Swords of the Emperor

by Chris Wraight

  “I hope not,” Verstohlen said. “I’d miss these little chats. It would be a shame to lose you to Averland for good.”

  Brecht belched, and shook his head. “Worry not. I’ll not be going back. Never again.”

  “Really?”

  “Absolutely. Averheim leaves a nasty taste in the mouth. I prefer it here. Altdorf’s filthy, but at least it’s honest filth. And the food’s better.”

  Verstohlen played with his fork absently. No one seemed to have a good word to say about Averheim. That was odd. It had a reputation as one of the Empire’s more civilised places.

  “You’re not the first to tell me that,” he said. “I’m thinking of going there myself soon. I’d be interested to know what’s so bad about it.”

  Brecht helped himself to another leg of duck before replying.

  “D’you know, I can’t quite put my finger on it myself,” he said, chewing carefully. “I liked the place when I first got there. The people are decent enough, if a bit rural. And the city’s cleaner than Altdorf. I can’t tell you when it all began to change.”

  Verstohlen stayed silent, letting the man drift into a monologue. When a contact was happy to talk, it was best to leave him to it. You never knew what would come out.

  “If I had to pick something,” said Brecht, “it might be the joyroot. That’s certainly a part of it.”

  This was new. And interesting.

  “I’ve not heard that name. What is it? Some kind of narcotic?”

  “So I believe. You never saw any of it a few years ago. Now it’s becoming a problem. They smoke it. You’ve seen what the poppy’ll do to people? Joyroot’s not as bad as that. They get listless. I’ve been told they don’t sleep so well. Nothing too dreadful. But I don’t like it. It makes business difficult. There are only two drugs a man should take: wine and women. And they’re dangerous enough.”

  Brecht laughed at his own joke and his jowls wobbled. Verstohlen smiled politely.

  “So the militia haven’t impeded the import of this… joyroot?” he asked. Brecht shrugged.

  “Maybe they’re on top of it. I don’t know. It’s probably not that important to them. That’s what happens when you don’t have a good man at the top. The little things slip.”

  Verstohlen nodded absently. Brecht was right. But maybe this wasn’t such a little thing. You could never tell.

  “Then we must hope for a speedy resolution to the succession.” Brecht snorted disdainfully.

  “You’ll never get that. The merchants’ guilds have no interest in it. Believe me, they run Averheim. Anyway, both the Leitdorf pup and this Grosslich have legal problems with their claims. Many make out Rufus is illegitimate. Whispers are that he’s the son of one of Marius’ housemaids, and that she’s been packed off to the family estate with a wad of gold and an armed guard. Grosslich’s no better. He’s got papers proving his noble birth, but no one thinks they’re real. He’s got scholars poring over them for him, trying to prove it. Leitdorfs people are doing the same, trying to discredit them. These arguments will run for months. Maybe years. It’ll take a war for Averland to sort it out.”

  Verstohlen listened carefully, taking note of everything. None of this information was new to him, but it was useful confirmation. Much might turn on the validity of the genealogical records.

  “They may get their war, if they’re not careful,” he said grimly.

  Brecht laughed. He didn’t seem to think the prospect was that alarming.

  “They’ll be all right,” he said, munching on the last of the duck. “The summer’s coming, and the weather’s good down there. They’ll be getting the harvest in soon, and they say it’ll be a good one. Whatever happens in the rest of the Empire, the Averlanders will look after themselves.” He paused.

  “Maybe that’s why I don’t like it down there,” he mused. “They’re just a little… self-satisfied. Something’s not natural, anyway. Better to be here among honest thieves.”

  He laughed again. This time Verstohlen couldn’t share the amusement. Too many people from Averland had used that phrase, “not natural”. He didn’t like that at all. The words had presaged trouble for him in the past. It was probably nothing more than the casual xenophobia of Reiklanders, but it still rankled. This joyroot was something else to worry about. Schwarzhelm would have to be told.

  “Anyway, you’re very interested in all of this, Pieter,” said Brecht, washing down the duck with the last of his wine. “How long are you going away for?”

