Swords of the Emperor

by Chris Wraight

  “What is this, my lord?” he blurted, eyes bulging.

  “I’m not sure you’re taking my advice seriously enough, Steward,” snarled Grosslich, giving vent to all of his many frustrations. “Perhaps something of a lesson is in order.”

  “No, my lord!” shrieked the Steward, writhing against the nimbus. “All is perfectly well understood!”

  “Even so.”

  While Eschenbach writhed in the grip of his luminescent collar, Grosslich flicked out his left hand. An iron wall panel slid open, revealing a new chamber beyond.

  “Look at him, Eschenbach.”

  The Steward struggled, unwilling to gaze into the chamber. “It’s not necessary, my lord! Really, you’ve no need to—”

  “Look at him,” commanded Grosslich, feeding the nimbus energy and twisting the man’s neck round to face the revealed chamber.

  Eschenbach’s eyes widened further, and his pale skin went grey with horror. A figure was suspended in the chamber, seemingly hanging in the air. An angry red glow surrounded him, as if flames licked his body. The man’s eyes were even wider than Eschenbach’s. If he’d wanted to close them, he would have needed his skin back. The white of bone glistened amongst the glossy red of the exposed muscle. He should have been dead, killed long ago by shock, but through some forbidden power the unfortunate soul was still alive. His face, what was left of it, was fixed in an open-mouthed howl of utter, unending agony. The pupils stared straight at Eschenbach, pleading for help. From his tortured mouth came only a silent, never-ending scream. He couldn’t produce anything else. He’d never be able to produce anything else.

  “Watch well, Steward,” said Grosslich, ensuring the spectacle had its full effect. “This man once thought to replace me. His family ruled this province, and saw me as a tool for returning to power. This is what happens to those who seek to use me, Herr Eschenbach. This is what they become.”

  The Steward started to whimper, unable to bear looking at the horrific scene before him but prevented from looking away. His smoothness of manner had been torn away. The lesson was having its effect.

  “I can see it!” he cried, desperately trying to avert his eyes. “I understand!”

  Grosslich kept him locked in place. The memory of this would keep him loyal, and now more than ever he needed men around him he could trust.

  “I hope you do,” said Grosslich, enjoying the power flowing from his fingertips. It was at times like this he didn’t regret the choices he’d made. “Forget it, and you’ll end up in an agony chamber. And that’s really not something you want to happen. Isn’t that right, Ferenc?”

  The man in the chamber couldn’t respond. There was only misery left for him, only sensation, only terror.

  In such circumstances, Grosslich could allow his doubts to subside, and to glory in his future power. Averheim was already being moulded to his will. By the time the Empire armies arrived, it would be his own domain, the home of whole legions of terror troops. He would be at the forefront of them, drenched in the gifts of the Dark Prince, ready to meet the weary response of Karl Franz. It would be his realm, the mightiest between the mountains and the sea.

  He tightened his grip on the nimbus, enjoying Eschenbach’s choked crying. The prospect made all the compromises worthwhile. By whatever means, through whatever sacrifice, he would have what he’d been put on the earth for.

  Dominion.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The net was closing in on Verstohlen. The harder he tried to get out of the city, the closer his pursuers got to him. Things were getting difficult.

  Grosslich’s army had swelled to ridiculous proportions, and there were soldiers everywhere. Lines of men waited outside dingy offices in the basement of the old Alptraum residence, desperate to sign up to Grosslich’s expanding ranks in return for their pile of cheap coins and promise of glory. The amount of money changing hands was phenomenal. Every hour, another hundred or so infantrymen swaggered out of the burgeoning drafting houses, each dressed in a crimson tunic and carrying a curved scimitar. Soon there would be more soldiers in Averheim than ordinary citizens.

  That wasn’t the worst of it. There were witch hunters among them, though they weren’t like witch hunters Verstohlen had seen anywhere else. They seized people seemingly at random, dragging them off to the Averburg over the screams of their family. Fear had gripped the city again. No one would say it out loud, but it was slowly becoming apparent what kind of a man Grosslich was. Some still welcomed the firm hand of authority, judging it preferable to have a strong elector than none at all. Others kept their mouths shut, eyes sliding from side to side, waiting for the knock at the door to come for them and watching the streets empty with the coming of the dark.

