“I think you understand why I’m asking you these things,” said Verstohlen, fixing the ruined figure with a hard stare. “If you choose to give me answers, it will go better for you.”
The man shook his head, keeping his mouth clamped closed. Then, as if as an afterthought, he spat in Verstohlen’s face. He shrank back after that, looking even more scared than before.
“So be it.” The spy reached into his coat. As ever, when he retrieved the amulet, the metal was hot. It knew when it was near corruption. Indeed, the device was part of that corruption, just a shard of the horror that still existed at the roof of the world. It was a dangerous thing to use. Dangerous, but invaluable.
As Verstohlen withdrew the amulet, the man looked at him sidelong. He could obviously sense something, but didn’t seem to know what it was.
“Look at this,” ordered Verstohlen and thrust it before the wretch’s eyes.
Just as had happened with Fromgar, the change was instantaneous. The blurred eyes became sharply focussed. The bluish lines around them seemed to pulse with a lurid light, as if thick veins had suddenly generated around the lids. The man tried to get up, scrabbling at the stone. His breath started to come in thick wheezes.
Verstohlen stood and withdrew a few paces. He pulled the pistol from its holster and aimed it at the man’s face.
“Speak to me,” he commanded.
The red-rimmed eyes blazed.
“You cannot command me!” the man cried, and spittle flew from his mouth. The voice was strange and twisted, like a cross between a man’s and a woman’s.
“I have the power to kill you. You’d do well to speak to me.”
The man laughed, and his skeletal chest shuddered with the effort.
“And what? You’ll spare my life?” He nearly choked on his laughter and broke into a racking cough. “I don’t think so. You have no idea about life and death anyway. You’re ignorant, human. As ignorant as the rest.”
“Maybe so. Why not enlighten me?”
“What do you wish to know? How the six dimensions of pleasure are interwoven? How the nexus of desire derives from the kernel of a nightmare? How the world will end? I can tell you all of this, human. All of this and more.”
Verstohlen ignored the ravings. All cultists thought they had privileged access to arcane secrets. That was what made them so pathetic. To acquire genuine knowledge was a long and difficult process. Expecting it to be handed over on a silver platter in exchange for performing a few rites over a pentangle was tedious in the extreme.
“Nothing so grand. Tell me about Natassja. Where’s she from?”
The man grinned widely, and his tongue ran around his cracked lips. For the first time, Verstohlen noticed how long it was. It looked forked.
“Ah, the queen. Have you not guessed it? She’s a rare one.”
He seemed to be passing into some kind of rapture. He ran his bony fingers over his body as he spoke. It looked like a grotesque parody of a lover’s caress.
“Why do you call her the queen?”
“You’ll see. You’ll see!”
“Where is she? Where is Rufus?”
“Nearby. And they have their pets with them! You’ve seen them already, haven’t you?”
Verstohlen felt a twinge of anxiety. That was what he feared. There were still horrors being held in reserve. Grosslich’s men were pushing on too quickly. They didn’t know what they faced.
“Tell me where Rufus is.”
A wicked look passed over the man’s face.
“I don’t know where he is. But I can tell you where someone else is. Someone you haven’t seen for a long time.”
“I’m listening.”
The cultist reared up like a snake, his hands stretched out in a twisted motion. He looked suddenly delighted, as if a new game had occurred to him. His tongue flickered out. As he rose, his rags fell from his body. Verstohlen saw with disgust how diseased his filthy flesh had become. The joyroot had become everything to him, more important even than food. He kept the pistol trained carefully. He should have tied him up before applying the amulet.
“She is in torment at the feet of the master of pain!” he cried, his voice increasingly shrill. “Her soul writhes in delicious agony under the weight of his glorious debauchery!”
Verstohlen primed the weapon to fire: There was an unholy gleam in the cultist’s rheumy eyes.
“Cease this nonsense. Where is Leitdorf?”
“I’ve seen her in my dreams, Pieter Verstohlen. Your lovely wife, shriven before the altar of his infinite lust!”
“Do not speak of her.”
