Swords of the Emperor

by Chris Wraight

  “So be it,” he said, dismounting heavily. “If this is how you want it. Your mind has been poisoned, Ludwig. I warn you, if I have to, I will cut you down.”

  Schwarzhelm snarled. The strange half-smile still twisted his face.

  “That’s what you’ve always wanted, Kurt. At least now the truth of that is out.”

  Then he charged, the Sword of Justice held high. Helborg raised his own blade, focused on the weapon before him and waited for the impact.

  The duel had begun.

  Verstohlen came to his senses. He’d hit his head hard on the stone. There was a black corona around his vision and the world about him was blurred and indistinct.

  With difficulty, he dragged himself up on to his knees. Everything was in motion. His horse was long gone. In all directions, men struggled against one another. He saw one burly trooper drag another to the ground, tearing at the man’s eyes. Another throttled his opponent, rolling with him in the filth as each strove to finish the other off. There were scraps of skin on the ground about him, tufts of hair and knocked-loose teeth.

  What was going on? Even for such debased kinds of combat, the very air seemed heavy with a deranged, fervid stench. There was no shape to any of the fighting. This was a mass outpouring of rage; a messy, maniac brawling.

  Verstohlen clambered to his feet. For a moment, the world swung around him. Then, slowly, it clarified. The evening was waning fast. In the east, stars had appeared. The sunlight seemed to have bled from the sky surprisingly fast.

  Then he saw it. Morrslieb. Just a sliver of the Chaos moon was visible, jutting out from behind the dark towers of the distant Averburg. Its sickly light was barely visible in the glittering of the swords. How long had that accursed moon been in the sky? It explained some of the madness around him. When the dark moon was abroad, men’s minds were altered. Perhaps this whole city had cradled its sickness for too long. Maybe it had affected him too. Maybe it had affected all of them.

  Verstohlen shook his head, trying to clear his mind of the rambling thoughts. He retrieved his knife shakily. All around him, the fighting continued unabated. How had he been wounded? He couldn’t remember. He had to find Grosslich.

  Verstohlen began to stumble through the milling bodies around him. One of Leitdorf’s thugs staggered into his path. The brute lunged at him. Verstohlen dodged the blow casually, feeling sluggish and nauseous. His knife felt unbalanced in his hand. He returned the attack, letting the blade guide him. It plunged deep into the man’s stomach. Verstohlen pulled it sharply to the right. Hot blood and viscera streamed over his wrist. The gobbets of flesh, glistening in the firelight, slipped over his hand and fell, plopping and slapping, to the ground. The soldier, face fixed into a frozen scream of agony, crumpled to the stone.

  Verstohlen withdrew his knife, watching the man enter his gasping death throes. For a moment, a savage joy filled his heart. He looked around him. The knife was hot in his fingers, glowing like a brand. The shapes of the men around him flickered and shuddered, like a candle flame caught in a sudden gust. A curious musk was mingling with the stench of blood and sweat. He recognised it immediately. Welcomed it. It was sweet, as sweet as death. Like jasmine.

  He raised his hands to his face, uncaring of the flow of carnage around him. His hands were steeped in gore. Dark trickles ran down his arm, staining the leather of his coat. He felt an overwhelming urge to lean forward, press the still-hot viscera against his face…

  Verstohlen jerked his hand back. What was happening to him? What was happening to all of them? He drew in a deep breath. The air was hot. It wasn’t the sun. The fires were burning higher. Their flames danced into the dusk. They writhed like snakes. Against the red tongues of flame, a faint lilac flickered.

  Joyroot. Tons of it. Leitdorf had chosen his battleground well. At last, the dark sorcery at the heart of his campaign had become manifest.

  Verstohlen wiped his sleeve in disgust. Even now, he could sense the beckoning lure of madness. Weaker minds had little defence. Where was Grosslich? He needed to be warned.

  He started to stumble through the press around him. There was a knot of knights a few yards away. They seemed to be protecting something. For a moment, he thought he saw Leitdorfs livery hidden amongst them. The man was smiling smugly, arms crossed over his flabby chest. Why were they protecting him? A surge of hatred ran through Verstohlen’s body, and he lurched unsteadily forward towards him.

