“My lord!” came a cry from the floor. A lawyer stood up. Schwarzhelm thought he recognised the man from Leitdorf’s delegation. “I wish to lodge an objection. The business of determining an elector is for the authorities in Averland. The Emperor can have no say in the matter. According to the learned Jeroboam of Gruningwold, since the year 1345 the Procurators Legal have ruled that…”
The man droned on for some time, outlining the case for provincial self-determination. Schwarzhelm looked down at Leitdorf. The odious little man was smiling to himself as his lackey reeled out the arguments. There would be more such interruptions as the day went on. Too many people wanted the tribunal to fail. Too many had the money to sponsor interruptions.
Eventually, the lawyer finished his argument.
“Your objection is noted and overruled,” said Schwarzhelm. He worked hard to keep his voice level. He was already getting a headache. The objection had been anticipated, and he had the counter-arguments ready to hand. “My learned friend will be aware of the Drusus Precedent, dating to the time of Mandred. The summary of the principal is contained in the Volksfram Chronicles. Under the articles contained therein, I invoke the extraordinary right of the supreme governor of the Imperial executive. I am his representative, and the tribunal will continue.”
The lawyer sat down, looking pleased with himself. No doubt he’d earn himself a few crowns for the intervention.
“If we may continue?” said Schwarzhelm, sweeping his gaze across the packed chamber. It was early morning, but the room was already getting hot.
“My lord!” came a cry from further back. Another lawyer rose. You will of course be familiar with the prescriptions contained in the Averland Charter of Freedoms of 1266, under which the jurisdiction of the Imperial representative may be limited in the following cases.
Schwarzhelm sighed. There’d be a number of these to get through before the tribunal could get underway. Leitdorf had sat back in his pew, legs outstretched, and looked like he might be planning a snooze. Grosslich appeared frustrated and had turned to his own advisers. They’d no doubt start chipping in with points of their own.
Schwarzhelm fingered the pommel of the Rechtstahl as the lawyer droned on. It hung at his side, useless and decorative. He’d have given anything for an excuse to draw it. But for now he was a captive of the arcane mysteries of Imperial succession law.
He let the blade alone and tried to concentrate on what the man was saying. It was going to be a very, very long day.
Bloch felt as if his heart would burst. If not that, then his lungs would. He’d been running for longer than he’d ever done in his life. Just as at Turgitz, all those years of ale and offal-pies now felt like a very bad idea. He could feel the sweat running down the inside of his jerkin in rivulets. He’d long since cast off his helmet and the heavier items of plate armour, but he still felt bogged down.
“Enough!” he gasped, and came to a stop. All around him, men fell to their feet, panting like dogs. They were at the end of their strength, both from the retreat and from the hours of fighting that had taken place before it. Though they’d escaped the pursuing orcs for now, there wasn’t a triumphant expression among them. They knew the greenskins would be hard on their heels. It was only a matter of time before they’d have to turn and fight again.
Bloch could feel his vision begin to cloud at the edges. Fatigue was beginning to weigh him down. Not yet. He needed to keep going just a little longer.
He looked around. Somehow, against all likelihood, some of them had outrun the orcs and made it into the cover of woodland. They were barely a mile west of the site of the massacre. Under the scant cover of the trees, they at least had some chance of remaining undetected for a while. It wouldn’t last for long. Though Grunwald’s last stand had taken the brunt of the greenskin assault, the respite had only been brief. The pursuit would already be underway. They’d have to start running again soon.
More men arrived, crashing heavily through the undergrowth. Some carried their halberds, while others had discarded everything in their panic. The remnants of Grunwald’s army he’d managed to gather together from the rout were pitiful. Three hundred or so had made it to the woods. Perhaps others had found other ways to escape. If they still were out on the open country, they’d be easy pickings for the orcs.
For a moment, Bloch was utterly at a loss. He was exhausted, his men were exhausted, and there was nowhere to go. Heideck was miles away. They’d be lucky to get halfway there before being overtaken. There were no obvious choices.
