Swords of the Emperor

by Chris Wraight

  “Why are you here?”

  “I seek the Lord Helborg, if he still lives.”

  One of the Reiksguard snorted with derision. “If he lives!”

  “Silence!” ordered the captain. “He’s alive, though no thanks to you. Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you now myself, traitor?”

  Schwarzhelm looked directly at the knight. His gaze was blunt, hard to read. There was defiance there, belligerence too, but also shame.

  “Do you really think you could harm me, Reiksguard, if I chose to prevent you?” His voice came in a deep growl. “I have two swords in my hands, both as ancient as the bones of the earth. You’re walking a dangerous path.”

  Verstohlen thought he was going to strike then, and sweat broke out across his forehead. He clutched his dagger more tightly. The Reiksguard held their ground. The merest spark would light this fire.

  Then Schwarzhelm’s massive shoulders slumped.

  “I did not come here to spill fresh blood,” he muttered. Sorrow weighed heavily on each word, and the threat drained from his speech. “Take me to the Lord Helborg, and he shall be the judge of things. There are tidings he must hear.”

  The Reiksguard captain made no move.

  “Surrender your swords, then,” he said.

  “Not to you.”

  “How can I take you to him when you will not disarm?”

  Schwarzhelm grunted with disdain.

  “You forget yourself, Reiksguard. I am the Emperor’s Champion. I will come as I am.”

  Still the tension remained. The knights looked to their captain. If he ordered it, they would charge. The man frowned, wrestling with the decision. Verstohlen could see the frustration in his eyes, but the Reiksguard’s respect for the sanctity of rank was near-absolute.

  “I will take you to him,” he said at last, nearly spitting the words out. “There is an army on these moors, Schwarzhelm, an army raised to right the wrongs you have caused. Think on that, should you choose to wield your swords in anger. Your reputation goes before you, but if you raise them again, you will die before the blade leaves the scabbard. This I swear, as do all the Reiksguard that remain in Averland.”

  Schwarzhelm said nothing, but nodded wearily. He sheathed the Rechtstahl and the Klingerach in a single movement. The captain gave a signal to his men and they fanned around the two of them, blades in hand.

  Then they started walking. There was no conversation, and the atmosphere was frigid. As they went, the wind howled across the gorse like mocking laughter.

  “Merciful Verena,” muttered Verstohlen to himself as he stumbled along behind the implacable form of his master. “This just gets better.”

  Bloch strode casually at the head of his column, Kraus by his side. Behind him, his men marched in formation, six abreast, a compact column of fighting men. After so long on campaign they looked more than a little shabby, but their manner of quiet, efficient confidence was unfeigned. They were the remnants of an army that had driven the greenskins over the mountains, and they had every reason to walk tall.

  As they drew closer to the camp, shouts went up from the sentries and the guards took up their places. By the time Bloch approached the perimeter the detachment commander was waiting at the camp entrance. He was flanked by several dozen men, all heavily armed. More clustered within, protected by the spiked embankment. They were wearing crimson tunics over plate breastplates. Their swords were strangely curved, and some had barbs forged into them. Not very Imperial. Half the troops looked like Averlanders, but the rest had the darker colouring of Tileans, Estalians or even soldiers of Araby. Grosslich must have paid out handsomely to get mercenaries from so far.

  Behind the camp commander the earthworks rose up several feet, surmounted by a row of stakes. The deployment looked well organised. Kraus was right; this was a part of an army at war.

  “Halt,” ordered the camp commander. “State your name and business.”

  Bloch took a good look at his opposite number. The man had the air of a seasoned warrior. His armour was more elaborate than that of his men, and a golden boar’s head had been sewn into the breast of his tunic. He wore a crimson cloak that fell to the ground behind him. Like the rest of his men he wore a close-fitting, open-faced helm. As with all else, it didn’t look Imperial. Everything was too bright, too clean. Too beautiful.

  “I answer to the Lord Schwarzhelm,” Bloch responded, keeping his voice carefully neutral. “Who are you?”

  “Captain Erasmus Euler of the First Averheim Reavers, and Schwarzhelm has no authority here. You’ve overstayed your welcome in Averland, Commander Bloch.”

