Swords of the Emperor

by Chris Wraight

  Helborg looked at Leitdorf carefully then, like a farmer sizing up an unpromising foal with a view to producing a future prize stallion. Some of the unconscious scorn had left the Marshal’s manner, even if his habitual pride still remained sunk deep in his battle-ravaged features.

  “In any case,” he said, “you have my thanks. Whatever the reason, your sword bit into those creatures where mine did not. When the grace of Sigmar descends, it is foolish to ask too closely the reason why.”

  The unaccustomed praise made Leitdorf feel awkward. He’d never been complimented on his swordplay before by anyone, let alone by a legend such as Helborg.

  “Then maybe you should take the Wolfsklinge, my lord,” he said, although, deep down, he was loath to lose it. “Your hands will wield it more skilfully than mine.”

  Helborg laughed and shook his head. “A generous offer! Maybe this war will make a man of you yet, Rufus.” He pushed himself away from the wall and made to leave the room. “I’ll not take it up. There’s only one sword for me, and I still plan on recovering it. Until then, I’ll make do with what weapons I can find.”

  He started to walk towards the door.

  “We’ll both have the opportunity to use our blades again soon. Our army, such as it is, is ready, and I’ve given Skarr his deadline to make the rendezvous. We march within the hour. Collect yourself, elector. Averheim beckons.”

  The town of Streissen lay between Nuln and Averheim, the first of the large market towns that straddled the main trading route into the heart of the Empire. It was the only settlement of any note before the capital and commanded a key crossing point over the river. Like most Imperial towns it was walled and garrisoned. Tiled roofs rose up within the ramparts, close-packed and divided only by narrow, winding streets. In its own way it was an attractive place, a bustling, hard-nosed town made rich through trade and commerce.

  In the days between the electors its defences had fallen into disrepair. Grosslich had put that right soon after his coronation. The walls had been strengthened and an extra two thousand men drafted into the garrison. The old icons of the province had been removed and the crimson boar’s head now hung from the gatehouse. Streissen had always been home to many Grosslich supporters, and it was far in both distance and sympathy from the lands once controlled by the Leitdorf’s. The merchants had welcomed the changes brought in by the new elector, and for a brief time the trade had picked up again.

  Now it was paying for its choices. Volkmar had given the burgomeisters almost no time to consider his demands for surrender. Before any reply had come back the walls had been surrounded by his army, nearly forty thousand strong since taking on reinforcements from Nuln and itching for a fight.

  The Theogonist stood to the north of the city on a conical hill, his commanders, musicians and messengers around him. The storm in the south had grown fiercer, and black clouds raged on the horizon, flecked with lightning. The column of fire was still visible, though far paler in the daylight. It was ever-present, a reminder to all of the destination that awaited them.

  On the plain below, his army was deployed in a wide circle, out of bow-shot and musket-range of the walls but close enough to advance at a moment’s notice. Placed in readiness for combat, the volume of men looked fearsome. They covered the undulating land in front of the gates like a vast chequered carpet, over a mile wide from flank to flank. The auxiliaries were desperate to mount an assault; the regular troops less so. Morale had been strangely affected by the apparition in the night sky. Some men had responded with aggression, others with fear, others with fatalism.

  “We still haven’t heard from the burgomeisters,” said Maljdir, frowning at the beleaguered town as if it had personally offended him. “Give them more time?”

  Volkmar shook his head.

  “They’ve damned themselves by waiting. Launch the assault.”

  Maljdir hesitated, then bowed and gestured to the trumpeter standing to his left. The man blew a series of long notes into the air, which were then taken up by other musicians. The signal passed to the west flank, where the big guns had been placed along the edge of a low ridge.

  As soon as the notes reached them the crews sprang into action. Shot was rammed home and fuses lit. With a deafening boom, the great cannons roared out, hurling their shot straight and true. As the smoke rolled across the battlefield, the walls of Streissen cracked and buckled. To the right of the cannons, arranged high on the north flank of the battlefield, men began to shuffle forwards. Cavalry units mounted and adjusted their armour, taking up lances and handguns. The vast bulk of the infantry, the halberdiers, spearmen and swordsmen, held their positions, watching the destruction begin with a mix of relish and anxiety.