“Sir?” came a voice. Bloch turned round. A young spearman was looking straight at him. He seemed in better physical shape than many of the rest and his cheeks weren’t hollow with fatigue. “The benefits of youth. What do we do now?”
Bloch stared back. He’d always prided himself on his ready answers, his quick tongue, his self-command. During his years as a company captain, he’d never been placed in a position where his best course of action seemed uncertain. There had always been the strategic picture handed down from above. He’d just had to look after tactics. After Grunwald’s death, things were different. There was no one left to give the orders but him. He remembered his disdain for Grunwald. It was the same casual contempt he’d always had for senior officers. If he’d known then what he knew now, maybe that quick tongue would have been sheathed more often.
He took a deep breath. Something needed to be done. If he didn’t act now, then they were all dead without so much as a fight being offered.
“Any officers make it out?” he said, addressing all the men around him. More soldiers were arriving every moment, staggering through the bracken. For the time being, there was no sign of the pursuing orcs. That was one small mercy.
“Schlosser was first away,” said one. “He drew a lot of orcs. I reckon they’ll have got him.”
“Rasmussen’s dead,” said another.
Not very encouraging. The men around him were state troopers. Some experienced hands, but none who could share the burden of command.
“So be it,” Bloch said, trying to sound more authoritative than he felt. “We can’t stay here. Anyone still with heavy armour, get rid of it. Take one weapon only, the lightest you have. We’ve still got a long way to go before we get out of this, and those monsters don’t tire quickly.”
All around him, men hurried to obey his orders. Bloch felt a degree of confidence return. He’d commanded soldiers for years. He knew what he was doing. If they stuck together, kept their discipline, there’d be a way out. Somehow.
“Any Averlanders among you?” Several men came forward. “I want guides who know the woodland. We’ll head for Heideck, but not by the straightest route. Between you, come up with a trail we can follow that keeps us under cover.”
The Averlanders began to confer animatedly.
“Do it quickly. We set off in moments,” said Bloch, growing in confidence. His spirit began to disseminate through the men, and they started to stand straighter. Like most soldiers, they could cope with almost anything if they understood the plan. It was when they didn’t know what was expected of them that morale collapsed.
Bloch started to plot possibilities in his mind. Perhaps he’d been too pessimistic about numbers. As he’d been speaking, more stragglers had found their way to their position. Maybe others had got away too. The orcs were still nowhere to be seen. If Grunwald’s men had held them up for longer than he thought, they might have a chance.
“Horseman!” came a cry from the edge of the ramshackle group. Bloch hefted his weapon instinctively. After a few moments, he saw it. A man, leading his steed through the trees. He looked nearly as exhausted as his own men. After a few moments, Bloch recognised the errand rider Grunwald had dispatched two days ago.
“What are you doing here?” he snapped, waiting for the man to come to him. “You should be halfway to Averheim.”
The rider shook his head.
“I had to turn back,” he said. “Commander Grunwald needs to know that his messengers
haven’t been getting through. I found bodies. Two of them. They’d not bothered to hide them. The corpses were barely out of sight from the road, and the crows were still busy. So I came back to let him know. Only to find this—”
Bloch regarded him suspiciously.
“How did you find us?”
“Luck,” he said. “I nearly rode into the greenskins. I had to seek shelter somewhere. There are orcs roaming all over the fields to the east of you. Most are heading north, from what I could see. I think some other survivors have tried to make it to Grenzstadt, and they’re being pursued. You chose well to head this way.”
If that was true, it gave them some breathing space, though there was little comfort in achieving that at the expense of the remaining survivors. And if this messenger ended up drawing greenskins to their position, Bloch would kill him himself.
“I’ll need a fresh rider,” said Bloch, turning to the men around him. “Someone fast, and who knows the land between here and Averheim.”
After some discussion, the young spearman came forward. He looked nervous, but there was some steel in his gaze.
“What’s your name?”
“Herren. Joskar Herren.”
Bloch looked him directly in the eye.
