Dead Winter

by C. L. Werner

  The prayer for patience, it seemed, went unheeded, but a cry for help came drifting down the alleyway. It was the sort of appeal Mandred would have responded to anyway, but a thrill coursed through his body as he recognised a foreign tone to the shout. He opened his eyes and stared up into the grey sky. ‘Thank you, Wolf Father,’ he said before sprinting down the alley in the direction of the shout.

  ‘Your grace!’ Franz called after him.

  Mandred didn’t slacken his pace. The cry hadn’t been repeated. Instead it had been replaced by the crash of steel and the inarticulate snarls of fighting men. The prince drew his own sword. He might have donned a simple horsehide sheath as part of his disguise, but the sword was the same keenly balanced dwarf blade with which he fought his duels with van Cleeve.

  Through the maze of alleyways and side-streets, Mandred pursued the sounds of conflict until he burst out into a little square with a stone fountain at its centre. Dilapidated timber longhouses, their tile roofs groaning beneath a heavy snowfall, bordered the square on every side. Snow was piled high against their walls, almost to the very eaves, and a thick layer of snow carpeted the ground inside the little square. At once, the prince noticed the bright crimson splotches marring the ground.

  Three men were sprawled in the snow, blades and bludgeons lying beside their bodies. Four ruffians in wool breeks and rough cowhide cloaks circled a lone fighter dressed in a heavy black cloak and wielding a fat-bladed broadsword.

  It took Mandred only a moment to decide which side of the fight to make his own. ‘If it takes four of you rats to fight one man, maybe you’ve taken up the wrong vocation,’ the prince shouted. The combatants turned in surprise at his cry.

  ‘There were six of them when they started,’ the man in the black cloak boasted, his accent clipped and guttural, the mark of a Reiklander’s voice.

  ‘Stay out of this!’ one of the cowhide ruffians growled. He gestured with an ugly iron bludgeon at the Reiklander and again at the third body lying in the snow. ‘This scum has brought the Black Plague into the city!’

  ‘So you thought you’d avoid the plague by getting into a swordfight?’ Mandred said. He smiled with cool confidence at the four thugs. ‘A fine idea. I’ll be happy to oblige anyone who thinks six against two is honourable combat.’

  ‘Take the meddler,’ the thug with the iron club growled at two of his companions. ‘Hans and I will finish the outlander.’

  The ruffians separated into pairs. While the man with the club and a brutish thug wielding a crooked long-sword converged upon the Reiklander, Mandred found himself opposed by a scar-faced rogue gripping an axe and a wiry villain armed with a horseman’s mace. Just from the way they came at him, the prince decided that the maceman was the more experienced of the two and therefore the more dangerous. Before his foes could quite get to either side of him, Mandred lunged forwards, seeking to take the maceman by surprise.

  The villain drew back, but not quite with the shock Mandred had hoped for. Instead of leaving himself defenceless, the man twisted aside from the prince’s sword and delivered a hurried swipe of his mace that glanced off the boy’s shoulder. Had it landed more squarely and with more force, the blow might have staggered Mandred and left him open to a more conclusive attack. As it was, the prince’s body was simply jostled to one side, throwing his balance off for a fleeting instant.

  Even that brief interval might have been too long if the axeman had been a more competent fighter. Instead the ruffian was still trying to get his mind around Mandred’s sudden attack. The prince didn’t give the man the chance to gather his wits. With the maceman momentarily on the defensive, Mandred swung around and slashed at the other ruffian. His sword rasped through the thug’s knuckles just beneath the head of his axe. The man shrieked as blood spurted from his maimed hand and severed fingers tumbled into the snow.

  ‘Ranald’s teeth!’ the maceman roared, swinging his weapon at Mandred’s head. ‘You’ll pay for that, churl!’

  The prince easily ducked under the swipe, bringing his sword in a downward sweep that sliced across the ruffian’s thigh. ‘You’d better flee before you really get hurt,’ he taunted the thug.

  The maceman’s face contorted with rage. Snarling, he flung himself at Mandred, bringing his mace hurtling downwards with enough force to shatter the prince’s shoulder. Unfortunately, he signalled the attack a little too broadly. As his arm came rushing down, his foe was darting forwards, thrusting the point of his sword into the ruffian’s throat. The mace fell into the snow as the thug clasped his wound, trying to stop the blood gushing from a severed artery. He staggered towards the fountain, then collapsed into the frozen pool.

