Swords of the Emperor

by Chris Wraight

  “Was it as I feared?” asked the scout, looking nervous. “They were Commander Grunwald’s troops?”

  Schwarzhelm nodded. He knew exactly what they’d been. The riders sent back along the Old Dwarf Road to request reinforcements. Each of them had been waylaid, killed, their bodies dumped in a forgotten bam a mile from the trade route. Schwarzhelm himself must have ridden past the place on his journey east, oblivious to the secret contained within. Stumbling across it now was a rare chance. Perhaps more than that.

  “Anything else?” he asked.

  “Men have camped nearby. They’re long gone.”

  “We’ll take a look.”

  The scout led them further from the road. Several yards down the track, there was a collection of trees, isolated in the endless miles of rolling pasture. They rose tall and dark against the sky. At the base of the trunks, there were signs of fire. Schwarzhelm bent down and placed his hand over the ashes. Cold. He looked around him.

  “Whose lands are these?” he asked.

  One of the Averlanders answered. “We’re close to Leitdorfs estates. This is his family’s country.”

  Schwarzhelm looked over the deserted campsite. There were more blackened circles of old fires around the edge of the trees. The grass was heavily trampled. At one stage, many men had come and gone here. The exercise had been well planned. Perhaps other bands had been active too. In his mind’s eye, Schwarzhelm saw Leitdorfs fat face, running with arrogance and scorn. He remembered his bitter words. In my current position I cannot punish insolence. That will not be the case forever. Perhaps even then his forces had been mobilising.

  He shuffled further into the camp, studying, watching. There was little left. No weapons, no discarded clothing. He turned to leave.

  “Sir, this one’s still warm.”

  One of the Averlanders had walked off towards the edge of the field. At his feet lay another charred circle. Schwarzhelm came up to it. It was different. It was further from the camp, hidden by the whispering grass. They’d dug a hole in the parched earth and stuffed it with refuse. This hadn’t been a fire for food.

  Schwarzhelm bent over it. The ashes were barely warmer than the air around him. The faintest impression of heat lingered over them. It looked like a sack had been flung into the fire-pit. Scraps of fabric, black and curling, lay amidst the spent fuel. He thrust his hands into the ashes, scattering them, combing through the white flakes. Here and there, fragments of parchment. Nothing large enough to make out. Orders, perhaps, sent by courier from Averheim. They’d been thorough when they left. Nothing could be made out on them.

  Then he saw it. Mere inches from the fire, a scrap of dry parchment, no more than two inches long. Eagerly, he grasped it. The light was poor, and there was nothing much on it. It looked like a strip torn from a page. There were five words visible on it, scribbled hastily. Part of something larger.

  …forces to RL from Nuln…

  That was the name he needed, not that he’d been in any doubt. But it was the final word that chilled his blood. He remembered Verstohlen’s words, days ago. They’re getting help from outside. He’d assumed it was Altdorf, someone at court, an Averlander exile with a stake in one of the contenders. But Nuln. That was much closer.

  It was probably nothing. Probably part of routine orders.

  But the ice around his heart had returned. He knew who was at Nuln.

  “Let’s go,” Schwarzhelm said gruffly, standing up again and walking back to the horses.

  His men hurried to comply. The last of the light was failing, and there would be hard riding ahead before they could rest. They walked back past the ruined barn, through the fields and on to the road. As they went, Schwarzhelm said nothing. He didn’t look back. His mind was working, running through the possibilities. He felt the return of that great pressure, the presaging of the nightmares that he knew would come as they approached Averheim.

  He took a deep breath and mounted his horse. The others did likewise, and soon they were heading west once more.

  Behind them, lost in the night, the barn stood alone. Lazily, the crows descended to the rafters. Their meal had been interrupted, but it could now commence again.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Holed up in his temporary command post deep in the poor quarter of Averheim, Rufus Leitdorf raged. He could feel the spittle form at the corners of his mouth. The room was malodorous and squalid. Ancient plaster hung from the walls of the second storey chamber, curling with mould. The heat and filth were everywhere. He hurled the pile of maps to the corner of the room, watching the parchment curl up and slide across the floor. His captains, what was left of them, cowered.