“She’s damned, Pieter Verstohlen!”
“Be silent!”
“Damned to an eternity of torment! And there’s more. Do you know the worst part?”
Verstohlen stepped forward, his hand shaking. He felt sick.
“I will fire. Cease this now!”
“She has been corrupted! They corrupted your Leonora! She enjoys it! She—”
The pistol rang out. The cultist was instantly silenced, flung back against the dirt-caked wall. He slumped to the ground. From his forehead, thick blood pumped from a neat round hole. It was nearly purple.
Verstohlen stood motionless for a moment, the gun still in position. His hands were trembling.
Slowly, with difficulty, he brought his emotions under control. The cultist lay at his feet like a crushed spider, his tortured limbs bent in every direction. Verstohlen replaced the gun in the holster and carefully backed away.
That had been a mistake. It was foolish to think he could bring an end to this through such means. It had all been a mistake.
He withdrew, opened the door and stepped outside. Euler was waiting. His men had moved to the far end of the alleyway.
“Are you all right?” asked the captain, looking at him with concern. “I’m fine.”
“You look like—”
“I’m fine.”
Euler gave him a doubtful stare, then let it drop.
“Find out anything useful?”
“No. He was mad. We need to keep moving.”
Euler shook his head resignedly.
“Very well. There’s another lead we can follow.”
He began to walk off down the alley. Verstohlen followed close behind, his breathing gradually returning to normal. The cultist had been raving. It was nonsense. They said whatever came into their diseased head. They wanted to unsettle you. That was their mission, their miserable purpose. Best to ignore.
As he went, though, one thought remained lodged in his mind. It wouldn’t leave, even when he emerged once more into the sunlight of the open street.
It knew my wife’s name.
Even before Helborg had ridden into the outskirts of Averheim, he’d been able to smell the burning. He brought his steed to a halt. Around him, his men did likewise. The ranks of Reiksguard controlled their mounts perfectly. They stood for a moment, looking at the city before them. The thin columns of smoke hung over Averheim, staining the clear sky. It looked like the place was under siege, yet there was no army camped around the walls.
“Mother of Sigmar,” Helborg spat, looking over at Skarr. “We should have ridden harder.”
Skarr gave him an expression that indicated he didn’t think it was possible to have ridden faster, Reiksguard or not.
“The west gate is nearest,” was all he said. “We’ll have to ride through the poor quarter.”
Helborg nodded. He knew Averheim. He’d visited as little as possible in recent years. All the Empire knew of his enmity with the late Marius. As far as Helborg was concerned, the elector had been an arrogant, raving fool. He’d brought his own death about through foolishness and lack of foresight. If Schwarzhelm hadn’t curbed his worse excesses twenty years ago, there would surely have been a coup against his authority then. Perhaps that would have been better. In Helborg’s experience, it was generally better to cut out an infection at source than let it grow. Now, twenty years on, they were s
till dealing with the legacy of the mad count, and it looked like even Schwarzhelm had failed to grapple with it.
Then again, Schwarzhelm himself was another problem. The man was becoming irascible and difficult, even by his own standards. His behaviour at Turgitz had been embarrassing. If it had been another man, Helborg might have run him through for such impertinence. He could admire the man for his martial prowess, and there was no more steadfast ally to have on the field of battle, but Schwarzhelm didn’t understand politics. He made enemies too easily, was too quick to spot a slight or suspect a campaign against him. That was a serious flaw. One had to understand that military might was always subordinate to the demands of politics. There would always be intrigue, always be conspiracy. The trick was to understand it, get inside it, cultivate the right allies. Schwarzhelm never did. He was as clumsy with diplomacy as he was with women.
Between them, Helborg and Schwarzhelm were the two mightiest warriors of the Empire, unmatched by any other. And yet they so often worked alone, driven apart both by the endless demands of the Emperor and by the differences in their essential character. It was foolish, wasteful, unnecessary. Maybe that would have to be rectified. The low-level feud was becoming damaging. When this was over, a summit would have to be convened. Schwarzhelm, Helborg and the Emperor would have to meet, thrash out some kind of accommodation. The bad blood could be drained from their triumvirate with a little imagination. The stakes were too high to let it continue festering.
