Swords of the Emperor

by Chris Wraight

  Then the orc shuddered, stumbled and keeled over to one side. With a crash, the heavily armoured warrior slumped to the earth.

  Bloch stood nonplussed. That hadn’t been expected.

  “I should swear more often,” he mused.

  Fischer emerged from the shadow of the fallen greenskin. His spear was in two pieces. One end remained in his hands. The other protruded from the orc’s back, still shivering as the massive creature died. The spearman threw Bloch a sword. For a young man in the thick of the fighting, he looked remarkably assured.

  “That’s one I owe you,” Bloch cried.

  “I’ll hold you to that.” Fischer looked like he was enjoying himself.

  “Come on, boys!” bellowed Bloch, his vigour restored. “One last push!”

  All around him, his men cheered, but the cries were muted. They were fighting hard, going toe to toe with the rearguard of the orc horde. The fighting was bloody and confused. It was hard to retain tight formations in the close press, and the attack was at risk of turning into a disorganised melee. That handed all the advantages to the heavier, stronger orcs. If this wasn’t to end in disaster, he needed to act.

  “To me!” he roared, waving his new sword around his head and trying to pull his men around him. “Shoulder to shoulder. Don’t get drawn out!”

  Being overheard above the din of the battlefield was hard, and not all his troops heeded the command. But those closest to him did, and they began to draw together. Soon they were formed up in something like proper Imperial ranks. Bloch himself kept in the thick of it. Ignoring his wounds, he led from the front. On either side of him, his men were kept busy, hacking and thrusting against the stubborn orc resistance.

  Bloch was no different, stabbing with his sword against the greenskins. He didn’t enjoy using the blade. A halberd was his weapon, the one he’d been trained to use since he was a boy. The sword was for noblemen and princes. It cut through greenskin flesh all the same though, and the blades working in tandem on either side of him gave him some protection.

  “No mercy, lads!” he roared. “No respite! Keep at them!”

  They were holding their own. They were maintaining their formation. But it couldn’t last forever. This warband was far bigger than the ones they’d been pursued by over the past few days. Either he was right, and a relieving army was fighting on its western flank, or he’d made a terrible mistake.

  From the heart of the greenskin mass, a series of roars rose into the air. They were gearing themselves up for a final push. Something had got them angry. Bloch hoped to Sigmar that was what he thought it was.

  But then his vision was blocked by yet another greenskin warrior, tusks lowered and eyes raging. They weren’t giving up. They’d keep fighting until the last one of them fell to the ground. Bloch respected that. He felt the same way.

  With a feral look in his eyes, he raised his sword and got stuck in.

  Euler’s band had returned from the Old City. Going quickly through the backstreets, they’d reached the bridges over the Aver at last. Verstohlen had kept tight-lipped since leaving the townhouse, letting Grosslich’s captain make the decisions. He was eager to find the core of the fighting. That was as it should be, but still not reassuring. Chaos was always stronger than it appeared. Weakness was always fleeting. Even as Grosslich’s men drove the traitors from the Old City on to the western bank, his mind was unquiet. Far too easy.

  Captain Euler brought the warband to a halt. The men looked like they needed a break. Though late in the afternoon, the sun was still strong. Truly, Verstohlen had never known a summer like it. The whole province was baking.

  “This is the place?” asked Verstohlen.

  “It is, and the hour. He should be here soon.”

  Verstohlen looked around. They were on a wide boulevard that ran along the eastern bank of the river. The street was cobbled and warehouses rose up behind it.

  The smell of the water was rank. Under the blistering sun, the water looked green and sickly. With no wind to drive the smells away, the air was heavy with the stench of gutted fish and refuse. The few boats moored nearby sat low in the water, their sails and ropes slack.

  Further ahead, Verstohlen could see the bulk of the Averburg rise up against the empty sky. He couldn’t tell whether it was still manned. The standard of Averland hung from the flagpole at the summit, but that meant little. Surely Tochfel had surrendered it to one of the warring parties by now. The question was, which one?

