grin and bit down on one. ‘It’s good,’ he said and looked at his fellows. Eyll grimaced. 
	‘Of course it’s good.’
	‘Only Tassenberg says maybe not always, huhm?’ the Norscan grunted. ‘Uli says maybe you tell us why you need these, hey?’ The Norscan swept his wolfish gaze across Eyll and his bodyguards, sizing them up boldly. ‘Can’t be selling to undesirables, Uli says.’
	‘Undesirables?’ Eyll said. ‘I’m a Prince of the Dock!’
	‘Blood don’t mean dung,’ the Norscan said. ‘Not to Tassenberg. Got to have standards. Can’t be selling valuable wares to daemon-lovers or sorcerers. Bad for business. Lot of girls,’ the Norscan continued, smiling. The coins had disappeared into his filthy hauberk and he fondled the hand-axe on his belt. ‘Why you need so many Eel? Maybe a party? Or something else?’
	‘What?’ Eyll looked at the cut-throat. ‘It’s none of his concern. And certainly none of yours, oaf!’ 
	‘Oh, but it is,’ the Norscan said, pulling his hatchet and gesturing off-handedly. ‘Tell us, Eel.’
	‘Don’t call me Eel,’ Eyll said. ‘In fact, do not speak to me until spoken to. I am the Master of the soutch docks and you will show me–’
	The Norscan’s fist shot out, and Eyll’s nose popped like an overripe cherry. He fell back into the arms of his bodyguards, his hands clawing at his face. The Norscan grinned. ‘And Tassenberg is the Master of Men, Eel. What he wants to know, you tell him, hey?’ The other cut-throats moved forward, drawing weapons. ‘Tassenberg heard you hired Fiducci the bone-fondler. He heard you’re planning something. Tassenberg wants to know what’s going on,’ he continued, stepping closer. 
	Eyll blindly fumbled at the pistol thrust through his sash. ‘Don’t come a step closer!’ he snarled thickly, aiming the weapon at the Norscan. 
	The big man hesitated, his eyes narrowing. ‘Only got one shot, hey?’ he said, after a minute. ‘Best make it count, Eel.’ He raised the hatchet. 
	‘There they are. And with their fingers right in the pie,’ Dubnitz muttered as he watched the skiff dock and Tassenberg’s men clamber onto the jetty to speak with their customers. He waved Goodweather back. ‘You keep those bells handy. If this gets bloody, the beasts will be on us in a frenzy. The rest of you, fan out. Horst, Molke, get those crossbows ready. Tarpe, Pudge, the rest of you... follow me. But be careful. This blasted mist is as thick as mud.’
	‘Wait, what are you doing?’ Goodweather said, as Dubnitz made ready to step out of the shadows. 
	‘Arresting them. The quicker we do this, the quicker we get back up to the clean air and the quicker I can go to lunch. Fighting that beastie got my belly growling,’ he said, patting his stomach. 
	‘Listen, this mist... it’s not natural!’ Goodweather hissed, grabbing his wrist. ‘It feels wrong.’
	‘Handle it then,’ Dubnitz said, gently pulling his arm loose. ‘That’s why you’re down here. And I’m here to arrest those buggers there.’ So saying, he thrust himself out into full view of the group gathered at the other end of the walkway and smashed a fist into his cuirass with a loud clang. The group of criminals spun, stunned. ‘Hoy! You’re done! Nicked! Nabbed! Give up and we won’t hit you too much!’ Dubnitz bellowed at the top of his voice. 
	A pistol snarled and one of Tassenberg’s men pitched backwards with a howl. Dubnitz reached the clustered criminals a moment later, the ’jacks just behind him. His sword swung out and crashed against a rapier as a man armed with the tools of a duellist intercepted him. The man was fast, dancing around the big knight, the tip of the rapier carving its signature in Dubnitz’s exposed flesh. Roaring, he managed to catch hold of the blade and jerked the swordsman off balance. He punched him in the face with the cross-piece of his sword and then gutted him with a casual swipe, kicking the body aside a moment later. ‘What part of “you’re under arrest” don’t you people understand?’ he snarled. 
	He made a grab for the pistol-man, whose terrified features struck him as familiar in the moment before one of Tassenberg’s men struck at him with a halberd. Dubnitz sank to one knee and blocked the strike, then twisted, forcing himself up and his sword down through his opponent’s skull. ‘Don’t run! I hate running!’ he said, as the pistol-man began to flee towards a nearby set of stairs. If he got to the upper level, Dubnitz knew he would lose him in the confusion of the docklands. 
	Behind him, he heard weapons rattling and a man screamed. The mist was thigh-high and swirling around them like serpents. Dubnitz ploughed through it and made a lunging grab for the fleeing man’s cloak. He snagged it and jerked the man around. He gave an oath as recognition hit him like a brick. ‘You!’
	Hermann Eyll snatched the dirk out of his belt and made a desperate stab. The blade broke on Dubnitz’s armour and the knight drove a knee into the other man’s codpiece. The prince collapsed with a shrill scream. Dubnitz grabbed the back of his collar. ‘Oh, Ogg will just love this, won’t he? And the Lord Justicar too!’
