[Heroes 03] - Sword of Vengeance

by Chris Wraight - (ebook by Undead)

  Night air gusted through the shutters. The fire had burned low in the grate. The rain continued to plague the city, and he could hear the constant drum of it outside. He’d been working for hours, and was not an eloquent scribe. Composing the letter to the Emperor had taken him the best part of the day and all of the evening. Even now he wasn’t sure everything was ordered correctly. He found himself wishing Verstohlen was around. He’d have been able to advise. He’d always been able to advise.

  Schwarzhelm brushed sand over the parchment and folded it up. He slipped it into an envelope, reached for the candle of sealing wax and tipped a gobbet of it on the join. As the wax hardened he pulled his personal seal from the drawer at his side. That too was hard to look at. The Sword of Justice entwined with the Imperial seal atop the initials L.S. Once it had been a source of pride to him. Now, like everything else, it had been sullied.

  He pressed the seal onto the wax, watching as the red fluid solidified, then placed the letter on the desk in front of him. Beside it was the key he’d taken from Heinrich Lassus’ house. It had taken a while for him to discover which lock it opened, but he still had friends in the city. The old traitor had been careful, but not careful enough. He’d trusted in his reputation, and that alone had been sufficient to fool everyone. Even now, only Schwarzhelm himself knew of the man’s treachery. The fire had concealed evidence of his transformation, and men assumed that the old general had suffered from a terrible accident. For the time being, that was how Schwarzhelm wanted it. The truth would emerge in good time.

  He took up the key and ran it over his fingers. Iron glinted in the candlelight. Even after much time had passed, he still had no idea why Lassus had done it. As far as he knew, the old swordmaster had no connections in Averland and no interest in the succession. He’d never had any concern with matters of rank or promotion. That was precisely why he’d been so admired. I’ve been granted the grace to retire from the field and see out the rest of my days in peace. That’s what he’d told Schwarzhelm, back before he’d ridden to Averheim. Such an effortless, professional lie, so smoothly delivered.

  With an effort of will, Schwarzhelm turned his mind back to the present. The longer he lingered on his many failures, the less useful he could be. Deep down, the tidings of Verstohlen nagged away at him. The spy had seen the mark of Chaos in the city, and his reports had been vindicated by the horrific manner of Lassus’ death. Schwarzhelm had to assume that Natassja was still alive. Perhaps Rufus Leitdorf was too. In any event, for as long as Verstohlen remained in Averheim, the counsellor was in terrible danger. Schwarzhelm had sent coded messages by secret courier, but had little hope of them getting through. The only course left to him was to return there himself. Amends had to be made, debts settled, secrets uncovered.

  He’d tried to seek an audience with the Emperor to explain his worries, but that had proved impossible. Never before had any request of his to meet Karl Franz been turned down. That hurt him more than anything else that had happened. Perhaps the Emperor was still angry. Perhaps he was trying to protect Schwarzhelm from any further involvement, thinking it best that he recovered from his trials. Or perhaps there was corruption even in the heart of the Palace, blocking his missives from reaching their target.

  In any case, it didn’t matter now. His mind was made up. He would leave for Averheim as soon as his work in Altdorf was done. There were only three things he needed to do first.

  He rose from the table, taking the key and the letter with him and placing them in his jerkin pocket. He took a dark cloak from the hook in the wall beside him and wrapped himself up in it. At his side he felt the cool presence of the Rechtstahl. He hadn’t drawn it since returning from Averland, and he dreaded seeing the rune-carved steel again. The spirit of the weapon was sullen and accusatory. Like all dwarf-forged master swords, it cared about the nature of the blood it spilt.

  Schwarzhelm turned to leave the room. Three simple tasks. To leave the letter where the Emperor would find it. To enter Lassus’ private archives in the Palace vaults. To retrieve the Sword of Vengeance, ready to return it to its master if he still lived.

  Simple to list, difficult to do. With a final look around his study, Schwarzhelm blew out the candles and left to break in to the most heavily guarded fortress in the Empire.