  Mandred wiped the gore from his blade and looked over to see how the Reiklander was faring. There was a fourth body lying in the snow now, and a cowhide thug fleeing down an alleyway. Like the prince, the Reiklander was cleansing the blood from his sword with the cloak of his fallen enemy.

  ‘One down and one in retreat,’ the Reiklander said, nodding behind Mandred where the maimed axeman could be seen creeping along a little side-street. ‘Seems we are evenly matched, friend.’

  Mandred shook his head and sheathed his sword. ‘You forget that you accounted for two before I even got here.’

  A troubled frown came onto the Reiklander’s face. The tip of his boot kicked against the body the ruffians had described as a foreigner. ‘This one was mine too. Defending myself against him was what brought those jackals.’ He chuckled grimly. ‘Like any scavenger, they smelled blood.’

  The prince stared down at the dead man. His clothes had a Solland cut to them and his boots were of raw wool, something rarely seen in the north. ‘Why did he attack you?’

  ‘He was afraid I would talk to the wrong people,’ the Reiklander answered. A sharpness came into his eyes. For the first time Mandred appreciated the fact that the foreigner still had his sword drawn. ‘He was right. I do intend to talk to the wrong people.’

  Mandred stared hard at the Reiklander. He appeared to carry himself with a military bearing, not surprising in a man who had just killed four enemies by himself. The clothes he wore were rough, an assortment of furs and wool such as any peasant might cobble together to survive the winter, but the sword in his hand was clearly a blade of quality, the surface etched with elaborate scrollwork. The overall impression was that, like the prince, here was a man trying to present himself as being of a much lower station than the one he belonged to.

  ‘Who would the wrong people be?’ Mandred asked.

  ‘Anyone interested in refugees and how they are getting into the city,’ the Reiklander answered. His body grew tense beneath the black cloak, his eyes watching Mandred for the slightest flicker of hostility.

  ‘If I told you I was one of the wrong people, would you lower your sword?’ the prince asked. He shrugged his shoulders when the Reiklander kept his blade at the ready. ‘As you would have it, but it strikes me that you could use a friend right now.’

  The Reiklander relaxed slightly. ‘You have my gratitude for helping me against these jackals, but I am afraid I must make my own way. I need to see Graf Gunthar.’

  Before Mandred could react to the Reiklander’s startling statement, there was a commotion in the alleyway behind him. Sword drawn, his face distorted by panic, Franz came rushing into the square. The knight drew up short when he saw the bodies strewn about the snow. He darted a vicious look at the Reiklander who returned it in kind, then focused his attention on the prince.

  ‘Your grace, are you all right?’

  Franz’s slip had the Reiklander blinking in shock. ‘Your grace?’ he echoed the bodyguard.

  Mandred ripped the tattered hat from his head. ‘Prince Mandred of Middenheim,’ he announced.

  The Reiklander snapped his heels together and bowed to the prince. ‘Sir Othmar, late of the Reiksknecht, at your service, your grace.’

  ‘Well met, Sir Othmar,’ Mandred said, setting aside for the moment how and why a knight from the Rei
ks-knecht had made the journey all the way from Altdorf to Middenheim. For the moment, he was only interested in finding out who was smuggling refugees into the city. More importantly, making that discovery before Graf Gunthar.

  ‘Now that introductions are out of the way, perhaps we should discuss what you wanted to see my father about. And why people are trying to kill you.’

  Chapter IX

  Altdorf

  Vorhexen, 1111

  Thick storm clouds rendered the sky above Altdorf almost as black as night. A conspiracy of ravens circled above the Imperial Palace, their croaks echoing through the streets of the city. Many of the superstitious city folk hid in their homes, hiding from the eyes of Morr’s corvid messengers. With the Black Plague abroad, none wanted to tempt the grim god.

  Only in one place was the city alive. A great crowd had gathered in the Widows’ Plaza, nobles and peasants alike drawn to the spectacle of the Grand Master’s execution. Never in the long and renowned history of the Reiksknecht had the order suffered a charge of treason. Never had a man of such heroic reputation as Grand Master Dettleb von Schomberg been condemned to the ignoble fate of public beheading.

