Swords of the Emperor

by Chris Wraight

  As he neared the exit, he caught sight of a lone figure waiting for him just inside the porch. The shape was unmistakable. Years of fighting alongside a man made his armoured profile almost as familiar as one’s own. Leofric von Skarr, Preceptor of the Ninth Company of the Reiksguard. One of his most trusted men. Honest, capable, utterly brutal. Just as he preferred his officers.

  “My lord Helborg,” Skarr said, keeping his voice deferentially low. Even in whispers, the words echoed eerily in the vaults of the chapel. “My apologies for disturbing your prayers.”

  “It’s fine. Come outside.”

  Skarr opened the gigantic brassbound doors of the chapel for the Marshal, and warm sunlight flooded into the shadowy nave. The two men stepped through it.

  They were high up on the north side of the city. The courtyard before the east front of the chapel offered a sweeping panorama. Around them, the greater mass of Nuln spread out in all its confused, tumbled majesty. The sound of the forges, ever-present even during the night hours, filled the air. Huge columns of black smoke rose into the summer sky from several quarters. The buildings were stained with soot. Below their vantage point, the River Reik ran dark and polluted. It would take miles before the filth of the forges was washed from its water again.

  Such things mattered not. Nuln had not been built for beauty. The hammers of the blacksmiths fashioned weapons for the defence of the Empire. That was the city’s function. The greatest foundry and workshop of war west of the Worlds Edge Mountains. Helborg loved it.

  “So what is it, Skarr?” he asked, retrieving the sheathed Klingerach from the chapel warden and donning the ancient runefang.

  “A messenger, my lord,” said the grizzled preceptor. His face was heavily scarred, as befitted his name. He’d lost an eye at the siege of Urkh five years ago, and the leather patch made him look half-feral. He had an angular face and his long hair hung dark and lank about it. There wasn’t an inch of fat on his severe features. Everything was taut, muscular, spare. “From Averheim.”

  “Ah,” said Helborg, the ghost of a smile on his lips. “Ludwig’s little project. How goes it for my unsmiling brother?”

  “Not well, I fear. The Steward has requested aid. The factions for the electorship have resorted to arms. He doesn’t have enough men to keep order.”

  Helborg frowned. “How many men does he need? He has Schwarzhelm. That ought to be enough.”

  “Lord Schwarzhelm isn’t in the city.”

  “Not in the city? Where is he then?”

  “In the east. The message says no more than that.”

  Helborg felt a sudden qualm of unease. That sounded wrong. Schwarzhelm was a stickler for the law. When given orders, he stuck to them until the bitter end. Such unbending devotion was what made him so formidable. It was also what made him such a pain in the arse. The fact that he’d left his duty for some other purpose was out of character, and that alone was a cause for worry.

  “Are the Reiksguard in readiness to march?”

  “Always, my lord.”

  “Then I’ll study this message myself. I don’t like the implication in it.”

  “Yes, my lord. The message bearer is still lodged at the garrison. I’ll summon him to your chambers.”

  “Do it.” Helborg’s voice was as it always was when dealing with subordinates. Clipped, gruff, solid. But his mood of contentment had been punctured. Something was wrong in Averheim. Deep within, like a fleck of rust amidst the smooth workings of a cannon bearing, the germ of suspicion had lodged. Schwarzhelm had been behaving oddly recently. Maybe the man’s judgment was failing.

  As Skarr departed, Helborg looked out over the city again. The sun was high in the sky. Its warmth bathed the spires of Nuln generously. The manufactories were working at full tilt, hammering blades and gun-workings for the war in the north. He could have spent weeks in the city, ordering the production to best effect. The need for arms had never been greater.

  Helborg shook his head. Whatever the messenger reported, his instinct told him his services would be called on. His work in Nuln would be cut short. His devotions would have to wait. As it ever did, duty called for the Reiksguard.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Schwarzhelm and the Averheim garrison had reached the wide pasturelands east of Heideck. In the far distance, the Worlds Edge Mountains were just visible, jagged and low against the horizon. For miles around them, the undulating countryside ran unimpeded, lush and green under the ever-present sun. In the distance, warmth shimmered from the deep grass. The light was blinding from the honour guard’s polished armour.

