Dead Winter

Chapter XIV

Altdorf

Vorhexen, 1111

Arch-Lector Hartwich walked slowly into the calefactory. The priest was dressed in a coarse linen robe, a simple rope belt tied about his waist, his shaved scalp grey with ash. Across his palms, the symbol of the twin-tailed comet had been cut, his blood still clotted about the ceremonial wounds. To either side of Hartwich marched an armoured knight, the steel scales of their mail etched in gold, their white surcoats displaying the skull and hammer heraldry of the Knights of Sigmar’s Blood, the templar guard of the Great Cathedral.

Before the humbled arch-lector, crouched in his chair between the roaring bonfires, Grand Theogonist Thorgrad stared sorrowfully at Hartwich. ‘Have you contemplated your heresy?’ he asked, his voice sounding more ancient than even his withered body should produce.

Hartwich raised his head. ‘I beg your indulgence, your holiness, but it is not heresy and I shall not recant.’

Thorgrad leaned forwards in his chair. ‘If you die with wilful sin blackening your soul you will be denied the grace of Sigmar. Your spirit will be cast out, condemned to wander until the daemons of Chaos claim it for their own.’

‘My heart is pure, your holiness,’ Hartwich insisted. ‘If I must die without ceremony, then so it must be. Sigmar will judge my deeds.’

A hint of pride crept into Thorgrad’s eyes. ‘A man may risk his life for what he believes to be right. It needs a saint to risk his soul for what he knows to be right.’

Hartwich rose from the floor, a puzzled expression on his face. Thorgrad laughed at the other priest’s confusion, but it was a mirthless, weary laughter.

‘When you say Sigmar will judge you, perhaps he has,’ Thorgrad said. He gestured to the roaring bonfires, to the trappings of his audience chamber that had been removed to the calefactory. ‘I am a frightened man. I am afraid to die. I am afraid of the plague. I am afraid to face Sigmar and answer for my crimes.’

Thorgrad reached to the neck of his robe, tugging it open, exposing the ugly black buboes. ‘Despite all of my precautions, the plague has found me. I will die. I know that now. Like you, I must face Holy Sigmar and atone for my heresies.’

‘Your heresies, Holiness?’

‘Yes,’ Thorgrad nodded. ‘I was the Lector of Nuln, you know. I served under Grand Theogonist Uthorsson. I saw his slow decline into degeneracy, blasphemy and idolatry. I watched as he turned away from the light of Sigmar and embraced the darkness of Old Night.’

The Grand Theogonist sank back into his chair, tears in his eyes, a rattle in his voice. ‘I was there when Uthorsson began to call upon the Prince of Pleasures. I stood by as he profaned the temple with the most unspeakable atrocities. I was afraid,’ Thorgrad stared into Hartwich’s eyes. ‘Do you understand? I was afraid to speak out against what I knew to be an obscenity because Uthorsson was Grand Theogonist and I feared his power! I hid behind oaths and vows, telling myself it was not my part to question the acts of the Grand Theogonist. I sat by and watched as Uthorsson’s outrages grew. I did nothing, Wolfgang, nothing to stop this vile degradation.

‘I did act, in the end,’ Thorgrad said. ‘When it was forced upon me. When I understood that if I didn’t oppose Uthorsson I would be branded as his accomplice. The inquisitors of the temple of Verena were investigating the rumours of midnight orgies and human sacrifice being committed in the cathedral. I knew they would uncover everything in time, and I understood that this was Uthorsson’s plan — to put such a stain upon the temple that the Sigmarite faith would be discredited and dishonoured for all time. This was the great offering he wished to make to Slaanesh.’

Thorgrad’s hands tightened about the arms of his chair. ‘I stopped him,’ he said. ‘Before his shame could become something more than rumour and suspicion, I stopped Uthorsson.’ A fanatical gleam filled the old priest’s eyes. ‘I waited until he and his filthy coven were practising their obscenities in the sanctuary. I locked them in, barring the door with cold iron that he might not call upon his daemons to set him free. Then I set fire to the temple. The flames consumed the defiled sanctuary and the foulness within!’

The strength drained out of Thorgrad and he slumped back against the chair. ‘Is it wrong to murder evil? That is something only Sigmar can judge. Like you, I am willing to let him decide.’