  The crowd gathered about the Widows’ Plaza gabbled excitedly among themselves. After the frightened solitude many of them had endured for so many weeks in an effort to escape the plague, this excuse to forget caution, to ignore peril had been seized upon with a desperate recklessness. A carnival-like atmosphere was the rule, peasants and nobles alike laughing and singing. Vendors circulated among the crowd, hawking withered fruits and scabby vegetables for grotesquely inflated prices. Halflings manoeuvred wheeled pushcarts through the mob, selling roasted rats to anyone willing to place frugality ahead of prudence. Unlike the fruits and vegetables, there was no shortage of rats in Altdorf.

  All around the plaza, the black-liveried soldiers of the Kaiserjaeger were out in force, halberds and crossbows at the ready. Commander Kreyssig himself stood with a small retinue of officers and guards beside the wooden platform at the centre of the square. The low born Kreyssig bore a triumphant smile as he surveyed the mass of humanity that had gathered to watch the execution. It was more than the destruction of a traitor – it was the moment of his personal triumph. By proving Baron von Schomberg a traitor, by getting the Reiksknecht disbanded and outlawed, he had created a gap in the power structure of Altdorf, a gap he and his Kaiserjaeger would quickly fill.

  Still smiling, he lifted his eyes from the babbling crowd, staring towards the Imperial Palace. Beneath the circling ravens, he could see the balcony which had earned the epithet of the Traitors’ View. From here, a denizen of the palace could stare straight down into the Widows’ Plaza and observe the executions. Emperor Boris was there, resplendent in his sable robes of state, the golden crown of Sigismund the Conqueror resting snugly about his head. Kreyssig chuckled inwardly. He was glad the Emperor had turned out to watch the execution. He’d arranged to provide his Imperial Majesty with quite a show.

  The crowd fell silent as the gates of the Imperial Courthouse were raised. A phalanx of soldiers emerged, flanking a small wooden cart. Crouched inside the cart, his thin arms tied behind his back, his body shivering underneath the shabby linen robe he wore, was the man everyone had turned out to see. Grand Master von Schomberg, on his way to keep his appointment with fate.

  Behind the cart marched the sinister Scharfrichter, the Imperial Executioner himself, Gottwald Drechsler. Dressed in black, his head hidden beneath a leather mask, he strode through the plaza like some primordial daemon. The Sword of Justice, a monstrous claymore nearly as tall as a man, was balanced across his broad shoulders, its pommel shaped into a leering skull of silver, its blade etched with curses and maledictions to damn the soul of those who felt its bite.

  Kreyssig exulted in the hush that had come upon the crowd. He could fairly smell the fear rising from them. And in Boris Goldgather’s Altdorf, fear was power. Von Schomberg would make an object lesson to the others, an example of what they could expect if they dare defy the Emperor… or Adolf Kreyssig.

  Drechsler mounted the steps to the scaffold, resembling some inhuman fiend rising from the Pit. As he reached the platform, he threw off the hangman’s cloak he wore, exposing a musculature of such proportions that it would have looked more at home on an ogre. Every inch of the Scharfrichter’s chest was swollen with muscle, his every motion sent a thrill of raw power rippling down his massive arms. Cheerless black eyes stared out from the holes in Drechsler’s hood, seeming to judge every face they happened to glance at, warning them that they too might feel the bite of the executioner’s sword.

  Von Schomberg had to be helped from the cart, a task delegated to two prisoners from the dungeons. The Grand Master sagged limply in their grasp, his body wracked by a fit of coughing as they carried him onto the scaffold. No priest waited upon the condemned man. After the attempted rescue, Kreyssig had forbidden anyone contact with von Schomberg.

  The doomed man was half-dragged, half-guided to the wooden block at the centre of the platform. He was made to kneel before the block, to rest his head against its notched and stained surface. A leather strap was fitted over his shoulders, securing him to the block and making it impossible for him to pull away.

  The Scharfrichter hefted the immense Sword of Justice, holding it overhead and circling around the scaffold so that all in the crowd could see. Then, with a savage gesture, he plunged the blade into the earth at the base of the scaffold, hurling the huge sword as though it were a boar-hunter’s javelin. The spectacle brought gasps of astonishment from the crowd, both for the display of strength exhibited and for the breach of custom. Drechsler turned his cold eyes towards where Kreyssig and his officers waited.

