A WARHAMMER NOVEL
SWORD OF VENGEANCE
A KURT HELBORG NOVEL
Heroes - 03
Chris Wraight
(A Flandrel & Undead Scan v1.0)
This is a dark age, a bloody age, an age of daemons and of sorcery. It is an age of battle and death, and of the world’s ending. Amidst all of the fire, flame and fury it is a time, too, of mighty heroes, of bold deeds and great courage.
At the heart of the Old World sprawls the Empire, the largest and most powerful of the human realms. Known for its engineers, sorcerers, traders and soldiers, it is a land of great mountains, mighty rivers, dark forests and vast cities. And from his throne in Altdorf reigns the Emperor Karl-Franz, sacred descendant of the founder of these lands, Sigmar, and wielder of his magical warhammer.
But these are far from civilised times. Across the length and breadth of the Old World, from the knightly palaces of Bretonnia to ice-bound Kislev in the far north, come rumblings of war. In the towering World’s Edge Mountains, the orc tribes are gathering for another assault. Bandits and renegades harry the wild southern lands of the Border Princes. There are rumours of rat-things, the skaven, emerging from the sewers and swamps across the land. And from the northern wildernesses there is the ever-present threat of Chaos, of daemons and beastmen corrupted by the foul powers of the Dark Gods. As the time of battle draws ever near, the Empire needs heroes like never before.
WHAT HAS GONE BEFORE
The first part of this story was told in
Sword of Justice.
The summer of the year 2523. The province of Averland has been without an elector since the death of the mad Count Marius Leitdorf. Wearying of the long process of selection, Emperor Karl Franz dispatches his Champion Ludwig Schwarzhelm to Averheim to expedite matters, accompanied by his personal spy, Pieter Verstohlen, and an army of Reikland halberdiers.
The electorship is contested by two men: Rufus Leitdorf, second son of the old elector, and Heinz-Mark Grosslich, a relative unknown. During the long months of conflict between them, Averland has drifted into misrule. Reports arrive of orcs massing in the east, and most of Schwarzhelm’s forces are sent to secure the distant marches. Back in Averheim, Schwarzhelm is subject to severe pressure. When reports reach him that his commander in the east has been killed, he immediately rides out to avenge him.
Meanwhile, Verstohlen investigates the origins of the narcotic traffic in joyroot, and stumbles across Leitdorf’s wife Natassja at the centre of a Chaos cult. Barely escaping with his life, Verstohlen flees to the safety of Grosslich’s forces. Promising him the electorship if he will declare war on the Leitdorf’s, Verstohlen instigates open conflict between the two camps, and prompts the city Steward to send messages to the garrison of Reiksguard in Nuln. These are commanded by Schwarzhelm’s great rival, Kurt Helborg.
Schwarzhelm is swiftly victorious over the orcs and rides west back to Averheim. On the way to the city, Schwarzhelm discovers the bodies of messengers and half-burned orders which seem to implicate Leitdorf in their murder. Nuln is referred to as well, fanning the flames of Schwarzhelm’s already heightened suspicion of Helborg.
In Averheim, Grosslich and Verstohlen drive Leitdorf’s forces to the edge of the city. As Helborg and his Reiksguard arrive, they see Averheim in flames and Grosslich’s men running rampant. Helborg moves to quell the fighting, takes Leitdorf into custody and begins to orchestrate the capture of Grosslich.
Schwarzhelm arrives just as the fighting reaches its climax. Seeing Helborg riding against Grosslich, he leaps to the conclusion that the Reiksguard have turned traitor. Schwarzhelm’s anger, stoked by days of fatigue, breaks. He fells Helborg with a terrible blow. Before he can kill him, the Reiksguard manage to pull their leader from danger. Taking Leitdorf with them, they flee the city, pursued by Grosslich’s forces.
In the aftermath of the battle, Schwarzhelm fulfils Verstohlen’s pledge and crowns Grosslich Elector of Averland. He returns to Altdorf, and is removed from active duty by a devastated Emperor. Disconsolate, Schwarzhelm confides in his old mentor, the swordmaster Heinrich Lassus. During the conversation, Lassus unwittingly betrays the truth: that Helborg and Leitdorf are innocent, and Grosslich given over to Chaos, together with Natassja. The two devotees of Slaanesh begin to enact their terrible plan for Averland with all the resources of the elector’s office at their disposal.
