Swords of the Emperor

by Chris Wraight

  The Reiksguard swung their horses round as one. With a single command, the phalanx moved off, smashing aside any foolish enough to get in their way.

  As he rode through the sea of men, all struggling against each other in an increasingly pointless battle, Helborg felt his mind racing. The whole situation had descended into farce. Dark farce.

  “Damn you Schwarzhelm,” he muttered, keeping his eyes fixed on the approaching front rank of Grosslich’s troops. “What have you done here?”

  Verstohlen caught up with Grosslich just as the cavalry vanguard thundered into the Vormeisterplatz. As he rode alongside the elector, Heinz-Mark flashed him a wide grin. “You catch up fast!” he cried.

  Verstohlen said nothing in reply. His pistol felt reassuringly heavy in his hand, but his heart still misgave him. Grosslich’s forces looked impressive, but they’d be no match for the servants of Chaos. At each turn, at every corner, he still expected to see Natassja’s honors burst into view. He earnestly hoped he was wrong.

  “There they are!” cried Grosslich as they careered around the final bend and galloped into the square. Behind them, trumpets sounded. The cavalry vanguard streamed into the Vormeisterplatz. Three hundred horsemen, all armed with the best weapons Alptraum money could buy, all eager for the hundred crown bounty. When they sighted Leitdorf’s beleaguered army, a cry of scorn and mockery broke out across their ranks.

  “Euler’s done well,” shouted Verstohlen, his eyes scanning the battle before them. Leitdorf’s troops were pinned back, locked behind ranks of Grosslich’s men. The fighting was already fierce. It would be mere moments before they were plunged into the thick of it.

  “That he has. We’ll finish this today!”

  Grosslich looked carried away by his battle-rage. As he rode, he swung his heavy broadsword around him. His eyes glittered with the strange joy that some men took in killing. Unlike Leitdorf, this man was every inch the warrior.

  “What are those riders?” asked Verstohlen. They were closing fast. Amid the press of infantry, mounted knights were heading in their direction. “Mother of Sigmar, they’re Reiksguard!”

  He looked across at Grosslich in alarm. How did Leitdorf come to have Reiksguard fighting for him? The gap between the riders closed further. They were less than a hundred yards away.

  “Grosslich, those are the Emperor’s troops! Pull back!”

  Grosslich shot him an impatient look. The light of battle was in his eyes. With a terrible certainty, Verstohlen suddenly realised he wasn’t going to stop.

  “I don’t care who they are,” he roared. “If they’re protecting Leitdorf then I’ll kill them too! This is my province, and my war!”

  With that, he kicked his horse savagely and thundered towards the approaching knights. Helpless to prevent him, Verstohlen followed in his wake. His finger slipped from the trigger. He suddenly remembered his advice to Tochfel, and began to realise what was happening. This wasn’t what he wanted at all. If Grosslich took on the Reiksguard, there could be only one result.

  He spurred his horse on, tearing across the remaining ground. With teeth gritted, unsure what he’d do when he arrived, Verstohlen charged into the heart of the combat.

  Schwarzhelm finally felt his strength begin to flag. Perhaps he’d pushed himself too far. Even with the sun dipping in the sky, the heat dragged at him. This was the end of the long trek. He was in the heart of the city, less that a mile from his destination. Whatever had transpired in his absence he’d soon find out. Something told him he wouldn’t like what he found.

  His bodyguard still followed, but they were lagging. If things hadn’t been so pressing he’d have stopped to give them some respite, but there was no chance of that. Averheim was aflame, and there was no time to attend to the weakness of the body. They would have to catch up when they could.

  Schwarzhelm passed quickly over the bridges and into the poor quarter of the city. The streets were narrower there and clogged with the effects of the rioting. Some buildings had been half-ruined, their broken walls tumbling into the street. Refuse was everywhere, some of it smouldering where the gangs had set it alight, all of it stinking.

  He knew exactly where he was going. Two huge palls of smoke hung heavily over the west of the city. The sound of men clashing echoed down the narrow alleyways. Whatever Leitdorf had unleashed had been cornered in that place. The sooner he arrived there to snuff out his heresy, the better.

