Swords of the Emperor

by Chris Wraight

  He turned and hurried back to the army, drawing his sword as he went. He wasn’t taking any chances. They’d fall back to the ridge. Only a madman would attack in the dark across such treacherous country.

  As he made his way back to the heart of the army, Captain Schlosser, one of his more experienced commanders, approached him. His heavily moustachioed face was grim.

  “More sightings to the north, sir,” he reported.

  Grunwald stopped. “How many?”

  “Not sure, sir. Lots.”

  Grunwald felt a cold sensation enter his stomach. Had they been drawn on? Had the orcs kept to cover long enough to pull them between two arms of a greater army? It wasn’t like them. A greenskin would normally attack at the first opportunity. To use such stealth was strange. Very strange.

  “Keep the companies together,” he snapped, not wanting to think he’d made another mistake. “We’ll make the ridge. Then we’ll see what we’re dealing with.”

  Schlosser saluted and headed back to his regiment. All around him, the army was pulling itself back into some sort of order. Men were beginning to set off, locked in their company formations. Massed spear-tips glowed gold against the setting sun. Any expressions of boredom had been banished. They had the tight, expectant faces of men about enter battle.

  Grunwald looked along the ranks, watching for any laggards. One figure stood out. Bloch. His voice was louder than the rest of the captains put together. His company had moved to the rear of the army. The position of greatest danger. Even as the other captains hastened their men to march, Bloch kept his in a defensive unit, waiting for the rest to leave before following on.

  Grunwald smiled coldly. The man would get his fight. At least that was certain. After so long hunting shadows, the wait was over. They’d found the greenskins at last.

  The countryside immediately north of Averheim was particularly beautiful. The river ran in wide curves, sparkling under the sun. On either bank, the turf was lush and verdant. In the distance, scattered herds of long-horn cattle grazed. The summer was hotter than anyone could remember. It made everyone languid.

  Verstohlen pulled his hat down to shade his eyes. His steed shifted irritably under him. The beast was too hot. That went for all of them.

  He looked across at Schwarzhelm. The big man looked tired. He’d complained of not sleeping. Verstohlen knew what he meant. The air was close and humid, even at night. There wasn’t much anyone could do about it. He found himself missing the cooler climes of Altdorf. Then again, it could get unpleasantly steamy there too. There was no escape from the elements.

  Aside from the two of them, the hunting party was small. Just Kraus and half a dozen of the honour guard. They hadn’t caught anything yet. Then again, that wasn’t really the point of the exercise. The invitation to hunt had come from one of Grosslich’s supporters in the Alptraum family. These were Ferenc’s estates. Their real quarry was human.

  Schwarzhelm’s steed looked restive. He calmed it with a word. Despite his bulk, there was no finer horseman in the Empire. He seemed to understand beasts more easily than he understood scholars.

  “He’s late,” Schwarzhelm growled. Verstohlen could see the lines of sweat on his temples. “Is this an Averlander habit?”

  Before he could reply, Verstohlen finally caught sight of the other party riding towards them. Six horses, all arrayed in magnificent gear. Even as they approached it was clear who the leader was. Heinz-Mark Grosslich was taller than those around him by several inches. Just as Schwarzhelm was. In fact, they looked somewhat similar. Though Grosslich was clean-shaven he was a bear of a man. His cheeks were ruddy and wind-bitten and his blond hair was been clipped short, just as a warrior’s should be. He handled his horse well.

  At his side rode a shorter man with dark hair and a weasel face. That would be Ferenc. The others were retainers and guards. As the party drew near, the escorts fell back.

  “My lord Schwarzhelm!” cried Grosslich, pulling his horse up. “You have my apologies. Had I know you were in Averheim so early, I’d have ridden sooner myself. We were told you were not due for another week.”

  “Leitdorf’s doing,” muttered Ferenc.

  Schwarzhelm was unmoved by the greeting. He was as impervious to friendliness as he was to intimidation.

  “You should cultivate more reliable sources,” he said.

  Grosslich nodded in agreement.

  “Indeed. My adviser has been dismissed. I regret the delay extremely.”