  The cannons roared out again, a thunderous barrage of stone-cracking power, shaking the earth beneath them and rocking the town to its foundations. A jagged line appeared in the north-west corner of the walls, showering dust and mortar as the blocks were knocked loose.

  “There’s the breach,” said Volkmar, watching the action unfold through his spyglass. “Order the Third and Ninth into position. Knights Panther on their left flank, Horstman’s cavalry on their right.”

  The orders were conveyed and a mass of men crept forwards, still in company order, nearly three thousand halberdiers marching cautiously in offensive formation. Squadrons of armoured horsemen drew alongside them, guarding their flanks from counter-assault. As the infantry pulled itself into position, the first arrows whined down from the walls. Ranged against the might of Volkmar’s forces, the defences looked pitiably weak.

  The cannons roared a third time, then a fourth. The breach opened further, exposing the masonry within. The halberdiers moved closer, kept in tight ranks by their sergeants, shadowed by the cavalry, waiting for the order to charge.

  “Move the auxiliaries to close the leaguer,” said Volkmar, watching the movement of men below him intently. “Maintain the barrage. Assault on my word.”

  “My lord, there are flags on the ramparts,” said Maljdir, pointing at Streissen’s turrets, only half-visible through the rolling clouds of blackpowder smoke from the cannon barrels. “They wish to submit.”

  “How is that relevant, Odain?” Volkmar said, observing the fifth barrage as it blasted the breach wider. The gap was now wide enough to drive a carriage through. There were defenders swarming over it like flies round a wound. “They’ve had their chance, and we’ll show them the price of defiance. Order the advance.”

  Maljdir looked hesitant. The huge Nordlander was not a man given to pity, but still he paused.

  “They’re asking for quarter, my lord. They’re men of the Empire.”

  Volkmar let the spyglass drop and rounded on the priest, eyes blazing.

  “They’re traitors,” he growled. “Order the advance.”

  Maljdir resisted for a moment longer, eyes locked with Volkmar’s. Then they dropped. He turned to the musician and gave him the instruction. Fresh trumpet calls blared out, and a roar of recognition rippled across the army. They knew what was coming.

  The final cannon barrage boomed out, shattering the broken section of wall further. The cries of those crushed under the stone rang out, audible even over the roar of the charging halberdiers. Volkmar’s vanguard was unleashed and surged forwards en masse, loping over the broken ground, blades kept low in the front rank, raised high in the following. They swarmed across the shattered walls and the sound of killing rose above all others.

  “Fourth and Eighth in behind them!” ordered Volkmar, his pulse beginning to race. This was the first action of the campaign, and the men needed a crushing success to bolster their morale. “Greatswords into reserve!”

  His orders were conveyed and the massed companies of men moved to follow them. The halberdiers were still pouring through the walls, storming across the overwhelmed breach and piling into the town, blades flashing in the grey light. There were plumes of smoke as enemy handgunners returned fire, but they were soon extinguished under the weight of
the assault. Like a single, massive animal, the invading army began to wheel around the centre of tactical gravity and close in on its prey.

  As the last of the cannon smoke lazily drifted across the plain, it was already evident the defence was doomed. Volkmar stowed his spyglass with satisfaction and turned to Maljdir.

  “Come with me,” he ordered, his eyes alight with savagery. “We’ve cut our way in. Time to follow the halberds.”

  With that, the Grand Theogonist strode down the slope of the hill, flanked by plate-armoured warrior priests, to take his prize.

  Maljdir watched him go, arms crossed over his massive chest, unmoving, unwilling to be a part of a slaughter with no glory in it. He’d come to hunt Chaos troops, not misguided merchants and farmhands.

  The power of command was too strong, though. In the end Maljdir shook his head, took up the vast, gold-studded warhammer Bloodbringer and stalked down after his general. For the first time since leaving Altdorf, the big man found himself eager to get to the real fighting in Averheim. At least there was an enemy there which deserved to be put to the sword.

