Swords of the Emperor

by Chris Wraight

  Drassler said nothing. These affairs were beyond his experience, and there was little for him to contribute.

  Kraus listened intently, his narrow eyes glittering. “I was in Averheim with Schwarzhelm,” he said. “Verstohlen said there’d been letters being sent back and forth from Altdorf, though he didn’t know what was in them. He was more worried about the joyroot.”

  “The what?”

  “Smuggling. He thought it might lead to something bigger.”

  “Maybe it has.”

  Bloch felt indecision creep across him. Battlefield tactics were one thing, but making the larger choices was still unfamiliar. He’d been told to recover the Keep and wait for orders. After so much labour, so much hardship, that would have been the safest option. It was the one he’d be expected to take. Not so long ago, he’d been a halberdier captain, hardly more senior than Drassler was now. Every once in a while, he still felt like one.

  “I’m going back,” he said.

  “To Averheim?” asked Kraus.

  “Yes, and you’re coming with me.” He turned to Drassler. “We’ll take two companies of infantry, the Reiklanders. The rest will stay here. You’ll have supplies and artillery, and almost as many men at your command as before.”

  Drassler looked unsure. “There’s much to do here.”

  Bloch nodded. “We’ll stay to secure the Keep and pass. The way-stations need re-manning, and the damage done here repairing. A few days, but no more.”

  “Why Averheim?” asked Kraus, just as warily. “We could send messengers down to Grenzstadt. If Schwarzhelm needs you, he’ll summon you.”

  Bloch shook his head. “Don’t you get it, Kraus? Whoever arranged this was arranging things there as well. I want to see what’s been happening with my own eyes.”

  He looked at the honour guard captain, and his expression was dark.

  “There’s work to do here, and I won’t leave until it’s done, but I won’t stay on the edges forever. Schwarzhelm knew something was happening in Averheim and he was worried about it. Now that we’re finished here, I’m worried too.”

  Kraus looked unconvinced, but didn’t voice any objection.

  “Call it instinct,” said Bloch, feeling only half as confident as he sounded. “Something’s not right down there. It’s about time we found out what.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The sky was chopped up and stormy. Far to the east, heavy clouds had built up on the horizon. A chill wind whipped the grass, tousling it like hair. Stirred by the breeze, the crowns of the trees swayed to and fro, an endless rustling that preyed on the nerves.

  Verstohlen woke late. As he moved, he felt a dull pain in his back. Slowly, the memory of the previous night returned to him. He shivered, trying to blot it out.

  He pulled himself upright, moving slowly to avoid opening the wounds on either side of his spine. The air smelled of charred meat. Something was cooking.

  A few yards away, crouching over a fire, was Schwarzhelm. Two rabbits were roasting, their discarded skins glistening on the grass close by. There were trees all around, and between their slender trunks Verstohlen could see the open, rolling plains of Averland. Not much in the way of cover, but better than nothing.

  The big man looked over his shoulder. He didn’t smile, and went back to cooking breakfast.

  “You slept late,” he grunted. He was right; the sun was high in the sky.

  Verstohlen tried to stretch, but the movement sent pangs of pain down his back. He shuffled closer to the fire, limbs stiff and unresponsive.

  “How did we get here?” he asked. The events of the previous night were confused. He remembered Tochfel and he remembered a chase through the streets of Averheim. Schwarzhelm had killed men, many of them. Then the gates had slammed open, and there was more running. After that, everything was hazy.

  “I brought you here,” he replied. “When you passed out, I carried you. We’re twenty miles east of Averheim. Not far enough. We’ll have to move again soon.”

  Twenty miles. Schwarzhelm must have walked all night and into the morning. Had he slept at all?

  Verstohlen crawled closer to the fire. The rabbit smelled good. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten properly.

  “I had no idea what happened to you,” he said, staring at the flames, remembering the long days with no communication.

  Schwarzhelm didn’t reply, and turned the rabbits over on their twig spits.

  “I was wrong,” said Verstohlen again. He thought of Natassja, of Grosslich, of Leitdorf. “I was wrong about everything.”

