Rosenheim, 1350

The journey from Prague to Italy had been a long one for Herrmann Steffen. Having come of age in Nuremburg in 1344, he rushed to the Austrian city to assist in its relief from the Poles. Everything went fine, Edmund Becker had not recommended knighthood, and ever since then he had been cut off from the events that concerned him most; on the long road to Italy.

In all fairness, he probably would have been there by now had it not been for the Plague. The dreaded sickness - which was labelled by some as the Black Death, its casualty count approaching the Byzantine genocide in Italy and the War of Reformation deaths - had knocked out every major center in which Herrmann wanted to resupply. As a result, his party, fueled by Herrmann's paranoia, had resulted to living off the land, which had slowed progress down significantly.

The hamlet of Rosenheim was, in 1300, a thriving market town; a budding center of commerce, situated roughly halfway between Nuremburg and Innsbruck. That was before the bad times. Years of war had whittled down the population, and the Byzantine takeover of the majority of Italy had severely hampered trade. Little by little Rosenheim was abandoned as its residents moved farther into the heart of the Reich or the nearby cities for protection. By the time the Black Death hit, it was a near-ghost town.

Herrmann and his party viewed the town from a nearby hill, surveying for signs of possible activity or sickness. All of them were filthy beyond belief after foraging for food and tromping through the wilderness. One of them still had a dribble of juice, no doubt from undercooked meat, rolling down his chin.

"Okay," he said, "Who do you want to send, Herrmann?" It had been Herrmann's policy to send only one of his retinue down at a time into towns in case of infection.

"Town looks pretty empty to me. Nobody left for the plague to kill. I'll go down myself; I need to ask questions."

A pause. It was highly unlikely that Herrmann's fear of getting sick would take such a 180.

"...but, you're all coming with me. Surround me, facing outward. Nobody is going to touch or breathe on me, I can guarantee that."

With knowing smiles, Herrmann's retinue, accompanied by their leader, packed their things and made their way down into Rosenheim. Walking down the main street, they surveyed their surroundings. The stench of death still lingered in the air, although it was only faint. More overpowering was the feeling of general emptiness. The buildings lining this street and others were meant to be filled.

They weren't.

One man approached the circle of soldiers making their way down the street; an old priest, still clean-shaven on the face but long and wild on the scalp. He stared at them, mumbling, and finally approached them. The wall around Herrmann tightened.

"What brings you lads to Rosenheim? Is this the newest, most powerful army the Kaiser sends to deliver Italy from the Byzantines? Oh, truly, better times have befallen us."

"Relax, old man," Herrmann said from behind the wall. "I am Herrmann Steffen, first of four sons of Duke Lothar Steffen of Bavaria. The young generation is alive and well and ready to continue the fight. Our armies are still large and powerful. My men and I have been called down to Italy to provide additional tactical as well as cavalry support to Count Fredericus Erlach. We require provisions for the journey as towns along the way have been few."

"Provisions?" The old priest laughed. "Hah! You're many years late, lad. Sure, we had lots of provisions - at the turn of the century. Times have gotten worse since then, however."

"As they have for everybody. The Reich still survives."

"The Reich, maybe, but not this town."

"You still live. Tell me, is there anyone who can aid us? Surely those remaining who are not sick would jump at the chance to do business with travelers, as this town used to."

"Well..." The priest scratched his unkempt mane, trying to remember. "The leading trader, Gruber, got old and died a few years ago. He had five sons, but four of them went off to war and couldn't continue the family business. Their youngest, not yet of military age, got sick and passed away. The second leading trader, Demetrius, was robbed and beaten to death during the Cataclysm by a few deserted soldiers mistaking him for a Greek by his name. He had no heirs. The third leading trader simply lost his business and died penniless.

"And then we go to the minor moneymakers of Rosenheim. Two young gentlemen, appropriately named Hans and Dietrich, took their religious differences to the extreme and slaughtered each other. Both had pregnant wives and young sons. Both families starved to death the following winter, unable to provide for themselves. Our butcher, Ruprecht, moved away to Franconia. His brother stayed, trying to maintain the family business for a while. Then of course, he got sick and died.

"We lost our blacksmith to the Plague. Our main merchants, our government officials, our clergy, minus me. Anyone remotely connected with business is either gone or dead. Had you come earlier, I would have been able to direct you to our last remaining farmer in the area, one Jens Heinztelman. He had a nice little crop going in the area, was able to feed himself, his wife, his four kids, and still have some left over to sell to us. Last month he got sick, just him. In a fever-induced madness the second night of his illness, Jens Heintzelmen picked up a hatchet and killed everyone else in the house, screaming loud enough for us in town to hear. By the time I got to his place he was covered in blood, muttering something about demons. Right in front of me he picks up his bloody hatchet and implants it in his neck. Now, of course, his farm is ruined, already being reclaimed by nature.

"Young Steffen, if I could be of any help to you I honestly would. But I've watched the town die around me. There aren't very many of us left, and we pretty much keep to ourselves for fear of getting sick. We fend for ourselves, provide what we can. But can we give enough food for a dozen young men on their way to Italy? No sir, we cannot."

A long, terrible silence followed the close of the priest's speech, one that lasted for over two minutes. Herrmann's protective circle broke apart, each man taking a few steps, surveying the destruction that the priest had just described, now being able to visualize the horrors that must have taken place. Herrmann just stared, taking everything in.

"How far to the nearest town?" he finally asked.

"About fifteen miles to the south," the priest said.

"Get back to your horses." Herrmann turned to his men. "We move out immediately."

Several minutes later they were ready, bidding goodbye to the priest and departing the town of Rosenheim, heading south, wondering if the town fifteen miles away had a similar story to tell, wondering if they had fared any better.