Swords of the Emperor

by Chris Wraight

  The price was exorbitant. He’d have balked at paying it even in a refined inn. For a moment, he considered challenging it, then changed his mind. He needed to keep a low profile until he could get out of the city.

  “I’ll bring it to you as I leave,” said Verstohlen. The landlord hung around, as if waiting for something. “Was there anything else?”

  The fat man coughed and looked down at his hands. “Maybe, if you’re not having food…” He trailed off.

  “Yes?”

  “I can get it for you. Cheap price. Best this side of the river.”

  Verstohlen looked at him coldly. If joyroot was available even to scum such as this, then the last pretence at controlling the trade must have been abandoned. Grosslich was flooding Averheim with it, just as before. Was he in it with the Leitdorf’s? Or had he taken it over? So much still to unravel.

  “No,” said Verstohlen, his voice quiet and controlled. “A little early for me.”

  The landlord shrugged and shuffled out again, closing the door behind him clumsily. Verstohlen pulled his pistol out from under the sheets and looked over the workings. It was important that everything operated flawlessly. Unless he could get out of the city soon and find his way north undetected, he knew he’d be using it soon enough.

  Rufus Leitdorf watched as the land around him became steadily more familiar. The gorse and heather stretched to the horizon in all directions, rustling gently under a ceaseless wind. The air was sharper than it had been in the lowlands, and in the distance the peaks of the Grey Mountains were just visible, lost in a haze of blue in the far south. A low tide of mist rolled across the depressions in the land, shifting and miasmic, torn into tatters as the breeze across the moors ripped it away. In the far distance there were ruins, tall towers of age-whitened stone marching across the horizon. No human hand had built those places, and no human dwelt among them now. In the vast space between mankind’s scattered settlements, there were still plenty of ancient secrets lying dormant. Drakenmoor was replete with them.

  Leitdorf had been sent to the secret castle twice in the past, once as a child when there was a threat of assassination against him, and once as a teenager. The second time he’d travelled on his own account, albeit surrounded by household servants, Averburg officials and a retinue of armed guards. Growing up as a prince had given him precious little solitude. He found it hard to recall any occasions where there hadn’t been members of the elector’s court hovering around, waiting to take orders from him or pass on new requirements from his father.

  That world, the one of privilege and prestige, had slipped away so fast. Less than a month ago it had seemed like the trappings of true power were firmly in his grasp. He and Natassja had planned so much together, and Averland looked set to have another Leitdorf at its helm.

  He let his gaze drop from the horizon. The memory of Natassja was painful. Like a drug, being away from her was hard. He hadn’t realised, perhaps, how much he’d relied on her, how far the preparations for conquest had been hers, and how many of his considerable resources had been diverted into her policies. The joyroot had been her creation. He had no idea where she’d sourced the first samples. Perhaps he should have inquired more carefully.

  For all her wisdom and perceptiveness, it hadn’t helped them when the hammer-blow fell. No doubt Grosslich had tracked her down by now, and she languished in one of the dungeons of the citadel. Somehow he doubted her spirit had been broken, but feared her body might have been.

  It was unpleasant to dwell too much on that. He had failed her, and he had failed his family. The experience of the entire Empire turning against him, seemingly on the whim of Schwarzhelm and his damnable spy, had shocked him to his core. He should have paid more attention to his lessons in diplomacy. The old fool Tochfel might have been worth listening to more carefully.

  The situation with the Reiksguard was even more puzzling. He could understand well enough Grosslich’s desire to have him hunted down and killed, but to extend it to the Emperor’s own troops? That was bravery bordering on folly, and in the long run such arrogance would surely cost him dear. He’d never have dared such a thing himself, even if matters in Averheim had gone otherwise.

  Leitdorf looked over his shoulder at the carriage, shaking as it was dragged along the uneven tracks towards Drakenmoor. He knew the Marshal was recovering. The knights’ morale had lifted as a result, and they now went more proudly than before, as if defying Grosslich’s pursuers to find them. It was amazing what the presence of a commander could do for his men.

