Dead Winter

by C. L. Werner

  ‘Baron, return the count’s sword to him,’ Emperor Boris ordered.

  Count Konrad’s death rattle echoed from the mirrors, his body twitching as life bled out from it. Baron von Kirchof slowly cleansed the gore from Beast Slayer with a strip torn from the dead man’s cloak. Sight of the callous murder brought a shriek of terror rising from Baron von Klauswitz’s throat. The Stirlander prostrated himself before the Emperor.

  ‘Mercy, your Imperial Majesty!’ von Klauswitz cried. ‘I have been loyal to you from the start! I only played along with these traitors to learn what that Sylvanian scum was plotting! I am loyal, your Imperial Majesty!’

  ‘I have no use for traitors,’ Boris said. ‘Especially those whose loyalty shifts with each change of the wind.’

  The Emperor snapped his jewelled fingers and a pair of Kaiserjaeger seized von Klauswitz and dragged him from the salon. ‘The grand duke will pay a severe fine for inflicting a traitor upon my court, as will all those who are represented by this faithless rabble,’ Boris declared. ‘And they will pay well to keep their enemies from learning of this scandal and using it against them.’

  ‘You have broken your word,’ Prince Sigdan said, glaring daggers at the Emperor.

  ‘An empty promise given to a rebel and a traitor,’ Emperor Boris snarled, but his reply caused Kreyssig to stare anxiously at the renegade prince.

  ‘What promise?’ Kreyssig demanded, all deference vanished from his voice. The tone so shocked Emperor Boris that it took him some time to sputter out a reply.

  ‘He sent two of his rabble to sneak off with Ghal Maraz and a decree they forced me to sign,’ Boris reported. The Emperor’s voice grew more confident. ‘They were to return them to me if I allowed their friends to be released unharmed.’ He chuckled malignantly. ‘But now they’ll return them to keep me from hanging this scum.’

  Hearing the Emperor’s oath, Prince Sigdan whirled upon the guards flanking him. His knee caught the leftmost Kaiserjaeger in the stomach, doubling him over and knocking the sword from his grip. Even as the other guards swung around to club the nobleman senseless, Sigdan was scrambling for the sword. Before any could stop him, the prince brought the sharp edge of the blade slicing across his throat.

  ‘There goes your bargaining chip!’ Kreyssig raged, shaking his fist at the dying prince. Noting their commander’s rage, the Kaiserjaeger forced the remaining rebels to their knees, ready to smash them senseless at the slightest move.

  Emperor Boris walked forwards and scowled down at the dead Sigdan. ‘It is of no consequence. Sooner or later the pig would have died.’

  ‘His followers still have Ghal Maraz!’ Kreyssig yelled, astonished by his sovereign’s lack of concern.

  ‘A hoary old trinket,’ Boris scoffed. ‘I’ll have some dwarfs knock up another one. Nobody will know the difference.’

  ‘They will if those traitors show that hammer to anyone,’ Kreyssig hissed through clenched teeth.

  Understanding suddenly dawned on Emperor Boris. Prince Sigdan had spoken of hiding Ghal Maraz, but if Baron Thornig decided to take it to one of the other provinces, combined with the decree of abdication, one of the elector counts would have enough justification to compel the others to depose him!

  Emperor Boris grabbed Kreyssig’s arm. ‘You have to find them! Catch them! There were two of them! They can’t have gone far! They must still be in the Palace!’

  Kreyssig shook off the Emperor’s grip. A crafty gleam came into his eyes. ‘No, I don’t think they’re in the Palace any more. But I know where they did go.’

  Barking orders to his men, Kreyssig detached Gottwald Drechsler and five Kaiserjaeger to accompany him.

  Boris Goldgather watched the soldiers run from the room, sweat beading his brow. If Kreyssig failed to find those two traitors…

  Sharp laughter broke the Emperor’s gloomy thoughts. He looked aside to see Aldo Broadfellow’s fat frame bouncing with humour. ‘Where do you think they’ll take Ghal Maraz to? Wolfenburg or Mordheim? Who would you like to see as the next emperor?’

  Boris glared at the defiant halfling, noting with particular distaste the hairy naked feet. ‘Get this animal some boots,’ he spat. ‘Iron boots,’ he added, the cruel smile working itself back onto his face.

