Swords of the Emperor

by Chris Wraight

  “And so you shall. Just remember who’s in charge here.” Grosslich grinned.

  “As you wish, my love,” he sighed. “Everything shall be just as you wish.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Schwarzhelm waited. That wasn’t something he was used to doing. The mirrored corridor ran for over a hundred yards, and he was the only one in it. Not even the Reiksguard came down here to disturb the peace. The Emperor knew he was there. And still he waited.

  He ran his mind over the past few days. At times there were gaps in his memory. Half the time it had felt as thought he’d been fighting against his own nightmares. The moments he remembered vividly were the deaths. Grunwald. Helborg. Although maybe he wasn’t dead yet. The body hadn’t been recovered. He didn’t know what to hope for.

  After the trails of the past few weeks, the journey back from Averheim had been easy. As Schwarzhelm had ridden north, the weather had turned. The open skies had been replaced with slate-grey cloud. Altdorf was sodden with rain. The gutters were overflowing, the roofs dripping, the river turgid and filthy. It felt just as the Empire should feel. Averland was a strange and unsettling place in comparison. He was glad to be away from it.

  “Come!”

  The voice echoed down the mirrored hallway. As he answered the summons, the Sword of Justice clanked on his belt. He carried the Sword of Vengeance in his hands. Helborg still had the scabbard, for all he knew. The bare metal was almost flawless in his hands. He’d washed the blood, his own blood, from it carefully. The only blemish was the notch. The one he’d caused.

  Schwarzhelm walked to the gold-lined doors at the end of the corridor. The Imperial seal had been inscribed on them in ithilmar. They must have been fabulously expensive. He pushed against them and they swung open smoothly.

  The chamber beyond was completely different. It was vast, dark and old. Rows of bare stone columns marched along its flanks. The windows were tall and narrow, like those of a fortress. The grey sky outside only let a meagre light bleed into the shadowy space. At the far end of the chamber, hidden by the gloom, a massive altar of Sigmar had been carved. Unlike the gilt images in most Imperial chapels, it was simple. The stonework was crude. Schwarzhelm could just make out the brooding face of the God-King looming above him. The long-dead sculptor had chosen to accentuate the unforgiving aspect of the Imperial deity. He brooded over the mournful space like a wronged patriarch.

  The Emperor sat on a simple chair in the centre of the nave. There was no other furniture in the room. His robes were dark and simple. Like the image of Sigmar above him, he did not smile.

  Schwarzhelm approached the chair and bowed. The Emperor said nothing.

  “There is an elector in Averland, sire,” said Schwarzhelm. His voice echoed around the vaulted chamber. “The task has been accomplished.”

  Karl Franz nodded. Still he said nothing.

  “There is other news.” Schwarzhelm offered him the runefang. The Emperor took it and placed it on his lap. He stared down at the dark blade. In the poor light it looked dull, as if carved from obsidian.

  “I know why you bring me this,” said the Emperor. His voice sounded hollow. All the easy diplomatic charm of their last meeting had gone. He looked like a bereaved father.

  Schwarzhelm should have known better than to hope he could break the news. Karl Franz had ways of gathering information that were unknown to all but himself.

  “I had no choi—”

  “There is always a choice.” The Emperor’s face shook with grief and anger. He locked eyes with Schwarzhelm. In them was grief. Bottomless grief. “Are you absolutely sure? Is there any room for doubt?”

  For a heartbeat, Schwarzhelm paused. Of course there was doubt. Every waking moment since the Vormeisterplatz there had been doubt.

  “He was fighting for Leitdorf, whose corruption has been verified by those close to him.” As he spoke, the words sounded cold and officious. “The witch hunters have confirmed what we feared. I am sorry. He was working against us.”

  The Emperor stood up. The sword in his lap clanged to the floor, and the echoes ran into the dark recesses of the chamber. He’d never have treated the sacred blade thus had its wearer been present. Besides the loss of Helborg, clearly nothing else mattered.

  He walked up to Schwarzhelm. Though his body remained still, his eyes blazed with a cold fire.