  “We were both wrong,” said Schwarzhelm. “Blame won’t change that.”

  He pulled the rabbit meat from the fire and tore it into chunks. He gave Verstohlen half and started munching on the rest. Verstohlen ate quickly, ramming the hot meat down his throat, feeling a bloom of warmth and energy return. Schwarzhelm kicked earth over the fire, killing the smoke. Then he sat back to chew.

  “I sent you messages from Altdorf,” he said, his great jaw working steadily. “You didn’t get them?”

  Verstohlen shook his head. “Not much has come and gone out of Averland.”

  “So how much do you know about what’s happened?”

  “Not as much, I guess, as you.”

  “You guess right.”

  Schwarzhelm sucked at his fingers, leaving flecks of fat in his beard. He looked somehow older than when Verstohlen had last seen him. A cold grief marked his features that hadn’t been there before.

  “Helborg was no traitor,” said Schwarzhelm. There was no emotion in his voice, no condemnation, just the bald facts. “But there was corruption. Heinrich Lassus, my old tutor. He was the one who arranged for me to come here. He knew me better than any man alive. He knew what would prey on my mind, and what would cloud my judgement.”

  As he spoke, the trees hissed in the wind. Verstohlen kept eating, saying nothing.

  “Above all, he knew I’d make the wrong decision. You were allowed to see Natassja Leitdorf, and you were allowed to escape to pass on the tidings. Certain things are now clear to me. She and Grosslich were in league with one another. I don’t know whether Rufus, the husband, knew of their plans or not. Is he dead?”

  “No one knows.”

  “In any case, he’s irrelevant. Grosslich has what he wants. The province is his, and there are men streaming to join him every day. Natassja, you may be sure, is by his side. We have delivered Averland to Chaos, you and I. No mean feat.”

  Verstohlen let the tidings sink in. With every revelation, his part in things seemed more sordid, more damaging.

  “Does the Emperor know?”

  “An army is being gathered. I left him in no doubt of the threat.”

  “But what’s Grosslich’s purpose? He must know he can’t fight the whole Empire, not once the deception is unravelled. There’s something more to this.” He looked up at Schwarzhelm, doubt etched on his face. “Why was Lassus involved?”

  Schwarzhelm swallowed the last of a gristly chunk of meat, wiped his fingers and reached into his jerkin. He withdrew a bundle of letters.

  “These are from his private chambers. The answer will be in them.”

  “So what do they say?”

  “I’ve no idea.” Schwarzhelm tossed them to Verstohlen. “They’re written in cipher. Not one I recognise.”

  Verstohlen unwrapped the bundle and started to look through the leaves. The script was unintelligible. As he scanned the characters, nothing meaningful formed.

  “Me neither.”

  “Then you should get to work. You’re the spy. There’ll be plenty of time to look at them as we travel.”

  Schwarzhelm hauled himself to his feet and went over to his sword, hung from a nearby branch. Leaning against a tree trunk was another blade. It was naked, and a notch had been taken from it halfway along its length.

  “Where are we going?” asked Verstohlen. He knew they needed to move, but his body still ached. He could have slept for another wh
ole day under the shade of the trees.

  “East,” replied Schwarzhelm, buckling the Rechtstahl to his swordbelt. He took up the other sword and gazed at the steel blade for a moment. “This is Helborg’s weapon. It needs to be returned.”

  “But we don’t know if he’s still alive,” protested Verstohlen, getting to his feet with effort. “There’s been no news since—”

  “He’s alive,” snarled Schwarzhelm. For a moment, his eyes flashed with a savage light. “The spirit of the blade is eager to be made whole. It will lead us to the shard.”

  Verstohlen looked doubtful. Averland was a big place, and the mystical power of ancient swords seemed like a poor guide.

  Unconcerned, Schwarzhelm hoisted his bag over his shoulder and began to walk. He had the grim, almost cavalier air of a man who had nothing more to lose. It made Verstohlen uneasy. He looked down at the letters, still clenched in his hand. Nothing made sense. Nothing had made sense for a long time.