  Leitdorf found himself reflecting on what his own vassals thought of him. The closest to him, soldiers like Klopfer, were surely dead now, caught in the ruin and confusion of Averheim. Even if they hadn’t been killed, none of them would have rushed to fight by his side again. He knew his temper had driven half of his allies away. Like his father, his blood ran hot, ever ready to spill out into some petulant tirade. He’d never been forced to confront the consequences of that, to examine himself against the measure of other, better men. Now, when he looked in the mirror of introspection, he saw a petty character, a bully and a tyrant.

  A shadow passed across him. Skarr had drawn up alongside, controlling his horse with an enviable ease.

  “You look troubled, my lord,” he said, and his severe face twisted awkwardly into something like a smile.

  Skarr had become less brooding since Helborg’s partial recovery. The preceptor still held him responsible for the events of the Vormeisterplatz, but an uneasy truce had developed between them. At least he was being referred to as “my lord” again.

  “I’ve only been here twice,” replied Leitdorf. “And yet it feels like home. I can’t tell you why.”

  Skarr shrugged. “I like this place too,” he said. “The air’s healthier. I can see what your father was thinking.”

  They rode on in silence for a while. Tangled copses of black-thorned briars passed by as the horses trod the winding path. The calls of birds, or something like birds, echoed in the distance, faint against the vastness of the open sky.

  “You know, he wasn’t the madman everyone says he was,” said Leitdorf at length. “He had a temper, but he wasn’t mad.”

  Skarr said nothing.

  “When he came up here, he was more himself.” Leitdorf found himself suddenly wishing to explain everything, to make it clear why things had turned out the way they had. “Everyone said the same about him. It was Averheim that made him angry.”

  “The city?”

  “I saw it for myself. He never slept properly There were bad dreams. It was almost as if…”

  Leitdorf trailed off. It was painful to recall those sleepless nights, the screams of his father echoing down the long corridors of the Averburg. Nothing the physicians could do would ease the pain. Though his father had known the courtiers were laughing at him behind his back, Marius never once shirked his duty as a result of the night terrors. Not once, even though it drove his mind to the brink of breaking.

  “They say he was a proper swordsman,” acknowledged Skarr, and his voice had a grudging approval in it. “The Marshal wanted to offer him a duel, but the opportunity never arose.” The grizzled knight smiled again, this time less forced. “Perhaps, when he’s recovered, you should take up the challenge.”

  Leitdorf felt his pride stung at the mockery, and went red with anger.

  He pushed it down. This was his problem. He had no means of coping with the banter of ordinary conversation. That was why he was feared rather than loved, ridiculed rather than respected. Instead, he did his best to return the smile.

  “I’d not give him much of a fight.”

  Skarr couldn’t disagree, and gave an equivocal shrug. Leitdorf winced.

  “You don’t think much of me, do you, preceptor?” he said.

  Skarr looked surprised.

  “It’s not important what I think. It’s about survival now.”

  “Perhaps.” Leitdorf looked up ahead. The road was curving round to th
e right, snaking steadily up a long, shallow incline. Remnants of the mist curled around the hooves of the horses as they laboured up it, ghostly and insubstantial. The Drakenmoor castle was close, staffed by members of his father’s most devoted staff and safe—for the moment—from the prying eyes of Grosslich. This had been his decision, perhaps the first he’d ever truly made without his father or his wife peering over his shoulder. That was an odd thought.

  “Maybe I don’t think that much of myself, either,” he said. “A man’s defined by what’s around him. I’m beginning to wonder if the company I’ve kept has always worked to my advantage.”

  “War can change a man, my lord,” said Skarr. “I’ve seen it happen. It asks a question of you.”

  “We’re at war?”

  “Assuredly. The Marshal has no thoughts of escaping. He’ll take the fight back to Grosslich.”

  Leitdorf pondered that. Such a course was hugely dangerous. Grosslich had the resources of the entire province at his disposal. It would be easier for Leitdorf to slip over the mountains into Tilea, to lick his wounds amongst old allies of his father and gather strength slowly Staying in Averland was the riskiest option of all.