  “Oh, not long,” Verstohlen said, reaching to top him up. “At least, I hope not. From what you say, I’m not sure I’d like it.”

  Brecht shrugged, and looked around the table for more food. His eyes fell on a pig’s cheek in jelly and he reached for it eagerly with his fork.

  “You’ll be fine,” he said. “They like their food down there. You’ll fit right in.”

  He began to eat again and his fat face radiated happiness. Verstohlen sat back and nursed his wine. He knew he should eat some more. He and Schwarzhelm were due to leave in the morning, and the ride was a long one. But for some reason, his appetite had gone.

  Schwarzhelm awoke. He was in Averheim. It was still night. The sickle moon, Mannslieb, rode in the deep sky. The stars were, familiar to him. The stars of his homeland. Even in Altdorf, they were different.

  He felt sick. He’d not slept well. He reached for the table by his bed, where an iron goblet had been placed. Gratefully, he placed it against his lips and took a long draught.

  Immediately, he spat it out. He tasted the blood before he saw it. He threw the goblet to one side, hands shaking. He looked down. The sheets were splattered with blood. He pulled the sheets aside. There was blood everywhere, hot and sticky. From outside his chamber, the sound of laughter rose into the night sky. He looked up at the moon. It was disfigured, changing. A face was forming. He felt terror grip his heart. He tried to cry out, but his mouth had stopped working. There were men in the room, laughing at him. How had he missed them? He didn’t recognise all of them. But there was Helborg, right in the middle of the crowd.

  “You’ve failed,” he crowed, preening his moustache. “They should have sent for me! You’ve failed!”

  Schwarzhelm awoke with a start, properly this time. His sheets were drenched with sweat. He was in his chamber in one of the palace towers. Moonlight, real moonlight, streamed through the window.

  Breathing heavily, he swung his feet to the stone floor and padded over to the window. Naked, he stood before the open pane and looked across the city below. His heartbeat was returning to normal. Another nightmare. Where were they all coming from? He hadn’t had an unbroken night’s sleep for a fortnight. It wasn’t good for him. He could feel his tiredness growing during the daylight hours.

  He took a deep breath and gazed out over the rooftops. It was the deep of the night. Altdorf slept, at least in patches. A few fires still burned here and there, and the towers of the Celestial College retained their habitual blue aura. The memory of the dream was fading. The cool night air was clearing his head. Amidst the foul odours of the street, there were new smells. Summer was gradually coming, and even in Altdorf that sweetened the air.

  He turned from the window and looked grimly at his disarranged bed. He knew he’d get no sleep now. Not for the first time, he regretted living on his own. He’d had women in the past, of course. The last had been Katerina, the Amethyst wizard. Perhaps he’d been wrong to break it off with her. Perhaps he hadn’t. He’d never been good with women. That was another kind of warfare he was no use at. He never knew what they wanted from him and they never knew what he wanted from them.

  Just then though, with his mind plagued by the memory of the nightmare, he couldn’t help but think it would have been good to have a warm body in the bed beside him. Someone to protect. And maybe, though it was harder to countenance, to protect him. That was what nearly every man in the Empire, no matter how mean and baseborn, had. Something to care about. Something to make the
fighting worthwhile. Something to come home to.

  He sat on the bed. In the corner of the room, the Rechtstahl had been hung. It was sheathed and the scabbard shone dully in the moonlight. The runes of its dwarfen makers were picked out in lines of silver. It was as impassive and uncaring as ever.

  Schwarzhelm lay back on the sheets. He was due to ride in the morning. He needed some sleep. Verstohlen would want to ply him with the information he’d gathered, and his mind would have to be alert.

  He let his great body relax, feeling the wooden frame of the bed creak under the weight. He closed his eyes, blotting out the moonlight, wrapping himself in darkness. He let his heart rate slow. Like any warrior, he was used to grabbing rest where he could. Normally, he’d be able to drift off in any situation. He tried all the tricks.

