Dead Winter

Chapter I

Altdorf

Nachgeheim, 1111

Stewards dressed in rich doublets of crimson, their black boots polished to a reflective shine, hurried about the grand hall. Some circled the richly carved table of dark Drakwald oak which dominated the room, filling goblets and replacing victuals as the need arose. Others laboured to tend the three blazing hearths which opened upon the room, stuffing logs into the extravagantly sculpted maws of the fireplaces. Still other stewards, heavy black cloaks thrown about their shoulders, stood beside the mammoth picture window which stretched the length of the hall’s western approach. The cloaked servants each held a long pole tipped with ostrich plumes, employing the curious tools to fan smoke from the fires through small vents set just above the frosted panes of glass.

The men situated about the great table paid no notice to the stewards, taking it for granted that an empty plate would soon have a sliver of cold venison upon it and an empty goblet would be refilled with dusky Solland wine.

Upon the dais situated at the far end of the hall, however, sat one who gave more than passing notice to the stewards, particularly those standing about the Kaiseraugen, that vast window which offered such a magnificent view of the River Reik and the ancient city nestled against its banks. The window was a masterpiece, crafted by the finest glaziers gold could buy. Dwarfcraft, for only the doughty folk from under the mountains could create such astounding artistry. Glass itself was an expensive luxury only the temples and the wealthiest nobility could afford. Something of the scale of the picture window would have bankrupted any single province. Only the Emperor could afford such indulgence. Gazing upon the window, Boris could almost feel the magic of the dwarfs rushing through his bones. It was sometimes an effort to remove his attention from the window and look past it upon the stunning vista beyond.

The mighty span of the Reik, greatest river in the world, and the opulence of Altdorf, the greatest city in the world. It sent another thrill coursing through his bones when he considered the river and the city. More than the opulence of the hall, the finery worn by servants and courtiers, the husky aromas of Tilean perfumes and Arabyan spices, the sweet melodies of silver-stringed lyres, the cool feel of velvet cushions — more than any of these, the sight of the Reik and Altdorf spoke to him of wealth and power.

His wealth.

His power.

If those churls allowed so much as a single smudge of soot to defile the Kaiseraugen he would have each of them discharged and then lashed to a ducking stool and hounded through the streets of Altdorf. The swine could try their hand at farming or starving!

The Emperor’s brow knotted in puzzlement at that last thought. He raised a bejewelled hand to his chin and scratched at his thick black beard. Why should he care if discharged servants should starve? They were no concern of his. Still puzzled, he turned his eyes away from the distracting vista and returned his attention to the irritating babble rising from around the oak table.

The men seated about the table wore accoutrements to match the richness of their surroundings. There was a king’s ransom on display, a riot of blackwork and brocade, exotic calico and fustian, silver-threaded gipons and folly-bells crafted from the most lustrous gold. Count van Sauckelhof, envoy of the Westerland Court, sported a lavish cloak trimmed in sealfur and embroidered with fish and ships in cloth of gold. Baron von Klauswitz of Stirland wore a stylish tunic of russet, its sleeves broken by scalloped slashes to expose the fine material of the shirt beneath.

There were, of course, exceptions. No amount of finery, for instance, could make Chief Elder Aldo Broadfellow look anything but ridiculous. The halfling’s efforts to ape the styles of the Imperial court only made him look even more the buffoon, though at least the portly rodent had the good sense to keep his mouth shut and not draw further attention to his foolishness.

The same could not be said for Baron Thornig of Middenheim. Even in the Imperial court, the fellow affected the barbarous appearance of a half-civilised Teutogen, his shoulders draped with the snarling pelt of a white wolf, his hair and beard long and worn in the wildest state. The affectation of the backwoods savage was one designed to deliberately provoke the rest of the court, an effort to remind the rest of the Empire that the City of the White Wolf was full to brimming with wild warriors chomping at the bit to rush into battle once more.

It might do to remind Middenheim of her less than sterling record upon the battlefield in the most recent violence to disrupt the Empire. For all their vaunted prowess, for all their supposed woodcraft, the soldiers of Middenheim and Middenland had proven incapable of crushing the latest uprising of beastmen in the Drakwald. Perhaps old Ulric, god of wolves and war, had been caught napping.

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 Bela, 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.

