Swords of the Emperor

by Chris Wraight

  Ferenc felt his heartbeat quicken. He had to work to control it. The spy spoke calmly and with authority. He felt his fingers loosen on his goblet and grasped it more tightly. This was news indeed. If true, it would change everything. The battle would be over. Grosslich would gain the Averburg, and his own long plans would come to fruition at last.

  Ferenc took a deep breath. He’d need to play this carefully The game of power was a subtle one. Verstohlen might be lying. He might be mistaken. He might be a dozen other things, none of them helpful.

  “Why come to me?” As Ferenc spoke, his mind raced ahead, considering the possibilities. All things being equal, having the Emperor’s Champion onboard was a priceless opportunity. But in politics, things were rarely equal.

  “You’re the gatekeeper to Grosslich, just as I am to Schwarzhelm. I could no more gain an audience with him than you could with the Emperor. If I judge things right, then you’re the real power behind his campaign. The Alptraum coffers are still full, and you’ve always known how to use them.”

  Ferenc smiled. The flattery didn’t deceive, even if the man was right.

  “Your insinuation that Grosslich is anything less than the leader of our campaign distresses me. But you’re right to come to me in the first instance. He listens to my counsel. If he’s to take me seriously, though, I’ll need more from you than a rumour. These are serious allegations. I’m loathe to believe them without some form of proof.”

  In actual fact, the more Ferenc thought about it, the more sense Verstohlen’s story made to him. Natassja was surely at the heart of it. She had the look of a witch. Rufus was no doubt the dupe in all this. He couldn’t bring himself to feel sorry for him. The spoiled brat had it coming.

  “I can give you none,” said Verstohlen. “My own testimony is all I have, and I’ve seen the corruption with my own eyes. But consider this. You’ve nothing to lose by answering my call for aid. In Lord Schwarzhelm’s absence, I speak with the authority of the Imperial warrant. The city is in peril. Help me save it, and Karl Franz won’t forget it.”

  They were convincing words. Inwardly, Ferenc found himself persuaded. Grosslich could be brought around. Heinz-Mark would need little argument to mount further attacks on Leitdorf’s forces. As things stood, the turn of events was welcome. Very welcome.

  “You’ve given me much to think about,” Ferenc said, masking his growing enthusiasm. “In the interim, I’ll send word to Heinz-Mark. I can’t speak for him, but, between us, I think you needn’t worry. We all have a duty to protect against corruption.”

  Verstohlen nodded.

  “Good. But time is short. Leitdorf knows his secret has been discovered. Even now, he’ll be mobilising. I don’t know how deep the rot runs. He may have allies. For our own part, we’re in great danger the longer we hesitate. I urged the Steward to summon aid from Nuln before Schwarzhelm left. Even if he’s done so, we’ll need more help. We must summon Schwarzhelm back.”

  “It will be done.”

  “Send a heavily-armed party. The roads are no longer safe.”

  “Worry not. My family’s estates are in the east. I have messengers who know the hidden routes to Heideck and beyond, and there are no faster messengers in Averland. Your message will get through.”

  Verstohlen took another swig of wine. The lines of worry across his brow seemed to be receding somewhat.

  “I’ll stay here for the time being, if I may,” he said, looking slightly sheepish. “The Leitdorfs have a renewed interest in tracking me down, and the Averburg will offer no protection. If Grosslich has any sense, he’ll arm his men quickly and secure this place. We’re on a precipice here.”

  Ferenc sat back in his chair, exuding confidence. The news was dramatic, to be sure, but it boded nothing but good for his prospects. A few cultists could be snuffed out with ease. Grosslich was a formidable commander, for all his political naivety. What was really valuable was the seal of Imperial approval. He, Ferenc Alptraum, could do great things with that.

  “Never fear,” Ferenc said. “You did the right thing to come to me. We’ve restrained our forces until now out of respect for the law. But all that’s changed. We’ve arms, and men, and funds to pay them. Trust me, we’ll have that traitor Leitdorf run out of the city before the week is ended.”

  Verstohlen looked straight back at him. His eyes still bore the signs of some great fear.

