Swords of the Emperor

by Chris Wraight

  There was a sound behind him. He whirled round in an instant, blade at the ready.

  Tochfel stood before him, arms raised in surrender.

  “Apologies, counsellor,” he said, looking at the knife nervously.

  “Forgive me,” said Verstohlen, putting the dagger back in its sheath. “It’s been a difficult time.”

  Tochfel came to stand next to him on the terrace.

  “Think nothing of it. We must hope things have changed for the better.”

  “You don’t sound convinced they will be.”

  “I am cautious by nature.”

  “I’d noticed.”

  Tochfel smiled ruefully The two men stood for a while in silence, watching the city breathe below them. Some life had already returned to the river. Where there had been nothing but stagnant water, a few barges now plied their trade. It would take time for the bustle to return, but it was a start.

  “I feel some measure of guilt for what happened, of course,” said Tochfel. Verstohlen raised an eyebrow. “It was I who summoned Helborg from Nuln.”

  “At my suggestion, as I recall.”

  “Even so.”

  Verstohlen made a noncommittal gesture. All of Averheim seemed to be lost in introspection.

  “You could not have known his role in this. None of us did. Only Schwarzhelm suspected his motives. At the time, I put it down to… professional rivalry. Perhaps he saw further than any of us. Of course, even he doubts himself now.”

  Tochfel looked down at the stone balustrade. Like most of the architecture of the Averburg it had survived the fighting unscathed. Men had died, but the city remained intact.

  “The witch hunters have concluded their investigations. The traitors all name Helborg in their confessions. Schwarzhelm need have no doubts.”

  “Good,” said Verstohlen. “I’m sure the Templars have been very thorough. This paves the way for the coronation.”

  “It does. Preparations have been made.”

  “You don’t sound entirely happy with that either.”

  Tochfel shrugged. “It’s not how I wanted it to happen. But what’s done is done. A tragedy has been avoided. I think I can work with Grosslich.”

  “Good,” said Verstohlen. “There’s not a drop of noble blood in him, whatever he says, but he’s clawed his way to the top.” Verstohlen smiled to himself. “He rode straight at Helborg. By Verena, that’s bravery. He’s still not forgiven me for heading him off, even though it saved his life.”

  Tochfel didn’t smile in return.

  “I hope we can move beyond such things now. Averland is reeling. We need a leader who can govern, not a warlord.”

  “He has the advice of Ferenc Alptraum and others like him. That’s a powerful alliance.”

  “Have you seen Alptraum recently?”

  Verstohlen paused. Now that Tochfel mentioned it, he hadn’t. In fact, he hadn’t seen Alptraum since leaving for the battle at the Vormeisterplatz.

  “Has he left the city?”

  “I don’t know. Nobody knows. Just as nobody knows where Achendorfer, my loremaster, has gone.”

  “When did you last see him?”

  “Just before Alptraum took control of the citadel. He was acting… strangely.”

  Verstohlen looked at Tochfel carefully. Was he trying to insinuate something? The man didn’t look like he had an agenda of his own.

  “What are you telling me, Steward? Should I be worried about this?”

  Tochfel shrugged. “Perhaps there’s been enough intrigue. I don’t wish to reopen wounds. But I thought you should know.”

  “Thank you. I’ll make enquiries.”

  As the words left his mouth, Verstohlen realised how empty they were. His cover had been blown. All the players left in Averheim knew who he was, what he did and who he worked for. He had no function any longer beyond Schwarzhelm’s errand runner. If there were secrets to uncover still, then someone else would have to find them.

  “I should go,” said Tochfel. “Coronation preparation.” Verstohlen nodded. “I don’t envy you.”

  The steward withdrew, leaving Verstohlen alone again. He remained silent. His hair lifted in the breeze. Below him, the Aver glittered in the sun. All was as it should be. The mission was concluding and a decision on the succession had been made. When they left Averheim, it would be safe in the hands of a new elector.

