Swords of the Emperor

by Chris Wraight

  And yet, the sword was notched. Even now, he could feel the shard buried in the flesh of his cheek. The pain was like a brand of fire. The trail of blood ran hot down his neck. Schwarzhelm, of all men, had been the one to break the symmetry of the Klingerach. After more than two millennia, the sacred blade had been marred at last, not by a Chaos warlord or beast of darkness, but by the Emperor’s Champion himself.

  Maybe only Schwarzhelm, alone in the entire Old World, carried a sword capable of doing such a thing.

  Turning away from the desecrated shaft, Helborg felt the last of his restraint leave him. He’d been unwilling to let himself go until that moment. Schwarzhelm was clearly under some kind of madness or paranoia, the knowledge of which had stayed his hand. But now the final bonds had been broken.

  With a roar of anger, Helborg swung the Klingerach into position once more. Ignoring the pain of the wounds across his body, he tore into Schwarzhelm, wielding his blade with all the ferocity his years of training had embedded in every sinew. The Klingerach whirled in a tight arc, perfectly balanced, perfectly aimed. As the last of the natural light faded, all that was left to illuminate the clash of the two men were the flames rising higher on either side.

  With Morrslieb riding high and the Vormeisterplatz echoing with the sound of slaughter, Kurt Helborg launched his assault on Ludwig Schwarzhelm. It had the air of a final push. One way or another, only one of them would walk free of it.

  Verstohlen punched the soldier in the stomach, putting every scrap of energy he had into the blow. The man reeled backwards but stayed on his feet. He looked like one of Leitdorf’s irregulars, and wore an archaic leather jerkin and iron skullcap for a helmet. Most of his teeth had been knocked from his jaw and his nose was broken. As Verstohlen hung back he grinned, exposing the holes in his mouth. This kind of vicious struggle was the thing such scum lived for. He’d probably have joined in even if he wasn’t being paid for it.

  Verstohlen gripped his knife tightly. The pointless combat was draining. He needed to get out of it, clear his head, come up with some kind of a plan.

  The mercenary charged, brandishing a heavily notched short sword. Wearily, Verstohlen prepared to meet the assault.

  It never came. Before he could close on Verstohlen, the man was knocked violently to one side. He swung into the air, his arms flailing. He staggered for moment, looking confused and angry, before he saw the spider of crimson spreading across his chest. He fell to his knees, coughing phlegm and blood, before finally toppling on to his front.

  Verstohlen looked up, waiting for the next challenger to fend off. Instead, Grosslich was there, mounted, surrounded by horsemen of his household. Amidst all the confusion, his company was a rare island of order.

  “I’ve found you, counsellor,” he said, motioning for his men to fan around them. A spare horse was brought forward. Recovering himself, Verstohlen mounted quickly.

  “About time,” he said. “Where’ve you been?”

  “Since you diverted me into Leitdorfs men? Fighting my way back to you. I could have you run through for that treachery.” He smiled. “Glad you’re still on your feet.”

  Suddenly, the memory came rushing back. Helborg. That was why he’d spurred his horse into the path of Grosslich’s, to prevent the clash that would have undoubtedly killed him.

  “Leitdorf has the Reiksguard fighting for him,” said Verstohlen, feeling his earlier fear and confusion return. The joyroot in the air was addling his mind. He couldn’t think straight. He knew he was missing something.

  “That he does,” said Grosslich grimly, wheeling his horse around and preparing to carve his way back into the melee. “What devilry has passed between them is anyone’s guess. But Leitdorf still lives. Helborg is distracted. We have a chance to strike.”

  Verstohlen kicked his horse into a canter, keeping up with Grosslich and his horsemen as they began to cut their way through the ranks of fighting men.

  “Helborg distracted? With what?”

  “You’ll see, counsellor. Ride with me. All will become clear.”

  Verstohlen held the reins tightly, willing his tired body to stay in the saddle. He reached into his coat and withdrew the pistol. He still had one bullet left. Not much, but better than nothing. Ahead, the press of Reiksguard knights waited. They’d seen the threat, and were moving to meet it. In their midst, the pathetic figure of Leitdorf cowered. He knew it was over.

