Verstohlen watched them go. He was torn over whether to join them. It had been days since his message had been sent to Schwarzhelm. Had he received it? If he had, would he answer the request for aid? For all Verstohlen knew, the greenskins still controlled the east of the province. Battle was unpredictable, and the roads remained dangerous.
“They cannot handle this on their own,” he breathed, talking to himself in his agitation. “They haven’t seen the horror in their midst. They need the Emperor’s Champion.”
He drew in a deep breath. Mumbling like a madman would do nothing to bring Schwarzhelm back.
Still plagued by doubts, Verstohlen took a horse from one of Grosslich’s stablehands. He mounted quickly and drew his pistol from its holster. The time for running skirmishes in the streets was over. The forces had come together at last. Now in earnest, the battle for Averheim had begun.
Captain Tuler charged into the Vormeisterplatz. He was on foot, as were all his men. In his hand he carried a broadsword. Those around him had an assortment of weapons: halberds, cudgels, spears, halberds, even kitchen knives and skewers. Grosslich had worked hard to equip his men properly, but this was still a semi-irregular war. For every trooper kitted out in full Imperial regalia there were many dogs of war, wearing and wielding whatever they could get their hands on.
It didn’t matter much. If they knew how to use their weapon and follow orders they were helpful. Euler had been put in charge of the entire vanguard. That comprised several hundred men, all champing at the bit for a first look at the hated Leitdorf. It was nothing personal, but the promise of a hundred gold crowns had a way of inflaming the passions.
Once in the wide square, Euler had little time to take in the surroundings. The Vormeisterplatz was huge, nearly the same size as the famed Plenzerplatz in the Old City. It had been constructed for similar reasons, to allow the huge trade caravans within the city walls for the great seasonal shows. In more peaceful times, the great squares would have been full of covered wagons proffering delicacies from all corners of the Grand County. Averlanders liked their food and drink, and the ale-fuelled fayres would last long into the night.
No more. The Vormeisterplatz was a rubbish-strewn mess. Two huge piles of refuse at either side of the massive courtyard burned steadily, casting an angry red light across the flagstones. The afternoon sun was beginning to weaken, and its amber rays blended with the flames. It looked like the hearth of some monstrous kitchen.
Towering buildings rose up on all four sides of the square. Most were trader’s warehouses, bleak and utilitarian. All had their windows smashed or doors broken in. Other buildings, merchant’s houses and official institutions, had fared similarly badly. It hadn’t taken long for the citizens of Averland’s capital to take advantage of the anarchy in the streets.
On the far side of the square, Leitdorfs men had arranged themselves. There were more than Euler had expected. They were arranged in rough-looking detachments. Some of them looked pretty well-equipped. He guessed they were Leitdorfs own family regiments, drafted in from his estates further east. They would have had feudal obligations to the count and would fight for him even when his gold ran out. No one else would.
The mercenaries were another matter. They looked even more ramshackle than the very worst of Grosslich’s men. Some had no armour at all, not even a helmet. Their mixture of weapons was just as eclectic as Euler’s own troops. Leitdorf had placed them on the flanks of the army where they belonged. Only in the core did he have any number of regular soldiers.
“This is it, lads!” Euler shouted as he ran, willing his men onward. His forces were outnumbered by Leitdorf’s men, but that mattered not. He had faith in his soldiers, and Grosslich would not be far behind them. Then the game would truly be up. “Keep in formation. A hundred crowns for the head of Leitdorf!”
That brought a cheer. It always did. They streamed across the open space, leaping over broken flagstones and running through the patches of refuse.
But Leitdorf’s men were not there just to cower in the shadows. With a shout of aggression nearly as loud, they surged forward in their turn. None were left in reserve. There were no elaborate tactics or manoeuvres. Just as it had been for the last few days, this was the fighting of the gutter, hard and vicious.
The gap narrowed quickly. Euler could see the eyes of his opposite numbers as they charged towards him. They looked mad with rage. They weren’t going to back off this time. He began to swing his blade, building up momentum for the crash.
