The image of such a massacre brought a chill to Mandred’s heart. ‘We can’t let that happen.’ He stared hard into Arno’s eyes. ‘You understand, we can’t let that happen.’
The Grand Master scratched at his beard. ‘These monsters will be the dregs of their herds, the ones too weak or cowardly to join Khaagor Deathhoof’s warherd. Any show of real force might be enough to break them. Let them come out of the forest, show their faces in the open and fifty good men would be enough to send them bleating into the hollows.’
‘Find me fifty good men,’ Mandred told Arno. Colour flushed to the knight’s cheeks as he appreciated what he had been saying and how the prince had interpreted his words.
‘Your grace, I was just thinking aloud,’ the Grand Master protested. He pointed down at the causeway where the lepers were clearing away bodies. ‘Anyone who goes out there can’t come back. The plague can’t be allowed inside the walls.’
‘Take only volunteers,’ Mandred said. ‘Men who understand the risks.’ He pointed at the bastion on the eastern causeway. ‘Once the brutes have been routed, the men can take shelter in that bastion. There is food and drink to last the winter and staying there they will pose no risk to the city. The garrison can keep to the top floors of the tower and avoid any contact with the men who relieve the encampment.’
Arno nodded sombrely. ‘I will get your men. They can be billeted in the Altquartier, their animals stabled in the horseyards.’ A cunning smile spread across the Grand Master’s face. ‘If we are careful, we should be able to keep the Graf from finding out.’
Mandred gripped the old knight’s arm. ‘This is the right thing to do,’ he told him.
The Grand Master smiled. ‘I know, your grace. Sometimes the measure of a man isn’t his wisdom, but his courage.’
Mandred sighed when he heard those words. They were the exact opposite of his father’s philosophy. To him, cold reason was the only thing that could govern a leader’s actions.
Mandred only hoped he could show his father how wrong he was.
Altdorf
Vorhexen, 1111
‘Does everything meet with your approval?’
The question was asked in a frantic, almost panicked tone.
Princess Erna turned away from her cursory inspection of the master bedroom, making no effort to hide her distaste. Adolf Kreyssig had spent a considerable amount furnishing his home — far more than his income as commander of the Kaiserjaeger should have allowed — yet his peasant background was betrayed in every chair, every table, every blanket and pillow. Gold could buy possessions, but it couldn’t buy refinement and taste. Walking around the townhouse was offensive to her sensibilities. If she were in Marienburg and wandering about the tent of a Norscan jarl, she could have found her surroundings no less barbarous. At least the Norscan wouldn’t have any pretensions about himself.
‘No, it doesn’t,’ Erna told the manservant. Immediately she felt a twinge of regret as she watched Fuerst’s composure crack. From a tremulous optimism, his entire bearing crumbled into dejection. It was like kicking an enthusiastic puppy and despite her noble upbringing, she felt guilty for being the cause of such disappointment. She laughed at the ridiculousness of so petty a thing causing her concern. Here she was, married to the worst monster in Altdorf and she was agonising over the sensibilities of a peasant.
‘My lady?’ Fuerst asked, his voice timid, his mind confused by Erna’s sudden humour.
Princess Erna stepped away from the elaborately carved wardrobe dominating one wall of the room and strode purposefully towards the door. ‘It doesn’t matter, Fuerst. This is Commander Kreyssig’s room. I won’t be staying here.’ She gave the manservant a friendly smile. ‘I’ll depend on your help getting one of the other rooms fit for me.’
‘Of course, my lady,’ Fuerst agreed, bobbing his head in obsequious fashion. His earlier disappointment was forgotten and there was an excitement in his face as he turned away. The excitement died as he faced the doorway. Quickly, he bowed before his lord and master.
Adolf Kreyssig leaned against the open door, his eyes glittering with an ophidian gleam. ‘That won’t be necessary, Fuerst,’ he told his servant. ‘My wife will be staying here. Where she belongs. With her husband.’
Erna’s face turned crimson and she threw back her head in outrage, her long hair whipping about her creamy shoulders. ‘I do not intend to linger among this… this squalor.’
‘That squalor cost a lot of people a lot of pain,’ Kreyssig said. ‘Sometimes, people can be quite stubborn. Especially when they think they are better than… well, the man with the whip.’
The princess glared at her husband. ‘Don’t presume to threaten me, peasant,’ she warned. ‘I am not some schilling-a-tumble dock strumpet to be awed by your tawdry pretensions at society! I am the daughter of Baron Thornig of Middenheim, and you had best remember it! You’ve bought an option on a noble title, nothing more! And you had best remember it! Because a peasant born is always a peasant!’
Kreyssig turned his cold gaze on Fuerst. ‘Out,’ he hissed, stabbing his thumb at the hallway behind him. The manservant cast a shamed, apologetic look at Erna, then scurried from the room. Kreyssig closed the door behind him.
‘I’ve bought the whole damn thing!’ Kreyssig snarled. ‘The title, the wife, and everything that goes with it!’
‘Believe what you like,’ Erna said, her voice a withering lash. ‘But lay one of your filthy peasant hands on me, and you’ll regret it!’ The defiant words didn’t keep a pallor from Erna’s cheeks as she watched Kreyssig step away from the door and saw for the first time the coiled whip he’d been holding behind his back.
‘Now I will tell you something,’ Kreyssig hissed. ‘In a little while you will be begging to have peasant hands on your noble flesh.
‘Stubborn people always learn their place. Nobles just take a bit longer to teach.’
Nuln
Ulriczeit, 1111
There weren’t any answers in the stein of beer resting on the table but Walther stared into it as though all the secrets of the gods were to be found hidden within the foam. He’d lost count of just how many beers he had ordered since the plague doktor left the tavern. Sometimes he would call out to Bremer for an accounting, but whatever tally the proprietor rattled off it was soon forgotten by the rat-catcher.
That was the entire point. To forget. To forget about the man lying down there in the cellar. To forget about the reeking buboes spreading across his flesh. To forget that Hugo had saved his life. To forget that keeping the plague-stricken man here jeopardised himself and Zena and everyone who patronised the Black Rose.
Where were the gods? Walther hadn’t led a good life, but he knew many people who had. Old Petra the midwife, for one, a woman so open-hearted that she would adopt any baby whose mother didn’t want it. She had been as good and gracious and fine a person as could be found in Nuln. How could the gods allow the plague to strike her down? How could they let disease decimate her children, breaking her heart by inches and degrees even before the Black Plague stilled it forever?
If this was retribution, the vengeance of the old gods against those who had followed the creed of Sigmar, then why had this terrible curse not fallen when the Cathedral was still standing, when the music of the Grand Theogonist’s parties had echoed across the city? Why had the gods stayed their hand until now, now when so many people needed their benevolence, not their judgement?
Or were the gods as powerless as everyone else? Walther took a long draught from his beer as he considered that terrible thought. The priesthood of Morr was all but exterminated in Nuln, felled by the plague lurking in the bodies they had gathered for burial. The priestesses of Shallya had likewise perished in droves, unable to combat the magnitude of the plague with their rituals and prayers. Many of the acolytes of Verena, trying to augment the ranks of the overtaxed barbers and doktors, had also sickened and died. Even the druids of the Old Faith, calling upon the magic of Rhya and Taal, had been powerless to protect themselves. The death of the high druid had sent the rest of the Old Faith’s priesthood into retreat, scattering back into the countryside to hide in their sacred groves.