Schwarzhelm gave them no quarter. The pace would be hard. They’d ride through the night and ride through the day until they made Heideck. Then onwards, into the countryside, hunting the greenskins. He’d known he should have attended to the incursion as soon as he’d arrived in Averland. Now was the chance to make amends. This kind of combat was what he was born to do.
He grasped the hilt of the Rechtstahl, feeling the weight of it as he crouched in the saddle. It was eager to be drawn. Schwarzhelm had felt the spirit of the weapon sicken, just as he had, imprisoned in the stultifying heat of the tribunal chamber. It would be wielded soon enough, just as its makers had intended, on the field of battle.
For the first time in days, Schwarzhelm began to feel invigorated. He urged his horse on. The hooves thundered. The countryside began to slip by faster. This was what he needed. The chance to revive his animal spirits, shake off whatever malady had been inflicting him.
He looked towards the eastern horizon, shrouded in darkness. The air was no longer still and humid. Storms were active in the far distance and lightning flickered against the serrated line of mountains. The clouds had cleared from the face of the moon and pale light streamed across the silent fields.
He looked over his shoulder. Averheim was already some distance behind. Thin towers of smoke still rose into the sky. It looked lost, forlorn, vulnerable. He remembered Verstohlen’s words. They want you out of the city.
He turned back, setting his face like flint. Averheim would have to look after itself. His duty drew him to Heideck, to Grenzstadt, to battle and vengeance. He kicked his horse again and the pace quickened once more.
Like a storm wind, the cavalry tore through the sleeping countryside. Even while Averheim burned, the Rechtstahl rode east.
CHAPTER TEN
Verstohlen crouched down. The trail had taken him close to the river on the east bank, down amongst the forlorn warehouses and goods yards. The alleyway he squatted in stank, and he covered his nostrils. The air was still warm, even in the deep of the night.
The two men he’d been following had stopped and were conferring with one another. They looked nervous. They had every right to be. Gangs of rogues were still roaming the streets. Whether or not the mobs were being actively controlled by Grosslich or Leitdorf was immaterial if you were caught by one of them. The two candidates had unleashed lawlessness on Averheim, and Verstohlen doubted if they knew the true effects of their actions.
He regretted Schwarzhelm’s decision to leave deeply. It was the worst possible decision. While the Emperor’s Champion was in the city, there was at least a chance that the situation could be brought under control. Rufus Leitdorf may have hated him, but he was easily scared. Grosslich was tougher, though Schwarzhelm was still more than capable of cowing the man. Schwarzhelm was capable of cowing anyone.
When he was himself, that was. Verstohlen had never seen him so ground down by an assignment before. For the first few days, he’d put it down to the heat. That explanation would no longer suffice. Maybe his best years were behind him. After so many years in the saddle, maybe the great old warrior had finally lost his nerve.
That wasn’t it either. Schwarzhelm was a great man. One of the greatest in the Empire. Verstohlen had reason to be grateful for that. For Leonora’s memory. Schwarzhelm hadn’t been able to save her, but he’d ensured that those responsible had died. For that alone, he deserved Verstohlen’s unwavering loyalty. He’d commanded it for ten years, and he’d have it for the rest of his life. There was little enough left to him to attach any allegiance to.
Verstohlen snapped back into focus. He was tired. His mind was wandering. The men began to move off. They walked with exaggerated casualness, the way a thief does when he has something to hide.
Leaving a few moments to let them get ahead of him, Verstohlen crept after them. Wrapping his dark coat about him, hugging the shadows, he maintained a safe distance. He wasn’t close enough to hear what they were saying, but some energetic conversation was clearly taking place. They were on edge. At least one of them wasn’t happy with the plan.
Then they seemed to relax. They’d reached the river’s edge. Dark water lapped quietly against the quays. No one was around. Moored boats gently bumped against the stone. The still air was only punctuated by the creak of ropes and the distant crackle of the fires. Verstohlen shrank back again, waiting. This was what he’d been expecting. Now he’d see if the information he’d worked so hard to get had any substance to it. There was only so much one could do with a single name.
