Swords of the Emperor

by Chris Wraight

  “Don’t scorn that talent. You should trust my judgement.”

  “I do. Why else would I go through with it?” Karl Franz smiled.

  “Never have I tested your loyalty more,” he mused. He placed his goblet down on the table next to him. “But that charade is over now. We need to discuss more serious matters.”

  Schwarzhelm let the wine sink down his gullet. Here it came. The next assignment. The scant days of reprieve had passed too quickly.

  “I make no apology for publicly celebrating your victory at Turgitz,” said Karl Franz. “The beasts will be back, that we know. But not for a while, and that frees up resources for other things.”

  He looked directly at Schwarzhelm.

  “My mind has turned to healing old wounds,” he said. “One in particular. Ludwig, we need to do something about Averland.”

  So that was it.

  “Averland. Why now?”

  “Why not?”

  Karl Franz leaned forward in his seat. His eyes sparkled. It was the only outward sign he ever gave of excitement.

  “We may never get a better chance. For the moment, our northern borders are free from threat. Though I will not say the war is over, it has abated for a season. There are matters left hanging, threads to be tidied away. Leitdorf’s seat is empty. A province must not be left without a master.”

  “Maybe so, but that’s not in our gift to alter.”

  “You disappoint me. How long have I known you? Have you learned nothing of the arts of state?”

  Schwarzhelm said nothing. Even a gentle rebuke from the Emperor felt like a stain on his honour. That was his peculiar gift. He didn’t inspire loyalty. He inspired devotion.

  “I recall when you were a young man,” continued the Emperor, picking up his wine again and rolling the liquid around in the crystal. “Leitdorf was still alive, but even then his mind was disarranged. He couldn’t be left to run things alone. You had no qualms about imposing the imperial writ then.”

  “That was different.”

  “Not really,” said Karl Franz.

  “We can’t interfere with the coronation of an elector. It’s never been done.” Karl Franz let slip a sly smile.

  “I don’t believe you really think that, Ludwig,” he said. “But hear me out. I have nothing underhand in mind. It’s in our interests—in the Empire’s interests—for Averland to have a strong man at the helm. The situation cannot be left to fester. There are plenty in that province who have no desire to see restoration of an electorship, but none of them can see beyond their own selfish noses. Even now we hear of greenskins in the passes, remnants of Ironjaw’s ravagers. The integrity of the Empire is at stake. The runefang must be wielded.”

  Schwarzhelm pursed his lips. This sounded like politics already. He loathed politics. The only word he liked in that monologue was “greenskin”. Those, he knew what to do with.

  “I’m waiting for you to tell me how I fit into this.”

  “You are the dispenser of the Emperor’s justice,” replied Karl Franz. There was the faintest trace of irritation in his voice. “You carry the sword. Just as you did twenty years ago, I want you to go to Averheim. Oversee the succession of a new count. They can’t be allowed to drag their feet any longer. Take an army with you. If you have to use force, do it. The other electors won’t like it, but they have their own worries. I don’t care who ends up with the title, as long as it’s legal and as long as it happens soon.”

  It was getting worse. Electoral law, the most fiendishly complicated legislation in the Old World. This wasn’t just politics. It was high politics. The kind that men lost their souls over—or their minds.

  “My liege,” began Schwarzhelm, struggling to find the correct form of words, “are you sure I’m the right person for this? There are legal scholars in Altdorf, men steeped in…”

  He trailed off. The Emperor looked at him with a disappointed expression.

  “I have a thousand legal scholars here. Averheim has them too. Can any of them do what you can? Do any of them embody my Imperial power? What are you telling me? That you’re afraid of this?”

  Ludwig felt the burning spark of shame kindle. He knew what the Emperor was doing. Karl Franz knew how to find a man’s weak spot. He was being tested. Always being tested. The examination never ended.

  “I fear nothing but the law and Sigmar.”

  “Then do as I ask.”

  “Are you ordering me?”

  “Do I need to?”