  And they’d be in range soon enough.

  Bloch screwed his eyes tight, peering into the distance. The sun had started to lower in the west, obscuring the land ahead in a lowering haze.

  “It’s a blockade,” he said.

  Kraus shook his head. “More than that. There must be hundreds of them. It’s a camp. They’re on the march.”

  Bloch looked back at the horizon. The road west ran over the grassland before them. They were in the cattle-country south of Heideck, having made good progress on the long journey from Grenzstadt. As they’d neared Averland’s second city, Bloch had decided to take a detour to the south. He had no desire to run into Grosslich’s men before they drew nearer to Averheim. With only two hundred troops still under his command, he was vulnerable.

  For a few days, his strategy seemed to be working. They’d seen merchant convoys on the roads, all heavily guarded by private militia. Apart from them, there had been almost no movement on the highways. Bloch’s company had been able to travel quickly and in the open, lodging in or around villages where the people had heard nothing from Averheim in days. The province of Averland seemed to have shut down. That would have been cause for more concern if it hadn’t aided their passage so much, and of Grosslich’s vaunted armies in particular there had been no sign.

  Until now.

  Thankfully, Bloch had stumbled across the encampment while his men were still under cover, overshadowed by the crumbling walls of a ruined farmhouse high on the hill. He, Kraus and a handful of men had scouted ahead of the main column of soldiers, planning the remainder of the day’s trek and looking for a site to make camp.

  It seemed Grosslich’s men had had a similar idea. They straddled the road ahead, dozens of soldiers wearing the crimson and gold tunics of the new elector, starting the laborious process of erecting tents and raising an embankment for the night. They clearly expected trouble from someone. Perhaps Meuningen had been wrong about the succession issue being completely resolved.

  “Nice colours,” said Bloch.

  “Helpfully visible,” agreed Kraus.

  “So what are we going to do about them?”

  Kraus pursed his cracked lips. The weeks in the wilderness had given him a ragged, almost canine look. Like all of them, he’d lost weight and gained muscle.

  “We can’t evade Grosslich’s forces forever. Perhaps now we’ll see what his intentions are.”

  Bloch pondered that.

  “Too many to fight,” he said.

  “What d’you mean? It can’t be more than two to one. We’ll tear them apart.”

  Bloch grinned. “Don’t get cocky. I want to get back to Altdorf in one piece.”

  “You’re in the wrong trade, then.”

  Bloch motioned to one of his men, a sandy-haired halberdier. Like all the troops inarching with him still, this one had fought under his command since the death of Grunwald. They were good men, these, the kind you’d trust with your life.

  “Bring the lads up here,” he told him. “We’ll form up and march towards them with our heads held high. No reason for us to suspect they’ll be hostile.”

  But there was. Meuningen’s warning still echoed in his thoughts. Everything about Averland since his return had felt deeply, terribly wrong. The further west they went, the stranger it felt.

  The halberdier slipped off to muster the rest of the men.

  Kraus was satisfied. He’d never been happy with avoiding conflict, and looked eager for another fight. He drew his sword and looked carefully along the edge, searching for defects.

  “Keep that sheathed when we get up there,” warned Bloch.

  “You really think they’ll let us pass?”

  Bloch shrugged.

  “Your guess is as good as mine. Since Schwarzhelm left, I’ve got no idea what’s been going on here.”

  “And if they don’t?”

  “Same as always,” he said. His voice was flat. “We’ll kill ’em all.”

  Verstohlen shaded his eyes against the grey sky and shivered. Either autumn was approaching very fast or there was something decidedly strange about the weather. Each day dawned colder than the last and the rush of clouds from the mountains continued unabated. The scudding masses seemed to be drawn north-west like water rushing down a whirlpool. In the distance, where the column of fire was still just visible on the edge of sight, a vast maelstrom of circling storm-bringers had accumulated. Tongues of forked lightning flickered against the dark shadow of the rolling grassland.

