Dead Winter Page 2

  A scowl flickered across the Emperor’s lean features. His eyes turned towards the foot of the long table where sat a bald-headed man dressed in a black robe trimmed in crimson, a golden hammer embroidered upon the breast. Arch-Lector Wolfgang Hartwich, representing Grand Theogonist Thorgrad and the Temple of Sigmar. Since the Sigmarites had relocated the headquarters of their faith to Altdorf after the fire that had destroyed the Great Cathedral at Nuln and claimed the life of the old Grand Theogonist, their presence in the capital had become increasingly prominent… and intrusive. The arch-lector was an insufferable annoyance, fairly exuding disapproval with his every glance and gesture. If Ulric could be caught asleep, it seemed Sigmar was infuriatingly vigilant, his clergy only too ready to insinuate themselves into matters which were none of their concern.

  Emperor Boris tapped the gilded arms of his throne, pondering the question of Sigmar and his temple. He knew the Sigmarite faith was stronger in the south than in his native Drakwald, fairly eclipsing the worship of other gods when it came to Altdorf and the Reikland. The Grand Theogonist was the most powerful priest in the Empire, the pretensions of Ar-Ulric notwithstanding. Worse, the Temple of Sigmar had a structure and organisation beyond any other faith. They could use that organisation to disrupt production and trade as effectively as any goblin invasion or beastman uprising. Even an emperor had to treat them with deference and care, lest he offend the Temple and the thousands of zealots who placed devotion to Sigmar above their duty to their sovereign.

  ‘…but it remains to be determined how serious the menace is.’

  Emperor Boris shifted in his throne, focusing on the gaunt, cadaverous figure of Palatine Mihail Kretzulescu. The envoy from the court of Count Malbork von Drak, Voivode of Sylvania, had risen from his seat in order to address the assembled dignitaries. Count Malbork was, ostensibly, the vassal of Grand Count von Boeselager of Stirland. Von Drak had purchased his title for a hefty contribution to the Imperial treasury and made little secret of his ambitions to make Sylvania an independent province in its own right. With tacit encouragement from Altdorf, von Drak had become too powerful for the grand count to simply remove. Stirland had to endure the voivode’s talk of an independent Sylvania while trying to counter von Drak’s bribes in order to ensure the Emperor didn’t grant the territory its freedom.

  The palatine’s presence among the council was a vivid reminder to Baron von Klauswitz that Stirland had much to lose should its beneficence to the Imperial Treasury falter. A sycophant renowned for his oratory, Kretzulescu’s resonant voice would wax elegant for hours unless stifled by higher authority.

  ‘Sylvania will pay its portion,’ Emperor Boris said, his deep, caustic tones smothering Kretzulescu’s words. ‘Every province in the land has a responsibility to protect her neighbours. Sylvania is no different. Von Drak will have to pay his share.’

  Kretzulescu turned and bowed before the Imperial throne. ‘But your Imperial Majesty, you have issued a diktat disbanding the Army of the Drakwald. Surely there is no further…’

  ‘The beastmen continue to raid and maraud throughout the province,’ snarled Duke Konrad Aldrech. The young nobleman’s face trembled with emotion, his eyes glistening with the simmering fires of hate. ‘It will take many soldiers to run the creatures to ground and wipe out their blot forever!’

  ‘More soldiers than is practical, I fear,’ stated Count van Sauckelhof. ‘You cannot expect the rest of the Empire to beggar itself trying to rebuild a backwoods frontier no sane man would try to settle in the first place! I should think removing the Norscans from Westerland would be of greater importance to the Empire!’ Van Sauckelhof’s face went pale even as the outburst left his lips. Timidly, he turned towards the enthroned Emperor Boris, belatedly remembering that His Imperial Majesty was originally from the Drakwald and that Duke Konrad was also of the Hohenbachs.

  Fortunately for the Westerlander, the Emperor was of too practical a mindset to allow loyalty to his family and homeland to interrupt the prosperity of the Empire. ‘We all appreciate the suffering of Drakwald. The loss of Count Vilner is a pain that has touched us deeply. But this is not a time when we can allow emotion to rule above sense. We must look after the Empire as a whole, not allow the plight of any single province to weaken the others.’