Hartwich shook his head, trying to digest the revelation he had heard. Certainly there had been stories about some heretical taint upon Grand Theogonist Uthorsson’s reign, but he had never imagined so monstrous an aberration, nor Thorgrad’s role in ending the fallen priest’s sacrilege.

‘I admire your courage, Wolfgang,’ Thorgrad said. ‘I wish that I had possessed such valour when I needed it. But it is too late now. My fate has been decided.’

‘And mine?’ Hartwich asked. It was an impertinent question. He had already undergone the rituals preemptory to a religious execution. He already knew that such a resolution had been demanded by Kreyssig and Boris Goldgather.

Thorgrad smiled. ‘Wolfgang Hartwich must die,’ he said. He lifted his hand and pointed to a corridor leading out from the calefactory. ‘He is lying in his cell right now, meditating upon his crimes against the Emperor. In the morning he will be consigned to the pyre.’

‘I don’t understand. What are you saying?’

‘It is strange how much Wolfgang Hartwich resembled one of my attendants, the unfortunate Brother Richter, who has contracted the Black Plague. After the fire, I do not think even Commander Kreyssig will be able to tell the difference.’ The Grand Theogonist smiled and gestured to a door at the other side of the room.

‘Through that door, you will find raiment and provisions, my son. These good knights will see you clear of the city and accompany you where you need to go. I am sorry there is nothing I can do to help Wolfgang Hartwich and his cause, but I will trust you to honour his name.’

Hartwich kneeled before the dying Grand Theogonist once more. ‘I shall make it my life’s work, your holiness,’ he said. ‘By Sigmar’s grace, I will carry on Wolfgang Hartwich’s work.’

Middenheim

Vorhexen, 1111

From the walls of Middenheim, Mandred had a clear look at the squalid shantytown crouched between the causeways. Miserable little cook-fires rose from the tents and shacks, scrawny pigs and goats shivered inside ramshackle pens made of sticks and thatch. Sometimes there would be a flash of white among the squalor, the robes of a Shallyan priestess as she made her rounds among the sick. Over the weeks, the sight of a priestess had grown more and more infrequent. The prince tried to tell himself it was because they were kept busy inside the barn-like infirmary. He didn’t like to think it was because they were succumbing to the very plague they were trying to stop.

Every day miserable caravans of wretched humanity came trudging through the snow. Most accepted fate and simply added their misery to the squalor of the shantytown. A few, however, made the long journey up the causeways. These were turned back at the bastions, warned that Middenheim was closed to all outsiders. Some few refused to accept this dashing of all their hopes, racing desperately past the bastions in a mad effort to storm the city gates.

Mandred always turned away before the mad fools were brought down by archers. A family of lepers who lived in a cave at the foot of the Ulricsberg would come later to clear the bodies away.

It sickened the prince to be able to see the suffering going on down below, to be so near and yet able to do nothing. His father had forbidden even the smallest intervention, telling his son that it was best to think of the refugees as already dead. He had to harden his heart against them. It was the only way to keep Middenheim safe.

Mandred refused to resign himself to such callous pragmatism. The Graf’s obligation might be to the people of Middenheim, but he had another and greater obligation to his fellow man. To turn his back on these people diminished him, made him something less than human in Mandred’s eyes. He had always been close to his father, but he no longer recognised the man who sat upon Middenheim’s throne and wore the crown of Middenland.

A blur of activity at the edge of the shantytown drew Mandred’s horrified attention. He watched as a pack of dark, shaggy shapes burst from the trees, charging towards a group of children at play. Before any of the adults could react, several of the children had been caught up by hairy claws and were being carried off into the forest. Mandred sobbed a prayer to Ulric, asking that the men rushing to stop the abduction would be in time.

For an instant, it seemed his prayer had been answered. Mandred whooped in triumph as a hulking refugee tackled a goat-headed monster, smashing the beast to the ground. The screaming girl squirmed out from the stunned monster’s clutch. Before the brute could rise, the enraged man straddled its body and seized it by the horns. With a savage twist, he snapped the beastman’s neck.

