Swords of the Emperor

by Chris Wraight

  Leitdorf had a crushed expression on his fleshy face. As he spoke, there was little sign of the shrill self-importance that had coloured his speech in Averheim.

  “Much of it will be of interest only to me, I suspect. But there’s something else. He mentions dreams, terrible dreams in which the great enemy comes to him, tempting him to turn to darkness. He sees war over Averland, vast armies clashing under a tower of iron. Again and again, he mentions a woman, tempting him to join her, offering herself to him if only he will turn. Each time he resists, the madness gets worse. He knows it’s killing him. That’s why the coming of Ironjaw was, in its own way, a relief. Better to die fighting than lose his mind.”

  Helborg listened carefully, resisting the temptation to interrupt.

  “She had a name,” said Leitdorf. “Natassja. Not a common name in the Empire, as you know. The kind of name you’d remember. He mentions it over and over again. Sometimes he descends into gibberish, but always returns to Natassja. He knows she’s trying to turn him to the darkness, and can’t do anything about it. He couldn’t find her in the real world, just in the dreams, but he knew as surely as anything that she was going to drive him mad.”

  “Your wife,” said Helborg, finally remembering the name from the briefing Skarr had given him in Nuln.

  Leitdorf nodded bitterly. “The same.” He looked up at the Marshal, horror in his eyes. “Even now, even after being driven out of Averheim, I thought she was the one ally I had left. The worst of my many errors. She destroyed my father, and now she’s destroyed me.”

  Helborg let the information sink in, weighing up the implications. A sorceress, then, working to subvert the ruling line of Averland. If she could turn minds to insanity, then that explained Schwarzhelm’s rages. Helborg had always assumed Marius’ madness was due to a weakness in the man’s blood, just as had the rest of the Empire. Perhaps that explanation had been too simple.

  “Your wife,” he mused. “So what are you telling me, that you didn’t know she was corrupted?”

  Leitdorf shook his head. “I thought the accusations were lies, spread by Grosslich. By all that’s holy, Marshal, by the blood of Sigmar and all the saints, I swear I never knew.” His eyes seemed to lose focus. “I never knew…”

  Helborg pushed himself up from the bed with difficulty and got to his feet.

  “Don’t you dare start whimpering, man,” he growled. “She was your responsibility, and you let her play you for a cuckold. A sorceress and an elector. Morr’s teeth, Leitdorf, can you see what you’ve done?”

  Rufus looked up at him, a flash of the old anger in his eyes.

  “Remember who you’re talking to!” he snarled. “I may have lost the city, but I am the rightful Elector of Averland.”

  Helborg smiled inwardly. This was better.

  “So you say. You’ve nothing to back up that claim but old heirlooms and a crumbling castle. I’m not impressed.”

  Leitdorf sprang to his feet. He looked more comical than threatening, clad in his sagging, travel-worn clothes and carrying the vestiges of his pot-belly. The fury on his face was real enough, though, and he drew his ancestral sword, the Wolfsklinge, with a deadly flourish.

  “I have this,” he hissed. “Where is your blade, mighty hero of the Empire?”

  They locked eyes. Helborg met his gaze. For a moment, Leitdorf managed to hold it, driven by his anger. Then his face fell. Next to Helborg he was little more than a soft, aristocratic fop, and he knew it.

  “I have no sword,” said Helborg. “You know why that is. But you have an armoury here—I’ll take one of yours. And we’ll use it to arm the others who will come.”

  He leaned forwards and grasped Leitdorf’s shoulder. The grip was tight, and his fingers dug into the pudgy flesh unmercifully.

  “We’ve all been betrayed,” he said. His voice was as hard as pack-ice. “You can sit here and cry about it, or look for a way to strike back. You have natural allies here, men whose allegiance was to your father. We can use that loyalty. Today, we have fifty men under arms. Tomorrow, we’ll add another fifty from the villages around. By the time Grosslich gets here, the countryside will be alive with his enemies.”

  Leitdorf raised his head again. There was a kind of strangled hope in his face, but also doubt. He’d never been forced to command before. For all his bluster, the man was afraid, deeply afraid.

