by C. L. Werner
Before the soldiers or peasants below could react, bowmen replaced nobles on the battlements. Arrows pelted the wretches, sparing none. On the Emperor’s command, the archers sent volley upon volley stabbing down until the bodies lying strewn before the wall resembled pincushions.
‘Merciful Shallya,’ Palatine Dohnanyi cried. ‘The plague is in Carroburg!’
‘We are doomed!’ wailed Gustav van Meers.
Emperor Boris waved the archers away from the walls and confronted his guests. ‘The plague might be in Carroburg,’ he conceded, ‘but it isn’t here. We have provisions enough. The gates are closed and shall remain so. No one can come in and if they can’t come in, they can’t bring the plague with them.’
Palatine Dohnanyi shook his head. ‘The spiders!’ he cried. ‘The plague is carried by hordes of black spiders! One bite! How can you keep out spiders?’
‘No! It is ravens, harbingers of Old Night!’ argued Count Artur. ‘They piss in your drinking water and give you the plague! What do castle walls mean to birds?’
Emperor Boris rounded on the terrified men, turning his own doubt and fear into a show of contemptuous anger. ‘We promised you protection,’ he reminded them. ‘This refuge was prepared against the plague! Priestess, doktor and warlock, we have defences against whatever would bring disease here.’ His lip curled in a sneer. ‘Or would you prefer to take your chances down there?’ He jabbed his thumb downwards, indicating the arrow-riddled corpses below.
‘Gods! Doktors! We’ve tried them all before,’ Gustav van Meers objected.
‘Then we will try the warlock’s magic,’ Boris growled back. He saw the terror in the Westerlander’s eyes, saw it mirrored in those of the others. If he were to maintain control of them, he had to do more than offer them hope. He had to remind them that there were other things beside the plague they had to fear.
‘Gustav is leaving us,’ the Emperor declared, waving his soldiers forwards. The merchant knew what was coming. Uttering a frightened yelp, he tried to flee back into the castle. The guards caught him before he could reach the door. Savagely they dragged the man to the battlements and threw him over the edge. Gustav’s scream ended in a sickening crunch. Groans drifted up to the parapet. The fall might not have killed him, but he wouldn’t be going anywhere with his broken bones.
Count Artur gawked at the callous incident. ‘He was a wealthy man…’
‘He was a peasant,’ Emperor Boris sneered. ‘No loss to anyone. There’s no shortage of scum just like him, even with the plague.’ He stared hard into the count’s face. ‘Did you want to argue about Our ability to keep the plague away from this castle?’
The rotund noble blanched at the threat in Boris’s tone. ‘No, I have every confidence in Your Imperial Majesty.’
‘Good,’ Boris said as he made his way back into the castle. ‘Ease your minds, friends. We mean what We say. The plague will never touch us here.’
The dungeons of Schloss Hohenbach had been neglected for some time. Pushed to the limit by the depredations of the beastmen and the plague that followed, the lords of Drakwald had been unable to maintain the luxury of prisoners. Mutilation, exile and execution had become the punishments of choice. Until the confinement of von Metzgernstein’s son, the vaults had been without human occupant for two years.
If humans no longer inhabited the dungeons, there were things that did. Rats and spiders, beetles and slugs. And sometimes larger vermin. Vermin that padded through the cellars on two feet, that cloaked their crook-backed bodies in raiment of black and grey. Creatures that chittered to one another in a language of squeaks and hisses.
The skaven would have been amused to hear Emperor Boris’s assurances to his guests. There was always something funny about prey that deluded themselves that they were safe.
As though anywhere in the Empire was safe from the ratmen and the plague they had engineered.
The Horned Rat had promised His children that they would one day inherit the surface world.
The time of the Great Ascendancy would soon be at hand.
Chapter X
Middenheim
Brauzeit, 1118
Mandred paced angrily outside the von Degenfeld manse. He’d had everything plotted out so carefully in his mind that he was having a hard time accepting that his plan wasn’t working the way he had imagined. After that day escorting Lady Mirella around the city, he’d realised that perhaps Sofia’s concerns weren’t so unfounded as he’d initially thought them to be. Mirella von Wittmar was a charming, intelligent and exceedingly brave woman, just the sort that would turn any nobleman’s fancy.
