Marienburg Castle
August 28, 1497
If it chose, the cathedral at Marienburg Castle could be cold even in the middle of August. Grey stone walls and floor leeched any heat out of the air, especially now in the hours before dawn. No starlight could pierce the narrow stained glass windows some twenty or thirty feet up, little more than slots. Therefore darkness reigned in the sanctuary, less a single candle on the altar.
Normally said candle would have many friends, brethren to tend them, and the monastric brothers of the Teutonic Knights would filter in every three hours to offer prayers and song to their Savior. Tonight the candle only had one retainer, a burly man in his late forties dressed only in a coarse robe belted at the waist. This man knelt, hands clapsed in supplication and occasionally opened his eyes to follow the flickering light to a statue of his Savior on the Cross, looking down at him with a mixture of agony and compassion.
I died for you, those eyes said.
Do not fail me.
The kneeling man was, of course, Rittermeister Wolter von Plettenberg, and this was his Vigil. In just a few hours he would take the last vows of his life, those making him Grand Master of the Teutonic Order.
Von Plettenberg long since exhausted his respectable repetoire of prayers, and now thought of what he'd do with his new found rank. Like most of his predecessors he considered the Knights his personal charge, an awesome responsibility since even in more peaceful days the Teutonic Order found itself more or less isolated here along the Baltic. He feared failure. He'd known men, good men, excellent soldiers, who'd completely disintegrated at the first scent of command. He imagined a similar rift must exist between generals and political leadership.
If you fear failure, then you will fail, he thought grimly and closed his eyes. "The Lord is my Shepherd." he murmured. "I shall not want. I really have to think about liberating Pskov."
Occasionally through the long night he'd have waking dreams. Everyone has them: Your mind wanders, and by the time you call it back to the present sometimes it'd gone very far indeed. Not a few hours ago he'd have sworn he was on Osel Island, soon after retaking the fortress. He'd stood on the ramparts and stared down the steep cliffs at the Baltic far below, cold blue with a hint of mist.
As von Plettenberg prayed, his mind wandered once again. Now he sat on horseback in the plains near Konigsberg, only a few leagues away. A grey, cold day with an unpleasant chill. Behind him another fifteen or twenty knights, Livonians and Teutons both, their tabards torn, shields and swords bloody. They looked defeated, tired, frightened. What happened? Where was everyone?
Dead, he thought.
You failed them.
"Orders, Hochmeister?" asked a knight nervously.
Von Plettenberg shivered. There was nowhere to go. They'd already taken Konigsberg, Marienburg, Danzig, the other cities. This was as good a place for a final stand as any. "We stay."
"Good," another knight answered. He drew his sword and pointed.
Across the field came their enemies. The creature on the far left was white with six hundred sixty-six spots on its coat. It bore a metallic device on its shoulder that fired projectiles and wore a crown. Next to it stood its reddish-brown companion, the color of dried blood. Jagged points like lances covered its body like some sort of grotesque spiked armor. The third
did wear armor, obsidian scales nearly the size of shields. Dragon scales, von Plettenberg reasoned. On the far right walked a pale creature, almost green like a body left exposed for too long. This one seemed almost skeletal in appearance.
Behind him horses screamed. Knights screamed too, but there was nothing for it. Their world had come to an end, and if it was von Plettenburg's fault - so be it. No choices remained, and so doubt evaporated. He drew his sword and screamed over the incessant mooing: "TO ARMS! CHARGE!"
The door to the cathedral slammed open. Four men in full plate armor surged in, two holding lanterns high as their companions drew swords and looked around wildly.
Von Plettenberg whirled and leapt to his feet. "What are you doing?" he demanded.
One of the swordbearers knelt. "I apologize, my lord. We heard you cry out 'To Arms' and thought you might be in trouble."
The Livonian folded his arms. "As you can see, I'm well. I'm working on liberating Pskov."
"Yes, my lord, but..." The swordsman paused. Something in his lord's glare forbade questions. "Yes, my lord." He glanced around one last time, stood, bowed and walked out with his companions.
Von Plettenberg waited until they left, then, shaking, sat down.
Did it mean anything if you had a vision of the Four Bovine of the Apocowlypse?