The men hung around at the water’s edge for a few moments. Time passed. They began to get impatient. Verstohlen wasn’t. He settled back against the stone wall of a nearby storehouse and checked the knife at his belt. His pistol was with him, as ever, but for this he’d need stealthier tools.
Eventually, something changed. The men perked up. Verstohlen leaned forward. Even with the moonlight on the water, it was dark.
A boat drew up to the quay. It was a small one, a dinghy used by the river pilots. Somewhere, perhaps several miles upstream, a larger cargo barge would be moored, no doubt heavily guarded. There were several men on the dinghy, their faces masked. The two men on the quayside helped to moor the craft, where they were joined by the cloaked figures. There was a brief, low-voiced conversation and two packages changed hands.
Their business transacted, the two groups separated. The cloaked men climbed back into the dinghy, and the oars creaked. With a commendable lack of noise, the sail was hoisted and the vessel glided back off into the night. The men on the quayside, looking more relaxed than they’d been previously, started to walk away.
Verstohlen waited, keeping his body flat against the stone. They approached his position, oblivious to his presence. He let them pass. They got close enough for him to smell their breath. Then, as they walked off, he slipped out. The knife flashed, plunging deep into the back of the man on the left. Verstohlen pulled him round, twisting the knife as he did so.
His companion was slow to react. By the time he’d realised what was happening, he was pressed up against the wall, the blade at his neck. Verstohlen had the cargo in his hands, a carefully-wrapped oilskin package. He didn’t need to open it to know what was in it.
“Where are you taking this?” he hissed into the man’s ear. The smuggler froze. He was nearly paralysed with fear. At his feet, his accomplice was expiring in a frothy pool of blood. Just like Fromgar, they were hardly hardened criminals, just small-time vagabonds drawn into a network of powerful men who preferred their couriers expendable. “Your friend is dead. If you do not wish to join him, tell me where you’re taking this.”
“H-Hessler’s townhouse,” he stammered. “Old City. Below the tanner’s.”
Verstohlen listened carefully, judging whether he was being told the truth. The man was clearly afraid. He pressed the knife into his neck further, feeling the point penetrate the flesh. “Think carefully, friend. I’m coming with you. Give me the wrong information and I’ll make sure your death is unpleasant.”
“I’m telling the truth!” he spluttered. He was near tears. He was young, not much more than a boy. Clearly they hadn’t found a reliable replacement for Fromgar yet. “The barred door near the base of the loading platform.”
“What’s the password?”
“Wenenlich.”
“What’s that?”
“I don’t know.”
The knife pressed harder.
“I don’t know! Some place up the river, I think. It’s just a word. That’ll get you in.”
“That’ll get us both in. Take me there now. Try to escape and the blade will find a resting place between your ribs. Do what I say and you’ll live to do this again. If you can bear it.”
Verstohlen pushed the lad roughly forward. His feet dragging slightly, the smuggler kept walking. He was still scared. Verstohlen could feel the sweat on his neck, despite the cool night air. That was good. Every so often, he pressed the knife a little more firmly aga
inst his skin. It didn’t hurt to be reminded. Well, not very much.
Helpfully, the dark obscured their halting passage up from the quayside and back into the inhabited areas of the town. There was almost no one around. Houses were boarded up, thick shutters locked shut. Even the rival gangs seemed to have gone to ground. Anyone who was still creeping through the echoing streets would have no doubt seen them as two drunks, supporting each other after a long night out.
“Wenenlich,” whispered Verstohlen to himself. The name was familiar, though he couldn’t recall why. It sounded like a place, or possibly a name. Maybe nothing turned on it.
They continued their strange, limping journey. After a few minutes of shuffling down the dark, winding alleyways they reached their destination. The smuggler came to a halt before a nondescript door at the base of a silent townhouse. There was nothing to distinguish it from any of the others in the street. There were no lights, no sounds. The district was reasonably smart, but not too exclusive.
A good choice.
“What happens here?” he hissed.
