Swords of the Emperor

by Chris Wraight

  “When do we eat?” said Schwarzhelm to Tochfel, who now looked pale.

  “Whenever you wish, my lord,” said the Steward. Verstohlen noted that the man was getting the hang of things.

  “Good. How about now?”

  Tochfel looked around the assembled throng nervously. No doubt they’d been promised some kind of access to the great man.

  “Of course. I’ll have the high table laid.”

  Schwarzhelm grunted something inaudible, then stalked off in the direction Kraus had taken. All around the hall, a low murmuring broke out. The Emperor’s Champion had not been quite what they were expecting.

  “So that was Ludwig Schwarzhelm,” mused a man standing close to Verstohlen. A legal scholar by his look. He wore a charm with the figure of Verena over crimson robes. “Something of a disappointment. I’d expected more.”

  Verstohlen gave him a contemptuous look. As the crowd started to disperse, he made his way to the dejected figure of the Steward.

  “Herr von Tochfel? I’m Verstohlen, Lord Schwarzhelm’s counsellor. If you’d contacted me prior to this meeting, I could have warned you of the likely result. But never mind. Do you have somewhere private we can go? We need to discuss the itinerary.”

  Tochfel looked at Verstohlen like he was some gift from the gods.

  “Did I offend him somehow?”

  “No more than usual,” reassured Verstohlen, taking the man’s arm and guiding him smoothly through the milling figures around them. “He doesn’t like ceremony. There’ll need to be some of that, of course, but we’ll have to manage that together. The important thing is to get Leitdorf and Grosslich here as soon as possible. Can you do that? Good. If you give me the names of your officials, I’ll ensure the messages get through. He wants to meet both of them in private before the legal arguments are heard. That’s not entirely usual, but it’s perfectly within his rights as the Emperor’s Judge. Again, if you can give me some names, I’ll get that done. And there’s the matter of security at the Averburg.”

  Verstohlen spoke quickly but firmly. He guessed that Tochfel wouldn’t be used to presiding over more than cattle fairs. If the assignment was not to unravel before it had started, then work needed to be done.

  As they neared one of the side doors to the hall, Tochfel hesitated. He looked like he was having trouble taking everything in.

  “So who’s in charge here?” he said. “You, or him?”

  Verstohlen stopped in his tracks, genuinely amazed. Were the deeds of the Emperor’s Champion really not known here? What kind of backwater was this?

  “Don’t be a fool, man,” he snapped. “Lord Schwarzhelm is the Emperor’s right arm. I merely arrange. You’d do well to remember that, or this visit will be more painful for you than you can possibly imagine.”

  With that, he half-guided, half-pulled Tochfel through the door and into the corridor outside. The door shut behind them, and the grumbling of the crowd beyond was silenced.

  Schwarzhelm sat at the long table in one of the Averburg’s many gilded reception rooms. He felt weary and irritable. His sleep at night was still erratic. The air was getting too hot for comfort and flies plagued his room. He was aware he’d become irascible, even with his own men. They’d have to live with it. Two days waiting for the claimants to turn up was beyond insolent. He didn’t believe the excuses. They were lazy and arrogant, the pair of them. If he hadn’t been bound by the strictures of his office, he’d have ridden out to meet them himself. As it was, he was forced to wait. The delay was maddening.

  Apart from the ever-present Verstohlen, calm as ever, the chamber was empty. Tochfel’s flunkies had departed and Kraus’ men guarded the doors. They wouldn’t be disturbed.

  “Have we heard from Grunwald yet?” Schwarzhelm asked. The long wait with no news was preying on his mind.

  “Nothing.”

  “You’ve sent out fresh messengers?”

  “As you commanded.”

  That was troubling. There should have been something by now. He knew the army had arrived in Averheim two days before he had. Grunwald had then departed immediately for the east, following new intelligence on massed orc raids in the mining country beneath the Black Fire Pass. That was just as he’d been ordered to do, but the lack of communication since his departure was unusual. Grunwald was normally scrupulous about such things.

  “How many men are garrisoned here?” asked Schwarzhelm. “If we don’t hear soon, I may have to do something myself.”

