Swords of the Emperor

by Chris Wraight

  The voice came from further up the slope. Bloch turned to face it. It was Kraus. The honour guard captain looked almost unscathed, though his gait betrayed his weariness. It had been a testing campaign for all of them.

  “Lord Schwarzhelm is back from orc hunting. He asked me to find you. Can you walk?”

  Bloch grimaced. Every time he moved, a sharp pain shot up his thigh. He was damned if Schwarzhelm would know about it.

  “I’m fine. Show me to him.”

  Kraus walked up the slope. As Bloch limped alongside him, he took a look at the faces of the men around them. Some of the men must have got some sleep in the night. Others still slumbered, prostrate on the grass where they’d fallen after dragging themselves back from the fighting. They were still perhaps a day’s march out from Heideck and further still from Grenzstadt. That was a long way from anywhere, given the condition of the men. For the time being, they’d have to make this place their own.

  At the summit of the hill the Imperial Standard had been planted. It had rarely flown over such a hastily concocted and dishevelled army, thrown together in haste and with no proper planning for its deployment. But, held together by little more than Schwarzhelm’s will, it had succeeded in its task. The horde had been destroyed and its remnants scattered. Heideck was no longer threatened, and the way was clear to rid the rest of the province of the greenskin menace. Not a bad result. To the extent he’d played a part in it, Bloch felt proud. It could have gone very differently.

  Only one man stood beside the standard. His massive bulk against the horizon was familiar. His plate armour still glinted, though it had been ravaged by blows. The longsword still hung from his belt, decorated with the comet motif and engraved with runes of warding. As Bloch approached Schwarzhelm, Kraus tactfully withdrew. The general looked up from a sheet of parchment he’d been studying. His face was lined with concern. When he saw the halberdier captain, his expression lightened a little. Only a little.

  “Herr Bloch,” he said, rolling the parchment up and putting it away. “I trust you slept well? The bedding was to your liking?”

  Bloch didn’t know quite how to respond to that. Was that what Schwarzhelm called a joke? It was impossible to read the expression on that vast, scarred, bearded face. He decided it was probably meant to be amusing.

  “Not bad. Could have done with a few more feathers in the bolster.”

  Schwarzhelm grunted. He didn’t look amused.

  “In any case, you deserved some rest. It was heroic, to last so long out here. I’ve served with men who’d have given in long before I found you.”

  Again, Bloch hardly knew what to say. He’d still not learned how to cope with compliments. They were strange things, alien to his whole way of being.

  “Forgive me,” he stammered. “I don’t exactly recall—”

  “You don’t remember the final hours? It was an honour to have you alongside me. When I finally ordered you to retire, you could hardly see. By then, the worst was over.” Schwarzhelm gazed down on the ranks of men below, most of them lying on the grass as Bloch had been doing, utterly drained. “This is still a formidable army. The men need rest, but they’ll recover. We lost many, but the orcs lost more. The tide has turned.”

  Bloch followed his gaze, trying to gauge how many men they had left. Still more than two thousand capable of bearing arms, he estimated. A serious contingent. He didn’t like to estimate how many were from his own command. It would be too few. They’d suffered badly in that last assault.

  “Tell me,” said Schwarzhelm, his tone a little less confident, “how did Grunwald die?”

  In a flash, Bloch saw it in his mind’s eye. The commander, borne down by a whole pack of orcs, shouting at him to flee. He winced. That vision would haunt him.

  “Well, sir. He held the line while we withdrew.”

  Schwarzhelm looked at Bloch intently. Those eyes, set deep into the lined face, were penetrating. Bloch felt an overwhelming urge to look away. With effort, he held Schwarzhelm’s gaze. It was always a mistake to look away.

  “A good commander,” was all Schwarzhelm said, though there was an edge of bitterness in his words.

  “He was, sir.”

  “You know that his requests for reinforcements never reached Averheim?”

  “I’m told the road was blocked.”

  “It was. Greenskins, maybe, though it seems unlikely. Perhaps men allied to one of the candidates.”

