Swords of the Emperor

by Chris Wraight

  Behind the artillery caravan came the auxiliary companies, archers and irregular troops who’d been drafted in since the march had begun. There was never a shortage of men willing to fight for a schilling, and much as Volkmar loathed mercenaries too, he had the resources to employ them and turned no man away.

  The main baggage train followed, wagon after wagon loaded with stores. Barrels of ale were piled high on open carts, mixed up with cloth-covered food wains. Armour, cloaks, bundles of arrows, heaps of firewood and fodder for the horses were all stacked closely and guarded watchfully by Roll’s own men, as incorruptible as zealots. Dozens of his soldiers, clad in the scarlet colours of Altdorf’s Church of Sigmar Risen and Transformed, swarmed around the pay wains, the all-important guardians of the cases of coin that kept the soldiers loyal.

  Finally, bringing up the rear, were three companies of greatswords and a unit of pistolier outriders, their steeds stepping impatiently. Every so often a squadron of six of them would kick into action and ride up the flanks of the huge army, peeling off into the terrain on either side of the road to scout ahead before returning to the long slog, their need for adventure satisfied for the moment.

  Over thirty thousand regular troops, with maybe five thousand more dogs of war who’d joined on the march from Pohlbad. More would come at the rendezvous south of Nuln. A whole regiment of warrior priests to augment those he already had, plus more artillery and heavy cavalry. It was a formidable force, scarcely less powerful than the massive armies that marched across the north of the Empire against the scattered warbands of Archaon’s invasion. If the predictions of the Celestial magisters proved reliable, it would need to be.

  “You look displeased,” said Roll, his bald head gleaming in the cold light. The tone was one of mild remonstration. No other man in the Empire would have dared to speak thus to the Theogonist.

  “What use are mortal men here?” Volkmar muttered. “When have they ever been able to stand firm against the great enemy? We’re leading them to their deaths.”

  Roll spat on the ground.

  “It’s as you said. They’ll do their duty. The enemy will have mortals too.”

  Volkmar said nothing. He remembered the ranks of men marching into ruin in the Troll Country with him at their head. As the daemons had screamed across the sky and the rivers run with blood, mortal faith had done little to stem the tide of insanity and pain. Above all, he remembered Be’lakor, grinning from ear to ear, the daemon’s eyes little more than windows on to a world of utter, terrifying horror.

  “This will all come down to us, Roll,” he said.

  “Don’t forget Helborg.”

  “Helborg? Even if he lives, what can he do?”

  “And Schwarzhelm.”

  He looked south. The dark leagues of endless forests were behind them, and the country was now beginning to open up. Far in the distance lay the wide ribbon of the Aver, winding through the grassland ahead.

  “Schwarzhelm has done enough. If he attempts to interfere again before this thing is ended, I have the authority to prevent him.”

  He turned to Roll, and his gaze was bleak.

  “I have all authority in this. The Emperor’s Champion has served faithfully for a generation of men, but weakness is weakness. I will judge the matter when he’s found.”

  Roll raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Volkmar paused for a few more moments on the ridge, before kicking his horse onwards, back down to join the vanguard of the immense host. His guard did likewise, and soon the high place was bare once more, home to nothing more than the sigh of the wind and the rustle of grass.

  The Tower was nearly complete, and the last veils over the charade were close to being lifted. Smaller versions of the Tower were being built at six points on the city walls, each also made of iron and given the same spiked profile as the master construction. The vista across Averheim had been marred irrevocably. Ancient halls had been demolished, the stone carted off to bolster the new fortifications springing up across the old walls. Merchants’ townhouses had been commandeered for garrisons, while the Averburg was now nothing more than a vast store of arms. Soldiers were everywhere, thronging the streets, clustering in the squares, camped out to the north of the city on the flat plains running towards Stirland.