The triumph was short-lived. A second beastman charged at the heroic refugee, while a scraggly half-man circled around to grab the fleeing child. The hero clenched his hands into fists, refusing to flee before the goat-headed monster. The brute’s harsh bray carried all the way to the mountain. Swinging its stone axe, the beastman cut the refugee down where he stood.

Mandred forced himself to watch the tragedy play itself out, to look on as the beastmen retreated back into the forest, dragging the dead with them into the darkness. None of the refugees pursued them, stopping well away from the trees and shaking their fists in impotent rage.

It was a scene that had repeated itself over and over in the past weeks. At first, the beastmen had been skittish, rushing out from the trees only when their prey was alone and darkness cloaked their actions. Each success had made them bolder, however, and their raids into the shantytown had become more and more frequent. Realising the refugees were sickly and largely unable to defend themselves, the beastmen had claimed Warrenburg as their own private hunting ground. Not an hour went by that they didn’t rush out to snatch a child or drag a sick old woman from her bed. A hideous effort to placate the monsters with the bodies of the dead had only increased their lust for manflesh.

‘Maybe the filth will catch the plague and die,’ Mandred snarled aloud.

‘They won’t die off soon enough to do those people any good,’ observed Arno Warsitz, the brawny Grand Master of the White Wolves. Like Mandred, the knight frequently toured the battlements, staring forlornly at the cluster of shacks at the foot of the mountain. ‘The belly of a beastman is the toughest thing in the world,’ he added, his face twisting with distaste.

Mandred slammed his fist into his palm. ‘If we could just get weapons to them…’

‘It wouldn’t do them any good, your grace,’ Arno said. ‘Even if most of them knew how to use a sword or swing a hammer, they’re too weak to use them.’ He nodded his head sadly. ‘Those people down there are beaten, and they know it. They’re just waiting for the end now.’ The Grand Master’s eyes turned to the sprawl of the forest. It looked so beautiful, the firs covered in snow, icicles dripping from their branches. It was difficult to picture the monstrous evil lurking beneath such beauty.

‘The beastkin won’t wait long,’ Arno said. ‘Patience isn’t something those brutes understand. What they do understand is strength and weakness. Once they realise that Warrenburg can’t stop them and that we won’t help, they’ll come storming down out of the trees like the second coming of Cormac Blood Axe.’

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.

The world was crumbling all around him. Everything Walther had known and believed had been turned upon its head. It seemed impossible that such a chaotic upheaval could come about in so short a time. The luxurious greensward around the Universitat had been overrun by refugees, transformed into a mire of tents and shacks. Count Artur, the bold ‘Lion of Nuln’, the city’s great master and benefactor, had forsaken his home to remain at the Emperor’s palace in Altdorf. The dwarf sewers, that wonder of engineering which kept the city pure and clean, had become a breeding ground for hordes of vermin, vermin that were unafraid of man.

It was all madness! Nothing made sense any more! Walther tipped back his stein, draining the last dregs from the cup. He started to wave to Bremer, then noticed Zena standing in the doorway to the kitchen. His cheeks flushed with shame. She wasn’t some prudish Verenan, but just the same she didn’t approve of a man who drank in some deluded effort to escape his troubles.

Anger flared up inside the rat-catcher. Who was she to disapprove of him! What else was there to do except drink! Drink and forget! Drink and forget.

Walther waved to Bremer, motioning for another stein. Zena stepped over to the bar and retrieved it from the taverneer, carrying it over to the table.

‘No lash of the tongue?’ Walther grunted when she set the beer beside his hand.

Zena stared down at him, pain etched across her face. Walther became sober almost at once. She started to speak, but he pressed his fingers to her lips. He didn’t want to hear what she had to say. If he didn’t hear it, then it wasn’t real. It he didn’t know what had happened, then it didn’t happen.

Hugo! He’d been a stupid, naive boy, something of a country bumpkin. But he’d been brave and loyal, and Walther had owed his life to him.

The rat-catcher pushed the stein away and closed his hand around Zena’s. He looked up at her with eyes that had no hope in them, only a terrible emptiness. ‘I’m sorry,’ he told her. ‘I should never have asked… never have risked…’

Tears rolled from the woman’s eyes. ‘He saved your life,’ she sobbed. ‘I was indebted to him too.’