  “Whoever it was, they knew what they were doing. We heard nothing from you either. Grunwald wasn’t even sure you’d made it to Averland.”

  “It’s something to be investigated. If I had the time and the men, I’d scour the highways now. Rest assured, when I find those responsible…”

  He trailed off. Bloch waited. Schwarzhelm seemed more troubled than he’d ever been. After witnessing him at the crushing victory at Turgitz, the change was remarkable. He was still dominating, but he looked tired. Huge bags hung under his eyes and his pupils were dull. How much rest had he had in the last few weeks?

  “As it happens, I have neither the time nor the men for what needs to be done,” Schwarzhelm said at last. “We’ve achieved a great deal here, but the task is not finished. But I’ve had word from Averheim. An armoured party from Ferenc Alptraum, of all people, has caught up with us. My counsellor has been speaking to him, it would seem. They’re calling me back.”

  Bloch didn’t know what to say to that. He’d not been party to any of the events in the city. Saying anything risked exposing his ignorance.

  “How goes the succession?” he asked, hoping that wasn’t a stupid question.

  Schwarzhelm snorted his disdain. “They’re fighting openly now. But it’s worse than that. The Leitdorf candidate’s a traitor. Verstohlen’s message found me just this morning.” He looked west and his lungs filled with a huge, weary sigh. “I’ll have to return. If he’s right, this can’t be ignored.”

  Bloch looked back down at the army uncertainly. The orcs had been defeated, but there would be splinter bands still at large. To turn back now would risk all that had been achieved.

  “Does Verstohlen say how serious a threat Leitdorf is?” asked Bloch. “We still have—”

  “I know. You want to finish the task at hand. There are greenskins left alive.” Schwarzhelm pursed his lips in thought. “We are being stretched. Do you not think it odd that, just when my presence is needed in Averheim, an incursion of orcs comes through the most heavily guarded pass in the Empire to cause havoc? And that when I have been drawn out here to snuff out that threat, then it’s Averheim that dissolves into civil war? We are being played with, Herr Bloch. Verstohlen warned me we were being manipulated. They’re assaulting us on all fronts.”

  Bloch felt the truth of that. The more he learned about the situation, the less he liked it. They needed more men, more time, more supplies. For all its beauty, Averland was turning into a swamp. He couldn’t see a solution. To ignore the situation in the city was impossible. To ignore the orcs was irresponsible.

  “We have a choice,” said Schwarzhelm. “West to Averheim, or east to Grenzstadt and the passes? Which of them appeals to you, Herr Bloch? Which would you choose?”

  Was he being tested? Bloch couldn’t believe that Schwarzhelm didn’t already know what he wanted to do. Bloch’s mind worked quickly, assessing the options, the manpower, the distances.

  “Do we have to choose? We still have many men here. The orcs are mostly routed. If you need to return to Averheim with half the troops, I can lead the men who remain.”

  Schwarzhelm looked at him shrewdly.

  “That had occurred to me,” he said. “But we’ll be stretching ourselves thin. Maybe too thin.”

  “But if the orcs have been scattered…”

  “They’re still dangerous. We don’t how many remain.”

  “A damn sight fewer than there were.”

  And then, it almost happened. For a split second, Schwarzhelm’s face twitched. His eyes glittered mischie
vously. Some men might have called that a smile. Bloch wouldn’t have dared, but it was certainly something damn close to one.

  “That there are, Herr Bloch,” Schwarzhelm said, a kernel of savage satisfaction in his voice. “That there are.”

  He looked west again, as if by peering in the direction of Averheim he’d get some kind of confirmation of his decision.

  “I’ll be honest with you,” he said at last. “Since arriving in Averland I’ve not felt myself. It’s been as if some force has turned against me, weighing down on my mind. The city is at the heart of it. If Verstohlen’s right, then it may be that Averheim is perilous for me. It’s only out here, doing the honest work of a soldier, that I’ve come even close to remembering who I am. I can think clearly here.”

  Bloch said nothing. Schwarzhelm was speaking candidly. Amazingly candidly. It was as if the big man needed someone to confide it. In the absence of Verstohlen, it seemed to fall to Bloch to fulfil that role.