  “Give him time,” said Verstohlen. “He’ll send tidings when he’s able. Worry not. He’s your finest commander.”

  Schwarzhelm grunted. That might have been assent, or it might not.

  “Which one of the bastards are we due to see now?” he asked wearily.

  “Leitdorf arrived in the city this morning. He’s on his way now.”

  “Marius’ brat. Anything more I should know about him?”

  “He’s bringing his wife. They’re devoted to each other. The one never leaves the other’s side. That’s been a source of friction with those you’d expect to be loyal to him. We don’t know where she comes from, and neither do they.”

  “That’s not like you, Pieter. Find out.”

  “I’m working on it. If it’s any consolation, Tochfel’s as much in the dark as we are. That goes for his loremaster too, Achendorfer. Her presence makes them uneasy. It makes everyone uneasy. But Rufus has inherited his father’s pigheadedness. He can’t see that such things damage his cause. This is a conservative province.”

  “That it is.”

  From the far end of the chamber, beyond the closed doors, noises broke out. Someone had arrived.

  “What’s her family name? Hiess? Does that mean anything to you?”

  “Nothing. I’ve got people making enquiries.”

  There was an exaggerated knocking at the far doors. Schwarzhelm stood and smoothed the juridical robes over his massive frame. His head was feeling heavy. He really needed some sleep soon. When this was over, he might ask Verstohlen for some sleepwort.

  “I hope they’re good people.”

  The doors opened. In the antechamber beyond he made out the figure of Tochfel, hovering in the background as ever. Kraus had prevented him from entering. Good man.

  Only two came into the room. No doubt they’d come with a retinue, but those too had been detained by Schwarzhelm’s honour guard. That made things even.

  The foremost was Rufus Leitdorf. He was dressed in a ludicrous burgundy-coloured outfit, replete with a floppy hunting hat and spurred boots. As he walked across the stone floor, the spurs clattered. He wore his hair long. Like his father’s, it was brown, fading to grey prematurely. He had the Leitdorf eyes with the famous hooked nose. Rufus had already run to fat, though, and had none of his father’s swordsman’s poise. He didn’t look like he could hold his own in a fight. Maybe Leopold had been given the fencing lessons, for all the good that had done him.

  Despite this, Rufus carried himself with all the natural-born arrogance of the Empire’s coterie of noble families. His swagger told Schwarzhelm all he needed to know about the man. He regarded the Averburg as his personal possession, and all those who stood between him and his rightful prize were his enemies.

  As he approached, their eyes met. Leitdorf stared at Schwarzhelm with disdain. The Emperor’s Champion was baseborn. All knew that. Schwarzhelm met the gaze and held it. For a few moments, Leitdorf managed to keep his head up. Then he looked away. Disappointing. Most could manage just a few moments longer.

  “My lord Schwarzhelm,” Leitdorf said, extending a hand limply. His father’s ring was on the fourth finger of his glove. What did he want him to do? Kiss it?

  Schwarzhelm grasped the man’s hand and gave it a shake that would have crushed wrought iron. It was important this dandy knew what he was dealing with. Schwarzhelm had made his father learn the fear of the law. His pup would be no different.

  Leitdorf grimaced.

  “Herr Leitdorf,” said
Schwarzhelm coldly, letting the hand go. “I’m glad you could make it at last. We may speak freely here. My counsellor, Herr Verstohlen, is in my confidence.”

  Verstohlen bowed. Leitdorf ignored him.

  “As is my wife,” he said.

  Schwarzhelm nodded his head towards her. So this was the famous Natassja. Reports of her beauty hadn’t been even close to the mark. She had the kind of cold, superior physical presence that he’d seen men go mad for. Linlike her husband, she was dressed impeccably in a nightshade blue gown. Her dark hair had been gathered up by a silver lattice and an elegant ithilmar pendant graced her neck. She moved with the simple economy that was taught in the best finishing schools of the Empire. A native of Altdorf, by her look and manner. Far too good to be languishing out here in the provinces.

  Natassja inclined her head in response and they all took their seats.