“Let’s go,” Helborg said, taking up the reins. There would be plenty of time for reflection when the two men met again. For now, the Reiksguard were clearly needed. Averheim had the look of a city that had drifted into anarchy. That could not be allowed to continue.
The day was waning to dusk. In the west, clouds barred the setting sun. Averheim was still distant.
As he rode, Schwarzhelm felt the effects of a long day in the saddle begin to wear on his battle-ravaged body. The landscape around him looked eerily familiar. He knew he’d travelled along the same road just days before at the head of a conquering army. Now he was riding back with an escort of less than a dozen riders, consumed with a mix of alien emotions. The certainties he’d enjoyed while pursuing the orcs had receded again. The further west he went, the more his mood began to return to one of darkness. The city was a curse for him, the home of the sickness that had blighted his sleep and impaired his judgement. And he was going back.
The hooves of the horse thudded on the hard dirt of the track. The incessant rhythm began to have a soporific effect. Schwarzhelm shook his head, trying to clear the strands of sleep from his eyes. There were many miles of riding ahead. Neither he nor his bodyguard would rest more than they needed to. They all knew time was of the essence.
Even as the light weakened, the rolling hills passed by. The uplands beyond Heideck were now far behind them. All around, the cattle-country extended. The grass was still deep green despite weeks of beating sun. This country was blessed indeed. The folk of the Drakwald, huddled around their meagre fires and living amongst their skinny animals, would have given anything to live in such rich plenty.
But there was always a flaw, always an imperfection. Amid all the majesty of the Empire, there was corruption. Averland was no different. He’d felt it every night of the mission. How many days had he gone without proper sleep? Too many to keep a count of. A man could only go so long before he started to lose his mind.
Perhaps he was losing his mind. Others thought it. He’d heard the whispered rumours, seen the sidelong glances in his direction. Half of Averheim probably doubted his state of equilibrium.
There was a shout from further ahead. One of the outriders, mounted on a sleek mount of Araby picked for speed, was riding back along to the road to meet them.
Schwarzhelm called a halt. Freed from the tyranny of the whip, the horses stood shivering in the balmy air, flanks shiny with sweat.
The rider came amongst them. As the man approached, Schwarzhelm noticed the gentle hiss of the grass around them. The fronds moved in the warm breeze like waves on the sea. The tips were tinged with the golden light of the sun, though the roots were hidden in darkness. All around them, as far as the eye could make out, they were surrounded by an ocean of grassland. It was like a scene from one of his dreams. Everything was moving, everything was quiet.
“My lord,” cried the rider. His voice sounded suddenly harsh against the soft backdrop of the scene. “I’ve found something.”
“It’d better be good,” Schwarzhelm growled. His voice sounded thick and sullen, even to him. The scout, experienced by the look of him and from the Averheim garrison, swallowed nervously. “All the same, my lord. I think you should see this.”
Schwarzhelm looked into the west. The sun was still above the horizon. There would be perhaps half an hour of light. Just enough.
“Lead on,” he ordered, kicking his horse into motion once more.
The scout turned, and the party followed him further along the road for some distance. No one spoke. The only sound was the faint noise of the grass in the breeze. In the east, far behind them and over the distant line of the Worlds Edge Mountains, the first of the stars became visible. Night was drawing on fast.
Schwarzhelm knew where they were headed long before he could make out exactly what the scout wanted to show them. A few hundred yards from the road, a narrow track curved away and off into the fields. The earth was rutted and uneven, and the grass on either verge had been flattened recently. Without needing to ask for directions, Schwarzhelm nudged his steed to follow the branching path. He soon saw why the scout had turned from the road to follow the path. Carrion crows. Dozens of them. They looked as large and ragged as vultures against the darkling sky. Some wheeled around, black in the dusk, moving in lazy circles. Others perched on the branches of the trees, looking at them intently with their glossy eyes.