  Verstohlen watched the man carefully as he spoke. He had an easy manner and a commanding presence. There was none of Leitdorf’s evident arrogance, but still that palpable impression of self-belief. Grosslich looked like a man who could command an army. That wouldn’t sway the loremasters too much, but it would stand him in good stead with Schwarzhelm.

  “We’ll say no more about it,” said Schwarzhelm. “You know why I wished to see you?”

  Grosslich laughed.

  “You wish to lay down the law,” he said, looking unconcerned by the prospect. “We’ve been taking too long making up our minds, and now the Emperor wants to see results.”

  “You think the matter is something to smile about?”

  Grosslich looked into Schwarzhelm’s unmoving face and his laughter quickly died.

  “Forgive me. Though you must understand, the lengthy process has nothing to do with me.”

  Ferenc nodded enthusiastically.

  “That’s true, my lord,” he began. “It’s that Leit—”

  Schwarzhelm fixed the noble with an acid stare.

  “When I wish for your opinion, Herr Alptraum, I will most certainly ask for it.”

  “The problem does lie with Leitdorf,” continued Grosslich, letting an irritated glance slip towards his companion. “I have the support of the province by dint of my deeds, not my heritage. And yet that is still not enough. Leitdorf has the scholars in his debt, and they perpetuate his arguments. Give me an honest judge, or a sword, and I will settle it for them.”

  Schwarzhelm continued to look darkly at Grosslich, but Verstohlen could tell he had some sympathy. All those who battled against the rigid hierarchy of the Empire had at least one thing in common.

  “You have an honest judge now,” Schwarzhelm said. “And I warn you as I warned Leitdorf, any attempt to sway my verdict will result in your claim becoming void. I care nothing for your history with him, nor his with you. All that matters is the law.”

  “That is what I wish for too,” said Grosslich. “But you must know how far he has perverted this place. His wife, that bitch Natassja, controls his every move. She is as corrupt as she is deceitful. I don’t doubt that you’ve met her. Be careful. She is the power behind his campaign.”

  Schwarzhelm raised an eyebrow.

  “You think I’d be swayed by a woman?”

  “Many men have. She’s poison.”

  Verstohlen noted the man’s vehemence. That hatred was not feigned. Schwarzhelm remained unmoved.

  “Your warning has been noted. Was there anything else you wished to tell me? From dawn tomorrow the court of succession will be convened. Thereafter, we’ll have no chance to confer in private.”

  Grosslich looked at Ferenc, but the Alptraum heir said nothing. The smaller man looked crestfallen.

  “Only this,” said Grosslich, turning back to Schwarzhelm. “All looks well in Averland. The harvest has been good and gold is plentiful. The war is not much more than a rumour to us. Do not be fooled. There is a sickness here. No one knows where all the gold comes from. The law is laughed at and honest men suffer. I know your reputation, Lord Schwarzhelm. Perhaps you can bring an end to this. But beware. There are traps here for the unwary.”

  Schwarzhelm maintained his implacable expression. Perhaps only Verstohlen saw it. The faintest flicker of uncertainty, swiftly extinguished.

  He’d never seen that before, not from Schwarzhelm.

  “Fear not,” the Emperor’s Champion said, pulling his steed’s head around and k
icking it into a walk. “I do not waver, and the Emperor’s will shall be done. But there’s been enough talking. My limbs need stretching. We came here to hunt. Are you with me, counsellor?”

  Verstohlen nudged his horse to follow Schwarzhelm, as did the rest of the party.

  “Yes, my lord,” he said, though there was little enthusiasm in it. Chasing after boars in the deep forest was not his idea of a well-spent morning. And the longer he spent in Averland, the more he began to suspect that something darker was at work beneath the sunlit facade. Only time would tell.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “Form up!” roared Bloch.

  On either side of him his men shifted into position. Just like the detachments strung out along the rest of the ridge, Bloch’s men had arranged themselves in the time-honoured Imperial defence formation. A rectangle of men, each of them armed with a halberd, four ranks deep. Bloch and the most experienced troops stood in the centre of the front rank. The rest of the soldiers clustered close by, shoulders grazing one another as they shuffled into their stations.

