Bloch grinned. His energy returned in an instant. Even after everything, the prospect of fighting alongside the great man was something he relished. There were men who would have given their own families into slavery to have the honour of marching beside Schwarzhelm.
“Give me a proper weapon to wield and I’ll fight with you till the End Times come and we’re all damned together.”
Schwarzhelm nodded with approval.
“Get this man a halberd!” he roared. “Then we finish this thing.”
Kurt Helborg drew his horse to a standstill. The armoured bridle clinked as the beast shook its head impatiently. On either side of him, Reiksguard knights took up position. One hundred of them, all in full battle array despite the stultifying heat. The Reiksguard livery of red and white looked pristine in the sharp, clear light, and their weapons glistened with menace. It was a formidable contingent. If the reports coming out of Averland were true, they would be needed.
Skarr pulled up beside him. The man’s lank hair was slick with sweat. Flies buzzed around the muzzle of his horse. Everything was dank, warm and humid.
“What do you think?”
“Looks peaceful enough.”
They looked from their vantage point into the valley beyond. The road ran on for a few hundred yards before dipping sharply to follow the contours of the land. Perhaps a mile or two in the distance lay the town of Streissen, roughly halfway between the industrial might of Nuln and the rural backwater of Averland’s interior. As befitted a town on the border, it reflected a mix of regional styles. The walls were high and crenulated. They’d been whitewashed in imitation of Altdorf’s naturally white stone, though the long years had stained the surface a dirty grey. There were high watchtowers at regular intervals along the protective barrier.
The River Aver looped around the southern edge of the town before running west, and there were landing stages all along the bank. They didn’t look busy. The water was still and sluggish under the sun. There was very little traffic on the road. The place looked half-asleep.
“This heat,” complained Skarr, wiping his face with a rag. The cloth was already sodden.
“Do you sense anything?” asked Helborg, looking at the town before them intently.
“What do you mean?”
If he was honest, Helborg couldn’t quite place what he meant. There was an air of something about the countryside around them. Perhaps the heat was part of it. Perhaps it was just the effects of the long ride from Nuln. But something put him on edge. It felt wrong. Just on the edge of sensation, he thought he could smell jasmine, though they were far too far north for the flowers to bloom.
“I don’t know. Ignore it. Have we heard anything from Averheim?”
Skarr shook his head. Messengers had been sent on ahead to the capital, but they hadn’t returned. There were any number of explanations for that. The Empire was a dangerous place.
It was still strange.
“Let’s press on,” said Helborg, nudging his horse back into motion. “This place isn’t worth bothering with. We’ll carry on to Averheim.”
Tochfel hurried along the ramparts of the Averburg. The situation couldn’t last much longer. Any sense of defiance he’d felt over the past two days had melted in the face of the sustained assault on the city. Just as he’d feared, the citadel was now an isolated spot of sanity amid a swirling torrent of violence. He had no idea who was winning the war for the streets. From his vantage point, the destruction was senseless, whoever was causing it.
He turned a corner rapidly, only to bump into Morven. The man was carrying a stack of arrows. They scattered across the stone. He was about to burst into a furious string of expletives when he saw who’d caused the accident.
“M-my apologies, Steward,” he stammered, reaching for the arrows. “I didn’t know it was—”
“What are you doing, carrying these?” asked Tochfel, helping him retrieve them. “Aren’t there others for this kind of work?”
Morven gave him a look of despair.
“They’re all on the walls, Steward,” he complained. “We barely have enough to give even the pretence of resistance. If they want to storm the walls, they can do so whenever they please.”
Tochfel rose to his feet. He walked up to the parapet and risked a look down between the battlements. Far below, men clustered around the gates. They were well armoured and arrayed for an assault. He guessed several hundred were stationed along the ramp leading to the gatehouse, and more looked to be arriving from the Old City all the time. All they required was a ram for the doors and the attack would surely begin.
“Which one of them is it?”
“Ferenc Alptraum.”
