‘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 Reiks-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.