“You’ve heard what this man said. The road is watched. I need you to find a way through. Averheim must be warned of what happened here. You need to ride fast, faster than you’ve ever ridden before. Can you do that?”
Herren nodded.
“Run this horse into the earth if you need to. Take a weapon. If you need a fresh steed, there are farms between here and the city. Use your wits and stay out of sight when you can. It’ll be dangerous. I’ll say it again. Can you do this?”
Herren held his gaze.
“Yes, sir.”
Bloch clapped him on the shoulder.
“Good lad. Go now, and Sigmar be with you.”
The young spearman mounted. He pulled the horse round expertly, and with a kick of hooves and a flurry of earth, he was gone. Bloch watched as the soldier galloped off under the trees. He’d be lucky to get through. Then again, they’d all be lucky to get through.
He turned back to his men. His expression was bleak. They looked back at him, waiting for instruction. That was good. They trusted him. Perhaps more than they had Grunwald. He’d have to work to ensure that trust wasn’t misplaced.
“This isn’t over yet,” he said, looking hard at each of those nearest in turn. “There are greenskins all over us. But we have one thing left to us. We’re men, and men of the Empire at that. They’ll have to work for our hides if they want them. They’ll have to earn them in blood.”
The survivors hung on his words. As he spoke, Bloch felt his confidence growing. They were his kind of men. And now he was responsible for them.
“Stay close together. We’ll go quickly but quietly. If we follow the valleys and stay under the trees, we’ll make it. Get to Heideck and everything changes. Schwarzhelm won’t leave us out here. We’ll regroup and come back fighting. And then we’ll pay the greenskins back double the pain they’ve caused us. It’ll be hard. Hard as nails. But keep your minds fixed on that. Vengeance. We’ll pay the bastards back.”
The men responded to that. The horror of the chase was fading. They knew what the odds were, but at least they had a plan, something they could work to.
Bloch turned to the Averlanders.
“Now show your worth,” he ordered. “Find me a route out of here.”
Verstohlen looked deep into the eyes of Artoldt Fromgar. The man was terrified. Verstohlen couldn’t blame him for that. If he’d been shackled to an interrogator’s chair in the dungeons of the Averburg and surrounded by men like Kraus, he’d be scared too. He almost felt pity for him. Whatever was going on in Averheim, Fromgar was nothing more than a small part of it. He probably had no idea what was going on beyond his petty activities. But if Verstohlen’s suspicions had any foundation to them, then he couldn’t allow pity, or any other emotion, to guide his actions.
“Do you want me to remain here, sir?” asked Kraus. He’d plucked Fromgar from the street with admirable efficiency. The captain of the honour guard was a capable man. Schwarzhelm knew how to pick his lieutenants.
“No, that will be all, captain. Place a man on the door and see that we’re not disturbed.”
Kraus bowed, withdrew, and the door slammed shut. There were no windows. Candles burned in lanterns around the narrow chamber. They threw flickering shadows across the dark stone walls. Verstohlen walked away from the man bound in the chair. He could smell his fear. That was good. The more afraid he was, the easier this would be. Verstohlen didn’t enjoy this work. It brought back too many memories of the past. The sooner it was over, the better.
He walked over to a chest of drawers and took a bundle of instruments from the top drawer.
“Do you know why you’re here, Herr Fromgar?” he asked coolly, masking his own nerves, unwrapping the tools.
The man could hardly get the words out of his mouth. “N-no, my lord,” he stammered. “No idea. No idea at all.”
He was beginning to babble. Verstohlen arranged the steel items on the desk, one by one. They made an echoing clink as they were placed. Some were sharp. Some were twisted. Some were crudely blunt. They all had their purpose.
“I’ve been asking around,” continued Verstohlen. “Your name came up more than anyone else’s. You’ve been doing well for yourself. How much have you sold in the past month? Enough to buy you those expensive clothes, I see.”
Fromgar began to whimper.