  “I don’t care what the witch hunters say,” he said, his voice low and fervent. “I’ve fought with him. You’ve fought with him. He led my armies. If there is any doubt at all, even the slightest possibility you’re wrong—”

  Then it was Schwarzhelm’s turn to feel the anger boil over within him. He towered over the Emperor. He could understand his grief. They all grieved. He hadn’t been there. He hadn’t seen the sickness.

  “What do you want me to say?” Schwarzhelm cried, balling his fists impotently. He felt like he wanted to strike out at something. “I carry out every task you ask of me! Averheim was a den of Chaos. We have rooted it out. The greenskins have been destroyed. A new elector sits on the throne. What more could I have done?”

  Karl Franz withdrew half a pace. His eyes betrayed his surprise. No one spoke to him like that.

  Schwarzhelm felt his iron-hard voice crack with emotion.

  “He was my brother. Do you think, if I didn’t believe it…”

  Then there was nothing else to say. He saw Helborg’s final look again in his mind’s eye. Why are you doing this Ludwig? The betrayal.

  The Emperor didn’t reply. He turned slowly, bent down and retrieved the sword. He looked like an old man then, bereft of his habitual assurance. The years had not been kind.

  Schwarzhelm stood stiffly, as cold and solid as the columns on either side of him. The silence filled the chamber.

  “You’re not sure he’s dead,” said the Emperor at last.

  Schwarzhelm shook his head. “The Reiksguard took him. The ones he rode with.”

  “My Reiksguard. That is something.” The Emperor sat in the chair once more. His expression remained dark. “If he still lives, he must be taken back alive. I want him brought here. I will examine him. None but I shall examine him. Leitdorf doesn’t matter. But Helborg…”

  Schwarzhelm felt the old shame return. Like a boy, he’d always been competing with Helborg for his master’s attention. Even now, with his rival declared a traitor and struck down, he was still competing.

  “You want me to go back?” Schwarzhelm couldn’t conceal his hatred of that idea. The Emperor shook his head.

  “I think you’ve done enough, don’t you?”

  That cut deep. The Emperor seemed to regret it as soon as he said it. He drew in a deep sigh, and looked at the dark blade again.

  “You think I’m being harsh on you, Ludwig,” he said softly. “I do not mean to be. But he was like a son to me. You both were. Even his death in battle would be preferable to this… corruption. While there’s the slightest shard of doubt, I’ll not let it rest.”

  Schwarzhelm hung his head. He wondered how many interrogations had been performed here. The Emperor chose no audience chamber lightly.

  “Maybe I have erred,” said the Emperor. “Your rivalry was useful to me. I liked the fact you competed. It kept you both strong. I should have realised the potential for harm.” He ran a finger down the cold length of the runefang. It paused at the notch in the blade. “Perhaps he delved too deep for a way to best you. If so, then I am to blame.”

  The Emperor looked up at Schwarzhelm. Some of the rage had left his expression, but the grief remained, scored across his face.

  “I trust your judgement, Ludwig. I always have. You’ve done as I asked you. None could have done more. I want you to take some time to yourself now. The war continues in the north. You’ll be needed there soon. But do not leave straightaway. I have kept you too busy. You need some rest.”

  Schwarzhelm began to protest. Rest was the last thing he needed. The Emperor held a warning hand up.

  “Enough. I will
not debate this with you. Return to your lodgings in Altdorf. I’ll see to the remaining business in Averland. Perhaps I should pay a visit to this Grosslich. Or maybe summon him here.”

  He looked directly into Schwarzhelm’s eyes. The gaze was not without sympathy, but it was iron-hard.

  “I’ll call for you when you’re recovered. In the meantime, do not leave the city. That is an order.”

  Schwarzhelm thought about protesting. There were things he could do, services he could render. He thought of Turgitz, of the greenskins. Without his expertise, the armies of the Empire would be weakened. They’d already lost Helborg.

  It was no use. He’d seen similar expressions on the Emperor’s face before. As he’d always known, there were some kinds of warfare he would never win at.

  “Yes, my liege,” he said, forcing himself to keep his voice level.

  There would be no victory parade this time.