“The protection of Sigmar,” he whispered, making the sign of the comet with his free hand.
Then the two forces slammed into one another. The lines broke into a confused mess of stabbing, hacking, punching and hammering. The voices of captains rose above the fray, trying to impose some kind of order on the murderous encounter.
It was futile. The melee soon descended into a vicious series of lethal struggles. In the thick of it, Euler worked his broadsword skilfully. He and his men punched their way toward the heart of the enemy. It might have been terrible tactics, but there was method in their recklessness.
Euler respected Grosslich and wanted him to prevail. But more than that, he wanted the money. A man could do a lot with a hundred gold pieces.
“For Grosslich!” he bellowed, and hacked his way into the centre of the fighting.
Helborg heard the fighting before he saw it. Even over the thudding of the horses’ hooves, the tumult was audible from several streets away. There was no sound quite like it, a mix of frenzied shouting, the clash of steel against steel, screams of agony. It didn’t sound like an isolated skirmish. They were heading into a major engagement.
He crouched in the saddle, riding his horse expertly across the hard surface of the street. The windowless buildings and burned-out warehouses passed by in a blur. Ahead, the street looked like it opened on to a wide expanse beyond. That was where the noise was coming from.
“Keep it tight,” he cried to Skarr, who was on his left flank. “Sounds like a lot of them.” Skarr grinned.
“They picked a bad day for a fight.”
“That they did. We’ll divide the company. I’ll take the Leitdorf pup, you try to find his rival. If we can get them out of this, we’ll break it up quickly.”
“Yes, sir.”
Then they were out of the streets and into the Vormeisterplatz. The space was huge. Across the far side, two forces, each several hundred strong, were locked in what looked like a mass brawl. There was little sign of formation or tactics. It wasn’t even clear from the liveries who was whom. This would be tricky to unpick. The battle was framed by two enormous fires, and the smoke drifted in rolling gouts across the flags.
Helborg kept up the pace, trying to sort out the confusion as he went. Near the centre of the fighting he caught sight of a tight knot of men standing in clear ranks, four deep. They were wearing Leitdorf’s own colours, blue and burgundy, rather than the standard yellow and black garb of Averland. Once the personal livery of Marius’ house had been something men had looked to with pride and envy, but since the old count’s descent into madness, it had become a laughing stock. Still, it was distinctive enough, and that was all that Helborg cared about.
“I’ll take that detachment!” he shouted at Skarr, who was still close at hand. “You wheel around for the others.”
The Preceptor nodded and his men, half the company, peeled off to the left. They were closing, but the mass of Averlanders still hadn’t seen the Reiksguard at their backs. Only a few caught sight of their peril and tried to scuttle away. Helborg smiled coldly. It was pointless to run. If he’d truly cared about such small fry, he could pick them off at ease.
Then he was into the bulk of the struggling armies. He crashed into the seething pack of warriors. His steed, trained for war, ploughed straight through the rival groups of men, hardly breaking stride. Some laggards were dragged under its hooves, others cut down by his sword. Their screams were added to the general cacophony.
Once in their midst, Helborg began to slice his way towards the Leitdorf mob at the centre. Any soldiers in his way were slammed aside or carved down with the Klingerach. The noble blade was wasted on such scum, but it bit through their flesh just the same.
His men stayed at his shoulder, arranged into a tight wedge. Such a charge from the Reiksguard had been known to crush whole regiments of heavily-armed Chaos warriors. Smashing aside these mere dogs of war was, by comparison, hardly worth breaking a sweat over.
One of Leitdorf’s sergeants, a bulky man wearing the blue and burgundy of the bloodline, tried to organise some kind of resistance. A row of spearmen began to form in the midst of the melee, clearly intended to frustrate the cavalry charge. They didn’t realise who they were up against. Helborg rode straight at him. That was just insolent.
