‘Perhaps it is for the best,’ Zena whispered.
The rat-catcher stormed across the cellar, his hand closing about the bottle. With an inarticulate howl of rage, he threw it at the wall, shattering it into a hundred pieces.
‘There has to be a way!’ Walther shouted. ‘By all the gods, there has to be some hope somewhere!’
Tears were glistening in Zena’s eyes as she heard the pain in her man’s voice. Walther felt powerless to help Hugo. She felt powerless to help Walther.
From the shadows, the rats began to scurry back towards the rushlights.
Middenheim
Vorhexen, 1111
Graf Gunthar leaned back in his oaken throne and studied the foreigner his son had brought to the Middenpalaz. He tried to restrain the hostility he felt towards the man. Whatever the Reiklander’s intentions, the knight had inadvertently led his son into danger. Mandred’s excuses that it was he who had deceived the knight into taking such a risk had fallen on deaf ears. Grown men should know better than to bow to the whims of a mere boy, however great his noble station.
He had been tempted not to grant the audience at all, to have the knight sent into quarantine at once — or executed out of hand as Viscount von Vogelthal had urged. It was still a temptation. The Graf wasn’t so power-mad that he couldn’t forgive a man who defied his decree to further some noble cause. But the fear of the plague being unleashed inside Middenheim was too great to ignore. Even for this audience, he had commanded smouldering braziers placed at either side of where the knight stood in the hope that the pungent smoke would smother any pestilential fumes the Reiklander might have brought with him.
To his credit, Othmar had uncovered and helped destroy a hideous conspiracy. The plague cult could have brought destruction upon all of Middenheim — indeed, such could only have been their purpose. The Graf owed him a debt of gratitude for putting an end to the cult’s activities. Indeed, that was the only reason he had agreed to meet with the man.
‘Speak, while I am still of a mind to listen,’ Graf Gunthar told the Reiklander. His deep voice echoed through the narrow confines of the audience hall. A much smaller chamber than the palace’s council rooms and great hall, the vault-like room was used to receive dignitaries and visiting royalty in a more intimate and less public setting. The rich tapestries and fantastic hunting trophies lining the walls were intended to create a feeling of informality while at the same time reminding a guest of Middenheim’s splendour.
Othmar bowed to the throne, careful to keep himself between the braziers. A trio of armed guards were watching his every gesture. One false move and he would be expelled from the royal presence — alive if he was fortunate.
‘Your highness, I have had a long and perilous journey to reach you,’ the knight began. ‘You know already of the difficulty just gaining entry to the city.’
‘We are quite familiar with your flagrant violation of the Graf’s decree,’ von Vogelthal snarled. The chamberlain’s face was pinched with loathing, but in his eyes was a terrible fear. A big brass pomander hung about his neck and every time he even glanced in the knight’s direction, the viscount raised the ball to his nose and took a deep sniff of the aromatic spices locked inside.
Graf Gunthar motioned for his frightened chamberlain to be silent. What was done was done. Now that the Reiklander was here, the Graf would listen to what he had to say.
Othmar bowed his head in contrition. Catching the mood of the few advisors the Graf had brought with him to this audience, the knight hastily dropped the subject of his travels.
‘I do not know how much you are aware of what is transpiring in Altdorf,’ Othmar said. ‘The situation as it is, I can imagine that news from the outside is scarce and much of what you have heard has probably been dismissed as rumour or fancy. I have been dispatched by my masters to ensure that Middenheim has a clear and accurate picture of what has happened and the course of action we hope to pursue.
‘Boris Goldgather has shown himself to be a grasping despot unworthy of the title of emperor. In his ruthless drive to aggrandise his own wealth and power, he has increasingly perpetrated outrages upon his imperial subjects. The taxation of the Dienstleute, his callous massacre of starving men in the streets of Altdorf, the march against Talabheim, the abandonment of Drakwald, these are only the latest of his crimes. The Emperor’s tyranny will break the Empire apart if it is allowed to continue.’
‘We have heard that the Reiksknecht has already taken up arms against the Emperor,’ Graf Gunthar said. ‘That yours is an outlawed order, the lives of all its knights forfeit to the imperial crown.’
‘That is only partly correct, your highness,’ Othmar replied. ‘The Reiksknecht was commanded to undertake the slaughter of defenceless men in open defiance of every convention of chivalry and honour. Grand Master von Schomberg refused to besmirch the reputation of the Reiksknecht by being a party to such a crime. For his stance, a warrant was issued for his arrest and the entire order was commanded to lay down its arms. We refused.’
‘And now you plot against the Emperor,’ von Vogelthal sneered. ‘A hundred knights against the might of the Empire!’
Othmar bristled at the chamberlain’s derision, his fist clenching at his side. Quickly he turned his gaze away from von Vogelthal and back upon the Graf. He didn’t need to win the viscount’s support. The only man in this room he had to appeal to was Graf Gunthar.
‘We are not without our allies,’ Othmar stated. ‘You will understand that I cannot disclose their names, but I will say that they represent some of the most powerful men in the Empire. The tyranny of Boris Goldgather must be brought to an end.’ Othmar looked about the room, studying the faces of the Graf’s advisors, noting the scowls of distaste they wore. ‘Would it help to know that I was sent here not by my Grand Master, but by your own Baron Thornig? He said that the sons of Middenheim would never sacrifice their freedom, that they would take a stand against the oppression of Altdorf.’
‘One city against the whole Empire?’ scoffed Duke Schneidereit. ‘We would be swatted like a fly.’
‘Not one city alone!’ protested Othmar. ‘Others would stand with you! It needs only someone to show them the way and all the provinces will rise up against this despot!’
‘And you expect Middenheim to lead the way?’ Graf Gunthar asked, his voice as cold as steel.
Mandred could sense the anger boiling up inside the Graf. Limping towards the throne, the side of his head wrapped in bandages, the prince appealed to his father. ‘You know Sir Othmar to be a brave man, father. You can trust what he says.’
The Graf turned narrowed eyes upon his son. ‘Liars can be brave men too,’ he hissed, the meaning of his words causing Mandred to hide his face in shame. The Graf leaned back in his throne, shifting his cold regard back upon the Reiklander. ‘It happens that I believe you,’ he declared. ‘I believe you mean everything you say. But tell me, will this noble cause make Nordland forget their schemes to wrest control of the Middle Mountains from my realm? Will it make Ostland stop stealing timber from my forests? Will it make the robber barons of Westerland stop raiding my villages? Will we forget all of our differences and unite against the only thing that holds us together?’
‘Boris has schemed long to pit neighbour against neighbour,’ Othmar said. ‘He knows that by keeping the provinces divided he ensures his own rule. Talabecland feuds with Stirland, Averland quarrels with Solland over the price of wool, Wissenland places an embargo upon Reikland wine.’
Graf Gunthar nodded his head. ‘Then you do understand the impossibility of what you ask.’
Mandred turned back towards the throne. ‘But father, you yourself said that Middenheim must prepare for the Emperor’s armies to attack us!’