  And yet the Marshal had not built his reputation for nothing. Now Leitdorf—chubby, tantrum-ridden Rufus Leitdorf—had the chance to ride alongside the legend.

  “So the question will be asked,” he mused. “Let us hope, when the time comes, I have the right answer.”

  The Iron Tower kept growing. Every hour, more metal beams were lowered into place, slotting into a plan of dazzling complexity. Even semi-complete, it had the look of a building that could survive a thousand years. Great spars shot into the air, now reinforced by hundreds of cross-beams. A thick outer shell had begun to creep up in their wake, hard and shiny like the carapace of an insect.

  Halfway up the monstrous structure, a chamber had been created. It was small, just a foretaste of the mighty halls which would fill out the shaft in due course. Giant crystal windows covered three of the walls, and in the centre a curved throne had been placed. There was no other decoration, just blank panels of iron. Natassja’s aesthetic sense had not yet been brought to bear, for this was Grosslich’s commission.

  Standing by the windows, nearly a hundred feet above the centre of the circular plain below, the elector gazed down on the majesty of his creation. Natassja preferred to remain below ground. That relieved him. Though she was as addictive as the narcotics she created, her presence was wearing on his nerves. Grosslich had seen what happened to servants who failed her. From time to time, a nagging doubt even entered the back of his own mind.

  Will I be next?

  No. That wouldn’t happen. He was the lord of this realm, and she was his ally. They both needed each other for the fulfilment of the great vision. Though the mask was gradually slipping away, just as it had to, there was still the appearance of normality in Averheim. The ordinary people could grumble about the imposition of rules and military tithes, but none of them suspected the truth behind the manoeuvrings. The knowledge would come later, once all was ready. In the meantime, they had the joyroot again to addle their minds.

  Grosslich looked down. The elaborate pattern of stonework on the courtyard below was almost complete. It was dazzlingly beautiful. From three hundred feet up, the eventual height of the Tower, it would be even more impressive. The Mark of Slaanesh, etched in circling rows of obsidian and picked out with silver. At ground level, the shapes were unintelligible, and only here was their true purpose apparent.

  He followed the progress of a pack of dog-soldiers as they crept across the open space, far below him. Once he’d have baulked at having such creatures working for him. No longer. He’d seen for himself what the Empire really was: a club for the privileged and the noble-born. It didn’t matter that his bloodline had sent its sons to die on the sodden fields of war, had built up a trade in cattle-rearing from nearly nothing and donated vast sums to the Church of Sigmar and the Knights of the Blazing Sun. For the elite in Altdorf, the Grosslichs would always be commoners. The electoral battle had been about nothing more than blood proofs. The fact that Grosslich was twice the warrior Leitdorf would ever be counted, seemingly, for nothing.

  All that had changed with Natassja. Until she’d proposed her alliance, he’d been a minor landowner and frustrated powerbroker, nothing more. It was she who’d taught him how to use his money, how to influence the right people, buy the right alliances, smooth over the trifling difficulties of the law, and dispose of those who couldn’t be bought.

  Heinz-Mark had learned the lessons well. Only later had the joyroot emerged, and then soon after that the knowledge of her corruption. She’d come to his rooms at night, draped in perfume, and the seduction into the dark had begun.

  Though he’d not known it at the time, that had been his last chance to turn back. By then, though, he was entangled in a thousand deals and treaties. She showed him visions of such splendour, gave him experiences of such magnificence, that he’d been unable to say no. He denied her nothing after that, trapped in the honeypot she’d so skilfully placed before him, addicted to the pleasures she doled out to him like toys to a child.

  Grosslich still liked to tell himself that she needed him, that the plan would have ground to a halt without his efforts. Perhaps that was true in part, but he wasn’t deluded enough to put any faith in it. He was the lesser partner, and that made things dangerous for him. When the Tower was completed and his armies mustered, perhaps Grosslich would have to do something to reinforce his position. She was powerful, to be sure, but only a woman. He was a warrior, tempered by combat since childhood and destined for command. Surely the Dark Prince would reward him when the time came. He had, after all, done so much to please him. There would be opportunities. There were always opportunities.