  “I hope so, Herr Alptraum,” he said, his voice shaking with vehemence. “By holy Verena, I hope so.”

  The forest was about as cool as anywhere out in the baking eastern countryside. Even under the leaves of the trees, the air was heavy with heat. Flies circled lazily in the ambient warmth.

  Bloch leaned on his halberd, welcoming the shade. He’d got used to the never-ending sun, but he was tired to his bones. The harrying of the orcs, day and night, had strained his nerves and his sinews. He’d lost count of the days. Three? Four? They’d had some luck, it was true. The bulk of the greenskins had indeed turned back to Grenzstadt, just as the messenger had said. But the last of Grunwald’s forces in that direction must have been long since destroyed. Now bands of orcs roamed the whole eastern marches of Averland, pillaging as they went. The damage they wrought was terrible.

  Bloch looked over the ragtag army he’d managed to salvage from the ruins of Grunwald’s campaign. They were snatching a few moments’ rest under the shade of the trees. Over the past couple of days his forces had grown. More men had got away from the orcs than he’d first thought, and they’d been able to rescue further scattered groups as they’d headed west towards Heideck. There were maybe five hundred of them now, arranged into makeshift companies of a few dozen each, headed by the most experienced soldiers among them. Not much, maybe, but better than nothing. As the orc bands had splintered into smaller packs, they’d even been able to extract some measure of revenge.

  Their bravery was beginning to cost them, though. The orcs weren’t stupid. Despite his best efforts, Bloch couldn’t hide his forces from them forever. Word had got out that a kernel of resistance still existed, and the hunt was on. He didn’t have enough men to stand against them in the open. The only chance was to keep going to Heideck, to consolidate there with whatever forces remained in that garrison and then strike back.

  It wasn’t something he put all his faith in. The men of Heideck, from memory, were soft-bellied fools. But it was all he had.

  “What are your orders, sir?” came a voice from beside him.

  Bloch shook himself out of his introspection. Lars Fischer, his hastily promoted lieutenant, looked at him with weary eyes. The man was an Averlander and had proved invaluable so far. If they ever got to safety, it would be down to the local knowledge that had guided them down hidden paths in the woods and gorges.

  “How far d’you reckon we are from Heideck?” Bloch asked, running his hands through his hair. He felt exhausted. No doubt they all did.

  Fischer shrugged.

  “Another day’s march. No more than two. But the country’s open there. Nowhere to hide. If there are orcs, we’ll have to fight them.”

  “There’ll be orcs. They’re on our trail now. Maybe it’s better to come out and fight them. I’m fed up of this sneaking around.”

  Bloch took another look across his men. They didn’t look ready for a fight. The constant running and skirmishing had muted the brief flame of defiance they may have felt at the beginning of the trek. Many of them slumped over their weapons, half-asleep in the middle of the day. The heat, the dust, the lack of sleep. It all took its toll.

  “We’ll give them a few moments,” said Bloch. “They’ve already been driven too hard. But then we need to move.”

  Fischer was about to reply when there was a crashing sound from deeper into the woods. Arrows whined across the clearing, thudding into tree trunks. The greenskins were back.

  “Form up!” cried Bloch, springing into action immediately. He grabbed his halberd. His men rushed to form into defensive detachments.

 
; The crashing became louder. From the shadows of the trees, the orcs burst into view. Bloch saw their leader before he saw the rest. Huge, bunched muscles, raging eyes and dripping tusks. There were dozens behind him, all heavily armoured like the ones they’d faced on the ridge.

  He lowered his halberd. How many this time?

  “Keep to your companies!” he roared. All around him, the men were falling into their detachments. The movements were expert, skilful. But they needed to move quicker.

  The orcs closed, and the space under the trees filled with their battle roars. Bloch felt his fellows cluster around him. Even now they stuck to the defensive square. The familiarity was reassuring. As if by instinct, the leader of the greenskins made straight for Bloch. Its broad legs churned up the leaf matter on the forest floor, throwing it in all directions as it ploughed onward. Bloch adjusted his stance, legs apart, braced for the impact.