  As he neared his destination, the sounds of battle grew louder. The air was thick with the acrid smoke of the fires. He passed men running down the streets, some towards the fighting, some away. He ignored them. They themselves seemed to have very little idea what was going on. As was ever the case, when men of the Empire fought amongst themselves, allegiances were quickly confused. There was no honour in such fighting, just the petty satisfaction of the few noblemen who benefited. It sickened his heart.

  He was nearly there. Just a few more streets, passing in a flash, and he emerged into a wide square. He took the scene in. Two forces, each numbering many hundreds, were fighting at close quarters on the far side of the space. He recognised the livery of both Leitdorf and Grosslich, though he could see neither of the rivals. The combat looked vicious and disorganised. The mass of infantry was locked together in a bloody melee. It was unclear which side had the mastery. To his relief, Schwarzhelm neither saw nor detected any sign of Chaos. These were mortal men struggling, the kind that had been fighting sporadically in the city ever since he’d arrived.

  He pressed on. Every lurch of the horse carried him nearer. Faces began to come into focus, formations began to clarify. He needed to find Verstohlen. The spy would be at the thick of it, no doubt with Grosslich. Schwarzhelm stood up in the saddle, craning to make out what was going on. Everything was fluid, everything was in motion. Some men ran up to him, trying to waylay him before he could join the fray. The Rechtstahl cut them down with almost contemptuous ease. He whipped the horse faster, bearing down on the core of the fighting.

  He saw Leitdorf first. The flamboyant armour was hard to miss. The man still wore a cape of blue and burgundy, just as his father had done. He didn’t ride alone. He was surrounded by a bodyguard of knights. They looked terrifyingly efficient, carving their way through Grosslich’s troops with a cold precision that reminded him of…

  Reiksguard. Schwarzhelm felt his heart nearly stop. He pulled his horse to a standstill. The beast skidded to a halt, whinnying in protest. Even in the midst of the conflict, with men fighting and falling on either side of him, Schwarzhelm stood as still as a graven image. A terrible feeling had come over him, as if the nightmares of his past had suddenly caught up and become real before his eyes.

  Helborg was there. Fighting with the traitor. His mind flashed back to the eyeless corpses in the barn. There are plenty in Altdorf who would like to wield the Rechtstahl in your place.

  It couldn’t be. He wouldn’t believe it.

  He nudged the horse into a walk, still unsure, still hesitant. The battle around him passed into a blur. All he could see was his great rival, master of the Reiksguard, laying into Grosslich’s men with his familiar gusto. And at his side was Rufus Leitdorf, the architect of Averheim’s ruin, grinning stupidly, surrounded by an honour guard he scarcely deserved.

  Anger welled within him. Schwarzhelm kicked the horse into a canter. The slaughter was sickening to watch. He remembered Turgitz. The endless slights, the sneering, the manoeuvres at court. The man was jealous of him, insanely jealous. But this?

  Schwarzhelm picked up the pace. The Rechtstahl blazed red in his hands, reflecting the light of the fires. He was alone, caught between the two armies. The dull rage began to flare.

  Helborg would have to be a saint beyond reproach not to wish to see you stumble, just a little. And from what I hear, he’s no saint.

  Still Schwarzhelm pulled back. The Rechtstahl thirsted for blood, but he resisted it. The two of them were brothers, the twin pillars on which the Imperial armies depended. It was
impossible.

  Messages have been sent from the castle to Altdorf. It’s been going on for some time.

  Still he hesitated. Still his hand was stayed.

  Then Grosslich appeared, charging from the midst of his army, heading straight for Helborg. Schwarzhelm felt like calling out a warning, but the look on the count’s face told him it wouldn’t be heeded. It was suicide. No one took on Helborg in single combat. No one.

  The two men converged. Both were committed. That broke the spell.

  Schwarzhelm sprung into action. Grosslich could not be allowed to die. Grand Marshal or not, Helborg would not be permitted to subvert the outcome of the succession. Schwarzhelm hefted the Rechtstahl, feeling the taut metal hum with anticipation. The spirit of the blade remained near the surface, goading him onward. It sensed blood. Rivers of blood.