None of the birds uttered so much as a caw. They had the air of sentries, silent watchers of the night. Crows were as common as the pox all across the Empire, but these had an unsavoury look. Perhaps it was the unnatural heat in the air, or the silence, or their size. Whatever it was, the effect was unnerving.
, “I saw them from the road, my lord,” said the scout. He kept his voice low, eyes watchful. “There it is.”
A ramshackle shed, isolated in the dark grassland. The fading sunlight leaked through the gaps in the wood. It had only half a roof and one of the walls had slumped into ruin. Perhaps it had been an old barn.
Schwarzhelm halted. He felt as if an icy fist had clenched around his heart. He could feel his pulse quicken.
“Are you all right, sir?”
“We’ll dismount,” he said gruffly. “From here, we go on foot.”
The men did as they were ordered. They swung stiffly from their saddles, legs sore from hours of riding. Schwarzhelm felt his own frame creaking as he landed heavily on the earth. The ground was baked hard. He could feel the waves of heat rising from it. Even as the sun edged towards the horizon, Averland still sweltered.
The men waited for him to move. Schwarzhelm could sense their fear. He stalked towards the ruined barn. Above him, the crows circled. Their loops seemed to compress. They were inquisitive. He ignored them, but kept his hand on the sword.
On the northern wall of the barn, a wide opening gaped. It was hard to see much of what lay beyond the stone doorframe. The shadows were now long. A sickly sweet smell wafted across the air. For a moment, Schwarzhelm couldn’t place it. Was that jasmine? He went closer. The aroma was more familiar than that. It was the mark of battlefields across the Old World. The reek of death, of bodies rotting in the mud. That was what the crows were there for.
Schwarzhelm looked up at them grimly. He’d deprived them of their meal. That, at least, was something.
“You’ve been inside?” he asked the scout.
The man shook his head, looking ashamed.
“I… it seemed…” he began, then trailed off.
For once Sch
warzhelm couldn’t bring himself to reprimand him. A cold vice of dread was wrapped hard around his own breast. Nothing, not the last golden rays of the sun nor the warming balm of the dusk air, could shift it. He merely nodded in response.
“Be on your guard, then,” he said, drawing his sword. It gave a metallic rasp as it left the scabbard. “Stay watchful.”
Turning back to the barn, he took a deep breath and ducked under the lintel. Inside, the stench was thick and cloying. Schwarzhelm felt his gorge rise and clasped his hand over his mouth. For a moment, he couldn’t see anything at all. Then his eyes adjusted to the gloom. Gaps in the ruined roof and the part-collapsed walls let in enough of the evening light to begin to make some sense of the interior.
He couldn’t see how many corpses there were. Perhaps a dozen, maybe more. All men. Soldiers, by the look of them. Some of their armour still remained on them. Grunwald’s men, some Averheim troops. Here and there a sword-edge glinted. There was little flesh visible. One cadaver, strewn across the rough earth floor on his back, lay in the middle of a pool of weak light. His skin was grey. His eyes had long been pecked out by the crows and there were holes in his cheeks and neck. His expression was fixed in agony. His death had been painful. Possibly prolonged. Not all his injuries looked like the work of carrion fowl.
Schwarzhelm felt his heart begin to beat harder. He consciously quelled it. He’d seen hundreds of bodies in his time, many in more terrible places. This was no different. Outside the barn, the grass continued to hiss in the breeze. It was as if the place was surrounded by a host of whispering ghosts.
He looked away, down at the floor for a moment, trying to collect himself. He could feel his composure fraying. The days without sleep were getting to him. Something about this whole scene was getting to him. He turned back to his men. A couple of them had followed him in and were gazing at the piled bodies with ill-disguised nausea. Others held back, unwilling to enter the stinking interior.
“Come,” said Schwarzhelm, feeling sick at heart. “There’s nothing more to see here.”
Once outside again, he took a deep draught of pure air. It did little to lift the sense of corruption he felt about him. His bodyguard looked at him expectantly.
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