  “They’ll follow you,” he said. “Why would they follow me?”

  Helborg maintained the vice-like grip on his shoulder. It burned his wound to hold the position, but he ignored the pain.

  “Because you’re the elector, Herr Leitdorf. It’s what you said you wanted. Now it’s here, what will you do? Will you keep running? Will you bury yourself in old books, hunting for answers? Or will you turn and fight? This is the test, my friend. Your father faced it. Now you must choose.”

  Leitdorf stood still for a moment, his body tense, his face wrought with indecision. He wavered. For a moment, Helborg thought he’d turn away again. Then the torment passed. Leitdorf withdrew from Helborg’s grip and sheathed his sword, sliding the steel back into the scabbard clumsily.

  “There’s more in the notebooks,” he said, his voice calmer than before. “I’ll study them. But when the time comes, I will ride beside you, Marshal. I’ll find the one who wounded me, even as you will find the one who wounded you. Averland will be restored, and I will lead it.”

  Helborg smiled again, this time with no rancour. There were challenges ahead, but first test had been passed.

  “So be it,” he said. “We’ll ride together.”

  Gerhard Mulleren locked the doors carefully and headed back to the kitchen. The geese were still hissing in the yard as if the End Times were upon them, but he couldn’t see anything out there. A fox, perhaps, prowling round the edge of the farm, sniffing for loose chickens. Wolfen, his old hound, slunk along beside him, eager to get himself in front of the range and warm up. The air had a chill in it which didn’t bode well for winter. A cold mist had rolled down from the highlands, out of season and unwelcome.

  Gerhard sat down in front of the range, opened the iron door and threw another log on the fire. The still-warm embers flared up. It was late, nearly two hours after dark. The old farmer sat forwards, warming his hands as the timber crackled and spat. He had to get some rest. He’d be up before dawn with the animals. The summer had been a good one, but there were always shortages, always things to buy. The long plough had finally given out, and there was only so long he could rely on the ancient shire horse to keep going.

  He was getting too old for this himself. It was about time one of his sons took the business over. They were too fond of ale, and too fond of the women that came with it. The time had long passed for them to take a step forwards and assume a man’s proper role.

  Wolfen gave a weary snort and lay down in front of the range. The old hound had stopped shivering, which was a relief. Gerhard had never seen him so agitated. The mist had done it to him, probably. Spooked him. Anything out of season would spook a farmer’s dog.

  There was a noise behind him, and he spun round, heart beating. Rosamunde stood at the foot of the stairs, carrying a candle and looking full of slumber.

  “What in Morr’re you doing, woman?” he snapped irritably.

  “Can’t sleep,” she mumbled, coming over to the fire.

  She was a big-boned woman, and always had been. When she sat next to him on the bench, the wood flexed under her weight. Gerhard couldn’t complain about that. He liked a bit of meat to hold on to in the cold winters, and she’d given him five sons, two daughters and a handsome dowry. At least one of them was bound to turn out for the good. For all her carping, Rosamunde was a fine woman.

  “I’ll draw you a cup of milk,” said Gerhard, getting up and heading to the corner of the kitchen where a collection of earthenware jugs stood, covered in fabric. Outside, the wind was getting up. The geese kept hissing, and in the far distance he heard a dog barking wildly. Wolfen pricked
his ears up.

  “That Dieter’s hound?” asked Rosamunde, waking up a little.

  “Guess so. There’s a wind up tonight.”

  Rosamunde shook her head to clear it. “I had bad dreams.”

  Gerhard brought a mug of milk over, frothy and pungent from the udder. “Forget about it. It’s a wild night.”

  She took the mug and cradled it in her palms. Her normally rosy cheeks were pale.

  There was a rattling sound from outside the window. Rosamunde stiffened.

  “What’s that?” she asked, eyes suddenly wide open.

  Gerhard felt his heart start to thump again. He’d heard it in the yard, and it had sent the geese wild. They were still hissing and honking like a crowd of flagellants on a holy day. He was beginning to get unnerved himself. Something was out there.