  “Steady, lads,” he warned. “Blades up!” The lines came together, and the world descended once more into a storm of desperate combat. Bloch was knocked backwards by the force of the charge, but those on either side of him held the line. He recovered, hacking powerfully with his halberd. The greenskin screamed at him, covering his face with stinking trails of saliva.

  Bloch grimaced, recovering his balance and pushed forward. His arms ached. His hands were calloused and bleeding. Like the others, he fought on. Any sign of weakness now and it would be over. They looked to him. He needed to stay strong, give them something to believe in.

  With a mighty heave, he swung his halberd upwards, aiming to catch the greenskin in the face. The blade connected, slicing through the thick hide, spraying black blood into the canopy above. The monster staggered back, blundering into those around him. Even in the midst of their efforts, the men at Bloch’s shoulders broke into a coarse cheer.

  “Enough of that,” roared Bloch, readying himself for the next thrust. “Keep your discipline!”

  The orcs came again. There were dozens of them. Perhaps more. The leader was gathering himself for a fresh assault, its face streaming with blood.

  Bloch made eye contact with it. He held it. This fight wouldn’t be over quickly.

  “Come and get me then, you green bastard,” he snarled, his halberd running with gore. The invitation was accepted.

  Tochfel hurried through the corridors of the Averburg. The feeling of unease he’d endured for days was getting worse. With Schwarzhelm and Verstohlen both gone, any semblance of order to the proceedings had vanished. He’d had to deal with frantic messages from both Leitdorf and Grosslich, each demanding to know when the next session would be. In Achendorfer’s absence, he had no idea. In fact, he had no idea where Achendorfer even was. The grey-faced loremaster wasn’t much of a companion in times of need, but at least he had an idea of the protocol for such things. Tochfel didn’t.

  The Steward burst into his chamber, half expecting to see the man waiting for him. Instead, he was confronted with the toppling pile of parchment documents he’d left from the previous day. All of them required answers, but only Sigmar knew what they might be.

  Tochfel sat down at his desk. He could feel his whole body tensing. The city was on the brink of anarchy, and there was nothing he could do about it. The few troops he’d had left at his disposal had been requisitioned by Schwarzhelm. He ran his hands through his hair. As he released the fingers, he saw loose strands of it twirl to the floor. He was getting old, tired and fractious.

  There was a sharp rap on the door.

  “Come!” Tochfel’s voice sounded reedy and quavering. He hoped it would be Achendorfer. Instead, it was Morven.

  “Steward, I bring a message from Lord Grosslich,” the aide de camp announced. His expression gave away the fact this was going to be bad news.

  “I’m not going to like this, am I?”

  “I’m charged to inform you that the Grosslich candidacy for the Estates has been withdrawn. His lordship accuses the Lord Leitdorf of turning traitor to the Empire and has declared himself elector in order to preserve the integrity of the Grand County. He wishes to inform you that his forces have been mustered and that they have begun their assault upon the city. None of the citizens therein will be harmed unless they have declared for Leitdorf and bear arms in his cause. However, any person resisting his just crusade will not be spared. The Lord Grosslich will not cease until the traitors have been destroyed and the city returned to the rule of the electors.”

  Tochfel listened with growing despondency. So that was it. The mastery of the city had been taken from him at last. The passage of the law, so dear to his heart, had been utterly subverted. Whichever man eventually took up the runefang, Leitdorf or Grosslich, it would be as a result of might, not legal procedure. Such was the way of the wilderness, not the greatest realm of men in the Old World.

  “What grounds has he for these claims?” asked Tochfel, trying to maintain an outwardly calm demeanour.

  “I don’t know, Steward. I only report.”

  “Where is the Lord Leitdorf? Still in the city?”

  “He cannot be reached. But there are reports of fresh fighting in the Old City. Grosslich’s men are moving. It may not be safe here. We should consider abandoning the Averburg.”

  That wasn’t worth contemplating. The citadel hadn’t been given up to an enemy in two thousand years. Even Ironjaw hadn’t penetrated the outer walls.

  “What about Schwarzhelm? Or his counsellor?”

  “Still missing. Though I have reason to believe Herr Verstohlen has lent his support to Lord Grosslich. It may be a sign that the allegations against Leitdorf have foundation.”