  All gates to the city were now watched. Verstohlen had visited every portal, hugging the shadows and assessing the chances of slipping out. Passes were now required, issued only by captains in the elector’s direct employ. Only the soldiers seemed to be let in and out at will, plus the carefully scrutinised train of merchants bringing in building materials and weaponry. Some of the traders had strange looks on their faces, and Verstohlen doubted any were Averlanders. Some looked barely human at all.

  So it was that he’d been forced to lay low in Averheim for a second day, observing the degeneration around him, seeing all he’d worked to prevent coming to pass. He felt disgusted at himself. Maybe he’d become arrogant, too pleased with his own skills. Whatever the reason, he’d failed. They’d all failed.

  As night fell, he made his way back to the richer parts of the city, close to the Averburg and the old cathedral. Some of the richer merchants still had a measure of independence, and the streets were slightly freer of soldiers.

  Verstohlen wrapped his coat around him, keeping one hand on his concealed pistol. Ahead of him a broad street ran south, flanked by three-storied townhouses. The buildings were decorated across their gables with scenes of bucolic contentment, all etched in wood by master carpenters, a sign of the wealth of the owners. In the past the windows might have glowed with firelight; now they’d all been shut fast, the doors bolted with many locks.

  Verstohlen hesitated. He didn’t know what to do. The hostelries were dangerous for him now. He’d not been able to get anywhere near Tochfel. Perhaps the Steward had been taken. If so, it would be another mark of guilt to set against his complacency.

  Ahead of him, one of the lanterns flickered and went out. The street slid into darkness. A few still burned further ahead, but they gave off an uncertain light. Mannslieb rode high in a tortured sky, broken by fast-moving clouds from the east.

  Verstohlen leaned against the wall of one of the houses, trying to think. He couldn’t stay outside all night. Perhaps he could go back to Valgrind’s forge, though if Tochfel had been taken that would be as unsafe as anywhere else. His fear was clouding his judgement. Two days without sleep were taking their toll.

  Once again, he remembered Schwarzhelm. There are many ways of attacking a man, subtle ways. Had he said that? It was hard to remember.

  He crept out from under the shadow of the house, determined to keep moving. There might be a safer tavern open in the poor quarter. He needed something to eat and drink, even if it carried a risk with it.

  Another lantern flickered out. That was strange. Verstohlen looked back over his shoulder. The street behind was empty and sunk into darkness. He turned back, flicking his collar up against the chill.

  Then he saw the figure, hunched and cloaked, standing in the middle of the road, no more than a hundred yards away and coming closer. As it came on, the lantern above it guttered and died. They were all being put out.

  “Verstohlen,” the shape hissed, and steam curled from its mouth.

  Verstohlen felt a cold fist of terror close over his heart. His mind raced back to Natassja’s pets, creeping around in their world of blind misery.

  The cloaked figure limped towards him. From under its cowl, something clawed and curved emerged.

  Verstohlen wit
hdrew his pistol and fired. The crack of the report echoed down the empty streets. The creature staggered, bending low. Verstohlen fired again, and the cloaked shape crouched over, rocking on its feet.

  Then, slowly, terribly, it rose again. Under the cowl, two points of lilac flared into life. Metal flashed in the night. It was smiling, and its teeth were made of steel.

  “Verstohlen,” it hissed again, as if by way of confirmation. It had a scraping, rattling voice that was only barely human, but nonetheless horribly familiar.

  Verstohlen felt his breath quicken. Terror gripped him, held him tight in place. Then the creature came for him, exposing long talons, curved and gleaming in the moonlight. It loped towards him in a broken, stumbling run.

  “Holy Verena…”

  Verstohlen fled. Drawing his dagger as he went, he turned on his heels and sped down the streets. Behind him, he heard the horror set off after him. It was faster than the other ones, and something told him it wouldn’t need Natassja nearby to maintain its strength.

  Buildings sped by in the night, blurring like dreams. He felt his foot skid on a patch of slime, and nearly went down. Behind him, close on his shoulder, he could hear the clicking, the scuttle of bone against stone.