  Bloch could smell their anticipation. After days out in the wild, they were filthy-looking. Their faces were streaked with dirt and sweat. Though night had fallen, the heat still rose from the earth in waves. Averland was like a furnace and the darkness brought little respite. He could feel the slickness of his palms against the rough wood of his halberd shaft. His heart was thumping. Not long now.

  “Blades up!” he bellowed. “Hold your positions!”

  All along the Imperial lines, steel flashed as halberds were hoisted. Bloch stole a look along the ridge. The moon was full and high, and the land around was bathed in silver. Not a cloud in the sky.

  Grunwald had driven the army hard to reach the ridge. As they’d marched towards it, the truth had become slowly apparent. The orcs had been engaged in a sophisticated exercise, drawing them further and further east while never letting themselves be detected. That was astonishing. Bloch had never heard the like. Now the greenskins were closing. From all directions. They were at the centre of the storm. Grunwald had barely had time to arrange the regiments along the ridge before the first of them had been sighted. He’d done well to get them into formation, and the few artillery pieces they’d brought had been assembled and primed. It was a good position to occupy, and the Imperial army had the high ground. It’s what Bloch would have done.

  Now it all came down to numbers. Just how many of the bastards were there?

  He’d find out soon. The front ranks of greenskins were coming into view, charging up the slope towards them. The artillery cracked out, flaring across the battlefield.

  “Pick your targets. Remember you’re men! No quarter for these Sigmar-damned filth!”

  That brought a half-hearted cheer from his men, but they were busy watching the charging figures tearing towards them. In the moonlight, the orc skin looked sickly and pale. Like green-tinged ghosts, they surged up the incline. The gap closed.

  Behind the front ranks, more and more orcs streamed into view. This was bad. There were more than he’d imagined. Where had they been hiding?

  From the far side of the ridge, sounds of battle broke out. They were surrounded. Then the time for speculation ended. The first of the orcs hurled themselves forward, swinging their cudgels and cleavers. Bloch saw their red eyes burn as they raced towards him. They chopped the turf up under their heavy feet, now mere yards away.

  “For Sigmar!” he roared, watching the eyes come for him.

  Then the lines crunched together.

  Bloch punched his halberd forward viciously. The orc before him staggered backwards. Those on either side of it crashed into the defenders. One man was sent hurtling back into his fellows by the force of the impact. Fresh men struggled to take his place. Halberds thrust up and out. The detachment buckled, but held. Bloch worked his own blade expertly, using the cover at his shoulder to maintain the wall of steel.

  More greenskins joined the attack. Bigger warriors shoved their way to the front, panting heavily from the run up the slope. Their stench stained the air, their bellows filled it. The warriors hurled themselves forward, hammering away at the defences. Still the detachment held. When a man fell, another took his place. They knew their business.

  Bloch worked hard, feeling the sweat pool at his back. It was heavy fighting. The orcs were at least as big as the gors he’d faced at Turgitz, but their armour was better than he’d ever seen greenskins wearing. It was close-fitting and heavy. Their blades were good, too. He’d seen orcs bearing rough axes and cleavers before, but these had broadswords and halberds. Sigmar only knew where they’d got them. They were as good as his own men’s.

  The force of the assault began to waver. For all their ferocity, the orcs were still attacking up the slope and the determination of the defences had blunted the full force of the charge.

  “No mercy!” Bloch roared, feeling the shift of momentum. He lowered his halberd and prepared to push back. To his satisfaction, the men around him immediately shifted their weapons to compensate. The orcs may have had savagery and strength, but the Empire troops had iron discipline. The long line of halberds, each trained on a target in the gloom, was a formidable obstacle.

  “Hurl them down!” Bloch bellowed, and the line of men surged forward. The footing was treacherous on the churned-up grass, but the row of halberds stayed in formation. The orcs responded to the challenge in the only way they knew how, with a counter-thrust of their own. The larger greenskin warriors lumbered to meet the blades, smashing the metal aside and roaring their defiance.

