“How much do I need?”
The fat man laughed, a strangled sound that had little mirth in it.
“First time? Half a root. You’ll be back. Three schillings.”
The price was low. That was a worry. If such dissolute characters could get hold of it, then it was more widespread than Brecht had believed.
Verstohlen gave him the money and took one of the roots. He slipped it into his pocket. The fat man laughed again.
“You’ll love it,” he gurgled. “You’ll love her.”
Verstohlen paused.
“Who?”
But the fat man couldn’t stop laughing. He shuffled back into the rear of the house, shaking his head at some joke. Verstohlen watched him go. He suddenly felt nauseous. The squalor around him was overwhelming.
He walked back out into the sun. Once in the courtyard, he drew in a mouthful of air. It wasn’t the purest in the world, but it was less noxious than it had been inside the house. The last of the sunlight still lay golden on the stone. The light was fading quickly. With more purpose than he’d shown on the way out, Verstohlen began to retrace his steps. He knew it would be unwise to be on the west bank when night fell.
His haste was not just a matter of prudence. This thing needed to be investigated. An uncomfortable thought had occurred to him. The words were still etched on his mind.
You’ll love her.
That could mean nothing. It could be innocuous. It could have been mistaken. It could be horrifying.
Schwarzhelm woke suddenly. His eyes flicked wide open. For a moment, he had no idea where he was. Then the real world clarified. He was in his bedchamber in the Averburg. As ever, he was plastered in sweat. As ever, the dream had been bad. The sheets were clammy, wrapped up around his powerful legs like bonds. He looked down at his hands. They were still shaking. He took a deep breath, forcing his heart to stop racing.
Schwarzhelm swung his feet on to the floor, shoving the flimsy silk coverlet from his body. He rubbed his eyes roughly. The last of the images, Bloch’s accusing face, steadily receded. He felt like he was losing his mind.
As he had done in Altdorf, he walked over to the window of his tower room. He stood at the open sill, waiting for his heart to stop thumping. He looked out and down, willing the images in his mind to recede. He could see all of the Old City laid out before him. The night had done little to cool it down, but the place slumbered. The streets were silent, and the river ran quietly under the moon.
When he’d been a boy, many years ago, Schwarzhelm had called this place his capital city. Growing up in rural Averland, the word Altdorf meant little. Though it was hard to recall now, he’d only had the vaguest idea what the Empire was or who ruled it. His life had been permeated by simple things. The rhythm of the harvest. The intense politics of village life. The need to learn a trade.
His father had wanted him to be a blacksmith. Even as a lad, he’d had the arms for it. If he’d taken that advice, he’d no doubt still be in the village. Wenenlich. He barely even remembered the name. When he’d first come back to Averland to rein in Marius, he’d not visited. That kind of sentiment had never been his style. For all he knew, the villagers might still boast of their famous son. They might have forgotten he ever came from there. Either was possible. It didn’t really matter.
He leaned further out on the sill, letting the warm breeze run across his skin. Since those days, he’d travelled the length of the Empire and beyond. He’d fought marauders on the far shore of the Sea of Claws, orcs in the Grey Mountains, rat-men in the sewers of Middenheim, traitors in Ostland, undead in Stirland, beastmen all over the Empire. Now nowhere was his home—and everywhere was. He’d become one of that select, strange band for whom the whole Empire was their concern. Few men ever achieved such a feat. Karl Franz, of course. Gelt, Volkmar, Huss. And, of course, Helborg.
The name reminded him of his recent sensitivity. It was unworthy. He’d allowed himself to get caught up in the game of prestige. Wasn’t that what Lassus had warned him against? The old man’s lesson was simple. He’d served his time. When it was over he’d allowed himself to leave the stage, honoured by all and hated by none. That was the way a man’s life should be. Getting drawn into these rivalries was foolish and dangerous.
Perhaps Schwarzhelm’s own time was drawing to a close. Maybe, after thirty years of constant service, he’d become trapped in that endless, fruitless struggle for mortal honour. All things came to an end, after all. Maybe that was what the Emperor was testing for. Whether the old dog had any life left in him.
