Dead Winter

by C. L. Werner

  ‘We should get your father now,’ Othmar whispered.

  Mandred glanced aside at the knight. Now was the time to act. He would have only one chance to show his companions how wrong they were. He only hoped they would give him the opportunity to make them understand. ‘Follow my lead,’ the boy told the two knights. Before either of them could react, Mandred strode boldly towards the smugglers, his hands open at his sides.

  ‘Peace,’ he called out as the two smugglers detailed as lookouts spotted him and came running forwards. Mandred noticed that each of the men had a sword in his hand. ‘I am not here to interfere.’

  The prince’s appearance drew the attention of the chief smuggler. The broad-shouldered man turned away from his observation of the windlass. His face lost in the shadows of his hood, the fur-cloaked man marched forwards. The bribed soldiers and the little man in the wool robe followed behind him.

  ‘That is a good way to get your gizzard slit,’ Neumann’s oily voice intoned. ‘You shouldn’t scare people in the dark.’

  ‘People who are doing things the Graf doesn’t like, don’t do them in the light of day,’ Mandred countered, fixing his face in a companionable smile. A perplexed look came upon the face of one of the soldiers when he heard the prince speak, the look of a man who has recognised something but can’t quite place it. Mandred knew he had to convince the smugglers of his sincerity before the soldier remembered where he had heard his voice before.

  ‘I have heard about your operation,’ Mandred continued. ‘I wanted to see if I could help.’

  Neumann chuckled as he heard the offer. There was an unpleasant cruelty in that laugh. The smuggler raised a gloved hand, gesturing behind Mandred, pointing a finger straight at Othmar. ‘That man led you here,’ Neumann grumbled. ‘I cannot abide indiscreet people.’

  ‘I asked him to bring me here,’ Mandred said, hoping to divert Neumann’s attention. ‘If not for him, you might be talking to the Graf’s men instead of me.’

  The statement was a mistake. It seemed to jog the memory of the perplexed Wallwarden. ‘Prince Mandred!’ he exclaimed.

  The two smugglers who had been closing on Mandred backed away in alarm, but Neumann only laughed. It was a low, evil mockery. ‘The prince,’ he hissed. ‘And he wants to help us.’

  The soldier who had identified Mandred rushed to Neumann’s side, clutching at the smuggler’s arm. ‘That is the prince!’ he repeated. ‘You wouldn’t harm his grace!’

  Neuman swung around, a dagger springing into his hand. ‘Watch me,’ he snarled, stabbing the blade into the soldier’s body with such force that it tore through the mail links and buried itself in his ribs. The dying soldier’s fingers tightened in the folds of Neumann’s cloak, dragging it from the smuggler’s body as he slumped against the battlements.

  Mandred’s eyes went wide with horror as the smuggler’s face stood exposed. Neumann’s head was an oozing mass of sores and scabs, wormy strands of black hair scattered in patches across his scalp. A mouth, fat and puckered like that of a fish, drooled from the man’s right temple, its greasy slobber draining into the atrophied stump of an ear. The face itself was leprous and swollen with rot, jaundiced eyes staring piggishly from folds of dead skin. A pair of rotten teeth, like the fangs of a snake, gleamed from a lipless mouth.

  ‘With you as hostage,’ Neumann growled, wiping the soldier’s blood from his dagger, ‘the Graf won’t lift a finger against us.’ The mutant’s eyes glowed from his decayed face as evil thoughts swirled inside his skull. ‘If he does, then the Prince of Middenheim will make a fine sacrifice to Grandfather Nurgle!’

  Mandred’s gorge rose as he heard the forbidden name of the Plague God uttered, feeling the sound burn inside his nose. The horrible truth dawned upon him. These men weren’t mere smugglers, they were servants of the Ruinous Powers! The realisation was like a physical blow, all of his ideals and noble intentions withering before the baleful eye of the Plague God.

  Had his father been right? Could only evil come from helping the refugees? Was compassion the weakness these diseased cultists had been waiting to exploit?

  ‘Defend yourself, your grace!’

  In his shock, Mandred wasn’t even aware that one of the cultists was rushing him. Left on his own, he would have been too late to stop the man’s descending sword. The blade seemed to chop down at him in slow motion, his eyes able to pick out every nick and notch in the corroded steel.

