The Plague had done its work too well in Bylorhof. The townsfolk had capitulated to the inevitable. Hoarded stores had emerged from their places of hiding, valuable stock had been butchered and cooked. All thought of tomorrow was forbidden, for the plague made it impossible to consider the future. The moment was all the Sylvanians could depend upon, and they seized it in a mad embrace.
Peasants danced about the flames while shepherds strummed a discordant melody upon battered mandolins. Men toasted one another with great swallows of ale, tearing at slabs of mutton with their knives and spitting the gristle into the bonfire. Tipsy revellers, assuming the duties of cupar and sluger, traipsed about the tables, filling cups and exchanging empty trenchers for full ones. Often they would pause beside a prone diner, kicking his chair to see if he was merely intoxicated or if the Black Plague had removed his presence from the feast.
There were many such chairs with pale, lifeless figures slumped against the table, the stink of their sores seeming to goad the other diners to further excess and gluttony.
At the head of the table, his chair raised slightly, sat the founder of the feast. Despairing of escaping Bylorhof and joining his master behind the stone walls of the castle, Cneaz Litovoi had orchestrated the wild abandon. Better a quick end amidst song and dance than a slow, wasting demise alone in the dark. Such had been his conviction and the glassy stare in his unseeing eyes as he slouched in his chair indicated that he had achieved his desire.
The Cneaz had surrounded himself with the most prominent of the town’s denizens, the merchants and guildmasters. Among these was the sinister figure of Dr Bruno Havemann. The celebrants had insisted the plague doktor wear his costume to the feast, by turns toasting him for his endless efforts to stop the Black Plague or jeering him for the same. The physician endured the mercurial affections of his hosts, his beaked face nodding in solemn recognition of their regard. Madness ruled Bylorhof now, and he was not one to question the whims of the mad.
His boot lashed out, kicking one of the enormous rats scurrying under the table, scavenging the scraps dropped by dead hands. The vermin squeaked in protest, scampering away, its scaly tail dragging behind it. Havemann watched the rodent flee with grim satisfaction. Perhaps he couldn’t stop the plague, but at least he didn’t have to suffer the presence of rats at his table.
The face behind the bird-like mask contorted in a grimace as his gaze drifted past the dancers and the bonfire. At the other end of the square, a mob of people had appeared. From the distance, Havemann couldn’t quite make them out, but there was no mistaking the black habit of a Morrite priest.
Frederick van Hal stalked across the square, his followers marching behind him with clumsy, uneven steps. As he advanced, the revellers fell silent. They cringed away from the dark priest and gazed with horror at the throng following behind him. Screams rippled about the square. Banqueters rose from the table and fled into the streets.
Havemann kept his seat. Even when the rotten, monstrous appearance of the priest’s congregation became apparent to him, the plague doktor was unmoved.
‘Have you come to collect me for your garden?’ Havemann asked the priest. The beaked face turned, regarding the dead guildmasters seated to either side of him. ‘I should think there is carrion enough to sate your god.’
Frederick van Hal glared across the table at the grotesque plague doktor. ‘There is always room for one more,’ he said, his voice a whispered snarl. ‘But first I will have justice for my nephew, who died from your fakery. Justice for my brother’s wife, who was driven to suicide by your deceit. Justice for my brother, who was murdered by your hand.’
The plague doktor took each of Frederick’s accusations with perfect nonchalance. ‘You are too late for justice,’ Havemann sneered. He reached a hand to the side of his mask, loosening the strap which bound it in place. The bird-like beak fell away, exposing a chubby, almost childlike visage. All across Havemann’s face were ugly black sores, the mark of the plague.
Frederick lifted a hand to his breast, ripping at the embroidered raven stitched to his robe. The symbol of his god frayed beneath his clawing fingers. A terrible resolve burned in the necromancer’s eyes.
‘The gods may have cheated me of justice,’ Frederick hissed. ‘But there is always time for vengeance.’
At his gesture, the zombies surged forwards, knocking over the table and converging upon the diseased doktor.
Bruno Havemann was a long time dying. The necromancer’s magic saw to that.
Dregator Miklos stormed from his tent, crushing his lynx-fur hat tight about his head as he emerged into the biting cold. The lord of the Nachtsheer glared at his soldiers, offended by their disturbance of his ablutions. The dregator considered adding a few of the soldiers to the gallows, but reflected that such draconian measures might be counterproductive. It wouldn’t do to let the peasants think there was disunity among Count von Drak’s troops. Such a supposition might give them hope and hope might encourage foolish ideas about breaking the quarantine.
The nobleman’s gloves creaked as he drew his baton of office from his belt, its jewels gleaming in the moonlight. He scowled as he marched past the Nachtsheer. These men were supposed to be the finest soldiers in Sylvania. If they couldn’t handle a sickly peasant rabble…
The sentries at the fence turned and saluted as Dregator Miklos came stalking towards them, leaning their crossbows against the piled logs and timber. Other soldiers in the red and black livery of the Nachtsheer maintained a grim vigil. Even as the nobleman curtly returned the salute, he saw them loose bolts across the field separating them from the infected town.
‘My lord,’ one of the sentries said. ‘The peasants are making an effort to withdraw from the town. We have warned them to turn back, but they keep coming.’
The scowl was still on the dregator’s face. ‘Try shooting into them instead of over their heads,’ he snapped. ‘The entire province is threatened by the plague. Now is no time for timidity!’
The scolded soldier bowed his head sheepishly. ‘My lord, we have targeted them,’ he objected. ‘We have loosed three volleys into them and they still keep coming!’
Dregator Miklos hissed in disbelief. He stared out across the barrier, watching the peasant mob stumbling its way through the snow. He’d watched the crossbowmen shoot, but he’d heard no outcry from the peasants. Either the fools weren’t aiming at them or they were all as blind as bats! His irritation mounting, the nobleman seized one of the crossbows leaning against the fence. Choosing one of the approaching peasants, he aimed and loosed, smiling cruelly as the bolt crunched into the peasant’s chest.
His smile faded and the dregator dropped the weapon. It was impossible that he could have missed! He had seen the peasant’s body jerk as the bolt slammed into it! Miklos reached to his neck, fingering the talismanic charms dangling at his throat. A feeling of superstitious dread ran down his spine.
‘Kill them!’ he snarled at the soldiers. ‘Kill them all!’ He glared at the soldiers around him, trying to hide his fear. His gloved hand slapped against the heraldic dragon on the sentry’s livery. ‘You are Nachtsheer,’ he spat. ‘Are you going to be frightened by a bunch of peasant scum!’ He reached down and drew the soldier’s sword from its scabbard, pushing the weapon into the warrior’s hand. ‘Get out there and cut them down!’