Swords of the Emperor

by Chris Wraight

  Verstohlen narrowed his eyes. Prostrate before her was a man. He wore the robes of a loremaster.

  Natassja regarded her devotee coolly.

  “You may get up now,” she said at length. Her voice rolled around the chamber like a soothing balm. It was at once lustrous and spare, arch and disdainful. Despite his fear, Verstohlen felt the hairs in his neck rise. He clasped the knife more tightly. This was dangerous. He should leave.

  He couldn’t leave.

  The man was Achendorfer. He slowly clambered to his knees. Lines of blood ran down the front of his robes. He’d been lying on a bed of wickedly curved spikes.

  “How do you feel?” asked Natassja, looking at the wounds with mild interest. Achendorfer was clearly in a lot of pain. His face was contorted with it, though somehow he managed to keep his voice reasonably steady.

  “To suffer for you is ecstasy, my lady,” he said through clenched teeth. It didn’t look much like ecstasy from where Verstohlen was perched.

  Natassja didn’t appear impressed. She swept her eyes around the chamber.

  “Do you know what these young people are?” she asked. Achendorfer shook his head, still kneeling before her. “They’re my latest toys. Since Rufus has been so busy with the great project, I’ve had to amuse myself. They’re really coming on. I’m quite proud of these ones.”

  As she spoke, Verstohlen could see a cruel delight play across her magnificent features.

  “They’re from all over the place. Serving girls from Rufus’ estate. Street urchins. All beautiful of course, but poor enough not to be missed. Once we get them down here, we can get to work on them. Here’s the game. They know they have to escape. They hate it here, of course, as I’m so cruel to them. But you’ll notice we’ve taken their eyes away. So they’ve no idea where the way out is. And - this is the amusing part—their bones have been rearranged. Very carefully rearranged. You’ve no idea how hard that is to do without killing them. Every movement they make is agony. Excruciating agony. So they have to go very, very slowly. It might take them forever to get out. I can’t tell you how entertaining it is to watch them try.”

  Achendorfer looked grimly at the slowly moving bodies. He had the look of a man who’d stumbled into a nightmare but couldn’t free himself of it. Verstohlen suddenly realised why his skin had always been so pallid.

  “An ingenious entertainment, my lady,” he said, doing his best to sound enthused. “Have any of them made it yet?”

  “Not yet. When they do, I’ll have to think of some other gift for them. Some kind of reward. I suspect I’ll have plenty of time to ponder what that will be.”

  Achendorfer looked nauseous. “An excellent plan.”

  Natassja gave him a contemptuous glare. “I hope you mean that, loremaster. If I detect a lessening of your enthusiasm again, you know what awaits.”

  He glanced at the rack of spikes and a shudder visibly passed through his body.

  “Yes, my lady,” he mumbled.

  “Enough entertainment. Are you making progress?”

  “Yes, my lady. He’s left the city. He’s at the end of his strength. Your influence is having its effect. He lasted longer than I’d expected, but it’s turning his mind. The dreams have driven out his sleep. And there’s the root. The air’s full of it. He’s finished.”

  “Don’t be sure. He will resist until he cracks. Does he have the numbers to defeat the greenskins?”

  Achendorfer gave a nervous laugh. “He could defeat them on his own. He’s got days of frustration locked in him. I’ve seen to that.”

  Natassja didn’t smile. What amused her and what didn’t seemed arbitrary.

  “Good. That gives us the opening we need. Go back to the Averburg. Continue your work. The time has come for my husband and I to make our move. I’ll send word to him and we’ll make the final preparations together. When the moment comes, you will perform the final rite. Do not fail.”

  Achendorfer shuddered.

  “No, my lady.”

  Then Natassja suddenly paused. She cocked her head to one side, as if listening for something. Verstohlen tensed and drew back from the railing.

  “Oh, how delightful,” Natassja mused. “I think my games have just got even better.”

  Achendorfer looked around the chamber, confused. The youths still crept around in their agonised state. “I don’t understand.”

