Swords of the Emperor

by Chris Wraight

  Pieter Verstohlen awoke late. He shifted and immediately felt the stabbing pains in his muscles. For a moment, he didn’t register where he was. Then the events of the previous night came rushing back. He could still taste the ash from the fires on his lips. He lay still for a moment, remembering. They were not pleasant memories.

  After a while, he pushed the covers back with stiff hands. It was nearly midday, but his chamber was still dark, shuttered against the bright sun. His chest was clammy from the heat. Even after the thunderstorm during the night, Averheim was still warm.

  Gingerly, he swung his legs from the sheets and limped over to the window. He pulled the shutters open and sunlight flooded in. His chamber was high up in the western front of the Averburg. He had a commanding view over the entire city. The Aver lay far below, glittering in the sun. It looked somehow cleaner. The last of the fires had burned themselves out. The palls of smoke that had hung over the city had cleared. The storm had done some good in dousing them.

  There was a pitcher of clear water by the sill. Verstohlen took a long swig. He felt the cool liquid run down his throat, soothing his parched flesh. He reached up and carefully felt for the bloody lump on the side of his head. His hair was matted with dry scabs and the flesh beneath was tender. That had been a hard fall. Not a very distinguished way to receive a battlefield wound, even from so mighty a hand.

  There was a quiet knock on the door. Verstohlen reached for a robe and wrapped himself in it.

  “Come.”

  Tochfel entered. The man looked tired. How long had it been since Verstohlen had last seen him? Many days ago. The last hurried conversation they’d snatched seemed like an age away.

  “I’ve tried to see you twice already,” the Steward said. “I wondered if you’d sleep all day.”

  Verstohlen smiled politely. If the old fool had been in the midst of the fighting himself, he might have been less snide.

  “Take a seat, Steward. How have you been?”

  Tochfel pulled a chair from by the wall. Verstohlen sat on the side of bed. As the straw mattress yielded, he found himself wishing he could crawl back under the sheets. The rest had been too short.

  “There’ve been some… adjustments to make here.” Tochfel looked rueful. “Ferenc Alptraum runs this place now. He’s retained my services in the meantime. That’s something, I suppose.”

  “There’ve been many hasty decisions made recently,” said Verstohlen. “Some of them may have to be rescinded. Where is the Lord Schwarzhelm?”

  “He sleeps still. Since you both returned, none have dared to rouse him. Perhaps you’d noticed that beforehand he’d not seemed to be sleeping too well. We can hope, perhaps, that the rest will make him less… unpredictable.”

  “He’s always been unpredictable. And there have been forces working against him that would have killed a lesser man. Against all of us. Verena willing, we’ve ended that now.”

  Tochfel nodded. “I think that is becoming apparent, even to those who doubted him.”

  “And where’s Grosslich?”

  “The Elector Designate still rides. Leitdorf has not been found. But the city is being purged of his followers. The witch hunters have been summoned.” At that, Tochfel gave Verstohlen a look of reproach. “Perhaps they should have been summoned days ago, when some of you first had suspicions.”

  Verstohlen raised an eyebrow. “A criticism, Herr Tochfel?”

  The Steward quickly averted his eyes. “I’m sure you acted as you thought best. In any case, Lord Alptraum has commissioned Odo Heidegger, an experienced hand in such matters. Our own Temple in Averheim seems to have been… disturbed by the recent events, and there are no witch hunters to be found in the city.” Tochfel gave Verstohlen a significant look, as if to suggest that fact was hardly coincidental. “Heidegger is master of the Temples on the Alptraum ancestral lands. He’ll be in Averheim soon. Then the rooting out of heresy will begin in earnest.”

  Verstohlen felt his heart sink at the prospect. It could hardly be opposed, given what had happened, though the thought of more savagery being unleashed depressed him.

  “Ferenc’s moved quickly. Until Grosslich receives the runefang, Schwarzhelm is still the authority here.”

  “What would you have him do? It is the great enemy we’re dealing with here.”

  Again, the tone was accusatory.

  “You seem to have come around to his mastery with some speed, Herr Tochfel,” said Verstohlen, looking at the steward carefully. “Grosslich will replace you as ruler of this city. Do you not mind that?”