  Verstohlen put his knife away. In the daylight, with the enemy flying before them and the Old City nearly locked down, it was hard not to become complacent. He knew that would be a mistake. Verstohlen was no coward, but he was no fool either. Deep down, he was still afraid. Mortally afraid. The consequences of what he’d seen were terrible enough.

  “He approaches now,” said Euler, breaking Verstohlen’s concentration. He looked along the quayside.

  Heinz-Mark Grosslich in armour looked even more the picture of a commander than he had done in civilian robes. The sun shone from his exposed blond hair. He appeared calm, confident and in command. The self-appointed elector was surrounded by greatswords from the Alptraum estate. Their notched armour betrayed the fighting they’d been in, but they bore no resemblance to the scruffy mercenaries who formed the bulk of the fighting men on both sides. Ferenc had given him the best to work with..

  As Grosslich came up to him, Verstohlen bowed politely.

  “Did you find anything, counsellor?” the count asked.

  Verstohlen shook his head.

  “As I feared, they’d long flown the nest. They’d worked hard to cover their tracks, too.”

  “Any sign at all? Any signal?” Verstohlen thought of the masks.

  “No, my lord.”

  Grosslich nodded grimly. “Then we’ll keep hunting.” He motioned for his bodyguard to stand down. “Walk with me,” he said to Verstohlen and moved towards the water’s edge. Verstohlen fell in beside him. Euler and his men, grateful of the respite, put their weapons down and began to talk amongst themselves.

  “I’ll confess that Ferenc’s news came as a surprise,” said Grosslich, keeping his voice low. “I’ve never hidden my dislike for Rufus and his slut, but if I’d known about the—”

  “It is in the nature of corruption to be hidden,” interrupted Verstohlen, wanting no mention of the details. “Do not trouble yourself.

  “The joyroot is at the heart of it. This I suspected for many months. Leitdorf is not as wealthy as his lineage suggests, and it is I who have the support of the guilds. Only through this trade could he have armed his men. I won’t let those in my employ touch it.”

  Verstohlen wondered if that was true. Joyroot use seemed to be endemic across the city.

  “Very wise.”

  Grosslich paused before speaking again. He seemed to be weighing something up.

  “Ferenc tells me you’re an agent of the Lord Schwarzhelm,” he said. “I assumed—forgive me—that you were merely an official.”

  “It’s an impression I work hard to cultivate.”

  “Then you’ll be an astute judge of politics. You’ll know, for example, that Herr Alptraum wishes to use me as a figurehead. He cannot succeed to the electorship himself, so he uses me as his proxy.”

  Verstohlen had to admire the man’s judgement.

  “Then why maintain your alliance?”

  “I need him. His money, his connections, his arms. I have none of these. The only thing I have linking me to the electorship is a long forgotten blood-tie to an ancient count, and even that is contested. If there were better candidates than Alptraum and Leitdorf, I’d never had stood a chance.”

  “You make it sound as if you do not wish to succeed.”

  Grosslich stopped walking and looked at him seriously. “I wish for nothing else. This province has wallowed in indolence for too long. Sigmar willing, I will restore it to glory. We must no longer be the rich weakling amongst the Empire’s realms.”

  “F
erenc Alptraum is an old hand at this game,” said Verstohlen. “Be wary of taking him on.”

  “That is why I needed to speak to you. My victory here is almost at hand. Rufus’ men have been driven from the Old City and on to the western bank. We will hunt them down, and then I shall be crowned. But then the real battle begins. Alptraum cannot be allowed to rule through me. If that were to happen, nothing would change. We’d have swapped one tyrant for another. I need your help, counsellor. You have the skills for this work, whereas I am but a soldier.”

  Verstohlen raised an eyebrow.

  “Are you offering me a job, Lord Grosslich?”

  Grosslich looked uncharacteristically uneasy.

  “Not exactly. Some kind of advisory role, perhaps. I’m not a proud man, counsellor. I need help. You could provide me with it.”

  Verstohlen smiled sadly.