  It was getting nearer. He couldn’t turn to check. He couldn’t fight it. He couldn’t escape. With the prescience of those about to die, Verstohlen saw everything clearly. He would be overtaken. The horror would catch him. In every patch of shadow, he saw the masks leering at him, laughing at his failure. The signs had been there. He should have known. Only his pride had let him think he’d defeated them. Now it was over.

  His heart hammering, his lungs bursting, Pieter Verstohlen ran for his life.

  The candle burned low and its light began to fail. Leitdorf reached for another, lit it and held it over the flame until the wax softened, then pressed it into the brass holder. A warm, golden light flooded back across the desk. It was late. The journey had been long and he was tired. He knew he should go to bed. Something, perhaps the sense of familiarity, kept him up.

  They’d arrived at the Drakenmoor castle in the late afternoon. The old stone walls had towered over the bleak land, just as he’d remembered them doing. It wasn’t a true castle, more a fortified manor house in the heart of the moors. The crumbling battlements were mostly for show, and the walls wouldn’t have withstood a determined attack with any kind of artillery. The sheer-sided roofs were missing a few tiles, and broken panes of glass hadn’t been repaired. Still, that was hardly the point. It was secret, and it was far from Averheim. The few resident staff had welcomed him back like the forgotten son he was to them. Gerta, the old nursemaid, nearly blind and bent double with age, had kissed him on the forehead and clamped her arms around him for so long it had become embarrassing. Even Skarr had broken into a laugh at that.

  Now the old house was quiet again and the hastily lit fires were burning low in the grates. Helborg had been given the old count’s master bedroom. The Marshal had been able to hobble up to it unaided, but only just. Even so, it was clear the man’s strength was returning.

  Skarr had organised a watch. Through the night Reiksguard would patrol the countryside around them. For the first time in days, a semblance of safety had returned. It was possibly illusory, and certainly transitory, but at least it was something.

  Leitdorf had taken his father’s private study to sleep in. Alongside the huge desk, still stacked with parchment that the servants had been too timid to remove, there was a narrow bed set against the wall. The old man had often slept there after working late, too exhausted to drag himself along the creaking landing to the opulent master suite. Unlike most of Marius’ private rooms, the study was sparsely furnished and decorated. Icons of Sigmar and Siggurd hung on the dark green walls, flaking with age.

  Unwilling to sleep, Leitdorf had started to leaf through the old papers. It was a sobering business. Most of them were routine orders and reports detailing the dreary minutiae of state. A dispute over land on the Stirland border, a revision of the tax thresholds for smaller farms, a visiting delegation from Wissenland to discuss levies on wine imports. His father’s bold hand was on all of them, making notes or issuing orders to his secretary. The signature, written in a heavy, flowing script, was everywhere.

  Rufus remembered seeing him work when he’d still been a child. He’d managed to evade his nannies and had stolen down the winding interior of the Averburg, darting from shadow to shadow. At that age he’d imagined his father sitting on a golden throne, dictating matters of war and alliance to a waiting army of knights and battle wizards. Instead, when the young Rufus had found him, Marius had been bent over a desk much like the one he sat at now, scribbling on parchment, hunched over a flickering candle flame.

  Rufus remembered the smile creasing the man’s weary face, beckoning him over.

  “This isn’t for you, young one,” he’d said, looking over the piles of parchment with forbearance. “Be thankful for it. Leopold will inherit this.”

  Of course, Rufus hadn’t been thankful then. He’d grown resentful, spoiled and fat as the years passed. Getting his father’s attention had been difficult. Rufus had tried to get noticed in other ways, throwing wild parties and balls, bedding eligible women and then casting them aside, gorging on food and wine while the peasants in the fields laboured to produce it. Even after Natassja he’d continued to indulge his rampant, clumsy lusts, riding out to isolated villages on his estates and picking a girl for his enjoyment over the protests of the serfs. The last one, a few months ago, had proved hardest to tame. She’d given him a brace of scratches to remember her by. He could still recall the look of defiant hatred in her eyes, glistening with hot, furious tears.