	‘No!’ Eyll wheezed, clawing weakly at the iron grip that held him. Dubnitz grimaced. 
	‘Yes. You’re for the yardarm jig, I’m afraid, milord.’
	‘A dance of inestimable amusement, I’m given to understand, providing you’re not the one performing it,’ a chipper voice interjected. Dubnitz looked up. At the top of the stairs, a black-clad little form grinned at him. 
	‘Fiducci!’ Dubnitz rasped.
	‘Hello, Erkhart. And, alas, goodbye,’ Fiducci said as he raised a peculiarly shaped bosun’s whistle to his thin lips. As the echo of its unpleasant trill faded, the abominable sound of heavy, slippery bodies splashing out of the mist filled the air. 
	‘Oh no,’ Goodweather said, rising to her feet, her bells hanging forgotten in her hand. The two crossbowmen looked at her nervously. The rising mist had made it impossible for them to get a shot off and now one of them said, ‘What’s that sound? Is it the beasties?’
	‘It’s all of the beasties,’ Goodweather muttered, the hairs on the back of her neck prickling unpleasantly, though whether from the dank touch of the sorcerous mist or the sound of flabby bodies splashing closer. She peered through the mist, trying to spot the man in black she’d caught sight of just a moment earlier. The sound of the whistle had alerted her immediately to the danger. Goodweather was by no means the most experienced member of the Order of the Albatross, nor was she the most popular. Women and boats didn’t mix, or that was the assumption in some quarters. In truth she could haul sail with the best of them, and knew the stars like the freckles on her own hips. And she damn well knew the sound of one of Kadon’s Whistles and what it meant.
	Carved long ago by the infamous beastmancer at the behest of one of the first merchant-princes, the whistles could summon or disperse the nastiest inhabitant of Manann’s realm. Sharks, whales, sea-wyrms and other things fell under the power of the whistle. So too, evidently, did Stromfel’s Children. As far as she knew, they were also all locked up in the temple of Manann. How someone had gotten their hands on one of them was a mystery to her, and for another time at that. Right now, survival was the priority.
	Cursing, she raised her bells and dug in her pouches for sea-salt. Flinging the latter out in wide curves, she was rewarded by an immediate withering of the mist around her. Whatever was causing it didn’t like the touch of the Blessed Salts, no two ways there. 
	‘What are you doing?’ one of the ’jacks said. ‘What’s going on?’
	‘Quiet!’ Goodweather snapped. She pulled a handful of seagull feathers out next and flung them up, hoping she wasn’t going to see what she knew she would. A stiff sea-breeze hissed through the Shallows, shoving the mist aside and revealing a horde of tumbling, savage bodies. Some of them looked like otters or eels, while others looked like sharks and octopi. They heaved and squirmed through the water, forcing their way past the wrecks and small reefs of netting and barnacles towards the far end of the walkway, where Dubnitz and the others struggled. Goodweather froze for a moment, struck dumb by the horror. Bulbous eyes rotated behind filmy membranes and something that was like a frog and a fish and lion scrambled up onto the dock and scuttled towards them, jaws snapping. The crossbowmen screamed and fired as one. The beast snapped forward, jackknifing as the bolts thudded home. It slid across the wet wood towards them, thrashing in its death throes. More of the beasts began to follow its course however. 
	‘Stay close!’ Goodweather said, and then saw that it was no use. Both men were already turning to flee. She ignored their final moments and concentrated on keeping herself from joining them. ‘Manann bless and keep me from the beasts of the sea,’ she whispered, scattering salt around her and grabbing for her shark’s teeth. The creatures were of Stromfels, and the priests of Manann had long since devised methods for keeping such monstrous afterbirths in check. Squeezing the teeth in her hand hard enough to draw stripes of blood from her palm, she shook them and threw them into the water, hoping that she wasn’t too late. 
	Even as something that was more jellyfish than cormorant flapped squishily towards her, a red shape tore it into wet rags. Two more shapes joined the first and the phantom shapes of long-dead sharks spun lazily through the air around her, their ghostly teeth reducing even the boldest of the mutant beasts to ruin. She hurried towards Dubnitz and the others, blood dripping steadily from her hand. The spell wouldn’t last long, and there was safety in numbers. Or so she hoped.
	As the knight of Manann was bowled over by one of the Shallows-beasts, Eyll found himself hauled to his feet by Fiducci. The necromancer flashed his black teeth and laughed wildly. ‘It works! It works!’
	‘What works? What did you do?’ Eyll sputtered, yanking himself free of the little man’s surprisingly strong grip. 
	‘It is the answer to your prayers, Signor Eyll,’ Fiducci said. ‘But only if we have the bait. Where are they?’
	‘In the – the skiff!’ Eyll yelped, turning. The slaver’s skiff rocked in the water as the beasts thundered past it, drawn by the whistle up onto the walkway. For the moment, they were ignoring it, but that wouldn’t last long. ‘Make them go away! We have to get to that skiff!’ he shouted, grabbing two handfuls of Fiducci’s robe. 