  He should have been content. Happy, even. But then he’d never been very good at being content. Not since Leonora’s death. Even in periods of victory, his mind still worked apace, seeking out the potential for danger, fearing the potential for loss. It was not a quality he liked in himself, but he could no more change it than change his past.

  After the coronation Schwarzhelm would leave. The big man wanted to give the news of Helborg’s treachery to the Emperor in person. Verstohlen had been ordered to stay to oversee the remaining work of pacification. There was much to do. Bloch’s army had to be contacted with the news. Leitdorf and Natassja had to be tracked down. The roads had to be made safe again. It was interesting work. Demanding work. Normally, he’d have jumped at the chance to ensure it was done well.

  But not this time. After all that had happened, Verstohlen was sick of Averheim. Though his sense of duty would never let him admit it, he had come to loathe the place. The sooner he could leave and return to Altdorf, the better.

  He continued to look over the cityscape for a few moments longer. Then he turned and headed back into the citadel. The terrace was empty once more, buffeted by the cold wind from the east. There was no corruption in it, but no comfort either.

  Just as it had been for Schwarzhelm’s arrival, the great hall of the citadel was lined with people. The finery was not quite what it was, but given all that had taken place, the noble citizens did as well as they could. If some of the silk had been hastily patched up, and some of the jewellery hanging round the necks of the court ladies seemed slightly tarnished, then people were prepared to look the other way. There was a general sense of relief in the crowds of nobles. Many had only just been able to return to their opulent townhouses after retreating to their country estates. Now they were back, they were eager to see no repeat of the anarchy that had driven them away.

  The great hall had been decorated with banners holding the symbols of Averland. Most were in the black and yellow of the province, decorated with a stylised sun image derived from the lost realm of Solland. There were the devices of the noble families too, as well as the ubiquitous comets and Imperial eagles, griffons and lions. The symbol of the Alptraums was prominent among them, though Verstohlen could see no sign of Ferenc in the crowds.

  The new addition to the rows of standards was the newly embroidered battle-flag of the Grosslich line. It was a gaudy affair. A black boar’s head, surrounded by gold laurel leaves set on a blood-red field. The new elector clearly hadn’t been chosen for his aesthetic sensibility. Still, if that’s what he wanted, that’s what he’d get. No elector had ever been deposed for having a silly flag.

  As the time dragged on, the crowd began to get restive. With the paraphernalia of the witch hunters having been cleared away, the great hall had been restored to its habitual sunlit state. The strong sun lanced through the high mullioned windows. With so many people gathered, the temperature soon started to rise. Verstohlen felt a certain dampness under his collar and eased it open. Grosslich was keeping them waiting. He’d learned a few tricks of the trade, then. Arrive late, leave early.

  Verstohlen turned to glance at the double doors. They were heavily guarded. Grosslich’s personal troops, decked out in the same outlandish livery, stood three-deep at the exit. Leitdorf had still not been found, and no one was in the mood to take any chances. Verstohlen knew that hundreds of Grosslich’s men were prowling the corridors of the Averburg even as the ceremony was due to take place.

  He looked back at the high dais. The members of the Electoral Council had taken their seats. Some of them were old hands. He recognised Tochfel, looking u
ncomfortable in his new crimson garb. Most of the rest seemed to be members of Grosslich’s inner council. Euler was there. That was to be expected. He’d have been foolish not to put those closest to him in positions of power. A good elector knew how to cover his back.

  The crowd grew more restive, and the smattering of gossip began to rise in volume. It was then that the trumpets finally blared out. The brazen notes echoed uncomfortably in the enclosed space, and Verstohlen found himself wincing.

  Then the doors slammed open. A procession of citadel guards strode down the central aisle. As they came, the standing crowds shuffled to make room for them. The soldiers took up their places and turned to face the throng. They placed their spears on the stone in unison.

  Then Schwarzhelm arrived. Verstohlen couldn’t suppress a smile of amusement when he saw him. He knew how much the great man hated ceremonial occasions. He was wearing his full suit of armour, freshly cleaned for the coronation. The metal which had been dented, scarred and covered in gore so recently now shone like starlight. He carried the Rechtstahl in its ancient scabbard and the pendant of Ghal Maraz swung from his neck as he walked.