  “There’s someone in the building,” she said, licking her lips. “A new companion for my pets, perhaps. We’ll see.”

  Verstohlen felt his heart jump. He had to get out of the chamber. Suddenly, something kept him frozen in place. A heavy reluctance to leave came over him. He gripped the railing of the balcony, heart hammering.

  “Free yourselves, children,” said Natassja indulgently, looking at the miserable wretches crawling on the floor around her. “Just for the moment, I’ll let you go. But you know what you have to do. You know the rules. Stand!”

  As one, the mirror-eyed youths stood up. Their limbs seemed to snap into action, though the movements were strangely jerky. It was as if a puppet master had suddenly picked up the strings.

  Their mirrors went dark. Then, one by one, a purple light kindled in them. The youths started to smile. Their lips pulled round in ugly, tooth-filled grins. It stretched their faces horribly. Verstohlen guessed it wasn’t really them smiling.

  That sight helped break the spell. He pulled his hands from the railing and drew back from the edge. He left the package where it lay, going as quietly as he could. His fear was mounting. He had to keep under control. Every muscle in his body was screaming to run.

  “Bring him to me!” cried Natassja. From below, her slaves started hissing, and there was the sound of doors slamming open.

  Verstohlen felt panic overtake him. He gave up on stealth and turned to speed. He burst from the antechamber and careered down the stairs. The sound of the oncoming slaves echoed along the corridor. They were coming for him. The double doors had slammed open. His route back was blocked.

  Hoping there was a way out somewhere at the rear of the townhouse, Verstohlen turned to his right, back into the depths of the building and broke into a sprint. From behind, he could hear the noise of his pursuers. They’d lost their immobility. They were able to move. Like spiders.

  He gritted his teeth, tried to quell the panic within him. He tore down the curving corridor. As he went, he pulled the flintlock from its holster. His fingers felt clumsy. He cocked the hammer, feeling the cool metal respond instantly. Two shots, then he’d be back to knife-work. The blade in his favoured left hand, pistol in his right, he ploughed on.

  The corridor ended in another set of double doors. Without pausing, Verstohlen barged into them. He could hear the rattling pursuit behind him, metal against stone.

  The doors were unlocked, and slammed open. There was a large chamber beyond, lit by more of the jasmine torches. He had the vague impression of long tables, all covered with joyroot. Further back, giant vials boiled with liquid. They were refining it. There were six copper kettles. Naturally.

  As he burst into the chamber, the figures within turned slowly to face him. They were clearly Natassja’s creations. They’d all been altered. Most had no mouths or nostrils left. How they breathed was a mystery, but it must have kept them from sampling the stock. They stared at him with hopeless, empty eyes. Those who had eyes left.

  He ignored them, barging his way past the drying tables. The hissing was close behind. The pets were gaining. Despite having their bones rearranged, they were quick.

  A drone worker lurched into his path. Using his knife-hand, Verstohlen punched him in what was left of his face and pushed him aside, barely breaking stride. Those poor wretches were scarcely alive and were no threat to him. The far end of the chamber loomed. There were two doors in the far wall, one on the left, one on the right. Both were open, gaping like mouths.

  Which one?

  Verstohlen felt the scales pendant dangling at his neck. “Ward all harm,” he wh
ispered.

  He chose left, pushing his way past three shambling, mouthless drones. From behind, he heard one of Natassja’s pets leap on to a table, scattering joyroot essence across the floor. The hissing was getting louder.

  Then he was through the door, back into another corridor, back into the shadows. He ran as fast as he could, ignoring the fact he could barely see. His heartbeats echoed in his ears. His heavy breaths turned to ragged, frightened panting. The joyroot dust was in the air. It intensified the panic. This whole place was laced with insanity.

  He burst into another chamber. It was narrow, high-ceilinged. Up above, windows let in natural moonlight from outside. An external wall. On the far side of the room, there was another door, heavy and lined with metal. Weapons had been stacked in the corner and the Leitdorf banner hung over them. Arms for Rufus’ men, ready to be deployed.