  Bloch was instantly irritated by the man’s manner. If he’d known who he was, why ask for a name?

  “I was warned there was a shortage of gratitude in Averheim,” he replied coolly. “I can live with that. Let us pass, and we’ll be on our way.”

  “Your men may pass. You’re wanted by the elector.”

  “Is that right?” Bloch let his free hand creep an inch closer towards his halberd stave. “Sadly, that won’t be possible. Your elector has no jurisdiction over me. Like I said, I answer to Schwarzhelm.”

  Euler withdrew a step and grasped his sword-hilt. His men did likewise.

  “Don’t push your luck, commander. You’re outnumbered two to one.”

  Kraus let slip a low, growling laugh. “I knew it,” he muttered. “We’ll tear ’em apart.”

  That settled it.

  “As far as I’m concerned, you can bring it on, captain,” said Bloch, sweeping up his halberd in both hands and swinging the blade into position. “We’ve been fighting greenskins for weeks. If you reckon you’re a match for them, be my guest to prove it.”

  Behind him, Bloch’s men instantly snapped into position, halberds gripped for the charge, faces set like flint.

  For a moment, a ghost of doubt crossed Euler’s face. The two forces stood facing one another, both bristling for combat.

  Then, from behind the camp, there came sudden cries of alarm. There were horses galloping and metal clashing against metal. A trumpet blared out in warning. A long, strangled scream was followed by a massed roar of aggression. Something was attacking the camp’s defences from the far side, and whatever it was had hit it hard.

  Euler stared round in confusion, backing away from Bloch’s column, clearly unsure how to react.

  “Reiksguard!” came a cry from within the encampment. At that, some of Euler’s guards started to am back through the entrance, swords drawn. Others stayed with their captain, confusion and apprehension marked on their faces.

  “Reiksguard?” asked Kraus, incredulous. “What in the nine hells are they doing here?”

  “Morr knows,” said Bloch, picking out Euler with his blade and preparing to charge. “And I don’t care. We’ve had the luck of Ranald here, so let’s use it.”

  At that, with the tight-knit, lung-bursting roar they’d perfected out on the grasslands, Bloch’s halberdiers surged forwards, blades lowered and murder in their eyes.

  Grosslich sat on his throne of obsidian in the pinnacle, watching the clouds churn above him. Lightning streaked down, licking against the Iron Tower and screaming down to the courtyard far below. The aethyric fire still coursed through the air, staining everything a deep, throbbing red. Even the daylight failed to penetrate it. The maelstrom gathering above the Tower made the waking hours almost as dark as night.

  The daemons still swam in the shifting winds, endlessly circling the Tower, forever screeching their delight at being embodied in the world of mortals. Every so often they would swoop down to ground level and bring up some unfortunate to be torn to pieces for their pleasure. Not that the denizens of Averheim seemed capable of horror any longer. They’d been transformed into shambling automata, driven by the will of the Stone and blind to all else.

  The Stone controlled the slaves, and Natassja controlled the Stone. Now that there was no longer any attempt to hide what they were doing from the Empire, Grosslich’s position had
become more perilous than ever. He was no fool. He’d known it when Alptraum had tried to manipulate him, and he recognised the signs again. He’d never be as powerful as Natassja in terms of sorcery, and there were few other cards left to play.

  As Grosslich brooded on the throne, chin resting on his fist, a daemon slipped through the iron walls of the pinnacle chamber and pirouetted in front of him. He’d tried to place wards to prevent them from doing that, but the whole city was so drenched in Dark magic that it had proved impossible. They were deeply irritating, these capricious horrors, and they enjoyed provoking him.

  The daemon stopped spinning and blew a kiss towards him. She was impossibly lithe, as they all were, shimmering like a mirage, her flesh taut and rich and tantalisingly exposed. For some reason the fact that her hands were crab-like claws and her feet ended in talons failed to detract from the powerful allure. Even as steeped as he’d become in the arts of magic, it was hard not to rush towards her, arms extended, ready to be lost in the delicious pain of oblivion.

  “What d’you want?” Grosslich drawled, at once aroused and put out by her presence.