  Tochfel smiled sadly.

  “Such is life. The right choice has been made.”

  “And what of Alptraum?”

  “As I say, he commands the Averburg. He was marshalling the defences here while Lord Grosslich was fighting last night. I gather that decision did not go down well. Alptraum thought it important to ensure that certain records in our archives were… looked after. His family has a long history in this place. Perhaps there are facts he would rather weren’t widely available.”

  “Understandable.” Verstohlen began to cast his mind forward. The worst of the fighting was over but there was still much to do before Averheim could return to normal. Grosslich would have to be invested. The witch hunters, regrettably enough, were best qualified to root out the last of Leitdorfs heresy. A court of inquiry would no doubt be set up. And of course there were still mysteries to uncover about the Reiksguard.

  “You say Leitdorf is still at large. Where is his wife?”

  “Nothing has been seen of her. Troops are moving through the city as we speak, hunting her down.”

  “I should be with them,” said Verstohlen, rising from the bed.

  Tochfel raised his hand warningly.

  “There will be time for that, counsellor. If you place weight on anything I say, I’d counsel you to rest a little longer. The coming days will be hard on all of us. Enjoy some respite while you can.”

  Verstohlen hesitated. The man spoke sense, though it was not in his nature to rest while others laboured.

  “Very well,” he said, relaxing. “I’ll dress and be with you shortly.”

  Tochfel rose awkwardly. It looked like he’d aged years over the past few weeks. No doubt such excitement was not what he’d hoped for out of life.

  “Perhaps we can talk again later,” he said, moving to the door. “There are some things about this affair I still don’t understand.”

  Verstohlen knew what he meant.

  “That would be good, Steward,” he said, trying to keep his voice untroubled. “No doubt we shall have much to discuss.”

  Schwarzhelm sank further into the deep, deep pool of sleep. He felt like he was floating in a vast, warm abyss. The layers of water pressed down on him, enveloping him, imprisoning him, protecting him. The outside world was a lifetime away. Its cares, its terrors, were all hidden. As long as he languished in the deep places, they couldn’t reach him. He was alone, forgotten, safe.

  He dived down further, pushing against the languid water, feeling it slide past his battered body. There was nothing around him. No fish, no drifting plants. This was the isolation he had always craved, the sense of being alone he hadn’t enjoyed since being a child.

  Then he saw it, far below. A shape, tumbling down into the infinite darkness. It spun lazily in the current, twisting and falling. Schwarzhelm kicked his legs and plunged towards it. His powerful limbs pushed him through the water. Long before he reached the tumbling form below, he knew what it was. He tried to stop then, but his momentum carried him down and down. The water grew darker and colder. Suddenly he became aware how far he’d come. He might not be able to return, even if he wanted to.

  Then the body rolled over. Its motion was sluggish. Helborg’s limbs dragged in the water like trailing weeds. The flesh was pale, reflecting the last of the sunlight filtering from the surface. The mouth was open, fixed in a stare of outrage and accusation.

  Schwarzhelm flailed, trying to sw
im back up, away from the corpse. He was dragged down, faster and faster. The current had him now. The water became icy.

  Helborg’s empty eyes stared at him. They’d been pecked out, just like the soldiers’ eyes in the barn. His flesh was bone-white. Parts of it had begun to flake away, drifting off into the abyss like fragments of china.

  Schwarzhelm felt the horror well up within him, choking him. He could no longer hold his breath. He felt his lungs begin to ache. Whatever he did, he couldn’t push himself up.

  Helborg’s shoulder rotated into view. The wound was still there, still pumping blood into the water. It would never heal, never be made right.

  Schwarzhelm felt the ache turn to a sharp pain. He couldn’t take a breath. He was drowning. He rolled over, desperate to look away from the cadaver below. Far up above, he could see the play of sunlight on the surface. He’d never reach it. It was too far. He was too tired. Too weak. His guilt weighed him down like lead. It dragged him down.

  His lungs gave out. He opened his mouth. The water rushed in.