  ‘His feet look cold.’

  Middenheim

  Vorhexen, 1111

  Graf Gunthar didn’t say anything, he just leaned forwards in his saddle and stared down at his son. The look in his eyes conveyed such pain and fear that Mandred felt all the pride inside him wither and die. The Graf was still silent when a tall knight with a thick blond mane of hair addressed the riders on the causeway.

  ‘Grand Master Arno,’ he called out. ‘You and your men have violated the Graf’s decree. By the letter of the law, your lives are forfeit.’

  The Grand Master bowed his head. ‘We understood that when we left the city, Grand Commander Vitholf. What we did was… necessary.’

  ‘As is what we must do,’ Vitholf said, emotion threatening to overwhelm his voice. He stiffened his posture, trying to compose himself. ‘Against the Graf’s orders, you have ridden into Warrenburg. You have been exposed to the plague and become a threat to Middenheim. You are hereby declared outlaw and exiled from the dominion of Graf Gunthar.’

  Arno sighed as he heard the pronouncement. It was pretty much what he had expected to hear. ‘Serve the Order of the White Wolf well, Grand Master Vitholf,’ he said.

  ‘I will strive to bring the Order the same honour you have bestowed upon it,’ Vitholf swore.

  Arno and his knights began to turn their horses about, to retrace their path back down to the shantytown. Mandred, unable to maintain his father’s pained gaze, started to follow them.

  ‘You have not been dismissed, Prince of Middenheim,’ Graf Gunthar’s deep voice barked. He spurred his horse forwards, descending halfway down the causeway before drawing rein again. He pointed at his son. ‘You have disobeyed my command. For that I strip you of rank and authority. Until you are old enough to act like the prince, you will not be prince!’

  Mandred’s jaw clenched as he heard his father’s furious words. ‘Is that all, your highness?’ he growled.

  Graf Gunthar clenched his fist, his arm pulling back as though he would reach across the span separating them and strike his son. Instead he pointed his hand at the gate. ‘Get inside!’ he ordered.

  ‘My place is with Grand Master Arno,’ Mandred stated defiantly.

  ‘Your place is where I tell you!’ Graf Gunthar shouted. His enraged eyes bored into those of the prince. ‘Are you enough of a man to go of your own volition, or must I have you carried in like an unruly child?’

  Mandred glared at his father. For a moment, he considered calling the Graf’s bluff, but he couldn’t forget the pain he saw on his father’s face.

  Turning in his saddle, Mandred nodded apologetically to Arno and his knights. ‘Come along, Franz,’ he said, spurring his horse up towards the gate. It took him only a moment to realise his bodyguard wasn’t following him. Wheeling his steed around, he found Franz hadn’t even moved.

  ‘I’m sorry, your grace,’ the knight said. ‘But I can’t go with you. It’s too late.’ He reached a hand to his tunic, pulling it open to display the black blisters marking his throat. Mandred stared in mute horror at the sign of the plague. He knew that sometimes it could strike quickly, but it seemed impossible to him that a man could be riding down beastkin one moment and in the next find himself a victim of the Black Plague.

  Franz bowed and turned his horse around before the prince could say anything. Before Mandred overcame his shock, the faithful knight was already halfway to Warrenburg.

  ‘Goodbye, old friend,’ he whispered.

  Now he understood what his father meant. But that understanding was too late.

  The Graf’s entourage rode slowly through the streets of Middenheim. None of the riders spoke, their spirits subdued by the knowledge that they had abandoned brave men to the Black Pla
gue, shamed by the know-ledge that it was what they had to do.

  Mandred rode beside his father, feeling the guilt inside him growing with every step. It had been his idea to ride to the defence of Warrenburg; he had led the way. In his mind, he had accepted the possibility it would mean all their lives, that they might fall in battle or contract the plague. But actually seeing it, watching Franz ride back into the shantytown and certain death – that had sobered him in a way nothing else could.

  ‘You should have left me out there,’ Mandred said, his voice low and subdued.

  The Graf smiled at him. ‘Do you think I could?’ he asked. ‘Is that what you think of me?’

  ‘It’s wrong,’ Mandred said. ‘If Franz… I was right beside him. I might be carrying the same pestilence with me.’ Panic crept into the prince’s voice. ‘Even now I might be bringing death into our city!’