Tochfel rolled his eyes. Of course. His family had once ruled from the Averburg. No wonder he wanted it back. He stole another look over the edge. There were seasoned troops down there. If the Averburg had been manned they’d have posed no threat at all, but the hastily arrayed guards of the citadel were mostly scribes and junior lore-masters. There were mere dozens of them on the walls and scarcely more waiting on the inside of the great doors to repel intruders. The charade wouldn’t fool anyone for long.
“Keep them out for as long as you can,” said Tochfel, handing the chief of staff his bundle of arrows and turning back the way he’d come.
“Where are you going?” came the querulous voice of Morven.
Tochfel ignored him. He descended into the castle swiftly, following routes he’d known since childhood. Once inside the cool stone, he began to think more clearly. The end would come soon. Alptraum must surely have realised how meagre their defences were, and he’d waste little time taking over once he was inside. That could not be prevented, but there was one service he could render before he lost control of the citadel.
The records. The precious records of the succession battle. They must not fall into either Grosslich’s or Leitdorfs hands. Though it would probably prove futile, Tochfel knew that he had to preserve them. One day the law would be restored and the chronicle of these times would be required again.
He went down the narrow spiral staircase that led to the archives. The repository of Averland’s history was in the oldest part of the ancient citadel, locked behind walls many yards thick. He was as familiar with it as he was with his own chambers. Over his life, he’d probably spent as much time in there.
He reached his destination. He was far below ground level, and the only light came from torches clamped to the stone walls. Some of them had gone out, and the shadows hung heavy on the stone flags.
The thick oak door to the library was open. That was unusual. It should have been locked. Only two men had the keys to the archives. He was one of them. Achendorfer was the other. He felt a sudden sense of wariness take him over. From far above he could hear muffled sounds. Perhaps the attackers had broken in at last. Time was running out.
Tochfel crept forward, looking around him carefully. The library looked deserted. The stone ceiling was low, built in the style of a crypt. Passages and antechambers led off in all directions, dark under narrow arches. Cracked leather tomes lined every wall. Their spines were inscribed in formal Reikspiel, but in the flickering light most were unreadable. It was cold. Even in the height of such a summer, the warmth of the sun never penetrated this far down.
The archive had many departments, and even Tochfel didn’t know them all. The one he wanted was straight on, down into the bowels of the scriptorium. He went quietly, his soft leather shoes making no noise against the stone. As the light from the torches ran out, he took the last one from the wall and held it as a brand. Its glow was warm and comforting, but it didn’t extend far. He didn’t like the way the flickering shadows reared up on the walls. They danced at the edge of his vision in an unnerving fashion.
He was getting closer. He passed more bookshelves, groaning under the weight of their heavy loads of parchment, vellum and leather. The noises from the corridor outside had died away. It was as if he’d entered a dark sanctum of calm
, buried deep within the eye of the storm raging outside.
Then he saw it. Another light. In the chamber ahead, no more then twenty yards away. His heart stopped. Perhaps one of the loremasters had had the same idea. In these troubled times, one could never tell. He wished he’d brought a knife, a rod, anything to defend himself with. Suddenly, his brand felt flimsy in his grip. Not much of a weapon.
Tochfel swallowed.
“Achendorfer?” The words echoed mockingly through the empty vaults beyond. There was the sound of a book being slammed shut and the light guttered. Tochfel rushed forward, holding the brand aloft, trying to throw more light across the chamber.
There were more sounds, as if someone was hurriedly pushing something to one side. Then a face lurched up out of the shadows of the arch.
“Achendorfer!” cried Tochfel, feeling relief well up inside him. His heart still thumped heavily. “Mother of Sigmar, you scared me.”
The loremaster looked terrible. His ashen grey face was distorted by fear, and his forehead was shiny with sweat. Tochfel noticed the man’s hand shaking as he tried to relight his own brand.
“Sorry, Steward,” he mumbled, striking the flint clumsily. His voice sounded thick and strained, as if he had a heavy cold.