The memory of the nightmare began to fade. Schwarzhelm felt his equilibrium gradually return. The still of the night brought a certain clarity to his thoughts.
Lack of sleep was getting to him. The nightmares were unnatural. He’d had them in Altdorf, but they’d been worse since getting to Averheim. He’d seen enough of the world to know that such things always had their causes. There were forces at work, hidden for the moment, determined to see him fail. Maybe they were already in the city. Maybe they would show themselves in the days to come. But, as surely as he’d known that Raghram would come to the Bastion, he knew his enemies would scuttle from their cover at the last. Until that moment, the torment would continue. His spirit knew what his mind could not. It sensed their presence.
“You will not break me,” he whispered. His words melted into the night. “You cannot break me.”
For a few moments more he remained at the window’s edge, watching the city sleep, reflecting on its fate. Then, finally, he felt the drag of weariness again. The dawn was still hours away.
Schwarzhelm walked back to the bed and lay on it. Eventually, slowly, his eyes closed. Hung in the corner of the chamber, the sheathed Rechtstahl looked coldly, silently on. Outside, high in the night sky, the full moon rode untroubled above Averheim.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Bloch roared his defiance. The men around him did the same. They were brave lads. They hadn’t given up. But the situation was getting hopeless. Hundreds of men now lay trampled into the turf. All around the beleaguered army swarmed a maelstrom of greenskin fury. The artillery rounds had given out, the last of their shot spent in a futile effort to stem the rising tide. Two nights of fighting stranded on the ridge and no let-up in sight. The rotations had become unbearable. Sleep had been nigh impossible amid the constant series of assault and counter-assault.
The second dawn, hot and humid, brought no comfort. Grunwald’s army, sent so proudly south from Altdorf, was facing ruin. The orcs came at them again. They scented victory.
“Hold your positions!” bellowed Bloch, though his voice was beginning to crack. His halberd felt heavy and blunt. “Pick your targets!”
His men were now using whatever weapons they could find. Some still had their halberds, others swords, others hunting knives. The defences held, but they were being run ragged. Bloch had ordered a withdrawal further up the slope just to avoid fighting knee-deep in their own dead. As the beating sun rose higher up into the sky, the pungent smell of the corpses began to strengthen.
That only seemed to spur the greenskins on. Their attacks were coordinated, but they were also feral. They’d lost none of their energy for the fight, despite the casualties they’d taken. As the balance of numbers had shifted they’d started picking off men in gangs. Bloch had seen single troopers born down by three or more greenskins, their bodies trampled into the mud until they were little more than slicks of blood.
He focussed on the charging orc lines. That wouldn’t be his fate. He lowered his halberd, gritted his teeth and braced for impact.
The orcs thundered into the human ranks again. There were too many gaps in the line of steel, and some broke through. Swordsmen immediately raced to engage them. The combat was close, murderous and heavy. There was barely room to swing a blade, let alone wield a halberd properly. This kind of intense melee suited the greenskins better. The defenders were being butchered.
Bloch traded vicious blows with his targ
et, a brutal-looking warrior orc with three tusks protruding from its maw. It was far heavier than he was and carried a crude warhammer in both hands. As the hammer came down, Bloch’s broken halberd shaft shivered. The warrior advanced, swinging his weapon wildly. If it connected just once, the game was over. Bloch swayed out of reach, thrusting back with his halberd when he could. He was driven back. The men at his shoulder were pushed up the hill alongside him. They couldn’t hold the charge.
He heard the spearman beside him go down rather than saw it. A spray of hot blood splattered down his cheek. For a moment, the man’s scream drowned out the rest of the battle clamour. Then he was gone, and another defender took his place in the line. They were being thinned out.
The prospect of defeat maddened him. Bloch charged forward, no longer worried about becoming exposed. Something needed to be done to break the momentum.