To be certain, he’d had dalliances before, but never with anyone he could be serious about. There had never been any real threat to Sofia… until now. Perhaps she had seen it first, some sixth sense of the female that warned her of a rival. Lady Mirella was of the upper strata of the Altdorf aristocracy. Maybe not of the breeding that a prince could marry, especially not with things as confused as they were in Altdorf, but Sofia might not be aware of that. What was it she’d said? ‘Add him to her collection of princes?’ It was only now, with the stirring of emotions in his heart, that Mandred appreciated the import of those words, the undercurrent of fear behind them. Sofia wasn’t as resigned to losing him as he’d believed, as they both had professed over the years. Lady Mirella might have been only a consort to the Prince of Altdorf, but in her fear Sofia had imagined she might do much better with the Prince of Middenheim.
‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ Mirella asked him.
Mandred hesitated before answering, his resolve wavering when she asked the question. They’d discussed it, of course. Been quite blunt, actually, in their discussion of their mutual regard for one another. At the same time, he still held Sofia in his heart. Decorum and simple decency demanded he make a choice between the two women. It had hurt him deeply to make that choice, but he felt chivalry called for him to stay true to Sofia. As he’d explained to Mirella, there was every chance that her regard towards him was simply gratitude for saving her from the Kineater. He felt it wasn’t fair to exploit an affection built upon such traumatic soil.
No, the thing to do, he’d decided, was to bring Mirella to see Sofia, to tell her that there was nothing between them. It was a dangerous ploy, but they had Brother Richter to act as chaperon. Mandred was hoping that the presence of a priest, even a Sigmarite one, would at least restrain Sofia’s temper.
‘I am sorry, your grace, but Burggraefin Sofia is indisposed.’ It was the second time the major domo of the burggraefin’s manse had come back with that answer. Mandred directed a glowering gaze upon the servant. He wasn’t about to be balked at this stage by some peasant.
‘You can move aside,’ Mandred told him, ‘or I can have you moved aside.’ He nodded towards Beck. The bodyguard dropped a hand around the hilt of his sword when the servant looked in his direction. ‘I’ll let you make the decision.’
Swallowing a knot that had suddenly formed in his throat, the major domo stepped aside and bowed the prince in. ‘Please forgive me, your grace. I was simply obeying the orders given me by my mistress.’
Mandred waved aside the servant’s apology. ‘Where is she?’ he inquired as he stepped into the hall.
The servant demurred for a moment, even at this stage trying to figure out some way to preserve the burggraefin’s privacy. Beck noticed the man glance towards the broad oaken stairway at the left. Brushing past the major domo, he marched to the stairs. ‘This way, your grace,’ the knight said.
Mandred glowered at the servant one last time and followed Beck. The major domo was close behind, his tongue still stumbling over an assortment of appeals that did nothing to dissuade the prince. If anything they only made him more determined to see Sofia.
The von Degenfeld manse was an old haunt of the prince’s, and Beck knew the way to Sofia’s chambers almost as well as Mandred himsel
f. Many had been the cold night the bodyguard had spent outside that room. Now, however, he strode boldly to the engraved panel of dark Drakwald timber. Beck knocked once, waited a moment, then looked to his master.
‘I told you, the burggraefin is indisposed,’ the servant declared. Mandred frowned and nodded at Beck. The bodyguard stepped away from the door and brought his boot smashing into it. The first impact merely rattled it on its hinges. The second kick sent the door slamming inwards. His hand falling instinctually to the hilt of his sword, Beck stormed into Sofia’s bedchamber.
An instant later, the knight was back in the hall, a hand clasped around his nose and mouth. His eyes were wide with fright. Mandred felt his pulse quicken as the fear in his guard’s eyes infected him. Hurriedly, ignoring the protests of the major domo and the puzzlement of Mirella, he rushed to the room. Beck caught at him, trying to keep him in the hall, but he pulled free of the knight’s clutch.
The room, luxuriously appointed in the best Middenland style, seemed indistinct to Mandred’s gaze. It was as if his vision were blurred by the foul, sick-house stink in the chamber. Like Beck, his first action was to cover his face. Unlike his guard, however, he didn’t retreat into the hall but swept towards the canopied bed. Dreading what he would find, he reached for the embroidered curtain and drew it back.
