[Heroes 03] - Sword of Vengeance

by Chris Wraight - (ebook by Undead)

  Tochfel nodded. “Good. I’m glad my message got to you.”

  “Your concerns and mine may be similar.”

  “Maybe. How are things with the elector?”

  Verstohlen shrugged.

  “I see less of him every day. I suspect my services are no longer of much use.”

  “But how does he seem to you?”

  “His mood changes. Some days, I see the qualities I saw in him when Schwarzhelm and I first arrived. On others, things are less… clear cut.”

  Tochfel nodded. “That’s right. That’s what others say. It’s harder to get to him. I’ve not spoken with him for days. He’s becoming erratic.”

  Verstohlen felt a qualm of recognition. That’s what they’d said about Schwarzhelm. Was there something corrupting about the city? He immediately thought of Natassja. The witch had still not been found.

  “So what are you saying to me, Steward?” asked Verstohlen. “I can’t believe you’ve come here to moan about your master’s moods.”

  Tochfel’s hands fidgeted on his knees. By the glow of the hearth, his face looked distorted.

  “Something’s wrong here, Herr Verstohlen,” he said, his voice audibly shaking. “I tried to warn you of it before Grosslich’s coronation. No one’s seen Ferenc Alptraum since the battle for the city. No one’s seen Achendorfer. There are other disappearances.”

  “Such things are normal when power shifts,” said Verstohlen, watching Tochfel carefully, looking for the signs of dishonesty. The Steward was not a master player of the game, but he could still have been subverted.

  Tochfel looked hurt. “I may not have your skill in such matters,” he said, “but I’m not entirely naive. Do you know how many men have been burned at the stake? Two hundred. They’re not all done in public. I’ve seen the lists. That’s beyond reason.”

  “Are there trials?”

  “Supposedly.” Tochfel snorted. “The witch hunter Heidegger has his talons into everything. He even wants my own aides dragged to the stake. None of us are safe.”

  At the mention of witch hunters, Verstohlen had to work to suppress a grunt of contempt. The cult members who’d taken Leonora had been Templars of Sigmar. He regarded even the uncorrupted ones as little better than butchers and sadists, and the fact he was frequently mistaken for one of them was a considerable irritation.

  Tochfel leaned forwards, his fingers twitching with agitation. “Can’t you see it?” he implored. “We’ve picked the wrong man.”

  Verstohlen shook his head. “Impossible. I saw Leitdorf’s corruption for myself.”

  “Now who’s being naive, counsellor? So much has turned on that, and yet you always say that the great enemy is ever more cunning than it seems. Could you not have been allowed to see what you did?”

  Verstohlen froze.

  “Natassja’s still not been found,” he said. “She may be in the city. Her powers are formidable, and while she lives none of us should feel safe.”

  Tochfel let slip a bitter laugh. “You’re obsessed with Natassja. Can’t you see that Grosslich is the enemy? He’s duped us all. You’ve seen that monstrosity he’s building in the poor quarter. What sane man builds a tower of iron?”

  Verstohlen didn’t reply. The more Tochfel spoke, the more anxiety started to crowd around him. He’d been so sure. He’d convinced everyone of Leitdorf’s guilt. Even Schwarzhelm.

  For that matter, where was Schwarzhelm? Why hadn’t there been any word from Altdorf? Why hadn’t there been word of anything from outside the province?

  “I won’t deny there’s something wrong here,” he said, “but Natassja is the witch, and she’s Leitdorf’s woman. We need to find her, and her whelp of a husband.”

  “What can I do to prove it to you?” asked Tochfel, sounding miserable. “You won’t accept the evidence of your eyes. No one will. I feel like I’m the only man left who can see it.”

  “I’ll speak to Grosslich,” said Verstohlen, placing a reassuring hand on the Steward’s shoulder. “There are things I’d like cleared up myself. Trust me—if the man has been tainted by anything here, I’ll be able to tell. I’m not proud, Herr Tochfel. If I’m wrong, then I’ll be the first to come to you to admit it. Then we’ll decide what to do next.”

  Tochfel didn’t look reassured. “He’ll get stronger, the longer we leave it.”

