Swords of the Emperor

by Chris Wraight

  “You shouldn’t have said that about Marshal Helborg,” said Walland in a low voice. His slow face looked surly. That annoyed Bloch. What did these peasants know about Helborg? They were idiots, the lot of them. He couldn’t recall what he’d ever seen in them.

  “Oh yes?” Bloch said, a sinister note creeping into his voice. “And why’s that?”

  Holderlin was nodding in support of Walland.

  “He’s the hero of the Empire, that’s why,” he said. His voice was thin and annoying. Bloch felt his temper rising.

  “He’s nothing compared to the big man. Gods, you weren’t there after he killed the doombull. He was like Sigmar reborn!”

  “I thought you killed the doombull?” said Clovis, obsequiously.

  Bloch got angrier. These people were scum. Real scum.

  “Yeah, we both did, all right? And then we carved our way through the rest of those damned beasts. And where was your pretty boy Helborg? Riding around the Drakwald on his own, lost! He’s not half the man Schwarzhelm is, and I’ll fight anyone who says otherwise.”

  That changed things. At the mention of the word “fight”, Tallowhand and Holderlin finished their drinks and quietly slipped away. Bruno was close behind, but Walland remained. His expression had lowered further, and he looked surly. Renard and Clovis stayed in their seats, watching.

  “You don’t know nothing ’bout Helborg,” Walland growled. Bloch saw him reach down to his beltline. This was getting nasty.

  “I know a damn sight more than you, fat man.”

  Walland stood up. He had a knife in his hand and his flabby cheeks were flushed.

  “No one calls me fat,” he said.

  Bloch felt a surge of hot blood rush to his temples. He didn’t have a weapon, but he was more than capable of taking on a drunken provincial hick like Walland. He rose in turn, pushing the bench back. As he did so, the inn lurched uncomfortably and he had to grab the table for support. This ale was damned strong stuff. Perhaps more than he’d thought.

  “Gentlemen,” interjected Renard, rising quickly. “You don’t want to be ruining a pleasant evening like this. We’re all friends here.”

  He pressed something shiny into Walland’s palm and whispered something in the man’s ear. Walland grunted and retreated, glowering at Bloch all the while.

  Though he wouldn’t have admitted it to anyone but himself, Bloch felt relief. He wasn’t that steady on his feet. The tavern interior was pitching alarmingly. They really ought to fix that.

  Renard came to his side, supporting him. Somehow, Clovis ended up on his other arm. Bloch blinked furiously, trying to clear his vision.

  “Another drink?” he suggested cheerfully.

  “I think you’ve had enough,” said Clovis. The man wasn’t smiling. Bloch felt himself being manoeuvred towards the tavern entrance. That was a shame. The evening had just been getting started.

  “So what are we up to now, boys?” Bloch asked, noticing how cloudy his eyesight was even as they left the tavern and staggered out into the street beyond.

  Renard smiled again, but said nothing. The man was always smiling. Bloch didn’t like that. You couldn’t trust a man who smiled too much. That was one of the many great things about Schwarzhelm, Sigmar preserve his soul.

  “Did I tell you about how I rescued Grunwald?” Bloch asked, hoping another story would rekindle the bonhomie between them. “He’s a damned pansy, if you ask me. Lost his position and ended up being chased by the beasts all the way to me. He’ll be my superior officer, more’s the pity, but he won’t have anything on me. What’s he going to do when I refuse to follow orders? I saved his life! That’s a pretty good position to be in, don’t you think? Lads?”

  They didn’t reply.

  “Lads?”

  “You can stop talking now.” The voice was Clovis. He’d stopped even pretending to be civil. Bloch looked around him. Everything was in shadows. Where had they taken him? It looked like an alley of some sort. It was quiet. Very quiet. Damn.

  “Forget it,” Bloch said, with as much bravado as he could muster. “I’ve handled worse than you before. If you step away now, we’ll call it…”

  He felt the cool metal of the blade against his neck. It pressed in close. He felt a line of blood form on his skin. It trickled down the inside of his jacket.