  “Your offer of leading the men east to seal the passes while I respond to Verstohlen’s missive scares me.” Schwarzhelm turned back to Bloch. “Does that surprise you? That a man like me would be scared of anything?”

  Bloch began to feel very uncomfortable. Before Turgitz, Schwarzhelm had been like a name from the time of legends, a figure of such transcendent power that the very idea of him having emotions or anxieties as a mortal man did would have been laughable. And yet here he was, laying them out as plain as day.

  “You shouldn’t be,” Schwarzhelm continued. “Only a fool claims to fear nothing. I’ve heard the Emperor himself confess fears. It makes us stronger, to acknowledge the fear within us. The question, Herr Bloch, is what one does with that knowledge. Does fear become the master, propelling us forward like puppets, or do we test ourselves against it? Do we embrace our fear, or run from it?”

  “I can’t imagine you running from anything, sir,” said Bloch. As soon as the words left his mouth, he wished he could reel them back in. He sounded clumsy and obsequious. He was not built for such talk.

  “I did not say run. It’s a question of choice.”

  Schwarzhelm fell silent. Bloch, worried about saying something equally stupid, kept his mouth shut. For a few terrible moments, Schwarzhelm remained unmoving, lost in thought. The wind around them lifted the grass gently. Below them, Bloch could hear the men of the army stir themselves. As the sun climbed higher, the need to move on would grow. They needed direction. As he had done in the woods after Grunwald’s death, Bloch felt the burden of command keenly. He had an inkling that Schwarzhelm felt it too. For some reason, he knew the decision he was wrestling with was vitally important. It was more than tactics, more than strategy. If Schwarzhelm went back to Averheim, then something was going to happen. He was the key to all of this. All of them, friend and foe alike, wanted him there for some reason.

  “I will go,” Schwarzhelm announced at last. His voice had assumed its habitual tone of clipped command. “Verstohlen has never been wrong about these matters before. We’ll divide the army. I’ll ride back to Averheim with an escort, and the infantry will follow when they can. You will take the remainder of the men to Grenzstadt. Your orders are to head to Black Fire Pass. There is a garrison there that should have stopped this incursion before it reached the interior. Find out what happened, and above all else make sure the gap is sealed. Only when that’s done do I want to see you in the city. Do not disappoint me.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Bloch.

  “You will take the bulk of the footsoldiers and some of the Averlander cavalry. That’s over a thousand men, and you can resupply at Grenzstadt and take on reinforcements. I’ll send Kraus with you, and warrant documents. The rest of the men will come with me to Averheim. I’ll ride ahead with an advance guard; the remainder can follow on foot when they’re rested.”

  Bloch felt relieved. Listening to Schwarzhelm agonise over the options had not been easy. Being given a task to perform, no matter how difficult or dangerous, was far preferable to having to second-guess an outcome.

  “Who’ll command the forces sent east?”

  Schwarzhelm gave Bloch a shrewd look.

  “That, at least, is something I am clear about. I took a risk bringing you, Bloch, and it’s been rewarded. You’ll take them up to the passes. I’ll speak to the captains and to Kraus. You should be proud. I’m giving this army to you, Bloch. Use it well. You’re in command.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Verstohlen was standing on the west side of the river with Grosslich’s men amidst a cluster of low buildings. He checked to see that his pistol was loaded and primed to fire. The campaign was going well. All the major bridges were now in Grosslich’s hands, and they’d made inroads into the poorer parts of the western bank. It seemed that wherever they chose to assault, they had the victory. Leitdorf’s men were demoralised and divided. By contrast, Grosslich’s were disciplined and effective. Verstohlen’s regard for the man as a commander had only grown.

  “Keep it quiet,” whispered Euler. “Let’s make this quick and easy. One den at a time.”

  The fighting here was house-to-house. No one knew where Leitdorf was holed up. The race to find him was intense. Grosslich had promised a hundred gold crowns for his head, which had encouraged a good deal of enthusiasm for finding him. Following a vague lead, Euler’s band had ended up in one of the smelliest alleys in the poor quarter. The walls were tall and narrow. As they crept down it, even the dominating Averburg was lost to view, as were the baking rays of the sun. That would have been a comfort had it not been for the refuse piled knee-high at alleyway’s base. In some sections it felt like they were wading through slurry.