  Schwarzhelm held the Emperor’s gaze for a few moments. This was the tipping point. He’d never queried an order. Never even queried a request. But this felt wrong. Some sense deep within him resisted. He could already see a host of possible outcomes, branching away from him like the tributaries of rivers. None were good. He should decline.

  “No,” he said, giving in to duty. “Of course not. I am your servant.”

  The Emperor smiled, but the gesture had an edge of ice to it.

  “I’m glad you remembered.”

  Far from the Imperial Palace and the grandeur of its associated institutions, a special area of elegant housing had been devoted to a single purpose. There had never been an official edict authorising the quarter to be so given over, but over many years a number of quietly influential people had started buying up portions of land and letting them to various other quietly influential people. A complicated series of trusts had been established, and some recalcitrant undesirable tenants had it discreetly but firmly made clear to them that they were no longer welcome in the area. Older structures were demolished, including a rare example of Mandred-era stonework, and handsome townhouses took their place. These were somewhat more desirable than the ramshackle Altdorf norm and were all constructed of solid oak beams and well-laid brick.

  Whenever anyone tried to make enquiries as to the legal basis of all this change, they were met by an impenetrable wall of ownership, cross-ownership and counter-ownership. It was surprisingly difficult to discover who owned what and how the money had been unearthed to build such a fine collection of handsome dwellings. Over time, however, it became clear that all of the new inhabitants were peculiarly similar. They were all men, all old and all retired from the highest reaches of the Empire’s armies. Unlike the rank and file, who mostly died on the field or sloped back to a life of penury in the villages whence they’d come, these were wealthy men. Generals, regiment commanders, grand masters and master engineers. They had the resources to fund a comfortable retirement and the connections to snare the best of the available property in the city. They could have gone anywhere, but they liked being with their own kind.

  As soon as the quarter began to fill up with such types, the rest of Altdorf knew it was pointless to pursue any further legal challenges. The various organised criminal syndicates had nothing on the quiet muscle of this old officers’ club. And as the new arrivals were mostly eccentric old codgers with their potent days far behind them, no one minded very much. The area became renowned for a kind of faded, civil gentility. That was a rare thing in Altdorf, and city-dwellers in less enlightened districts would occasionally pay a visit, just for a glance of another, more refined, way of life.

  There were many famous old names who’d ended up in the General’s Quarter, as it became known. Klaus von Trachelberg, the Butcher of Bohringen, now spent his time constructing bird cages from discarded walking canes. The fiery Boris Schlessing, renowned for his bloody defence of Skargruppen Keep during the incursion of Gnar Limbbreaker, had created a garden made entirely of fabulously expensive Cathayan miniature trees. This he watered every morning, clipping the edges of the tiny branches with a pair of silver scissors while humming tunes from his childhood.

  Not all the residents had descended into senility or dotage. Many noble reputations had been preserved in the quarter, and a steady stream of disciples made their way into it from time to time, looking for guidance and inspiration. So famous did it become, that the expression “to go to the Quarter” entered into co
mmon use, meaning to take time to seek some measured opinion from a wiser head.

  Schwarzhelm paused before entering the house. It was on the edge of the Quarter, in sight of the river but far from the worst elements of the quayside. It was modest by the standards of the area, but had a well-kept look about it. The seal of the Emperors hung over the main doorway, carved in granite. Schwarzhelm stared at it for a moment. He’d fought under that seal for nearly thirty years. He knew every line of its intricate form. The paired griffons rampant, the sable shield, the initials of Karl Franz and the devices of his Reikland forebears. It might as well have been branded on to his chest.

  “You can stare at it as long as you like. It won’t change.”

  The door opened. From inside, the speaker emerged. He was an old man, clad in a simple robe of pale grey. Though stooped with age, he still bore himself proudly. Something in the way he carried himself, the fearless manner in which he looked up at Schwarzhelm, gave his old profession away.

  “Master,” said Schwarzhelm, simply.

  “I suppose you want to come in?”

  The Emperor’s Champion nodded like a callow youth.

  “Do you have time?”

  “Of course. For you, always. Mind the mess as you enter, though. I’ve been brewing, and there are hops all across the scullery floor.”