  Above it all, the Grosslich banner hung proud. The six-pronged crown of the Tower had been completed at last, and long pennants with the crimson boar’s head draped down towards the massive courtyard, three hundred feet below. Red and gold were ubiquitous, drowning out the memory of any other allegiance the city may once have had. Alptraums and Leitdorf’s were forgotten. Now only the new dispensation had any meaning.

  As night fell, the new aspect of the city showed itself to most effect. The Tower was lit along its entire height by a series of lilac beads, each glowing like stars. At the summit a pale flame burned incessantly. Lanterns in the streets below shone with a range of intense shades, banishing shadows from the night and bathing the city in a mingled fog of colour. Those citizens not steeped in joyroot found their sleep interrupted and fractious. A certain faded elegance had been replaced by rampant excess.

  Those few clear-sighted citizens who remained now knew beyond all doubt that Grosslich was a tyrant, and one whose perversion of the Imperial Law had only just started. Insurrections were ruthlessly put down, and the hated witch hunters of Odo Heidegger kept the furnaces burning. Any faint flicker of revolt was overwhelmed by the vast numbers of troops arriving every day from every corner of the wastelands south of the Grey Mountains, drawn by the promise of money and glory. Some were paid in joyroot, and that seemed to satisfy them. Just as it had been in the spring, the roads were lined with drooling, vacant-eyed figures, slumped against the stone and lost in dreaming.

  All of them, deep in their reverie, whispered the same thing.

  She is coming. She is coming. Blessed be her path, everlasting be her reign. Queen of pleasure, mistress of the world. She is coming. She is coming.

  Endlessly they mumbled the mantra until their lips were calloused and cracked, and they crawled off to find more root to numb the pain. Whatever debaucheries Averheim had known before, it suffered a hundredfold more then, stepping down a path of ruin as surely as if guided by the Lord of Pain himself.

  Elector Grosslich now rarely ventured from the pinnacle of his precious Tower. The topmost chamber had been fitted out in silks and upholstered with fine soft leather. The floor was polished marble, veined like a flayed muscle, shining in the light of a dozen suspended orbs. There were six windows in the iron walls, each overlooking one of the massive suspended spikes.

  The view was commanding. Grosslich’s armies, so long in the mustering, were now mobilising. The numbers astounded even him. Where there was corruption and power, humans seemed to drawn to it like insects around a candle flame.

  Grosslich himself was swathed in crimson robes, beautifully lined with fur and monogrammed with the flowing “G” motif. A tall crown had been forged for him in the hidden pits of the Tower below, a swirling sculpture in steel which tapered to a point above his forehead and sent tendrils of slender metal curling down across his cheeks. Natassja had designed it herself, but he’d made it his own.

  The city was his too, locked in an iron grip of control. More dog-soldiers were being spawned in the basements, all answering to his command. There were other creatures down there too, terrible products of Natassja’s imagination, taking shape under her pitiless tutelage. Soon the whole host would be ready, a legion of terror ready to sweep across the river and destroy the army he knew had been sent from Altdorf to rein him in.

  A chime sounded from outside the chamber. Grosslich turned from the windows and sat down on his throne, an obsidian block composed of tortured limbs, just like the one Natassja had used to dupe Verstohlen.

  “Come,” he said, and marvelled at how his voice had changed. Gone were the gruff, plain tones that had drawn peasants flocking to his banner in the early days. Now his speech was clipped and refine
d, almost as smooth as Natassja’s own. The Dark Prince had changed him in many ways, not all of them to Grosslich’s liking. Still, it was too late for regrets.

  A glass door at the far end of the chamber swung open silently and Holymon Eschenbach entered. The man had continued to change. His eyes were now entirely white-less and glowed a subtle pink. His flesh was bleached and his lips stained the colour of old wine. Like Achendorfer, he walked with a pronounced limp, as if some terrible rearrangement had taken place beneath his robes of swirling colour. The old smugness had gone, wiped from his features by Grosslich’s merciless drive to bring the city under his control. Eschenbach had assumed all the duties of Stewardship in the wake of Tochfel’s unfortunate demise, and the burden had proved heavy.