  He flipped the collar of his Kartor-Bruessol coat up around his neck and stuffed his hands in his pockets. The attire he was so proud of was suffering badly out in the wilds. He knew that he was worse than useless in such an environment. The skills he prided himself on were suited to cities and stately houses, places where information was more deadly than swords. Since decoding Lassus’ missives, he’d not been able to contribute much more to Schwarzhelm’s quest than the occasional grumble. He was tired, dog-tired, and the pain of his wounds still throbbed in his back.

  Schwarzhelm himself strode on as powerfully as ever, thrusting aside bushes and clumps of overgrown gorse with unconscious ease. The trials of the past month had done little to dent his sheer physical presence. Even out of his customary plate armour he still exuded a raw, almost bestial menace. He’d been described as a force of nature, and such a description served him well. Verstohlen had known him for years, but only on this journey had he displayed more than the most fleeting of weaknesses. This journey had been remarkable in many ways, though, none of which Verstohlen wanted to see repeated.

  “Keep up, man,” Schwarzhelm growled irritably, pushing through a briar patch and hauling himself on to a shallow ridge of crumbling clay soil.

  Verstohlen sighed, hoisted his bag over his shoulder once more and followed wearily. They’d been on the highlands for two days now and there was little enough sign of any habitation at all, let alone the hiding place of Kurt Helborg. The country had gone from open moor to a twisting landscape of defiles and narrow coombs, all thickly forested or choked with undergrowth. The going had got harder, and tempers had frayed.

  “I’m coming, damn you,” muttered Verstohlen, crawling up the ridge with difficulty. When he crested it, Schwarzhelm was waiting for him with a face like thunder. Behind him, a wall of low, wind-blasted trees clustered darkly, cutting off the grey light of the sun.

  “Can you go no faster?” he snapped, eyes glittering with impatience.

  “Faster?” gasped Verstohlen, breathing heavily. His head felt light from the exertions he’d already made. “Verena’s scales, we’d need wings to get across here in less than a week. This is a fool’s errand, my lord. We should turn back.”

  Schwarzhelm glowered at him. Though the man would never admit it, the fatigue was playing on him too.

  “Remember who you’re talking to,” he rasped, moving a hand instinctively to
the hilt of the Rechtstahl. “You have your orders.”

  Verstohlen’s eyes widened. “What’re you going to do? Draw that on me?”

  Schwarzhelm took a step towards him, his expression one of gathering fury.

  “Don’t tempt me. I’ve marched with Tileans with stronger stomachs than—”

  He broke off, suddenly tensing. From the tree line, a twig snapped.

  Schwarzhelm whirled around, both swords drawn. Verstohlen was at his shoulder in an instant, dagger in hand. They were being watched.

  Men broke from the cover of the branches, clad in leather jerkins and open-faced helmets. Their swords were naked and they were ready for a fight. There were six of them, all with the grizzled faces of professional soldiers. With a sudden lurch of remembrance, Verstohlen realised what they were.

  Reiksguard.

  “Lower your blades!” cried their captain, pointing his sword-tip at Schwarzhelm and advancing menacingly.

  Schwarzhelm stood still, slowly letting the Swords of Vengeance and Justice down until the points grazed the ground. He knew what they were as well as Verstohlen did, but for the moment at least the knights didn’t recognise him. They’d probably never seen him out of armour before.

  “Perhaps you don’t remember me,” he said.

  As soon as he spoke, a ripple of amazement passed across the faces of the knights.

  “Schwarzhelm!” one of them gasped aloud. Another advanced with purpose, looking like he wanted to run his blade through the big man’s chest. Schwarzhelm remained motionless, keeping both his swords out of position. Verstohlen clutched his dagger tight, ready to act. This was dangerous.

  “Wait!” snapped the leader, holding his fist up. His stubble-lined face was grimy and studded with scabs. He’d been in the wilderness for a long time. He kept his blade raised, watching both of them intently. Schwarzhelm’s reputation preceded him, and the knight seemed lost in a mix of awe and hatred.

  “Are you alone?” he asked.

  Schwarzhelm nodded.