  Ducking his mighty head under the low doorway, Schwarzhelm entered the house of Heinrich Lassus, and the door closed behind him.

  The two men sat in the old general’s drawing room. It was cluttered, filled with the residue of a long career in the saddle. Two wolfhounds slumbered in front of the empty fireplace. They hadn’t raised an eyebrow at Schwarzhelm’s entrance. They were old dogs, and his smell was familiar enough. Like their master, they’d seen better days.

  A row of battle-honours hung over the imposing marble mantelpiece. Some were old indeed, long superseded by more modern tributes. Few scholars would have recognised Wilifred’s Iron Hammer for anything other than a pleasing trinket, though most would have realised the importance of Lassus’ papers of commission, now placed behind glass to preserve the cracking vellum. Even the illiterate would have recognised the florid initials of the Emperor and the Imperial crest stamped in faded red.

  The greatest honour of all, though, was not on display on the walls. Schwarzhelm saw that Lassus still wore it himself. He was a humble man, but some gifts were beyond price and all soldiers had their weaknesses. As he always did, Lassus had the Star of Sigmar pinned to his robes, just above his heart. The greatest military honour in the Empire. As his chest moved, the iron comet emblem rose and fell with the fabric.

  “So it’s Averland,” he said.

  Lassus’ eyes drifted out of focus. His white hair looked almost transparent and his fingers shook a little as he cradled them in his lap. The proud features which had once inspired such devotion and terror had softened with the years. Schwarzhelm thought his skin looked more fragile than it had done the last time he’d called. When had that been? A year ago? More? The demands of the field were endless. For every night he spent in his bed in Altdorf, he’d lived through a week on campaign. He felt stretched. Drained. One day, something would break. He’d prove unworthy of the blade he carried. One day.

  “It had to come at some point, I suppose.” Lassus’ gaze returned to focus. Old he may have been, but his mind was still working fast, teasing out the possibilities.

  “I can’t see the wisdom of it,” said Schwarzhelm, sullenly. Ever since his audience with the Emperor, his mood had been sluggish. There was something about the task ahead that chilled him, something indefinable. Facing doombulls was something he could cope with, even take a kind of enjoyment in. War was what he was built for. Politics was for lesser men.

  Lassus smiled tolerantly.

  “You’re going to lecture Karl Franz on statecraft now, Ludwig?” The old man looked at him fondly. “You haven’t changed. Not since you walked into my training ground for the first time. Even then, I knew you were something special. But you’ve always doubted yourself. You’ve never shaken that off. Your one weakness.”

  From another man, those words would have invited swift retribution. Schwarzhelm’s reputation was fearsome. On the battlefield, he was the very image of implacable, terrible resolve. To have that quality questioned was verging on heresy. And yet, Lassus remained free to ruminate unmolested. That was the honour given to the teacher. Even now, Lassus was the master and Schwarzhelm the pupil.

  “He’s sent me on many such missions in the past,” muttered Schwarzhelm. “Never have I even given the faintest hint of reluctance. But something about this turns my stomach. Averland has always been…”

  “Your home,” interrupted Lassus. “You have the blood of the Siggurd in your veins, my boy, though you’ve probably forgotten it. The Emperor isn’t stupid. He needs someone who understands the ways of your strange province. That’s why he sent you to stamp down on Leitdorf before, and it’s why you’re the only one to do it now.”

  Schwarzhelm listened to the words, but they brought him no comfort. Was comfort what he’d expected? That was for babes and women. He needed wisdom, even if it proved hard to hear.

  “So what would you do?”

  Lassus laughed. The sound was dry in the man’s leathery throat.

  “If I were young enough to still do my service? I’d go. You have no choice. But be careful. You’ve just been given a triumphal procession. Few men are afforded such an honour. That makes you enemies amongst the many who will never see such nonsense delivered in their name. Those whom the gods wish to destroy they first give a triumph. There may be those who will use this situation to harm you.”

  “Let them try,” growled Schwarzhelm.