  Then another warrior blundered into his path. Verstohlen couldn’t tell what his allegiance was, but the man looked ready to take on anyone. His eyes were wild and starting. A bloody weal ran across his neck. Seeing Verstohlen in turn, he launched himself forward, sword waving wildly.

  Verstohlen met the attack, parrying with his knife and pushing the lurching soldier back. He worked quickly, trying to recover his balance. The nausea and confusion were beginning to wear off. Deep down, though, he was worried. More worried than he’d been since arriving in the accursed city. What was driving the attacks? Where was Grosslich?

  He dispatched the clumsy attacker with a double-back swipe of his knife. Behind him, more men were approaching. For some reason, they seemed to have latched onto him.

  Verstohlen stayed low and gritted his teeth. He didn’t have time for this. The stench of Chaos was everywhere. He had to get to those knights. The soldiers came for him, stumbling and tripping as if in a drunken stupor.

  Verstohlen hefted his knife lightly, whispered a prayer to Verena the Protector, then charged into their midst.

  The two swords danced around one another, flickering like flames in the dusk. Each blade moved with breathtaking precision. As he worked, Schwarzhelm felt the fatigue fall from his arms. His concentration was absolute, his movement perfectly controlled. Just as Lassus had taught him, he let the sword become an extension of his being. He was a plain man, but it was in such moments that he got as close as he ever came to the sublime. The Rechtstahl responded. The heavy shaft of steel swung through the air as if made of a weightless shard of ithilmar. The metal shimmered, glorying in its impeccable balance and poise.

  Before him, Helborg kept pace perfectly. He was a master swordsman. The best in the Empire, they all said. His technique had always been just a fraction ahead of Schwarzhelm’s. When they’d sparred in front of the Emperor in their youth, he’d won all their contests. Only by a shade, only by a fraction. There had been so little at stake then. Now things were different.

  Schwarzhelm took a big step forward, swiping heavily with the Rechtstahl to draw the defensive push, switching direction at the last moment.

  Helborg was alive to it, and parried watchfully. For a moment, they came together. The blades locked.

  “Why are you doing this, Ludwig?”

  Schwarzhelm didn’t reply. He broke away, back into the duelling posture. As he moved, he thrust the Rechtstahl upwards jerkily, nearly twisting the runefang from Helborg’s hands.

  He could hardly bear to look at his old rival. Of all the men to turn to the great enemy, this was the most bitter blow. He’d always known Helborg had secretly envied his closeness to the Emperor. Whatever men said, being master of the Reiksguard didn’t compare to the honour of carrying the Imperial Standard into battle. Now his mask had slipped. The man’s treachery had been revealed.

  He spun round, scything the Sword of Justice through the fire-flecked air. Helborg gave ground. His face was intent, careful. He wasn’t pressing forward. He was trying to contain Schwarzhelm’s attack.

  That was a mistake. A master swordsman always attacked. Schwarzhelm pressed home the advantage, hammering away at Helborg’s defences with growing speed and assurance.

  Dimly, he was aware of the men around him. He could hear the continued sounds of fighting as the darkness gathered. There was a mood of savagery in the air. The entire space seemed to have been given over to the settling of petty feuds. Somewhere close by he knew that Leitdorf was amongst the Reiksguard. Maybe Grosslich too. Perhaps they watched. Perhaps they fough
t amongst themselves.

  No matter. Such paltry squabbles were no longer his affair. The greater battle lay before him. The architect of his misery was in his hands at last. He remembered the corpses by the road, the death of Grunwald, the sense of powerlessness.

  Schwarzhelm shifted his grip, letting his left hand take the greater weight of the sword. He fell back, opening up a small gap between him and his adversary. Helborg filled it quickly, his runefang whirling with deceptive speed. It was the orthodox response. The one he’d expected. Helborg wasn’t fighting at his full potential. For some reason, the man held back.

  Too bad.

  Schwarzhelm drew the attacking thrust, then countered with his left-handed grip bringing the Rechtstahl in lower. Helborg was slow to close it down. The blade shot under his defence, taking only a glancing parry from the Marshal’s sword. Schwarzhelm felt the edge bite deep into Helborg’s thigh before he pulled it away again.