  The army had broken into a gallop. Schwarzhelm tensed in the saddle. He made a minute adjustment to his posture, eking out a fractional increase in speed from his charger. The knights on either side of him worked to keep up. He looked over his shoulder quickly. They were still in close formation. Kraus and his men in the front rank, the Averlanders behind. Some distance in their wake, hundreds of footsoldiers from Heideck streamed across the fields. All had weapons drawn. In combination with the elite guard at his disposal, he now had the tools he needed. More importantly, he had the will to use them.

  He turned back to the chase. Prey had been sighted. Like the predators of the wild, his army had responded to the quarry. Clods of turf flew from the horses’ hooves as they accelerated into a fully-fledged gallop. Lances were lowered. As they charged, the warriors looked like they were wreathed in a halo of light.

  The heat was crippling. Schwarzhelm felt the sweat pool under his breastplate. He didn’t care. For the first time in weeks, he felt fantastic. This was what he was born to do. His face was twisted into a cry of pure, unbridled aggression. As he roared his fury, his knights bellowed their defiance alongside him. The crescendo of noise thrilled his heart.

  The orcs were running, loping like animals across the grass. It was a large mob, but no match for his forces. The sun flashed from their armour as they went. They looked better equipped than usual. He thought he could make out straight swords and halberds amongst their ranks. That was more than rare.

  On either side of him, the knights moved expertly into formation. The honour guard were flawless, controlling their mighty warhorses with almost unconscious ease. The Averlanders, good horsemen all, kept close behind. Lances extended, the cavalry formed a single sweeping row of steel.

  Now only yards remained. The greenskins had been taken by surprise. Their polluting stench rose over the pristine fields, wafted over the charging knights by the warm breeze. Some larger warriors turned and stood their ground. Silently, one by one, they were singled out by the knights. Near the centre of the mob, a larger monster prepared to meet the assault. He had a near-black hide and his bodyguard were clad in what looked like plates of armour. Clearly the leader.

  “That one’s mine!” roared Schwarzhelm.

  Hooves churned. The distance shrunk further. Details came into focus. The final few yards vanished in a blur of speed. Schwarzhelm grasped his lance tightly and took aim. With a crash of metal, bone, hoof and muscle, the knights crashed into the orc lines.

  The defence broke. Any pretence at formation was swept away with the first charge. Schwarzhelm’s lance plunged into the breast of the foremost orc, lifting the massive warrior clean from the ground before the shaft snapped. Blood sprayed into the air, sparkling like rubies in the sun. All along the line, the knights scythed their way through the greenskin ranks, driving great wedges into them and throwing them into confusion.

  Schwarzhelm let the broken lance fall and pulled the Rechtstahl from its scabbard. As the metal withdrew it seemed to shimmer with light. It knew it would taste blood. He pulled his stallion around, searching for the leader. A lumbering greenskin half-heartedly attempted to engage him. Schwarzhelm rode straight at it, his blade whirling. The warrior crumpled to the blood-soaked earth, spine severed. There were more behind him. Dozens of them. Fodder for his holy blade.

  “For Sigmar!” Schwarzhelm roared, feeling the coppery taste of blood in the
air. “For Grunwald!” After weeks cooped up in the cesspit of Averheim, the Sword of Justice had been unleashed at last.

  And it felt good.

  Verstohlen ran along the streets of Averheim’s Old City, maintaining an easy pace. The hunt for Leitdorf had begun in earnest. All around him, Grosslich’s men kept their formation. There were two dozen in the warband, and they’d been well trained. Some were dogs of war, paid handsomely for their services, others were taken from the Alptraum estates. None of them had the stench of joyroot about them. That, more than anything else, reassured him.

  “Was this the way?” asked the captain, holding the pace steady pace as he spoke.

  “We’re nearly there, Herr Euler. This is the district.”