  Then Franz was there, his sword crunching into the cultist’s shoulder, dragging away both the enemy’s sword and the arm that held it. The smuggler wheeled away, whimpering as thick gouts of blood spurted from his maimed body. Out of the corner of his eyes, Mandred could see Othmar fighting the other lookout, his training and skill quickly putting the cultist on the defensive. Even the surviving Wallwarden was taking a hand, flinging himself at Neumann and backing the chief cultist towards the edge of the wall.

  A twitchy blur scrambled across the flagstones, ripping at Franz as the bald knight made to finish his enemy. He cried out in agony as a pair of crooked knives slashed through his legs. He crashed to the ground, rolling in pain, his sword thrusting uselessly at the wool-robed cultist. A shrill, hideous titter sounded from the villain as he darted in and stabbed one of his knives into Franz’s knee.

  ‘Get away from him, you scum!’ Mandred roared. Sword in hand, he rushed at the slinking killer. The cultist sprang away at the sound of his voice, displaying an unbelievable agility and speed. Mandred chided himself for shouting. If he’d kept quiet he might have taken the fiend by surprise.

  The prince had no time to think about his mistake. With a snarl, the wiry cultist leapt at him, whipping the wool cloak from his shoulders as he did so. Mandred was forced to duck the flying garment, then hurriedly brought his sword whipping up to block a descending knife. The other knife glanced across his side, catching in the heavy furs the prince wore.

  Mandred barely noticed the pain of the cut along his ribs. For the second time, the boy was horrified by the shape hidden beneath a cultist’s robes. The thing attacking him was utterly inhuman, more beast than man, and the most debased fusion of the two he had ever seen. Its face was pulled into a long, verminous snout, its hands were claw-tipped paws and its body was covered in mangy brown fur. The creature resembled nothing so much as an enormous rat.

  The beastman gnashed its yellow fangs at Mandred, then jabbed its knife at his side once more. The prince twisted away from the stabbing blade, his free hand closing about the furry wrist. He felt his flesh crawl with revulsion at the contact. Utter disgust welled up inside him, overwhelming the careful discipline that had been drilled into him for years by instructors like van Cleeve. Howling, the prince brought his boot kicking up into the beastman’s lean body. Its paw held in the prince’s unyielding grip, the rat-creature could only partially twist away, taking the heavy boot against its leg instead of its belly.

  The thing squeaked in pain, its scaly tail lashing out at Mandred as it tried to flee. The prince’s sword came chopping down, severing the tip of the loathsome appendage. The smell of its own blood seemed to drive the beastman berserk. Chittering malignantly, the monster lunged at Mandred, knocking him onto his back with the snarling rodent sprawled across his chest.

  Mandred saw the creature’s arm twist, trying to bring its other knife into play. Pressing his boots against the flagstones, the prince pushed himself over, rolling onto his side and bearing the beastman with him. The creature squealed in panic as its hand was caught beneath the weight of both their bodies, the knife dropping from its numbed claws.

  The panicked thrashings of the monster propelled both of them towards the crenellations looking out over the cliff. Mandred struggled to free himself from the monster’s tenacious grip, its scrabbling claws trying to tear through his tunic. The prince screamed in pain as the rat-creature’s snapping fangs sheared through the lobe of his ear.

  Blood was streaming down the side of his face when the prince and his enemy at last cr
ashed against the stone crenellation. Pressing his body against the solid stone, Mandred used it to gain extra leverage against his enemy. With his body anchored against the battlement, he heaved upwards with all his strength. For all its savage fury and ghastly speed, the rat-creature was sparsely built and weighed much less than a real man. Mandred’s brawn broke the thing’s hold, pitching it outwards between the crenellations. He saw its paws scratch desperately at the masonry as it hurtled head-first out into empty space. A shrill squeak of terror receded into the distance as the monstrosity fell towards the foot of the Ulricsberg.

  Mandred’s shaking hand pressed against the crenellation, using it to support himself as he regained his feet. He stared across the fortification, the flagstones splotched in black beneath the moonlight. All of the cultists were either dead or had fled into the night. All except for the burly Neumann. The chief cultist had ended the valiant effort of the guard who had turned against him, but not before the soldier had crippled one of the mutant’s arms. Now he was looking for a way to get past Othmar’s flashing sword, finding the effort easier in concept than execution. Every time the cultist tried to circle past the knight, Othmar would press him back with a sweep of his blade. Gradually, Neumann was being pushed back towards the battlements.