As he strode the empty streets, the priest felt the weight of his office like a great stone tied about his neck. His heart cracked a little more each time he passed a body lying strewn across someone’s threshold. His eyes misted with pity when he saw the ugly red crosses daubed upon mud-brick walls, marking another home where the plague had struck. He shared in the frustration of the peasants when he saw crude corn-doll effigies lying half-burnt in the mud or the carcass of a shaved cat nailed above a threshold. In their terror, the people turned to every superstition recalled by their Fennone ancestry, evoking any kind of magic to combat the forces of Old Night. Many of the dead lying in the street had ropes tied about their necks, marking them as offerings to Bylorak, the ancient marsh god whose worship persisted even in the face of kinder, more enlightened gods. These bodies would be taken not to the gardens of Morr, but to the quagmire of Bylorhof Marsh, consigned to the muddy deep and the keeping of the god who dwelled there.

The priest smiled sadly as he watched a hay cart come trundling down the lane, bodies piled in its bed like cordwood. He watched it stop outside a mud-brick hut and observed as the men pulling the cart set the yoke down and started lifting corpses from the street. They took no especial precautions, these collectors of the dead, and their wasted frames wore the same woollen breeches and jackets as any peasant. Only the black caps crunched down about their ears denoted their occupation, that and the hollow, sunken faces that stared out from beneath their hats. There was no need for precaution, not for these men. In the minds of friends and family, the corpse collectors were already dead. They were another reason why the streets were empty when the bells tolled. The men who dragged the cart through Bylorhof were already infected by the plague.

The men loaded their grisly burden into the cart. The plague left little of its victims, withering them into desiccated husks. Even for the sickly collectors, it took no great effort to carry their macabre cargo. There were twenty or thirty bodies in the cart this morning, but the collectors were still equal to the task of dragging it down the street in search of more bodies. After a bad night, they might make ten trips between town and the marsh. The priest hoped it hadn’t been a bad night.

Making the sign of Morr as he passed the cart, invoking the protection of his god for the souls of the dead, the priest proceeded through the deserted town, his black robes whipping about him in the crisp autumn breeze. The breeze brought the stink of the marsh slithering through Bylorhof, a smell which was ordinarily as unwelcome as a goblin but which was now considered far more wholesome than the reek of the unburied dead.

The priest, a servant of the god of death, was accustomed to the smell of corpses, but he shared the sentiments of the townsfolk. There was nothing wholesome about this plague and anything that would oppose it should be welcomed.

The priest rounded a corner, noting with some misgiving the gnarled old oak standing in the square ahead. A horrible crime had employed that tree as its centrepiece. In their terror of the plague, the townsfolk were ready to embrace any rumour or superstition. An old-wives tale about dwarfs being able to curse men with hairs from their beards had provoked a mob into lynching the three dwarf smiths residing at Bylorhof Castle. The crime had outraged Baron von Rittendahl and in his anger he had appealed to Count Malbork von Drak for aid. A second tragedy had resulted from that unwise decision. Too disinterested to uncover the perpetrators, von Drak ordered twenty peasants chosen at random and flayed alive, their skins sent to one of the dwarfholds high in the mountains.

It had fallen to the priests of Morr to attend and bury what von Drak’s men left behind. One of the dead had been a little girl not more than twelve winters old. The von Draks were infamous for their cruelty and the thought that Sylvania might break away entirely from Stirland with Count Malbork as its voivode was one that kept many people awake at night.

The priest hurried past the hanging tree, turning his thoughts away from lynchings and tyrants, even from plague and bells. It was Angestag and that meant he would break his fast with family. It was a ritual as old as his own childhood, the son of a sea captain in the great city of Marienburg. With so many of the family scattered all over the city or away on ships, it had been a strictly obeyed tradition among them that on Angestag, as many of the family as could would gather together for breakfast.

The priest stopped as he reached a narrow lane bordered on one side by the workyard of a cartwright and on the other by the stone walls of a granary. Further down the street rose a huddle of tall timber houses, the homes of Bylorhof’s more prosperous tradesmen and burghers. It was to one of these homes the priest’s path led. He smiled as he looked up at the threshold of his brother’s home. No shaved cat nailed above the door or appeal to ancient gods chalked up on the wall, only a simple iron fish tacked to the door itself, an old Marienburger custom meant to promote good fortune.

After his first knock, the door was tugged open and an exuberant boy with blond hair and deep blue eyes grinned up at the priest. ‘Uncle Frederick!’ the boy hailed him, then turned around to shout his news to the rest of the household. ‘Pappa! Mamma! Uncle Frederick is here!’

The priest stepped inside, setting his staff in a vase just within the entranceway. He turned and made the sign of Morr, a gesture meant to keep any wayward spirits from slipping into the house alongside him. It was always a good thing to be careful where restless ghosts were concerned. Especially in such unsettled times as these.