  Tochfel shook his head.

  “Allegations? They’re nothing more than rumours. Grosslich has used Schwarzhelm’s absence to seize his chance. They’re vagabonds, the pair of them, whatever noble blood they claim to have.”

  As he spoke, Tochfel began to feel a strange sensation well up within him. The constant slights, the endless struggle to maintain authority, had all begun to take their toll. For once, he found that resignation wasn’t what he felt. It was anger.

  “This farrago has gone on long enough,” he said, balling his fists on his desk. “All of them, Schwarzhelm, Grosslich, Leitdorf, have treated this place like their private fiefdom. No more. The rot stops here.”

  Morven looked shocked, but said nothing. He was no doubt unused to being addressed by Tochfel in such a manner.

  “We will not surrender the Averburg,” continued Tochfel, feeling more assertive the more he spoke, “to either faction. Until I hear from the Emperor’s representative himself, I remain the lawful keeper of this city. We will arm the men with what weapons we have. The gates will be barred. Grosslich and Leitdorf can hammer on them all they like. These walls were built to keep out worse foes than them.”

  “We’re not soldiers, Steward,” protested Morven, looking appalled. “The garrison has been—”

  “Don’t tell me what has happened to the garrison!” snapped Tochfel, his eyes blazing. “I know exactly what happened to it. But we still have men at our command and weapons in the armoury. Distribute them. See the gates are guarded. Go now, and report back to me within the hour.”

  Still looking startled, Morven bowed hurriedly and scuttled out. Tochfel, his blood still hot, slammed the door behind him and strode over to the window. He looked over the city, just as he did every evening. The fires still burned. They were growing in number. He even fancied he could hear the noise of Grosslich’s forces marching through the distant streets.

  As he watched, his sudden anger was steadily replaced with a grim, implacable resolve. The city was descending into war. The Averburg, home for most of his adult life, would soon be an island in the midst of the fighting. In times past, Tochfel might have found the prospect terrifying. Now, he took a strange kind of comfort from it.

  At last, the pretence of the legal process had been removed. The succession in Averland would be determined through strength of arms and force of will. Perha
ps that was the purer way. In any case, at least his task was clear.

  The Averburg must be preserved. That, and that alone, was his concern now.

  Kurt Helborg, master of the Reiksguard, bowed low. He felt his forehead touch the cold marble floor. He stayed in position for a few moments, prostrate. The position was one of penitence, of humility. Before such a judge, there was no other attitude to adopt. Heartbeats passed in the silence.

  Then, his observance done, Helborg rose to his knees once more. The altar of Sigmar soared above him. He made the sign of the comet on his chest and clambered to his feet.

  The Chapel of the Lord Sigmar Martial was one of the oldest and grandest in the Empire. The citizens of Nuln were justly proud of it. The floor was chequered with patterns of black and white marble imported from Sartosa, the very best gold could buy. The columns that sprung up to hold the distant ceiling had been carved into a host of intricate shapes. Some resembled tree trunks, complete with branches and leaves. Others had been shaped into dizzyingly complex geometrical figures, a fitting compliment to the mathematical heritage of the city. Aside from the light given by the massed racks of candles, the massive nave was clad in darkness. Hulking statues to various ancient warriors and dignitaries brooded in the gloom. The Imperial religion was not one of light and beauty. It celebrated steadfastness, gravity and bitter resolve.

  Helborg liked that. He liked the whole place. Its evident riches, its seriousness of purpose, its ancient foundations. This was what a chapel should be. This was what the Empire should be.

  With a final bow, he turned from the towering altar of Sigmar. The brass cherubs surrounding his effigy, each bearing a mechanical crossbow or repeater handgun, gazed back blankly.

  He walked from the transept into the long nave of the chapel. The place was nearly deserted. A few priests shuffled in the shadows, tending to the candles and the votary incense burners. No ordinary people would ever come here. It was reserved for the mighty of the Empire. Despite himself, Helborg enjoyed that feeling too. Hierarchy was everything. Control was everything. Discipline was everything. As long as they were maintained, mankind would continue to dominate the ancient lands of Sigmar. If they were forgotten, the end would come swiftly.