  “I won’t waste your precious time, Herr Leitdorf,” said Schwarzhelm. “But there are a few things you need to know. I have no view on the merit of your claim, nor that of your rival. But the arguments have gone on long enough. The Emperor has run out of patience. One way or another, before I leave here, the matter will be determined.”

  Leitdorf was transparent. He couldn’t conceal the depth of his contempt for Schwarzhelm, or the legal process, or anyone but himself.

  “The Emperor’s concern for the health of Averland is touching,” he said artlessly. “If he’d come himself, I might have been impressed. Sending his lackey will do nothing to advance this cause.” He gave Schwarzhelm a look of pure loathing. “Very soon I shall be elector of this province. You’d do well to remember that. In my current position I cannot punish insolence. That will not be the case forever.”

  Schwarzhelm felt a deep sense of weariness sink into his bones. For his whole long, honourable career he’d had to deal with the sons of nobles. They were all the same. If they’d had any sort of upbringing at all, they’d have been horsewhipped to learn some respect for their betters. This fool had no idea of the power at his command, nor quite how far Karl Franz trusted him. If Schwarzhelm chose to crush the insolent dog’s skull then and there, the Emperor would find a way to forgive him. The image was a tempting one. He curled his fist up under the table, enjoying the sense of strength coiled within it. One day, maybe. But not now.

  “That’s your prerogative,” Schwarzhelm said, keeping his voice low. Forceful, not outright threatening. “But for now, I am the fudge of the Succession. Under Imperial law, you are bound to answer my summons. You will come when I call you. You will leave when I dismiss you. You will abide by any ruling I arrive at. Failure to do so will render your claim void. You may not like that. But such is the law.”

  Rufus’ cheeks filled with blood. He was used to lording it over terrified servants. He’d probably never been spoken to in such a manner in his life. Schwarzhelm was amused to see his podgy fingers open and close. He was angry. But also intimidated. Good. That was as it should be.

  “You… dare talk to me like that,” he started. “By what authority—”

  Schwarzhelm stood from the table, pushing his chair back. In a single fluid move, he drew the Rechtstahl. The blade was dull. It knew it would not be drinking blood, and it resented being used for show.

  “By this,” hissed Schwarzhelm. “As long as I carry it, you’re under its shadow. You, and the man you’re competing with. Never forget it.”

  Rufus shrank back into shock. He pushed his own chair backwards, the rush of blood fading from his cheeks.

  “You wouldn’t dare!” he stammered.

  Schwarzhelm felt like giving him a grim smile. But he didn’t. He never smiled. He looked at Natassja. She’d remained calm and was watching him from under her dark lashes.

  “You’re under edict too, Frau.”

  “You needn’t worry about me, my lord,” she said. Her voice was languid, poised, untroubled. Unlike her husband, she knew what she was doing. So this was the one to watch. Intriguing.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” said Schwarzhelm, sheathing the blade and taking his seat. “Now we’ve established the rules, there are some more things to discuss.”

  Verstohlen brought a sheaf of parchment from his bag and began to hand copies out. For the moment at least, Rums had been cowed. He took the documents meekly. Verstohlen began to explain what they were and where he needed to sign. As he did so, he let a significant glance slip towards Schwarzhelm. The purpose of the meeting had been achieved. One candidate had been tamed. Now they needed to do the same to Grosslich.

  The thunder rolled in the distance. There was a heavy storm somewhere over the Worlds Edge Mountains. Even from many miles away, its force was evident.

  Grunwald wiped his brow. The air was thick and heavy. He’d welcome a downpour. Though it was close to evening, the heat was still uncomfortable. It made the army fractious. On the march from Averheim he’d had to discipline three of the company captains for brawls in their commands. He felt the sweat running down the inside of his jerkin. It took some doing, keeping four thousand men marching in something like formation. When he’d first been made commander, over ten years ago, he’d taken a positive enjoyment from goading his forces into action. Now, after so much campaigning, it had become a chore. He wondered if he’d passed his prime. Perhaps Turgitz had been a sign. It was a commonplace, but still true enough: command was a lonely business.