His blade moved with speed, flashing in the sun. The warhammer-wielder was too slow. Bloch sliced through his defences, carving the green chest open and throwing up gouts of blood.
He could sense men following his lead. He wasn’t alone. In every direction, humans pushed back against the orc assault. The cries of pain told him they were being cut down. The defenders didn’t have the numbers to back an assault up. The orcs were stronger, fresher and better-armed. A strange, guttural sound rose up into the air. They were laughing.
“Sigmar!” yelled Bloch, trying to conjure something, anything up. He whirled his blade around, cutting down any orcs who strayed into its path. With hopelessness came savagery.
Then, from the summit of the hill, a lone trumpet rang out. Grunwald had ordered the retreat. At last.
Bloch stood his ground. He could hear the clatter of arms as men on the far side of the ridge broke through the thinnest point in the orc ranks and attempted to break the ring of iron around them. They should have done it hours ago. Even now, they risked being cut down as they fled.
“Hold your positions, you swine!” roared Bloch, wielding his halberd with renewed vigour. “Give them time to get away. We leave last!”
His words were wasted on some, those who had already turned tail. His was a diminished company that fought its way steadily back up the hill. They gave ground a yard at a time, never breaking, never losing shape. Bloch fought with a steady, controlled anger. He was damned if he could see a way out of this, but wasn’t going to run yet.
Then, all around him, fresh troops arrived. Grunwald’s personal guard, thrown into the melee to shield the retreating men behind. The commander was at the forefront, slicing through the orc ranks with his broadsword.
The strokes were expert. Deadly. Bloch had never witnessed that side of him. The man knew how to wield a blade.
Bloch fought his way to Grunwald’s side.
“How many can we get away?” he shouted, felling an orc warrior with a savage stab from the halberd even as he came alongside the commander.
“What’re you still doing here?” grunted Grunwald, grappling with a huge red-eyed monster. It took three of them to drop the orc. Behind its toppled corpse, more greenskin warriors rushed forward.
“Flee!” Grunwald snapped at Bloch, his eyes wild with desperation. “The men need leading!”
For a moment, Bloch didn’t understand.
“Are you not—”
Grunwald turned to face him for a brief instant. His face was grim. The man had been in heavy fighting, and his leg had been hastily bandaged. He wouldn’t get far.
“I’ll hold them here as long as I can. Rally the men. Head for Heideck. That’s an order, Herr Bloch.”
Then the orcs charged again. Grunwald raised his sword.
“Sigmar!” he roared, and his men echoed the battle cry. They were hopelessly outnumbered.
Bloch looked around, struck by indecision. All those who could were running, sprinting down the far side of the rise. They were strung out, no formation at all. They’d be picked off like flies.
He looked back over to Grunwald. Every fibre of his being wanted to stay. He’d never walked away from a fight in his life, not when he could look his opponent in the eye. He was caught in an agony of indecision. That was dangerous. He was still in the middle of the fighting.
A greenskin lumbered up to him, maybe seeing the torment in his eyes. Snapping back into focus, Bloch ran at it, swinging his halberd into the warrior’s flank with all the strength he could muster. The blade bit, lodging in the green flesh. He ducked under the counter-stroke and punched the orc square between the eyes. Once, twice, three times, each with an armoured gauntlet, quick and brutal. The orc slumped to the earth, its face a mess of broken bones. Bloch pulled a knife from his belt and finished the job.
He looked up. There were orcs everywhere. The shape of the battle had dissolved. Whole companies of men were streaming down the far side of the hill. A few yards away, the last knot of resistance on the ridge still held out. Grunwald’s men were tough, but it couldn’t last forever. An orc warrior got through, but Grunwald met the charging creature, parried two blows, but his back was unprotected. A fresh warrior leapt up to take advantage.
“Commander!” shouted Bloch, powerless to prevent it. The orc blade plunged deep. Somehow, Grunwald managed to finish off his opponent, but the blood was already beginning to gush. He fell to the ground, still grappling with the second warrior. Then his body passed from view, hidden by the press of men and orcs around. He was gone.