As he neared, a couple of spear-tips were lowered in his direction. He evaded them with ease and caught up with the portly captain. A single thrust of the Klingerach was all it took, and the man slid to the ground, his neck severed. That seemed to dim the enthusiasm of the rest, and they dropped their spears and ran. Leitdorfs defences had been torn apart. Helborg allowed himself a grunt of satisfaction. His prey was in sight.
Schwarzhelm was back in Averheim, his steed’s hooves clattering on the stone. Behind him, his bodyguard struggled to keep up with him and began to fall back. They didn’t matter. His escort was little more than a formality in any case. He needed no protection. Since seeing the city again, he was in no mood to let them catch up.
As soon as he’d passed the eastern gate and entered the Old City, he could feel the sense of oppression settle in his bones again. He hated the place. He hated its lore-masters and their obsession with procedure, he hated the sleepless nights in the sweltering heat, but most of all he hated the arrogant electoral candidates with their lust for power. Both could have learned something from Lassus, a man who had achieved everything but coveted nothing. There were none like him left in the Empire. They lived in a debased generation.
Schwarzhelm pressed the horse hard, urging it harshly onward through the empty streets. Signs of destruction were everywhere. The citizens had either been pressed into the armies of one of the rival counts, or cowered in their homes, or had left the city entirely. It lent Averheim an eerie, semi-populated feel.
He passed beneath the Averburg swiftly, not bothering to detain himself there. It was obvious where the fighting was. Huge columns of smoke rose into the air from the western end of the city, across the river and into the poorer areas. That was where he’d be needed.
As he rode, he drew the Rechtstahl from its scabbard. It was late afternoon, and the warm sun reflected in its surface like flame. Schwarzhelm gazed along its unsullied length. The blade had already tasted much blood since his arrival in Averland. It would do so again. The greenskins had suffered under its keen edge. Now its wrath would be reserved for the great enemy, the bane of mankind.
Ignoring the increasingly ragged breathing of the horse, he kicked his steed on faster. Though ground down by days of fighting, his spirit sapped by sleepless night and visions of terror before dawn, he was still the wielder of the Sword of justice. In the mood he was in, there were few who could stand before him. Perhaps only one other in the entire Empire.
Schwarzhelm knew the decision to leave had probably been a mistake. He knew he’d endangered the city. But that was behind him now. He was back, and he could finally put his anger to good use. There would be no more debates, no more tedious discussions of the law. The time of the loremasters was over. Now the matter at hand would be decided by the warriors, just as in the days of Sigmar.
Helborg smiled and brought his steed to a halt. Around him, the Reiksguard did the same. They were in the heart of the fighting, but none dared approach them. Ahead of them, Rufus Leitdorf was still surrounded by his bodyguard. They had the best of the armour he was able to afford. The man himself looked terrified, but there was nowhere for him to go. Frantically, he pushed his protectors forward, urging them to form a barrier.
That was fairly pointless. A footsoldier in their position stood little chance against a fully-armoured knight. And Helborg was no ordinary knight. He pondered spurring his charger straight through them, scattering them and riding down their master. It was an attractive thought.
No. Leitdorf deserved more than that. For all his youthful arrogance, the man had noble blood in him. That counted for much with Helborg. When the Empire lost its respect for rank, for the discipline of social standing, then all would be lost. If there was one thing he couldn’t stand, it was the rabble and their pathetic aspirations. Even a mad count was better than a sane peasant.
With a flamboyant swing he dismounted, landing easily and bringing his horse to a standstill. Around him, the rest of the Reiksguard did the same. Leitdorf’s men made no attempt to engage them. Most stood open-mouthed, staring at the knights as if Sigmar himself had come to visit. Several of them fled, preferring their odds against Grosslich’s rabble.
Rufus Leitdorf was less visibly cowed by Helborg’s arrival. To his credit, he didn’t back away but strode up to Helborg, sword in hand. As he did so, he pulled his helmet from his head, revealing his sweat-streaked face. He looked furious. In another man it might have been impressive. In the face of Kurt Helborg it merely looked petulant.