‘The prodigal brother returns!’ A tall, clean-cut man came striding towards the door, his face split in a broad smile. He bowed his head in respectful recognition of the priest’s rank before taking a brotherly jab at Frederick’s shoulder.

‘It is wrong to scold him, Rutger,’ a soft voice admonished the tall man. The speaker was a young woman, her golden tresses bound by a headscarf in the Sylvanian fashion, her slender figure pressed into a fashionable cotehardie gown after the Marienburg manner. Her pretty features formed a welcoming smile as she extended her hand to the priest. ‘With what is happening in Bylorhof, a priest of Morr must have much to do.’

Frederick bowed, kissing the woman’s hand. ‘I am sorry I brought you here, Aysha,’ he apologised. ‘This is a poor place…’

Rutger scowled at his brother. ‘If we’d stayed in Marienburg, we’d have been carved up by Snagr Half-nose by now. I’m only sorry more of the family didn’t leave when they had the chance.’ He smiled and reached to his neck, drawing out a brass pomander fitted to a chain. As he did so, his wife and son followed suit, displaying their own pomanders. ‘See, we are all protected against the plague. A lot easier than to dodge a Norscan’s axe!’

The priest couldn’t share in his brother’s jest. He’d buried too many people with posies in their pockets and pomanders about their necks to believe ‘bad air’ was the source of the plague and that a strong fragrance could protect against the disease. ‘I still feel responsible. If you’d gone to Altdorf or Wurtbad…’

‘There would have been no one there to welcome us and help us make a home,’ stated Aysha.

‘And from what I hear, the plague is there too,’ Rutger said. He frowned a little as he looked down at his son. He reached over and tousled the boy’s hair. ‘I think we should save this discussion for another time. As my wife points out, you are a busy man.’ The smile returned to Rutger’s face as he led the priest into his home.

‘Who knows when the brothers van Hal will have another chance to break their fast together?’

Nuln

Nachgeheim, 1111

Dead leaves crinkled beneath Walther Schill’s boots as he picked his way through the dark streets. The flickering glow of the rushlight he carried was just enough to reveal the half-timbered buildings squatting to either side of the narrow lane. This was an old part of Nuln, dating from the city’s infancy, when it was just a little trading town nestled in the marshland where the River Reik joined the River Aver. The plaster walls rose from thick stone foundation walls, relics of the roundhouses of ancient Merogen fishermen. The combination gave the structures a peculiar appearance, with curving ground floors of heavy limestone and clay supporting timber upper storeys which were sharply angular. In more prosperous sections of the city, the buildings had a more harmonious appearance, but no one in the Freiberg district had the resources to rebuild. Those few who did had already removed themselves to the wealthy Altestadt across the river or the growing sprawl of the Handelbezirk south of the Universitat.

A warm breeze whistled through the deserted streets. Except for a pair of dung gatherers, Walther was alone. Any decent folk, common wisdom claimed, should be abed at such an unseemly hour. The powers of Old Night, the wise said, were at their most malignant just before the dawn and the rising sun forced them back into their netherworld lairs.

Walther scoffed at such old superstitions. He’d never seen any evidence of Old Night and the Ruinous Powers, any proof of vampires and werewolves prowling the countryside seeking whom they might devour or malevolent warlocks biding their time until they could use their magic to change the unwary into snakes and toads. He relegated such talk to nursery nonsense like the Black Boar and the Underfolk, fairy tales meant to frighten small children into behaving.

Walther shifted the heavy linen sack slung across his shoulders, smiling at the weight of his burden. All his life he had laboured in the dark, making his living during those cursed hours when other men slept. A hunter had to bide by the nature of his prey. If that creature was one of darkness, then he had to become a creature of darkness himself. It was as simple as that. Even Verena would concede the logic of such a conclusion.

As he strode past the dung gatherers in their grubby woollen hoods, one of them looked up at Walther, wrinkling his nose and making an expression of distaste. Walther glowered at the grimy man, shifting his step so that he could kick a loose stone at the muck-raker. ‘I’ll make more tonight than you’ll see all month,’ he grumbled at the dung gatherer.

‘At least it’s clean work,’ the hooded man snarled, wiping refuse from the back of his hand on a strip of soiled felt.

Walther scowled at the dung gatherer and marched on. What did the scum know? In a few more weeks, the fellow would be begging pennies and picking eggshells from the gutter! The harvest was in, no one would want manure for their fields until spring. The muck-raker would be reduced to surviving on the pittance Count Artur paid to keep the streets clean. In the best of times, that would be just enough to allow a man to starve his way through the winter, allowing he didn’t have a family to support. And these were anything but the best of times.

