Swords of the Emperor

by Chris Wraight

  “Here’s my name and business!” the man cried as he plunged his blade straight through the stricken captain’s neck. His comrades laughed coarsely, finishing off the remainder of the defenders with a savage, feral energy.

  They were serious fighters, thought Skarr, almost unconsciously hacking down a fleeing soldier as he careered from their assault and into his path. Possibly useful fighters.

  The slaughter came to an end. In truth, it had been rank butchery. Several hundred of Grosslich’s troops lay dead, strewn across the camp, their broken bodies trampled into the dirt by the rampaging peasant mob.

  Skarr dismounted heavily, thumping to the ground in his plate armour. He’d have to impose some discipline on the worst of his troops in time, but for now they could enjoy their victory. Sterner trials lay ahead for them.

  He strode over the heaps of crimson-clad corpses towards the halberdier captain. The man was being congratulated by his peers, all of whom were still whooping with the brutal enjoyment of the kill.

  “Master halberdier!” cried Skarr, extending his gauntlet in friendship. “I’d thought there were no foes of Grosslich left in Averland.”

  The halberdier turned to face him and returned the handshake. He was grinning from ear to ear, his face splattered with blood and with a purple swelling disfiguring his left eye. He could have stumbled out of a light in any disreputable tavern of the Empire.

  “Nor I,” he said. “That was good riding.”

  The remainder of the Reiksguard dismounted. Most walked over to Skarr, swords in hand; others began to fan back through the camp, hunting for survivors.

  “We could use men like yours,” said Skarr, looking over the body of halberdiers with approval. “You’re wearing Reikland colours. Who’s your commander?”

  “The Lord Schwarzhelm,” replied the halberdier, still smiling.

  Skarr moved instantly. His dagger was out of his scabbard before the man could move. He whirled the halberdier round, got his left arm in a lock and hooked the blade up against his neck, pressing hard against the muscle. By the time the man knew what was happening, he was pinned.

  “Schwarzhelm?” Skarr hissed, his good mood immediately shifting to a cold, heartfelt hatred. “Well, this is my lucky day. Now tell me how to get to him, or you die where you stand.”

  Streissen lay in ruins. The walls to the north of the town were little more than piles of rubble, smoking gently from the cannon barrage. The boar’s head of Grosslich had been torn down and replaced with the Imperial griffon and the old colours of Averland. The dead lay in their hundreds on the streets, mostly defenders, too numerous for the priests of Morr to handle. Women wept openly as carts were loaded with cadavers, some of them showing signs of mistreatment after the combat had ended. All had been stripped of their weapons and valuable items. The dogs of war in Volkmar’s army had paid scant regard to the conventions of combat and only the strenuous efforts of the warrior priests had prevented a wholesale massacre of innocents.

  Resistance had been sporadic during the assault, and most of it had concentrated around the large central square, once enclosed by richly decorated houses and an elegant, tree-lined fountain. Now the fountainhead was smashed and the cobbled space covered in a stinking brown lake. The trees had been felled for firewood and the grandest townhouse taken over by Volkmar’s retinue.

  As the long, slow task of securing the city began, the Grand Theogonist sat in the uppermost chamber, flanked by his captains of war. He had taken the high seat, a tall-backed chair carved from a single block of oak. The others sat in two long rows on either side, facing inwards. The subject of their interrogation stood alone, dwarfed by the armoured figures bearing down on him.

  “That’s all you know?” Volkmar snarled, leaning forwards, his hands gripping the chair arms tightly. His hard face was twisted with disbelief.

  The man standing before him didn’t look like he was lying. He hardly looked like he could stammer his name out. Hans von Bohm, mayor of Streissen, had had plenty of time to regret his delay in coming to terms. The stench of smoke and burned flesh was a potent reminder of his failure.

  “It is, my lord,” the mayor insisted. “The elector—”

  “The traitor.”

  “The traitor sent us men from Averheim to bolster the garrison. They were all normal men, good stock from the land around these parts. None of them were tainted. If they had been, we wouldn’t have taken them.”

  Volkmar grunted with dissatisfaction, turning to Roll.

  “Is he telling the truth?” he asked his confessor.