  Verstohlen kept the gun cradled at his side. He’d wait. If nothing else, it would suffice for Rufus.

  The sun had set. Over the Vormeisterplatz there was only the red light of the fires and the ivory sheen of Morrslieb. Leitdorf’s forces, bereft of their leader, had finally begun to buckle. Many of the mercenaries had started to flee where they could, streaming out of the square and into the dark alleys. Grosslich’s men pursued them hard, and the sounds of bloodshed soon filtered into the winding passages of the poor quarter. Under the baleful light of the Chaos moon, the death and pain was spreading throughout the city. Soon nowhere would be free of it.

  Schwarzhelm ran his finger along the edge of the Sword of Justice. Even with the lightest of touches the blade drew blood. It was the perfect sword, a flawless instrument of death.

  He looked up at Helborg. The Marshal stood in a defensive posture a few paces away. He was ashen-faced. With satisfaction, Schwarzhelm glimpsed at the shard of the Klingerach lodged in the man’s cheek. It was a badge of shame, the mark of treachery. The scar would be with him forever.

  “So what price did he buy you with?” Schwarzhelm asked bitterly, letting Helborg recover himself for his next assault. “Or was the prospect of seeing me fail here enough reward for you?”

  Helborg was breathing heavily.

  “You’re really that insecure? Look around you, Ludwig. This is your doing.”

  As Helborg spoke, a sliver of doubt entered Schwarzhelm’s mind. Somewhere, deep within, he could hear a small voice of warning. Like glimpsing the sun through a gap in the clouds, the Marshal suddenly seemed to him the way he always had. Upright, stern-faced, the embodiment of Imperial martial pride. They were brothers, the two of them. They’d always been brothers.

  And yet.

  The stench of Chaos was everywhere. Leitdorf was stained with it. Verstohlen had seen the evidence of it. From the first hours he’d spent in Averheim, Schwarzhelm had been aware of it. The visions in the night, the terrors and portents. They’d been trying to break him. They’d all been trying to break him. They’d failed.

  He lifted the Rechtstahl a final time. Overhead, lost in the gathering darkness, there was a distant rumble of thunder. The weather, so unbearably hot for so long, was breaking at last. A storm was coming.

  “No more words.”

  He lunged forward. He kept the Rechtstahl high, holding it two-handed, unmindful of his defence. Helborg met him, swinging the Klingerach heavily to meet the incoming downward plunge. The blades met again. Again, they were forced apart.

  Schwarzhelm pressed home the attack. He could feel raw power coursing through his sinews. His wrath was what propelled him now. After so many days of frustration, of fatigue, of whispering against him, of weasel-worded legal arguments, the canker at the heart of Averheim had been unveiled.

  He kept the sword moving, adjusting his body minutely to compensate for its every stroke. They said the elven Sword Masters felt like this, lost in the perfect symmetry of stroke and counter-stroke. He and the weapon were fused together, each an extension of the other.

  The time had come to finish it. Schwarzhelm went for the kill. His blade whirled, blood-red in the firelight. Helborg fought back, meeting the heavy blows expertly, warding what he could. But the Marshal was weakened. He’d lost blood from his thigh. He wasn’t fighting with his full commitment. Something was holding him back. Something weighed him down. This wasn’t the Helborg who’d bested him a dozen times on the training grounds of Altdorf.

  The opening came. Helborg brought his sword up in another defensive move. As he
drew back, his foot turned on the stone. He stumbled and the blade dropped out of the position.

  A whip of lightning scored across the heavens. For a split second, Helborg’s body was illuminated in stark relief. The chance was there, beckoning him.

  Schwarzhelm pounced. Summoning all the energy that remained to him, he plunged the Sword of Justice downwards. As if drawn by the prospect of blood, the blade nearly flew from his hands.

  It bit deep, carving through armour and into the flesh beyond. The metal sheered between spaulder and breastplate, unerringly finding the weak spot in the Marshal’s exquisite armour.