  And then, from nowhere, careering from behind Grosslich’s outriders, came a figure Schwarzhelm knew all too well. The wide-brimmed hat, the long learner coat. Verstohlen was there, right beside Grosslich, knife in hand.

  In a second, Schwarzhelm saw what he was trying to do. He was attempting to get between them, to prevent Grosslich from engaging.

  “Pieter!” cried Schwarzhelm. He was still too far away. Verstohlen was a deadly swordsman, but no match for Helborg.

  The spy achieved his goal, heading Grosslich off and forcing his steed from the engagement. But his flank was exposed. Helborg was on him in a second. Schwarzhelm saw the Klingerach, the Grudgebearer of legend, flash in the firelight.

  Then it fell. Verstohlen tumbled from his horse, hitting the ground hard. Schwarzhelm felt the tide of his rage break. “Helborg!” he roared.

  Even above the sound of the battle, the rush of the flames, the cries of the dying, Schwarzhelm’s mighty voice echoed around the square. Men in the thick of the fighting halted in their slaughter and turned to see what was going on, shaken by the resounding cry. Kurt Helborg himself, blood running down his sword, paused. He looked up at Schwarzhelm, and their eyes met. Across the tangled, confused press of fighting men, the ruin of Averheim, the twin titans of the Empire saw one another for the first time since Altdorf.

  A heartbeat passed. The sounds of battle seemed to recede into distant echoes. Even the cries of agony were muffled, indistinct.

  Then Schwarzhelm snapped. His rage, building up for weeks, fuelled by nightmare, driven by fatigue, became his master. Nothing, not even all the armies of the Emperor, would have been capable of stopping him then.

  He raised the Sword of Justice, blood-red in the failing light, and charged.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Helborg felt the thrill of the chase. Leitdorf had been dealt with. Now it fell to him to do what Schwarzhelm had been unable to. He sped towards Grosslich. The Averlander rode towards him at a similar speed, sword drawn.

  That was brave. Not many men chose to take him on in the knowledge of who he was. He liked that. It would be a shame to kill such a warrior, but he wouldn’t shirk from his duty. Averheim had been brought low by these feuding noblemen, and if they forced his hand he’d have no qualms about passing down the ultimate sentence.

  He brought the Klingerach up into position. He could hear the thunder of Reiksguard hooves behind him. They were keeping pace, dragging the unwilling Leitdorf with them. Where was Skarr? There was no sign of the preceptor.

  Grosslich neared. The fool kept his blade raised. Helborg felt the ghost of a smile flickering across his lips. Just a few more strides…

  Then came a new figure, hurtling in from the side and riding between them. Helborg pulled on the reins, immediately adjusting his trajectory. He recognised the distinctive coat and hat again—Schwarzhelm’s spy. With phenomenal horsemanship, the man headed Grosslich off, pushing his steed away and shoving it off into the wrong direction. An impressive manoeuvre. It had saved the man’s life. So Schwarzhelm was in league with Grosslich after all. Leitdorf had been right. The damned fool.

  The spy’s horse was now careering towards him in place of Grosslich’s. Pushed off-balance by his last manoeuvre, the man was headed right into his path. Helborg could see him struggling with the reins. One traitor for another, then. The result would be the same.

  Helborg brought the Klingerach round in a decapitating blow. The man saw it at the last minute. He was quick. A long dagger rose to meet it, and the blades clashed.

  But the spy was still reeling from his centre of gravity. The power of Helborg’s stroke knocked him back from the horse and on to the stone below. He rolled over, head in his hands, desperately warding it from the stamping hooves around him.

  Helborg wheeled his horse round to finish the job. As he looked at the cowering figure on the ground below him, he felt nothing but contempt. The man had forgotten his duty. He’d been drawn into the feud rather than protecting against it. There was no pity for that breed of weakness. He raised his blade.

  “Helborg!”

  The shout resounded across the square. Men stopped what they were doing. Even the Reiksguard, inured to all but the most powerful presences on the battlefield, looked up from their rampage.

  Helborg sought out the source of the sound. The voice was one he knew intimately. He’d fought alongside the owner of it for years.