Walther felt his chest swell. Old Night could take the rest of the world, if it would only leave him and Zena alone. He’d allowed himself to agonise over things that were beyond him, he’d allowed himself to be distracted by his sense of obligation to Hugo. None of it mattered. All that mattered was the woman he loved and making sure she was safe.

‘Zena, I…’

The rat-catcher never finished what he was going to say. At that moment, the tavern door burst inwards. A squad of men in the rough brigandine armour and yellow sleeves of the Hundertschaft came rushing into the Black Rose. The few patrons tending drinks at this late hour cried out in fright and cowered before the menace of the soldiers’ halberds and swords.

Captain Fellgiebel sauntered into the Black Rose like a wolf trotting through a flock of sheep. There was a merciless, vengeful smile on his lean face when he spotted Walther. He glanced over the other occupants of the room, frowning when he didn’t see Aldinger the Reiklander.

‘Herr Captain!’ Bremer cried out, circling out from behind the bar. ‘What brings the Hundertschaft to Lord Plessner’s establishment?’ It was seldom that Bremer invoked the name of his liege-lord, the nobleman in whose service the taverneer operated the Black Rose and paid a portion of the profit. For him to resort to such a tactic was evidence of the fear pounding through Bremer’s veins.

Fellgiebel raised a gloved finger, making a warning gesture for Bremer to keep quiet. The captain turned and waved his hand at the stuffed rat. ‘Remove that abomination and burn it,’ he told his men.

Walther leapt to his feet and stormed towards Fellgiebel. ‘You can’t do that!’ the rat-catcher snarled.

‘Ah, the charlatan,’ Fellgiebel hissed. He nodded and one of the watchmen drove the butt of his halberd into Walther’s belly, knocking the wind out of him. As the rat-catcher doubled over in pain, Zena rushed towards him. A snap of Fellgiebel’s fingers sent a guard to restrain her.

‘You’ve been a busy dog, haven’t you?’ Fellgiebel sneered. He turned and watched as more of his soldiers marched into the Black Rose. There was a third man walking between the two guards, a man with a bloodied face and the torn remains of a long linen cloak. Walther groaned when he recognised the garment. Though he had never seen the man’s face before, he was certain the prisoner was the plague doktor who had visited Hugo. Belatedly, Walther recalled the lone beggar who stayed out in the cold. Doubtless a spy for Fellgiebel, charged with watching the tavern.

‘This establishment is hereby placed under quarantine!’ Fellgiebel declared, removing a parchment proclamation from his sleeve. He shook the parchment at Bremer. ‘You will nail this to your door and daub a red cross over every entrance and exit to this building. There has been plague in this place. No one here is allowed to leave for a period of thirty days. If any of you are seen upon the streets, my men have orders to cut you down on sight.’

Fellgiebel dismissed the entreaties and protests that followed his declaration. Still smiling, he watched his men remove the giant rat. Then he turned and stared down at Walther. ‘You will return to the watch station with us,’ he said. ‘There are… questions that need asking.’

A cry of horror rose from Zena’s throat. She struggled to free herself from the guard. ‘It was my idea! All mine! Hiding Hugo was my doing!’

‘Don’t lie to him,’ Walther coughed. ‘He knows it was me. I’m the only one he wants.’

Fellgiebel’s eyes were more snakelike than ever as he stalked towards the rat-catcher. ‘Very sensible,’ he said. The captain shifted his gaze to the frantic serving girl. ‘We are only interested in the rat-catcher. She can stay.’

The watch captain’s eyes became even colder as he hissed into Walther’s ear. ‘She can stay… for now.’

Altdorf

Vorhexen, 1111

The mangled body slammed down against the old oak table, causing the legs to creak and sway. Gasps of startlement and shock coursed through the dingy room, the basement of a candle maker who had been stricken with the plague. No one’s shock was greater than that of Erich von Kranzbeuhler. The features on the corpse’s pale face were ones he had seen many times before. Konreid of the Reiksknecht had fought his last battle.

‘Where did you find him?’ the captain asked the man who had brought the body into the hideout. The morbid courier was a rough-looking man with a military swagger, one of Engel’s Bread Marchers. He stared uncertainly at Meisel, the Nulner who in Engel’s absence had assumed leadership of the dispossessed Dienstleute. Meisel nodded, motioning for the peasant to forget his suspicions and answer the nobleman.