  “And what could we do, even if you were right?” asked Verstohlen. “Could the two of us overthrow an elector? We need information. The Empire will not leave Averheim alone for long. This thing requires subtlety, and outside help.”

  For a moment, Tochfel looked as if he’d protest further, but the words never came. He looked slumped and fearful.

  “Take heart, Steward,” said Verstohlen, trying to improve both their moods. “We have already saved Averheim from certain damnation. What corruption remains will be uncovered in time.”

  Tochfel gave him a piteous look.

  “If you really think that, counsellor,” he said, “then I do not understand your reputation for wisdom.”

  Black Fire Keep dominated the land around it, just as its architects had intended. The pass was under a mile wide at the point where it had been constructed. It had been raised on a hill of granite in the centre of the otherwise flat and featureless rock around it. The pinnacle of the fortress commanded long views both east and west, and in normal times the standards of the Emperor and of Averland rustled proudly from twenty-foot-high flagpoles.

  The bare rock stretching away from the Keep on all sides was not there by accident of nature. After the second battle of Black Fire Pass, an army of men and dwarfs had worked for months to clear the land. Piles of stone were levelled in back-breaking labour, and the few clumps of foliage capable of surviving the blinding snows of winter were cut down and burned. Approaching the Keep undetected was now all but impossible, and bitter experience had taught the defenders to remain vigilant at all times.

  The massive walls rose a hundred feet into the clear sky and were as thick as a man’s height. Their stone was black from the many sieges levelled against them, and the signs of historical devastation were impossible to remove. For all the blood shed over the wind-scoured stone, it would never be left undefended as long as the Empire stood. Black Fire Pass was more than a trading route, more than a strategic foothold in the mountains. It was the place where the Empire had been born. There was never a shortage of volunteers willing to man the ramparts of the way-forts and Keep, despite the appalling casualties and near-certainty of attack. Indeed, the mountain guard commanders had to pick their men carefully, rooting out the genuine soldiers from the fanatic and deranged.

  The cycle of fighting never ended here. Incursions would be followed by a bitter fightback, which would be followed by fresh incursions. The humans would never rid the world of the greenskin scourge, and the orcs would never be allowed to hold the passes. As Bloch looked up at the distant walls, now daubed with the blood of their last human defenders, he knew he was just the latest to contest the site. Whatever the result of his actions, the game would be played out for centuries after he was gone.

  He found the thought reassuring. All he’d ever known was war. The idea of a world where it didn’t exist felt as wrong as being bought a drink by a dwarf. Both were feasibly possible, but he didn’t expect to see either in his lifetime.

  He stood with his troops half a mile west of the fortress, in view of the ramparts but far enough away to be untroubled by them. At his side, as ever, were Drassler and Kraus. Behind him, the army stood silently. They were arrayed for battle, divided into companies and standing in well-ordered ranks. They’d held together well. Averlander companies still carried their standards proudly, both those which Schwarzhelm had raised in Averheim and the men of Grenzstadt and Heideck who’d been drafted into action. Amongst them were the Reikland detachments that had marched from Altdorf. They were tougher men, hardened by years of ceaseless combat, proudly wearing the white and grey of the richest Imperial province. The tall sta
ves of the halberds glinted in the severe light.

  At the front was Bloch’s own detachment. To a man, they were survivors of Grunwald’s army. All of them were Reiklanders, tempered in the fiercest of fighting, as unyielding and hard-bitten as any regular troops in the Emperor’s armies. No fear showed in their grizzled faces, just a grim determination to see the campaign through. Many of their comrades lay in the rich earth of the pastures below, and the deaths required vengeance.

  Bloch looked over the heads of the massed troops to the baggage train at the rear. Reserve companies stood ready, as silent as the main body of the army. Teams of horses stamped nervously, steam snorting from their nostrils as they shook their heads against the chill. Behind them were the few artillery pieces of any size that he’d been able to commandeer. Not much, and little danger to the Keep.

  Finally, there were Drassler’s mountain guard. No more than two hundred or so remained, the others having been killed or harried into the high peaks by the tide of orcs. The survivors looked as hard-edged as Bloch’s own men, their beards ragged and their faces unsmiling. This was their chance for revenge, and perhaps for some measure of atonement.