  The men went watchfully. Their numbers had swelled since the start of the campaign, and there were now thirty of them in the company. Euler crept up to the door at the end of the foetid alleyway. Rubbish was piled up against it and the wooden frame looked half-rotten. A terrible place for a hideout, but Leitdorf was no doubt running out of boltholes. Plenty of terrified citizens of the poor quarter had pointed them in this direction. For the most part they didn’t care which of the warring factions won control of the city. They just wanted the fighting to end.

  Euler listened at the door for a few moments. Stepping carefully, regretting the mess the grime had made of his expensive Zellenhof boots, Verstohlen joined him. He placed his ear against the pitted surface of the wood. There was some noise from within, but too faint to make out. Movement, perhaps.

  “You’re sure about this?” said Verstohlen, his voice low.

  Euler shrugged. “It’s a lead. Got any better targets?”

  “None. Let’s get it over with, then.”

  The two men stepped back from the door. Euler placed his foot over the flimsy lock and kicked savagely. The door swung open on rusty hinges and they charged in.

  There was a dingy chamber beyond, lit by dirt-streaked windows on one wall and a series of tallow candles on another. The smell was overpowering. Several men sat around a table in the centre. They were armed, if poorly, and jumped up as soon as Euler and Verstohlen burst in. In such an irregular war it was impossible to tell at first glance who was fighting for whom, but they had the look of Leitdorf’s men, holed up away from the fiercest fighting.

  Verstohlen stepped to one side, took careful aim and sent a bullet spiralling in the face of the nearest man. The man spun backwards, his cries of surprise cut cruelly short. Euler flew at the next nearest, knocking him back with a furious swipe of his sword. Then the rest of the men were in the chamber, tearing at the inhabitants.

  Blades flashed in the semi-darkness, and blood splattered on the filth-strewn floor.

  There was no way out, no rear exit. The fighting was mercifully brief. Leitdorf’s men put up a token struggle, but they were outnumbered and taken unawares. Verstohlen took little part in it and put his pistol in its holster.

  “Do not kill them all!” he cried.

  By then there was one survivor, cowering in the corner. He had no
weapon and seemed older than the others. Euler held up his hand, and the assault stopped. Six men lay dead on the floor, five of them Leitdorfs.

  Euler went over to the man in the corner. He was skinny, almost emaciated, with lank hair that hung to his shoulder. His skin was a pale grey, almost blue in the folds of flesh under his eyes. He looked utterly wretched. As Euler stood over him, the man scrabbled to get even further back into the corner, like a trapped animal in a cage.

  “Leave this to me,” said Verstohlen, walking over to the corner.

  Euler shrugged. “As you wish. We’ll have a look around.”

  Verstohlen squatted down facing the trembling figure. The man smelled as bad as everything else. The heat had turned half of Averheim into a cesspit.

  “What’s your name?” asked Verstohlen, keeping his voice calm.

  The man stared back at him, wide-eyed, and said nothing. He seemed to be having trouble focussing. Verstohlen leaned forward and sniffed. Somewhere, buried beneath the layers of body odour, halitosis and excrement, there was an element of jasmine.

  A joyroot user. Verstohlen had begun to wonder whether Leitdorf had stamped the trade out amongst his followers.

  “Where do you get your supply?”

  The man shook his head, still trembling. It was as if his mouth had been glued together. Verstohlen couldn’t decide whether the man was terrified of him, or just generally terrified. The narcotic was certainly capable of inducing paranoia.

  “There’s nothing more for us here,” said Euler, coming to stand at his shoulder. “You think it’s worth questioning this one?”

  “I do. Will you wait outside for me?”

  Euler nodded. “Don’t be too long. There are more leads to follow. I could use those gold pieces.”

  The men filed out of the chamber and back into the alley. The last one to leave pulled the door closed behind him. Verstohlen and the man were alone.