  “We’ve heard all about it,” said Renard from his shoulder. The man’s face was close, and Bloch could smell the cheese on the man’s breath. But not ale. Had he been the only one drinking? “You’re an entertaining fellow. I’d hate to end your stories for good. So why don’t you hand over those shiny schillings you’ve been so free with. We know you’ve got more. The Emperor’s Champion pays handsomely.”

  Bloch felt his fists balling instinctively. Could he fight his way out of this? For a moment, he weighed up the options. Clovis had a blade too and looked anxious to use it. He didn’t share his companion’s friendly manner.

  The knife pressed harder against his skin. Bloch felt the skin part. The pain cut through his drunken haze. There was no chance.

  “Just stick him, Renard,” spat Clovis, looking eager to be gone.

  “All right!” said Bloch, hurriedly rummaging through his pockets. The pouch with Schwarzhelm’s payment was still there. Still nearly full. He pulled it out and threw it to the ground. Clovis darted after it.

  “Everything there?” asked Renard, still pressing the knife to Bloch’s neck.

  There was a coarse laugh from the shadows.

  “Oh yes. This’ll do nicely. Very nicely indeed.”

  Renard twisted the blade into Bloch’s flesh.

  “You’re a lucky man,” he said. “Taking money puts me in a good mood. And I never kill when I’m in a good mood. But if you weren’t lying about your new employer, you’d better wise up fast. You’re not as impressive as you think.”

  The blade was removed. Bloch whirled around, trying to catch Renard, but the movement made him feel sick. Everything span, and he couldn’t see a thing. He stumbled forward, trying to catch at least one of them.

  He saw the fist too late. With a crunch, it hit him square between the eyes. He fell heavily, feeling the last of his vision give out. From somewhere, Clovis’ laughter echoed up the narrow alleyway. With the metallic taste of blood in his mouth, Bloch tried to rise, failed, then passed out.

  The vast corridor in the Imperial Palace was empty. Even the guards that had escorted Grunwald down the six levels from the South Gate had left. Their echoing footfalls had ebbed into nothing, and the shadows in the empty space hung heavily. That hadn’t improved Grunwald’s nerves. All around him were depictions of great military engagements of the past. Over the doorway he was facing there was a massive frieze of the relief of Praag. The artist had really made an effort with the daemonic hordes. That didn’t improve his mood.

  Part of him didn’t understand why he was so nervous. He’d worked with the big man for years. As far as one ever got with Schwarzhelm, they were close. Grunwald had proved himself on the battlefield countless times. They were both common soldiers, both had risen through the ranks. And yet, there had never been a failure like Turgitz. Before, he’d always met the challenge, always found a way. Perhaps that had raised expectations.

  There was no use delaying things. He’d been summoned, and the big man cared about punctuality. After a few heartbeats more, Grunwald swallowed and knocked on the door. The raps resounded down the vaulted passageway.

  “Come.” Schwarzhelm’s voice was unmistakable. He didn’t sound angry. But it was the first time he’d been summoned since the failure at Turgitz. You could never tell with the big man.

  Grunwald pushed the door open. Inside, Schwarzhelm sat at a huge desk. It was covered with parchment maps and documents of requisition. More charts hung on the walls. They covered all the provinces of the Empire. Some even went further afield. There was one ancient-looking sheet of vellum with a depiction of what looked like a massive, circular island hanging on the far architrave. Si
gmar only knew where that was.

  “Sit,” ordered Schwarzhelm. Grunwald did as he was told, taking a low chair opposite the desk. Was the Champion still in a bad mood? By the expression on his face, yes. The man’s face looked more lined than usual and there were grey bags under his eyes. The huge beard, normally a source of pride, looked unkempt. He had the look of a man who hadn’t been sleeping.

  Grunwald didn’t ask why he’d been summoned. He knew better than that. He sat and waited.

  “You’ll be leaving with a detachment of my personal forces tomorrow,” said Schwarzhelm at length. He pushed the chart he’d been studying aside and looked at Grunwald.

  “Yes, my lord.” That was a relief. Grunwald had been wondering whether he’d be included in the Averland assignment at all.

  “There’ve been more reports of greenskins massing in the east,” continued Schwarzhelm. “From Grenzstadt. And now close to Heideck. Too many for comfort. Averland’s got lazy without an elector. If we have to, we’ll do their work for them.”