‘He was in the sewers,’ the dienstmann said. ‘The rats had been at him, but it was a Kaiserjaeger dagger that did for him.’ He reached into the grimy wool tunic he wore and tossed a steel knife onto the table, its hilt bearing the heraldry of Kreyssig’s enforcers. The dienstmann withdrew another item from his pocket, handing it to Meisel despite the man’s lack of letters.

‘He had that clenched in his hand,’ the dienstmann reported. ‘It looks like it was torn off.’

Meisel handed the scrap of letter across the table to Baron Thornig. The hairy Middenlander studied the murky ink, struggling to make sense of the faded letters. The muck of the sewer had effaced most of the writing, but he was certain it didn’t match the message the conspirators had sent to Reiksmarshal Boeckenfoerde. Then he uttered a sharp curse. Down near the bottom of the letter, partially effaced, was the general’s signature.

‘This is a letter from the Reiksmarshal!’ Baron Thornig exclaimed. His outburst brought the other conspirators rushing to his side, eager to see what little there was of the missive. It wasn’t a large group; only Palatine Mihail Kretzulescu and Count van Sauckelhof were present. Prince Sigdan was busy trying to get Lady Mirella out of Altdorf. Princess Erna was busy experiencing the nuptial bliss of her new life as wife to Adolf Kreyssig.

Erich pulled the scrap away from Kretzulescu’s bony grip and studied the jagged tear, trying to judge how much of the letter was missing. The Kaiserjaeger dagger made it clear who had the rest of the letter. If they had enough of it…

‘Two days ago a troop of Kaiserjaeger rode out from Altdorf,’ Baron Thornig said. ‘They might have been going to Talabecland. They might be looking for Reiksmarshal Boeckenfoerde.’

Erich crushed the remnant of the letter and stared down at Konreid’s corpse. ‘We have to assume they have. And depending on what was written on the rest of this letter, Kreyssig might know exactly who is conspiring against Boris.’

‘What do we do?’ Count van Sauckelhof asked, panic written across his face.

Erich stepped around the table, wondering if he had the authority to make such a decision. By rights, it was Prince Sigdan’s prerogative to sound the call to arms. To take that responsibility would be to flout the prince’s position and leadership. At the same time, to delay might be to give Kreyssig the time he needed to smash their uprising before it could even start.

‘We have to put our plans into action at once,’ Erich decided. ‘Have Aldo’s people get word to Prince Sigdan and the others. Meisel, you will muster as many of your Bread Marchers as you can reach. If we wait, we play right into Kreyssig’s hands. So we won’t wait. We’ll seize the Imperial Palace tonight!’

The declaration seemed to terrify the other conspirators. For as long as they had talked about it, the magnitude of their plot, the fact that they were really going to storm the Imperial Palace, had never really sunk in. Now, faced with the imminence of history, their courage began to falter.

Erich gestured down at the body of Konreid. First the execution of Arch-Lector Hartwich, now the murder of the old Reiksknecht veteran. How much blood would it take to stop a tyrant’s outrages? ‘It is too late to back out now. Too many people have sacrificed their lives and their honour to bring us this far. We will not fail them now. And if that isn’t enough, consider this. Right now, Kreyssig is reading the other half of this letter. He might be reading each of your names. If the thought of saving the Empire from a tyrant isn’t enough to make you commit to this cause, then fear for your own lives is!’

Baron Thornig leaned against the wall, his eyes haunted, his breath coming in frightened gasps. ‘There’s another way. Erna is with that monster right now. If I told her to, she could eliminate any threat from Kreyssig.’

Erich rounded upon the baron, grabbing him by his tunic and hoisting him to his feet. ‘We’re not using your daughter as a murderess!’ the knight snarled. ‘All of us are committed to this cause! We won’t back out now!’

‘But we’re not ready,’ protested Count van Sauckelhof.

‘Then we’d better get ready,’ Erich snapped, releasing his hold on Baron Thornig and turning his ire on the Westerlander. ‘Because time is running out. Not only for us, but for the whole Empire.’