03 - Sword of Vengeance

by Chris Wraight - (ebook by Undead)

  “Mist got you spooked?” asked Eissen, looking around. There was no sound except for the faint rustle of the gorse. “Better get over it.”

  The Reiksguard shook his head and smiled to himself.

  “Talking to my horse? Time to get—”

  He froze. There was something out there. Eissen felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up stiff. The chill was still acute and he shivered under his leather jerkin.

  Ahead of him, the curtain of grey sighed past, driven by the breeze, as cloudy and opaque as milk. Still no sound.

  Eissen drew his sword. The steel was dull in the diffuse light. After a night’s riding his muscles felt sluggish and stiff.

  “Declare yourself!” he cried. His voice was sucked into the fog like water draining from a sink. There was no reply.

  Eissen’s horse was beginning to panic. It tried to rear away, only held firm by Eissen’s tight grip. A line of foam appeared at its mouth.

  Eissen pulled it savagely back into line, keeping his blade raised defensively Despite all his training and experience, his heart was hammering like a maiden’s on her wedding night. He felt a line of sweat run down his chest, cold against his flesh. He backed towards his horse, head craning to see anything among the shifting sea of occlusion.

  “Helborg.”

  The voice was unearthly, a bizarre mix of a young woman’s and a boy’s, scraped over metal and given the sibilant whisper of a snake. As soon as he heard it, Eissen’s resolve was shaken. He gripped his sword, keeping hold of his tugging steed with difficulty.

  “Show yourself, ghoul,” he commanded, but his voice sounded reedy and foolish.

  Ahead of him, three figures slowly emerged from the clouds. They were hunched like old women, draped in rags, limping uncertainly across the uneven ground. At twenty paces away they were wreathed in a shifting cloak of translucence, as muffled and indistinct as shades. Only their eyes were solid, six points of lilac brilliance, emerging from the obscurity like stars.

  Eissen felt the dread grow stronger. His steed reared, snatching the reins from his fingers. He turned quickly, grabbing at the leather straps, but he was too late. It turned and broke into a gallop, bounding back into the gloom and disappearing from view. He was alone. Heart thudding, he turned to face the newcomers.

  “Helborg,” they hissed again in perfect unison. The words were taut with malice.

  Eissen grabbed the hilt of his sword with both hands. He’d faced the undead before—where was his courage?

  “He’s not here,” he replied, trying to keep his voice level. “Who sent you?”

  The creatures seemed not to hear, and advanced slowly. One of them extended a hand from under its rags. Eissen stared in horror as the long talons extended. Another reached out, exposing ravaged flesh, white as ice, studded with metal and knots of protruding bone.

  “Sigmar preserves!” he roared, trying to summon up some kind of resolve. As the nearest horror drew close, he charged at it, swinging his sword round to decapitate.

  Something like laughter burst out. The creature snapped up its talon to block the strike and steel clanged against bone. The horror’s movements were staggeringly fast, more like those of an insect than a human. Eissen sprang back, moving his blade warily, watching for the attack.

  “Helborg!” they hissed, driven into some kind of ecstasy. The lilac glow became piercing, and they lost their stooped hunches. The one in the centre pounced, leaping into the air and spreading its claws wide.

  Eissen withdrew, swinging his sword up to block the swipe. Again the metal clanged, and he felt the force of the blow shiver down his arm.

  Another sprang at him, screaming with glee. Eissen spun round to deflect, only to feel the burn of a raking claw plunge into his back. He cried aloud, ripping the talons from the wound as he turned, seeing his own blood fly into the faces of the horrors. Another pounced, and something stabbed into his stomach, slicing into the flesh as smoothly as a stick into water.

  Eissen lurched back, trying to shake them off him, slashing at their brass-bound hides with his sword. They ignored his blows and dragged him down, tearing at his flesh, pulling the muscles from the bones, cackling with a childish delight.

  Eissen lost his sword when he lost his fingers, cleaved from his forearm with a single jab from a barbed set of claws. He heard screaming, lost in the fog, before realising it was his own. Then he was on his knees, and the creatures really got to work. They didn’t go for the kill, but for the dissection, taking off chunk after chunk of flesh until what was left of Eissen finally collapsed in a gore-bedraggled mess, bereft of eyes, hoarse from screaming, lost in a world of pain, beyond wishing for death and sucked into a slough of horror.

