by C. L. Werner
A smirk tugged at the corner of the boy’s mouth. ‘I don’t need feints to sneak past your blade, old man.’
The other swordsman smiled back, rolling his blade across the back of the boy’s sword and stabbing the point towards his breast. His foe dropped and shifted, swatting the thrust aside with the pommel of his own weapon. The older fighter nodded, impressed by the move. ‘Nice work. I’d think you’d been studying the tricks of the Estalian diestro – if I didn’t know you have no patience for books.’
The boy jabbed his sword at his foe’s left arm, then turned his entire body so that he followed through with a rolling slash at the man’s right leg. Both attacks crashed against the other swordsman’s intercepting blade.
‘Why read if there’s nothing more to learn, van Cleeve?’ the boy quipped.
The old man snorted with amusement, then brought his boot stamping down, not upon the floor, but upon his adversary’s foot. The boy danced back in surprise. For an instant, his guard was down. It was all the opening his instructor needed. The point of his sword pressed against the youth’s belly, the cork cap sinking into the cloth of his doublet.
‘If all you want to do is get killed, then there’s nothing more I can teach you, your grace,’ van Cleeve said.
Laughing, the boy brought his sword whipping around in a stunning display of speed and flourish, the edge pressing against his instructor’s neck. ‘That is a mortal wound, but not immediately fatal. We die together, old man.’ Smiling, he withdrew his blade, pausing to remove the nub of cork before returning it to its scabbard.
Van Cleeve sighed as he attended to his own weapon. ‘I think his excellency the Graf would take small comfort from knowing his only son dispatched his assassin before he died.’ The swordsman shook his head. ‘You have an impressive natural aptitude, Prince Mandred. If you would only apply yourself to the science of the sword…’
Mandred frowned. It was an argument he had heard many times and one that he didn’t appreciate, especially since it was a train of thought van Cleeve shared with his father. ‘Techniques and schools of sword would ruin me. Tame a wolf and you dull his fangs.’
‘A tame wolf lives longer,’ van Cleeve observed.
‘A wild wolf is happier,’ retorted the prince. Van Cleeve could see he would make no points sparring with his student’s wit. Clicking his heels together, the Westerlander bowed to the prince and withdrew from the gallery. Mandred waited only until the swordsman was out of sight before turning and dashing down the stairway at the far end of the gallery.
His sparring with van Cleeve had been frustrating today and the prince had been impatient to extract himself from the duel. There were more important things than sword practice going on within the halls of the Middenpalaz. Noblemen and dignitaries from across the city had been arriving all day. Something big was going on and he was determined to learn what it was.
Stealing through the brooding halls of the palace, Mandred avoided the most populous corridors. Using side passages and circling through empty chambers, he avoided encountering the small army of peasants who maintained the Graf’s household or the armed guards who saw to the royal family’s protection. The only one who noted his passing was Woten, the hoary grey wolfhound lounging in one of the banquet halls, but the dog was more interested in the warmth of a blazing hearth than Mandred’s activities. A wag of the tail was all the notice he paid the boy.
Creeping along the heavy, stone-walled corridors, Mandred reached his destination, a little waiting room adjoining the Graf’s council chamber. There was a secret to the room, one which only a few people knew. A painting set into the wall could be tilted outwards upon a hinge once a hidden catch had been unlocked. Behind the painting was a pane of cloudy glass. It corresponded with a large mirror in the council chamber, but the reflective surface was only upon the outside. From the waiting room, a person could peer through the glass and observe whatever went on in the other room. The whole thing was dwarf-work, as attested by the sharp runes carved into the edge of the glass. Mandred wondered about the trick behind the spyhole but had long ago given up on puzzling it out for himself. Dwarfcraft or witchcraft, it was enough that the trick worked.
Gazing into the council chamber, Mandred could see twenty or so of the city’s noblemen seated around the circumference of the Fauschlagstein, a great stone table carved from a single block of Ulricsberg granite. Among the city’s notables, he could see the glowering visage of Grand Master Arno Warsitz, his great red beard drooping against his chest; the stern countenance of Ar-Ulric, High Priest of the White Wolf, his wolfskin robes matching his snowy hair and the milky eye staring blindly from the right side of his face; Thane Hardin Gunarsson, chief of Middenheim’s dwarfs, his wizened face pulled into a perpetual frown. Beside such grim councillors, Graf Gunthar looked cheerful and vibrant, his dark hair swept back, his long houppelande of ribbed kersey flowing about him, the dark blue of the loose gown contrasting with the sombre blacks and russets of his council.
