Dead Winter

by C. L. Werner

  Othmar bowed to the throne, careful to keep himself between the braziers. A trio of armed guards were watching his every gesture. One false move and he would be expelled from the royal presence – alive if he was fortunate.

  ‘Your highness, I have had a long and perilous journey to reach you,’ the knight began. ‘You know already of the difficulty just gaining entry to the city.’

  ‘We are quite familiar with your flagrant violation of the Graf’s decree,’ von Vogelthal snarled. The chamberlain’s face was pinched with loathing, but in his eyes was a terrible fear. A big brass pomander hung about his neck and every time he even glanced in the knight’s direction, the viscount raised the ball to his nose and took a deep sniff of the aromatic spices locked inside.

  Graf Gunthar motioned for his frightened chamberlain to be silent. What was done was done. Now that the Reiklander was here, the Graf would listen to what he had to say.

  Othmar bowed his head in contrition. Catching the mood of the few advisors the Graf had brought with him to this audience, the knight hastily dropped the subject of his travels.

  ‘I do not know how much you are aware of what is transpiring in Altdorf,’ Othmar said. ‘The situation as it is, I can imagine that news from the outside is scarce and much of what you have heard has probably been dismissed as rumour or fancy. I have been dispatched by my masters to ensure that Middenheim has a clear and accurate picture of what has happened and the course of action we hope to pursue.

  ‘Boris Goldgather has shown himself to be a grasping despot unworthy of the title of emperor. In his ruthless drive to aggrandise his own wealth and power, he has increasingly perpetrated outrages upon his imperial subjects. The taxation of the Dienstleute, his callous massacre of starving men in the streets of Altdorf, the march against Talabheim, the abandonment of Drakwald, these are only the latest of his crimes. The Emperor’s tyranny will break the Empire apart if it is allowed to continue.’

  ‘We have heard that the Reiksknecht has already taken up arms against the Emperor,’ Graf Gunthar said. ‘That yours is an outlawed order, the lives of all its knights forfeit to the imperial crown.’

  ‘That is only partly correct, your highness,’ Othmar replied. ‘The Reiksknecht was commanded to undertake the slaughter of defenceless men in open defiance of every convention of chivalry and honour. Grand Master von Schomberg refused to besmirch the reputation of the Reiksknecht by being a party to such a crime. For his stance, a warrant was issued for his arrest and the entire order was commanded to lay down its arms. We refused.’

  ‘And now you plot against the Emperor,’ von Vogelthal sneered. ‘A hundred knights against the might of the Empire!’

  Othmar bristled at the chamberlain’s derision, his fist clenching at his side. Quickly he turned his gaze away from von Vogelthal and back upon the Graf. He didn’t need to win the viscount’s support. The only man in this room he had to appeal to was Graf Gunthar.

  ‘We are not without our allies,’ Othmar stated. ‘You will understand that I cannot disclose their names, but I will say that they represent some of the most powerful men in the Empire. The tyranny of Boris Goldgather must be brought to an end.’ Othmar looked about the room, studying the faces of the Graf’s advisors, noting the scowls of distaste they wore. ‘Would it help to know that I was sent here not by my Grand Master, but by your own Baron Thornig? He said that the sons of Middenheim would never sacrifice their freedom, that they would take a stand against the oppression of Altdorf.’

  ‘One city against the whole Empire?’ scoffed Duke Schneidereit. ‘We would be swatted like a fly.’

  ‘Not one city alone!’ protested Othmar. ‘Others would stand with you! It needs only someone to show them the way and all the provinces will rise up against this despot!’

  ‘And you expect Middenheim to lead the way?’ Graf Gunthar asked, his voice as cold as steel.

  Mandred could sense the anger boiling up inside the Graf. Limping towards the throne, the side of his head wrapped in bandages, the prince appealed to his father. ‘You know Sir Othmar to be a brave man, father. You can trust what he says.’

  The Graf turned narrowed eyes upon his son. ‘Liars can be brave men too,’ he hissed, the meaning of his words causing Mandred to hide his face in shame. The Graf leaned back in his throne, shifting his cold regard back upon the Reiklander. ‘It happens that I believe you,’ he declared. ‘I believe you mean everything you say. But tell me, will this noble cause make Nordland forget their schemes to wrest control of the Middle Mountains from my realm? Will it make Ostland stop stealing timber from my forests? Will it make the robber barons of Westerland stop raiding my villages? Will we forget all of our differences and unite against the only thing that holds us together?’