  There was a knock from the corridor outside. Grosslich turned, his dark cloak following him like furled wings. He gestured with his finger, and twin doors slid back into the iron walls. Eschenbach and Heidegger came in. Far from the prying eyes of the Averburg, they were free to shed their appearance of normality. Eschenbach had let his eyes resume their pink hue and had donned robes of subtly shifting colour. Heidegger looked perfectly normal, although the mania in his eyes was more pronounced. The poor dupe was working under a heavy burden of interwoven spells, and still believed he was doing Sigmar’s holy work. Despite the abundance of evidence of Chaos around him, the part of his mind that could discern the world truly had been drilled out by Natassja. Now he only saw what she wanted him to see.

  Grosslich had to hand it to her. Subverting a witch hunter was hard.

  “Report,” he ordered, walking over to the throne and taking his seat.

  “The executions you ordered have been carried out,” said Heidegger, his eyes flickering back and forth. The man’s mind was cracking. “The objections of Steward Tochfel seem to have been overcome, though I wasn’t able to see him personally to confirm this. More heretics have been unearthed and justice handed out according to your instructions.” The old man shook his head. “So much corruption here,” he mused. “When will they ever learn?”

  “When indeed?” agreed Grosslich. “Thankfully, your services have been invaluable, Herr Heidegger. Continue the programme. We cannot stop until all faithless have been uncovered, though I assume you have not yet found the spy Verstohlen?”

  “Not yet, my lord. We found evidence of him at a boarding-house on the east side of the river. He must still be in the city, since the ordinance on movements prevents any unauthorised departure. The end will come soon for him, you may be sure of it.”

  “Good,” said Grosslich. “Then I will not detain you from your work. Go now, and report to me again in two days.”

  The corrupted witch hunter bowed again and shuffled out, the doors sliding open to allow his passage.

  Eschenbach watched him go with ill-concealed scorn. “Do we need his services still? His stench sickens me.”

  “You should learn to
value him,” warned Grosslich. “As with everything we’ve done, appearance is important.”

  “Really?” said Eschenbach, his teeth exposed. “Leitdorf and his men are gone, Schwarzhelm is gone, and the spy will soon be dead. It offends my sense of propriety that we continue to maintain this charade.”

  Grosslich frowned. He’d promoted Eschenbach himself, one of the few members of the cabal not to be brought in by Natassja. Could he really be so stupid?

  “I don’t think you fully appreciate the balance here,” he said. “The Emperor knows of our allegiance now. Do you think he will hesitate to send an army here? One is already marching, and it will be ten times the force Schwarzhelm had. While we prepare for it, we must maintain the little game, keep the province quiet and give us the space we need.”

  Eschenbach shook his head. “It disgusts me. I have to deal with dullard thugs in the Averburg as if they were equals. I would rather tear their stomachs from their fat bodies and eat them before their own eyes.”

  Grosslich listened with some weariness. Eschenbach was proving a disappointment. He didn’t need sadists and madmen around him—the dog-soldiers were perfectly capable of dealing out terror. He did need advisers with a clear head and a strategic grasp. He began to suspect that Natassja had let him promote Eschenbach because he was a liability.

  “There’ll be plenty of time for that,” Grosslich said. “In the meantime, double the supply of root to the markets, and see that the price goes down. And speed up the recruitment drive. We’ve not got enough men yet, and she’s getting impatient.”

  “Gold supplies are running low. These troops aren’t cheap.”

  “Keep spending it. More will come. Don’t disappoint me, Steward.”

  Eschenbach gave out one of his fat, thick-lipped smiles. “Of course not,” he replied smoothly.

  Something about the man’s manner stung Grosslich then. He extended his hand, and a nimbus of lilac quickly formed around Eschenbach’s neck. The Steward clutched at it, suddenly panicked.