  Grosslich reached the bottom of the staircase. The echoing screams had now become a gorgeous cacophony, rising from the depths of the crypt and snaking through the many passages and antechambers of the whole foundation layer. For a moment, Grosslich paused to take in the sound. He could almost smell it. That wonderful mix of fear, desperation and utter hopelessness. They had no idea how lucky they were to be shown such exquisite varieties of sensation. Their minds were being expanded. Involuntarily, it was true, but expanded nonetheless. Sometimes literally.

  At the bottom of the stairs, a long gallery ran ahead for two hundred yards. Far below the surface of the city, Natassja had been able to indulge her peerless sense of design. The floor was glassy and smooth. A gentle lilac light rose from it, picking out the detail of the baroque walls, each carved with the same care and intricacy as the doors above. The themes were the ones she loved—lissom youths of both sexes, locked in what looked like a ballet of agony. The artistry was such that the iron figures could almost have passed for real bodies, locked into eternal stasis and bound into the foundations of the Tower.

  At regular intervals along the gallery, archways had been cut into the walls. Each of these was decorated in the same fashion, with sigils dedicated to Pleasure engraved over the keystone. The noises came from beyond these arches. Grosslich hadn’t had time to explore all the rooms in person, but he knew they were where Natassja carried out her works of artistry. On the rare occasions when he’d felt able to peer within their confines, he’d found the experience difficult. He knew that a part of him was still mired in human weaknesses. Even now, after so much transformation, to see some of those… scenes made his flesh shiver. He’d have to work on that. The weakness in him, small as it was, was the last remaining impediment to glory.

  At the far end of the gallery a large octagonal chamber had been hewn from the earth. When the Tower was completed, the chamber would sit directly beneath the centre of the mighty shaft. For now, all that stood above it was an iron cat’s cradle.

  Grosslich walked across the glass floor, enjoying the echoing click of his boots. The sound produced a pleasing counterpoint to the sobbing whimpers coming from door number four. As he passed it, he was pleased to see Natassja already waiting for him in the octagon.

  “My love,” he said, marvelling as he always did at her splendour.

  Natassja sat on an obsidian throne at the centre of the chamber. Her skin, once ivory, was now a shimmering pale blue. Her eyes had lost their pupils and become pure black jewels in her flawless face. Her teeth still shone as white as they’d ever done, even if the incisors looked a little longer. She wore a sheer gown of nightshade silk, and a necklace of ithilmar spikes now graced her neckline. Her hair, black as pitch, hung loose around her shoulders.

  At Grosslich’s approach, she rose from the throne.

  “What word from Altdorf?” she asked, descending from the dais to meet him. Her voice was cool, though a sibilant undertone had been added to it.

  “The Emperor summoned me. I played for time.”

  Natassja looked thoughtful. “He won’t remain patient forever,” she said. “Schwarzhelm will tell him the truth soon, if he hasn’t already.”

  Grosslich frowned at that. Everyone was always so worried. It was inexplicable, given the position of strength they were in.

  “You’re sure Lassus gave much away?”

  “He was weak,” spat Natassja. “Even now his soul is shriven. I have seen it. A thousand years of torment to ponder a slip of the tongue.” Vehemence made her voice shake. “And yes, he did give much away. His presence in this has given us all away. Schwarzhelm is damaged, but he’s still powerful.”

  “Then I’ve no dou
bt you’ve plans in place.”

  “We still have agents in the Palace,” she said. “For as long as possible we must maintain the illusion that Rufus was the traitor here. In the meantime, there are two men we have to kill. One is Schwarzhelm, though that will be difficult at such a range. The other is closer to hand.”

  “Verstohlen.”

  “Quite. See to it.”

  “Of course,” said Grosslich. That would be a singular pleasure—the man’s bleating had become insufferable.

  “And then there’s the pursuit of Rufus. That troubles me.”