  ‘Boris has schemed long to pit neighbour against neighbour,’ Othmar said. ‘He knows that by keeping the provinces divided he ensures his own rule. Talabecland feuds with Stirland, Averland quarrels with Solland over the price of wool, Wissenland places an embargo upon Reikland wine.’

  Graf Gunthar nodded his head. ‘Then you do understand the impossibility of what you ask.’

  Mandred turned back towards the throne. ‘But father, you yourself said that Middenheim must prepare for the Emperor’s armies to attack us!’

  A pained sigh rumbled from the seated monarch. ‘If the Emperor attacks us, we will defy him.’ He stared hard into the face of his son. ‘Don’t you understand? What this man is asking of us is treason! To betray our oaths to the Empire! Saint or tyrant, Boris Hohenbach is our Emperor!

  ‘I am sorry,’ Graf Gunthar said, turning back to face Othmar, ‘but what you ask is impossible. Middenheim will fight if it is attacked, but we are not traitors.’ He motioned with his hand and an attendant in crimson livery blew a single note upon a curled hunting horn. This audience was at an end.

  ‘Take Sir Othmar to the Cliff Tower,’ von Vogelthal ordered. The Graf’s guards motioned for the knight to follow them, taking pains not to come too close to the man. Bowing once more to the seated monarch, Othmar allowed himself to be led from the room.

  ‘Is it necessary to lock him away like an enemy?’ Mandred asked.

  ‘Until we are certain he is not carrying the plague, he is an enemy,’ von Vogelthal told the prince.

  ‘He will be well looked after,’ the Graf promised.

  Mandred shook his head at his father’s statement. ‘And what about the people down at the foot of the Ulricsberg?’ he demanded. ‘Will they be well looked after?’

  ‘The beastkin will soon solve that problem,’ von Vogelthal said, then immediately regretted his snide remark when he found Mandred glaring at him.

  ‘What does that mean, viscount?’ the prince snarled.

  ‘Our sentries have spotted beastmen gathering in the forest,’ Graf Gunthar told Mandred. Unlike von Vogelthal, there was sympathy in the monarch’s tone. ‘When they feel their numbers are strong enough, they will undoubtedly attack.’

  ‘And what are we going to do?’ Mandred demanded.

  ‘The only thing we can do,’ the Graf answered. ‘The only thing that can keep Middenheim safe.

  ‘We let Warrenburg burn.’

  Chapter XIII

  Altdorf

  Vorhexen, 1111

  His heart was pounding as Erich von Kranzbeuhler led the way into the cellar. It was not fear for himself that sent terror racing through his veins, but the knowledge that if they were caught then their cause would die with them. No one else in Altdorf would dare to stand against Emperor Boris after them. It was that thought which made his fist clench tighter about the hilt of his sword and made him pause at the door, listening for the slightest sound from below.

  Erich looked back, instinctively seeking out Prince Sigdan, the leader of the conspiracy. He waited until the nobleman nodded his head, then he wrenched open the door and leaped down the short flight of stairs. He braced his feet on the cold stone floor, his body tensed for battle, his eyes scouring the darkness for the fain
test hint of motion. The only sound was the rustle of rats creeping among the boxes and nibbling the straw scattered about the cellar.

  A rushlight threw rays of illumination across the cellar, driving the rats back into their holes but revealing no lurkers in black livery. Erich glanced back at the steps behind him, reaching back to take the burning rushlight from Baron Thornig.

  ‘It doesn’t look like they’re here yet,’ Erich said. ‘We can thank Sigmar for that, at least!’ The captain turned about, staring at the jagged opening to the tunnel. He frowned as he thought of asking aristocrats like Prince Sigdan and Duke Konrad to creep through the muck and mire of the sewers, and the idea of Princess Erna and Lady Mirella slinking through such filth turned his stomach. If there were a way to spare them such indignity… but, no, they would suffer far worse if they fell into Kreyssig’s hands.

  That is, those of them who hadn’t already decided on such a fate. He felt his jaw clench as he imagined the lovely princess married to a reptilian peasant like Kreyssig. For a moment he hesitated, wondering if it wasn’t better to make a stand of it and go down in a clean fight.

  ‘What is it?’ Mihail Kretzulescu asked. ‘Why have you stopped?’