	In reply, Fiducci blew hard on the whistle. The roiling mass of beasts split and fell back as the necromancer began to walk down the steps, Eyll close behind. ‘Did you know that armoured buffoon who attacked me?’ he said, looking around for the knight. ‘Who was he? He seemed to know you...’
	‘Dubnitz,’ Fiducci said, giving the whistle another toot. ‘Erkhart Dubnitz. He tried to hang me for practicing my art. Can you imagine? I was only doing as my clients asked, and the girl’s parents were so happy to have her back, when all was said and done. What’s a few maggots between family, eh?’
	Eyll shuddered. His eyes were riveted on the beasts as they thrashed over and gnawed on the bodies of Tassenberg’s men and the sewerjacks. Eyll’s surviving bodyguard had vaulted into the skiff, obviously realising that the beasts were ignoring it. He watched them approach wild-eyed, his rapier extended. 
	‘Good man, Stromm,’ Eyll said as he dropped down into the skiff. 
	The man nodded jerkily. A moment later, his head disappeared down the gullet of the frog-thing that rose out of the water and grabbed hold of the skiff. Eyll screamed and fell backwards. The monster reached for the closest of the girls, its talons puncturing the poor wretch’s chest like a knife through a water-skin. With a triumphant croak it began to pull the whole lot overboard, the chains that bound them inextricably together rattling. Eyll grabbed on from the other end and a momentary battle of tug-of-war ensued. Then, something red and horrible reduced the monster to squealing wreckage. Eyll gaped up at the spectral sharks as they dove and curled through the air. 
	Fiducci dropped into the boat and felt for the dead girl’s pulse. ‘Fie! Dead!’
	‘She’s the last, bone-licker,’ a voice growled. Fiducci and Eyll looked up. Dubnitz stood above them, his sword extended, his helmet missing, his armour covered in deep scratches and dents. ‘The last one ever.’
	Fiducci reacted like a striking snake, grabbing Eyll and pressing a blade he produced from his sleeve to his employer’s throat. ‘Drop the sword or the Signor dies!’
	Dubnitz hesitated, and that was long enough. Eyll elbowed Fiducci back and swung his pistol up. He had reloaded on the walk, and the weapon barked. The knight staggered back, a wash of red suddenly covering his face. Fiducci howled with glee and blew on his whistle. Monstrous shapes closed on the reeling knight, diving upon him hard enough to splinter the weakened wood of the walkway. The struggling knot of man and monsters plunged down into the dark water, causing the skiff to bob alarmingly. 
	Eyll twisted, shoving the smoking barrel of the pistol beneath Fiducci’s nose. ‘Are you mad?’
	‘Eccentric, possibly,’ the necromancer said. ‘Grab an oar, Signor. We must go! Now, before there are any more interrup–’
	A hand rose out of the frothing water and fastened on the edge of the skiff. Eyll scrambled back, thinking for a moment that it was the knight. But as he moved, he caught sight of more shapes, swimming forward in the mist. The chill on his soul returned, and suddenly, the struggling monsters behind him did not seem as bad as he’d first thought. 
	The dead man heaved himself up, his puffy, blackened flesh encrusted with algae and barnacles. Mutely, he glared at Eyll. ‘The... bargain... has... come... due,’ the corpse said, in a voice like oil sloshing in a lantern. A rotting hand reached for him. Fiducci interposed himself, teeth bared. Uttering several gurgling syllables, he tapped two fingers to the corpse’s head. It’s unseeing eyes rolled up in their sockets and it slumped back into the water. 
	‘He’s found me!’ Eyll shrieked. ‘He’s come for me!’
	‘Of course he has,’ Fiducci said, wiping his fingers against his robes. He made a face and looked at the dead girl. ‘We will need to be clever, yes? Grab an oar!’ More zombies made their way through the water even as the two men got the skiff moving. Bloated hands reached for them, plucking at the oars and their arms as they made their getaway into the ever-thickening mist.
	Dubnitz hit the bottom of the Shallows and silt exploded upwards, blinding him. He’d instinctively taken a breath before hitting the water, but it wasn’t going to save him, he knew. Claws scraped at him and he jabbed an elbow into a hideous face, shattering saw-edged teeth. With painful slowness, he chopped out with his sword, trying to drive off the rubbery forms of his assailants. His armour, a boon on land, was anything but beneath the water. It made his limbs feel as if they were wrapped in anchor chains. He struggled to disengage from the beasts now chewing on his limbs before his lungs exploded. It would be humiliating to drown in less water than filled a rich man’s tub. 
	Then, there was a flash of crimson and a wafting cloud of blood sprang into being around him. Waving it aside, he saw spinning ethereal shapes drive off his attackers and fade away into nothing. And beyond them he saw... what? Lungs burning, he peered closer, trying to make out the dim, dark figures plodding through the water away and out into the harbour. Finally, unable to stay down any longer, he thrust himself up. The water splashed against his cheeks and throat as he surfaced, and he clawed at the supports of the walkway, trying to haul himself up. 
	‘Give me your hand!’
	Dubnitz looked up at Goodweather. ‘I’m too heavy,’ he gasped. 
	‘Just give me your hand, oaf!’