  All were watching him, waiting for the words of command. As they stood unmoving, the harsh wind rippled across the army.

  Bloch turned away from them, back to the fortress. He couldn’t make out much from that distance. There was no movement on the plain. The Keep rose tall and stark from the stone, a block of solid rock thrust from the core of the earth. Though there was no sign of the infestation, he knew that the place was swarming with greenskins. Schwarzhelm’s orders, given so lightly after the rout on the grasslands of Averland, would not be easily fulfilled. That mattered not. He’d been given them, and he’d carry them out.

  He took a deep breath and turned to Kraus. The captain’s face was as bleak as the granite around him.

  “Give the signal,” Bloch ordered. “Let’s do it.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Noon has passed, and the afternoon sun began to cast long shadows from the branches of the trees. The seemingly endless pastures of long, whispering grass had given way to higher country, dotted with straggling woodland and uncultivated scrub. This was poor land. The soil was thin and the undergrowth tangled. Ever since the devastation of Ironjaw the people of the region had been slow to return to their farms, and abandoned buildings, their roofs white with age, dotted the horizon. Gorse had replaced grass on the verges, and the roads petered out into stone-clogged tracks.

  Skarr pulled his horse up and the column of knights came to a halt. He rode at the front of it, accompanied by Eissen, who in the aftermath of the fighting at Averheim had assumed the position of his lieutenant by default. Leitdorf was close behind. Further down the column, protected by ranks of Reiksguard, lay Helborg. He’d been placed in a carriage taken from Leitdorf’s last country residence. It was absurdly ornate, decked with florid coats of arms and a golden image of the Solland sun on its flanks. If there had been any less ostentatious choice, Skarr would have taken it. As it was, he was stuck with the late count’s extravagance.

  He looked over the line of troops with a commander’s eye, checking for signs of weariness or indiscipline. There were none. Though they now numbered less than fifty, the company held its order impeccably. The Reiksguard, drilled from their teens to embody the perfection of the Emperor’s will, had maintained the condition of their armour and steeds with stoic efficiency. They carried most of their gear and supplies with them, and the trail of baggage mules and spare horses at the rear of the column was short.

  Rufus Leitdorf nudged his horse alongside Skarr’s. The deposed heir had lost some of the fat around his face over the last few days. He looked better for it, less effeminate. In the face of the Reiksguard’s open contempt, some of the habitual arrogance had been knocked from his manner.

  “How close are we?” asked Skarr, turning his gaze back to the road ahead. The track wound through the heathland uncertainly, threatening to give out entirely. That wouldn’t trouble the horses, but it would make the carriage’s progress impossible. Like everywhere in the Empire, there were creatures in the dark places far from the road, ever ready to launch an assault if they sensed weakness.

  “Another day,” said Leitdorf. “No more.”

  Skarr grunted. Long hours travelling in the wilds didn’t bother him at all, but Helborg’s condition did. The Marshal needed time to rest properly. Skarr had witnessed Helborg fighting on after taking wounds that would have laid a lesser man low, but this was different. The man’s face remained bloodless. Even when awake, his eyes were glassy and listless. Something seemed broken within him, and it wasn’t physical. For long periods the Marshal remained unconscious. His slumber was troubled, and on the occasions Skarr had watched over him, he’d seen Helborg mutter words in his sleep. Chief among them was always “Schwarzhelm”.

  “I’m going to check on the Marshal,” he said, dismounting. Skarr pushed his way back through the mounted knights and made his way to the carriage. The doors had been covered with a black lacquer, much of which had rubbed off during the passage south and east. Now the proud emblems were scratched and faded, and the wood was plastered with grime.

  Skarr climbed up on to the footboard and pulled the door open. Helborg was slumped against the far wall of the carriage, swathed in blankets. There wasn’t room to lay him flat, and he looked awkwardly twisted in the cramped interior.

  Helborg was awake, staring out of the window. Days-worth of stubble covered his sunken cheeks, and his moustache was lank.

  “Marshal,” acknowledged Skarr, cautiously sitting opposite him. There wasn’t much that scared the preceptor, but Helborg, even in his diminished state, made everyone nervous.

  Helborg didn’t respond. He kept staring out of the glass.