  The darkness hid the twinge of embarrassment on Erich’s face as he answered the Sylvanian. ‘Thought I heard something,’ he answered lamely. ‘It must have been a rat.’ Without explaining further, the knight pressed on, rushing along the cramped passage, following the mephitic reek of the sewer. Gradually the air became warmer, the moist unclean heat of the steaming channel of waste flowing beneath the city.

  Erich hesitated upon the ledge, watching and listening. In the distance, he could just make out the sound of voices. They were faint and indistinct and in the echoing sewer it was impossible to tell which direction they came from. All he could tell was that there were a lot of them and there was a rattle of armour any time the speakers were silent. Only one group of armed men would have any business in the sewers. It was the Kaiserjaeger, come to close Kreyssig’s trap.

  ‘Which way, my lord?’ asked Meisel, a notched blade gripped in the dienstmann’s hand.

  Erich agonised over the answer, turning his head left and right, desperately trying to decide which direction the voices were coming from. If they waited long enough to see the lights the Kaiserjaeger carried, then their own rushlight would be seen. They had to move before then, before Kreyssig had a chance to spot them. But if he made the wrong choice, they would run right into the villain’s arms.

  As he gazed into the murk of the sewers, Erich felt his skin crawl. Thousands of beady red eyes gleamed at him from the shadows, each burning with obscene hunger. Looking at them, he could picture his body lying in the effluent with a Kaiserjaeger sword through his gut and a horde of greedy rodents gnawing the flesh from his bones.

  The knight froze as he noticed another pair of eyes watching him from the darkness. They were bigger than the rats’ eyes, higher off the ground and with a disturbing impression of a lanky shape behind them. Yet they reflected the glow of the rushlight with the same crimson gleam as the rats around them, an unholy ember of malice and hunger. Erich felt fingers of ice race along his spine as he locked eyes with the sinister apparition.

  Then there was no more time to think about the dreadful spectre. Imagination or nightmare, Erich tore his gaze from the dark figure, twisting around in answer to the cries of shock and horror rising from behind him. His first thought was that the Kaiserjaeger had stolen upon them from behind somehow. An instant later, he was wishing what had ambushed them was Kreyssig’s thugs.

  The walls of the sewer were alive with vermin, great bloated rats that scurried along the ledges and swam through the filthy channel. An army of squeaking, chittering rodents came swarming towards the fugitives. Meisel was shouting in disgust, using the flat of his sword to fend off the vermin scrabbling at his legs. Lady Mirella screamed as a black beast with enormous fangs gnawed at her shoe. Palatine Mihail Kretzulescu stamped frantically with his boots as a pack of squealing brutes rushed at him.

  Erich lunged at the chittering horde, thrusting the rushlight full into the faces of the rats as they swarmed about the feet of Princess Erna. The horrified woman collapsed in his arms, her breath reduced to a terrified panting. The knight shifted her weight to his sword arm, pressing her against his shoulder as he waved the flaming brand across the snouts of the onrushing pack.

  An anguished wail echoed through the sewer. Erich looked up to see the manservant Gustav clutching at his bleeding leg, a piebald rat gnawing at his knee. His mangled leg collapsed beneath him, spilling him face-first into the swarming tide of rodents. At once they were over him, a living carpet of gnashing fangs and flashing claws.

  ‘We can’t fight them!’ Erich shouted, waving his sword and rushlight. ‘Not with these! We have to run!’

  ‘Run where?’ demanded Prince Sigdan, trying to slash the vermin spilling around his feet with a jewelled dagger and a gromril sword. ‘What about the Kaiserjaeger!’

  ‘Khaine take the Kaiserjaeger!’ exclaimed Duke Konrad, his arm covered in gore from where a rat had leaped upon him. ‘Anything’s better than being eaten alive!’

  Erich spun around, noticing for the first time that the way was clear to their left. For some reason there were no rats in this direction. Perhaps they had been scared off by the approaching Kaiserjaeger, but whatever the reason, he wasn’t going to squander the chance to escape those verminous fangs! Yelling to his comrades, hugging Princess Erna tight against him, Erich led the frantic retreat.

  The rats swarmed after them, chittering and squealing, raising such a deafening, monstrous commotion that the echoing voices of the Kaiserjaeger were smothered by the noise. Erich couldn’t tell if they were moving closer to or away from their enemies. Nor did he care. All that mattered was to escape the horde of ravenous vermin.