“What are you doing down here?” asked Tochfel, holding his own light up high, trying to illuminate some more of the cramped chamber. The volumes in here were obscure ones. Tochfel couldn’t remember if he’d ever ventured into this part of the library himself. The air was dank and unwholesome.
Achendorfer looked evasive. He was breathing with difficulty. He finally got his brand re-lit, and the orange light of the flames bathed him with a lurid glow.
“I could ask you the same thing.”
Tochfel looked at him carefully. There was something strange about his eyes. The man looked like he’d been taking something. Surely not the joyroot. That was only used by the gutter filth. He felt his fear return. Why was Achendorfer staring at him like that? Almost without thinking, he took a step back.
“Uriens?” he asked, feeling more unsure of himself with every moment. “Are you all right?”
Achendorfer came after him, his eyes shining in the torchlight. He seemed like he was trying to come to some kind of a decision, like a boy caught with his fingers in the honeypot and looking for an excuse. Tochfel clutched his brand more tightly. If he had to, he’d use it.
Achendorfer stared at him. His expression was tortured.
“I’m sorry, Dagobert,” he said. “For everything.”
Then there was a sudden crash behind them. Fresh light bloomed down from the main body of the library. Achendorfer looked panicked and scuttled back, away from the intrusion. Tochfel, grateful for any interruption, whirled around to face it.
Men were piling into the chamber. They were all bearing torches. The place was soon filled with firelight. Tochfel watched them fan out across the archive with alarm. It would only take one spark.
“Be careful!” he cried out, knowing how pathetic he sounded. The instinct of the official in him was strong, even in such terrible times.
“Don’t worry, Steward,” came a familiar voice. One of the men walked into the pool of light cast by Tochfel’s brand. He was dressed in armour, but it looked more ceremonial than anything else. The Alptraum crest was embossed on the breastplate, a rampant lion flanked by laurels.
The speaker took his helmet off, revealing the thin face of Ferenc Alptraum.
“No doubt you’re here to secure the safety of the succession documents,” he said, smiling widely. In the distorted light, it looked more like a grimace. “I’m glad I arrived when I did. Now my men can help you.”
Tochfel didn’t know whether to feel relieved or terrified. Where had Achendorfer crept off to? And what had come over him? What was he sorry for?
“Am I a prisoner, then?” said Tochfel, trying to strike as dignified a pose as he could.
“Only if you want to be. It was foolish of you to try and hold the Averburg against us, but I don’t keep grudges. There’s been little blood spilled. Be thankful it was us that reached you rather than Leitdorf. There are things about him you should know.”
Tochfel felt his spirits sink. The propaganda of the victor. No doubt Grosslich’s faction had discovered some “dark secret” about their opponents. Tochfel wouldn’t believe a word of it. He was too old for such games.
“You can save your speeches, Herr Alptraum. As far as I’m concerned, you’re a usurper and a traitor to Averland. When the law is restored, I shall testify to that effect.”
Alptraum laughed, and the sound echoed from vault to vault.
“How noble. I’ll bear that in mind. But now you need to come with me. There are things to discuss, whether you wish to hear them or not.”
As Alptraum spoke, two of his men moved quietly to Tochfel’s side. Aside from their brands, they also carried naked swords. Tochfel finally saw the danger he was in. His bravado melted away.
“There are laws in Averheim still,” he said, but his voice sounded shaky and terrified. “You may not assail me. I am still the Steward.”
Alptraum came towards him, still smiling. There was cunning in his expression, but little malice.
“Oh, we’ll respect the laws, Steward. You need not fear for your own skin. This is a peaceful transition of power. I’ll need you at my side to ensure an orderly succession.” He looked around him with interest. “But I’m sure you know that some erroneous documents have found their way down here over the past few months. This collection is long overdue a little selective culling. We’ll be careful. Very careful.”