  “I understand.” He knew what the score was. The incursion would have to be kept away from Averheim while the legal process was expedited. That was all that mattered. “Do the Averlanders have forces of their own?”

  Schwarzhelm made a dismissive noise.

  “Plenty. But the two sides are keeping them back in case the selection turns ugly. I’ve already sent letters of requisition. We’ll see how far we get with them.” He shook his head. “They’re my countrymen, so I ought to understand them. But when they’ve got an incursion on their doorstep, you’d have thought—”

  He broke off, looking disgusted.

  “They’ve forgotten about Ironjaw already,” he concluded.

  Grunwald stole a glance at the maps on the desk. Schwarzhelm had scrawled all over them. Supply lines, possible attack routes, staging posts, he’d got it all worked out. That was no surprise. He always had the alternatives mapped out. Grunwald would have to study them himself later.

  “You’ll be taking Markus Bloch with you,” said Schwarzhelm. “He’ll be under your command.”

  Grunwald let the ghost of a frown pass across his face before suppressing it.

  “Bloch? The halberdier?”

  “You have a problem with that?”

  “No, my lord. Except… he’s not worked with us before.”

  Schwarzhelm looked calm. He could be intolerant when his decisions were questioned.

  “He’s proved his worth already. Or had you forgotten who guarded your retreat?”

  Grunwald felt his ears go red, despite his long training. The shame of his failure still hung heavy on him.

  “I know,” he mumbled. “And I should say… I mean, I’m sorry. We lost the ridge.”

  Schwarzhelm didn’t respond with words of comfort. Nor did he add condemnation. He looked implacable.

  “You did your best,” he said. “The day was won. But maybe we need some new blood. New ways of doing things. We can always learn.”

  The criticism was implicit. Grunwald should have found a way to hold out longer.

  “Yes, my lord,” he acknowledged, working hard to keep the resentment from his voice. No one knew how hard it had been on the ridge except him and Ackermann. And his deputy was dead, now to be replaced with a halberdier captain he hardly knew.

  “I’ve completed the commission documentation,” continued Schwarzhelm, turning back to his piles of paper. “There’s money to pay the men and warrants of supply with agents in Averheim. When you get there, make sure to keep me informed. I’ll be no more than a few days behind you. There are things to arrange here, and I don’t want to arrive in the middle of a greenskin plague. I can trust you to handle this?”

  Grunwald felt the flicker of resentment bloom into a flame. Why was he asking him this? When had he ever proved wanting, except at Turgitz?

  “You can rely on me, my lord.”

  Schwarzhelm nodded.

  “I hope so. Now come and look at these deployment plans.”

  Grunwald rose to study the annotated charts. As he did so, he was already thinking forward to the campaign ahead. This was his chance for vindication. The only one he’d get. He stood beside Schwarzhelm, and the commander began to reel off his orders and recommendations.

  Silently, efficiently, Grunwald committed them all to memory. He wouldn’t fail again.

  A day later, Bloch still had a headache. He sat uncomfortably in the saddle, watching Schwarzhelm’s army take shape. The grey morning light breaking over the wide parade ground made him wince. All across the space below him, regiments of men shuffled into position. He’d been able to conceal the wound at his neck well enough, but there was no escaping the black eye. Every time he passed a row of soldiers, he could feel the suppressed humour. When he was gone, they’d be laughing at him. He could understand that. As a halberdier in the ranks, he’d have done the same. As long as they thought he’d picked up the marks in some honest fight, he’d be fine.

  He adjusted his position, trying to find the least discomforting position, and surveyed the scene before him. The muster yard, several miles south of the city, was full of men. Schwarzhelm’s army, the Fourth Reikland, had come together again, ready for the long march south. They’d been at Turgitz, though you’d hardly have known it to look at them. A few weeks’ rest, plenty of ale and a wallet stuffed with copper coins, and they’d recovered most of their energy for the fight. The gaps in the ranks had been filled quickly. There was never a shortage of men willing to fight under Schwarzhelm. They trusted him, which you couldn’t say about some Imperial commanders. They may not have liked him, but they knew his reputation. Better to fight under a grim bastard who never smiled than a flighty aristocrat who’d ride off at the first sign of trouble.