  Schwarzhelm was charging straight for him. The man looked terrible. His beard was matted with blood. His armour was dented and streaked with the evidence of fierce fighting. Even under the shadow of his helmet, the madness and rage in his eyes was evident. He looked like a man who’d been dragged out of the Chaos Wastes and let loose on the realms of mortal men. His horse seemed half-crazed with fatigue. Foam streamed along its muzzle. The blade, the famed Sword of Justice, swung wildly as he approached. As the metal carved through the air, blood flew from the shaft like a shower of rain.

  There was no time to react. No time to protest. A lesser man than Helborg would have been smashed from his saddle by the impact, driven into the ground and trampled under the hooves of Schwarzhelm’s crazed beast. As it was, it was all he could do to bring the Klingerach up to parry the sweep of the Rechtstahl.

  With an explosion of sparks, the two holy blades, each forged at the birth of the Empire, clashed together. The resounding clang swept across the courtyard, drowning out all other sounds. A blaze of light burst from the crossed swords, as if some powerful force within them had been unleashed after centuries of slumber.

  Helborg felt the massive power of Schwarzhelm’s blow shudder down his arm. He gritted his teeth, using all his strength to hold his ground. He held it. Just.

  The horses spun away from one another, pushed apart by the force of the impact. Schwarzhelm’s steed staggered. Its legs began to give way underneath it. With a strangled cry of distress, the overworked beast sank to the ground, its flanks heaving.

  Schwarzhelm leapt from the stricken animal and strode towards Helborg. He pointed his sword straight at him. There was a fire in his eyes Helborg had never seen before, even in the many sparring contests they’d had as young men. This was different. Schwarzhelm wanted to kill him.

  “What are you doing, man?” Helborg cried, keeping his own mount under control with difficulty. Despite its training, the beast shied away from the armoured figure walking towards it. Schwarzhelm was projecting a terrifying aura of hatred.

  “Come down and face me,” growled Schwarzhelm. His voice was thick and snarling. As he spoke, Helborg could see his features twitching. He looked exhausted. Still he came on, inviting the contest between them.

  Helborg looked around. The Reiksguard were fully occupied and badly outnumbered. Grosslich’s riders had engaged them and more of his footsoldiers were arriving all the time. He caught a glimpse of Skarr with his company before they plunged into battle. Leitdorf still looked contained, but Grosslich’s men were clawing at his guards. The fighting was everywhere. They were in the heart of the storm.

  The two masters of the Emperor’s armies squared off against one another. Helborg couldn’t see where Grosslich had been driven
to. It didn’t matter. Only one battle mattered now.

  “What have you done here, Schwarzhelm?” asked Helborg, keeping his voice level.

  “My duty, as always.”

  “You’ve forgotten your duty. This city is burning.”

  “I’ll not bandy words with a traitor. Come down and face me.”

  Traitor. The words stung. Something terrible had happened to Schwarzhelm. He bore the look of a man who’d suffered some kind of prolonged torture.

  “Do not use that word in my presence.” Helborg felt his own anger rising. There was an aura of violence in the air. He’d need to be stopped. Somehow, Schwarzhelm would have to be brought down. But how, without killing him?

  Then Schwarzhelm smiled.

  Of all the things that had happened in Averheim since Helborg’s arrival, that spoke most clearly of some terrible twisting of the great man’s mind. Schwarzhelm never smiled. Now his mighty face, the scourge of the Emperor’s enemies across the endless expanse of the Old World, distorted into a mocking, sarcastic leer of savage intent. His eyes flickered with a baleful gleam. The blade rose again, glittering coldly. The afternoon sunlight was failing, to be replaced by the angry heat of the huge fires. In their crimson glow, Schwarzhelm looked half-daemonic.

  “Come down and face me,” he repeated, looking eager for the fight. “I know you, Kurt. Refuse me now and all will know you for the traitor you are. Face me!”

  Helborg let his eyes flick around him again. His men had their hands full keeping Grosslich’s men at bay. None of them could match Schwarzhelm. Reiksguard or not, they’d be dead in seconds if they as much as moved towards him.

  Only one man alive had the power to contest him in combat. It felt as if fate had brought him to Averheim for this purpose alone. Wearily, feeling a sickness enter his heart, Helborg prepared for the duel that only he could undertake. Schwarzhelm had been driven to the edge of ruin and had to be stopped.