Swords of the Emperor

by Chris Wraight

  “Of course. I didn’t presume—”

  “What are your plans for securing the city? There can be no coronation until the traitors have been rooted out.”

  Grosslich looked on firmer ground then. Tactics were something he understood. They both did. As the simplest level, the two of them were soldiers and nothing more.

  “Those who served closest to Leitdorf have been disarmed. The captains have been surrendered to the witch hunters for examination. The ordinary troops, including those with feudal ties to my rival, have been released. I will have no bloody reprisals here. The city has suffered enough.”

  “You’re confident you can maintain order?”

  “I have a thousand men-at-arms already in the city. More are on their way. Herr Alptraum has been most generous with his family’s wealth. As long as they’ve not served in Leitdorf’s inner circle, I will turn no willing recruit away. Averland’s army needs rebuilding.”

  Schwarzhelm grunted with approval. That was certainly true.

  “You will send me documents concerning your revenue and deployment plans. Only when I’m satisfied that the city is secure will I set the investiture in motion. I want regular reports on progress. And while Leitdorf is at large, the eyes of the Emperor will be closely watching you here.”

  Grosslich bowed.

  “I understand.”

  “Have you found Natassja?” interjected Verstohlen. Always Natassja. The man seemed obsessed with her.

  “She remains free, I regret to say, but I have as many men searching for her as I do for her husband. We’ve taken your warnings seriously, counsellor.”

  “I’m glad of it. She is at the heart of the whole thing. Perhaps even Leitdorf doesn’t know what her full plans are. There’s no doubt she remains dangerous. Do not be complacent. The great enemy is ever stronger and more enduring than it first appears.”

  Grosslich couldn’t resist a smile. The man was flush with victory, and such warnings must have seemed pointless.

  “So you’ve been telling me ever since this affair began,” he said. He looked amused, but there was no malice in his voice. “Trust me. I’ve been fighting against these people for two years. Their powers have already proved weaker than they hoped for. She will be found.”

  Verstohlen didn’t look reassured.

  “Make sure of it,” he said. “She may be in the city still.”

  Schwarzhelm turned back to Grosslich.

  “That is all for now,” he said. “You may return to your men.”

  Grosslich made to leave, then hesitated. “My lord,” he said, looking uncertainly at Schwarzhelm. “I haven’t thanked you yet.” Schwarzhelm scowled. This was unnecessary. “Herr Grosslich—”

  “Please. Hear me out. Perhaps I didn’t give you the credit you deserved when you first arrived. It’s clear to me now that not all was as it appeared. I wouldn’t have believed that a man like Helborg could turn, not if I hadn’t seen it myself. We couldn’t have stood against him. In my arrogance I thought to challenge him myself. Now that my blood has cooled I realise it would have been my death to do so. Had you not arrived when you did—”

  “Enough,” snapped Schwarzhelm. He knew the man meant well, but to even think of it caused him pain. “We will not speak of it. Is there anything else?”

  Grosslich hesitated, then shook his head. “I understand,” he said. “Then return to your duties.”

  Grosslich and his captains turned and headed from the chamber. As they left, the heavy doors closed behind them with a clang. Schwarzhelm and Verstohlen were alone again. For some moments, neither of them spoke.

  “Have we done the right thing here, Pieter?” asked Schwarzhelm. He made no effort to hide the concern in his voice.

  “I have no doubt of it. You’re letting your friendship cloud your mind. Do not dwell on it.”

  “Friendship? It’s not been that for years.” Schwarzhelm frowned. “He was a great man. It will break the Emperor’s heart.”

  “None of us are immune.”

  “That is the truth,” said Schwarzhelm. “Though I wish with all my heart it were otherwise.”

  The great hall of the Averburg was dark. Even though the sun blazed outside, drapes had been hung over the tall windows. Each of them bore the symbol of the comet embroidered in scarlet thread. Braziers had been set up at intervals along the nave. They gave off an acrid smell and sent plumes of black smoke curling up into the rafters. The place had been turned into something more fitted to the tastes of its temporary occupants.