“It’s a lie,” he blurted. “I’ve got rivals in business. They’re not above slander. I’m a wine merchant. It’s all a lie!”
Verstohlen finished arranging the tools. He selected one. It was old, forged long before Karl Franz had taken up the throne. Such deadly finery wasn’t produced anymore. He would have appreciated the artistry if its purpose hadn’t been so black. Despite himself, he loathed it. With the instrument in hand, he walked back over to the chair. The candlelight reflected from the polished metal. When Fromgar’s eyes saw it, they went wide. A trickle of liquid collected at the legs of the chair. He was incontinent with fear.
“Are you absolutely sure about that, Herr Fromgar?” asked Verstohlen, coming up to him and trailing the tip of the device down his cheek. The man was sweating heavily. He already smelled bad. It would soon be a lot worse.
“I—ah—I…”
Verstohlen withdrew the slender shard of steel to give the man a better view. Fromgar’s pupils followed it all the while. “W-who are you? What are you going to do?”
That was a good question. Few people knew who Verstohlen was. It was kept secret for a reason. A reason hidden in the past, in deeds too terrible to bring to the surface.
Leonora.
Verstohlen winced and turned his mind back to his work.
“That depends on you, friend. You shouldn’t doubt my resolve. I want to know where you get the joyroot, how much you pay, and where it’s coming from.”
Fromgar swallowed nervously. The sweat was now shining all over his face. He looked like he might be sick soon.
“And if I tell you? Can I go?”
Verstohlen smiled grimly. The man was in no position to bargain.
“Tell me what you know and you’ll never see me again. I’m after answers, Herr Fromgar. That’s all. Answers.”
He brought the instrument back to bear, placing it carefully just under the man’s right earlobe.
“Enough!” Fromgar screamed, going rigid in the seat. Verstohlen withdrew the blade. “I don’t know where it comes from! That’s the truth. I’d tell you if I did. By Sigmar, on the souls of my daughters, I’d tell you if I did.”
Verstohlen stepped back and leaned on the edge of the desk. He kept the instruments in full view. The man was talking now. They’d served their purpose.
“I get my supply from a man called Lepp. He brings them down the river, from the east. We’ve
got an arrangement. Exclusivity. There’s stuff that comes in from elsewhere, but it’s not as good.”
“Is this Lepp in the city now?”
“No. He comes and goes. He could be anywhere now.”
“How do you get in touch with him?”
“He sends a message to me when he’s in town. I collect the gold from my clients and pick up the stock.”
“Sounds like dangerous work. His cargo is valuable.”
Fromgar didn’t know what to do unless he had a direct question. He froze, eyes still staring.
“I guess. I’ve been careful, though. Not like some of the others.”
“Not careful enough,” mused Verstohlen, running his finger along the edge of the instrument. “Have you taken the root yourself?”
Fromgar shook his head.
“So you’re happy to let others pollute their bodies, but not your own?”
“It’s their choice,” he mumbled miserably. “I never forced it on anyone. No one. It’s them that comes back for more.”
Verstohlen felt a swell of disgust. A petty kind of evil, though destructive enough. He began to lose any residual sense of pity for Fromgar.
“I don’t doubt it,” he said. “If I’m right, this is powerfully addictive stuff. Perhaps more so than the poppy. What would it do to a man, the first time he took it?”
Fromgar was still scared, but something in Verstohlen’s manner seemed to have assured him that he wasn’t in immediate physical peril. He even managed a nervous smile.
“It makes them happy,” he said. “That’s all. Takes away the cares of the world for a while. Lifts their burden. It’s helpful.”
Verstohlen walked over the chest of drawers again. Fromgar stiffened in the chair.
“Would I be right in thinking that a novice user would experience a particularly powerful reaction?”
“I guess so. Maybe. I don’t know.”
Verstohlen retrieved another cloth-wrapped bundle, the size of a fist, and returned to the chair.
“I think you do,” he said, unwrapping the bundle. “I think you’ve forgotten your pledge to tell me everything you know.”
Swords of the Emperor Page 17