  All across the city, similar bands of Grosslich’s supporters were fanning out. Up until now, the fighting had been sporadic. Now all the cells across Averheim had been mobilised. The battles had been notched up a level. Alptraum had offered Verstohlen a place beside him with the forces attacking the Averburg. Verstohlen had refused. He had business of his own to deal with.

  The warband rounded the final corner. There were men ahead. A few of Leitdorf’s hired thugs. They didn’t stay to fight. They ran off into the sidestreets, and a couple of Euler’s soldiers made to go after them.

  “Leave them,” snapped Verstohlen. He looked down the street they’d cleared of men. At the far end of it, a narrow alleyway stood. He knew what lay down there. Part of him dreaded going back, but the contagion had to be cut off at the source.

  “Follow me,” he said grimly, drawing his pistol from its holster. Euler and his men fell into close formation around him. Without saying another word, the warband advanced towards the unassuming-looking townhouse at the end of the alley.

  Out on the fields of Averland, Schwarzhelm drew his horse up, feeling the beast shiver from fatigue. He’d ridden it hard. His hands were streaked with the dark blood of the orcs. All around him, the butchery was in full flow. He shaded his eyes from the sun, trying to get an overview of the fighting.

  The orc warband leader was close at hand, hurling threats in its obscene tongue. The initial charge of the knights had carved through the disarranged ranks of greenskins like a dagger through flesh. There would be no respite. They would press on until every last one of them was dead or driven back over the mountains. Grunwald’s memory would be honoured.

  Schwarzhelm turned back to face the enemy. They were massing for a counter-attack. Scattered bands of orcs nearby had somehow got wind of the battle and were streaming across the fields to reinforce their kin. That was all good. There was no point picking off the fringes of the contagion. The heart of it had to be cut out.

  “To me!” Schwarzhelm bellowed to his honour guard, raising the Rechtstahl aloft. Kraus was at his side instantly, along with a dozen of the honour guard.

  Averlanders followed in their wake looking hollow-eyed and murderous. Any pretence at holding detachments had long gone. This was melee fighting, close and packed-tight. That was fine. They had the numbers, and they had the leadership. Schwarzhelm’s fury had been roused, and there wasn’t a warrior on earth, greenskin or not, who could stand against him.

  With a kick of his spurs, Schwarzhelm swung his charger around to renew the charge. Kraus fell in alongside him. Fresh lances were brought up, and the assault was marshalled anew.

  The orc leader saw the danger. Like of all its cursed race, it showed no fear. With a low growl, it stamped on the earth, rousing its followers into a frenzy of defiance.

  Schwarzhelm rode straight for it. He lowered his lance, watching the steel tip swing into position over the approaching orc’s eyes. He could sense Kraus riding hard at his shoulder, feel the momentum of the charge all around him. The orcs could see it too. Despite their bravado, despite their dogged willingness to stay and face the onslaught, their roars of defiance were less pronounced than usual. They feared the cavalry.

  The gap closed in seconds, and then they were among them. The orc leader, a head bigger than its nearest rival, swung a spiked club in a wide circle, aiming to take out the horse’s legs as it thundered towards him. Schwarzhelm pulled the reins and the beast swerved comfortably to avoid the swipe. Then he was on top of it, hooves kicking out. The orc leapt to the ground, rolling across the grass before springing up with surprising agility. Schwarzhelm’s lance missed it by inches. His steed careered onwards before he could pull it round for the return run.

  The evidence of the charge’s devastation was all around him. Kraus and the other knights had carved straight through the heart of the orc horde, and the surviving warriors were in disarray In the gap opened up by their assault, Averlander footsoldiers were hurrying to catch up and consolidate the won ground.

  But the monster, the guiding force behind the orc’s movements, still lived. Schwarzhelm kicked his horse back towards the huge figure of the greenskin commander, watching carefully as the creature prepared itself for the next pass.