Working alone now, Schwarzhelm vows to return. Leitdorf and Helborg are hunted by Grosslich’s troops, moving from safe house to safe house in an effort to evade detection. As Helborg fights for his life, surrounded by enemies, the Sword of Vengeance lies in the vaults of the Imperial Palace, far from its owner’s hands.
CHAPTER ONE
Running didn’t help. They were faster, unnaturally faster, and they didn’t give up. Anna-Helena tore round the corner of the old bakery, dragging snatched breaths into her overworked lungs, her fingers scratching against the stone as she grabbed at it. The alley beyond was dark, far darker than it should have been. She couldn’t see the end of it. Panicked, she started to twist back around.
Then they were on her. Three of them, wheezing like animals. She broke free of the first grasp, hearing the fabric of her dress rip and come away in shreds. There was nowhere to go but further down into the shadows, away from the horror, deeper into the cool valley between the silent buildings.
“Mercy of Sigmar!” came a voice, her own, shrill and panicked, on the edge of hysteria. The sound sank deep into the uncaring stone. There was no one awake to hear her, no one to come to her aid. It had been foolish, stupid, to cross the river after dark. She’d heard the stories. Everyone had. But the woman with the deep eyes had whispered such kind words, and she’d promised root.
Her bare feet, criss-crossed with lacerations, made no sound as she sprinted across the filthy cobbles. Her fear made her fast, even as her tattered dress hugged at her thighs.
Not fast enough. She felt the first grip dig in deep, talons sinking into the flesh of her shoulder. She was pulled up, dragged back. She whirled round, ignoring the pain, trying to shake them off. Her heart raced out of control, flooding her body with hot, terrified blood.
“Get off me!” Her voice was almost bestial with horror, the cry of a prey animal.
Another of them seized her other shoulder, pinning her down. Their weight was crushing, forcing her to her knees. She fought back, panting and ineffectual. A blank helmet gazed down at her, distended into a muzzle. Broken wheezing came from behind the closed grille.
“What are you?” she sobbed, slumping in defeat as the grip tightened. They towered over her, the three of them, saying nothing, holding her down. “Love of Sigmar, what are you?”
A fourth man appeared then, walking between them. She’d not seen him earlier. He was short, hunched-over with age. He had the grey skin of a scholar and black rings around his deep-set eyes. He pushed one of her pursuers aside and grabbed her chin, holding her face up to the scant moonlight. She gazed, trembling, into a cold and pitiless face.
“Let me be…” she protested, feeling hot tears run down her cheeks.
The man ignored her, pinching her flesh and rocking her face from side to side. He was looking at her like a housewife buying fruit, assessing suitability.
“She’ll do,” he said at last. He had a thin, scraping voice. “At last, we have three of them.”
She was dragged to her feet by the helmeted warriors. They started to haul her back down the alley, back the way they’d come, back to the building site and its hidden workings.
“Where are you taking me?” she screamed, jerking pointlessly against their iron-hard clutches.
T
he hunched man smiled sadly at her. It had been spirited of her, to run, but not much more than that. None of them got far.
“Into another world, my child,” he whispered, watching her disappear back into the night. “Into another world.”
Averland had sweltered under the beating sun for too long, and the weather had turned at last. Cold air tumbled down from the peaks of the Worlds Edge Mountains, ruffling the long grass of the plains and stirring the waters of the rivers. The herds of cattle felt it as they grazed, as did the peasants in their hovels. The wind had changed.
Averheim looked perfectly serene in the golden light of the afternoon. The recent battles in its alleyways and squares had done little to dent the facades of the elegant streets. More damage had been caused by the months of dereliction beforehand, during which men had lain in the streets half-sensible, their mouths open and drooling from joyroot. Back then thoroughfares had succumbed to piles of filth, and sewage had been left to gather in the heat, crawling with flies. Now discipline had returned, and the drift of the past was being expunged.
