‘Of importance to your friends, however, the careful road will mean a two-month delay in laying siege to Talabheim. Your people will have two months to unseat the Emperor before I will be in a position to strike against Talabheim.’
Konreid bowed to the Reiksmarshal. ‘Thank you, baron. Two months will see an end to Goldgather’s tyranny. Your support will not be forgotten.’
The Reiksmarshal sighed and resumed his pacing. ‘I rather fear it won’t,’ he said. ‘Be sure when you stage your revolt, you get Kreyssig even if you can’t get his Imperial Majesty. I’d rather not have that peasant in any condition to come looking for me.’
Bylorhof
Ulriczeit, 1111
The desolation of Bylorhof struck Frederick more forcefully than ever before. Somehow, just knowing that Rutger and Aysha and Johan were out there, living their lives, had lessened the terrible reality. Now that they were gone, he appreciated fully how forlorn and devastated the town had become. Few doors failed to display the red cross scrawled across their faces. The dead lay piled against the walls, snow and ice plastering them to the street. There were only a few corpse collectors now that the town elders had stopped paying for the removal of the dead. The few who remained were little better than brigands, only bearing away those bodies grieving relations paid them to take away. Frederick saw one of these gangs load the dead children of a white-haired widow, taking several loaves of bread and a basket of vegetables as payment. The ruffians took their cargo only as far as the next corner, stopping their wagon and ditching the corpses in the snow as soon as they had pried the shoes off the dead feet.
Bylorhof’s woes had been compounded by the town’s noble lord. Locked within his castle, Baron von Rittendahl had seen to his own protection from the plague by engaging the services of a warlock. The enchanter’s magic hadn’t been powerful enough to keep the plague from the castle and in an ironic turn, he had been one of the first to die. Now the terrified baron had cut himself off completely, still hoping to escape the plague through seclusion. To ensure that seclusion, he had appealed to his feudal lord, Count Malbork von Drak.
Soldiers of the Nachtsheer, the mercenary troops of the von Draks, had arrived to impose a quarantine upon Bylorhof. Establishing armed camps just beyond the perimeter of the town, the soldiers ensured that no one entered or left the town. The bodies of those who tried were left hanging on a gallows as a warning to their neighbours.
Bylorhof was dying. Frederick could feel it decaying around him as he prowled the streets. He could almost see the ghosts of the departed hovering above their homes, beckoning to those left behind, beseeching them to forsake the suffering of life and embrace the oblivion of the grave. He could feel the preternatural chill of the tomb wafting down the lanes, roving like a hungry beast in search of prey. He could hear the mournful wails of the dead drifting away on the winter wind.
It was an effort to blot out the macabre visions, to deafen himself to the morbid wailing. Frederick wondered if this was some terrible legacy, a curse visited upon him for presuming to invoke the black arts beneath the roof of Morr’s temple. He wondered if this was madness, reaching out with long claws to rend his mind.
He wondered if he cared.
The priest paused in his ramble. Ahead, at the top of the street, he could see a dark shape emerge from one of the houses, a house with a red cross painted across the door. There was no mistaking the grotesque mask of the plague doktor. Bruno Havemann, making his rounds, fleecing those desperate souls who could still afford his dubious services.
Frederick’s hand tightened about his staff, his jaw setting in a rigid grimace of loathing. His family was dead, and this man was responsible. Havemann would answer for those deaths. Frederick would bring him to justice for his crimes, confront the people of Bylorhof with the true nature of the snake they had allowed into their midst.
The priest’s pace quickened. Up ahead, the plague doktor noticed Frederick’s rapid approach. The fat man with the scrawny limbs turned about, knocking frantically at the door he had just closed.
‘Murderer!’ Frederick snarled as he neared the plague doktor. ‘Charlatan!’
Havemann swung around, whipping the copper-headed rod at Frederick’s hooded head. The priest’s staff blocked the blow and pushed Havemann backwards. The physician stumbled, falling onto the snowy street.
‘I’ve done nothing to you!’ Havemann cried, his words muffled by the mask, his hands raised to protect himself from the priest’s staff.
‘Nothing!’ Frederick spat, his eyes shining with wrath. ‘You’ve lied and cheated people who believed in you! You’ve killed the sick and the weak and preyed upon their families! You’ve murdered those who found you out!’ The priest reached down, grabbing the front of Havemann’s waxed cloak and dragging the man to his feet. ‘You are a murderer and a fraud, Havemann, and by the gods, you’ll tell everyone before they hang you!’
The door of the plague-stricken house swung open. A pasty, wizened man stood in the doorway, his tired eyes staring in confusion at the strange spectacle unfolding on his doorstep. Havemann turned his beaked face towards the startled peasant.
‘Help! The priest has gone mad!’ he cried.
The cry was enough. The sickly man launched himself across the threshold, flinging himself at Frederick. Arms, wasted and weak, struggled to restrain the priest, to free Havemann from his grasp. Frederick strove to shrug off the infirm peasant’s pathetic efforts, but to do so would mean releasing his hold on the plague doktor.
The peasant was howling for help, his screams carrying across the deserted streets. In his panic, the peasant did not question Havemann’s assertion, did not think that maybe it was the plague doktor, not the priest who was his enemy. There was a hideous tragedy — one of Havemann’s victims fighting to protect his own tormentor.
From seemingly deserted houses a stream of peasants began to emerge. Withered by hunger, pallid from disease and seclusion, they were like a host of shades rising from a tomb, the merest echo of the vibrant community that had flourished here only a few months ago. Yet fear lent their wasted bodies strength, strength to race through the snow, to confront the man who persecuted the symbol of their one hope for survival.
Once before, Frederick had been driven from the streets of Bylorhof by an angry mob. Then it had been to protect himself from the rage of the peasants. Now he retreated to protect them from his own wrath. Looking at the wasted, sickly wretches, Frederick knew he could wipe the street with the entire mob. Not one of them, not five of them acting in concert, had enough strength to oppose him.
But that would not be justice. That would only compound the suffering Havemann had brought upon these people. They had endured enough. Frederick would not add to their misery.
Releasing his grip on the plague doktor’s cloak, the priest turned and fled. He did not stop running until he was back within the sombre halls of the temple and within the sanctuary. He bowed before the altar, and before the image of his god, Frederick van Hal began to weep.