  In a split second, he determined his tactics. He was too close for another full charge. At such a range the lance would be more of a hindrance than a weapon. As the powerful horse lurched forward, he let the long shaft fall to the ground and drew the Sword of Justice. The orc saw the change of strategy and braced itself, hurling insults at the oncoming Schwarzhelm in its dark and obscene tongue.

  They came together again. The orc reared, scything its spiked weapon, once again aiming at the horse. This had been expected. The warhorse had been trained for combat, and was more than just a mere mount. As it closed on the orc, Schwarzhelm pulled sharply up on the reins. The charger reared, kicking its front hooves out viciously before they fell back down to earth. One of them connected with the orc’s face, knocking one of its tusks out and cracking bone. The warband leader staggered back, roaring in pain.

  Then Schwarzhelm was on it. He brought the Rechtstahl down in a sudden plunge, burying the tip of the steel deep into the orc’s hide. The warrior howled, twisting to escape the agony of the blade. Like all of its kind, it was strong, nearly wresting the sword from Schwarzhelm’s hands.

  But Schwarzhelm was too expert a swordsman for that. He withdrew the blade while pulling the horse round, keeping it close to the stricken creature below. The orc tried to match the move, turning on its squat legs clumsily and raising its club more in defence than attack.

  Schwarzhelm ignored the threat, watching for the opening. It came soon enough. He spun the sword rapidly in his grip, switching so the blade pointed down from his clenched right fist. As it whirled into position, the sunlight blazed from the holy steel.

  Mustering all the power in his arm, Schwarzhelm stabbed the Rechtstahl down. The tip of the sword punctured the orc’s flesh between shoulder and neck, and kept going.

  The greenskin screamed, an unearthly sound that echoed over the whole field of battle. With a fury born of desperation, it tried to tear itself away from the pain, lashing out blindly with its club. The blows were ill-aimed, and Schwarzhelm evaded them easily, keeping the blade in position, turning it and pushing it down, aiming for the heart. For a moment they struggled together thus, their strength pitted against one another.

  Eventually, the blood loss was too much. The mighty creature sunk to its knees, the fire in its eyes extinguished. Schwarzhelm withdrew his sword. The orc’s gore flew into the air as he reverted to his usual grip. With a rattling sigh, the greenskin keeled over on to the pristine turf.

  Schwarzhelm looked around him. In every direction the honour guard were slicing apart the orc defences. In their wake the Averlanders were rushing to make good the gains made. The assault was progressing well.

  But the greenskins were numerous. Some signal must have been given, as more were running to reinforce them from all across the plains. Schwarzhelm’s forces were taking losses as they advanced, and even as he watched one of the knights was dragged from his steed by the press of orcs around him. They still needed discipline, still needed formation. If this thing slipped into a shapeless s
crap, then all their advantages would be gone:

  “To me!” he cried, his powerful voice echoing across the battlefield. The horsemen began to fight their way back to his position. They would need to re-form the wedge, set up another massed charge, punch the orcs into submission. They would have to do it over and over again. More than most, Schwarzhelm knew how stubborn an opponent the orcs were.

  They would have to be. Now his fury was roused, there was no place for them to hide.

  Euler’s party ran down the narrow alleyway towards the townhouse. Verstohlen reached the door first. It was just as he remembered it. In the daylight it looked, if anything, even more innocuous. There was no handle, no decoration.

  “Break this door down,” he ordered.

  Euler gestured to his men, and two of his larger soldiers came forward. They slammed their bodies against the wood. Once, twice, three times, then the frame buckled. A fourth heave and the planks splintered. Euler hacked the broken wood aside and reached in to unlock the door. It swung open. The familiar aroma of jasmine wafted from the chamber within.

  “Keep together,” warned Verstohlen. “Do not be deceived by appearances. Kill anyone inside you see, fair-seeming or foul.”

  Some of the men were looking uncertain. Their stock in trade was street fighting and campaigns against rival magnates. Even they could sense that there was something very wrong about the townhouse.

  Verstohlen didn’t have time to pity them. If Rufus’ allies were allowed to take root, there’d be plenty more such establishments in Averheim to give them nightmares.