	He did so, his gauntlet slapping into her hand. With a groan, she helped him clamber back up onto the wooden walkway. Stromfel’s Children had departed as swiftly as they’d come, leaving behind only bodies and the stink of blood and death on the close air. ‘Are they...?’ Dubnitz said.
	‘All of them,’ Goodweather said grimly, rubbing at a scrape on her face. Her robes were torn in a dozen places and blood and ichor stained them. Her hands too were bloody, and they trembled noticeably. ‘We’re the only survivors. Other than–’
	‘Fiducci,’ Dubnitz growled and thumped the walkway with a fist. ‘That foul little bog-stench.’
	‘Fiducci?’ Goodweather said.
	‘A necromancer. And a bad one. Why was he here? Why in the name of Manann’s drooping tail would he need a skiff full of women?’ He raised his hand as Goodweather made to speak. ‘Never mind. I know why.’ He growled again and pushed himself to his feet. ‘Did you see them?’
	‘See who?’
	‘Fiducci’s little friends,’ Dubnitz said harshly. ‘In the water. Dead men by the dozens. Walking along as if they were out for a stroll.’
	‘The water-logged dead...’ Goodweather whispered, her face going pale. 
	‘We have to get after them,’ Dubnitz said, looking around. He spotted the steps and pointed. ‘He came from up there. And I’d bet fifty Karls he’s heading to the soutch dock.’ 
	‘The soutch dock? Why?’ Goodweather said.
	‘Because of who’s with him,’ Dubnitz said grimly. Stepping over the bodies of the dead, they made their way to the stairs and then up. There were access points to the docks above strewn throughout the unterdock. Forcing the wooden cover aside, Dubnitz gagged as more of the foul-smelling mist poured down onto him and spilled down the stairs. ‘Gods below, it smells even worse than it did before!’ 
	‘It’s growing stronger,’ Goodweather said, through the torn strip of robe she’d pressed to her nose and mouth. 
	‘What is? What is it?’
	‘An abomination,’ the priestess said curtly as Dubnitz helped her topside. The mist had settled between the structures and buildings of the docklands, obscuring the sight of the few people still about their business. Dubnitz heard the rattle of armour and saw a troop of watchmen hurry past, their faces tight with fear. 
	‘Something’s going on,’ he said. In the distance, from the direction of the soutch dock, he saw the mist turn orange. He sniffed. ‘Smoke.’ Then, an instant later, an alarm bell began to ring loudly and desperately. He heard the shouts and knew in an instant what it was. ‘Fire... come on!’ he said, hurrying after the watchmen. The knight and the priestess moved as quickly as they were able through the dense mingling of the smoke and the mist. The crackle of flames filled their ears, and people lurched through the mist, fleeing. 
	Moaning, someone stumbled against Goodweather, knocking her off of her feet. She fell back onto her rear and looked up at a ruined face. Fleshless jaws worked mushily as the dead man reached for her. Dubnitz’s sword sang out, decapitating the zombie. ‘He’s dead!’ she said as she climbed to her feet. 
	‘If he wasn’t before, he is now,’ Dubnitz said. He used his sword to point towards the harbour. ‘Hear that? It’s not just the fire. There’s a fight going on out there!’
	‘Should we get help? Alert the watch?’
	‘No time. Besides, they’ll figure it out soon enough!’ Dubnitz growled, taking a tighter grip on his sword. ‘Got anything in that bag of tricks that can clear this blasted fog?’
	‘I can try,’ she said, reaching for more gull feathers. Out of the swirling whiteness, awkward shapes shambled. Dubnitz stepped forward, both hands wrapped around his sword’s hilt. 
	‘Hurry it up!’ he said as the first ambulatory corpse came into view. A rusty cutlass struck out at him and Dubnitz batted it aside and took its wielder’s arm off at the shoulder. The dead man gave no sign he’d noticed and simply reached for the knight with his remaining hand. Dubnitz took that one off as well, and then bisected the stubborn zombie. As the two halves thumped onto the wood, the second and third closed in, followed by the fourth, fifth and fifteenth. More and more of them shambled out of the mist, their blind eyes glowing with an eerie light. 
	‘Where are they all coming from?’ Goodweather said as she let a handful of feathers loose. Out here, closer to the clean sea, the breeze was far stronger then before and it flushed the mist back out from between the closest structures. What it revealed gave her her answer. There were dozens of the dead things staggering into the docklands from the sea. Not just dead men, either. There were the shapes of drowned horses and fenbeasts, Shallows-monsters, fish, eels, sharks and porpoises. A rotting octopus, missing most of its limbs, hauled itself across the dock, its eyes like poached eggs. They climbed up out of the water and across the docks, jetties and wharfs, striking out at whomever or whatever they came across. 
	‘By Manann’s foamy locks,’ Dubnitz breathed, his sword point dipping. ‘This isn’t Fiducci’s handiwork. It can’t be.’
	‘It’s not,’ Goodweather said, pointing towards the harbour. ‘Love of the Sea-Lord... it’s not!’