  “I appreciate your predicament. Be assured that while the taint of Chaos remains in Averheim, I will help you root it out. But after that, I’m Schwarzhelm’s servant. That, I’m afraid, is not something I can change. Not even for the Emperor himself.”

  “Your devotion commends you,” said Grosslich, keeping his expression level. If he was disappointed, he hid it well. “Let me speak candidly, though. There are many here who wonder if the Lord Schwarzhelm deserves the services of one such as you. He is a son of Averland, but—”

  Verstohlen raised his hand.

  “Say no more. I will not hear this. If it were not for Schwarzhelm, Marius would have driven your province to ruin twenty years ago. Even now he fights to prevent it falling apart. He has been targeted by those we fight against, and a lesser man would have cracked long ago. Whatever you think, he is the greatest hope for your cause.”

  Grosslich inclined his head in apology, withdrawing the criticism gracefully.

  “Forgive me. I should perhaps have more faith.” He looked back along the river. In the distance, the great bridge over the Aver had begun to burn. The fighting had evidently reached the crossings, and the fires spread with it. “I wish I could discuss this at greater leisure, but I should go back to my men. You are to be commended, Hen Verstohlen. Your tidings given to Alptraum have set this in motion, and victory is at hand.”

  “Does Leitdorf lead his forces?”

  “He’s not been seen, but it’s not his way. He’ll be skulking in some cellar, letting his peasants lose their lives for him.”

  “That concerns me. We’re driving them back too easily.”

  Grosslich grinned. He looked supremely unworried.

  “Worry not, counsellor. In an honest fight, there is only one winner. Whatever dabbling Leitdorf has been doing in spells and potions, it won’t make up for his poor judgement. Even his own men hate him. The city will be ours before nightfall tomorrow.”

  Verstohlen looked at the burning bridge darkly. Something was wrong here. Though he couldn’t put his finger on it, every instinct he possessed warned him that they were winning too quickly. The ways of Chaos were subtle, and uprooting the contagion was never as simple a matter as this.

  “I will come with you,” he said. “You could use a good shot, and I want to see Leitdorf’s forces with my own eyes. Something has eluded me here, I am sure of it.”

  Grosslich smiled confidently. “It’ll be an honour. We’ll drive them out together.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Bloch felt his resolve begin to flag at last. The sun was failing. The fighting had been fierce and unrelenting for too long. His men were surrounded on all sides. They’d taken heavy losses. Of the several hundred he’d led in the orc rearguard, perhaps two thirds remained on their feet. They’d driven hard into the orc lines, but the greenskins had swallowed them up. This was beginning to look more and more like a mistake.

  Even his arms, hardened by years of incessant combat, were near the end of their strength. Wielding the sword was hard. He’d already sustained several wounds due to the unfamiliar weapon. A halberd was more difficult to use in a confined space, but it served as both attack and defence. Without the long stave to use, Bloch found the hooked weapons of the orcs getting through his guard too often. He’d taken a flesh wound to his leg and only narrowly avoided being skewered by an unusually nimble greenskin warrior.

  Too many of his men hadn’t been so lucky. Fischer was gone, dragged down by the combined attack of several orcs working in tandem. Bloch had reached him too late. After so many days on the run, his men were flagging. The battle with the orcs had ebbed and flowed, but it seemed as if they’d finally run out of the fortune that had preserved them since Grunwald’s demise.

  “To me, lads!” he shouted, desperately trying to rally the men that remained. His voice cracked as he urged them on. The halberdiers and spearmen around him kept their heads down, desperately trying to stem the assault of the orcs. The formation still held, but only just. With every backward step, every orc assault, Bloch’s detachment was beaten back. They were surrounded, cut off from help.

  Bloch raised his sword a final time. The men on either side of him looked drained. The orcs hung back for a moment, taking the chance to jeer at them before they charged. They swung their crude weapons wildly, relishing the impending victory. Bloch couldn’t make out what they were saying, but the gist was obvious enough.

  Gritting his teeth, he prepared for the onslaught. He’d had a good run. He couldn’t complain. If d been worth the gamble.

  Then, before his astonished eyes, the orc ranks were torn apart.

