From the towers of the Reikschloss the extent of the shantytown could be viewed in full. Patrolling the battlements of their fortress, the knights of the Reiksknecht watched as the numbers of Engel’s Bread Marchers continued to swell. As more and more of the park was razed to make room for the expanding morass of shacks and hovels, the knights felt a coldness settle about their hearts. From their vantage, they could see the terrible menace that was growing right inside the city walls.
Baron Dettleb von Schomberg felt the tension in the air as he took his morning constitutional. Three circuits of the castle walls had been his habit since taking the position as Grand Master of the Reiksknecht. He felt that the combination of exercise and fresh air was conducive to good health and a clear mind. This morning, however, he was making his fifth circuit of the wall and still his thoughts were filled with dread.
Von Schomberg’s heart went out to the Bread Marchers and their cause. He felt a great sympathy for these men who had lost the security of their homes and positions. At the same time, he could not afford to ignore the threat these desperate, starving men represented to the peace and security of Altdorf.
Lost in his thoughts, von Schomberg didn’t see Captain Erich von Kranzbeuhler until he almost walked straight into the young knight.
‘My apologies, my lord,’ Erich said, snapping to attention.
Von Schomberg gave the knight a tired smile. ‘Entirely my fault,’ he said, then uttered a dry chuckle. ‘I should thank you. If not for your intervention I might have walked right off the parapet.’
‘Scarcely the heroic death worthy of the Grand Master,’ Erich replied, falling into step beside von Schomberg as the baron marched towards the edge of the parapet. The baron gazed out across the slanted roofs of Altdorf, concentrating his eyes upon the jumbled confusion of Breadburg.
‘There are many things beneath the dignity of the Reiksknecht,’ von Schomberg sighed. ‘But I fear we will be called upon to do them just the same.’
‘The Bread Marchers?’ Erich asked, following his captain’s gaze. ‘Surely that is a problem for Schuetzenverein?’
Von Schomberg shook his head, his expression turning even more grim. ‘Perhaps at one time the city guard could have handled Engel’s people, but the problem has grown too big for the Schueters.’ He slammed his palm against the cold stone of the parapet. ‘By Verena! Why didn’t Prince Sigdan take steps to stop this! Thousands of starving men swarming into his city and he does nothing!’
‘Perhaps he didn’t have the heart to turn them away,’ Erich suggested. ‘These aren’t a rabble of vagabonds; these are Dienstleute discharged by their lords without thought or provision. Men who risked their lives trying to keep the Empire safe.’
‘I share his sentiment,’ von Schomberg said. ‘Except for the officers, every knight in the Reiksknecht is a dienstmann, a vassal of Emperor Boris. I am not unfamiliar with the travails of belonging to such station, but a leader cannot allow sentimentality to cloud his judgment. Engel’s people should have been turned away.’
‘Maybe the decision wasn’t Prince Sigdan’s to make,’ Erich suggested. ‘Increasingly, the Emperor has come to view Altdorf as his own personal suzerainty. If it was his will to have the Bread Marchers repulsed, he would have ordered them removed by now.’
Von Schomberg lifted his eyes, staring out past the Altgarten, past the Great Cathedral of Sigmar to where the Imperial Palace sat upon its hill surrounded by its megalithic dwarf-built walls. The golden pennants of Boris Hohenbach fluttered from the spires of the palace, proclaiming to all and sundry that the Emperor was in residence. Safe behind the high walls of his palace, surrounded by his cronies and sycophants, it was just possible that the Emperor really was oblivious to the unrest gathering right on his doorstep.
The baron’s face contorted into a grimace of pain. There was another possibility, one that von Schomberg found much easier to believe. The Emperor was exploiting the crisis, allowing it to escalate. He thought back to the meeting of the Imperial Council and the outrage expressed by the dignitaries over the new taxes being imposed across the Empire. Special dispensation had been granted to Drakwald and Westerland, in recognition of the unrest in those lands. Conspicuously, the Emperor hadn’t extended such dispensation upon Altdorf and the Imperial Army. The Dienstleute who composed most of the troops would be taxed just like any other peasant, the monies levied to be applied to the Imperial Treasury.
For all his abuse of power, Emperor Boris was still answerable to the electors who had given him that power. He had made it his practice to play one province against another, ensuring that every elector had an enemy he hated more than his Emperor. He further ensured that his word and his power were the only thing preventing these smouldering hatreds from blazing up into outright warfare.
Now, however, it seemed he was playing a different game. Emperor Boris was using the distress of certain provinces to create a state of dependency between them and himself. Only by the largesse of Boris Goldgather would Westerland be empowered to reclaim Marienburg, only by his consideration would Drakwald recover from the depredations of the beastkin. Another emperor, a new emperor, might not be so sympathetic to their plight and impose upon them the same obligations as the other provinces.
It was a bitter kind of loyalty Boris would gain, but it was the only sort he would trust — a loyalty built upon need and dependence rather than respect and admiration.
The Bread Marchers. Von Schomberg could understand what the Emperor wanted with them now. Each Bread Marcher was a displaced soldier, one less sword in the arsenals of the other provinces. But his scheming went still deeper. Drawing the desperate men to Altdorf, to the Imperial capital, Boris intended to exploit them still further. He was deliberately allowing the shantytowns to grow. He was encouraging the despair and lawlessness taking hold of the city.
When the time came, when Boris was certain the size and scope of the thing would be unmistakable, then he would act. He would send out his soldiers to put down the rioters. The streets of Altdorf would run red with blood, the blood of valiant men who only months before had fought for the same Empire which would cause their doom. Afterwards, the bloodshed would be enough to silence the Emperor’s critics. He would have all the justification he needed to exempt the Imperial Army, Altdorf and perhaps even the Reikland itself from the head tax on their Dientsleute.
Von Schomberg turned away from the parapet. ‘The Emperor will act,’ he assured Erich. ‘He will act when there is no other choice but violence so that none can gainsay him. He will call out his Kaiserjaeger and his Reiksknecht and send them out to ride down starving men.’
Erich’s expression sickened at the image the Grand Master conjured. ‘Surely it won’t come to that! Knights don’t ride down defenceless men!’
Von Schomberg locked the young captain’s eyes in a cold stare. ‘We have guaranteed our honour through service to the emperor. Every knight of the Reiksknecht is sworn to obey the emperor without question and Boris is our Emperor. If he calls upon us to ride down the Bread Marchers, then that is what we will do!’
‘It will mean a massacre,’ Erich stated, shaking his head in disgust.