  He knew it was useless. Even if he found sleep, his dreams would be vivid. He couldn’t relax, couldn’t let go.

  Just like all the others, this would be a long night.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The city of Averheim rose above the River Aver some three-hundred miles south-east of Altdorf. By the time a traveller had passed from the Reikland, through the free city-state of Nuln and into the province of Averland, the country had changed drastically. Gone were the powerful, ancient and gnarled forests that dominated the heart of the Empire. The south-eastern reaches of Karl Franz’s domain were formed of rolling hills and wide rivers. The earth was rich, the grass lustrous. In a fertile triangle between the Aver, the Upper Reik and the Worlds Edge Mountains, the people of Siggurd had carved out a prosperous way of life. Their cattle were the finest in the world and their horses not far behind. The province was studded with small, self-contained villages. Each of them sat amidst acres of productive land. So complacent had the populace become that many of the settlements had let their protective walls fall into ruin. Without an elector to coordinate the defence of the realm, the fractious militia were a tithe of their former strength.

  Most Averlanders saw little reason to change this. Apart from mild irritations, such as the unfortunate rampage of a rogue ogre in the outlying regions the previous year, war came to the province only sporadically. The barons sent gold for the Emperor’s armies and made sure token forces of men-at-arms were maintained in their ancestral manor houses to keep down the irregular beastmen or greenskin raids. Otherwise, trade was good. Demand for iron and tin was high, and the mines in the east of the province provided more of that than anywhere else. More trade moved down the River Aver since the Stir and Talabec had become more dangerous. Some even whispered that Averland should consider going the way of Marienburg. Perhaps then, freed of the onerous Imperial levies, the Grand County would rise to become richer than Reikland itself.

  Wiser heads knew such talk was ludicrous. If it were not for the vast armies of Talabecland and Middenheim, nothing would have stood between the rich, fat south and the gibbering hordes of Chaos. Though many barons resented the taxes imposed from Altdorf, and the highhanded manner of the officials that came with them, they knew the money paid for the shield they sheltered behind. And so they stayed loyal. At least, as loyal as any other province in the bickering realms of men.

  There were few cities in the huge, open land. Averheim was four times as big as the nearest rival. It had been built on a wide curve of the river where the land rose up in a great steep-sided mound. More than two millennia ago, Sigmar himself had founded a fortress on the site. Or so the locals liked to claim. Even though that boast was possibly futile, no one disputed the settlement was old. Some of the stones at the base of the massive Averburg fortress on the east bank of the river were so large and so beautifully laid that many called them the work of dwarfs. Over the wearing years, the Averburg had been added to, amended, part-demolished, rebuilt and extended with the waxing and waning enthusiasm of successive counts. Despite everything the war-conscious Imperial architects had thrown at it to make it strong, it retained a certain elegance.

  Though the Averburg, with its sheer-sided walls and heavy ramparts, dominated the centre of the city on the east bank, there were other notable features within the snaking walls. To the north, where frequent flooding had prevented large-scale building, huge cattle showgrounds had been constructed. Visitors from less fortunate parts of the Empire had been known to gape in awe during the height of the showing season. The massed collection of Averland herds was one of the wonders of the Old World. It was said that when the first hammer of the season fell, there were thirteen cows in Averheim for every person. Those kinds of statistics were liable to provoke suggestive rumours from outsiders, but in truth they were jealous. The animals were valuable and had made Averland extremely rich.

  Those riches showed in Averheim’s mighty townhouses and guild-chambers. Most of these were many storeys high, constructed of warm brick and decorated heavily. On the richer east side of the river, elegant squares had been embellished with the bequests of rich men. Fountains gurgled even in the height of the hot summers, and there were fewer slums than in most Imperial cities. Though there was poverty, especially on the western fringes of the city where the migrant workers from Stirland and Tilea congregated, a careful visitor could ignore it. Such a thing was impossible in Altdorf.