“What is this?” he spat, jabbing his finger at the Marshal. “What are the Reiksguard doing here?”
Helborg took off his helmet, making a concealed gesture as he did so. His troops fanned out around him, forming a cordon within the centre of Leitdorf’s makeshift army. For the moment at least, the count had been taken out of the fighting.
“Perhaps you don’t know who I am,” said Helborg, fixing him with a cold stare.
Leitdorf, against his best interests, didn’t seem deterred in the slightest.
“I know exactly who you are, Grand Marshal. And I ask you again, by what right do you intervene in this affair?”
Helborg checked the progress of the fighting all around them before replying. Behind the steel shield of the Reiksguard the struggle between the opposing groups still went on.
“Word reached me in Nuln that the succession here had descended into anarchy. I’ve seen it for myself. You should thank me, Herr Leitdorf. It doesn’t look like things are going your way.”
Rufus looked to be working hard to control his anger.
“So this is how the just and fair Imperial authorities conduct themselves,” he spat. “Is it not enough that the madman Schwarzhelm sides with my rival, in defiance of all law? Must I contend with the both of you? Are there not wars in the north to fight, Marshal?”
Helborg stopped in his tracks. That didn’t sound like Schwarzhelm. He was scrupulously fair. Annoyingly so.
“The Lord Schwarzhelm does not take sides. He is the Emperor’s representative.”
Leitdorf gave him a contemptuous look.
“Is that so? Then tell me why his adviser has been offering them his exclusive counsel. Tell me also why he’s been spreading lies about my loyalty to the Empire and why he went to Ferenc Alptraum to incite him to this violence. Believe me, general, I wanted none of this. Why would I provoke a war with Grosslich when he has such men working for him? It would be madness. It is madness.”
Helborg turned to the knight on his left, a tall Nordlander with a shock of blond hair. “Can you make out Skarr? Grosslich?”
“No, my lord. Not yet.”
Helborg turned back to Leitdorf. His expression was dark. He didn’t like feeling as if he’d been dragged into something under false pretences. Whatever Schwarzhelm had done here, he’d better have a damned good explanation for it. The whole thing was a shambles.
“Herr Leitdorf, I am taking you into my protective custody,” said Helborg, motioning for the Reiksguard to assume the place of the man’s own bodyguard. “I don’t know the rights and wrongs of this, but I won’t stand by and let you butcher each other on the strength of rumours. This thing ends
now.”
Leitdorf laughed, though the sound was bitter and shrill.
“So you say. But you might have more on your hands than you think. Here comes my rival. I don’t think he likes what your men have done to his army. Will you fight him too, or is this all just for show?”
Helborg whirled round. On the east side of the Vormeisterplatz, trumpets had been sounded. Over the heads of the men around him, Helborg could see fresh cavalry charging into the fray. At their head was a tall man in full battle-armour. Beside him was a squadron of armoured riders. In the front rank was a man wearing a leather coat and a wide-brimmed hat. He looked far too familiar for comfort.
Schwarzhelm’s man, the counsellor. Could Leitdorf have been telling the truth?
“Damn them all,” he muttered, before turning back to the Nordlander. “This is getting ridiculous. Find a horse for the elector. He comes with us.”
“We’re withdrawing?”
Helborg gave him a shocked look. “Are you mad? Skarr needs reinforcing. We’ve taken the head from one army. It’s time we did the same for the other.”
With that, he pulled himself back into the saddle. All around him, his guard did the same. Leitdorfs troops looked on helplessly as their leader was plucked from their midst. They seemed unsure whether to keep fighting at all. Unfortunately, their choice was being made up for them. Grosslich’s men were pressing home the advantage. The brawl was becoming a massacre.
“Follow my lead,” growled Helborg, lowering the Sword of Vengeance and pointing out Grosslich amid the advancing cavalry. “Kill those around him if you have to, but we take the leader alive.”
Swords of the Emperor Page 31