Tochfel felt the bitter taste of his failure. He’d been too late. If he’d retrieved the documents just an hour earlier, he might have been able to salvage something. Now it was over. The Grosslich version of events would be preserved, everything else destroyed.
“So you say,” he muttered.
“Now you’ll go with my men,” said Alptraum. “You’ll show them your private papers, while I shall also study. Then you’ll resume your duties, working under me. If you’re sensible, nothing need change for you, Herr Tochfel. The parchment will keep on coming across your desk. All will be well with the world.”
Tochfel glared at him for a moment, wondering whether to believe him. It didn’t matter very much if he did or didn’t. He had no power to resist. The vainglorious attempt to hold the Averburg had ended pathetically.
“It shall be as you command,” he said. With a deep sense of despondency, Tochfel allowed himself to be led off by Alptraum’s men. Ferenc himself took a final look around the archives before withdrawing and leaving a couple of guards on the door.
In the absence of the soldiers’ torches, the vaults sunk back into complete darkness. Heavy footfalls echoed along the spiral stairwells as they ascended and then dwindled to nothing. Everything was silent.
Except, hidden in the shadows, there was a faint, barely audible wheezing. Alone, forgotten, Achendorfer still crouched.
When the others had all left, he rose and made his way back to where he’d been hiding. He retrieved something from the antechamber, then hurried off into the darkness, following routes into the bowels of the citadel that only he knew.
Morning broke over the rolling grassland of eastern Averland. Bloch awoke suddenly. For a moment, he had no idea where he was. He couldn’t even remember falling asleep. Then it came rushing back. Some of it, at least.
The orcs had been destroyed. It had taken the entire day to finish them off, and they’d fought until dusk. But they had no answer to Schwarzhelm. He’d carved through them, giving them no respite or mercy. Every attempt by the greenskins to rally had been destroyed by him, every retreat pursued ruthlessly. Only with the coming of the dark had the army at last been able to sink into an exhausted rest. The rank and file halberdiers, spearmen and irregulars were clustered on the east-facing slopes of the hill they’d fought over so hard into the night. With the eventual destruction of the orc horde
, that was where they’d spent the night, clustered together in a state of half-watchfulness, half-exhaustion.
Bloch still couldn’t remember how the battle had ended for him. At some point he must have given out, fallen to the earth with fatigue like those around him. It was all so hazy.
He rolled over, still in his full armour, and staggered to his feet. Immediately he felt the stabbing pain of the wound in his leg. He looked down. It had been bandaged. Had he done that? He didn’t remember doing it. He didn’t remember anyone else doing it either.
It wasn’t just his leg that ached. Every muscle in his body protested as he moved. He could barely walk. There was a low, hammering headache behind his eyes. He needed something to drink. How long had it been since he’d eaten properly? Sigmar only knew.
All around him, the rest of the army looked in the same kind of shape. Schwarzhelm had pushed the Averlanders hard, and many of them were slumped in exhaustion in the grass, their eyes hollow and staring. The survivors of Grunwald’s command were in even worse condition. Some were still on their feet, but many had collapsed during the final stages of the battle. Even after the orcs had been routed and the field won there had been no celebration.
The heat didn’t help. Bloch fumbled at his collar, trying to release his jerkin. He felt grimy, caked in old sweat that had never truly dried. The sunlight, still low in the east, hurt his eyes. This whole province was too damnably bright. Not like the wholesome grey skies of the Reikland or the brooding forests of the north. No wonder Averlanders were so strange. Their country was fit for cattle, not honest humans.
As his senses gradually returned, he saw that the army around him had been put in some kind of order. The footsoldiers were arranged in companies and there were watchmen on the edges of a makeshift camp. Wains had caught up with them, full of provisions from Heideck. There were tents, which must have gone up during the night. There were even fires, their thin pillars of smoke curling into the blue sky. From such a scene of desolation just the day before, the place was starting to look something like a proper camp. “Herr Bloch.”
Swords of the Emperor Page 27