  “I did not say: be defiant. I said: be careful. This manoeuvring is not your strength, my lad. You can fight your way out of almost anything where a sword is called for. But there are other ways of harming a man. Subtle ways. And there are plenty in Altdorf who would like to wield the Rechtstahl in your place.”

  Schwarzhelm felt his sullen mood return. Lassus had never been one to tell him what he wanted to hear. That was why he’d been the greatest fightmaster in the Reikland and before that one of her greatest generals. It was why he had been given the Star, and why he still wore it. No lesser man would have been able to tame the young Schwarzhelm, full of anger and dreams of conquest. And even then, the youthful Ludwig had given Lassus a hard time. Like an unbroken Averland colt, he’d been hard to teach without a fight. Hard, but not impossible.

  “I don’t say this to dishearten you,” the old man continued. “The first step in avoiding a plot is to know it’s there. The world is changing. The Emperor knows it. New powers are rising. So he tests all his servants. You must prove yourself again, and this is the exam.”

  Schwarzhelm remained silent, pondering the words as Lassus spoke them.

  “And of course, he’s right about Averland. If the war hadn’t come, something would have been done earlier. It can’t go on, this uncertainty. A few merchants will get fat off it, and the luck of Ranald to them, but all good things come to an end.”

  Schwarzhelm stirred himself. It was clear that there was no escape from the onerous task. He had to take what wisdom he could from the old man.

  “It’s been too long since I was in Averheim,” Schwarzhelm said. “Much has changed in twenty years.

  “My agent Verstohlen has some contacts there, and he’s doing work on my behalf, but what would your judgement be? Where is the balance of power?”

  Lassus looked pleased to be asked. No doubt in his retirement, studying the politics of the provinces was a welcome exercise for his subtle mind.

  “There are only two men who can take the runefang. Ferenc Alptraum has neither the stomach nor the support to do it, much to the chagrin of his formidable grandmother. The Alptraums would rather poison their own children than see another Leitdorf occupy the elector’s chair, so they’ll rally behind Grosslich, the pretender. That’s a
powerful card for him to play. Grosslich’s popular with the masses. I hear he’s handsome. He’s also a bachelor, which holds the promise of a political marriage. That’ll bring other noble families to his side, at least those with eligible daughters.”

  “Heinz-Mark Grosslich,” said Schwarzhelm, repeating the name of the upstart contender for the vacant electorship. The man had emerged from relative obscurity to challenge for the prize. Where his gold had come from was shrouded in uncertainty. His family had never been particularly influential. The man had done well to carve out his claim. “Can he do it?”

  Lassus shrugged.

  “That’s your task to determine. The peasants love him. He knows how to play to them. There’s not a drop of noble blood in his body, but maybe that’s the way things are going. You’re no aristocrat yourself, after all.”

  Schwarzhelm grunted. He didn’t need reminding. “And Leitdorf?”

  “Rufus? He has the weight of tradition On his side. His father may have been mad, but he was an astute old fox in his way. There are many in debt to that man, even now. If the older son, Leopold, hadn’t died at Middenheim, maybe this would never have come up. But Rufus is a different breed of thoroughbred. Second sons never expect to inherit the seat. He’s spent his youth whoring and gambling, and it shows. I met him once, here in Altdorf. He didn’t impress me then, but that was while his father still ruled, and they say he’s married since. A woman can change a man, just as surely as a blade can. The Empire’s a conservative place. He remains the favourite.”

  Schwarzhelm digested the information. It was more or less the same as Verstohlen had told him. But the spy had named his wife, Natassja Hiess-Leitdorf. Where she’d come from was as opaque as Grosslich’s gold. That would have to be looked into. There were many things to be looked into.

  “Any others?”

  Lassus shook his head.

  “With the Alptraums behind Grosslich, there are no other challengers. This is a two-man race. But it won’t be simple. There are wheels within wheels. The guilds are still powerful, especially the horsemasters. Some would rather have no elector, some are desperate for one to be appointed. And watch out for the city fathers. Von Tochfel, the steward, is known here at the palace. He’s acquired a taste for power, like most men do when they’re allowed to sample it. He may find reasons not to stand aside.”