  “If you say so,” he muttered to himself, limping after Schwarzhelm and trying to ignore the pain in his back.

  The parade ground of the Imperial College of Arms was full of men. Regiment after regiment entered the open space, wheeled around, paraded across the gravel and wheeled back again. Sergeants shouted orders and cuffed those who failed to keep up. The pace was relentless. The white and grey of Reikland was predominant, but there were many other State colours on display.

  Over eight thousand men, all marching in step. The earth shook under their boots, and this was less than a quarter of the army Volkmar was assembling. When the final host departed for Averheim, it would clog the roads for miles. The baggage train alone was nearly as well-manned as the entire force Schwarzhelm had taken with him to Averland. Chasing greenskins was one thing. Taking back a renegade province was another.

  “They look sloppy,” said Gruppen, standing with Volkmar on an observation platform on the south side of the parade ground. The two of them were alone behind the railing. Above them, the sky was a lighter grey than it had been. The rain was clearing, driven west by powerful winds piling in from the far distant mountains.

  “What do you expect?” said Volkmar. “They’ll learn discipline on the road.”

  “Where do these men come from? I thought the regiments were all in the north.”

  “Some were called back. Some are from the reserves. Some are fresh-drafted.”

  As Volkmar spoke, one unfortunate infantryman stumbled, bringing three of his comrades down with him. The detachment halted in confusion, earning them a tirade of abuse from the sergeants clustered around them. Gruppen shook his head.

  “Little better than murder, sending them into battle.”

  Volkmar scowled. “If I had more time, things would be different.” He turned away from the pacing ranks. “The Emperor wants more speed. The Celestial College has seen portents of a terror growing. We can’t afford to linger until they know how to hold a halberd.”

  Gruppen narrowed his eyes disapprovingly. “A shame they didn’t report such portents before,” he said. “Have they released any magisters?”

  “Two. And we have three Bright wizards, and a trio of Light magisters. Not the best, of course—they’re in Middenheim still—but powerful, all the same.”

  Volkmar had once marched at the head of a host that filled the valleys of Ostland from peak to peak. He’d commanded whole batteries of heavy artillery, capable of razing companies in a single barrage. At the city of the White Wolf he’d stood alongside the defenders while the numberless hordes of Archaon had besieged the walls and the skies had been torn apart by the shadows of madness. Those campaigns had taken weeks to muster. For the retaking of Averheim, Karl Franz had given him days.

  And there was still the doubt gnawing at him. He had yet to discover if Archaon had destroyed more than his body in that duel. He suppressed the doubts, pushing them down beneath an external shell of calm.

  “I won’t lie to you, Gruppen,” he said, his expression like flint. “We could have a hundred thousand such men, and it wouldn’t matter. This battle will be fought by others. The priests. The magisters. The knights. You’ve faced the great enemy before, so you know what to expect.”

  Gruppen nodded bleakly. “How many of those poor scum do, I wonder?” he said, gesturing to the parading regiments.

  “They’ll do their duty,” said Volkmar. “A man should expect nothing more from life.”

  More men filed into the parade ground. These were Middenheimers, greatswords by the look of them, and they marched with the confidence of seasoned campaigners. Gruppen broke into a grim smile.

  “That’s better,” he said. “They look like they won’t run at the first sight of killing.”

  Volkmar said nothing. War was always a dirty, terrifying business, but he wasn’t worried about that. Even the meanest peasant in the Empire had seen killing, and they could all be taught to hold their ground.

  But Chaos was different. He’d seen the reports from the Celestial College, and the looks of fear on the faces of the seers. Something terrifying was growing in Averheim, and if it wasn’t staunched at the source, that terror would just keep spreading. The Emperor was right. They had to meet it head-on, and there was no time to waste.

  “There’s no running from this, Gruppen,” said Volkmar, his voice low. “Not for any of them. It’s stand fast, or die.”