  Knowing his reputation for irascibility, the nobles crept even further back as he strode towards the dais. Schwarzhelm didn’t make eye contact with any of them. He had the look of a man who would have given money to be anywhere else.

  He took his place at the head of the hall and turned back to face the crowd. There was an expectant hush. For a moment, the only sound was the faint echo of soldiers’ boots as they patrolled the corridors outside.

  Then he arrived. Grosslich emerged in a robe of red lined with gold. That was clearly his favourite combination, though not an obvious choice for a soldier. He wore a loremaster’s cloth cap. Chains of office hung around his neck. Perhaps he was sending a subtle signal here. The time for war had passed, and he was as at home in the garb of a scholar as he was in the armour of a warrior. If that was so, then it boded well for Averland.

  He strode confidently down the aisle. As he went, there was a general murmur of acclimation. Verstohlen might have imagined it, but there were semi-audible sighs from some of the younger women in the chamber. Grosslich was unmarried, and they all knew it. The situation was unlikely to remain the case for long.

  Grosslich approached the dais. Schwarzhelm waited for him like some brooding idol in the jungles of Lustria. Grosslich knelt down. He was showing the proper degree of humility. That was wise.

  “People of Averland,” announced Schwarzhelm. His heavy voice rolled round the chamber. For the first time, Verstohlen noticed the faint Averland accent to it. Strange that he hadn’t before. Perhaps the big man had returned to his roots after all. “By the authority vested in me by the Emperor, and according to the Imperial Law of Succession, I hereby crown Count Heinz-Mark Grosslich the new Elector of Averland. May his reign be long and prosperous. May he be blessed by Sigmar in battle, uphold the law, protect his people and smite the enemies of mankind.”

  With that he took up the gold crown of the Electors of Averland. Grosslich removed his scholar’s hat, and Schwarzhelm placed the jewel-encrusted circlet on his head. The elector remained kneeling. The crown was unimportant. That was just a symbol. The artefact he really wanted was still to come.

  From the rear of the dais, Tochfel shuffled forward carrying a heavy item draped in gold cloth. It was nearly as tall as he was and he looked weighed down with the burden.

  Schwarzhelm took it from him in one hand and swung it around lightly.

  “Behold,” he announced, sweeping the cloth from the blade beneath. “The runefang of Averland, the Sword of Ruin, the holy blade of the people of Siggurd.”

  He brandished the blade. Like all the runefangs, the sword was a work of peerless craftsmanship. The steel glinted in the sunlight, exposing the intricate runes engraved on to the metal. As the runefang was revealed, a sigh of satisfaction passed across the crowd. That was what they had longed to see for so long. The runefang of Averland would be wielded once more.

  With reverence, Schwarzhelm handed the sword to Grosslich. The count stood to receive it, taking it in both hands. For a moment he remained motionless, staring at the sacred sword. Schwarzhelm stepped back, letting him savour the moment.

  Then Grosslich rose and turned to face the crowd. The sunlight from the sword reflected onto his face. He looked the very image of an elector count. He held the runefang aloft in both hands.

  “For Sigmar!” he roared. His eyes were alive with jubilation. “For the Empire!”

  “For the Empire!” cried the crowd before him, before bursting into rounds of cheers. Verstohlen kept apart from the excitement, watching carefully as was his habit. He couldn’t blame them. After years of enduring the mad count, then the painful experience of hiatus, they deserved something to cheer about.

  Verstohlen looked up at Schwarzhelm. Though he wasn’t smiling—which was to be expected—he did have an expression of grim satisfaction on his battered features. That was good. The big man had suffered more than the rest of them. He deserved his triumph. When he returned to Altdorf, he would no doubt receive the full credit for all that had happened here, and Verstohlen knew how much that meant to him.

  Letting his habitual reserve slip for just a short while, Verstohlen joined in the cheers of the crowd. It would have been churlish not to. This was a great day.