	‘They’re all over! Swarming like ants!’ the bosun shrilled, ringing the alarm bell. There were more than a dozen ships becalmed in the harbour, and on each of them, the crews were setting up a clamour. Torches were lit and men grabbed for weapons. Cutlasses, boarding hooks and other implements of defence found their way into sweaty palms as every eye watched the mist, which had begun to roil like a hurricane-tossed sea. For hours, neither wind nor tide had touched the keel of any ship in the harbour. Yet now, something was happening. Dead things thrashed in the sea, and boathooks were deployed to shove off the rotting, climbing things that sought to board every ship, including the Nordland merchant vessel that was the closest to this newest disturbance. 
	When it happened, it happened so gently, so quietly, that no man on the deck noticed until it was too late to do anything beyond stare in slack-jawed awe at the apparition sliding out of the all-consuming mist. With neither wind nor oar to propel it, the ship cut through the water like a shark’s fin. Its hull sagged from the weight of the barnacles that clung to it, and its sails were tattered wisps, the bare memory of once vibrant-coloured cloth. As it glided forward, the water seemed to shudder back from its warped prow, where the skull of some great leviathan had been lashed to the wood by heavy lengths of rusted chain. 
	It came on with no sound to mark its passage, and it neither slowed nor veered off as it approached the becalmed vessel. At the last moment, the quicker-witted among the crew gathered their senses enough to dive over the side and take their chances in the maelstrom the harbour had become. The others could only stare stupidly as the juggernaut bore down on them and then, with a terrible snapping and splintering of wood, the larger vessel split the smaller in two! The merchant vessel sank and the newcomer surged on, approaching the soutch dock like the hand of some vengeful god. Ancient cannon, crusted over with the filth of the sea, barked out a savage hymn and the soutch dock bucked beneath the onslaught. Docks ruptured and shattered. Bodies were thrown into the air like ragdolls and ships were burst at the waterline. 
	Eyll watched it all with a horrified fascination. His empire... everything his family had built... was gone in a flash. As burning body parts and wood rained down around him, he looked down at his hand, now bound tightly in a handkerchief of Cathyan silk which was thoroughly ruined by the blood seeping through it. He curled his fingers tight around it. ‘I-I can’t do this...’ he moaned, watching another ship rise up on an explosion and sink. 
	‘If you want to survive, you must!’ Fiducci said. They stood on the dock, the eleven living women and the one dead behind them. Fiducci had cast a glamour upon them, and they were as listless as the dead things wandering nearby, including the one who truly was dead. Fiducci had animated her, so that her lolling corpse squirmed beside the others. ‘It is a bold gamble, but it will work, and with a bit of luck, your family will again have the services of the captain!’
	‘And you?’ Eyll said, still staring at the oncoming ship. ‘You have yet to say what it is you want.’ He glanced at the necromancer. Fiducci shrugged.
	‘If we survive, I’ll make my price known eh?’ He gestured to the pistol in Eyll’s sash. ‘Did you load the bullet I prepared?’
	‘Yes. Are you sure this will work?’
	‘Not in the least,’ Fiducci said. ‘But one can hope, eh?’
	The death-ship slowed as it approached the dock and a pitted anchor dropped with a dull splash. Beneath the water the beasts that lurked in the shallows fled the shadow of the ship. Seaweeds and scummy algae turned brown and dead where the shadow fell, and those fish unlucky enough to be unable to avoid its clutches drifted upwards, belly up. Ancient chains squealed like hogs at the slaughter as lifeboats were lowered into the water. Everything was quiet, save for the sound of buildings burning and distant screams. 
	The captain had returned to harbour at last, and all of Marienburg held its breath. Eyll shuddered uncontrollably as below him, he felt the thud of the prow of the first lifeboat as it connected with the dock. Fiducci stiffened. ‘He’s here, Signor,’ he whispered. Eyll glanced at the necromancer, and his heart sank. The little man’s confidence seemed to have been washed away, and he sagged, his fingers intertwined as if in prayer. 
	Zombies climbed up onto the dock. These were in better condition than the others, and they carried weapons as if they still remembered in some fashion how to use them. Eyll’s fingers stretched towards the butt of his pistol. ‘Do something,’ he hissed. Fiducci didn’t reply. Eyll spun, and he gave a horrified groan as he realised that the little man was gone. 
	‘Have I kept you waiting then, young Eel?’ said a voice as deep and as horrible as the catacombs that now contained his family. ‘Forgive me.’ 
	A tomb-cold hand caught Eyll’s own, pinning it in place as he turned and instinctively tried to draw the pistol. The cold crept up his arm and his eyes started from their sockets as he looked up at a face out of childhood nightmares. A spear-point nose, wide-flanged and quivering jutted pinkly from the sickly grey flesh of a beast-face. Teeth that were like triangular arrow-points both pierced and passed over worm-like lips, dappling the scabby thorn-bush beard with black blood. Eyes like wind-tossed torches held his own in a poisonous grip. He could feel tendrils of ancient scents and bad memories slithering through his brain as the eyes bored into him. A flat, tar-coloured tongue slid out through the thicket of teeth and waggled in the air as a fart of laughter made Eyll’s legs go limp. 
	‘Now, now. No need for that, little Eel. The captain won’t hurt you, no,’ the apparition hissed. ‘Not when you’ve brought him a repast fit for an admiral, my yes.’ The hell-eyes swivelled towards the shadows, where the offerings huddled.