  Schwarzhelm stepped back out of range, easily fending off the resultant flurry of blows. Helborg still moved quickly, still kept his guard up. But now blood trailed down his left leg. It looked black in the twilight. As a traitor’s blood should be.

  “Your heart’s not in this, Kurt,” he growled. “Guilty conscience?”

  It was Helborg’s turn to stay silent. The Marshal stepped up his swordplay. The runefang spun into the attack again, glimmering darkly. But Schwarzhelm could see he was troubled. For the first time in his long and illustrious career, the Marshal knew he was being matched. The Swords of Justice and Vengeance met again, and sparks showered the stone as if from a blacksmith’s forge.

  It was then that Schwarzhelm knew he would win. Helborg’s guilt slowed him down. The traitor was always weakened by his crimes. Schwarzhelm alone fought for the Empire now, he alone guarded the flame of faith. He shifted his weight into an attacking posture, feeling strength coursing through his sinews, and launched into the assault again.

  Leofric von Skarr tried to fight his way back to Helborg. He was surrounded by riders. Even as he attempted to turn his own horse, two more engaged him. He swung his sword in the face of one of them, forcing a swerve. Then the Reiksguard around him pushed forward, driving Grosslich’s men away a few yards.

  Skarr looked around him, trying to make sense of what was going on. The whole square was crawling with men. The cavalry were all Grosslich’s troops. Between them and Leitdorf’s mob, the Reiksguard were heavily outnumbered. Despite their superior skills, they couldn’t hold against a melee of hundreds forever. This was not going according to plan.

  He tried to spot Helborg and Schwarzhelm, but they were lost in the flickering light. Until the tide of battle had pushed him away, he’d seen their ruinous duel start up. He hadn’t expected to witness such a scene in his worst nightmares. Skarr had had a long career in the Reiksguard and had seen many things he’d rather not have done, but watching Helborg and Schwarzhelm batter one another into submission was horrifying. His horse shifted uneasily under him. Even the beast could sense the sickness in what it saw.

  He looked over to where his men guarded Rufus Leitdorf. The knights held their formation, holding out against ferocious attacks from Grosslich’s troops. The man himself was raving about something, waving his arms from the saddle and trying to break their grip. He stood no chance. The man was a typical effete nobleman, and the troops around him were as tough as any in the Empire.

  Grosslich was of more concern. After the first clash, the rival elector had been driven off, perhaps to rally what remained of his entourage. Despite Leitdorf being taken into custody by Helborg, his own men still fought with an unexpected savagery. Something in the very air around them seemed to be goading them on. Holding both sets of combatants off was beginning to become difficult. Though they were Reiksguard, the finest soldiers in the Empire, they were but one company. If the anger of the masses were to be turned on them, he wasn’t sure how long he could hold them back.

  Skarr hefted his broadsword. His knights were becoming strung out, drawn into the undisciplined brawl around them.

  “Reiksguard!” he roared. “To me!”

  Some of the knights were able to cut their way to his position. Others remained isolated, trapped in a sea of enemies. It didn’t matter whether the massed brawlers fought for Leitdorf or Grosslich, they seemed equally intent on bringing as many knights down as they could.

  “Sir, it’s getting hard to hold them back.”

  The voice at his shoulder was that of a young knight, Dietmar von Eissen. He was a good soldier, already tested in the fires of battle, but his eyes betrayed uncertainty.

  “Remember your training,” Skarr hissed. “You are Reiksguard. Hold the line.”

  Even as he finished speaking, a gang of Leitdorf’s men piled towards him. They looked drunk with bloodlust. Three of the closest Reiksguard moved to intercept. Two of them felled their men, but the third was born from his saddle by the frenzied charge. More hurried up behind them, a whole mob of them. There were too many. The fighting had become a quagmire.

  Skarr kicked his horse into action. He reached the first of the attackers, pulling his sword back and letting it swing back. The blade took the head clean off the nearest combatant. The bloody mass span off into the night, spraying gore across the struggling bodies beneath it. A second thrust eviscerated the soldier’s companion. That cowed Leitdorfs men, but still they held their ground.

  On either side of Skarr the knights were beginning to form up. At last, they were carving some kind of formation out of the mess. They’d been driven into disorder by Grosslich’s intervention, but that was slowly changing.