  Helborg roared with pain. His whole body tensed. Blood spurted high into the air. Schwarzhelm felt it splatter against his face. The liquid seared him as if it had been boiling oil. He withdrew the blade and staggered back, wiping his eyes.

  Helborg slumped to the ground, clutching his shoulder. His sword clattered to the stone harmlessly. The Marshal shot Schwarzhelm a final glance, one of mingled anger, pain and betrayal. Then he collapsed face down on to the stone, his blood spreading across the flags.

  A peal of thunder boomed across the city. It felt like the arch of the sky was cracking. Schwarzhelm suddenly felt his store of violent energy drain from him. He stood like a graven image, staring at his stricken brother.

  The man was broken. And he had done it.

  The world around seemed suddenly insubstantial and shifting. Rage was replaced by guilt, violence with grief. It was as if a mask of madness had fallen from him. He started forward; hands outstretched towards his old rival, his sparring partner, his friend.

  His victim.

  “Marshal!” The voice belonged to one of the Reiksguard. They’d seen their master cut down too.

  Schwarzhelm whirled around. There were knights backing up towards him. They were being attacked in their turn. He could make out horsemen wearing Grosslich’s colours bearing down on the steel lines. They would break. They were breaking.

  Schwarzhelm felt the indecision paralyse him. He didn’t know what to do. There was movement all around him. His certainty had vanished, his will had snapped. He stood immobile.

  I have killed him, he thought. The mantra repeated over and over in his head, paralysing him. Sigmar forgive me. I have killed him.

  Then the Reiksguard lines broke. Grosslich was breaking through, and the Imperial knights fell before the onslaught. They ignored Schwarzhelm. Several galloped over to the stricken Helborg. With peerless horsemanship, they swept him up into the saddle. The Klingerach stayed on the stone, forgotten.

  Schwarzhelm watched it all take place impotently. Horses veered past him on either side. His fingers felt loose around the hilt of the Rechtstahl. The events before him unfolded as if in one of his nightmares. He was just a spectator.

  Grosslich’s men streamed across the square, pursuing the fleeing Reiksguard. Leitdorf rode along with the Imperial knights, surrounded by stern-faced protectors. He cast a fleeting look at Schwarzhelm as he was carried away. His expression was one of terror, like a child caught up in games it doesn’t understand.

  Then they were gone, riding into the night and towards the flames. Grosslich’s men thundered after them, Heinz-Mark at their head. So many.

  Schwarzhelm remained unmoving. His face dripped with blood. Helborg’s blood. Amid all the tumult, still no one approached him. As if warned away by some unnatural force, the swordsmen stayed away.

  All except one. Verstohlen dismounted. The spy walked up to him, concern etched on his face.

  “You answered my call,” he said.

  Schwarzhelm didn’t reply. He couldn’t take his eyes off the Klingerach, lying discarded on the stone. He walked over to the sword and picked it up. He held the blades together for a moment, comparing the lengths of steel. They were so alike. Only the notch in the Sword of Vengeance marked it out. Otherwise, they were sister weapons.

  Verstohlen came to his side.

  “You were right to stop him, my lord. Even the mightiest can turn to darkness.”

  Schwarzhelm turned to face him. All around them, men streamed from the square. The remainder of Leitdorf’s forces were being hunted down. What-fighting remained was brutal and self-contained. The murderous chase had begun through the streets and alleys of Averheim.

  “Darkness has been at work here,” said Schwarzhelm thickly. The words left his throat with effort. “Your words bring me no comfort.”

  “They should. Leitdorf would have turned this place into a slaughterhouse. You can feel it in the air.”

  Schwarzhelm looked off into the distance. His eyes swept the square, now littered with bodies.

  “He was the mightiest of us all, Pieter. Never have I regretted a kill to this day. And now…”

  He felt his voice begin to break, and tailed off. If this was victory, it left a bitter taste. He lingered for a moment longer, staring at the spot where Helborg had fallen. Then he finally turned, allowing himself to be led from the scene by Verstohlen. Slowly, haltingly, the two men walked from the battlefield. Behind them, the last of the fighting in the square limped to its bloody conclusion. None hindered their passing.