	‘I-I...’ Eyll began hesitantly. His mind groped for the words Fiducci had taught him. ‘I want to pay my debt!’ he blurted. The eyes swung back, freezing his tongue in place.
	‘Your many times great-grandfather and I had a bargain, young Eel, my yes. And such a bargain it was too. The oldest bargain. Blood for gold. Blood for the sea’s bounty, every glittering morsel. But why would you want to end that bargain? Didn’t I give him enough?’ The cunning beast-eyes glowed like lamps.
	‘I want to pay my debt,’ Eyll croaked again, wanting to look away but unable to do so. A chalk-coloured hand rose out from beneath the rotting cloak, and something glittered between the spidery fingers. Eyll’s mouth went dry and he automatically stuck out his hand. Heavy coins plopped wetly one by one into his hand. 
	‘There are older wrecks beneath the sea by far than Sigmar’s petty kingdom.’ Shark teeth snapped together. ‘Good yellow gold from the Vampire Coast or the far seas that sweep the beaches of Tilea or Ind. All men love gold, young Eel. Just as I love other things...’ The gurgling voice fell to a purr and Eyll shuddered. Clutching the gold to him, he made a motion to the chained women, who were beginning to come out of their stupor. One of them screamed, until a mossy hand clamped tight over her mouth. The zombies clustered around the women, pawing at them idly. He looked down at the gold again and swallowed the rush of bile that burned in his throat. ‘Twelve souls. That’s what the books said,’ he said. 
	The captain laughed. ‘Ha. Yes. Twelve innocent souls for one black one.’ A moment later, black words dripped from his gnawed lips and there was a sudden rush of effluvium – a foul stink like Eyll imagined that the ocean’s bottom must smell of. Bloated faces glared mindlessly at Eyll and then at the prisoners. ‘Twelve pure souls for twelve generations of service, aye. Yesss. Let us have ’em, lads,’ the captain said, shifting slightly. In the moonlight, Eyll caught a glimpse of tattered finery and rusted armour coated in barnacles and other things, some of which moved in an unpleasant fashion. ‘Twelve good and true, my yes. I–’ The captain broke off and spun suddenly, his cloak snapping wetly. Eyll heard him sniff and he cringed as the captain clawed at him with a narrow gaze. ‘What is that I smell, young Eel? Got rot in the pork, have you?’
	‘No. No! No!’ Panic tore through Eyll like a knife. 
	The captain seemed to ripple and bend like shadows beneath the surf. One moment he was there and the next... gone. Hastily, Eyll dropped the coins and tore the pistol from his sash. He cocked it with the edge of his bandaged palm and winced. The zombies hesitated, as if unsure of what to do. The captain reappeared next to one of the women... the dead one, Eyll realised with sickening dread. 
	‘What’s this? What’s this?’ The horrible eyes pinned Eyll. ‘This one’s no good, young Eel. Gone all overripe she has.’ Teeth snapped together. ‘Trying to flimflam me, are you?’
	Eyll levelled his pistol. ‘Just trying to survive, really,’ he said weakly, and fired.
	Dubnitz beheaded another zombie and charged towards Eyll and the thing that had come off the monstrous ship. His breath rasped hot in his chest as he ran full tilt, battering aside the dead in his haste to reach the living. Behind him, Goodweather hurried to keep up, her ragged robes tangling around her legs. As soon as he saw the creature, he knew what it was, if not who. Dubnitz had fought its kind before, with Ogg and the others, on a Sartosian expedition. 
	He cursed as Eyll fired at it, knowing it would be no good. The black manta-shape of the vampire lunged over the heads of the chained women and flowed through the soupy air towards Eyll. ‘Free the women!’ Dubnitz shouted at Goodweather. ‘I’ll handle the rest!’ 
	Before the priestess could reply, Dubnitz had barrelled into the slinking shadow-shape and knocked it sprawling. Eyll gawped at him, the smoking pistol hanging forgotten in his hand. ‘You? But you’re–?’
	‘Still planning to arrest you!’ Dubnitz snarled, backhanding the prince and sending him sprawling. ‘But not just yet.’ The zombies moved forward, weapons raised. Dubnitz tore into them, hacking them to pieces even as he bellowed a rough seaman’s prayer. But even as the last of them slumped, fingers like bale-hooks sank into the back of his gorget and he was summarily jerked from his feet. He was thrown hard into a pile of crates, which shattered and covered him in fish. 
	‘Come to challenge the captain, have you?’ the vampire growled. Talons flexed and then, with a wet chuckle, it drew the cutlass hanging from its hip. The blade was big and worn, but not rusty in the least. ‘Come on then,’ it challenged. 
	Dubnitz crawled to his feet, head ringing from the force of his landing. Black blood dripped sluggishly down the creature’s face from a circular hole in its temple. Evidently Eyll had left his mark. The vampire touched the wound and snarled loud enough to rattle Goetz’s teeth. He stomped forward and the cutlass sprang to meet him. Every parry and reply stung his arms to the root. The vampire was far stronger an opponent than Dubnitz was used to, and it well knew how to use its strength. Also, the mist seemed to curl and tighten about his limbs, hindering his movement. 