  Schwarzhelm lurched awake. With a warrior’s instinct he sat bolt upright, hands searching for his weapon. His bedclothes were tangled across him. Some had been thrown to the floor. His palms were dripping with sweat. He breathed heavily, drawing in the air with relief.

  He was safe. He was in the Averburg. He wasn’t alone.

  Opposite him, sitting on a low stool at the foot of bed, a man was waiting for him.

  “Bad dreams?” he said.

  Schwarzhelm still felt disorientated. The dream still hadn’t quite left him. For a moment, he didn’t recognise who was speaking.

  Then Verstohlen’s face crystallised. Schwarzhelm felt his memory return. For the first time in weeks, he’d slept through the night. Though his dreams had remained vivid, they hadn’t shaken him awake. Something had changed. The mental oppression that had plagued him for so long had lifted. The air felt purer. He took a deep breath, feeling it fill his mighty chest.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Forgive the intrusion. I was worried about you.”

  “That’s not your job.”

  “It’s always been my job.”

  Schwarzhelm scowled. He didn’t like the protective tone in Verstohlen’s voice. He pushed himself from the bed. There was a robe hanging nearby, and he donned it. Despite the heavy slumber, he felt strangely alert. His body was still filthy. As he moved, he could feel the crack of the dried blood across his skin. His beard felt heavy and matted. How had he let himself get into such a state?

  “How long have I been asleep?”

  “The day is nearly past. I’d say you needed the rest.”

  Schwarzhelm grunted. He walked over to a pitcher of water and doused his face. The liquid dripped back red. He scrubbed at his eyes and old blood streamed back into the water below. None of it was his.

  “How stands the city?”

  “Grosslich’s still hunting Leitdorf’s men down. They’ve rounded up some of his captains who were too slow to get out. There’s a witch hunter court of enquiry being set up.”

  Schwarzhelm’s face creased with disapproval. Like his counsellor, he hated witch hunters. Every right-thinking man hated witch hunters.

  “Things seem to be in hand, then.”

  Verstohlen gave him a significant look.

  “Yet you still look troubled.”

  Schwarzhelm gave him an irritated look. Verstohlen could be like an old woman at times.

  “Grosslich had better remember who put him in this position,” he growled. “I want no further actions taken until I’ve given the orders for them.”

  “He’ll be back in the citadel tonight.”

  “Good. We’ll talk then.”

  “And is there anything else you wish to discuss, my lord?”

  Schwarzhelm paused. Verstohlen was his counsellor, not his confessor. “Helborg.”

  There was a long silence. The Swords of Vengeance and Justice hung next to one another by the bed. One had a scabbard, the other was naked. Schwarzhelm felt the grief rush back, as if it had been unlocked by saying the name.

  “He was riding with Leitdorf,” said Verstohlen, quietly. “A proven traitor.”

  “I only have your word for that, Pieter. In the heat of battle—”

  “You didn’t see what I did.”

  “Exactly.”

  Verstohlen looked agitated then. That was strange. The man was normally so calm.

  “We did the right thing, my lord. The Leitdorfs were damned! Whatever Helborg was doing supporting them is his affair. The enemy has corrupted greater men.”

  As Verstohlen spoke, Schwarzhelm remembered the scraps of parchment by the road. They had planted the seed of doubt in his mind, the suspicion that had come to such dreadful fruition in the Vormeisterplatz. Strange to have stumbled across the proof of treachery so far out into the wilds. Perhaps it had been Sigmar guiding him. Or maybe some other force.

  He didn’t want to discuss it any further. The pain was too raw. He needed to think, to reflect.

  “I feel like I’ve not been myself these past few days,” he muttered.

  “And how do you feel now?”

  Schwarzhelm paused.

  “Better.”

  “Then there is your proof. We have broken the hold of that witch over Averheim. Do you not sense it in the air? There had been corruption here for far too long. Subtle corruption. There are things a sorcerer can do, ways of influencing the mood of a place. They have been attacking you, my lord, maybe even before you arrived. You know the truth of this.” Verstohlen looked at him earnestly as he spoke. “He was as fervent as ever in his denunciation of Chaos.”

  “We have beaten them. The court of enquiry will vindicate us. Leitdorf and his bitch will be found. Then the truth will emerge. Take comfort in this. We have beaten them.”