  Grunwald placed the spyglass to one eye and trained it on the distant peaks to the east. The land marched up towards them in a steadily rising patchwork of craggy rises. His gaze swept across broken foothills, twisting for miles, before the first of the huge granite cliffs soared into the air. Tough country. No movement. Perhaps the reports had been mistaken. They’d been trudging for miles with no sign of orcs. No sign of people, even. The land was empty. A wasteland.

  He pondered his options. The last of the errand riders had gone. Despite sending regular reports to Averheim of his progress, nothing had been heard back. Grunwald could only assume that Schwarzhelm knew where he was and how the assignment was going. Until he received fresh orders and fresh horses, there was nothing for it but to keep heading east in the hope of engaging the enemy. Assuming, of course, that one even existed. He was beginning to wonder whether the stories they’d been told in Heideck had any truth to them at all.

  Bloch came up beside him.

  “See anything, sir?” he asked.

  Grunwald shook his head and stowed the spyglass away.

  “Nothing. Not a damn thing.”

  Bloch looked up at the heavens uneasily.

  “It’ll be dark soon. What do you want to do?”

  Grunwald looked back over the army. The bulk of the detachments had been stood down. They were arranged across a long, shallow hillside in their regimental groups. Some were sitting on the grass, cradling their weapons. Others stood, leaning on the shafts of halberds or spears. The columns had lost their pristine shape since leaving Heideck. The men were tired, bored and frustrated. If there was one thing worse than stumbling across the enemy, it was not stumbling across them. Marching up into the foothills would be dangerous. If the quest continued to be fruitless, it would have to be done sooner or later.

  “We’ll withdraw,” he said. “At dawn we’ll strike out for Grenzstadt and the passes. We’ve been sold stories. Something’s very strange here, and I want some answers.”

  Bloch nodded.

  “Aye, sir.”

  Grunwald looked at him carefully. Bloch always spoke carefully around him, but he couldn’t shake the sense that the man didn’t give him the respect the subordinate officers did. It was a difficult situation. Bloch had saved his life at Turgitz. He might feel that gave him some kind of special licence. If he did, he’d have to disabuse himself of that quickly.

  “Order the captains to break for the march. We’re being fed false information. When we’re in Grenzstadt, that’ll need to be addressed.”

  Bloch hesitated before replying. “Yes, sir.”

&nb
sp; “Was there something else?”

  The lieutenant was looking up to the broken country stretching away to the east, dotted with twisted trees, scrub and gorse.

  “If they’re anywhere, they’ll be in there.”

  Grunwald gave a wintry smirk.

  “Itching for a fight, Herr Bloch?”

  Bloch glowered. The man disliked being talked down to.

  “When it’s warranted, aye.”

  “Good instincts. But be careful what you wish for. This is not the place.” Grunwald looked back over the way they’d come. “The light’s failing and we’re too close to that cover. We’ll fall back west to the last open ridge and make camp. The morning may bring new counsel.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Bloch, but he looked distracted. He was still looking east.

  Grunwald followed his gaze. For a moment, he saw nothing but gradually rising grassland, punctuated by dark conifers and rows of low gorse bushes. Beyond them the first of the low hills rose, jagged with tumbled rock. The dying sun threw golden light across the stone. It was a peaceful scene.

  “You see something?”

  Bloch narrowed his eyes. Absently, he took up his halberd.

  “You’re right, sir,” he said. “We need to fall back. Now.”

  Then Grunwald saw them too. Far off, creeping close to the ground, dark shapes. They were half-lost in the wasteland, but moving quickly. Just a few bodies visible, hunched low, before dropping behind cover. More emerged, then slipped away again. They didn’t move like humans. Only one breed of warrior moved that way.

  Grunwald’s heart lurched.

  “Get them moving,” he hissed.

  Bloch ran back to the massed ranks behind them. Soon shouts rose into the air as the sergeants began to knock the regiments into defensive formations.

  Grunwald stayed where he was for a moment longer, screwing his eyes up against the weak light. The shapes were still distant. It was hard to make out numbers. Maybe just a scattered band.

  Or maybe not.