  Kurt Helborg limped along the landing of the Drakenmoor castle, his shoulder aflame with pain, sweat beading on his forehead. He leaned on a staff like an old man, wincing with every step. The infirmity made him furious. Every passing hour wasted in the cause of recovery fuelled the smouldering sense of injustice and frustration. He needed to escape, to take up his sword again, to find the ones who’d done this to him.

  The wound Schwarzhelm had given him was still weeping blood. He’d seen off the fever, but his sinews needed time to knit together. All he could do was rest and wait. The enforced inaction was far more of a torment than the stabs of pain that still ran across his upper body.

  He barely noticed the finery around him. Though the bronze busts of ancient warriors were coated in dust and the woodwork was showing signs of worm, Drakenmoor was still a place of shadowy majesty. The stairways were broad and sweeping, the floor laid with slate tiles, the ceiling plastered and richly decorated. Marius Leitdorf had been wealthy even by the standards of his office, and as Helborg shuffled along he passed priceless urns, irreplaceable statues and portraits by the finest painters in the Empire.

  None of it made the slightest impression. He might as well have been limping through a desolate wasteland. As he went, his breath came in ragged gasps and his teeth clenched hard. His waxed moustache, once his pride and joy, had become straggling and wild, and his dark hair hung down to his collar in matted clumps. Only his eyes, the clear blue eyes that had won the hearts of so many women across so many provinces, still flashed with their old icy intensity.

  Helborg reached the door to Marius’ old study. The old count’s feckless son had spent most of his time locked away in there since they’d arrived. That was no longer good enough. If they were going to survive the storm to come, he’d have to make himself more useful.

  Without knocking, Helborg kicked the door open. It swung back heavily, banging against the wooden panels of the wall.

  Leitdorf was sitting with his back to the door, hunched over his father’s old desk, surrounded by papers. The deposed elector spun round, snapping closed the book he’d been reading. His face was pale, as if he’d been reading horror stories. By the redness of his eyes, Helborg guessed he’d been at it for some time.

  Helborg shook his head. The boy was no warrior. Never would be.

  “Found anything interesting?” the Marshal growled, hobbling over to the single bed against the wall.

  Leitdorf pushed the book under a pile of parchment.

  “My lord,” he replied, ignoring the question. “How are you feeling?”

  “Like a newborn lamb on a warm spring
morning,” Helborg rasped, hoping the sweat on his brow wasn’t too obvious. “Any more stupid questions?”

  Leitdorf looked instantly chastened.

  “Then I’m glad you’re recovering,” he said.

  The last time Helborg had spoken to Leitdorf had been in the Vormeisterplatz. After that, there hadn’t been the chance. It felt strange to be looking at his face again. Leitdorf had lost some weight. Something of the old arrogance had been knocked out of him too, maybe. If so, that was all to the good. Helborg settled on the bed, feeling his muscles protest as he moved.

  “And what are you doing with yourself, Herr Leitdorf?” he said. “How will you aid our fight for survival?”

  “I’m no warrior, Marshal. But if you order me to fight for you, I’ll do what I can.”

  So meek, so defeated. The old Leitdorf would at least have shown some spirit. Helborg didn’t know which incarnation was worse.

  “Damn right you’ll fight,” he snarled, letting his disdain come to the surface. “If you hadn’t brought this province to the edge of ruin, none of this would have happened. Sigmar’s bones, I still don’t know why we’re being chased down by this provincial rabble, nor why that madman Schwarzhelm did what he did.”

  “I do,” said Leitdorf quietly. “I didn’t up until now. Truly, I was as deceived as you. But now some things are becoming apparent to me that should have been clear a long time ago.”

  Helborg paused.

  “Maybe you’d better tell me what you know.”

  Leitdorf turned back to the desk and retrieved the book.

  “I don’t know why I tried to hide it from you,” he said, looking at the cover mournfully. He opened it and began flicking through the pages. “This is my father’s journal. It’s nearly full. The last months of his reign are chronicled here, when the madness was at its height. The final entry describes his preparations to face Ironjaw. A few weeks later, he was dead.”