For the moment, the orcs were still consumed with the need to bring down Grunwald’s defensive formation. They were drawn to it like wasps to a honeypot. Bloch hesitated, aware of the danger, unwilling to leave.
It was hopeless. The field was lost. His duty was to the men that remained.
“Sigmar forgive me,” he spat, as he turned tail and headed down the hill, tearing after the fleeing column of men ahead. There were orcs swarming everywhere, and their attention was rapidly turning to the retreating human forces.
Bloch felt sick. He’d left behind the chance of an honourable death, but he might still meet a dishonourable one. The only thing that would make up for that was if he could rally the fragments of Grunwald’s command and get them away. He gripped the broken halberd tightly, looking for fresh targets. There’d be plenty more killing before the day was done.
Schwarzhelm lowered the gavel, and the noise echoed around the chamber. Immediately the crowd ceased their chatter. Those still standing took their seats. The first session of the Estates Tribunal was convened. At last, the process was underway.
The chamber was in the largest audience room in the Averburg citadel. It was one of the oldest parts of the ancient castle still in use, as indicated by the worn stone of the walls and the archaic narrow windows. The space was barely big enough for all those who were entitled to attend. The appointment of an elector was a major event in the province, and the hall was stuffed with every notable who believed they had a right to be there. Schwarzhelm suspected that Dagobert had been weak in his admissions policy, and many who sat on the long wooden pews were simply rich enough to be able to buy a seat. That irritated him. This was a serious procedure, not a bear-baiting spectacle.
Aside from the noble onlookers, there were dozens of loremasters, scholars and other legal experts in attendance. This was the kind of debate they lived for. Some of them were in the pay of Leitdorf, or Grosslich, or—if they were very clever—both. Others were simply there for the joy of witnessing a long and turgid academic debate on the finer points of law.
Schwarzhelm had in front of him a list of names Verstohlen had prepared. They indicated what each of them was likely to say and why. Not for the first time, he was glad to have the services of such an able man. There had been a time when the Temple of Sigmar might have taken him away. Verstohlen would have made a formidable witch hunter. Operating as the personal agent of the Emperor’s Champion seemed to suit his temperament better, which was something to be thankful for. He knew why that was, of course. He’d never forget why that was.
&nbs
p; Schwarzhelm sat behind a heavy wooden desk on a raised dais. Below him, scribes were poised to record the events of the day. On the front row of pews before him, Leitdorf sat with Natassja. He looked bored. He wore a turban-like headdress and was draped in an ostentatious purple robe. It did nothing but display his rotund stomach. Clearly, the man had never lifted a sword in his life. If he hadn’t been so wealthy, and potentially so powerful, surely a capable woman like Natassja wouldn’t have had anything to do with him.
On the other side of the room, Grosslich’s delegation had gathered. Heinz-Mark sat apart from the others, dressed in ceremonial armour. Unlike his rival, he looked like a future elector. His supporters, including the weasel-faced Ferenc, were set some distance behind.
“My lords,” said Schwarzhelm, his rolling voice echoing around the room. The scribes below him immediately started scraping. “This Estates Tribunal is now in session.”
At a hidden signal from Tochfel, a priest of Sigmar stood up and delivered a lengthy benediction. After him, an Ulrican did the same. Schwarzhelm felt his spirits begin to sag. There was no prospect of this being either quick or easy. As far as he could tell from the legal papers, both candidates had equally flawed cases. Rufus was rumoured to be illegitimate and came from a family in which madness had been proven. Many powerful families had threatened to leave Averland if he were crowned. Grosslich, on the other hand, had dubious claims to being a member of the ruling elite at all. He’d bought his support amongst the Alptraums. If it were not for his extreme popularity with the lower classes, his candidacy would have foundered long ago. His was an intriguing story.
When the prayers had taken their long and dreary course, Schwarzhelm returned to the business of the day.
“According to the articles of the court, I will now hear the opening statements of the candidate’s advocates. As the son of the late Count Marius, I now give the floor to—”
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