C. Werner - Dead Winter

Mandred’s jaw tightened. He had reached a decision. Turning upon his heel, he called for his bodyguard, a hulking bald-headed knight named Franz. The boisterous dienstmann was the prince’s constant companion; ostensibly his protector, he seldom had the stamina to deny Mandred’s impetuous decisions. Graf Gunthar had often reprimanded the knight, decrying him as the prince’s accomplice rather than his guardian.

‘Fetch our horses,’ Mandred told the knight. ‘I’m going for a ride.’

An uneasy expression came across Franz’s face. He could see the direction of the prince’s gaze when Mandred had been looking down from the battlements. ‘Surely you’re not going to Warrenburg, your grace.’

Anger flashed in the boy’s eyes. ‘What did you call the refugee camp?’ he demanded.

The hulking Franz looked away, his face darkening with embarrassment. ‘The soldiers call it “Warrenburg”, your grace. Because it’s all confused and disordered. Like a rabbit warren.’

‘These people have suffered enough,’ Mandred said. ‘I don’t think their dignity needs to be insulted any more than it already has.’

‘Yes, your grace,’ Franz hastily agreed, clicking his heels together in stiff, soldierly fashion. ‘But I must ask why your grace wishes to go down there. It isn’t the sort of thing a prince should be doing.’

‘Those people came here looking for help,’ Mandred told the knight. ‘Now they have been betrayed and abandoned. Someone has to let them know they haven’t been forgotten, that not everyone up here is blind to their suffering.’

‘His highness won’t be happy, your grace,’ Franz said.

‘You let me worry about the Graf,’ Mandred said. ‘Just have the horses ready.’

Mandred felt proud as he rode towards the East Gate, proud to defy the unjust position adopted by his father, proud to be standing up for the dignity of his fellow man. There was a time, he knew, when Graf Gunthar would have been proud too. He could still remember the day when his father had stripped a despotic raugraf of his lands and title for the crime of abusing his peasants. The Graf had explained his actions to his son, observing that no matter how high a man’s station, he had to remember that he was still a man and answerable to the gods for his actions. The most noble house could make itself baser than the lowest virgater by its own deeds.

How base, then, had the Graf made his own house by abandoning the refugees? How much greater was his crime than that of the cruel raugraf?

Mandred would set things right. As much as it was within his power, he would atone for his father’s cruelty. But first he had to see for himself first-hand the situation in the refugee camp. Perhaps if he reported to his father the way things stood, he could make the Graf appreciate that these were people, not some faceless complication to be dismissed with a wave of his hand.

Franz was visibly uneasy as they rode through the market district towards the massive gatehouse which opened onto the eastern causeway. The bald knight kept looking over his shoulder, staring off in the direction of the Middenplatz and the Graf’s palace. Mandred felt a twinge of sympathy for his bodyguard. Franz had always been a loyal retainer, devoted to Mandred but obedient to the Graf. Never before had the prince placed him in a position where he had to choose between his loyalties. It made him happy to know Franz had sided with him.

The prince saluted the guards stationed at the gate. ‘Raise the portcullis,’ he called down to them.

The soldiers looked nervously at one another. The sergeant in command of the gate advanced towards Mandred’s horse. ‘Your grace, his highness the Graf has ordered that no one is to leave the city.’

‘That order doesn’t apply to me,’ Mandred said, adopting his most imperious tone, a tone of such arrogance that it brooked no defiance. Every peasant was born to obey such a voice, to defer to the superiority of their noble lords. The sergeant was no exception. Turning back to his men, he started to give the order to raise the gate.

What stopped him was the sound of galloping horses. Through the cobbled streets of the market district, a squadron of cavalry came thundering towards the gate. The snowy wolf-pelts and crimson armour the knights wore marked them as White Wolves. At their head, his dark blue robe fluttering about him, rode Graf Gunthar himself.

The sergeant saluted as the cavalry drew rein before the gate, but he went ignored by the Graf. His face crimson with anger, the Graf walked his horse between Mandred and the gate. ‘What do you think you are doing?’ Graf Gunthar snarled.

For an instant, Mandred cowered before his father’s wrath. Then the thought that right was on his side put steel back into his spine. The prince stared defiantly into his father’s eyes. ‘I’m doing what you should have done,’ he said. ‘I’m going down there and helping the refugees.’

Mandred wasn’t sure what kind of response he expected, but it wasn’t the one he got. Graf Gunthar’s face went white, his eyes shined with horror. Before Mandred could react, his father’s hand smacked against his face with such violence the prince was nearly knocked from the saddle.

‘Get back to the palace,’ Graf Gunthar snarled, his voice trembling. Mandred stared in confusion when he heard that tone. It was the voice of a man on the edge of panic. He looked at his father, noticing his body shivering under the rich blue robe. He’d left the palace in such haste he hadn’t even paused to don a cloak against the winter chill.

Remembering why his father had left the palace, all sympathy drained out of the prince’s heart. ‘I won’t,’ he growled back. ‘Someone has to help those people.’

Colour rushed back into the Graf’s face. His body stiffened as anger swelled up inside him. ‘You’d like to bring them inside our walls?’ he challenged. ‘Bring all those sick people up here, pack them in with our own, shelter them in our own homes? And when they bring the plague into Middenheim what will you do then? What will you tell our people when they lie sick and dying in the streets? What will you tell our people when they throw their dead over the Cliff of Sighs?’

More than the slap against his face, the Graf’s words made Mandred reel. The prince shook his head, stubbornly trying to defy the ghastly logic of his father’s words.

‘Our duty is to our own people,’ Graf Gunthar told him. ‘Not to strangers.’ His expression softened, he reached to grip his son’s shoulder. ‘Believe me, if we could help those people without endangering the city…’

Mandred shook off his father’s hand, his mind refusing to accept the grim reality the Graf had resigned himself to. He had done his father an injustice when he had called him a tyrant. He wasn’t cruel. He was scared.

But that still didn’t make him right.

Without saying a word, Mandred turned his horse and started back into the city. Franz followed behind him. The boy scowled at his bodyguard. There was only one person who could have told his father about what he was doing.

‘You don’t have to come with me,’ Mandred told the knight. ‘I’ll behave myself now. You can stay with my father.’

Bitterness and a feeling of betrayal poured venom into Mandred’s voice as he galloped ahead of Franz.

‘You’ve shown me where your loyalty lies.’

Skavenblight

Kaldezeit, 1111

The stink of stagnant water and swamp seepage created an atmosphere almost sufficient to blot out the rotten odour of the plague priest. Within the confines of the stone-walled vault, the smell of the ratman’s mouldering green robes and mangy fur was enough to turn the stomach of even another skaven.