  The bulk of the army were halberdiers, just like him. Four thousand of them. They’d been arranged in their marching detachments. Even as Bloch watched, the sergeants were making last minute adjustments to formations, bawling out any troops with defective equipment or misaligned livery. They were all in the Reikland colours of white and brown, and they’d scrubbed up pretty well.

  Not so many years ago, Bloch would have been one of those men himself. His elevation had been quick. That was fine by him. He was a born fighter, and the men around him knew it. They were already responding well to his orders. If he could keep out of trouble in taverns, he’d have no problems.

  He scanned the rest of the deployments. There was little artillery. A few light pieces and one middle-sized iron belcher. Since the war had broken out in the north, demand for the big guns had risen. If even Schwarzhelm couldn’t commandeer more, then that told its own story. There were no knights, nor pistoliers. This was an infantry force, a holding army. A few companies of handgunners gave them a little ranged support, and there were archers too. That was good, though not as many as he’d have liked. He’d faced orcs before, and they were tough opponents. He’d have preferred to have more heavy armour.

  “Like what you see?” came a familiar voice. Bloch turned to see Grunwald coming towards him. The man looked rested. Bloch couldn’t help notice the finery of his garb, the close fit of his leather jerkin and mail. The man looked like a proper commander. He guessed that he cut a sorry figure in contrast. He really needed to cut down on the ale and meat. He was getting fat.

  “They’re in good order, sir,” he said, hiding his misgivings.

  “I agree. Are any units still to report ready?”

  “No. All the sergeants’ papers are in.” Grunwald nodded with satisfaction. “Then you may give the order to march, Herr Bloch. They’ve been drilled here long enough. Averheim awaits.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Bloch barked an order to a waiting messenger, who ran off to the signallers. A few moments later, trumpets blared out across the muster yard. Halberds were hoisted and the detachments smoothly moved into position. Regimental standards swung upwards and rippled in the breeze. With admirable efficiency, the regiments started to move from the
yard and on to the road.

  Grunwald and Bloch rode to the vanguard, where the remainder of the commanders waited on horseback. For a moment, Bloch felt like he had no place among them, that he should be back in the ranks with the company captains. He pushed such thoughts to the back of his mind. Schwarzhelm had picked him, and that was good enough for him. When the greenskins came for them, then he’d show his worth. He’d a damn sight more bottle than Grunwald, anyway. That had been proven already.

  He kicked his horse onward, joining the vanguard as they made their way into position. The time for pondering, reflecting and drinking wages away was over. They were on the road again, back on campaign, lust the way he liked it.

  “Have another glass. It’s good stuff,” said Verstohlen.

  Orasmo Brecht was happy to take another. The man’s cheeks were rosy in the candlelight. It was the last of Verstohlen’s haul from the cellars of the heretic Alessandro Revanche. He was sorry to see it go, but this was in the cause of business. The exquisite vintage had a way of loosening guarded tongues. He didn’t even need to add any truthpowder. That was a good thing, as he was running low on that too.

  Verstohlen poured himself a smaller glass of the same stuff and sat back in his seat. The two men were at dinner in Verstohlen’s small but elegant apartment. The dining room was decorated in the latest style. Fine wax candles burned slowly in silver candelabras. The food was served on china rather than metal, something hardly ever seen outside the homes of the very wealthy. Verstohlen wasn’t exactly wealthy, but he did know the right people. His stuff had come from a Cathayan junk via about a dozen intermediaries and handling agents. The path of the import documentation was obscure, but that didn’t matter. Verstohlen had contacts down in the harbourside. He had contacts everywhere. Like Orasmo Brecht.

  “My wife won’t thank you for making me so fat,” said Brecht, dabbing at one of his many chins with a napkin. “If I eat here again, that might be the end of our marriage.”

  Verstohlen smiled. The man was a glutton. He’d eaten twice the portions that Verstohlen had and hadn’t even noticed. No matter. What Brecht lacked in table manners he made up for in political knowledge, and he’d just come back from Averheim after two years there working for an importers’ cartel. Good timing.