  Graf Gunthar nodded his head. ‘A wise leader thinks of his own people first. He puts their needs, their safety ahead of anyone. He lets nothing jeopardise that. He lets nothing come between himself and his obligation to his subjects. That is the difference between a good man and a grasping tyrant.

  ‘One day you will be Graf. One day you will lead our people.’ Graf Gunthar leaned over his saddle, drawing near his son so that Mandred couldn’t mistake his whispered words. ‘When that day comes, remember this day. Remember that I was weak. Remember that when the choice had to be made, I chose to save my son instead of my people.’

  Bewilderment shone on Mandred’s face. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘My duty was to leave you out there,’ Graf Gunthar said. ‘To keep any chance of the plague from reaching my subjects. But you are my son! Ulric forgive me, but I’d see this whole city die before I abandoned you!’

  Mandred shook his head, stunned by the passion in his father’s voice. ‘I never thought…’

  ‘You never thought your father was so weak,’ the Graf said. He sat straight in his saddle, turning his gaze from Mandred to the street ahead.

  ‘When the time comes, son, be a stronger leader than I was.’

  Altdorf

  Vorhexen, 1111

  The dank stench of the sewers washed over the two fugitives as they hurried down the black tunnels. The beady eyes of rats gleamed as their lantern cast its rays into the darkness. It was always with profound relief that the men watched their verminous spectators slink deeper into the shadows.

  ‘Ranald’s own luck,’ Baron Thornig grunted as his foot slipped from the ledge and sloshed into the channel of effluent coursing beneath the Palace. Even a nobleman hardened to battle didn’t want to think about the sort of muck now coating his boot. The hairy Middenlander shifted the heavy bulk of Ghal Maraz where it was lashed across his shoulders and accepted Erich’s hand. Straining, the knight pulled the baron back onto the ledge.

  ‘You can thank Ranald that part of the floor in the old escape tunnel dropped down into the sewers,’ Erich said, yet even as he said it a flicker of doubt tugged at him. He still couldn’t escape the impression that the floor had been dug out, not fallen in.

  Baron Thornig scowled at the muck on his boot. ‘I’d thank him better if he kept his gifts a bit cleaner.’

  Better than you deserve, you manipulative bastard. Erich resisted the temptation to push the Middenlander back into the channel. He couldn’t forget that this man had used his own daughter as a sordid weapon against his enemies. A weapon who had clearly failed based upon the quick deployment of the Kaiserjaeger to the Imperial Palace. The hideous sacrifice Baron Thornig had allowed Princess Erna to make had been for nothing. Even if she had eliminated Kreyssig, Emperor Boris would just appoint another monster in his place.

  ‘Where the blazes are we?’ Baron Thornig grumbled, squinting at the murky walls. ‘It all looks the same to me.’

  Erich turned the lantern around, shining it at the channel between the ledges. A faint current was detectable in the stream of filth. ‘If we follow the direction of the flow, we’ll eventually reach the ri…’

  The knight bit off the last words. From ahead he could see the glow of moving lights and the murmur of whispering voices. Instantly, his mind was thrown back to the reckless escape from Lady Mirella’s cellar. There were Kaiserjaeger ahead of them, searching the sewers for them! They must have discovered the old escape tunnel.

  ‘We can’t go that way,’ Erich whispered to Baron Thornig.

  ‘Where do we go?’ the Middenlander asked.

  Erich shook his shoulders. ‘It doesn’t matter, just as long as we keep Ghal Maraz out of their hands.’ Carefully, the knight backed away, leading his companion down one of the older culverts. The two fugitives raced along the ledge, hurrying to the next intersection, trying to put as irregular a path between themselves and their pursuers as they could.

  So intent were they upon the Kaiserjaeger they had seen that they weren’t aware of the other group of hunters until they came around a slime-covered corner and saw a squad of black-liveried thugs marching in their direction. At their head, his face like the leering visage of a forest devil, was Adolf Kreyssig.

  ‘There you are,’ Kreyssig hissed. He pointed a finger at the two rebels. ‘Kill them,’ he growled at the thugs behind him.