  It had been less than a day since the witch hunters had arrived, and they’d wasted no time in setting up their tribunal. Grosslich’s men worked hard to supply them with a steady stream of suspects, all dragged from the poor quarter, all members of Leitdorf’s inner circle. The investigation had been typically thorough. Where the taint of Chaos was even suspected, the questioning was always rigorous and applied without mercy. The methods were ancient, honed by the master interrogators of the Temple of Sigmar over generations. Some were subtle, preying on the weaknesses of men’s minds. Others were brutal, playing on the frailty of men’s bodies. Both had their place. Both had been employed in Averheim.

  Witch hunter Odo Heidegger looked down at his latest subject with a mix of pity and scorn. He knew what other men thought about his profession. That they were sadists, butchers who enjoyed their work, fanatics and zealots. No doubt some of his colleagues were. He’d met many others of his kind, particularly in the remoter reaches of the Empire, who had depressed him. There was nothing more saddening than seeing a man charged with the most holy offices of the Imperial hierarchy turn to brutishness. Heidegger prayed to Sigmar nightly that such a fate would not befall him.

  He was, after all, a cultured man. He enjoyed lyric poetry, so long as the subject matter was suitably reverent. He had no time for tavern singing, but revelled in the soaring music of the Imperial Chapel in Wittenburg, justly famous for its choral tradition. In another life, perhaps he would have become a musician himself. He’d always wondered what it would be like to play the lute, to dance across the strings with his delicate fingers, producing the kind of gentle, strumming sound that pleased even the hardest of hearts. He had the sensibility for it. He also had the delicacy of touch, honed over years of dedicated practice.

  He tried not to think too closely about the screams, of course. They clouded out the images of harmony running through his mind. It was important to concentrate on this kind of work. He didn’t take any pleasure in the pain he caused. That was just a means to an end. But he did take pleasure in the skill. Sigmar would forgive him that sin of pride. It was pursued, after all, for His ends.

  Thankfully, Werner Klopfer had stopped screaming. He was now engaged in a kind of frenzied panting. The man was naked, strapped to a table in the centre of the great hall. His right arm had been turned into a cacophony of gore. The muscle was visible in patches, shining in the candlelight. Aside from a diligent scribe and a couple of deaf-mute guards standing watch at the doors, they were alone together. It was a pleasing, intimate scene.

  Klopfer’s breathing became more ragged. The poor man was panicking. Heidegger took a damp cloth from the bench beside him and pressed it to his subject’s brow. Klopfer shivered under the touch. His skin glistened with sweat. His whole body stank with it. Like most of the subjects brought before him that day, he had lost control of his bowels with terror. That was certainly unfortunate, but one couldn’t blame the wretches for that. It was an arduous business, this uncovering of the truth.

  “Now then,” said Heidegger in his soft, almost feminine, voice. He put the cloth to one side. “Do not concern yourself with the physical pain you feel, my son. This is just the necessary prelude, the means by which your soul may be cleansed. Pain will pass, even if in death.”

  He reached for another bowl, this time filled with clear water, and washed his hands. Everything he needed had been laid out on the bench, just as he liked it. There was his battered old prayer book, the l
eaves flaky and ancient, his vials of holy water, the icons of Sigmar and Magnus the Pious, the litanies of exorcism. And of course, the instruments of enquiry. The clamps, barbs, scalpels, gouges, pins and all the rest. All lovingly catalogued and labelled, ready for use. Most of them shone brightly in the firelight, polished to a high sheen and resting on soft cloth. The others, the ones that had already seen action, were covered in a second skin of crimson. He would look forward to cleaning them again in the evening.

  “W-what do you want to hear?” sobbed Klopfer. “I’ll tell you anything. Anything!”

  Heidegger folded his arms and tutted.

  “That will not do. Have you not been listening to anything I’ve been saying? I want the truth from you. The whole truth. Tell me what you know, and your soul may be spared.”