  Duke Konrad kept his face impassive, but his fist tightened about the stem of the goblet he held. ‘Your Imperial Majesty, the Drakwald is in ruins. The foul beastmen have burned and pillaged a third of the province…’

  ‘Then that leaves them damn little to destroy,’ laughed the porcine Count Artur of Nuln. He wiped his greasy fingers on the embroidered tablecloth and fixed his piggish eyes on the fuming duke. ‘Of course, if you’d like to arrange a loan, I’m sure we can come to terms.’

  Before Duke Konrad could hurl his goblet into the chuckling Artur’s face, the man seated to his right rose from his chair. He was a short, stocky man, somehow maintaining a wiry build, his jaw firm, his blue eyes possessed of a piercing clarity. His vestments were subdued beside the flamboyance of the other noblemen, consisting of a tan-hued tunic and dark breeches. About his neck, however, he wore the heavy gold pectoral of and Reiksmarshal.

  Baron Everhardt Johannes Boeckenfoerde, the Reikland’s most famous soldier and commander of the Empire’s armies. His promotion to Reiksmarshal had been something of a scandal – never before had so young a soldier been elevated to such a position of authority. Yet even the worst critics of Emperor Boris admitted that the controversial decision had been one of the few moments of genius displayed by His Imperial Majesty. Boeckenfoerde had led the Empire’s armies to victory against orc invasions in Averland and Solland, crushed a horde of goblins in Talabecland and defended the shores of Nordland against the longships of High King Ormgaard of Norsca. In the latest war, he had taken personal command of the campaign against the warherds of Khaagor Deathhoof. It had been the Reiksmarshal who conceived the elaborate trap which had lured Khaagor from the protection of the forest and into the pastureland around the ruined village of Kriegfels. He had ridden with the knights who charged the warherd and avenged Count Vilner by taking Khaagor’s head.

  There was no man in the great hall who commanded more respect than the Reiksmarshal. When he laid a restraining hand upon Duke Konrad’s shoulder, the young nobleman’s face flushed with shame at his lack of control.

  The Reiksmarshal turned his gaze towards the throne, locking eyes with his Emperor before speaking. The soldier’s jaw tightened. There was no need for Emperor Boris to remind him of what was expected of him. One look into the cold gaze of the seated sovereign made it clear.

  ‘The warherds have been broken,’ Boeckenfoerde said. ‘What are left are small packs of scavengers that pose no threat to any sizable settlement. The towns of southern Drakwald have nothing to fear from them. It is the logging camps and cattle ranches in the north that are imperilled.’

  ‘So you are saying the Drakwald still needs protecting?’ the bearded Baron Thornig asked.

  ‘Was it not by your suggestion that the Army of Drakwald was disbanded?’ Count Artur quickly pointed out. The Army of Drakwald had been hastily assembled from contingents drawn from across the Empire. Crossbowmen from Wissenland, spearmen from Ostland, horsemen from Averland, swordsmen from Reikland, knights from the Ostermark and Middenheim. Now those contingents were already marching back to their homelands.

  ‘Smashing the great warherds was work for an army,’ Boeckenfoerde stated. ‘What is left is a different kind of thing altogether. It will require…’

  ‘Time for Drakwald to heal her wounds,’ Emperor Boris declared. He motioned for Boeckenfoerde to be seated. ‘We have spent enough blood and treasure crushing the monsters. We will spend no more. The beastmen are ruinous things. Without their leader they will break apart now, scatter back into the forest.’ He turned his gaze again to the Kaiseraugen, watching the autumn leaves drifting down onto the slanted rooftops of his city. ‘The brutes will seek their lairs once winter is upon
us. Ulric’s Howl,’ he grinned at the use of the old euphemism for the winter wind, ‘will thin out their numbers and come the spring there won’t be enough of them left to threaten a Mootland bawdyhouse.’

  The jest brought the expected laughter from the assembled dignitaries. Chief Elder Aldo Broadfellow cackled like a hyena, though his amusement didn’t seem to reach his eyes.

  ‘Then why do we not redirect our armies northwards to Westerland?’ asked Baron Dettleb von Schomberg. The knight was an older man, his long moustaches faded to almost pure white, his head nearly as barren as the shell of an egg. But the physique beneath his black doublet remained a powerful one and there was a sharpness in his gaze that bespoke the keenness of his mind. As Grand Master of the Reiksknecht, he owed his loyalty to the Emperor but he owed his position to Sigdan Holswig, Prince of Altdorf.

  The suggestion was quickly caught up by Baron Salzwedel. ‘That makes sense, your Imperial Majesty,’ the Nordlander exclaimed. ‘If the beastmen pose no serious threat, then the army could be sent to deal with the barbarians and avenge the outrages of Ormgaard upon our people.’