  “You pack of useless dogs,” Rufus spat, running his accusatory eyes across them in turn. “We knew Grosslich would move against us. Where are your tactics? Where is the counter-attack?”

  One of the captains, a thick-set, swarthy man named Werner Klopfer, was brave enough to respond.

  “It happened sooner than we anticipated, highness. Schwarzhelm has given Grosslich his blessing. It’s drawn more support to his side.”

  “Schwarzhelm isn’t here! He’s been taken away. That’s the whole point. We should have had this place to ourselves. Now it’s all gone to ruin. The trade’s in tatters, we’ve lost control of the Old City, and we’ve barely got the money left to pay our miserable fighters another day.”

  Rufus could feel his anger begin to get the better of him. He had to calm down. He knew he couldn’t lose it entirely in front of the men. They all knew the reputation of his father, and it hung heavily over him. The Mad Count of Averland. Rufus wouldn’t go down that road. That’s why he’d made the choices he had. Difficult choices. Not many would have made them. But he needed the power. He had to have the power. Without Averland, his life was nothing. Nothing at all.

  “Where’s my wife?” he asked, his voice sullen.

  There was a series of blank looks from the assembled captains. Natassja hadn’t been seen for days. That alone was enough to drive him mad. He needed her. She’d planned all of this. It had all been her idea, even from the very beginning. Now, just when their plans were beginning to unravel, she was nowhere to be found.

  “Damn her,” he hissed, banging his fist on the table before him.

  “Grosslich has moved quickly across the river,” ventured another one of the officers. “She may have become cut off in one of the root houses. There’s still fighting in the Old City, whatever they say on the streets.”

  “What good is she to me from there? Don’t tell me about things I have no control over.”

  One of the officers shot another of his companions a weary glance. That made Rufus even angrier, but he pushed the fury down. They were despairing of him. His rages, his tantrums, his impossible demands. He knew they were losing faith. His instinct was to have them all dismissed, to lead the rest of the men himself, to sweep all resistance before him into the Aver.

  He knew that was a fantasy. He was alone. His allies had deserted him. The Alptraums hated his whole family, and they were still powerful. The only sure support he had was Natassja, and now she too was missing. He could only hope that she was working on some means of recovering their position. She was resourceful, that one. Devious. Intelligent. Beautiful. Even a day without her was torture. He needed her back.

  “Very well,” he said wearily, trying to keep his voice under control. “We need to decide what to do.”

  “Leave the city, highness,” urged Klopfer. “Grosslich controls all but a fragment of it. We cannot fight him here.”

  Rufus looked at him disdainfully.

  “Flee? Is that your only advice?”

  “We can regroup at your family estates. Restore the trade along the river. Hire more men. If we stay here, we’ll be discovered. Sooner or later, our positions will fall to them.”

  There was a nod from one of the other captains. Rufus failed to control a sneer. They were weak. None of them had the slightest idea what was at stake, what had been s
acrificed for the goal of power. If they’d been privy to his and Natassja’s full plans, then they wouldn’t have dared to roll their eyes in his presence or doubt his commands. He was playing for higher stakes than they could possibly imagine.

  “Do you understand nothing? The succession is being decided now. Grosslich has declared himself elector. Once he has control over the city, the Emperor will crown him. As things stand, we remain in contention. If we leave now, it will all go to dust. To dust!”

  He looked Klopfer in the eye. Did the man have an ulterior motive? Why was he so keen to concede defeat? Perhaps he’d better see about removing him. Not that there were many left to replace him.

  “And there’s Natassja,” he added, his voice fervent. “I’ll not leave her. We’ll fight until she’s found and that bastard Grosslich driven back into the Old City.”

  For a moment there was silence. None of the captains wished to assent. None of them wished to pick a fresh fight. They looked dejected, half-beaten already. Rufus felt his scorn for them grow. Natassja was worth a hundred of them. Where was she?