The boy was getting scared again. This time, it wasn’t Verstohlen making him anxious. “Knock on the door six times. The grille will open. Say the password and he’ll open the door.”
Verstohlen grinned in the dark.
“Nice try. You’ll be doing the talking. Remember, the blade’ll be at your back. You know what you have to do.” The lad took a deep breath. His hands were shaking. He was trying hard to hold things together. He knew his life depended on it. That tended to concentrate the mind. “Off you go. I’ll be right behind you.”
The smuggler went forward nervously. Verstohlen stayed at his shoulder. The package was stowed under his coat. It felt heavy. The roots must have been tightly packed.
The boy knocked six times on the door. The sound was flat. Verstohlen suddenly realised the significance of the six. So that was the nature of the organisation here.
An iron grille in the centre of the door suddenly slid back. The grate of metal against metal made Verstohlen jump, and the point of the knife pricked into the boy’s back. That was sloppy. The tension was getting to him. Commendably, the boy didn’t move.
“Password,” came a rasping voice from the other side. It was thick and unnatural sounding, more like a dog than a man. His voice trembling, the lad gave the answer. The grille slammed shut.
“Stand back,” warned Verstohlen. A light had appeared in the cracks at the door’s edge. He wondered if the boy had done this before, or if he was simply acting on instructions. Either way, this was the risky part.
The door opened inwards. A sweet smell rushed out of the open portal and into the night air. It contrasted strangely with the dank stench of the street. The light within was dim and vaguely tinged with purple. A bulky figure emerged, his face still in shadow.
Verstohlen pushed the smuggler out of the way. The lad sprawled in the dirt and scampered off into the dark. Verstohlen ignored him and went for the doorkeeper. His knife flashed, aiming for the eyes. It connected with yielding flesh. He pressed forward, using his other hand to stifle a scream. His fingers closed on something clammy and tooth-filled. It felt like no human mouth.
Gurgling in agony, the doorkeeper slumped to the ground. Verstohlen withdrew the knife quickly and stabbed him in the neck and the heart. Each time, the blade plunged beneath the skin with almost no resistance. If the man had been wearing armour, that might have made things more interesting.
Verstohlen dragged the man inside and closed the door. He was in a narrow antechamber constructed of ordinary-looking stone. The light was coming from below. On the other side of the chamber, a stairwell led down steeply. There were no other openings. The place was silent. There was no sign of movement.
He pulled the body to the side of the door and leant it against the wall. The man’s face looked horribly distorted. His jowls were longer than any normal human’s, and long scars ran from the corner of his mouth up to his ears. They looked like they’d been made by sutures. One of the incisions had come open where Verstohlen’s knife had plunged in. The flesh underneath was pale and glistening, like roast pork.
Verstohlen shuddered and turned away, wiping his blade. Despite his long service, something about the house was beginning to have an effect. He felt the first beads of sweat on his palms. Nothing wholesome had a guard like that. Whatever the secret of the joyroot was, there was some part of it hidden here.
He pondered what to do with the package in his hands. It had served its purpose in getting him in, and carrying it with him further seemed pointless. There was nowhere to hide it, though, so he kept hold of it for the moment.
Verstohlen crept forward, making sure his soft leather boots made no noise on the stone. The stairs ran steeply down. Torches had been placed in the walls, the source of the unusual light. Some substance had been placed in them that gave the flames a lilac edge. The aroma came from them too. The smell was an elusive cross between cinnamon and jasmine. Just on the edge of sensation, there was something else too. It might have been putrefaction. Or maybe that was his imagination.
As the base of the stairs there was a corridor running from right to left, as well as a double doorway leading straight on. From beyond the doors, there were noises. They were too dim to make out clearly, but they might have been voices.
Verstohlen could feel his heart pumping heavily. He was alone, vulnerable. Perhaps he ought to withdraw. Now that he knew the location, he could commandeer help from Tochfel. A raid could be organised in the morning, when the sun was up and men’s hearts were stouter. Much as he loathed them, this was witch hunter work.