  There were men in the room, lounging around a low table. Even as he ran in, Verstohlen could smell the sour beer, see the crude playing cards. This was a guardroom. Perhaps his last obstacle before outside.

  One of the guards leapt up, reaching for a sword. Like the doorkeeper, his face had been stretched. Misshapen teeth stuck out at unnatural angles from his dog-jaw. The others, four of them, had been altered in the same way. They came at him.

  Verstohlen didn’t miss a stride. The first shot rang out, slicing straight through the dog-warrior’s face, knocking him backwards. His knife finished a second, emptying his innards across the floor with a wicked swipe. Then he spun away, out of the reach of their crude blades, switching to the second barrel as he went.

  They came after him. Verstohlen kept moving, leaping on to another low table, scattering flagons of ale. One nearly caught him. The knife flashed, and the guard lost his fingers. He howled in pain, before Verstohlen plunged the blade into his swollen eye socket.

  The last of them withdrew warily. Verstohlen flicked his eyes to the card table. There were keys on it. From the corridor beyond, scuttling noises came. The pets. They were nearly there. He sheathed his blade. For this, he’d need a free hand.

  He leapt towards the remaining dog-guard, kicking his boot out as he did so. The guard swung his blade clumsily to intercept, but the move was a feint. Verstohlen swerved away from the swipe easily and gained his real objective. The keys were heavy, strung on a loop of iron. He grabbed them and scrambled across to the door.

  The pets burst in. Like insects, they swarmed across the floor. One, confused perhaps, leapt on to the dog-guard. The frail youth tore his throat out with his teeth, swinging his head from side to side like an animal. The others came after Verstohlen.

  He slotted the key in the lock, then spun around. A pet reared up at him. A slim girl. Her robes bloomed out as she attacked, exposing the naked alabaster flesh beneath. Like all of Natassja’s victims, she’d been beautiful once. Now her eyes burned with lilac light, and her mouth extended wide for the feast. Her teeth were pointed, tipped with steel, and her tongue was forked.

  Verstohlen fired, feeling the heavy recoil of the pistol. The horror was hurled back. Her lithe body bunched up, limbs curled round like a wounded insect. Then he was through the door, out into the warm night.

  The door slammed shut behind him, but in his haste he’d left the keys stuck in the other side. He cursed his stupidity and kept running, kept facing forward, kept going. The fresh air cleared his head, but the panic was still with him. They’d followed him out. How many? Maybe three. Maybe more.

  Verstohlen couldn’t look back. All he had was speed. No bullets left. He stowed the pistol and pulled the knife from its scabbard again. He wasn’t sure it would be much good against those horrors.

  He risked a look over his shoulder. Purple eyes, swaying in the shadows. They were scuttling still, hissing for his blood. So Natassja was prepared to risk them being seen on the streets. That was bad.

  Verstohlen turned back, legs pumping, trying to exhort more speed from his burning muscles. There was no one abroad at this hour. For all important purposes, he was alone and far from help. More so than at Turgitz, more so than at any point in his life, he was afraid.

  He careered down the alleyway, breath ragged. A nightmarish sequence of streets and silent squares passed. There was no noise bar the hoarse rattle of his own breath and the distant hissing of the pets. He was lost. He had no time to stop, no time to gain his bearings. Around every corner, he expected to stumble into the arms of a grinning horror, sharpened teeth ready to tear out his throat.

  Then he saw it. The spires of the Averburg, vast against the night sky. The citadel was still distant, but its silhouette rose reassuringly large. If he could get there, he’d make it. With a redoubled effort, he sprinted down the street towards it. With a shriek of frustration, the pets saw his purpose.

  But they were far from the controlling will of their mistress. Verstohlen couldn’t risk another glance backwards, but the truth soon became apparent. They were falling behind. Whatever terrible perversions had been committed on their bodies had taken their toll. As Natassja’s power waned, so their altered bodies began to give out.

  Verstohlen careered around a corner and into a wide square. The windows were all dark or shuttered. But he knew where he was. This was the Old City, and the Averburg was at hand. He ran into the open space.