  “You asked to see me, your Excellency?” he whispered. He could barely speak above a sibilant hiss these days, another result of the improvements made to his otherwise unremarkable body.

  “Steward, perhaps you could tell me the names of the fugitives we have been so assiduously pursuing since our ascension to the electorship.”

  Eschenbach looked nervous. He knew what was coming.

  “The traitors Leitdorf and Helborg, as well as the spy Verstohlen.”

  “Well done. And can you inform me how close we are to tracking them down?”

  “Your armies are spreading further east with every day. Courts of enquiry have opened in Heideck, and Grenzstadt will not be far behind. It cannot be—”

  Grosslich extended a hand lazily and clenched his fist. Eschenbach gasped and fell to his knees. As he did so, his neck seemed to constrict, veins bulging on his temples. He choked, falling forwards, scrabbling to release the pressure.

  “You think I don’t know this?” Grosslich hissed, watching with only mild pleasure as the fat Steward writhed in agony. “You have the entire resources of a province at your disposal. Your orders are simple. Find them and kill them.”

  Grosslich released the vice around Eschenbach’s neck, and the man fell forwards, panting like a dog.

  “All Leitdorf’s houses have been stormed,” the Steward gasped. “His estates have been plundered. I have men scouring the countryside. What more could I do?”

  “Listen carefully,” snarled Grosslich, leaning forwards in his throne. “Things are approaching a delicate stage. The mistress’ plans are nearing fruition, and the Empire is beginning to wake up. An army will be here within days. It is imperative that this matter is concluded before then.”

  Eschenbach nodded miserably.

  “There’s another aspect to this,” continued Grosslich, choosing his words carefully “The mistress has dispatched creatures of her own to dispose of Helborg. It would be… preferable for my own troops to find the Marshal first. As for the Leitdorf pup, I want to bring him in myself. This is very important to me. I’m not convinced you’re giving your work the attention it deserves.”

  Eschenbach began to panic. He’d been on the end of too many punishments from Grosslich already.

  “I am, your Excellency! A thousand men have been sent east this very day. They have orders to bring in Helborg and the pretender. There have been reports of supply columns being raided in the far south, towards the moors. If he’s there, he’ll be uncovered.”

  “Double the numbers,” he ordered. “They have licence to burn the countryside to a husk if they have to. Spare no expense, and give them no respite. Helborg must be found.”

  Eschenbach nodded. His eyes gave away his misery. Raising that many troops would be difficult, especially given the numbers he’d been instructed to make ready for the defence of Averheim.

  “And the ceremony?”

  “No delays. It goes ahead as planned. There’s no point in further secrecy, whatever the mistress says.”

  He narrowed his eyes, thinking of the power on the cusp of grasping. His army was nearly ready, the one that would deliver the dominion he craved.

  “Ensure the root supply remains high, and give your orders to the priests,” he said. “The mask will be removed. It is time to show the people what they’ve taken on by serving me.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Dawn had broken. The moors were still shrouded in a fine mist. Scraps of cloud hurried westwards above the drifting pall, driven by the relentless winds from the mountains. The weather was converging on Averheim, as if the world’s winds were being sucked into a vortex above the distant city. Out on the high fells, though, the air was crisp and damp, as cold and clear as a crystal goblet in the Imperial Palace.

  Eissen came to a halt. He’d been riding through the night to return to the Drakenmoor, carrying with him welcome tidings for the Marshal. Before Eissen had left, Skarr had captured three supply trains and roused half a dozen villages to the cause. His men under arms now numbered more than a hundred, and more joined them daily. Part of this was due to the plentiful supply of gold and weapons they’d obtained since the capture of the caravans, but there was also no love for Grosslich in this part of the world and recruits were ready converts.

  Most of the Reiksguard had remained with Skarr to press home the assault and spread dissent in the lands running towards Heideck. A couple of others had been assigned to the caravans to guard their passage to Drakenmoor. Eissen had gone on ahead to deliver his report to Helborg. He’d covered many leagues in the night, riding his steed hard.