	‘The captain has spread red waters from here to Ind, little warrior,’ the vampire said. ‘He has butchered elven corsairs and broke the hump-backs of sea-beasts. You think you can stand against him?’
	‘That depends, are you him?’ Dubnitz muttered through gritted teeth. He had only just blocked a blow that would have taken his head off and now he strained against the uncompromising weight of the vampire’s fell blade. Snarling, the vampire jerked its sword to the side, pulling the knight off balance and punched him in the chest, sending him skidding back across the dock. 
	Dubnitz rolled to a stop with a clatter and gingerly felt at the fist-shaped dent in his cuirass. Breathing heavily, he pushed himself up and glanced around, looking for Goodweather. The mist, however, was too thick for him to spot anything but the loping shape of his opponent, trotting forward unhurriedly, black tongue caressing the tips of his dagger teeth. 
	‘You fight well for a landlubber,’ the vampire said. ‘You’d make a fine bosun, strong lad like you.’
	‘Flattery won’t save you,’ Dubnitz wheezed, bringing his sword up. The vampire laughed and darted forward so swiftly that Dubnitz couldn’t track him. The cutlass blade stopped inches from his face and the knight staggered back in surprise as the vampire suddenly dropped the weapon and clapped both hands to its skull. It shrieked and Dubnitz’s ears throbbed. 
	‘Scream all you want, captain,’ Fiducci said, stepping out of the mist, holding up a strange sigil composed of writhing shapes. ‘It will avail you nothing. Not with a shard of warpstone embedded in that corrupt brain of yours. And not when I hold this!’
	‘What-what-what?’ the captain croaked. Green and black serum flowed down the vampire’s craggy face as its fingers clawed at the wound in its skull. 
	‘A little something I picked up in the East. Old Kemmler created it, according to its former owner. Made it to control your kind, which, apparently, it does. It harmonises with the warpstone, you see, creating a bond between this and thee,’ the necromancer chuckled. ‘You’re mine, captain.’
	‘I think you mean mine,’ Eyll said, stepping out of the fog, his pistol cocked. His jaw was purpling already from Dubnitz’s blow. ‘Forgetting yourself, Signor Fiducci?’
	‘I never forget myself, Signor Eyll. Merely my employer, once our business is concluded,’ Fiducci said. He smiled nastily. ‘You asked me what price I would demand. Well, there it is... the captain.’
	‘You promised me–’ Eyll began.
	‘I promised you that I would save you from the captain. And I have. But I said nothing about myself,’ Fiducci said. He pulled the sigil close. ‘captain, be so kind as to tender my resignation, eh?’
	The vampire whirled and with a frustrated snarl, dove upon Eyll. Eyll fired his pistol and then fell beneath the pouncing shape, which reduced him to a ruinous mess in mere moments. Above the sounds of bones snapping and flesh tearing, Fiducci howled with laughter. The necromancer danced a little jig, stopping only when his eyes settled on Dubnitz, who glared at him. 
	‘You are annoyingly persistent, Erkhart,’ Fiducci said. ‘Like a wart that keeps coming back.’
	Dubnitz straightened, trying to keep an eye on both the necromancer and the vampire. ‘I won’t pretend to know what was going on here, but I’m guessing it’s another of your little schemes, corpse-eater.’ He gestured with his sword. ‘And I’ll be damned if I let you get away with it.’
	‘Damned if you do, damned if you don’t,’ Fiducci giggled. ‘Oh, captain...’
	Dubnitz threw himself to the side as the vampire dove for him, its talons scraping grooves along his back. Rolling to his feet, he caromed off of another stack of crates and spun, hoping to land a blow. The vampire seemed to ooze around the edge of the sword and then its claws were at his throat and he felt himself being bent backwards. His gorget was ripped free and tossed aside, baring his throat to the greedy lamprey mouth that descended moments later. 
	The vampire stopped as an immense shadow spread across them. Fiducci’s giggles died away into stunned silence as the wide crest of water rose above them and then summarily slammed down! Dubnitz was torn from the vampire’s grip and tossed back up against a wall as the wave covered that section of the soutch dock and dissolved into puddles and foam. 
	Sputtering, Fiducci clawed around in the water. ‘Where is it? Where–’
	‘Looking for this, are you?’ the captain hissed, hefting the sigil in one talon. As Dubnitz pulled himself erect, the vampire crushed the device as easily as another man might crumple paper. ‘Control me, would you? Better to attempt to control the tides.’ 
	Fiducci fell onto his backside and began to splash away as the hulking shape of the vampire stalked towards him, clawed fingers flexing in eagerness. 
	‘I know your kind, necromancer... remoras, clinging to king sharks. Thought you’d twist this sacred debt to your benefit, eh? Thought you’d make the captain your play-pretty, your cabin boy, eh? I’ll give you a taste of the lash...’
	As Dubnitz retrieved his sword, he saw Fiducci’s hand dart into his robes and felt a sinking sensation in his gut as he realised just what the little man was after. ‘No!’ he said, darting forward. The vampire, between him and Fiducci, turned and caught him, wrenching him into the air. 
