‘A hoary old trinket,’ Boris scoffed. ‘I’ll have some dwarfs knock up another one. Nobody will know the difference.’
‘They will if those traitors show that hammer to anyone,’ Kreyssig hissed through clenched teeth.
Understanding suddenly dawned on Emperor Boris. Prince Sigdan had spoken of hiding Ghal Maraz, but if Baron Thornig decided to take it to one of the other provinces, combined with the decree of abdication, one of the elector counts would have enough justification to compel the others to depose him!
Emperor Boris grabbed Kreyssig’s arm. ‘You have to find them! Catch them! There were two of them! They can’t have gone far! They must still be in the Palace!’
Kreyssig shook off the Emperor’s grip. A crafty gleam came into his eyes. ‘No, I don’t think they’re in the Palace any more. But I know where they did go.’
Barking orders to his men, Kreyssig detached Gottwald Drechsler and five Kaiserjaeger to accompany him.
Boris Goldgather watched the soldiers run from the room, sweat beading his brow. If Kreyssig failed to find those two traitors…
Sharp laughter broke the Emperor’s gloomy thoughts. He looked aside to see Aldo Broadfellow’s fat frame bouncing with humour. ‘Where do you think they’ll take Ghal Maraz to? Wolfenburg or Mordheim? Who would you like to see as the next emperor?’
Boris glared at the defiant halfling, noting with particular distaste the hairy naked feet. ‘Get this animal some boots,’ he spat. ‘Iron boots,’ he added, the cruel smile working itself back onto his face.
‘His feet look cold.’
Middenheim
Vorhexen, 1111
Graf Gunthar didn’t say anything, he just leaned forwards in his saddle and stared down at his son. The look in his eyes conveyed such pain and fear that Mandred felt all the pride inside him wither and die. The Graf was still silent when a tall knight with a thick blond mane of hair addressed the riders on the causeway.
‘Grand Master Arno,’ he called out. ‘You and your men have violated the Graf’s decree. By the letter of the law, your lives are forfeit.’
The Grand Master bowed his head. ‘We understood that when we left the city, Grand Commander Vitholf. What we did was… necessary.’
‘As is what we must do,’ Vitholf said, emotion threatening to overwhelm his voice. He stiffened his posture, trying to compose himself. ‘Against the Graf’s orders, you have ridden into Warrenburg. You have been exposed to the plague and become a threat to Middenheim. You are hereby declared outlaw and exiled from the dominion of Graf Gunthar.’
Arno sighed as he heard the pronouncement. It was pretty much what he had expected to hear. ‘Serve the Order of the White Wolf well, Grand Master Vitholf,’ he said.
‘I will strive to bring the Order the same honour you have bestowed upon it,’ Vitholf swore.
Arno and his knights began to turn their horses about, to retrace their path back down to the shantytown. Mandred, unable to maintain his father’s pained gaze, started to follow them.
‘You have not been dismissed, Prince of Middenheim,’ Graf Gunthar’s deep voice barked. He spurred his horse forwards, descending halfway down the causeway before drawing rein again. He pointed at his son. ‘You have disobeyed my command. For that I strip you of rank and authority. Until you are old enough to act like the prince, you will not be prince!’
Mandred’s jaw clenched as he heard his father’s furious words. ‘Is that all, your highness?’ he growled.
Graf Gunthar clenched his fist, his arm pulling back as though he would reach across the span separating them and strike his son. Instead he pointed his hand at the gate. ‘Get inside!’ he ordered.
‘My place is with Grand Master Arno,’ Mandred stated defiantly.
‘Your place is where I tell you!’ Graf Gunthar shouted. His enraged eyes bored into those of the prince. ‘Are you enough of a man to go of your own volition, or must I have you carried in like an unruly child?’
Mandred glared at his father. For a moment, he considered calling the Graf’s bluff, but he couldn’t forget the pain he saw on his father’s face.
Turning in his saddle, Mandred nodded apologetically to Arno and his knights. ‘Come along, Franz,’ he said, spurring his horse up towards the gate. It took him only a moment to realise his bodyguard wasn’t following him. Wheeling his steed around, he found Franz hadn’t even moved.
‘I’m sorry, your grace,’ the knight said. ‘But I can’t go with you. It’s too late.’ He reached a hand to his tunic, pulling it open to display the black blisters marking his throat. Mandred stared in mute horror at the sign of the plague. He knew that sometimes it could strike quickly, but it seemed impossible to him that a man could be riding down beastkin one moment and in the next find himself a victim of the Black Plague.
Franz bowed and turned his horse around before the prince could say anything. Before Mandred overcame his shock, the faithful knight was already halfway to Warrenburg.
‘Goodbye, old friend,’ he whispered.
Now he understood what his father meant. But that understanding was too late.
The Graf’s entourage rode slowly through the streets of Middenheim. None of the riders spoke, their spirits subdued by the knowledge that they had abandoned brave men to the Black Plague, shamed by the know-ledge that it was what they had to do.
Mandred rode beside his father, feeling the guilt inside him growing with every step. It had been his idea to ride to the defence of Warrenburg; he had led the way. In his mind, he had accepted the possibility it would mean all their lives, that they might fall in battle or contract the plague. But actually seeing it, watching Franz ride back into the shantytown and certain death — that had sobered him in a way nothing else could.
‘You should have left me out there,’ Mandred said, his voice low and subdued.
The Graf smiled at him. ‘Do you think I could?’ he asked. ‘Is that what you think of me?’
‘It’s wrong,’ Mandred said. ‘If Franz… I was right beside him. I might be carrying the same pestilence with me.’ Panic crept into the prince’s voice. ‘Even now I might be bringing death into our city!’
Graf Gunthar nodded his head. ‘A wise leader thinks of his own people first. He puts their needs, their safety ahead of anyone. He lets nothing jeopardise that. He lets nothing come between himself and his obligation to his subjects. That is the difference between a good man and a grasping tyrant.
‘One day you will be Graf. One day you will lead our people.’ Graf Gunthar leaned over his saddle, drawing near his son so that Mandred couldn’t mistake his whispered words. ‘When that day comes, remember this day. Remember that I was weak. Remember that when the choice had to be made, I chose to save my son instead of my people.’
Bewilderment shone on Mandred’s face. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘My duty was to leave you out there,’ Graf Gunthar said. ‘To keep any chance of the plague from reaching my subjects. But you are my son! Ulric forgive me, but I’d see this whole city die before I abandoned you!’
Mandred shook his head, stunned by the passion in his father’s voice. ‘I never thought…’
‘You never thought your father was so weak,’ the Graf said. He sat straight in his saddle, turning his gaze from Mandred to the street ahead.
‘When the time comes, son, be a stronger leader than I was.’
Altdorf
Vorhexen, 1111
The dank stench of the sewers washed over the two fugitives as they hurried down the black tunnels. The beady eyes of rats gleamed as their lantern cast its rays into the darkness. It was always with profound relief that the men watched their verminous spectators slink deeper into the shadows.
‘Ranald’s own luck,’ Baron Thornig grunted as his foot slipped from the ledge and sloshed into the channel of effluent coursing beneath the Palace. Even a nobleman hardened to battle didn’t want to think about the sort of muck now coating his boot. The hairy Middenlander shifted the heavy bulk of Ghal Maraz where it was lashed across his shoulders and accepted Erich’s hand. Straining, the knight pulled the baron back onto the ledge.