  Mandred reached down to the bloodied ground, retrieving the discarded halberd of one of the soldiers. He shifted towards Neumann’s flank, cutting off all possible chance of escape.

  The mutant turned his deformed head, a sneer twisting his lipless mouth. Neumann gestured with his bloodied dagger at the windlass and the ropes hanging over the side of the wall. ‘There are people in that basket down there, just waiting to be pulled the rest of the way up. Innocent people, like this indiscreet Reiklander.’

  Mandred’s blood went cold as he saw the cunning gleam in the cultist’s eyes. Neumann was much closer to the windlass than anyone. One quick slash of the knife and he could send the basket crashing down the side of the Ulricsberg.

  ‘We’ll let you go,’ Mandred said. He stared hard at Othmar. ‘You understand? This… man is to go unharmed.’

  The evil chuckle again bubbled from Neumann’s lipless mouth. ‘It is charming that you expect me to trust you.’ His eyes narrowed with malicious spite. ‘And utterly moronic that you would trust me.’

  Before Mandred could even start to move, Neumann raked the edge of his dagger across the windlass, breaking the pin which restrained it. Faint screams rose from below as the unwinding ropes, free and unfettered, sent the basket crashing to the ground.

  ‘Bastard!’ Mandred snarled, charging at the gloating mutant. The cultist’s body shuddered as the prince impaled him upon the spiked tip of the halberd. Hissing his defiance, Neumann tried to slash at the boy’s face with the dagger, only the length of the halberd preventing his blow from landing. Before he could rear up for a second try, Othmar’s sword hewed through the mutant’s arm, sending both it and the dagger clattering across the battlements.

  ‘You are all doomed,’ the dying mutant chortled as he wilted against the flagstones. ‘You can’t even surrender. Because they’ve already won.’

  Mandred pressed the halberd deeper into the cultist’s body, sending a gout of blood bubbling from his mouth. The malicious light in Neumann’s eyes slowly faded. The prince looked up as Othmar came beside him.

  ‘Now can we see the Graf?’ the knight asked.

  Chapter X

  Altdorf

  Vorhexen, 1111

  Rats scurried through the rafters of the old warehouse while snow drifted down through holes in the roof. The bite of winter whistled through gaps in the walls, stirring up the thick layers of dust which lay everywhere.

  The building had been shabby and poorly maintained even before its abandonment, owned by a Drakwald baron with a penchant for mercantile pursuits far beyond his finances. Since the ruination of Drakwald and the evanishment of the baron, the warehouse had been left to its own, quietly decaying into the riverfront. Even before the plague, Altdorf’s dispossessed had shunned the place, seeking less dilapidated environs in which to ensconce themselves. Since the onset of the Black Plague, there were too many houses and manors devoid of tenants for anyone to look twice at a crumbling ruin.

  Its very ignominy made the warehouse the perfect setting for a midnight rendezvous. Never had the riverfront played host to such an assemblage as now congregated under the tattered tile roof of the old warehouse.

  For the best part of an hour, a cross-section of the Empire’s lords and leaders had been discussing questions of loyalty and tyranny, of honour and conscience, of survival and destruction. Captain Erich von Kranzbeuhler, much as he had at that long ago meeting in Prince Sigdan’s castle, maintained a cautious silence, content to listen and observe.

  The ghastly execution of Grand Master von Schomberg had backfired upon Emperor Boris and his scheming confederates. Instead of subjugating dissent through terror they had created a martyr, a rallying point for the many enemies of Boris Goldgather and his grasping policies. Despite the plague and the chill of winter, demonstrations against the Emperor had popped up in every quarter of the city. Walls throughout Altdorf had been marked up with the image of the Imperial eagle, a noose wrapped about its neck. An armed mob had even broken into the residence of Lord Ratimir, forcing the minister to flee and seek protection within the walls of the Imperial Palace.