It was tempting, but it was the fear talking. He was after information, not to destroy the cartel. Blundering in now would undo all he’d worked to discover. He’d do as he always did, go silently and invisibly.
He made the sign of the scales over his chest. “Merciful Verena, ward all harm.” His voice shook as he breathed the words.
Then he went on. Ignoring the doors, he crept along the corridor leading to the right. After a while, it curved round. It looked like he was tracing a route around a central circular chamber, one into which the double doors must have opened. The light was still dim, but enough to see by. It was near-silent. He began to hear his own breathing echoing in his head.
Ninety degrees around the circle from his starting position, a narrow stair ran up the outer wall. Beyond it, the corridor continued onwards. The doorway at the top of the stair was open. The ascent to the next storey. Verstohlen paused, looking back. Nothing.
He climbed the stair carefully, keeping his blade loose in his hands. As he went, his eyes scoured the gloom. The chamber at the top was small and empty, but it was well lit. The light wasn’t coming from inside, but from an archway which opened up in the interior wall of the circle. Clearly this was some balcony above the central chamber. There were others of the same kind leading off in either direction. Like the boxes in a Tilean opera house, the antechambers overlooked whatever was in the centre of the building. That was where the murmuring voices came from. That was where the light came from. That was the heart of it all.
Verstohlen crouched down low, placing the package down carefully in a shadowed alcove and creeping to the edge of the antechamber. His heart had begun to hammer in his chest and he had to wipe the sweat from his knife-hand. Something was definitely happening. Beyond the railing of the antechamber, there were voices rising. The smell of jasmine was powerful. He looked over the edge.
The chamber was bathed in a lilac glow. It was circular, just as the external walls had suggested. Iron-framed braziers had been placed around the edges. They gave off light, heat and the strange, cloying aroma. Within the dark metal frames, flames writhed like snakes. The floor was a dark, polished stone. In the centre, a dais had been raised. The light reflected from the surface dully.
Verstohlen was barely twenty feet above the level of the chamber below. He kept as low as he could. For the first time, he could make
an accurate assessment of the danger he was in.
In the centre of the chamber a throne had been constructed. It was made of the same stone as the dais. The artistry was astonishing. Verstohlen found his eyes drawn to it. Once there, it was almost impossible to pull them away again. There were figures carved into the high back, writhing in and out of one another. It looked as if a crowd of lissom youths had been fused into one tangled mass. Each member of the cluster was achingly beautiful, but their faces were contorted into expressions of exquisite agony. It was a warped mind that had created such a thing, though a gifted one. Despite himself Verstohlen’s aesthetic sense was drawn to it.
Then he noticed that slowly, almost imperceptibly, the bodies that made up the throne back were moving. This was no cunning sculpture. The limbs were real, as was the agony of their owners. His appreciation vanished. He chided himself silently for expecting anything else. He’d known what he’d find in the house. The nature of the enemy never changed.
Around the edges of the chamber, more youths were scattered. They moved scarcely more than those trapped in the throne. Most were dressed in diaphanous robes that concealed little. All of them, men and women alike, seemed strangely listless. Their movements were miniscule, and ended almost as soon as they’d begun. With a spasm of distaste, Verstohlen saw that in place of eyes they had blank metal plates. The surface of the plates were polished, making it look as if they had mirrors sewn into their faces. One young girl seemed to be trying to crawl to the doorway. Every tiny shift of her body got her just fractions of an inch closer. Then it became clear that she had no idea where the door was. She started to head away from it. She was blind, aimless as the rest.
The tortured youths weren’t the sole occupants of the chamber. The throne wasn’t empty. Perched elegantly on the seat was a woman Verstohlen recognised all too well. She wore a long, elegant gown, slit to the hip. Her pale skin seemed to glow in the lilac light. Even more so than she had been before, Natassja was flawless. Her beauty was so absorbing, so utterly captivating, that it couldn’t be anything other than unnatural. Nothing in the real world had a perfection of form like hers. Safe from the eyes of the world outside, here she was able to display herself in her full majesty.
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