  “Charge them!” he bellowed, pointing his sword directly at what looked like the ringleader.

  The line of horses sprang forward, hooves ringing out against the stone. The Reiksguard moved as a unit, bearing down any infantry in their way. Faced with a concerted wall of steel, Leitdorfs motley collection of fighters broke and fled. Those too slow to turn were dispatched, either by the blades of the knights or under the churning legs of their steeds.

  “Halt. Re-form the line!”

  Already Grosslich’s riders had seen the danger and were massing to attack them. If it wasn’t one, it was the other. What had got into these people?

  Skarr looked across the fragile line of knights. His men were still being drawn into the melee around them. This couldn’t last forever. At least Grosslich appeared to have been taken out of the fighting for the moment. Despite his best efforts, Skarr could see no sign of him. Nor could he catch a glimpse of where Schwarzhelm and Helborg were. Somewhere, hidden by the sea of men around him, they still fought. He had to get to them.

  “What are your orders?” asked Eissen, pulling his mount up beside him. The man’s sword was running with blood.

  “Find the Marshal,” said Skarr, looking at the approaching horsemen grimly. “We’ll cut these fools down, then we sweep back.”

  He turned back to face the approaching riders. Around him, those knights that could had formed a defensive line. The footsoldiers kept coming at them. The world had gone mad. This was wasting precious time. He needed to get back to the Marshal. He didn’t know what madness had come over Schwarzhelm, but Helborg couldn’t be left to face it alone.

  “Raise your blades,” Skarr shouted, seeing the knights around him take up their swords. The metal gleamed. “Kill them all.”

  Helborg felt the Sword of Vengeance become heavy in his practised hands. Every move he made with it seemed to come a little too late. Schwarzhelm was fighting like a man possessed.

  He drove the image from his mind. That possibility was too grim even to entertain.

  Helborg let the sword curve round to meet the latest flurry of blows from Schwarzhelm. Each impact felt like a hammer blow. As the shocks ran through his body, he was forced back. Schwarzhelm had always been strong. Now he was quick. Breathtakingly quick.

  Helborg leapt back, making half a yard of space. He whirled the sword around, shifting the balance t
o his right side. Schwarzhelm advanced, his own blade darting after him. The light was failing. It was hard to keep up with the flickering path of the steel.

  The blades clashed again, and fresh sparks sprung into the air. For a moment, Schwarzhelm’s face was lit up in savage relief. His eyes were wide and staring, like a wild cat’s. This was not about pride or prestige, or even the debacle in Averheim. Schwarzhelm wanted him dead.

  Helborg dropped down to his left, letting the guard down, inviting the stroke. Schwarzhelm was too sharp for that. He brought the Rechtstahl tearing down against his protected right flank, trusting the force of the blow to deliver the result.

  Helborg spun against it, using the Klingerach as a shield. The Rechtstahl bit deep, tearing a notch from the runefang. The splinter spiralled from the blade. Too late, Helborg ducked out of the way. The shard lodged in his cheek, searing like a snakebite. He staggered backwards, teeth clenched, frantically warding off the cascade of blows from Schwarzhelm.

  The pain was agonising. He kept his eyes fixed on the swipes and feints of the Sword of Justice as it angled to penetrate his defences. Helborg kept it out, but only barely. His arms began to wilt as the blades clashed again and again. The rest of the battle around him drifted out of focus. There was only one thing in the world, only one thing that mattered. He slipped into that strange place that swordmasters occupied in the heat of combat, the realm where all reality was composed of the movement of blades, the shimmering play of metal against metal.

  Eventually, even Schwarzhelm tired of the attack. He withdrew, panting heavily. Helborg kept his sword held high. The assault had been horrifying. He’d never had to endure such a sustained period of brilliance, even from Schwarzhelm.

  . “Your blade is notched,” said Schwarzhelm.

  Helborg stole a quick glance at the surface of the Klingerach. The runefang hadn’t been so much as scratched in all the days he’d worn it at his side. It was one of the twelve forged by Alaric, one of the dozen mightiest talismans of mankind, bound by runes of warding, infused with spells of ruin and destruction. Nothing could break a runefang. Only its wearer could be harmed.