  “To watch you, mortal,” she replied. The voice was like a choir of children, all slightly out of sync with one another. “It amuses me. Your desire is palpable. Why not give in to me? I might not even kill you afterwards.”

  Grosslich sneered. “And I might not kill you.”

  “Kill me? Impossible.”

  “Maybe. I’m learning new things every day.”

  The daemon laughed, revealing her pointed incisors and a long, flickering tongue like a lizard’s.

  “What a good boy,” she said. “That’ll keep her happy.”

  Grosslich scowled. The inane chatter was supremely annoying. Eschenbach would be here soon, and there were important matters to discuss. The Steward was one of the few humans left in the city with a mind of his own. Whatever she’d said about it, Natassja had destroyed his ambitions in that damned rite of hers. He had no wish to rule over a city of psychotic imbeciles.

  “I could help you, you know,” said the daemon, sliding up to the throne and draping herself across one of the arms. Her fragrance was powerful, as intoxicating as the root.

  “I doubt that,” said Grosslich, ignoring her and hoping she’d go away.

  “Don’t be so sure. You have no idea what she’s going to do.”

  “And you do.”

  “Of course. I know everything.”

  The daemon came close. Her eyes were as yellow as a cat’s, blank and pupil-less. Grosslich looked away too late. The orbs were mirrored. He caught himself in them, faint and rippling as if seen from underwater. There were other things in there too, fragments of other men’s dreams and nightmares. Terrible things. The stuff of which daemons were made.

  “Just what do you think her ambition is in all this?” the daemon murmured. Her choir of voices became ever more seductive, curling around the syllables like the caress of a lover. “Do you think she’ll rest content turning this city into a playground for the likes of us?”

  “She has what she wanted,” said Grosslich, trying to avoid the eyes. The daemon’s sweet musk was beginning to affect his judgement. “This is what we planned.”

  The daemon laughed again.

  “I know you don’t really think that. She’s given you a fortress of puppets. Of course, we love it here. At the end of time the whole world will be like this. In the meantime, I feel sorry for you. We don’t like to see a handsome man disappointed.”

  “There’s no pity in your body,” Grosslich growled. “You’re an absence of pity, so don’t try to tell me you feel sorry for anything.” He turned to face her. “Your words don’t impress me, for all they impress you. You’re nothing next to a man, daemon. You’re just echoes of our dreams. You talk of the realm of the senses. You cannot know it, not like we can. You exist only in a world of reflections.”

  He lashed out and clasped his gauntlet around her neck, squeezing the aethyr-born muscle tight. The daemon’s eyes widened in surprise.

  “Feel it,” he hissed. “This is the flesh you can never know. You may mock us, but you envy this.”

  The daemon blinked and was suddenly several feet away, eyes shining with delight. Grosslich’s armoured fingers snapped closed on thin air.

  “Masterful!” she laughed, rubbing her neck lasciviously. “I knew a man like you once. He said much the same thing. I kept his eyes as baubles.”

  “Just say what you came to say or go,” muttered Grosslich. The daemon sickened him. Much of what he’d done had begun to sicken him.

  She sidled back close.

  “Natassja cares nothing for the realms of men,” she whispered. “The Stone is just the beginning. This is all about her. You’d better act fast, or you’ll be the one with no eyes.”

  “And what do you advise?”

  The daemon looked suddenly serious. Her pouting lips calmed down.

  “You have an army,” she breathed. “Only a mortal can command it. That’s the one thing you still own. Remember that.”

  Then she shot up into the air, spinning with the supernatural grace of her sisters, diving and swooping with astonishing suppleness.

  “I’ve enjoyed this chat,” she laughed, winking at him as she circled around the chamber. “Come outside and see me some time. I’m sure we could have fun.”

  Then she was gone, slipping through the window as if the glass wasn’t there. Grosslich slumped back on the throne, his mood darkening. He knew better than to trust the words of daemons.

  Still, they rankled.

  A chime sounded from outside the chamber. Grosslich flicked a finger and the doors slid open. Eschenbach shuffled in. He looked emaciated, his skin drawn tight over his bones and his eyes staring from their sockets. The Dark Prince only knew why—there was plenty of food in the Tower storerooms. Perhaps he’d lost his appetite.