  The slaughter was immediate. Well-directed halberds lanced through the orcs’ defences, skewering their victims. Other blades glanced from the heavy plate armour, the staves shattering from the impact. Any defenders pulled from the lines were torn apart in an instant, their blood thrown high into the night air. The order of the assault was soon lost in a frenzy of hacking and slashing.

  Bloch thrust his own weapon straight through the face of an oncoming monster. The orc dragged the halberd from his hands in its death throes, so he drew his shortsword. Another warrior came for him, its distorted mouth agape and eyes flaming red. He deftly stepped aside, blunting the force of the charge, then slashed with all his might. The aim was good, and he drew thick blood. Further enraged, the greenskin came at him again, its mighty axe whirling. Bloch parried the blow and nearly lost his sword to the force of it. He stumbled back, and the greenskin leapt after him. In its eagerness to crush his skull, it left a gap between those grasping arms. Bloch ducked sharply under them, switching his sword to his left hand. He plunged it upwards. He felt it bite deep, then blood cascaded all over him. The roaring orc slumped across his shoulders, its fire extinguished.

  With difficulty, Bloch shrugged the heavy corpse off and it crashed into the ground. He stepped back, sword raised, looking for a fresh challenge.

  It never came. The assault had been broken. In every direction, the orcs were falling back.

  “After them!” came a voice from further down the line.

  “Hold your ground!” panted Bloch. To charge off into the gathering gloom would be madness. The orcs had withdrawn, but had not been routed. That in itself was strange. It wasn’t their style.

  From further up the hill, a lone trumpeter gave the order to maintain position. From his command position, Grunwald had obviously seen the danger too. Slowly, reluctantly, the defensive perimeter re-established itself. His breathing heavy, Bloch backed up the slope with his men. The detachment re-formed. The orcs passed into the shadows, their fury abated for the time being. They’d left behind a score of human dead, but hadn’t dented Grunwald’s defences. Yet.

  Bloch took up a fresh halberd as he resumed his position in the front line. First blood had been drawn. But the greenskins would be back. This fight had just got started.

  Schwarzhelm’s temples throbbed as he studied the parchment before him intently. It was the thirteenth document he’d been asked to read that morning. He’d been
sitting at the same desk in the Averburg’s scriptorium for what seemed like hours. At least the place was cool. The chamber was buried deep within the lower levels of the keep, and only a weak light entered via narrow windows. The walls were lined with leather-bound tomes of law and the chronicles of the province. Some looked older than the stone behind them. Beyond the bookshelves, passages led to further repositories of scrolls and sealed cases of documents.

  After a while, the narrow blackletter legal script had started to swim before his eyes. The depositions and statements were all written in the kind of dense language that seemed to defy sense and encourage obscurantism. Wading through this stuff was its own kind of torture.

  He could see the loremaster waiting impatiently for him. He decided to let the man wait. Like Tochfel, Uriens Achendorfer was grey and insignificant. He looked marginally healthier than the Steward, but that was only due to his less advanced years. A few more winters locked in his cloisters scratching out contracts on parchment and his last bloom of health would disappear. Schwarzhelm loathed men like that. Officials. They were all mean creatures, the least of the Empire’s many servants. Give him an illiterate spearman who knew how to hold his ground in the face of an enemy any day.

  He kept reading, trying to keep his irritation and fatigue under wraps. The text was something to do with the claim against Leitdorf’s legitimacy. Several witnesses’ reports had been collated by a Verenan arbiter who had visited the Leitdorf estate in eastern Averland some years ago. The accounts were contradictory and vague. Not for the first time, Schwarzhelm began to suspect deliberately so.

  “I can’t admit this evidence,” he said at last, putting the script down on the desk in front of him.

  Achendorfer cleared his throat nervously. He’d already been on the wrong end of some choice words that morning. “May I ask why, my lord? It is a warranted document and has been catalogued in the—”

  “This testimony is years old,” said Schwarzhelm. “The arbiter is dead. It cannot be verified. The verdict is inconclusive.” He fixed Achendorfer with a withering look. “Everything is inconclusive. There’s not a single document you’ve given me with an unambiguous claim. No account is complete. The authority is always disputed. A more suspicious mind than mine would conclude that a deadlock has been allowed to develop here.”