  Natassja spoke quickly but clearly. There was no trace of mania in her eyes. Back when he’d been a normal man, Grosslich had assumed all cultists were raving fanatics. Natassja had her moments, but her demeanour habitually remained as smooth as onyx. Perhaps that shouldn’t have surprised him. She’d been active in this, after all, for centuries.

  “Any more news from your men?” she asked. “How goes the hunt?”

  “It’s difficult, my goddess,” said Grosslich, not bothering to hide the truth. “He’s in his own country, protected by his own people. I send more men east every day, but we can’t search every house.”

  Natassja shook her head. “Not quick enough. Come with me. I have something to show you.”

  She led him back into the long gallery. With a faint shudder, Grosslich realised they were heading for one of the antechambers. Number one. He’d never been allowed in that one.

  “The one uncertain factor in this is Helborg,” said Natassja as she walked. “He was not part of the original plan, though we were able to make use of him. My senses tell me he still lives.” She turned to face Grosslich before entering the chamber, and her expression was intense. “I fear his presence. He was not foreseen from the beginning. It might have been better if he had never come.”

  She ducked under the archway. As Grosslich followed into the darkness his eyes took a moment to adjust.

  “I thought you used him? To goad Schwarzhelm further?”

  Natassja nodded. “We did. Lassus and I had discussed the contingency. At every stage, we made it appear as if Helborg and Rufus were working in tandem. But that was always in addition to the main objective. I was never sure it was the right decision.”

  Grosslich’s vision began to clarify. The antechamber retreated far back into the darkness of the earth. He couldn’t see the far wall for shadow. On either side of him were long wooden tables with leather restraining straps. There were vials of a lilac-coloured liquid and gut tubes leading from them. Surgical instruments had been placed on a separate table, and they glistened in the low light. Across every surface, parchment made of human skin had been draped, painstakingly inscribed with tight-curled script. There were diagrams, etched in blood so old it had turned black. The floor, hidden in the gloom, was sticky. In the darkness beyond, he could faintly make out a rattling sound. Something was moving.

  “I saw the blow that felled him,” said Grosslich, trying to concentrate on the task at hand. “He may yet die from it.”

  “Possibly. But we have to be sure. Come forwards.”

  The last command hadn’t been directed at him. The rattling grew louder. Something was shuffling into the light.

  “What is this, my goddess?” asked Grosslich. He was nervous. Despite all his training, all his immersion in the world of the Dark Prince, he was still nervous. He still had some way to go.

  “A new toy,” she replied, eyes fixed on the approaching shape. “A refinement of the creatures I was working on before. I call them my handmaidens. What do you think?”

  The figure that emerged had been a woman. She had once been beautiful, perhaps. She was slim, pale-skinned, with mouse-brown hair arranged in long plaits. Maybe in the past she had moved with an easy grace, laughing in the sun and trying to catch the eye of the troopers marching to war.

  Now she moved silently. Her once flawless skin was covered in incisions and sutures. Her eyes were gone, replaced with blank brass plates. Black rags had been draped over her naked shoulders, but they did little to obscure the surgery that had scored her body. Exposed bone glinted from her hips, her knees, her neck. Most strikingly of all, her fingers had been replaced with long curved talons. They shone coldly in the dark. What was left of her face was contorted into a silent, frozen howl of agony. It was unclear if she could still speak. It looked like she could barely walk.

  “Impressive,” said Grosslich, trying not to imagine the full horror of the transformation. “What can she do?”

  “There has been extensive replacement,” said Natassja coolly. “At her heart there burns an iron casket containing a shard of the Stone. That keeps her alive, despite the removal of the spine. Once given an instruction, she will never stop. These ones no longer need to be near me to retain their power.”

  The handmaiden shuffled closer. It seemed blind as well as crippled. Every movement it made was tight with pain.

  “It doesn’t move fast.”

  Natassja smiled and ran a finger gently down the handmaiden’s scarred cheek. “Do not be fooled by her current state. When given the proper command, she will change.” Natassja looked at her tenderly, like a proud mother. “For now, she only has her own private world of pain. That can be altered by giving her a name.”