  The final blow was reluctant, a grudging stab to silence his jaw-less mewls of agony, regretfully delivered by the lead ghoul. As before, they stood in silence for a while, admiring what they’d done. One of them raised a taloned hand to its ruined face and licked at the blood-soaked bone with a black tongue. Its eyes glowed brightest then, perhaps blazing in remembrance of what it was like to be hot-blooded and encased in mortal flesh.

  When they’d finished they hunched over once more and the light in their eyes faded. In the far distance, a frenzied whinnying could still be heard, growing fainter with every second.

  Then, one by one, they turned south, trudging after their real prey again, insatiable until the one whose name they carried was found. If they were capable of feeling any emotion other than malice, they didn’t show it. Perhaps, though, there was a faintest trace of excitement in their movements. The journey had been long, but they knew they were getting close. They shuffled into the fog, rags trailing behind them, whispering the name, the one name they still knew how to say.

  When they were gone, the moor returned to silence. The mist curled around the long grasses, pale and ephemeral. Down in the mud, the sweet smell of death, mingled with the faint aroma of jasmine, stained the chill air, and the blood sank slowly into the soil.

  Schwarzhelm looked up. The moors were high on the southern horizon, still laced with scraps of mist. In the far distance he thought he could hear some strange bird’s cry, repeated over and over until it faded away. He listened for a repeat, but none came.

  The sky remained grey and the light of the sun was weak. The cold didn’t bother him much, but he pulled his cloak tighter across his huge shoulders in any case. As surely as he knew his own name, he knew the Sword of Vengeance had guided him well. Somewhere up on those bleak, wind-tousled moors lay Helborg. The spirit of the blade longed to return to its master.

  As the day of their meeting drew ever closer, Schwarzhelm found his iron will begin to waver. His dreams were still haunted by the old warrior’s face.

  Why are you doing this, Ludwig?

  He looked away from the brooding highlands. He’d made up his mind. Justice demanded the return of the sword. Schwarzhelm’s entire existence depended on honour, on keeping his word, on being the very embodiment of the law. Without that, he was nothing, just a killer in the service of the Emperor. He didn’t know whether he’d ever raise the Imperial standard again on the field of battle, but he was certain that if he didn’t carry through this duty then he’d never regain the right to. Redemption was never handed over; it was always earned.

  He stamped back up to the tree line he’d come down from, slinging the brace of hares over his shoulder. The forest had sheltered them for the night and had yielded a rich bounty. It was a good thing he knew how to hunt and trap. If he’d been relying on Verstohlen, all they’d have eaten would have been air and fine words.

  Once back under the cover of the trees, he found the spy trying to light a fire with trembling fingers. He looked cold, and crouched low over the pile of damp wood, his coat flapping over his slim form as he moved. Verstohlen was as clumsy out in the wilds as he was accomplished in the city. Schwarzhelm almost felt like smiling.

  “So you’ve decoded the letters,” he said, flinging the carcasses on the gr
ound and reaching for his flint.

  Verstohlen sat back from his abortive fire, giving up in disgust.

  “Indeed. They made for interesting reading.”

  Schwarzhelm ignored Verstohlen’s tumbled pile of branches and began building a fresh fire from the dry scrub he’d collected at the edge of the forest.

  “Tell me.”

  Verstohlen pulled a sheaf of notes from his coat pocket, covered in messy scribblings from the charcoal. He’d been busy in the rare moments Schwarzhelm had halted the march and allowed him to decipher.

  “They were mostly replies to messages sent by Lassus,” Verstohlen said. “I don’t know who wrote them. The final one is from Lassus himself. It’s unfinished, no doubt because you interrupted him before he could send it.”

  Schwarzhelm watched as his kindling took. Gradually, shakily, washed-out flames began to flicker. He fed the nascent blaze with more twigs, trying not to let his feelings about Lassus impair his attention to Verstohlen’s findings.