Any impression of cheer, however, did not reach to the Graf’s eyes. They were ringed by dark circles, their sapphire depths haunted by worry.
‘We are agreed then,’ Graf Gunthar told his councillors. ‘Middenheim will not be weakened to placate the diktats of a corrupt Emperor. We will not dismiss our soldiers and we will not empty the city treasury to pay an unjust tax.’
The statement brought nods of affirmation from the assembled nobles. Thane Hardin stroked his blond beard and scowled at the gold-grubbing effrontery of the manling Emperor. Even the worst gold-crazed dwarf wouldn’t have dreamed up such a crooked scheme as Boris’s plot to tax the human Dienstleute out of existence and leave his Empire disarmed and defenceless.
Graf Gunthar paced about the table, studying each of his advisors in turn. ‘You are all aware what defying Emperor Boris could mean. He might raise an army to seize what he feels is owed to him.’
‘Let him try,’ growled Grand Master Arno, clenching his fist. ‘The Drak-rat will never breach the Ulricsberg.’
‘He wouldn’t have to,’ cautioned Viscount von Vogelthal, the Graf’s chamberlain. ‘He could simply lay siege to the mountain and cut us off from the rest of Middenland. Whatever the quality of our warriors, Emperor Boris can field more than us.’
Graf Gunthar nodded, agreeing with the chamberlain’s observation. ‘That is why I have decided that we must lay stores against any punitive actions the Emperor might take. We must levy the farms and freeholds around the Ulricsberg, double their harvest tax. I want the storehouses full to bursting before winter sets in. We can depend upon Emperor Boris to wait until the spring before mounting a campaign in the north, but every day after the thaw he stays in the Reikland will be a boon from Ulric.’
‘The raugrafs and landgraves won’t appreciate having their obligations increased,’ objected Duke Schneidereit.
‘We face an emergency,’ Graf Gunthar snarled at the duke. ‘If we are to survive, every man must make sacrifices.’ He stopped pacing about the stone table and rested his hands against the cool granite surface. ‘To that end, I have issued orders that the Sudgarten and Konigsgarten are to be dug up. The ground is to be used as farmland. Whatever seed we can spare is to be sown at once, before the first frost.’ He sighed as he looked across the worried faces of his advisors. ‘It might not help us if Emperor Boris strikes fast, but if he delays, we may just bring in a crop before his army lays siege to the Ulricsberg.’
Many of the nobles nodded grimly at the pragmatic decision. They would grieve for the loss of the parks with their colourful shrubberies and flowers, but they would grieve even more if starvation descended upon their city.
‘There is another concern we should consider, your highness.’ All eyes turned upon the aged Ar-Ulric when the high priest spoke. He was much more than simply another of the Graf’s advisors. As the chief authority of the cult of Ulric, he was the most powerful priest in Middenheim, venerated by Ulricans across the Empire as the representative of their god upon
the mortal coil.
Ar-Ulric rose from his chair, his one-eyed gaze sweeping across the chamber. ‘There is plague in the outlying provinces, in Sylvania and Stirland. If the disease spreads beyond their borders, into Talabecland and Hochland, or our own Middenland, then we must be prepared for refugees.’
‘We have already taken in three thousand Westerlanders,’ grumbled Viscount von Vogelthal. ‘And another two thousand Drakwalders. The city can’t hold any more squatters.’
‘Nor will it,’ Graf Gunthar declared. ‘We must protect Middenheim. Accepting those fleeing from enemies is one thing, but there is a point when mercy becomes irresponsible.’ He hesitated, collecting his thoughts, weighing the responsibility for his decision. ‘No, Your Eminence,’ he told Ar-Ulric, ‘Middenheim will not harbour refugees from the plague. Any trying to climb the causeways, any setting one foot upon the Ulricsberg, must be cut down like dogs. Anyone seeking entry into the city must be sequestered at the foot of the mountain.’