By contrast, there was always a demand for Walther and his profession. The very repugnance with which even a dung gatherer regarded his trade ensured there would always be work for a rat-catcher. It had always puzzled Walther why most people looked upon rats with such fear and loathing. Certainly they were noxious little pests, but hardly things to evoke horror. Still, if people wanted to be stupid and afraid, Walther was quite happy to exploit them. Five rat-tails would bring a bounty of two pennies from the city coffers, as much as a dung gatherer would be paid for an entire week of shovelling the streets.

The rat-catcher cast a backwards glance at the hooded men and their little cart filled with dung. They’d be hard-pressed selling the night soil this time of year. No farmer would need manure now. It was possible they might be able to sell some of it as fuel, but only the poorest of the poor in the shantytown beside the south docks would resort to such measures. Hardly the most wealthy clientele.

Again, Walther reflected upon the benefits of being a hunter. In addition to the bounty offered by the burghomeister, there was always a market for his catch.

From out of the darkness, a battered wooden sign swayed upon rusty iron chains. There was no lettering upon the board — few in this part of the city were literate — but the painted image of a hog’s head did a serviceable job of proclaiming the sort of business housed within. Walther shifted the heavy sack from one shoulder to the other. Using the haft of the pole he employed in his work, he knocked against the door.

It was a few minutes before the door was tugged open. A balding, overweight man dressed only in his nightshirt stood blinking in the doorway, a foul-smelling candle clenched in his fist. He stared bleary-eyed at Walther. The rat-catcher knew he must present quite a sight, his wool garments caked in the filth of Nuln’s sewers, his hands stained with blood, his face drawn and haggard from the long night crawling after rodents.

‘Are you going to let me in?’ Walther said, his tone gruff and impatient.

‘Schill,’ the fat man said, stepping aside to allow the rat-catcher entry. ‘I’ve told you before to come by the back way,’ the man grumbled as he closed the door behind his visitor.

‘I’m in too much of a hurry,’ Walther told him, blowing out the rushlight and stuffing the remains of the taper into a cowhide holster. ‘Hunting was good tonight. I lost track of time.’ He strode through the little shop, around bins of pig-feet and goat-ears, past racks of ham hocks and the plucked carcasses of chickens. With a sigh of relief, the rat-catcher set his bag down on a wooden counter at the back of the shop.

‘In a hurry,’ the fat man scowled, coming around the counter. He set the candle down beside a pair of bronze scales. Fumbling about behind the counter, he produced a number of tiny stone weights. ‘You mean you’ve been dry too long.’ He reached over and untied the twine closing the bag. ‘You should talk Bremer into making you a partner with all the money you drop at the Black Rose!’

Walther’s eyes narrowed with annoyance. Angrily, he drew the bag away. ‘I don’t go there to see Bremer and I don’t come here to be lectured, Ostmann!’

‘Have it as you want,’ Ostmann apologised. ‘Let’s see what you have.’ The butcher reached into the linen bag, removing the long furry body of a rat. He jostled the dead rodent for a moment in his hand, trying to estimate its weight before resorting to the scales. ‘A big one. Might be sixteen ounces.’ He cast a glance at the bulky bag. ‘Are they all like that?’

Walther nodded. ‘I said the hunting was good. Forty-three longtails and not a runt among them.’

Ostmann made an appreciative whistle, sliding the first rat over to the scales. ‘I’m afraid I can’t give you much coin,’ he said. ‘There’s not too much demand for dog fodder…’

‘You’ll pay what you always pay,’ Walther told him, reaching for the bag. Ostmann quickly laid a protective hand atop it. The rat-catcher drew back, waving his hand at the empty meat hooks hanging from the ceiling and the empty bins lined against the wall. ‘I’m well aware of what you need. This talk of plague has made the burghers nervous. Count Artur has outlawed the transport of cattle from Stirland to try and keep it from spreading into Nuln. The guildmasters assure that they can buy enough Reikland beef to make up for it, but one look at your shelves makes me think otherwise. The burghers might be peasants but they aren’t serfs. They want some meat with their supper.’

The butcher drew back, his face aghast. ‘Surely you aren’t suggesting…’

‘I might do more than suggest,’ the rat-catcher threatened.

Ostmann licked his lips nervously. He began drawing rats from the bag, setting each in turn on the scales, scribbling figures on a scrap of sackcloth. ‘Care for something to eat while I tally this up? Some sausage?’

Walther gave the man a crooked smile. ‘Ostmann, just because I catch them doesn’t mean I want to eat them.’