  Skarr looked down at Helborg’s face. The stricken Marshal lay amid piles of the finest goosedown linen. His old bandages, stiff with dried blood, had been taken from him and replaced with fresh ones, expertly wound. Fragrant herbs and salves had been crushed into the wound. Prayers had been said by the priest and passages of holy scripture recited over him.

  For the time being at least, it had done no good. Helborg was barely alive. But at least he was off his horse and out of the wilds. It had taken them two days to ride to the first of Leitdorfs safe houses. Then they’d moved on, heading further east after every rumour of Grosslich’s pursuit. Now, deep in the countryside, far from the well-travelled roads, they were hidden. For now. The Leitdorfs had more than one great house in Averland, but Grosslich would find them all in the end.

  No colour had returned to the Marshal’s cheeks. The wounded man looked like one of the undead. Skarr pressed his finger against the carotid, feeling carefully. There was a faint pulse. So faint, it was easy to miss. He was on the border between life and death. Skarr withdrew his hand. Helborg’s eyes remained closed. His breathing was thin and ragged.

  Skarr stood up from the bed.

  The wound on Helborg’s cheek had closed at last. After the apothecary had finished, Skarr had taken the shard of the Klingerach and kept it. Probably a useless gesture, but the runefang was sacred. He could sense the ancient metal against his skin as it hung from the chain around his neck.

  Skarr withdrew from the bedside. A fire blazed in the hearth even though the sun still shone warmly outside. The apothecary had advised them to keep the room heated. He reached for a log and threw it into the flames. The wood crackled as it settled, spitting sparks.

  “What do you think?” asked Leitdorf. The man sat in an extravagantly upholstered chair in the corner of the room. This whole place was extravagant. His father had clearly had money to waste on it, even though it was just one of many country houses kept in his name. Marius’ portrait hung from nearly every wall in the mansion.

  “He’s strong. But I don’t know.” Skarr sat down opposite Rufus. “How long before Grosslich’s men come after you here?”

  Leitdorf shrugged.

  “There are other places, even more remote. When he can travel, we can move again. None of my people will talk.”

  Skarr smiled humourlessly. “They will, if Grosslich sends interrogators worth anything.”

  “We have some time yet. Word has already got out. There are many who’ll bear arms for me in this part of the world.”

  Skarr suppressed a snort of derision. He placed more faith in his own Reiksguard than in whatever forces Leitdorf could still muster. Still, the safe houses were essential.

  “What are you going to do now?” asked Leitdorf.

  Skarr paused. He’d given it a great deal of thought as they’d ridden east, away from the harrying of Grosslich’s troops. If he’d learned one thing, it was that they were still in mortal danger. For whatever warped reason, the entire province had been raised against them. Schwarzhelm must have been a part of it. That was terrifying enough. If even the Emperor’s Champion could turn traitor, then something was horribly awry. He could still see the blood-streaked face, the staring eyes.

  “We’ll give the Marshal time to heal. I don’t know what’s happened here to make us fugitives, but I’ll not risk harming his recovery.”

  “And if he doesn’t recover?”

  Skarr looked at him darkly.

  “If that comes to pass,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “then I will hunt down the one who has done this. I will hunt him across the Empire, and I will hunt him across the length of the Old World if I have to. And then, Sigmar and the fates willing, I will do to him what he has done to my master.”

  Skarr looked at Leitdorf, not bothering to hide the murderous feelings stirring within him.

  “Vengeance will come. You may count on it.”

  Schwarzhelm knocked on the door. Lassus’ house was just as he remembered it. Neat, orderly, unassuming. The rest of the General’s Quarter was similarly unprepossessing. The weather had turned cold and blustery, and the topiary in the generals’ gardens looked more fragile than ever.

  After a few moments, there was a heavy click as the door was unlocked. Then it swung open, revealing Schwarzhelm’s master. Heinrich Lassus looked, if such a thing were possible, a little older. His face was more lined, his skin drier. Only the eyes still gave away his essential vitality. They still glittered with the acute edge that had made him such a feared general in his day.

  “So. You’re back.”