Ar-Ulric bowed his head. ‘If that is your decree, then do I have your leave to inform the Temple of Shallya of this decision? The priestesses will want to know and make their plans accordingly.’
‘You have my leave,’ Graf Gunthar said. ‘But you may also warn the temple that anyone who attends refugees will not be permitted back into the city. I will make no exceptions. Not even for a priestess.’
Shocked by the cruelty of his father’s decree, Mandred drew away from the spyhole, swinging the hinged painting back into place. It sickened him to think his father could be so unfeeling, to abandon the sick and the desperate, to turn his back upon those who needed help.
He had always admired his father’s wisdom, but wisdom was nothing without compassion.
When he was Graf, Mandred swore he would be both wise and compassionate. He wouldn’t be a cowardly tyrant like his father.
Altdorf
Kaldezeit, 1111
The wind blowing across the Reik into Altdorf had a cold sting to it, a reminder to all who felt it that the autumn was swiftly fading and that Ulric was already spreading his claws to claim the world. It would be a hard winter for the capital. Frightful rumours of poor harvests in Stirland and Sylvania had been given some veracity when the nobles of Pfeildorf and Wissenburg began to complain to the Emperor about the almost negligible amount of wheat and millet being exported down the river. Most of what trade had emerged from the provinces had gone no farther than Mordheim and Talabheim. Solland and Wissenland, their agriculture devoted principally to raising sheep and making wine, had become desperate to stock supplies for the winter. Food prices in Nuln had soared, diverting the harvest of many a Reikland lord southwards, away from the traditional markets in Altdorf.
The prospect of a hungry winter, however, was compounded in the last weeks of Brauzeit. It was then that the diktat of Emperor Boris against the Dienstleute bore its ugly fruit. Discharged from the service of their noble lords, unable to find work to sustain themselves, the dispossessed peasants had mobilised under the leadership of a grizzled old firebrand named Wilhelm Engel. A veteran of many campaigns, a soldier who had served as adjutant to generals and warlords, Engel organised his people with military precision and discipline. In those last weeks of Brauzeit, he led five thousand starving soldiers into the streets of Altdorf to seek redress from the Emperor in whose name they had fought.
From across the Empire, from every province, the Dienstleute continued to come. Every morning, a delegation from Engel would appear before the marble gates of the Imperial Palace with a petition, a request to treat with the Emperor and plead their cause before him. Engel’s demands were straightforward: bread to feed his men, work to sustain them.
Weeks later, Engel’s delegates were still seeking their audience with the Emperor. The ‘Bread Marchers’, as the discharged Dienstleute had come to be called, took to the fields and meadows of Altdorf, constructing shantytowns from wattle and thatch. The largest of these took shape in the wide expanse of the Altgarten, overwhelming the tranquillity of the park with a labyrinth of squalor and poverty. Altdorfers contemptuously named the place ‘Breadburg’, and cursed both it and the scruffy squatters who infested it.
The presence of so many rootless and desperate men was a cause of concern to the inhabitants of Altdorf. The little family farms which helped sustain the city were the constant target of poachers and thieves. Herdsmen took to keeping their livestock inside their homes; granaries began to resemble armed camps with companies of guards patrolling around them night and day. For days, the people of Altdorf shuddered at accounts of the von Werra stables – the stablemaster’s entire stock being rustled in the dead of night. Cook-fires shining from the squalor of Breadburg told the rest of the story.
From the towers of the Reikschloss the extent of the shantytown could be viewed in full. Patrolling the battlements of their fortress, the knights of the Reiksknecht watched as the numbers of Engel’s Bread Marchers continued to swell. As more and more of the park was razed to make room for the expanding morass of shacks and hovels, the knights felt a coldness settle about their hearts. From their vantage, they could see the terrible menace that was growing right inside the city walls.
Baron Dettleb von Schomberg felt the tension in the air as he took his morning constitutional. Three circuits of the castle walls had been his habit since taking the position as Grand Master of the Reiksknecht. He felt that the combination of exercise and fresh air was conducive to good health and a clear mind. This morning, however, he was making his fifth circuit of the wall and still his thoughts were filled with dread.