  Schwarzhelm began to reply, but then changed his mind. Verstohlen was right. Something did seem to have changed. And yet, deep within, like a worm coiled around the core of a ripe apple, the seed of doubt had been laid. If he’d been wrong about Helborg, if it had been his pent-up jealousy that had truly wielded the Sword of Justice, then he would never forgive himself.

  “I trust you’re right, counsellor,” was all he said.

  Skarr called the knights to a halt. Night was falling and they needed somewhere to lay low for the night. It had been a hard ride to escape Grosslich’s men, and the horses shivered with exhaustion.

  The young knight Eissen rode up to him. He looked ready for fresh fighting. Like all Reiksguard he hated flying before the enemy, though he’d understood the need to withdraw. In the aftermath of the fighting at Averheim, Grosslich had been able to send hundreds of troops after them. In the battle to get out of the city many of the Reiksguard had been cut down. Skarr’s company now numbered less than fifty, half the number Helborg had led into combat.

  More importantly, they couldn’t fight while the Marshal remained so close to death. As long as Helborg remained unconscious, they would act to preserve him. That was the only task left for them. Averland politics, and vengeance, could wait.

  “How is he?” asked Skarr.

  Eissen shrugged.

  “The same, preceptor. The wound is deep.”

  Skarr looked over to Helborg’s horse. The Marshal had been strapped to the saddle, propped up by a knight riding behind him. His face was white, his eyes closed. The bandages he’d hastily tied over the wound were soaked with blood again.

  “We can’t ride further tonight,” said Skarr. He looked over to an isolated copse in the field beyond. It wasn’t much, but at least it was cover. “We’ll set up camp there. Bring the Marshal down carefully.”

  What remained of the Reiksguard Company rode across the field and dismounted under the eaves of the trees. Helborg was borne from his saddle with all the reverence given to the remains of an Imperial saint and placed carefully on the dry earth.

  Skarr knelt over him with fresh bandages. There were n
ot many left. Working quickly, he untied the blood-soaked cloth. Though hardened by years of battle injuries, the wound in Helborg’s shoulder was still a shock. Schwarzhelm’s sword had pierced deep, lifting up the flesh and boring beneath the shoulder plate. It was bleeding profusely, though thankfully not as strongly as it had done when he’d first tended to it. Many men would have perished from a blow as severe. Even Helborg looked near death, his breathing shallow. He had drifted into a fever. His pale forehead was clammy.

  “Make a fire,” ordered Skarr, tearing fresh strips of bandage. “I don’t care if we’re seen. I need hot water.”

  He set to work, cleaning the wound and picking out the old scraps of cloth around the angry weal. Thankfully no metal had broken off in the flesh. The Sword of Justice had bitten true and the laceration was clean.

  As Skarr worked, Helborg began to wince. The pain seemed to half-revive him. His eyes flickered open. He tried to speak, but no words came from his parched throat.

  “Give him water,” ordered Skarr. A knight came forward bearing a gourd. The man managed to tip a few drops into Helborg’s mouth. The Marshal swallowed a few before breaking into an anguished coughing. “Enough. Tell me when you have boiling water.”

  The brushwood on the copse floor was dry after weeks of heavy sun, and the fire crackled into life quickly. A helmet was filled with some of the scarce drinking water and placed over the flames. After a few minutes it reached boiling point and was brought over.

  Skarr took a needle, gut thread and a pouch of dried herbs from the saddlebag of his mount. He emptied the contents of the pouch into the boiling water. Immediately a caustic aroma sprang up, making his eyes water. In its fresh state, healwort was an effective ward against contagion setting in. It was less efficacious when dried and stored, but still better then nothing. Skarr cleaned the wound with the infused water, sluicing the last remnants of foreign matter from the blood-red flesh. Then he threaded the iron needle and placed it against the edge of the broken skin. Helborg looked like he’d drifted back into unconsciousness. Skarr began to sew, pulling the flaps of skin tightly. He was accustomed to such work, having acted as a makeshift apothecary for years. All Reiksguard knew how to stitch up a blade wound.