  “The conspiracy didn’t start with him,” said Verstohlen. “The power behind it was a woman. There’s no name here, but I’d stake my life it’s Natassja.”

  “So you’ve always maintained.”

  “Whether or not she intended me to see her engaged in those rites, I could not have been mistaken about the fact of her sorcery. From this, it’s clear she approached Lassus three years ago, soon after the death of Marius Leitdorf. At that point she wasn’t Rufus’ wife—they married eighteen months later. The two of them, Lassus and she, evidently found much of mutual interest to discuss.”

  The fire grew. Schwarzhelm began to prepare the carcasses, ripping at the skin with expert fingers.

  “Lassus had been passed over for promotion,” said Verstohlen. “He felt wounded by the Imperial establishment. He was also old. He hid it from you, I suspect, but he was a bitter man, bereft of an honourable position in the hierarchy and banished to a retirement in a part of Altdorf he hated.”

  Schwarzhelm remembered the old man’s words at their first meeting in Altdorf. There are more ways than one to make a success of one’s life. Maybe when you’re as old as I am, you’ll see that. My battles are over. I’ve been granted the grace to retire from the field and see out the rest of my days in peace. At the time, the words had seemed like such calm, resigned wisdom. All of it had been lies, then, just another layer of deception.

  “Natassja’s powers were strong. She’s a beautiful woman, and he was a frustrated failure. I’ve no idea how she corrupted him, but I’m certain she did so. From then on, he was her tool, using his money and influence in support of her and Grosslich’s ends. The letters make it clear that Lassus arranged the weakening of the defences at Black Fire Keep. Gold was found to induce the orcs to invade, and weapons too. It was all timed with impressive precision. By the time he’d seen to it that you would be sent to handle the succession, the passes were already under attack.”

  “The greenskins had Imperial weapons.”

  “A novelty for them, no doubt. Though I can’t imagine what they did with the gold.”

  Schwarzhelm tore the skin from the hare carcasses roughly. As he remembered the fighting on the plains of Averland, the memory of Grunwald came unbidden to his mind.

  “What did he hope to achieve?”

  “He would have joined Natassja and Grosslich in Averheim. The Ruinous Powers offer the foolish an extension of their natural span, and he expected to live for another hundred years. You should reflect on that, my lord. Had you not killed him, the powers in Altdorf would only now be learning of their danger, and Lassus would be safely hidden and growing in strength again.”

  Schwarzhelm grunted. Such attempts to placate his sense of guilt were unwelcome.

  “And after that?”

  “I can’t tell what their plans were beyond the coronation of Grosslich, but they weren’t stupid. They knew the deception would only last for so long. They needed time to do something else, something involving Averheim. By deflecting accusations of treachery towards Rufus they let the world believe that corruption in Averland had been defeated, and that has given them the space they needed.”

  Schwarzhelm let the tidings sink in, dissecting each morsel of information, weighing it up against what he already knew. The process was painful. He himself had been the tool by which Natassja and Grosslich had corrupted the province, and the knowledge weighed heavily on him.

  “So Rufus Leitdorf was an innocent in this.”

  “He was. A dupe. I was to blame, my lord. When I witnessed his wife, I assumed he was implicated. Grosslich and she played their parts well.”

  “That they did.”

  Schwarzhelm finished skinning and dressing the hares, and skewered them roughly. The fire was now burning fiercely, and at last the warmth began to cut through the chill of the early morning.

  “Anything else?” he asked.

  “Not that I can decipher. There’s some link with the Leitdorf’s that I don’t yet understand, and I have no idea why Averheim is so important to them. If you truly want to fight this, then we should go back there.”

  “We will,” muttered Schwarzhelm. “I’ve thought of little else, besides finding Kurt.”

  Verstohlen paused. “And you’re still sure you want to do that? You don’t have to. He may be dead, or he may be—”

  “He’s alive, and he’s close,” snapped Schwarzhelm, shoving the skinned hare into the fire. “Don’t try to dissuade me. I know some things about this that you cannot. I had the dreams, sent to me by that witch. They didn’t expect Helborg. He’s the element in this they couldn’t control. That’s why Grosslich was so keen to kill him, and that’s why we have to find him first. Kurt Helborg with the Sword of Vengeance will be a foe they cannot ignore.”