  “I worked for Leitdorf!” Klopfer cried. His anguished voice echoed from the high rafters. As he spoke, the scribe diligently transcribed his words. Alrich was a good servant. He never lost his place, never asked for a repetition. Whenever a session was over, he would present his sheaves of parchment, all neatly inscribed with the black letter Reikspiel record of the conversation. Heidegger was really very fond of him. So many scribes lost their minds as the long years wore on that it was a relief to find a true professional.

  Klopfer’s voice began to quicken. “I was one of his captains. We knew that Grosslich was arming his men, so we did the same. Some of our troops came from his estates. They were carried in by river, under cover of night. Others we bought.”

  “How did you acquire the funds for this work?”

  “We had many sources. Leitdorf had money from his inheritance. His wife was rich too. Then there was the root. We imported it. Leitdorf’s men had control over the cartels. There were rival gangs in Averheim, but he controlled them all in the end. The money was good. They couldn’t stop buying it. I don’t know where the rest came from.”

  “I’ve heard about the joyroot from others. Was it part of your corruption?”

  “Corruption? I don’t—”

  Heidegger reached for another instrument.

  “Yes! Yes, it was! Please no more!”

  Heidegger took up a fresh tool. It was a piece of real artistry, as elegant and refined as an elven maid’s ankle. He didn’t really want to use it. There was always the chance of snagging on a tendon and interfering with the mechanism. Perhaps later, if the conversation was beginning to flag.

  “So the joyroot was part of your corruption. That is indeed the consensus I’ve picked up from others. Did you take it yourself?”

  “No! Never. It was only ever given to those outside the organisation. Some of the mercenaries took it. Leitdorf gave us strict instructions never to touch it.”

  “And why was that?”

  “We saw what it did to the others. It made them lazy. He wanted us ready to fight.”

  “Did you not question these orders when you realised that the joyroot was a tool of the great enemy?”

  Klopfer looked at Heidegger with new terror. Tears started in his eyes. He was clearly struggling to know what to say. Admitting guilt was always difficult.

  “You can confess all to me, my son,” said Heidegger kindly. “Though I know it doesn’t seem that way at present, I am here to help you.”

  Klopfer began to break down into bitter sobs. That was disappointing. They so often did that when he offered them the benefit of his spiritual wisdom. Why were so many men deaf to the insights of the Temple, to the potential for salvation? Mortification of the flesh was only temporal. Damnation, on the other hand, was eternal.

  Heidegger gave Klopfer a moment to recover himself.

  “Speak to me, my son,” he said at last. He let a firm edge enter his voice then. Heidegger was a patient man, but his benevolence only stretched so far.

  Klopfer brought his sobs half under control. He had a resigned, broken look about him. That was good. The penitent spirit would enter Sigmar’s halls.

  “I knew there was something about it. Something wrong. I thought it was her doing.”

  “Leitdorf’s wife?”

  “Yes. We were all scared of her.”

  “Fear is no excuse.”

  “I know! I know now. Believe me, I regret everything.”

  Heidegger felt a warm glow of satisfaction bloom within him. This was what made his vocation such a blessed one.

  “This ordeal is nearly over for you now. There is just one last thing.”

  Klopfer looked up at him. There was a sudden, desperate hope in his tear-stained face.

  “What is it?”

  “I have been asked to enquire about the role of the Grand Marshal of the Reiksguard, Kurt Helborg. He is a powerful man. Of all the troubling aspects of this case, that is the most grave. The truth must be ascertained.”

  As he spoke, Heidegger brought the instrument, his favourite, down gently against Klopfer’s face. The man stiffened and began to shake violently. Thankfully, he had been shackled expertly. His head could only move a fraction of an inch. With the tender touch of a lover, Heidegger rested the tip of the device on the skin below the man’s left eye.

  “You will tell me the truth of this, will you not, my son? Was Helborg involved in this affair? Was he directing it from Altdorf, and then Nuln? Was he, along with Rufus Leitdorf and Natassja Hiess-Leitdorf, the true architect of this shameful episode?”

  For a moment, Klopfer looked so stricken with terror that he could hardly speak. He tried to look at the device resting on his face but it was too close. He could feel it, though. And he could guess what it did.