  For what seemed an eternity but couldn’t have been more than a dozen minutes, the fugitives fled through the sewers. It was a shameful, terrified retreat. Warriors who had faced ogres and orc warlords across the field of battle fleeing for their lives before such tiny, miserable animals! Yet there was no fighting such a swarm. For every rat Erich might crush underfoot, ten would rush in to take its place. There were only two choices to make: run or be devoured.

  Finally, when he felt his heart must burst from the exertion, when his breath was a burning agony in his lungs, when sweat streamed from his brow and blinded his eyes, the sewers suddenly fell silent. Erich paused in his headlong flight, daring to look back. He wiped the sweat from his eyes and blinked, unable to believe what he saw.

  The rats were gone! One instant the sewers had been filled with a swarming horde of vermin hungry for blood, the next there was only the ancient masonry and brickwork. Against all belief, the entire horde had suddenly decided to abandon the chase!

  ‘Where did they go?’ Erna gasped in wonder, almost unwilling to believe the evidence of her eyes.

  ‘Let’s not stick around to find out,’ Erich decided. His hand lingered against the silky smoothness of the princess’s fingers, then, with deliberate gentleness, he led her to her father. The knight nodded grimly as he saw the gratitude in Baron Thornig’s face. He didn’t feel he’d done the princess any favours. What waited for her was every bit as repulsive as an army of hungry vermin.

  ‘At least we seem to have avoided the Kaiserjaeger,’ observed Count van Sauckelhof, trying to staunch the flow of blood from the bites marking his legs. ‘But where are we?’

  Meisel sheathed his sword slowly and looked about him. Gradually the dienstmann began to nod. ‘I think we must be somewhere near the waterfront.’ He jabbed a thumb at the mucky channel, indicating the fish bones sticking from the effluent, then he pointed down the tunnel. ‘This should let out to the Reik soon. The flow is getting quicker and the air is just a little colder.’

  ‘Who cares where it leads, so long as it gets us out of these damn sewers!’ Duke Konrad grumbled.

  ‘That, you
r grace,’ Erich said, ‘is the best damn idea I’ve heard all day!’

  With unseemly haste, the small group of nobles and idealists hurried down the tunnel, eager for the clean air and the open sky. None of them looked back. None of them saw the gleaming pair of red eyes watching them from the darkness or heard the shrill, inhuman titter of laughter that rose from the lanky shape behind the eyes.

  ‘Find them,’ Kreyssig snarled, glaring at the Kaiserjaeger sergeant. The soldier executed a stiff salute and hastened back through the tunnel leading up into Lady Mirella’s cellar. Kreyssig scowled as he heard the shouts of the other men searching the sewer tunnels. Except for one dead man, they had found no trace of the conspirators. Even the corpse was useless, gnawed beyond all recognition.

  ‘Commander,’ a sharp voice hissed from the darkness. Kreyssig swung around, a dagger in his fist. He could just make out the shape crouched beside the rubble of a broken pillar. There was no mistaking that twisted, subhuman slouch. It was one of his mutant friends, the secret eyes and ears of the Kaiserjaeger.

  Kreyssig kept his dagger ready, anger blazing in his eyes. ‘They’ve escaped,’ he snarled. ‘For all your talk about knowing the sewers, the traitors escaped! If you’d led us here quicker, if you’d found a more direct route, I could have had them all!’

  The mutant cringed before Kreyssig’s wrath, pressing its ratty nose to the filthy ledge in a token of abasement. ‘Forgive-mercy, great-terrible commander!’ the mutant squeaked. ‘Try-help, yes-yes, try-help much-much!’

  Kreyssig resisted the urge to kick the cowering abomination’s fangs down its throat. ‘They’ve escaped,’ he repeated.

  The mutant reared up slightly, its eyes gleaming red in the light of Kreyssig’s oil-lamp. ‘Not all-all,’ the creature hissed, its body straightening with pride. ‘Catch-take one,’ it reported. ‘Kill-wound,’ it added, its tone becoming apologetic. ‘Crawl off to die-die. But find-take this before traitor-meat get away!’ The mutant reached into its filthy cloak, removing a scrap of parchment from some hidden pocket. It reached out with its furry paw to give it to Kreyssig. The commander’s face contorted in disgust. Angrily he pointed to the rubble, indicating the mutant should leave its prize there.