Von Schomberg’s heart went out to the Bread Marchers and their cause. He felt a great sympathy for these men who had lost the security of their homes and positions. At the same time, he could not afford to ignore the threat these desperate, starving men represented to the peace and security of Altdorf.
Lost in his thoughts, von Schomberg didn’t see Captain Erich von Kranzbeuhler until he almost walked straight into the young knight.
‘My apologies, my lord,’ Erich said, snapping to attention.
Von Schomberg gave the knight a tired smile. ‘Entirely my fault,’ he said, then uttered a dry chuckle. ‘I should thank you. If not for your intervention I might have walked right off the parapet.’
‘Scarcely the heroic death worthy of the Grand Master,’ Erich replied, falling into step beside von Schomberg as the baron marched towards the edge of the parapet. The baron gazed out across the slanted roofs of Altdorf, concentrating his eyes upon the jumbled confusion of Breadburg.
‘There are many things beneath the dignity of the Reiksknecht,’ von Schomberg sighed. ‘But I fear we will be called upon to do them just the same.’
‘The Bread Marchers?’ Erich asked, following his captain’s gaze. ‘Surely that is a problem for Schuetzenverein?’
Von Schomberg shook his head, his expression turning even more grim. ‘Perhaps at one time the city guard could have handled Engel’s people, but the problem has grown too big for the Schueters.’ He slammed his palm against the cold stone of the parapet. ‘By Verena! Why didn’t Prince Sigdan take steps to stop this! Thousands of starving men swarming into his city and he does nothing!’
‘Perhaps he didn’t have the heart to turn them away,’ Erich suggested. ‘These aren’t a rabble of vagabonds; these are Dienstleute discharged by their lords without thought or provision. Men who risked their lives trying to keep the Empire safe.’
‘I share his sentiment,’ von Schomberg said. ‘Except for the officers, every knight in the Reiksknecht is a dienstmann, a vassal of Emperor Boris. I am not unfamiliar with the travails of belonging to such station, but a leader cannot allow sentimentality to cloud his judgment. Engel’s people should have been turned away.’
‘Maybe the decision wasn’t Prince Sigdan’s to make,’ Erich suggested. ‘Increasingly, the Emperor has come to view Altdorf as his own personal suzerainty. If it was his will to have the Bread Marchers repulsed, he would have ordered
them removed by now.’
Von Schomberg lifted his eyes, staring out past the Altgarten, past the Great Cathedral of Sigmar to where the Imperial Palace sat upon its hill surrounded by its megalithic dwarf-built walls. The golden pennants of Boris Hohenbach fluttered from the spires of the palace, proclaiming to all and sundry that the Emperor was in residence. Safe behind the high walls of his palace, surrounded by his cronies and sycophants, it was just possible that the Emperor really was oblivious to the unrest gathering right on his doorstep.
The baron’s face contorted into a grimace of pain. There was another possibility, one that von Schomberg found much easier to believe. The Emperor was exploiting the crisis, allowing it to escalate. He thought back to the meeting of the Imperial Council and the outrage expressed by the dignitaries over the new taxes being imposed across the Empire. Special dispensation had been granted to Drakwald and Westerland, in recognition of the unrest in those lands. Conspicuously, the Emperor hadn’t extended such dispensation upon Altdorf and the Imperial Army. The Dienstleute who composed most of the troops would be taxed just like any other peasant, the monies levied to be applied to the Imperial Treasury.
For all his abuse of power, Emperor Boris was still answerable to the electors who had given him that power. He had made it his practice to play one province against another, ensuring that every elector had an enemy he hated more than his Emperor. He further ensured that his word and his power were the only thing preventing these smouldering hatreds from blazing up into outright warfare.
Now, however, it seemed he was playing a different game. Emperor Boris was using the distress of certain provinces to create a state of dependency between them and himself. Only by the largesse of Boris Goldgather would Westerland be empowered to reclaim Marienburg, only by his consideration would Drakwald recover from the depredations of the beastkin. Another emperor, a new emperor, might not be so sympathetic to their plight and impose upon them the same obligations as the other provinces.