  “Speak quickly.”

  Klopfer looked up into Heidegger’s eyes. There was a pleading there. An agonised pleading. He would say anything. Anything to avoid the pain. They always did, sooner or later. That was the genius of the exercise. They would come to the truth in the end. Whether it was the truth as they saw it, or the truth as he wanted it to be, it didn’t matter. Everything was relative, after all. All ways led to glory, to the greater praise of Sigmar, the origin of all beneficence.

  “H-he was, my lord,” stammered Klopfer. As he spoke, fresh tears ran down his cheek. They glinted from the surface of the metal as they splashed over it. “Helborg was one of them. I saw the letters that passed between them. They were all traitors. Leitdorf, his wife, the Reiksguard Marshal.”

  Heidegger sighed gently. Another confession. How quickly they came, once all the work had been done. Another soul had been saved. Another piece of information had been collated. His work was done. He withdrew the instrument. As he did so, Klopfer broke down again, slack against his bonds.

  “There, now,” said Heidegger soothingly. “Does that not feel better? Confessing one’s sins is a cleansing process. Your soul is now free of the taint you have carried for so long. You should be proud.”

  He placed the instrument back on the cloth. It clinked against its fellows gently as he rolled the covering up.

  “That’s it?” asked Klopfer. The desperate hope had returned. “I’m free to go?”

  Heidegger nodded. This was the part of the process he really didn’t like. It always seemed such a shame after all they’d been through together.

  “There is no more. The ordeal is over. You are free to go.”

  He picked up a cloth and dabbed his hands. They needed a wash. He’d been working too hard. Perhaps he needed a break.

  “You have done well, my son,” said Heidegger, placing the cloth back on the table. “The information you have provided will root out this heresy.”

  Klopfer didn’t seem to be listening. He was lost in some kind of reverie. That was ungrateful. This was for his benefit, after all. Heidegger felt deflated. He always did when the process was over. It was at this stage that his faith was weakest. In the darkest moments, he sometimes wondered whether he wouldn’t have been better employed in the Chapel at Wittenburg after all. Perhaps then his sleep wouldn’t have been as troubled as it was. Maybe then he wouldn’t find himself weeping for no reason
at all, wracked by the inexplicable terrors that came to him when he was alone.

  Enough. These periods of depression were a test. Everything was a test. He walked away from the table, turning to the scribe as he went.

  “Did you get it all?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Including the testimony on Lord Helborg?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Of course he had. Alrich never missed a thing. Heidegger sighed. He was a diligent servant. They were both diligent servants.

  He kept walking, snapping his fingers to attract the attention of the guards. Using the hand signals they understood, he gave them the only order he ever gave them.

  Kill him. Then bring in the next one.

  Verstohlen stood on the terrace above the lower levels of the Averburg. The wind had picked up again. It made the city feel healthier. Since Leitdorf had been driven from the place, the air had changed. The lingering sweetness, the hint of rottenness, had gone. Grosslich had brought order to the place quickly. Of course, he’d been aided by Schwarzhelm. The man seemed back to his old self, if a little more withdrawn than was usual. He went about his business with the grim-faced efficiency for which he was known.

  That alone convinced Verstohlen that their actions had been justified. The Leitdorfs might have succeeded for a time in driving Schwarzhelm from the city, in tying him up with legal paperwork, in using the subtle poisons of the mind to cloud his judgement, but all that was over now. Had their plans not been discovered when they were, they might have succeeded. Verstohlen was in no doubt they’d used the greenskins somehow. The precise mechanism was still hidden from him, but it would emerge. With the witch hunters given full rein to investigate, few secrets would remain hidden for long.

  He looked out over the city. It seemed as peaceful as it had done when they’d arrived. There was little obvious sign of the scarring which had taken place since then. The merchants had come back. The streets had been tidied up. People were sick of the fighting. Even those who had previously sided with Rufus seemed resigned to the accession of Heinz-Mark. Anything was better than the gathering anarchy which had plagued them over the past few weeks.