  Schwarzhelm ducked under the lintel.

  “I said I’d call.”

  “You’re always welcome.”

  Lassus led him through into one of his private rooms. Leather-bound books lined the uneven walls. A fire burned in the grate. The wooden floor was hidden with a series of fine rugs. Over the mantelpiece hung some mementos of Lassus’ time marching under the Emperor’s banner. A ceremonial dagger. A fine Boccherino pistol. A beast’s skull, lovingly cleaned and hung.

  “You were successful, then?” asked Lassus, lowering himself carefully into a low chair. Schwarzhelm sat opposite him. The warmth from the fire was welcome. After so long in the heat of Averland, the damp of Altdorf took some adjusting to.

  “Grosslich was appointed. What else have you heard?”

  Lassus shrugged. “Some news came my way. I know there was trouble.”

  Schwarzhelm wondered why he’d come. He didn’t need a confessor. Or perhaps he did. The enforced inactivity was driving him to distraction.

  “Something like that. Have you heard the news of Helborg?”

  “Nothing reliable. He’s not been seen here for weeks. I was told he was in Nuln.”

  “Then you’ve not heard. He was implicated in it all. With Leitdorf. There’s testimony from the witch hunters.”

  Lassus paused.

  “What are you saying?”

  “That he was a traitor, master. That’s what I’m saying.”

  A flurry of emotions passed across the old man’s face in rapid sequence. Amazement. Disbelief. Anger. Confusion. Schwarzhelm had been there ahead of him. He’d expected nothing less. Helborg had been the golden boy. It would take time for people to get used to the idea.

  “You must be mistaken.” The tone was a familiar one. It had been used when Schwarzhelm had made a mistake on the training ground. Or not tried hard enough. Or lied.

  “He tried to kill my counsellor. He rode against us in battle. If I’d not been there, he’d have killed Grosslich too.” Schwarzhelm felt suddenly weary. This had been a mistake. He’d not come here to rehearse the arguments again.

  He’d been running them through his head for days already. “We fought. The two of us.”

  Lassus was looking at him with a kind of horrified, rapt attention.

  “And?”

  “I’m still here.”

  The old man shrunk back in on himself, looking horrified.

  “Blessed Sigmar!” he whispered, shaking his head. “By all the saints.”

/>   “Chaos was at work in Averheim. Leitdorf and his witch were behind it. I don’t know how Helborg was dragged in, but it matters little now. They are all destroyed.”

  “And Grosslich?”

  “He is safe. My agent is still with him. Bloch, my commander, remains in Averland. I’d hoped to join him, to organise the rebuilding. That won’t be possible now.”

  “Why not?”

  “I am forbidden to return. The Emperor wishes me to have nothing more to do with the affair.”

  It was only then that Lassus seemed to notice the anguish on his face. Schwarzhelm knew he hid it badly. The trust of the Emperor had been everything to him. The knowledge that it had gone was a bitter taste to take. As bitter as gall.

  “I had no idea.”

  “Of course not. We spoke in private. I should not be talking to you about any of this.”

  “I’m glad you did, Ludwig. Did I not warn you there would be treachery in Averland? But you have prevailed. Can you not take some pleasure in that? You have done what was asked of you.”

  Those were the words that were hard to take. Not the scorn, not the criticism. Sympathy was the most painful gift of all.

  “But at what price?” Schwarzhelm felt as if he was back on the training fields, holding a sword for the first time.

  He was sick of the doubt, sick of the uncertainty. It was as if a part of him had been wounded in Averheim and had never truly recovered.

  Lassus rose from his chair with difficulty. His hands shook slightly. He limped over to a cabinet on the far side of the room and poured himself a goblet of wine.

  “Will you have one?”

  Schwarzhelm shook his head. Lassus took a swig, then refilled the goblet. As he retook his seat, the shaking had reduced somewhat.

  “I’d not expected this news,” he muttered. “Helborg gone. Could things be worse?”

  “They could. He might not have been discovered. He might be in Averheim with Leitdorf now. With the Emperor’s armies occupied in the north, what would there be to stop him? It could have been much worse.”