  Something had changed. In the midst of his terror, he was slow to spot it. But as he neared the far side of the square, he finally noticed it.

  Silence.

  The pursuit had been called off. As if they’d been nothing more than a nightmare, the pets had gone. There was a last, agonised shriek, and then nothing. No purple, glowing eyes. No billowing robes. No steel-tipped incisors.

  Verstohlen felt his own strength give out. He stopped running and sank to his haunches. His heart still hammered, his lungs still burned. He looked around again, watching every shadow carefully. Part of him expected them to leap out at him.

  Nothing. They’d been called back.

  Verstohlen waited for his breathing to return to normal. He stood, hands still trembling, blade still drawn.

  Then, from the far side of the square, the way he’d come, he saw a dark shape creeping across the floor. Slowly, awkwardly, a figure was dragging itself into the moonlight. Verstohlen tensed, gripping the knife tightly. He didn’t move. The creature came onwards. There was no hissing, just a pain-filled whimper.

  Verstohlen waited. It was on its own. The others were nowhere to be seen. There was no purple light in its eyes. It came onward blindly. Whatever force Natassja had used to control it was gone. Just as it had been in the throne-room, the wretch was broken.

  Cautiously, mindful of the obvious trap, Verstohlen walked towards it. The creature was a young man, not much older than the smuggler he’d dragged to the townhouse that night. The sapphire gauze robes were torn and dirty. His every move looked like agony. Bereft of his unnatural sight, he dragged himself aimlessly along the flagstones.

  Verstohlen crouched down beside him. Sensing human warmth, the boy stopped moving. His ruined face gazed up blindly. Blood had pooled around the metal plates that stood in place of his eyes. Up close, Verstohlen could see the incisions all over his naked body. There were hundreds of them. This was an act of sadism beyond any he had ever witnessed. His fear began to be replaced with anger.

  He wondered if the wretch could speak. Perhaps he could extract some information, take him back to the Averburg, learn something to his advantage. Even as the thought occurred to him, he dismissed it. Despite all he’d seen, pity had never been driven from him. He felt hot tears of rage form in his eyes. This boy had done nothing to deserve such a fate. Neither had Leonora, nor any of the others who’d suffered under the twisted whims of the great enemy. That was why they fought. If they wavered, if they ever gave in, the whole world would be like this.

  The wretch opened his mouth, exposing the steel teeth. He was trying to speak. Tears of blood ran down his cheeks.

  “K-kill m-me.”

  That was
the only thing left, the only decency remaining. Verstohlen brought his blade down. With a shuddering sigh, the ruined body went still.

  Verstohlen rose. His hands still shook, but now with a cold rage. The sickness in Averheim had been uncovered. The proud line of Leitdorf was now a vessel for the will of Chaos. The decision had been made. At any cost, Rufus must be destroyed.

  He began to walk back to the Averburg. It wasn’t clear what he should do. Schwarzhelm was gone. Grunwald was dead. Achendorfer was a traitor. For all he knew, so was Tochfel. Maybe even the Averburg was no longer safe. Not a promising situation.

  But something would occur to him. It always did. With his mind working quickly, scouring possible avenues, looking for every chance, weighing up odds and calculating risk, Verstohlen passed quickly through the night. They’d played their hand well so far, but now the facts were out, the game had changed.

  And they’d made one mistake. Up until now he’d been doing his job dispassionately. Now that had changed. They’d drawn something out of him that his countless victims, perhaps misled by his generally phlegmatic demeanour, had discovered was the very worst thing they could do.

  They’d made him angry.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Schwarzhelm brought his steed to a standstill on the ridge. The stallion pulled up reluctantly, stamping and rolling its eyes. The beast was exhausted, its flanks shivering and wet. The ride through the night had been punishing and the day had barely dawned. Dew still hung heavy on the lush grass. In the valleys, pale mist rose lazily from the rivers. As ever in Averland, the scene was one of peaceful beauty.

  Behind him, he could hear the vanguard come to a halt. Further back, the detachments of Averheim cavalry were still riding to catch up.