  “Ignore it,” he said, failing to keep the fear from his voice. “Go to bed. I’ll take Wolfen out for a look.”

  More rattling. The hound started to whine, and crept under a bench, tail shivering between his legs. Much use he was.

  Rosamunde stood up. The mug of milk fell to the ground, and the liquid streaked across the rushes on the floor.

  “There’s someone in the yard, Gerhard,” she insisted, looking more scared by the moment. What had her dream been about? “Get the axe.”

  “It’s in the shed.”

  “What’s it doing in the shed?”

  “I left it there.”

  “Morr’s bones! Go and get it!”

  Panic was rising. Gerhard knew he wasn’t going outside, not for all the jewels of Ind. He threw another log on the fire, sending more light across the kitchen. As the wood left his hands, he saw how much they were shaking. He was scared. He hadn’t been this scared since his service in the regiment, and that was now years ago.

  “What’re you going to do?” demanded Rosamunde. Her voice was climbing up the register, getting higher pitched with fear. The clicking got louder.

  “Go to bed, woman,” growled Gerhard, picking up a poker from next to the range. Wolfen whimpered and crept further out of harm’s way. “I’ll handle this. It’ll be lads from the village, playing a prank.”

  She stayed where she was, rooted to the spot. She spun round, looking at the window on the far side of the room. It was beginning to open.

  “Gerhard!” she screamed, pointing at it and shaking.

  Gerhard found that he couldn’t move. His limbs seemed welded together, as stiff as beams of iron.

  “Do something!” she shrieked, equally unable to move. Something was climbing inside. Bone fingers crept over the sill, scraping against the plaster. A vase was knocked over, sending the cut flowers skittering across the floor.

  “Wolfen!” ordered Gerhard, pointing at the window with trembling fingers. “Get ’im!”

  The dog bolted, not for the window but for the stairway leading up to the bedrooms above. He’d never been allowed up there. The terror had overridden any commands Gerhard could have given him.

  “Who are you?” Gerhard cried out, feeling himself lose control of his voice. He backed towards Rosamunde, clutching at her instinctively. She clutched back, and the two of them huddled in the middle of the room.

  The bone fingers reached down to the floor, followed by a thin arm. A cowled head emerged, pushing the lace curtains aside.

  More rattling sounded from the other side of the room. Something was scrabbling at the door. There were more of them.

  “Get out!” screamed Rosamunde, tearing at her hair. “Get out of my house!”

  The figure at the window dropped inside, sprawled on the floor like a crushed spider. Its hair hung lank around its slim face, and iron studs gleamed from its limbs. It looked like a girl, near-naked. She must have been perishing cold, and her skin was as white as the moon.

  Gerhard wanted to say something, do something heroic, get them out of his farmhouse. The door was now rattling on his hinges. They were going to knock it down.

  “What do you want?” he pleaded, nearly sobbing with terror. They kept rattling, just like mechanical dolls.

  The first one lifted her head. She had no eyes, just blank plates of metal. She grinned wide, exposing drilled-sharp teeth. Her fingers clacked together, dagger-quick blades rubbing against each other like a butcher’s sharpening knives.

  “Helborg!” she hissed, her voice echoing from the walls. “Helborg!”

  “What?” screamed Gerhard. “This is Mofligen, by Ruppelstadt! Not Helborg! Leave us!”

  The door slammed open, ripped from its hangings. Another horror came in, clad in rags like the first, hissing and wheezing. Its knife-like fingers trailed on the ground, leaving grooves in the hard stone.

  “Helborg!” it cried.

  There was another one behind it, just like the rest. Three of them. They limped towards Gerhard and Rosamunde, their grins impossibly wide, skin stretched tight, teeth snapping as they came.

  “Helborg!”

  Gerhard felt his heart hammer so hard he thought it would explode. Rosamunde snatched at him frantically, pushing him in front of her, anything to get away from the creeping terrors.

  He knew he should run. Do something. Try and get away. But there was nothing he could do. His body was drenched with sweat. The terrible maidens closed in on him, raising their fingers high.