After his coronation, Heinz-Mark Grosslich had moved his seat of power from the ancestral Alptraum castle to the Averburg, the ancient citadel that dominated the east bank of the river. Now the gold-rimmed device of the boar’s head hung from every battlement. Signs of conflict, most notably in the Vormeisterplatz, had been scrubbed clean by an army of drudges. The fires had gone. Companies of armed men walked the streets at night, the merchant guilds had come back, and trade along the river had returned.
Dagobert Tochfel, Steward of the Averburg, walked down the wide avenue from the citadel to the Griffon Bridge, the oldest crossing over the river. He could smell the water as he drew near, dank and cool. The worst of the scum on its surface had been cleared away and the barges had come back. As he went along the quayside, he could see at least a dozen of them, jostling and bumping as they jockeyed for position by the warehouses.
He allowed himself a smile of satisfaction. The days had been hard, and the memories bad. Like everyone else, he needed to believe the worst of it was over. Every sign of renewal was seized upon, welcomed and documented. Averheimers wanted their city back. They wanted their lives back.
Tochfel’s skin was now a shade less grey, his eyelids a little less red, but he still had the hunched look of a scholar. His life before the affair with Schwarzhelm had been dominated by parchment ledgers and legal depositions. It was much the same now. Rulers might come and go, but the real business of governing changed little.
Ahead of him, dressed in the crimson and gold of the Grosslich hierarchy, Captain Erasmus Euler was busy overseeing the unloading. A dozen of his men lounged nearby, their halberds casually leaning against the warehouse walls. The scene was relaxed. Merchants haggled in small groups around them, exchanging bills of lading.
Tochfel walked up to the nearest barge, the Rosalinde. She was ugly, dark and low in the water. Most of her crew were ashore. The cargo was obvious—building materials, and lots of them. Every day brought a fresh consignment from somewhere. Granite from the mines in the east, marble from Sartosa, iron from Nuln. Averheim was sucking it in, and Tochfel didn’t even want to think about how much it was costing. It wasn’t on his ledger, and that was the important thing.
“Good day, Herr Euler,” he said, waving to the captain.
Tochfel thought he caught a flash of irritation on the man’s face.
“Good day to you, Steward,” Euler said, handing a sheaf of documents to one of his men. “What can I do for you?”
“Thought I’d take a look at how the project’s coming on. Even I feel stale eventually, cooped up in the citadel.”
“It’s going fine.” Euler’s voice was semi-hostile, but Tochfel was prepared to cut him a good deal of slack. Before Grosslich’s elevation, the man had barely commanded more than a dozen men. Now he was in charge of hundreds.
The Steward looked out across the river. Behind the Rosalinde there were two more barges in line for the berth. More were visible under the wide arches of the Griffon Bridge. The queuing had become a problem. “How many more are we expecting this week?”
“Couldn’t say. Get used to it, Steward. They’ll be coining in for weeks.”
Tochfel gave a rueful look. “Oh, I am used to it, captain. Though I can’t pretend I don’t have my concerns.” He checked to see if Euler was in a tolerant mood. He’d heard the man had developed a temper. “These landings are used for more than building materials. There are supplies for the citadel that are now two weeks late.”
“Then land them further down.”
“I would do so, Herr Euler, if you could show me one clear berth. The elector’s project—important as it no doubt is—seems to have taken things over somewhat.”
He tried to keep his voice deliberately light—there was no point in provoking a fight over this. Euler ran his fingers through his hair. He looked tired.
“Things have changed,” he said. “There’s business you’re not in command of anymore. You’ll have to talk to the elector yourself.”
“You think I haven’t tried that? I can’t get near him. I can’t even get near to Herr Alptraum, whom I’ve now not seen for over two weeks. I thought perhaps this might be best coming from you.”
For a moment, just a moment, there was a flicker of fear in Euler’s eyes. Tochfel could see the hollowness in his cheeks, the tightness around his mouth.
“The elector’s busy. If you want to bother him with this, then feel free. I’ve got more important things to see to.”
