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.