  ‘Ormgaard is dead,’ snarled Duke Konrad. ‘Or were you too drunk to see his head spitted on a pike on your way in here?’

  Count van Sauckelhof glared at the Drakwalder. ‘Ormgaard and his fleet may be gone, but he left a son and hundreds of blood-crazed marauders behind. Do you know that Norscan animal is calling himself Jarl of Vestland? They’ve occupied almost the whole of Marienburg!’

  ‘Better to lose a single city than lose an entire province!’ Duke Konrad shouted back. ‘The beastkin have scattered my peasantry to the four corners of the Empire and slaughtered every steer and sheep they can find!’

  ‘Truly spoken!’ rose the thunderous voice of Baron Thornig. ‘The beastkin are a blight that we’ve ignored far too long! They’ve despoiled not just Drakwald but Middenland as well.’ The bearded baron waved his goblet at the fuming van Sauckelhof. ‘As for this Snagr Half-nose and his sea-wolves, they’ll lose interest in your fishing village soon enough and head back to their homes.’

  ‘You said that last year,’ van Sauckelhof hissed, ‘and the Norscans are still occupying my city! They’ve burned down the Tempelwijk and built a fort from the ruins of the Winkelmarkt!’ He turned his ire back upon Duke Konrad, wagging his finger at the nobleman. ‘And don’t think we aren’t aware of how you Drakwalders have been thriving off our suffering! With Marienburg in the hands of barbarians, the river trade has been stopping at Carroburg and filling your coffers with taxes and tariffs! I shouldn’t be surprised if you paid Snagr Half-nose to sack our city!’

  ‘Maybe he should pay the Norscans to get rid of the beastmen,’ quipped Count Artur, making no effort to hide his enjoyment of watching the argument.

  ‘Enough!’ The shout came from a hitherto silent man positioned at the end of the table. He was a lean, sturdily built man with piercing blue eyes and close-cropped blond hair. His vestments were of fashionable cut, but of simple material, the rings on his fingers boasting fine craftsmanship but unadorned by the jewels displayed on the hands of the assembled nobility.

  The attention of the dignitaries turned towards the blue-eyed man. Count van Sauckelhof and several of the others made no effort to keep the scorn off their faces. Tradition allowed for members of the clergy to be treated as belonging to an equal station and the capricious decree of Emperor Ludwig the Fat had forced them to accept the Elder of Mootland as their contemporary, but there was no precedent forcing them to treat Adolf Kreyssig as anything but beneath their station.

  Kreyssig was a peasant, a low-born ruffian who had managed to work his way into the graces of Emperor Boris and become Commander of the Kaiserjaeger. The Kaiserjaeger had originally been nothing more than woodsmen who organised hunts for the sovereign and his guests. Under Kreyssig’s leadership, however, their powers and responsibilities had been expanded. The Kaiserjaeger had become the private constabulary of Emperor Boris, the secret police of Altdorf.

  Whatever his position, Kreyssig was still a mere peasant, and that was enough for some in the room to dismiss him entirely. To suffer his presence at the table, even if custom dictated he remain standing while his betters sat, was a vexation many of the nobles found difficult to ignore. For Kreyssig to have the impertinence to shout down two scions of the Empire was beyond an outrage.

  ‘You forget your tongue, churl!’ growled Baron Thornig, his hand dropping to where he would have worn his sword had such a weapon been allowed in the Imperial Presence.

  ‘I mean no disrespect, my lord,’ Kreyssig said, bowing to the Middenheimer. ‘However it ill becomes the decorum of this assembly for two noble peers of the Empire to make such hurtful and foundless accusations against one another.’ Kreyssig turned to regard Duke Konrad and Count van Sauckelhof in turn. ‘Your grace, I beg your indulgence if I have spoken out of turn. However I am thinking only of the unity and fellowship of our nation…’

  ‘Arguing over the Army of the Drakwald is useless at any event,’ Reiksmarshal Boeckenfoerde said. ‘The soldiers have been disbanded and are returning to their homes.’ Again, he shot a glance towards Emperor Boris.

  ‘The soldiers have been mustered out,’ Boris declared. ‘Even those who must return to Ostland and Averland should be home in time for the harvest.’ He waved a bejewelled hand, motioning for the stoop-shouldered man seated near the head of the table to speak.