  Through war and treachery, the succession of Averland had been decided. Heinz-Mark Grosslich would take up the runefang, and Leitdorf would be cast into damnation.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Hundreds of miles away at the other end of the province, Bloch looked up at the looming peaks of the Worlds Edge Mountains, darkening quickly as the sun went down. Though his army was still in the pasture country of Averland’s eastern marches, the land was now rising steeply. Soon they’d be in the foothills, the treacherous, uneven landscape they’d surveyed before encountering the orcs. Then their path would take them higher, far up the winding gullies and coombs towards Black Fire Pass.

  He felt a shiver pass through him. After so many days of unremitting heat, the weather had begun to turn at last. With the sunset, the air had chilled appreciably. He pulled his cloak around him. Perhaps the summer was finally coming to an end.

  “Cold, commander?”

  Kraus had a look of mild amusement on his weather-beaten face. The man didn’t say much, but Bloch was still glad to have him at his shoulder. Schwarzhelm had been generous to lend the honour guard captain to him for the remainder of the campaign. Either that, or he didn’t quite trust Bloch enough to lead an army on his own.

  “Not as cold as I’m going to be,” he muttered.

  He looked back over the column behind him. Over two thousand men, all well rested and resupplied, followed him and Kraus along the Old Dwarf Road. The men had proper weapons and armour again. They looked in good spirits. A baggage train, stocked with food and barrels of ale, trundled along in their wake. The folk of Grenzstadt had been grateful for the relief from the orc attacks. To provision the army that had saved them was the least they could have done, but the stocks were still appreciated. After all those days living hand-to-mouth in the wilderness, it certainly made a change.

  Beyond the toiling figures of the troops, the wide landscape of Averland yawned away towards the horizon. Even in the failing light, Bloch could see for miles. The road ran like a ribbon across the gently rolling hills, heading west towards Grenzstadt. The town itself lay in the distance, looking peaceful and prosperous. Unlike Heideck, the place had defended itself well from the remnants of the orc raiders and the task of relieving it had been straightforward. Now the few greenskin stragglers had been driven up into the hills and the campaign had entered its final stages.

  After Grenzstadt the plains gradually disappeared into the haze of the gathering sunset. Far on the western horizon, it looked like rain clouds were gathering. A storm, even. That would be welcome for those who’d endured the oppressive heat for so long. Maybe things were changing at last. Out here, Schwarzhelm’s pessimism seemed strangely misplaced.

  “Have you traversed the pass before, Herr Kraus?” Bloch asked, turning from the view.

  “Many times. But not always to fight.
It is a holy place, after all.”

  Bloch knew what he meant. For all the cathedrals to Sigmar across the Empire, the high pass through the Worlds Edge Mountains was still the place where children learned of the deeds of their God-Emperor. It was in the narrow defiles, lost in the wearing years, where the race of men had teetered on the edge of oblivion and had been pulled back by the actions of a single man.

  “Aye, that it is.” For once, Bloch couldn’t think of a wry comment. There were some things a loyal Empire soldier didn’t joke about.

  He turned back to the march. They had a long haul to get past before the first of the many massive granite crags that reared above them, flecked with white and scored with a thousand cracks and gullies. Beyond that, the way would get harder. These roads weren’t travelled lightly, even in summer. He felt the shiver return, and worked to quell it. It wouldn’t do to look weak before the men, many of whom had fought as hard as he had to get there alive.

  But there was one nagging feeling in the back of his mind that wouldn’t leave him. The Black Fire Pass was heavily guarded. As the only route into Averland from outside the Empire, a whole garrison of seasoned soldiers was stationed at the mouth of the pass in order to seal the narrow passage. They should have been able to hold the greenskins back. That was what they were there for. Either there was some explanation for the incursion, or the keep in the mountains would be full of bodies. Neither of those choices filled Bloch with enthusiasm for the climb ahead.

  He put his head down and kept walking. There was nothing for it but to keep going. Schwarzhelm had charged him with discovering what had happened at Black Fire Pass, and he wouldn’t return before he’d uncovered the mystery.