	‘I’ll settle our account first then, shall I?’ the captain gurgled, eyes blazing. Behind him, Fiducci stuffed the scrimshaw whistle between his lips and blew a wet melody. Dubnitz, desperate, thrust his fingers into the leaking wound in the vampire’s skull. The creature shrieked and released him, and Dubnitz dropped heavily to the dock. He could feel the wood trembling and hear the smashing of great bodies through the Shallows. The wood cracked and burst abruptly as a number of horrible shapes thrust their way up in response to Fiducci’s summons. 
	Cutlass in hand again, the captain swung it as the first of Stromfel’s Children dove for the vampire, wide mouth gaping. The vampire cleaved the thing in two and met the next, matching it snarl for snarl. Dubnitz barely reclaimed his own sword in time to fend off his own attackers. As they fought, Fiducci blew on the whistle again and again, until the becalmed harbour waters fairly boiled with heaving piscine nightmares. Where only moments before the sea had given up its dead, it now gave forth every monstrosity that stirred in the deep silt. Krakens with clashing beaks and frenzied sharks made mad war on the floating dead and the monstrous offspring of the storm-god. Alarm bells sang out as the docks came under attack. 
	Dubnitz stabbed something with entirely too many flippers and stepped past it, reaching for Fiducci, who seemed enraptured by the chaos he had caused. Dubnitz grabbed the necromancer around the back of the neck and flung him to the ground. ‘You! Send them back!’ he snapped. 
	‘I think not! If Franco Fiducci is to be thwarted, the city itself shall pay!’ the necromancer yowled. ‘And you with it!’ He yanked a dagger from his robes and stabbed wildly at Dubnitz. 
	The knight caught his arm and bent it back, forcing Fiducci to drop the blade. Driving his sword into the dock, he made a grab for Fiducci’s other hand, where the whistle lurked. ‘Give me that!’
	‘Get off of me you oaf!’ Fiducci shrilled, struggling. The whistle slipped out of his grasp and Dubnitz batted it aside, into the thick of the confusion. Fiducci screamed and scrambled after it even as the shark-shape of the captain cleaved its way towards them. 
	‘I’ll have my due one way or another, necromancer!’ the captain roared. 
	Dubnitz jerked his sword up and the cutlass scraped sparks the length of the interposed blade. Berserk, the vampire slashed at him, all pretence of humanity now gone from its form and feature. It hammered at him as if seeking to pound him flat, and he was in no shape to prevent it. It was only stubbornness keeping him upright and even that was fast fading. 
	‘Dubnitz!’ 
	He looked down as something skittered across the dock and saw a medallion emblazoned with Manann’s sigil. He gave a furious shove, pushing the captain back long enough to clear enough room for him to snatch the medallion up. As the vampire swooped down on him again, he shoved the sigil into its face. The captain screeched and stumbled back, covering its eyes. Dubnitz’s flush of victory faded quickly; he could only keep the beast at bay so long. 
	The trill of a whistle cut the air. Large shapes blundered out of the mist like hounds on the scent, and Dubnitz tensed, preparing for the attack. Only it was not be. The Shallows-beasts leapt on the captain, one after another, dogpiling the vampire beneath a mound of mutated flesh. The captain’s angry shriek was cut abruptly short as the dock gave way in a fashion reminiscent of Dubnitz’s earlier plunge. 
	Dubnitz hurried to the edge of the hole, his whole body aching. The captain glared up at him, jaws working, bloody foam bubbling from between ragged lips. A jagged spear of wood had been shoved up through the vampire’s back and out through its chest. A claw stretched out towards Dubnitz with hateful intent and then sagged as the hell-light faded from the creature’s eyes. The body slumped and began to dissolve like seaweed in the morning tide. Dubnitz sank back and sat down, his body shuddering with exhaustion and not a little relief. 
	‘I’ll have my medallion back now, if you please,’ Goodweather said. The priestess picked her way carefully through the debris. Dubnitz looked at her wearily. 
	‘The women?’
	‘Safe with the watchmen. Are you unhurt?’
	‘Yes. Yourself?’
	‘As well as can be expected,’ she said, taking her medallion back and hanging it around her neck. ‘My intervention appears to have been timely.’
	‘It’s becoming a habit with you,’ Dubnitz said. ‘That wave–’
	‘You’re welcome.’ Goodweather opened her hand and showed him the whistle. ‘And this will go back in the vault where it belongs.’
	‘I don’t see Fiducci anywhere. I suppose it’s too much to ask that the little rat got eaten by one of his own monsters...’ Dubnitz sighed and stood. The mist was beginning to clear with the captain’s demise and the fires were being put out. ‘How in the name of Manann’s trident am I going to explain any of this to Ogg?’
	‘I’m sure you’ll think of something. As long as it’s better than your explanation about the goat and the octopus,’ Goodweather said, scattering salt over the bodies of the dead and beginning the rites of her order. 
	Dubnitz laughed, and the sound was echoed by the cries of the returning seabirds. The birds swooped and dove and followed the retreating mist back out to sea, as the wind picked up once more and the calm faded at last.