  “A name.”

  “A name is a mystical thing, Heinz-Mark. It has resonance in the aethyr. They can use it to find their prey. When they are ready, I will give it to them.”

  “She’s not ready?”

  “Not yet,” said Natassja, stroking the handmaiden’s remaining hair. “There will be three of them, at least to begin with. Their creation is long and difficult. Then I will send them out. They will sweep across Averland like crows, never pausing, never resting.”

  She looked back at Grosslich, and her eyes were shining. “All they need is the name. Helborg.”

  Rufus Leitdorf looked down on the stricken face of Kurt Helborg. The Marshal slept still, propped up on bolsters of duckfeather. The two men were alone in the bedchamber of one of his father’s houses, far out in the eastern reaches of Averland. The room was typically grand, with a high plastered ceiling and heavy wooden furniture against all four walls. The bed itself was larger than some peasants’ hovels, with fanciful images of dragons and crested eagles carved into the headboard.

  The night was old. Candlelight made Helborg’s face look even paler. The craggy features, so admired and feared across the Empire, were now haggard, and the proud moustache hung in lank strands across his cheeks. His breathing was shallow, and a thick layer of sweat lay on his skin.

  Leitdorf took up another towel and began to dab the moisture away. Only a few months ago he’d never have stooped to minister to another man’s discomfort, even a man as famed as Helborg, but things had changed. He was now a fugitive in his own land, hunted by men he had once aspired to command. There seemed little point in retaining old pretensions of grandeur.

  He replaced the towel on the low table by the bed. Leitdorf sat for a while, watching the man’s breast rise and fall under the coverlet. Helborg fought with death. The wound in his shoulder had closed, but some profound struggle was still going on within him.

  There was a knock at the door. Leitdorf rose from the bed, smoothing the sheets from where he’d been sitting.

  “Come.”

  Leofric von Skarr, preceptor of the Reiksguard, entered. He was still in full battle armour and looked as grim and wolfish as ever. His dark hair hung around his face, criss-crossed with the scars that so suited his name.

  “Any change?”

  “None.”

  “He hasn’t woken?”

  “Not while I’ve been with him.”

  Skarr nodded. Around his neck hung the shard taken from Helborg’s sword. It had become something of a totem for the depleted Reiksguard company who still guarded their master, the emblem of his future recovery.

  “There was another patrol out there, beyond the line of the hills,” said Skarr. “
We killed them all, but they were getting close. They’re going to find us.”

  “Then we move again.”

  “You haven’t run out of houses?”

  Leitdorf gave a superior smile. “My father owned more houses in Averland than there are whores in Wurtbad.”

  Skarr snorted.

  “It’s no solution, this endless fleeing,” he said dismissively, leaning against a fabulously expensive Breugsletter sideboard as if it were a country gate. “They’ll catch up with us eventually, and we don’t have the men to fight them all.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that.” Leitdorf walked over to a writing desk by the window. Across it lay a vellum map of Averland, lit by more candles. It bore the crest of Marius Leitdorf in the corner and was obviously a private commission. Each of the old count’s many manor houses and fortified places was marked. “Look at this.”

  Skarr joined him.

  “We’re here,” said Leitdorf, pointing to a country mansion several days’ ride from Averheim. “Far, but not far enough. We should be aiming here.”

  He indicated a blank spot on the map. The nearest landmark was a patch of scratchily-drawn highland called Drakenmoor.

  “I don’t see anything.”

  “I know,” said Leitdorf. “This is one of my father’s own maps, and it isn’t even displayed here. That’s how secret he kept it. His last retreat. The place he went to in order to escape the dreams.”

  Skarr looked sceptical. “A hideaway.”

  “Something like that.”

  “How do you know of it?”

  “There were some family secrets to which I was privy,” said Leitdorf, affronted. The Reiksguard treated him like a spoiled, feckless dandy.