  Pathetic. He’d become a laughing stock, a figure of casual hatred, only loved by those so steeped in the Leitdorf blood, like Gerta, that they were blind to the extent of his follies. And in the end, of course, Marius’ mind had begun to turn, and it was too late. Everything was then about plots, and war, and screaming in the night. When Ironjaw had taken the old man at last, perhaps it had been a mercy.

  Leitdorf pushed the papers to one side. Such was his family’s legacy, and such was his inheritance.

  As his fingers ran over the surface of the desk, they caught on a small, leather-bound book, buried under the heaps of paperwork. Knowing full well he should retire and keep his strength for the following day, Leitdorf flicked it open. There were handwritten entries on nearly every page, also in Marius’ script. Some were written as confidently as the signature on his orders; others looked shakier, as if scribbled down in haste.

  He began to read. Some of it was illegible, and other passages didn’t make sense at all. Perhaps written when his father’s mind was beginning to drift.

  And then, as if it had been burned on to the page for that very purpose, there came a sentence that chilled his heart. He dropped the book, hearing it thud on to the desk. It fell open where he’d been reading.

  Leitdorf stayed still for a moment, lost in shock. He no longer needed to read the phrase to see it. He couldn’t have been mistaken. There it was, scrawled in black ink, as plain as a hawk against the open sky.

  Her name is Natassja. And she will kill me.

  Verstohlen felt his strength begin to give out as he ran. His coat streamed behind him, more a hindrance than a help. The houses passed by in a haze of half-seeing. The moonlight covered everything with a faint outline of silver, but the pools of shadows were ink-black and deep as souls.

  The streets were deserted. He had no idea where he was. Perhaps the terror was driving him somewhere in particular. Perhaps not. There was no time to think. He felt his legs protest, his muscles burn. This would be over soon.

  He tore round a corner leading into a small square. Tall buildings on all four sides cut off the light, and it felt like running into a well of shadows. Behind him, the rattling grew even louder. The creature was almost close enough to reach out and touch him.

  Verstohlen veered
sharply to the left, darting to one side and trying to wrong-foot his pursuer. Something snagged at his coat, tearing the leather. Footfalls echoed around the enclosed space, making it sound like there was more than one of him trying to run. The illusion was cruel, only reinforcing his desperate isolation.

  Bone-hard fingers clutched at his coat again, slicing through the expensive leather as if it were the flimsiest of gauze. One more lunge, and the creature would have him.

  Verstohlen spun round, bringing the dagger up hard. He had a glimpse of the monster’s face. It nearly caused him to miss his aim. A ravaged visage, stripped of skin and eyes, studded with brass spikes and needle-tipped incisors. The blank eyes glowed lilac, shining in the night like corrupted stars. An inhuman shriek echoed round the square as Verstohlen’s blade scraped across what remained of the flesh.

  Then he was moving again, running as before, heart labouring, sweat streaming from his brow. The creature barely paused. It scuttled after him, wheezing as it came. There was no blood on the dagger, just scraps of dry skin and sinew.

  Verstohlen had seen enough. The horror had once been a man he knew. Tochfel’s features, or what was left of them, still existed, distorted by pain and artificial hatred.

  The talons groped for him. He felt one of them scrape down his back, cutting through his clothes and drawing blood. Verstohlen roared with pain, twisting away from the agonising touch, feeling himself stumble.

  Verstohlen rolled as he fell, getting his dagger up just in time to parry a fresh plunge of the talons. The Tochfel-creature’s robes fell away and Verstohlen saw the full extent of the man’s transformation. He was naked underneath the flimsy draping, though not much of his old human form remained. He was as much bone and iron as flesh, animated by some dread power and kept alive by forbidden sorcery. Spikes studded his ruined flesh, curved and barbed. A chasm had been cut in his chest and the ribs were still visible across the wound. Within that exposed shell beat a heart, though it was no natural organ. It pulsed with a lurid light, strapped in place with iron bands and surrounded by the eight-pointed star. Tochfel’s residual flesh curled away from it, as if burned by the terrible energy within. The stink of jasmine was pungent and close, as sweet as death.