Tochfel decided to take that as a warning. It was a troubling thought. If even men like Euler disliked bringing things to Grosslich’s attention, then dealing with the elector would be difficult. For all the stories they told about Marius Leitdorf, he’d at least known how to keep trade flowing along the river.
“I see,” was all he said. He turned to look across the water. Half a mile distant, peeping over the crowded roofs of the poor quarter, was the object of all this work. With astonishing speed, Grosslich’s grand project was going ahead. The wooden scaffolding was already higher than the buildings around it. Beneath the cages of oak, the frame was starting to take shape.
Tochfel couldn’t suppress a shudder of distaste. Of course, he didn’t know what it would look like when complete, but the early signs weren’t promising. What kind of an architect came up with a tower made entirely of iron? Perhaps it would all become clear later. Perhaps he’d be surprised by it.
He hoped so. Just for once, it would be nice for the surprises to be good ones.
Heinz-Mark Grosslich sat on the electoral throne in the audience chamber of the Averburg. He was draped in crimson and the crown of his office sat heavily on his brow. The late afternoon sun slanted through the narrow windows, bathing the dark wood of the walls. As with every part of the citadel, banners with the Grosslich device hung along the room’s flanks. The more traditional emblems of Averland and Solland were nowhere to be seen.
There were two other men present with him. At his side sat Schwarzhelm’s aide, the spy Pieter Verstohlen. He was dressed in his habitual garb—a long leather coat, waistcoat and breeches, linen shirt, all beautifully tailored. His slender, handsome face gave little away.
Grosslich avoided making eye contact with him. The man’s continuing presence was an irritation. Schwarzhelm’s leftovers would have to be dealt with at some stage, but for now the need for a respectable front remained acute. The eyes of Altdorf were on him. The eyes of the Empire were on him.
That fact was demonstrated by the presence of the second man. A messenger from the Imperial Palace, kneeling on the stone not five yards from him. It had taken longer than Grosslich had expected, but had been bound to happen eventually. This was the beginning, the start of the tussle between elector and elected. Even if he’d been an ordinary provincial governor with ordinary provincial aspirations, the balance of power between Altdorf and Averheim was always fraught.
But he was no ordinary governo
r, and his ambitions went beyond anything the Emperor was capable of imagining. Soon even Karl Franz would realise it.
“Rise,” he drawled.
The messenger clambered to his feet. He was armoured and wore the red and white Palace livery. His tunic was emblazoned with the Imperial griffon, and he carried a heavy sword at his belt. The man’s grey hair was cropped close to the grizzled scalp, his shoulders were broad, and he looked like he knew how to use his weapon. A knight, then, seconded to the Palace’s messenger corps. When he looked at Grosslich, there was no fear in his seasoned eyes.
“I bring word from His Most Imperial Highness, Emperor Karl Franz I von Holswig-Schliestein, Grand Prince of Altdorf, Count of the Reikland, Protector of the Empire.”
“That’s nice,” said Grosslich. He felt Verstohlen stiffen slightly at his side. Perhaps he should resist the temptation to mock. The vermin around him needed humouring for a little while longer, as tedious as it was to do so.
“The Emperor has instructed me to congratulate your lordship on the succession to the throne, achieved though it was at such a high price. As war has conspired to prevent an assemblage of the Estates in recent months, his highness begs me to enquire of your lordship when your entourage intends to travel to the Palace, so that his highness may pay his respects in person.”
The stilted language was that of Imperial diplomacy, and to the untrained ear might have sounded like a gentle request. Grosslich was worldly enough to know what it really conveyed: he was being summoned to Altdorf. Karl Franz wanted to see if his intervention in Averland had brought him what he wanted.
“Convey to his highness my profound thanks for his gracious concern,” replied Grosslich. “He’ll be aware of the difficult circumstances of my inauguration. The traitors who conspired to ruin this province remain free from capture. There is work to be done on the city, and need for more men under arms. I trust he’ll understand that I cannot leave the city for the foreseeable future. When all is placed in order, I’ll be honoured to accept his magnanimous invitation.”
[Heroes 03] - Sword of Vengeance Page 1