  Since leaving the city of Karl Franz, Schwarzhelm had made good progress. The journey had taken many days, first along the Reik to Kemperbad, then by land across the Stirhugel Massif in the Lower Stirland. Being away from Altdorf had had a cleansing effect on his mind. The fresh air was invigorating. As he travelled with his entourage, the weather grew steadily warmer. The dank, shadowy world of the Drakwald gave way to the flower meadows of the Lower Aver. Even a man of war such as himself was not immune to their restorative effects. It was some compensation for the rigours of the road.

  Schwarzhelm reached the city on a typically fine morning. A cool breeze ran across the big man’s face as he crested the final rise before the Aver valley fell away in tumbled heaps of grassland. The river itself lay serene, glittering in the warm sun. In every direction, deep green fields stretched away. In the distance, the pinnacles of the Averburg rose high into the clear sky.

  “Bringing back memories?” said Verstohlen, reining in his horse alongside.

  “I’ve been here since I came to call Marius to heel,” said Schwarzhelm. “But yes, I am reminded of that.”

  Verstohlen flicked the reins and his steed came to a standstill. Ahead of them, the armed escort fanned out down into the valley. They were arrayed in the colours of Karl Franz and bore his coat of arms. In the strong sun, their weapons sparkled.

  “So much trouble, for such a pretty place,” mused Verstohlen, admiring the view.

  Schwarzhelm grunted.

  “A pretty face can hide a dark heart,” he said. “Don’t be deceived by appearances.”

  He kicked his horse back into motion and the heavy charger began stepping down the descent into the valley. There’d be time to admire the view on the way back. Until then, he was impatient to arrive. As far as he was concerned, this assignment couldn’t be over quick enough.

  “Welcome, my lord. Or, I should say, welcome back! Though it has been many years indeed since you were last among us as the ambassador of His Imperial Majesty. We are—the city is—extremely glad to have you among us again.”

  Verstohlen worked hard to suppress a wry smile. He knew how much Schwarzhelm hated flattery. True to form, the man looked as grumpy as hell. The ride had been a long one, and court pleasantries were the last thing any of them wanted.

  They were standing in the great hall of the Averburg. It was tall and narrow. The bare stone walls soared upwards to a hammerbeam roof into which bosses with the devices of past counts had been embedded. The place was crowded with nobles, knights and the richer sort of merchants. They’d done their best to make a good show of it. Bright coloured cloth from Ind and Tilea mixed with highly polished ceremonial armour. Banners hung from the roof with the emblems of the Grand County and its many guilds. Verstohlen felt like he’d st
umbled into some kind of pageant. It was a bit garish for him, but one had to make allowances for rural tastes.

  The speaker was the Steward of Averheim, Dagobert Matthias Rauch von Tochfel. He was an unassuming character with a balding pate and grey skin. He looked like the kind of man who hunched over papers by the light of candles, totting up expenditure and income balances into the small hours of the night. Verstohlen couldn’t have imagined a figure less likely to impress Ludwig Schwarzhelm, a man who had driven armies of thousands to victory by the sheer force of his will.

  Predictably enough, Schwarzhelm gave him short shrift.

  “That’s fine, Steward,” he muttered. “But we’ve had a long journey, and there’s work to do. When do we get started?”

  Tochfel looked taken aback.

  “Well, we had rather hoped that you would join us for a banquet in the hall this evening. The claimants are not yet in Averheim, and there are formalities to ob—”

  “Damn your formalities,” snapped Schwarzhelm. “I’ll eat with you and your court, and then I’ll want to see your records of the legal process. You’ve kept the Emperor waiting for too long already. And send messages to the claimants to hasten their progress to the city. I won’t wait forever.”

  Tochfel looked like he’d been slapped in the face.

  “V-very well,” he stuttered.

  Schwarzhelm ignored him and turned to the commander of his honour guard, a flint-faced veteran named Kraus.

  “Take your men and examine our quarters. When you’re content they’re secure, place a man at the entrance and organise a watch.”

  “My lord,” said Kraus, bowing. He and his men filed out of the audience chamber, roughly pushing aside any curious nobles who got in their way.