  “How do you feel?” asked Skarr.

  As soon as the question left his mouth, he knew it had been a mistake. Helborg didn’t want pity.

  “Where are we?” Helborg’s rasping voice was even worse than usual.

  “Near the Drakenmoor. Leitdorf’s land. Another day’s riding, no more.”

  “I should be on a horse. What’s this damned haywain you’ve got me in?”

  Skarr didn’t quite know how to respond to that. The man looked like he could barely raise his arm.

  “I’ll see to it,” he lied.

  Helborg finally looked at him. His gaze was penetrating. “My recollection of events is… unclear,” he said. “What has happened here?”

  Skarr cleared his throat. He had no answers.

  “We’re being hunted. Grosslich has raised the country against us. He’s been crowned elector, and there’s an army on our heels.”

  “Then turn and fight it. You’re Reiksguard.”

  “There are hundreds of them, my lord.”

  Helborg grunted with disapproval, as if to say, and when did that ever matter before?

  “Schwarzhelm was with them,” added Skarr, and it sounded like a hollow excuse. He’d never run from a fight before, but the events of the Vormeisterplatz had been horrifying. To see the two greatest sons of the Empire come to blows had been bad enough. Becoming fugitives was even worse.

  “So what’s your plan?” rasped Helborg. At the mention of Schwarzhelm’s name, his voice had become tighter.

  “Keep you and Leitdorf hidden and find out what happened. Grosslich’s treachery can’t stay uncovered for long, and I’ll find a way of getting a message through to Altdorf.”

  Helborg shot him a withering look. Skarr recoiled, recognising the imperious disdain all too well. The Marshal wasn’t happy.

  “Damn it, Skarr, we’ll do more than that,” he growled. Something of his old cultivated savagery had returned. “You didn’t see Schwarzhelm’s face. He was mad. They’d all been driven mad. It was in the air.”

  He leaned forwards with difficulty. Skarr saw one of his hands slip from the cloth wrappings, and it was clenched into a tight fist.

  “We’l
l gather our strength and strike back,” he rasped. “Strike hard, and strike fast. Whatever treachery has taken place here will be punished.”

  Like a long-cold hearth stuttering back into life, the Marshal’s eyes recovered their old fire. Then, and for the first time since the fighting at Averheim, Skarr knew Helborg would live to lead him again.

  “We are your men, my lord,” he said, with something like joy.

  “Forget that!” Helborg snapped, his voice shaking with fervour. “Forget your loyalties. This is about vengeance. I will recover my strength, I will return to the city, and I will find the one who did this to me.”

  He looked at Skarr directly, and his expression was brutal.

  “Sigmar preserves those who fight, Skarr. We will fight until the Aver runs dark with blood. We will fight until the last traitor drowns in his own gore. We will fight until that bastard Grosslich has been cast down and his soul flayed to the five corners of the world. They should have killed me. While a breath remains in my body I’ll be too much for them. I’ll raise the country against them. I’ll tear down their walls and shatter their defences. I’ll burn their warped dreams and rip out their traitor’s hearts. All this I will do and more, for I am Kurt Helborg, master of the Emperor’s endless armies, hammer of his foes, and my name itself is vengeance.”

  Black Fire Keep was ugly. Pig ugly. The vaguely star-shaped walls jutted out unevenly, and the massive ramparts hung like brooding palls of snow over the sloping walls. Everything had been turned black by age and fire, and even the orcs hadn’t found many ways to despoil further what they’d found.

  “Form up!” Bloch bellowed, letting the sergeants echo his order through the ranks.

  He’d pulled the army in close. The detachments of infantry were now in clear view of the battlements, arrayed in a wide semicircle to the south of the fort. All were deployed in company detachments several ranks deep, Averlanders mingled with Reiklanders. The squares formed a long, ragged line across the stony ground, and there were many gaps between the clustered companies. Pennants flew in the strong breeze, snapping and rippling over the heads of the soldiers. There was no heavy cavalry, and what artillery there was had been hauled into place on the far left flank of the army, south-west of the Keep along a narrow shelf of wind-smoothed rock. Reserves were minimal—just a couple of halberdier companies set back from the main formation.