  “You asked to see me, your Excellency.”

  “I did, but I’ve changed my mind,” said Grosslich. “I have another task for you. A simple one.”

  Eschenbach swallowed.

  “Go down to the dungeons,” said Grosslich. “Enter the chamber of the Stone. Discover what the mistress intends for it. Then report back.”

  Eschenbach’s eyes widened, exposing red threads of veins. “You cannot mean…” he began. His fingers started to tremble. “Why do you not—”

  He seemed to see the futility of the question, and stopped talking. Resignation shuddered through his tortured body. He, like so many others, had found service in the Tower less fulfilling than he might have hoped.

  “I will do it,” he said, and bowed as low as his rearranged spine would let him. Then he was gone, limping back down into the central shaft of the Tower, broken in spirit as well as in body.

  Grosslich remained silent. He gestured with another finger, and the braziers in the chamber guttered and went out. Alone in the dark, surrounded by the whoops of the daemons in the sky outside, the Elector of Averland pondered his next move.

  As things stood, they didn’t look good. He was alone, lord of a realm of nightmares, master of nothing. Something would have to be done.

  Something would be done.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Skarr kicked his steed forwards, hacking on either side with his broadsword. Grosslich’s men scattered before him, running for cover. The rest of the Reiksguard swept along in his wake, cutting down any of the guards too slow or too stupid to get out of the way. Behind the horsemen came the footsoldiers he’d equipped over the past few days. They were a ragged tide of soldiery, wielding their weapons clumsily and clad in a whole range of drab peasant garb, but at least they were enthusiastic. They ransacked the rows of tents, stabbing at any men they found inside or dragging them out to be butchered.

  The raid seemed to have taken Grosslich’s camp entirely by surprise. Storming the embankment at the west end of the enclosure had taken mere moments, and the defence was cleared out by the first cavalry charge. Once the
perimeter had been seized, the interior was theirs and the knights ran amok, slaughtering any who got in their way.

  A knot of the elector’s men, two dozen strong, some still with helmets or breastplates missing, mustered near the centre of the encampment, swords clutched with both hands, desperate to form some kind of resistance.

  Skarr laughed harshly.

  “Reiksguard, to me!” he cried, spurring his horse on. The stand was brave but foolish. Few detachments in the Empire could withstand a massed charge from nearly thirty of the Emperor’s finest knights, and these startled mercenaries would barely make him miss a stride.

  The spearhead of Reiksguard thundered onwards, hooves drumming on the beaten earth. Even before the crash of the impact half the defenders had broken, turning and running wildly towards the east end of the encampment.

  Skarr kicked his horse on and the knights crunched into the wavering band of men. Hooves lashed out, cracking ribs, breaking necks and knocking men cold. Behind them came the flickering blades, swooping down to kill like raptors. The few survivors turned tail, fleeing in almost comical terror, their spirits broken by the speed and power of the charge.

  Skarr pursued them with cold efficiency, cutting down any he caught up with, maintaining the gallop. The momentum took him to the other end of the camp.

  As the far embankment neared he slowed his pace, struck by the sight before him. There was fresh fighting ahead. The captain of Grosslich’s troops was surrounded, pushed back into the compound in a concerted assault by a column of halberdiers in Reikland colours. Caught between twin attacks, the elector’s troops were being hammered into submission.

  The rest of the Reiksguard squadron drew alongside Skarr. Behind them, the camp had been overrun. The preceptor’s newly recruited troops were going after the few defenders that remained, killing with a zeal that promised good things for the future.

  “Relieve those halberdiers,” Skarr ordered his men, kicking his horse back into a canter. “Let’s finish this.”

  The Reiksguard plunged into action again, tearing through the dispirited resistance with disdainful ease. The halberdiers were equally savage. They fought expertly in close formation, supporting one another at the shoulder and wheeling to avoid the flank attack. Their captain, a thick-set man with the look of a brawler about him, was devastating at close range, wielding his heavy halberd as a lesser man might swing a longsword. Even as Skarr watched, he felled Grosslich’s commander.