  As Erich looked across the desolate warehouse, his spirit thrilled at the great men who had joined their destinies to the cause of justice. The cadaverous Palatine Mihail Kretzulescu of Sylvania standing beside Baron von Klauswitz of Stirland, the animosities of their homelands set aside in this moment of mutual crisis. Baron Thornig of Middenheim and his daughter the Princess Erna. Duke Konrad Aldrech and Count van Sauckelhof, lords of lands reduced to ruins by the politicking and opportunism of their Emperor. Even the diminutive Chief Elder Aldo Broadfellow, representing the halfling dominion of the Moot, was present. The halflings owed their independence to the old emperor, but that debt hadn’t made them blind to the outrages of their benefactor’s son.

  Beside the noble lords and dignitaries of distant lands, the Arch-Lector Wolfgang Hartwich was present. With him, the Sigmarite priest had brought several commoners, representatives of the peasant trade guilds and men from Wilhelm Engel’s scattered Bread Marchers. Sentiment against Emperor Boris wasn’t confined to the noble classes, and as Hartwich had stressed, any effort to overthrow the Emperor would need to be a popular revolt, not something seen as being imposed upon the people by a clique of ambitious aristocrats.

  ‘Then we are all of one accord,’ Prince Sigdan announced, his eyes roving from one face to another. ‘We have decided that Boris Goldgather is unfit to bear the title of emperor. His overthrow is essential to the continued survival of the Empire. We have decided that action must be taken against him and those loyal to him.’

  Count van Sauckelhof shifted uneasily, his face growing pale. ‘It must be clear that we will act only if there is no way to constrain the Emperor. If we could force him to accede to our demands in a way that would compel him to relinquish some of his authority…’

  ‘A tyrant isn’t to be trusted,’ snarled Meisel, one of Engel’s Bread Marchers. His hard gaze bored into van Sauckelhof’s frightened eyes. ‘You don’t appease a snake, you crush its head. If that sits ill with you blue-bloods, then leave the dirty work to those of us without title and position to protect.’

  The dienstmann’s harsh words brought cries of protest from several of the noblemen. ‘This is unacceptable!’ growled Baron von Klauswitz. ‘I will support any move to depose the Emperor, but I will not lend my name to regicide!’

  ‘Your stomach for treason has its limits,’ scoffed Mihail Kretzulescu, clearly siding with Meisel’s position.

  Hartwich stepped forwards, waving down the tempers threatening to flare up. ‘Assassination is not being discussed here. It is the preservation of the Empire, not the murder of the Emperor. Boris Hohenbach must be compe
lled to abdicate, but his person must not be harmed. You may count on the support of the Grand Theogonist, but only if it is understood that the Emperor’s person is inviolate. The Temple of Sigmar cannot be an accomplice to murder.’

  ‘It seems to me that the temple isn’t doing much at all,’ Duke Konrad complained. ‘You tell us the Grand Theogonist will ratify Prince Sigdan as steward once Boris Goldgather abdicates, but what is the temple willing to do for us now, while we are struggling to make that event a reality?’

  Hartwich shook his head sadly. ‘All we can do is pray,’ he answered. ‘If the temple is seen to stand with a conspiracy against the Emperor, the followers of other gods may rally to Boris Hohenbach.’ His eyes darted to Baron Thornig and his daughter. ‘The cult of Ulric harbours resentment against the temple of Sigmar. That resentment might cause them to support Boris if the Grand Theogonist were to be seen as the instigator of his deposing. You must be seen as liberators, not usurpers, if the Empire is to be preserved.’

  Baron Thornig’s face wore a scowl, but the Middenheimer conceded the validity of Hartwich’s concern. ‘In Middenland, we hold that the Sigmarite faith is, at best, a beneficent heresy. Many of my countrymen hold even harsher opinions. There is no love of Boris Goldgather in Middenheim, but if Ar-Ulric thinks this uprising is an effort by the Sigmarites to impose a theocracy upon the Empire, he will denounce us. That would force Graf Gunthar to join forces with Boris.’ The ambassador from Middenheim ran his hand through his beard, eyes half-lidded as he contemplated the politics in the City of the White Wolf. ‘We should dispatch a messenger to Graf Gunthar’s court,’ he suggested. ‘The sooner Middenheim can be informed of what we plan, the greater Graf Gunthar’s involvement, the more legitimacy Prince Sigdan will possess as steward.’

  Erich stepped forwards, bowing to the assembled lords. ‘Your absence would be noticed, baron,’ he stated. ‘It would be more prudent to send one of my Reiksknecht on this mission. My knights can be trusted with any confidence and will let no obstacle stand in their way.’