  From nowhere, crashing through the press of greenskins, armoured knights charged straight through the mocking warriors. Heavy plate armour flashed in the sun as a wedge of horsemen tore through the orc resistance. No more than two dozen of them, an arrowhead of steel amid a sea of foes. But they were superb horsemen. Bloch saw one sweep a greenskin warrior from its feet on the charge, drop the lance, take up a sword and swing it round to decapitate another. All at speed, all in a heartbeat.

  At their head was a figure he knew all too well. Schwarzhelm was like a force of nature. His armour was battered and dented all over, but his momentum on the charge was irresistible. He roared his defiance in that familiar resounding voice, hacking left and right with the Sword of Justice as he came on. In that moment, with the sun glinting from his armour like a halo, he looked like one of the heroes of old, the companions of Holy Sigmar who cleansed the Empire of the orc menace when the world was young and purer. With every mighty stroke, every hammer blow, the will of the greenskins to resist was thrown down.

  In an instant, the situation was reversed. The orcs were smashed to one side. Bloch could see more knights galloping to join the assault. They had the colours of Averheim. Bloch was transfixed for a moment, hardly daring to believe what he was seeing. The orcs scattered, ridden down by the knights. Suddenly relieved of the pressure of constant defence, his own men began to break out of the stricture. The greenskins, caught between two forces, broke under the assault.

  Not all of them ran. Some of the larger warriors stood their ground, bellowing in frustration at the denial of their prize. A huge orc lurched up to Bloch, eyes blazing, axe swinging low against the ground. A halberdier charged straight at it, but was swatted away with a casual swipe of the monster’s vast claw-like hand. The creature fixed its pig-like eyes on Bloch. Somewhere deep within its violence-addled mind, it singled him out. With a guttural roar, it charged. Bloch tensed, waiting for the impact.

  It never came. A knight rode between the two of them, cutting off the orc’s attack. There was a blaze of sunlight as the rider’s sword plunged downwards. The greenskin crashed to the ground, decapitated, its severed neck pumping blood. The ruined corpse rolled several times before coming to a halt, its claws still twitching. The knight tore onward, hardly pausing to regain his balance. Ahead of him, the rest of the orcs were being driven away. The horde had been smashed. In the wake of the knights, Averlanders poured into the breach. They rushed over to Bloch’s beleaguered men, sweeping the orcs from their hard-pressed
lines and pursuing them as they broke and ran.

  Finally, the relief had arrived.

  Bloch felt his sword arm go weak at last. He’d been fighting with barely a break for days. It had taken its toll. He felt his vision begin to cloud, and he felt suddenly light-headed.

  Then a shadow fell across him. Shading his eyes against the sun, he looked up. Schwarzhelm towered above him. His charger’s flanks were glossy with sweat. The man’s massive armoured form must have taken some carrying. Schwarzhelm’s presence was like the return of a welcome dream. There was the familiar armour, the laurel-wreathed helmet, the massive breastplate with the Ghal Maraz pendant swinging from it.

  “My lord!” cried Bloch.

  Schwarzhelm pulled his horse around and dismounted in a single movement. The blood of the orcs sluiced down the Sword of Justice. He walked up to Bloch. The Emperor’s Champion was as grim-faced as ever, but there was an icy satisfaction in the man’s eyes.

  “You survived,” said Schwarzhelm. “I knew you would. I am not too late.”

  He clasped Bloch on the shoulder. The grip was as heavy as any blow he’d received on the battlefield, and he had to work not to stagger under it.

  “It’s becoming a habit, sir,” said Bloch, his worn face breaking into an expression of pure relief.

  “What is?”

  “Riding to the rescue. Just like in the legends.”

  More Averlander troops were arriving every moment, striding across the battlefield. In the face of the reinforcements, the remaining orcs were driven back further. All around them, Bloch’s men were falling to the earth in exhaustion. Their places were taken by fresh footsoldiers, backed up by the ever-present knights.

  “Can you still wield a blade?” asked Schwarzhelm, clearly itching to be after the remaining greenskins.