  Outnumbered and outguessed, the two fugitives turned and ran back into the darkness. Erich cursed himself for being outsmarted. Finding the sewer opening, Kreyssig had sent a gang of his thugs to the river entrance while he followed the route the fugitives had taken. Underestimating the peasant was a mistake Erich swore he would never make again.

  If there was an ‘again.’

  This section of the sewers, flowing beneath the manors and townhouses of the nobility, was a confusion of side passages and cul-de-sacs. If they could just put enough distance between themselves and their pursuers, Erich was certain they could lose them. The biggest factor against them was the glow of their lantern. The light was like a beacon, drawing the Kaiserjaeger on, yet neither of the rebels dared even consider dousing it.

  Ahead, the tunnel twisted into a much narrower channel, the ledges disappearing entirely, forcing the men to slog their way through the filthy channel. They struggled to make way through the sucking mire, the sluggish current just enough to make each step a trial of balance and determination. All around them, they could see the glistening eyes of rats and hear the rodents slithering through the water.

  Suddenly, something stepped out from a fissure in the tunnel wall. It was the same sort of shadowy, slouching shape Erich imagined he had seen before. Only now it stood revealed in all its loathsome horror. A twisted monstrosity, merging the verminous flesh of an enormous rat with the posture and build of a man. Grimy armour and a filthy cloak girded the obscenity’s body while in its claws it held a rusty sword.

  Erich cried out in disgust and horror. Baron Thornig turned and staggered away, losing his footing and plunging into the muck. It took every ounce of courage he possessed for the knight to turn his back on the rat-fiend to help the foundering Middenlander.

  Kaiserjaeger or no, the men fled back the way they had come. Whatever fate they might expect from Kreyssig, at least it would take place in the clean world of man, not the abominable realm of myth and legend. Better to die in the clutches of a tyrant than to slip into the paws of the underfolk!

  Neither man could keep from looking back as they retreated. Erich shuddered at every turn, fancying he could see the ratman’s eyes shining in the darkness. Nor, if his impression was true, was the monster alone. The terrifying retreat from the vermin under Lady Mirella’s now repeated itself, only magnified a thousandfold. Erich called out to Sigmar, to Ulric, to Taal and Shallya, to any god that might hear for deliverance from such nightmarish abominations.

  Around the next corner, the fugitives again saw the glow from Kreyssig’s lanterns. The triumphant shouts of the pursuing Kaiserjaeger stirred a last desperate urge for survival. With the ratmen at their back and the Kaiserjaeger ahead, Erich darted down the side-passage to their left,
the only option open to them now.

  The knight could feel his heart thundering against his ribs as he squirmed and squeezed his way through the narrow opening. He gripped Baron Thornig’s arm, pulling the Middenlander after him. For one terrible instant, the baron became caught. Shrieking in horror, he drew away from Erich. A moment of panicked activity, and the baron removed the impediment. Erich heard the metallic crash as Ghal Maraz was dumped unceremoniously onto the slime-coated flagstones.

  ‘We can’t leave it behind!’ Erich shouted, but the terrified baron was already forcing the knight forwards. Erich fought back, refusing to abandon the most sacred symbol in all the Empire. To an Ulrican like Baron Thornig, it might be just another dwarf trinket, but to a Sigmarite, there was no more holy relic in the entire world. Redoubling his efforts, the knight forced the panicked Middenlander back. The baron wrapped his hairy arms around Erich, trying to lift the knight and carry him.

  In his struggle to resist, Erich dropped the lantern, plunging them both into darkness. Terror rushed in to flood the knight’s brain. Impelled by the panicked persistence of Baron Thornig, he shifted about and squirmed down the narrow crack.

  The two men emerged into a rough chamber, its crumbling stone walls and piles of broken masonry making it seem like a cellar. A number of shattered stone sarcophagi made it clear they were in some sort of family crypt of incredible antiquity.

  Erich had only a moment to take in his surroundings, however. The light was that being cast by the lanterns of the Kaiserjaeger. Kreyssig stood upon a sarcophagus, his arms folded across his chest, a contemptuous smirk on his face.

  ‘You should have used the main channel,’ Kreyssig said, nodding his chin at a broad opening in the southern wall of the crypt. ‘It’s quicker.’

  Baron Thornig dropped to his knees, his eyes still wide with terror. ‘Adolf, please! You must listen! There are… things… following…’