  Now he gave it some respite, dismounting and letting it walk through the gorse and heather. The animal went warily, treading in between the glistening clumps of dew-bedecked grass, clouds of steam snorting from its nostrils. Eissen led it through the meandering moorland paths carefully, keeping one hand on the reins and the other on his sword. In every direction, the mist curled up about him, grey and thin like gruel. Lone trees, blasted and curled over by the wind, came and went before the gauze-like clouds swallowed them up again. Only the ground beneath his feet was solid, and everything else was as shifting and fickle as a woman’s promise.

  “Easy, girl,” Eissen whispered, noticing his steed’s shivering flanks. She needed to be rubbed down and given a bucket of hot oats. Still, Drakenmoor wasn’t far. He’d wait for the mist to lift, get his bearings, and be there before the end of the day.

  Then the horse stiffened, tugging back on the reins and stamping. Its eyes began to roll.

  “Mist got you spooked?” asked Eissen, looking around. There was no sound except for the faint rustle of the gorse. “Better get over it.”

  The Reiksguard shook his head and smiled to himself.

  “Talking to my horse? Time to get—”

  He froze. There was something out there. Eissen felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up stiff. The chill was still acute and he shivered under his leather jerkin.

  Ahead of him, the curtain of grey sighed past, driven by the breeze, as cloudy and opaque as milk. Still no sound.

  Eissen drew his sword. The steel was dull in the diffuse light. After a night’s riding his muscles felt sluggish and stiff.

  “Declare yourself!” he cried. His voice was sucked into the fog like water draining from a sink. There was no reply.

  Eissen’s horse was beginning to panic. It tried to rear away, only held firm by Eissen’s tight grip. A line of foam appeared at its mouth.

  Eissen pulled it savagely back into line, keeping his blade raised defensively Despite all his training and experience, his heart was hammering like a maiden’s on her wedding night. He felt a line of sweat run down his chest, cold against his flesh. He backed towards his horse, head craning to see anything among the shifting sea of occlusion.

  “Helborg.”

  The voice was unearthly, a bizarre mix of a young woman’s and a boy’s, scraped over metal and given the sibilant whisper of a snake. As soon as he heard it, Eissen’s resolve was shaken. He gripped his sword, keeping hold of his tugging steed with difficulty.

  “Show yourself, ghoul,” he commanded, but his voice sounded reedy and foolish.

  Ahead of him, three figures slowly emerged from th
e clouds. They were hunched like old women, draped in rags, limping uncertainly across the uneven ground. At twenty paces away they were wreathed in a shifting cloak of translucence, as muffled and indistinct as shades. Only their eyes were solid, six points of lilac brilliance, emerging from the obscurity like stars.

  Eissen felt the dread grow stronger. His steed reared, snatching the reins from his fingers. He turned quickly, grabbing at the leather straps, but he was too late. It turned and broke into a gallop, bounding back into the gloom and disappearing from view. He was alone. Heart thudding, he turned to face the newcomers.

  “Helborg,” they hissed again in perfect unison. The words were taut with malice.

  Eissen grabbed the hilt of his sword with both hands. He’d faced the undead before—where was his courage?

  “He’s not here,” he replied, trying to keep his voice level. “Who sent you?”

  The creatures seemed not to hear, and advanced slowly. One of them extended a hand from under its rags. Eissen stared in horror as the long talons extended. Another reached out, exposing ravaged flesh, white as ice, studded with metal and knots of protruding bone.

  “Sigmar preserves!” he roared, trying to summon up some kind of resolve. As the nearest horror drew close, he charged at it, swinging his sword round to decapitate.

  Something like laughter burst out. The creature snapped up its talon to block the strike and steel clanged against bone. The horror’s movements were staggeringly fast, more like those of an insect than a human. Eissen sprang back, moving his blade warily, watching for the attack.