A wonderful plan, Vecteek reflected, dismissing Puskab with a wave of his claw. He was happy he had thought of it. But, then, that was simply another reason why he was superior to the rest of the Grey Lords.
Carroburg
Nachexen, 1115
There were fewer of his guests on the battlements when it came time to distribute food to the peasants of Carroburg. Where only a few weeks before none of his subjects would have dared offend him by staying away, now only the most weak-willed of his sycophants stood upon the walls. The weak-willed and those who genuinely shared the Emperor’s vicious humour.
Boris blamed the seance and the spectre of his father. The ghost’s words had diminished him in the eyes of his subjects, made them doubt the power and authority of the living Emperor. It was tempting to thrust the ingrates from the castle, but that would only spread the discontent when they returned to their own provinces. No, he had to reinforce to them that he was in control, that he wasn’t going to be ruined by some phantom’s words of doom.
Down below, the soldiers herded a group of peasants towards the walls. By now, the beggars were accustomed to the humiliating ordeal. They didn’t need to be goaded into dropping onto all fours and acting like dogs in order to retrieve the scraps the nobles threw down to them. Their acceptance provoked the Emperor, cheating him of his enjoyment of the scene.
‘Stop!’ Boris growled at his guests, arresting several of them in the very act of throwing food to the peasants. The Emperor smiled at their quick obedience. Still smiling, he leaned out between the crenellations. His gaze swept across the ragged mob, finally picking out one of them to persecute. ‘You! Woman! Stand up!’
Hesitantly, the peasant woman gazed up at him. She was either too frightened or too stupid to obey him at once, so Boris snapped his fingers and brought one of the soldiers hurrying forwards. Roughly, the dienstmann jerked the peasant to her feet.
‘Let’s have a look at you,’ Boris declared. There were a few titters of amusement from his hangers-on. Again, he had to motion for the soldier to take a hand. The hood was pulled away from the woman’s head, exposing a dull, plain face.
One of the other peasants stood suddenly and approached the wall. ‘Please, Majesty,’ the man said in a tremulous voice. ‘She’s my wife.’
Boris grinned at the statement. ‘That is pitiable,’ he said. He glanced aside at the nobles around him. ‘You must be poor beyond words if you are reduced to bedding such a creature. Look at that cow! She must have been sired by an orc! A blind one if her mother looks half as bad as she!’
The cruel jest brought raucous laughs from the nobles on the wall. The peasant man lowered his face, hiding the tears of shame and impotent rage streaming down his face.
Boris smirked and shouted down to his soldiers. ‘We desire to know if the rest of that thing is as revolting as what We’ve seen.’ He laughed when the woman tried to pull away from the dienstmann’s grasping fingers. The solider tore her shawl as she twisted from his grip, sending her tumbling to the ground.
The peasant man took a step towards his wife, hesitated as he saw more of the soldiers coming towards her. Desperately he looked to the beggars around him, but one and all they turned their heads. Helplessly, he appealed to the gloating Emperor above.
‘Have mercy, Majesty!’ the peasant cried.
A sadistic chuckle was the man’s answer. ‘We just want a peek at that curious specimen you brought to Us,’ Boris called down. ‘If she’s interesting enough, there might be a piece of silver waiting for you. The Imperial menagerie has been a bit anaemic of late.’ The Emperor’s jeering brought cruel mirth raining down on the man. Sobbing, the peasant fell to his knees and began pounding the dirt with his fists.
The soldiers had caught the woman and waited for the Emperor’s command. When he favoured them with a curt nod, one dienstmann started to rip away the peasant’s dress. Almost at once, the soldier jumped back, gasping. The other men released their prisoner, likewise drawing back in horror.
Boris frowned, his view obscured by the first soldier. ‘What’s wrong? Is that half-orc even more vile underneath those rags?’ The sneer left his face when the soldier moved and he had a look at the woman’s partially clothed body. Ugly black boils marred her flesh, the buboes of the Black Plague!
‘Plague! Gods preserve us, it is the plague!’ Count Artur shuddered. The cry was taken up by others, threatening to become a panic.
The Emperor glared down at the soldiers. ‘What do you mean bringing… bringing that…’ He spun around, snarling orders to the troops inside the castle. ‘Guards! Seal the gates! Archers… To the walls!’
Before the soldiers or peasants below could react, bowmen replaced nobles on the battlements. Arrows pelted the wretches, sparing none. On the Emperor’s command, the archers sent volley upon volley stabbing down until the bodies lying strewn before the wall resembled pincushions.
‘Merciful Shallya,’ Palatine Dohnanyi cried. ‘The plague is in Carroburg!’
‘We are doomed!’ wailed Gustav van Meers.
Emperor Boris waved the archers away from the walls and confronted his guests. ‘The plague might be in Carroburg,’ he conceded, ‘but it isn’t here. We have provisions enough. The gates are closed and shall remain so. No one can come in and if they can’t come in, they can’t bring the plague with them.’
Palatine Dohnanyi shook his head. ‘The spiders!’ he cried. ‘The plague is carried by hordes of black spiders! One bite! How can you keep out spiders?’
‘No! It is ravens, harbingers of Old Night!’ argued Count Artur. ‘They piss in your drinking water and give you the plague! What do castle walls mean to birds?’
Emperor Boris rounded on the terrified men, turning his own doubt and fear into a show of contemptuous anger. ‘We promised you protection,’ he reminded them. ‘This refuge was prepared against the plague! Priestess, doktor and warlock, we have defences against whatever would bring disease here.’ His lip curled in a sneer. ‘Or would you prefer to take your chances down there?’ He jabbed his thumb downwards, indicating the arrow-riddled corpses below.
‘Gods! Doktors! We’ve tried them all before,’ Gustav van Meers objected.
‘Then we will try the warlock’s magic,’ Boris growled back. He saw the terror in the Westerlander’s eyes, saw it mirrored in those of the others. If he were to maintain control of them, he had to do more than offer them hope. He had to remind them that there were other things beside the plague they had to fear.
‘Gustav is leaving us,’ the Emperor declared, waving his soldiers forwards. The merchant knew what was coming. Uttering a frightened yelp, he tried to flee back into the castle. The guards caught him before he could reach the door. Savagely they dragged the man to the battlements and threw him over the edge. Gustav’s scream ended in a sickening crunch. Groans drifted up to the parapet. The fall might not have killed him, but he wouldn’t be going anywhere with his broken bones.
Count Artur gawked at the callous incident. ‘He was a wealthy man…’
‘He was a peasant,’ Emperor Boris sneered. ‘No loss to anyone. There’s no shortage of scum just like him, even with the plague.’ He stared hard into the count’s face. ‘Did you want to argue about Our ability to keep the plague away from this castle?’
The rotund noble blanched at the threat in Boris’s tone. ‘No, I have every confidence in Your Imperial Majesty.’