  Verstohlen looked at Schwarzhelm for a long time then, pondering his words.

  “He’s not a forgiving man.”

  Schwarzhelm nodded, watching the flesh of the hares crisp and char in the flames.

  “Of course,” he said, and his voice was low and steady. “So it’s always been with him.”

  He turned the meat in the fire, roasting it gently.

  “Not long now, Pieter,” he said. “He’s nearby. The sword and its master cannot be kept apart.”

  Leitdorf took a deep breath before emerging on to the balcony. He could hear the expectant mutter of the crowd outside, and they were getting impatient.

  “How many are there?” he whispered to Helmut Gram, the seasoned Reiksguard who’d been assigned to him as bodyguard.

  “Five hundred,” replied the knight, showing no trace of emotion. “Not many. Better than nothing.”

  Leitdorf swallowed. Addressing armed men had always been something he’d dreaded. Not much of a soldier himself, he’d never been able to look them in the eye. He’d made up for his natural reticence with a kind of studied arrogance, but he knew it had fooled few of them. When he remembered his churlish behaviour with Schwarzhelm back in Averheim, he shuddered.

  “Should I take the sword?”

  Gram’s eyebrow rose in surprise. “The Wolfsklinge? Of course. It is a holy blade.”

  All this fuss about swords. That was the one thing that seemed to unite the fighting men of the Empire, a universal reverence for their antique blades. His father’s weapon was hardly as prestigious as the runefangs or the Sword of Justice, but it had a long and proud history nonetheless. Like all such blades, there were runes hammered into the steel, augmenting the belligerence of the wielder and guiding the edge to its target. He’d never felt comfortable in its presence, and it hung heavily from his sword-belt.

  “Yes, of course,” he mumbled, and stepped closer to the balcony. Outside, clustered in the courtyard of the Drakenmoor castle, were the recruits the Reiksguard had worked so hard to draw together. There were hundreds more, he’d been told, flocking south to be armed and trained to fight for him. As a result of all that activity, Grosslich must surely have discovered where they were by now. The only
option left was to take the battle to him.

  “They’re waiting, my lord.”

  Leitdorf swallowed, then pushed aside the doors leading to the balcony and stepped outside.

  Below him, rammed tight into the enclosed space, the core of his new army stared up expectantly. Most were well armed, the product of his own armouries as well as Skarr’s raids on the supply caravans. Here and there he could see men wearing the blue and burgundy of the Leitdorf house, as well as the black and yellow livery of Averland. Such men were to be the captains and sergeants of the greater host to come, the leaders of the peasants and farm-hands who’d flesh out the ranks. Many of them looked experienced and capable. Others looked worryingly callow.

  “Men of Averland!” Leitdorf cried. His voice sounded thin, snatched away by the breeze, and he worked to lower it. “You all know why you’ve been summoned here. The traitor Grosslich has seized this province and plans to deliver it to the great enemy. This muster marks the very beginning of our struggle. We will fight our way north of here, gathering men as we go, raising the countryside against those who dare to take it from us. I will lead you, Rufus Leitdorf, son of electors and master of this realm!”

  There was a sporadic burst of applause, and a few men broke into a cheer. It wasn’t convincing. With a sick feeling in his stomach, Leitdorf realised he was losing them. They all knew his reputation. He tried to remember what he’d planned to say, but the words slipped from his grasp.

  “So I say, do not fear! The five hundred of you here today will be a thousand by dawn tomorrow. As we march, more will flock to our standard. By the time we reach Averheim, the hills will tremble at our coming.”

  The murmurs of approval began to die out.

  “I have fought Grosslich before!” shouted Leitdorf, trying to work up some enthusiasm. “He is nothing but a peasant, a low-born master of horse manure! I, on the other hand, am a noble-born leader of men and hence blessed by Sigmar. March with me, and I will return Averland to the rule of those fitted for it!”

  That didn’t go down well. Most of the troops were low-born, even those given command roles. Grosslich’s popularity had always stemmed from his mastery of the common touch. Leitdorf realised his error too late, and began to lose his thread. The crowd had fallen silent.