  Then there was a commotion in the hall outside the chamber. A soldier burst in, panting from exertion. One of his own men, bearing the Leitdorf colours. More trustworthy than the mercenary scum he’d been driven to using.

  “Your pardon, highness,” he blurted. “Speak quickly.”

  “We’ve been discovered. Grosslich has sent an advance detachment here. The rest of his army follows. They’ll be here soon.”

  Rufus shot a glance at Klopfer. The man had a smug look of vindication on his face.

  “This is it, then,” Rufus said. “We’ll meet them.”

  Klopfer met his gaze. Still defiant.

  “With respect, that is madness, highness,” said Klopfer. Bold words. When this was over, the man might live to regret such candour. “We no longer have the numbers to take on Grosslich’s men openly.”

  On another occasion, Rufus might have raged at him, thrown objects at him, ordered him to fall on his sword. Not this time. The knowledge that the net was closing in on him brought a strange sense of resignation. There would be no retreat. The Leitdorfs might have been many things. Mad, unpredictable, feckless. But they weren’t cowards. Not when it really mattered.

  “We’ve spent months buying this army,” he said. His voice was strangely quiet, unusually firm. “They’ve failed us so far. It’s only fair to give them a chance to redeem themselves.”

  He turned to Lars Neumann, the one lieutenant he still felt some degree of confidence in.

  “Get the word out. Muster everyone we still have. Promise them double the gold. We’ll meet them in the Vormeisterplatz. The retreat stops here.”

  Neumann hesitated for a moment, then bowed and hurried from the room. Rufus ran his gaze across the remaining captains. None of them looked convinced.

  “If any of you are thinking of getting out of this, I warn you there will be no forgiveness from me. There are forces at work here that you have no idea about. Once I’m elector, I’ll remember any treachery.”

  He drew his sword. His father’s old blade, the Leitdorf Wolfsklinge. It was an ancient weapon, studded with the symbols of his house. Not as prestigious as the runefang lying in the Averburg, but still potent. There were old runes on the steel, just as on the weapons of the electors.

  “Gather your men,” he said, gazing at the blade with fondness. “This isn’t over yet.”

  Schwarzhelm and his escort reached the Aver valley. All about them the countryside stretched away in serene curves of pasture. The river at the base of the incline was as wide and turgid as before, green with blooms of algae. The city itself lay ahead at the end of the road, sweltering under the midday sun. The fires were still visible, staining the open sky with lines of smoke. It looked like more of them than when he’d left. Even the noise of the fighting was faintly audible. So Averheim had truly descended into anarchy.

  This was what he had been appointed to prevent. Schwarzhelm let his fingers clench around the hilt of the Rechtstahl. It wasn’t too late.

  “What standards are those?” he asked, pointing to the flags hanging from the distant Averburg, just on the edge of sight.

  One of his bodyguards, a young man with keen eyes called Adselm, came forward.

  “Hard to make out, my lord. The standard of Averland no longer flies. Maybe Grosslich’s devices.”

  Schwarzhelm grunted. That was good. If Verstohlen was right, then Grosslich was now their only chance. It would be some time before the rest of Schwarzhelm’s army could make its way back to Averheim from Heideck. In the interim they’d need Heinz-Mark’s men to keep order.

  “Let’s move,” he said, taking up the reins.

  The riders around him did likewise, but their movements were sluggish. They were exhausted after the punishing ride. For a moment, Schwarzhelm felt their weariness infect him. He felt like he’d been in the saddle for weeks, hurtling back and forth, trying to keep order as Averland gradually pulled itself apart.

  He knew he was tired. He knew his judgement was impaired. But there was no time. There was never any time.

  “Follow me,” he said, and kicked his horse into movement once more. As he did so, he had a low sense of foreboding. Things were drawing together. There was a canker at the heart of Averheim, something rotten and concealed. It had been eating away at him for weeks. One way or another, it would be uncovered soon.

  Helborg and the Reiksguard rode up to the west gate of the city. It was open. The guards had long gone. The courtyard beyond, normally bustling with traders and cattle merchants, was deserted. The handsome buildings flanking the open space stood empty, their rich owners having fled the fighting soon after it had got out of control. The elegant glass windows had been smashed and the interiors looted. It was a scene of desolation.