  “Helborg!”

  “I can’t help you!” cried Gerhard, falling to his knees and bursting into horrified tears. “Sigmar’s mercy, I can’t help you! Leave us alone!”

  Then the first talon fell, slicing down with speed and skill. The others joined in, carving up the huddled pair like raptors on the carcass of a stricken deer. For a few moments, the screams of the victims rose into the windy night, mingling with the cries of the geese and the howling from upstairs. Then all was silent. The kitchen was still, apart from the crackle of the firewood, the distant whimper of the dog and the expanding pools of blood on the floor.

  The three handmaidens stepped back, admiring their work. Flesh was strewn all across the rushes, diced into neat segments. For a moment, they paused, each breathing gently, lost in appreciation of their art.

  Then one of them looked at the others, and the grin left her face. A signal was given, and they limped back to the door. This quarry hadn’t been what they sought, but killing was good. It reminded them of a life before the one they had now, when there was more than simply pain and orders. For some reason, the pleading for mercy, the desperate entreaties to be left alone, appealed to them. Maybe they had done the same thing, a long time ago before their minds had been taken away and all had descended into the long grind of horror. There was no clear memory of it, just a vague sense.

  They passed through the door, rattling as they went. Outside, the wind howled around the farmhouse, and a loose shutter banged wildly. A gale was coming, a storm wind from the Grey Mountains to the south.

  The maidens departed. They knew they were getting close. They never tired, they never gave in, they never lost hope. All they had was the single word, the reason for their existence.

  “Helborg,” whispered the last of them, before they stalked off into the night, heading south and east, away from the pastureland and up into the gorse of the high moors. Their prey was drawing closer.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Verstohlen looked across the scattered fragments of parchment again. The light was beginning to fail. His limbs throbbed from the long march across country, and that affected his mind. Nothing came easily, and the cipher remained firmly locked in place.

  Over the past two days Schwarzhelm had driven them hard, striding across the countryside with the iron resolve he’d used in the past to lead armies. He spoke even less than normal. Apart from the Rechtstahl at his side, he’d eschewed his armour, and seemed diminished both physically and mentally. Something had broken within him.

  Though Schwarzhelm never explained how, he seemed to know where he was going. Every so often, he’d stop walking for no reason at all. Once he’d drawn Helb
org’s sword and held it up to the sun, turning the metal and watching the reflection in it. Then he’d set off again, silent and brooding, striding purposefully as if nothing had happened.

  They kept clear of the roads, lying low whenever they sighted Grosslich’s men on the horizon. Even so far into the wilds there were patrols. They’d seen one column of men, at least five hundred strong, heading east. The new elector’s reach was extending.

  As the hours of furtive trekking had passed, Verstohlen had watched his master carefully. There was none of the mania that had affected him in Averheim. He now had a cold, calculated fury, directed inwards. The cure to this sickness was obvious. If Helborg were alive, Schwarzhelm would return the sword. Verstohlen didn’t like to speculate too much on what Helborg would do when he got it—the Marshal wasn’t renowned for his compassion. Still, one way or another it would bring some kind of resolution.

  On the rare breaks between the marches, Verstohlen had plenty of time to contemplate the coded messages taken from Lassus’ chambers. At first glance, he’d assumed the code would be relatively easy to break. Ciphers used for routine messages were rarely complex—if they were, uncovering the meaning for the recipient would be too arduous and time consuming to be useful. In the normal run of things, in a world where so few men could read, Imperial codes were generally only used to keep messages secret from opportunistic thieves.

  Lassus’ code, on the other hand, looked like total gibberish. Verstohlen had started on the assumption that some kind of substitution code was being used, and had drawn out a table of alphabets using a stick of charcoal on parchment Schwarzhelm had brought from Altdorf. After that, he’d worked on a single phrase, the opening words of the final letter. Every variation produced a fresh line of nonsense. If he’d had more leisure to work, Verstohlen might have been able to do things more thoroughly. Even so, after hammering away at the problem, he knew he was missing something.