  The party had taken a while to die down. After the crowning ceremony, there had been a series of legal procedures to endure. Then the crowd had retired to the grand ballroom in Alptraum’s mansion for a feast of epic proportions. The wine had slopped from crystal buckets all night.

  As he recalled the evening, Elector Count Heinz-Mark Grosslich couldn’t prevent a smile from creasing his broad face. He had done it. After all those months warring against the bastard Rufus, he had done it.

  He trod heavily back to his private chambers, feeling the weight of the runefang against his thigh as he climbed the spiral stairs. He could get used to that. The sword was palpably ancient. He could sense the latent power within the blade. It felt like it was eager to be drawn.

  He arrived at his chambers. Two guards stood to attention as he approached.

  “You can go now, lads,” he said to them.

  They looked back at him blankly.

  “We were ordered to remain here all night, sire,” said one of them.

  Grosslich looked at him benevolently. On another occasion he might have berated them for not following his orders instantly. But he was in a good mood. All had come to fruition. A bright future lay ahead.

  “I don’t think we need worry about my safety tonight,” he said, looking significantly at the sword hanging from his belt. “There’s wine left over in the ballroom. Enjoy yourselves. We’ve all earned it.”

  The two men looked at each other, then grinned.

  “Thank you very much, sire,” one of them blurted, then they were gone, hurrying down the stairs before the rest of the banquet was consumed.

  Grosslich pushed the door open. He smirked a little as he remembered the number of propositions he’d had that night. It wasn’t as if he’d had trouble attracting women before, but it was amazing what an Imperial title did for one’s amorous prospects. He’d almost been tempted to take one of them up on it.

  Almost, but not quite. There was only one woman for him.

  “You’re back late,” said Natassja, drawing the bed curtains aside and rising from the bed.

  Grosslich locked the door and turned to face her. He drew the runefang with a flourish.

  “Look at it, my love,” he said, gazing at the sword with undisguised relish. “Finally.”

  Natassja smiled tolerantly. She was clad in a black nightdress. It clung to her in all the right places. Suddenly, Grosslich couldn’t decide which of the two prizes he was more interested in.

  “Very nice. Now come here.”

  Grosslich put the sword down and approached her. They embraced. As they did so, the candles in the room f
lickered and went out. A lilac glow replaced the natural flame, throwing lurid patterns across the massive four-poster bed. That was more like it. He began to feel at home again.

  “It’s been too long,” he said, gazing into her dark eyes. “Have you found Leitdorf yet?”

  Grosslich felt a little wounded. Was she going to talk business now? This was his hour of triumph. She could show a little appreciation.

  “Not yet, my love. It’s only a matter of time. I’ve hundreds of men searching for him.”

  “Perhaps I can help.”

  “Not until Schwarzhelm’s left.”

  “Indeed. But you’ll like my latest experiments. They may prove useful.”

  Grosslich shivered with anticipation. Natassja’s imagination was terrifying.

  “How did you stand being with that fool for so long?”

  Natassja smiled coldly.

  “He was easy to deceive. Most men are.” She looked into his eyes. Her pupils were mirrored like a cat’s. “Most men. Not all.”

  From somewhere, the aroma of jasmine filtered into the room. The musk was thick and heady.

  “We should be thankful for that. All of this has traded on deception.”

  “There were unexpected factors. I didn’t foresee Helborg. That nearly ruined us.”

  Grosslich laughed then. He couldn’t help it.

  “Of all the ironies. It was Schwarzhelm who cut him down.”

  “You sound surprised. Don’t forget the long hours I spent walking in his mind. I have never been so tested. I couldn’t break him. Not after using spells that would have destroyed a normal man. All I could do was plant the suggestion. Do not be too eager to celebrate. Just as it was with Marius, I couldn’t break him.”

  Grosslich pulled her closer to him. He could feel her body under the nightdress. The anticipation almost made him sick.

  “Enough talking. I am eager to celebrate.”

  Natassja gave him a savage look. With surprising ease, she flung him on to the bed, pinning him down. As her face lowered over his, her feline eyes were filled with a lilac flame. The glow in the room darkened and became more intense.