  Lord Ratimir stood, adjusting the spectacles perched upon his hawkish nose, and started to read from a vellum scroll. A sickly pallor spread among the assembled dignitaries. In forty years, none of them had ever looked forward to anything the Imperial Minister of Finance had to say.

  ‘Be it here decreed, on this day, the twelfth of Nachgeheim…’ Lord Ratimir began.

  ‘Just cut the pleasantries and tell us how much it will cost us,’ growled Count Artur, all joviality absent now from his rotund face.

  Lord Ratimir grumbled, folding the scroll in his hands. ‘There will be a new war tax levied upon each able-bodied peasant. One schilling for all those aged between ten and fifty. One half-schilling for all those beyond the age of fifty or under the age of ten.’

  The declaration brought protests from every quarter, the room descending into a bedlam of commotion.

  ‘You can’t expect us to pay this!’ shouted Baron von Klauswitz. ‘The Imperial levies on commerce are already straining the resources of our fields and farms! For every chilling that comes out of the ground, Altdorf is already taking five pfennigs!’

  Emperor Boris rose from his throne, smashing his goblet to the floor. ‘Then you will have to manage your resources better!’ He smacked his hand against his chest. ‘We are responsible for defending the sacred empire bestowed upon mankind by Holy Sigmar himself! That is not a responsibility we will suffer lightly! And we will not allow any of our subjects to ignore their responsibility either!’ Boris turned his head, motioning to Lord Ratimir. ‘To guide you in your obligations, I have made an additional decree.’

  Lord Ratimir unrolled the scroll and cleared his throat. ‘Let it be herewith noted that there shall no longer be granted an exclusion for that class of peasantry known as Dienstleute.’

  The statement provoked an even louder expression of outrage from the noblemen. ‘You cannot be serious!’ roared Baron Thornig. ‘Middenheim alone keeps two thousand Dienstleute to defend the Ulricsberg and the forest around her!’

  ‘And why do you need so many soldiers to defend your city?’ Emperor Boris challenged. ‘The beastkin have left your forest to ravage the Drakwald! What of Nuln, where there hasn’t been violence in a hundred years? Count Artur has nearly four thousand Dienstleute, many of whom have probably never even held a sword! No! I shall not suffer the Imperial Treasury to be impoverished by greedy nobles trying to aggrandise their personal fortunes by declaring half their peasantry a dienstmann!’

  ‘We can’t possibly afford to pay for our soldiers as well as our serfs!’ protested Grand Duke Be
la, Count of Talabecland.

  ‘Then don’t retain them as soldiers,’ Lord Ratimir suggested. ‘Put them to work in the fields. Increase the harvest and your yield. Every man who takes up the sword and doesn’t take up the plough is a drain upon resources rather than a creator of wealth.’

  ‘Many of these men know no trade but that of the sword,’ objected Boeckenfoerde. The Emperor gave his general a warning look, but the warning went unheeded this time. ‘The fathers of many of these men were soldiers, as were their fathers before them. These men wouldn’t know one end of a plough from the other.’

  ‘It should be an easy choice, then, for the masters of such wastrels to discharge them from service,’ Lord Ratimir said.

  Several of the assembled nobles looked appalled at the suggestion. ‘Where would these discharged Dienstleute go? What would they do?’ demanded Baron von Schomberg.

  ‘Work or starve,’ was the Emperor’s cold answer.

  Bylorhof

  Nachgeheim, 1111

  Temple bells rang through the town’s muddy streets, a doleful peal that echoed over the thatched roofs and far out across the fields and marshes beyond Bylorhof. In this time of calamity, it did not matter if the bells rested within a temple of Shallya or Morr, all the town’s religions were united by common purpose and the edicts of Baron von Rittendahl, the prefect of Bylorhof. The bells were to sound from dawn until noon, warning the peasants that the corpse collectors were making their rounds. It was a time for healthy people to shun the streets and keep behind locked doors, praying to the gods for deliverance from the evil stalking Sylvania. It was a time for those whose household had been reduced by the plague to leave the remains out upon the doorstep for the collectors to bear away.

  Few people dared venture upon the streets of Bylorhof while the bells tolled. Even the baron’s soldiers kept inside their towers at such times. Abhorrence of the dead was instinctual in all men, but the fear was magnified if death was brought by some strange and unknown cause. The plague was something new to Sylvania, something unknown in that land of green hills and dense forests. The people cowered before the malignant disease, seeing it as a horror inflicted upon them by supernatural powers.