  As the Marshal rode under the parapet, a few scavengers looked up, eyes wide with fright. They darted into the shadows like rats, their rags fluttering behind them.

  Helborg stopped. On either side of him, the front rank of the knights formed up. Their visors were down and their swords were drawn. There were few more formidable sights in the Empire than a whole company of Reiksguard in full battle-gear. They looked grim and deadly. The noonday sun flashed from their polished armour and naked blades. The horses stamped in the heat, impatient to move on.

  Still Helborg paused. Skarr drew alongside him.

  “Where now?”

  Helborg inclined his head, listening. “There’s fighting. I can hear it. This thing must be ended quickly. We’ll make an example of them.”

  “As you command.”

  “Tell the men to kill on sight. I don’t care which faction they belong to.”

  “What of Lord Schwarzhelm?”

  “If he makes an appearance, then we’ll worry about him. Until then, assume we’re the Imperial authority here.”

  With that, he drew his sword. The Klingerach glittered in the sunlight. The runes on its surface blazed as if lit from within. Once again, the Solland runefang had been called on. For a blade that had cleaved the armour of Chaos warlords and vampire counts apart, it felt almost churlish to draw it in such circumstances. But Averheim needed to be cowed. If insurrection was tolerated anywhere, it would soon spread like a cancer across the whole Empire. Whatever Schwarzhelm had tried in order to stem it, he had failed. Helborg would not repeat those mistakes.

  “Reiksguard,” he roared, pointing the sword straight ahead, “to battle!”

  After a resounding shout of acclimation, the knights kicked their steeds into action. With a thunder of hooves on stone, the company rode from the courtyard and into the interior of the city.

  Grosslich’s scattered warbands were being drawn together on the east bank of the river. Hundreds of men had been assembled and more were arriving at every moment. Above them all, the vast bulk of the Averburg towered over the preparations.

  Leitdorf had been found. Everything else could be forgotten. Once they had the re
negade in their hands, dead or alive, then it would be over.

  Verstohlen pushed his way through the throng towards Grosslich. When he found him, the man already looked flushed with the prospect of impending victory.

  “You’re joining us?” asked Grosslich, buckling the last of his armour with the help of his squire and preparing to mount his horse.

  “Perhaps. I’m worried about this.”

  Grosslich gave him a weary look.

  “Counsellor, your advice has been invaluable, but do you not think your fears have been allayed now? Leitdorf is finished. Even his own men no longer obey him.”

  “You know what I fear. The great enemy always looks weaker than it is.”

  “We’ve caught them too soon,” insisted Grosslich, donning his open-faced helmet and smiling confidently. “They haven’t had time to respond. That’s your doing, Pieter. You should be proud.”

  Verstohlen wasn’t consoled. Ever since the encounter with the cultist, he’d been feeling like he’d missed something. How had he known his name? What dark purpose was being enacted here?

  “Is Natassja with him?”

  As the mention of her name, Grosslich couldn’t prevent his face twisting into a sneer of disgust.

  “The witch? They never leave one another’s side. If we kill one Leitdorf, we’ll kill them both.”

  “I hope that’s so. She has powers of her own. I’ve seen her servants. They are deadly.”

  “Then I’ll hunt her down myself. We need to ride. Euler has already gone ahead with the vanguard to pin them down.”

  “Very well. I’ll join you when I can. Be careful, Heinz-Mark. The enemy has subtle powers. Verena be with you.”

  “And Sigmar with you, counsellor.”

  With that, Grosslich dug his spurs into his steed’s flanks and the horse sprung forward. Behind him, the mounted troops followed suit. The mounted column clattered off towards the poor quarter, blades drawn and standards unfurled. For all their mixed livery, they were an impressive sight. In the wake of the cavalry, Grosslich’s infantry companies struggled to keep up. They ran down the streets, their boots thudding on the stone. They looked eager, keen to be involved in the final struggle.