A pale, wizened figure stared up at him, and somewhere beneath that nest of black boils a face squirmed into the semblance of a smile. ‘I’m afraid I’m not receiving… today… my prince.’
‘She has the plague, your grace,’ Beck called from the doorway. The knight had failed to keep Mandred from the room, but he was more successful in keeping Lady Mirella from the chamber.
Mandred didn’t need Beck to tell him what hideous affliction had descended upon Sofia. He’d seen the Black Plague at work in Warrenburg. He knew its stink, he knew the marks it left upon its victims. He knew even breathing the same air as the afflicted was to tempt Grandfather Pox.
A hundred thoughts stampeded through his mind, but only one roared so loudly as to command his body. Clenching his jaw tight, Mandred reached down and bundled the pathetic scarecrow-figure in a heavy blanket. Ignoring Beck’s frantic warnings, the prince rose from the bed, Sofia in his arms. ‘How long has she been like this?’ he snarled at the major domo.
‘Three… No… Four days, your grace,’ the servant answered.
‘Then there’s not much time,’ Mandred growled back, marching from the room with Sofia.
‘Ulric’s sake, your grace,’ Beck cried. ‘The woman’s going to die anyway. You can’t jeopardise yourself like this!’
Mandred stared at his guard, at the frightened cast of Mirella’s features. ‘This time mine will be the only life I risk,’ he said, thinking back to that fateful ride when he’d led brave men into the plague’s domain. ‘Take Lady Mirella back to the Middenpalaz.’
‘Where will you go?’ Mirella demanded, tears forming in her eyes.
The prince looked down at Sofia’s wasted frame. ‘There’s an alchemist who has taken over the old hospice of Shallya. He’s reputed to be something of a wonder worker. I’ll take her there.’
Beck stepped forwards, blocking the prince’s way. ‘I can’t let you risk yourself. Give me the girl. I’ll take her.’
Mandred shook his head. ‘This is my burden,’ he said. ‘You’ve always been a loyal knight. Do as you are ordered.’
Reluctantly, Beck stepped aside. Along with Mirella and the major domo, he watched Mandred walk away, eighty pounds of plague swaddled in his royal arms.
Mandred could think only of the draconian quarantine measures his father had undertaken the last time plague had threatened Middenheim. Great and small, Graf Gunthar had spared none who bore the marks of the Black Plague on their skin. He’d banished all those who’d even come in contact with the disease from the Ulricsberg, condemning them to the squalor of Warrenburg. Virtually the whole of the Shallyan sect had perished because of that edict. They’d refused to abandon the plague-stricken refugees and so had decamped en masse for the shanty town at the foot of the mountain. Most had died there, victims of the plague or marauding beastmen. The few survivors had remained in their little wooden chapel down below, resolute in their determination to stay where they felt most needed.
Graf Gunthar’s cruelty had been the salvation of Middenheim, Mandred knew that. An ugly truth was a truth all the same. Because it was truth, he knew how his father would react if he were to learn the plague had returned. There was nothing he wouldn’t do to spare the city, to honour what he felt to be a sacred trust between ruler and ruled.
No, Mandred corrected himself, guilt gnawing at his belly. There was one thing that would make his father forsake that trust. The graf wouldn’t sacrifice his own son, no matter who was at risk.
The stone walls of the hospice seemed to exert a preternatural chill, an atmosphere of desolation. The humble folk of Middenheim shunned the place: nobles complaining that it was in disrepair, peasants claiming that when her priestesses deserted the hospice, Shallya’s beneficence departed with them.
Mandred prayed that such wasn’t the case. Forgetting the dignity of his position, he bent on one knee and begged the goddess to intercede on Sofia’s behalf. The alchemist, a silver-haired Nordlander named Neist, ignored the prince’s lack of decorum as he examined the sick woman. It wasn’t long before he rose from beside the pallet and replaced his tools in the little leather bag he carried. Mandred sprang to his feet as the alchemist started to leave the tiny cell.
‘Where are you going?’ Mandred demanded, his fist tightening about the capelet fringing the alchemist’s cloak. ‘You have to make her well!’
Neist favoured the prince with a tired, indulgent smile. ‘It’s the Black Plague,’ he explained, not quite managing to keep his tone from possessing a patronising quality.
‘I know what it is,’ Mandred retorted, tightening his hold. ‘Make her better.’