  For an instant, a tremor of uncertainty swept through the crowd. Was the Scharfrichter refusing to carry out the execution? Hope flickered into tremulous life in the minds of those who sympathised with the Reiksknecht and what they had tried to do.

  Then that hope was smothered, crushed underfoot by the inventive cruelty of a despot. From among Kreyssig’s officers, a sergeant of the Kaiserjaeger emerged. In his hands the soldier carried a huge double-headed axe.

  It was not enough to kill von Schomberg. Kreyssig intended to humiliate him, to disgrace him before the eyes of all Altdorf. Tradition was clear, the law was firm. Nobles were executed beneath the blade of a sword. Only peasants suffered the kiss of the axe. It was a distinction understood by highborn and commoner alike, an insult even the lowest serf could understand.

  Taking up the axe, Drechsler circled the scaffold once more. When he finished his third circuit of the platform, he turned towards the prisoner and the wooden block. Lifting up the axe in both hands, he brought its gleaming edge flashing down. A collective gasp rose from the crowd.

  Screams of horror filled the Widows’ Plaza. The axe had missed, at least in part. Its keen edge had gouged the side of von Schomberg’s neck, but had failed to decapitate him. The stricken captive thrashed about in his bindings, a ghastly gurgle issuing from his mangled throat. Blood spurted from his wound, spraying across the scaffold.

  The Scharfrichter leaned back, resting his hands across the butt of the bloodied axe. For the better part of a minute he waited while his victim writhed in pain. Then he took up the axe once more, bringing it sweeping down in a murderous arc.

  There would be no need for a third blow.

  For a moment, silence gripped the Widows’ Plaza once more. Kreyssig grinned at the effect the deliberately botched execution had had on the crowd. They would remember this, and they would fear suffering a similarly infamous end.

  Then a voice cried out, loud and clear. ‘Shame!’ the voice shouted, and the cry was taken up by others, growing into a roar of outrage. Kreyssig had overplayed his hand. The travesty he had made of von Schomberg’s execution had incensed, not cowed, the crowd. The Kaiserjaeger struggled to contain the furious mob. Bricks and stones clattered about the scaffold as the enraged people of Altdorf tried to avenge the
hideous death of a martyr.

  Under the barrage, Kreyssig withdrew into the protection afforded by the thick walls of the Courthouse, the Scharfrichter and the officers of his Kaiserjaeger following close behind him. Before he withdrew into the gatehouse, however, the commander looked back at the Imperial Palace. Horrified anger flared through his heart. There was no one standing on the Traitors’ View. Emperor Boris had retreated back into the palace, distancing himself from Kreyssig and his misfired attempt to terrorise the people of Altdorf into submission.

  Adolf Kreyssig could see all he had worked for slipping through his fingers. He would get it back. Whoever he had to denounce, whoever he had to imprison or execute, he would get it all back.

  Bylorhof

  Ulriczeit, 1111

  The sepulchral silence of the temple of Morr was broken only by the sputter of a peat-moss lamp. Black shadows stretched across the marble-walled mortuary, throwing the fluted columns into sinister relief. The ebon statue of a raven peered down from its perch above the gateway connecting the chamber to the sanctuary itself, its beak open in a soundless cry. Darkened alcoves gaped in the walls, urns of incense smouldering in niches built into their sides, fighting a losing battle against the reek of death rising from the corpses stacked within.

  The mortuary was filled beyond capacity. Even with the full complement of priests the temple normally possessed there would have been no way to keep pace with the decimation wrought by the Black Plague. By himself, Frederick van Hal was overwhelmed. In his blacker moods, he could almost be thankful for the slow slide back into heathenism many of the Sylvanians had abandoned themselves to. If not for the bodies dumped into the marsh, the dead would be piled not only in the niches, but everywhere in the mortuary and out in the sanctuary itself. There was simply too much work for one man, however much he pushed himself.

  At the moment, however, Frederick wasn’t concerned with the dead townspeople lying in the niches, awaiting the rites that would commend them to the keeping of Morr. He wasn’t concerned with the dozens of newly dead the corpse collectors would bring him in the morning. He was concerned only with the piteous figure stretched out upon the stone table at the centre of the mortuary, its long blonde tresses fanned out around its still-beautiful face.