The alchemist laughed, a bitter and cheerless sound. ‘If I knew how to do that I’d be the richest man in the Empire!’ He held his hands out for the prince to inspect. Mandred automatically released the man, recoiling when he saw the pox-scars all along Neist’s skin.
‘It caught me six years ago in Wolfenburg,’ Neist said. ‘I don’t know how I survived when so many didn’t, but I know it wasn’t anything of my doing.’
‘How can you be sure?’ Mandred asked, despair almost choking his voice. The alchemist beckoned to the prince, motioning him to withdraw into the corridor. Glancing one last time at Sofia’s bed, staring into her wide, fearful eyes, Mandred forced himself to follow Neist.
The alchemist closed the door when the prince had withdrawn. Sighing, Neist removed a piece of chalk and scratched a crude cross on the panel. ‘I’m sure,’ he said, gesturing with his arm to the rest of the long hallway. Both sides were lined with similar doors. Once this place had acted as a dormitory for the priestesses and their servants. Now it provided a refuge for Neist’s patients. As the alchemist pointed, Mandred found his attention riveted by a detail he’d been too distraught to notice when he was bringing Sofia here. Dozens of the doors were marked with the white crosses that indicated plague.
‘I’ve had ample opportunity,’ the alchemist declared. ‘First in Wolfenburg, then in Talabheim, then in Nuln.’ He wiped his scarred hand across his brow. ‘It seems if you somehow live through it, the plague can’t touch you again. A horrible feeling, to watch a city dying around you, knowing you’ll be the only one left.’
Horror was coursing through Mandred’s veins. ‘When?’ he managed to ask.
‘Three weeks ago, the first ones came. Two little boys.’ The alchemist shook his fist. ‘They died. Then there were more. They died too. I had to burn them in the old garden. Couldn’t risk dumping them over the Cliff of Sighs, Morr forgive me.’
‘How many?’ Mandred pressed, feeling his fear swell wit
h each heartbeat.
Neist scratched at his beard. ‘Nearly a hundred now. I’m not surprised they haven’t noticed in the Middenpalaz, though.’ He jabbed a thumb at the door to Sofia’s cell. ‘She’s the first Von to catch it. The rest have just been peasants.’
Almost at once, Neist regretted his choice of words. More than most nobles, he knew Prince Mandred’s reputation for helping his people regardless of class. ‘I apologise, your grace,’ he said. ‘That was an unjust thing for me to say. I saw the city of Carroburg put to the torch by nobles afraid of the plague. That isn’t an easy memory to forget.’
‘Manling quack!’ a gruff voice bellowed through the hall. ‘A beardless grave for all your clan!’
The alchemist flinched when he heard the cry. Mandred followed Neist as he hurried down the corridor. ‘That was a dwarf? I understood they couldn’t catch the plague.’
Neist didn’t look at the prince as he answered, too busy rummaging in his bag for a slim bottle of blue glass. ‘Kurgaz Smallhammer’s affliction is quite different, I assure you.’ Another bitter laugh as he hurried on. ‘It is quite an honour for a human to be allowed to treat a dwarf. Though in hindsight I think a seasick troll would have made a more pleasant patient.’
Altdorf
Brauzeit, 1114
A brisk autumn breeze wafted through the narrow streets of Altdorf, bearing upon it the infamous stink from the riverfront slums that had caused Emperor Siegfried to curse the city as ‘the Great Reek’ and remove his throne to Nuln. Emperor Boris had returned the throne to Altdorf, but that hadn’t changed the odour that crawled up from the river, slinking into the manses and palaces of the Empire’s great and good.
Walking along the cobblestone lanes winding between the half-timbered residences of the nobility that clustered around the Imperial Palace, Adolf Kreyssig dipped his hand beneath the folds of the heavy cloak he wore, fishing the silver pomander from his pocket and inhaling its perfumed vapours. It was more than a concession to discomfort – one of the prevailing theories about the origins of the Black Plague had it emerging from noxious odours. A pomander stuffed with cinnamon was, supposedly, a sure-fire preventative. Kreyssig scowled at the pomander as he tucked it back into his pocket. The fact that only the wealthy could afford cinnamon might have had more to do with the prescription than any medicinal value. Physicians were a special kind of thief, stealing more with a gloomy word than any cutpurse could with a knife.