  Roll shrugged. “There’s no aura of a lie.”

  Volkmar turned back to the mayor.

  “If you weren’t in league with Grosslich, why did you not submit earlier? There are many deaths on your head.”

  The mayor looked dumbfounded. “We had barely lime to read your demands! No war has been declared. What was I supposed to think, when an army suddenly appeared from the north and began to deploy? I was charged with the defence of this place.”

  “And the column of fire did not alert you? The lack of contact from the Empire? At no stage did you doubt the loyalty of your new masters?”

  “There had been no time!” cried the mayor, his exasperation getting the better of his fear. “We are loyal subjects of the Empire, and you’re asking us to know the impossible!”

  Volkmar rose from his seat, glowering like thunder. The mayor shrank back, looking around him for some kind of support. None came.

  “There are no excuses for ignorance,” the Theogonist said, looking like he wanted to leap across the floor and tear the man apart. “You were placed in authority here. You should have acted sooner.”

  The mayor said nothing, and hope left his eyes. Like a bewildered child asked to learn some lesson beyond his capability, he froze.

  “Go now,” ordered Volkmar, bristling with suppressed anger. “Gather what remains of your men and see that they’re re-ordered into marching companies. They’re under my command now. Fail me in this and I’ll have you hanged.”

  The mayor bowed and scuttled from the chamber, face flushed and sweaty. As he left, Volkmar slowly took his seat again. He sat, brooding, for a few moments. The sound of men working to clear the streets rose up from outside the townhouse, mixed with the sound of weeping and bells tolling.

  “How quickly can we move again?” Volkmar asked at last.

  “Whenever you order it, my lord,” said Gruppen.

  “Then we leave within the hour,” said Volkmar.

  “The men need rest,” objected Maljdir.

  “They will get none.”

  The big Nordlander raised his bearded chin, looking defiant. “If you expect them to fight when they reach Averheim, they cannot march again.”

  Volkmar looked at his priest darkly. It was one thing to have dissension from others of the command council, but to have it from one of his own retinue was intolerable.

  “Are you telling me how to conduct this war, priest?” Volkmar asked, and there was a low note of threat in his gravelly voice.

  Maljdir held the Theogonist’s gaze. “It is my counsel,” he replied. “Why have a council of war, if you will not listen to its views?”

  There was an intake of breath from one of the more junior captains. Roll, used to the fearless ways of his comrade, made no sign.

  Volkmar’s face went pale with anger. When he spoke, the muscles in his broad neck tensed.

  “In the years we have fought together, you and I, you have never dared to speak thus. Perhaps you have more to say.”

  “I do,” replied Maljdir. “There were deaths here that should never have taken place. You know me well, Theogonist. Never have I hesitated to kill in the name of the law, but we could have taken Streissen without this bloodshed.”

  “They were heretics,” hissed Volkmar, eyes blazing. “They deserved nothing better. This will warn the others.”

  “Heretics? They were instruments, as blind as moles.”

&nb
sp; “So you are telling me how to conduct the war.” Volkmar’s voice lowered, and the threat remained in it.

  “And if I am? You’ve not commanded an army since your return from the wastes, my lord. What happened to you would change any man. You never relished slaughter before.”

  Volkmar leapt to his feet and grabbed the Staff of Command. The shaft burst into a blazing golden light, cracking and spitting as it channelled his rage.

  “You dare to accuse me!”

  Gruppen and Roll rose from their seats, consternation etched on their faces.

  “We don’t have time for this,” warned Roll.

  “That is right, confessor,” spat Volkmar, staring belligerently at Maljdir. “Retract your words, priest, or this matter will be taken further.”

  For a moment, Maljdir’s fingers crept towards the handle of Bloodbringer, still by his side. He remained seated, his vast bulk crammed into a scholar’s chair. His broad face was sullen and defiant.

  Then, slowly, he withdrew.

  “I do not intend disloyalty,” he said, his jaw tight. “But the men need more time.”

  Volkmar remained on his feet. The Staff continued to shimmer with angry golden energy. No one spoke. Eventually, grudgingly, Volkmar let the aura fade and flicker out.

  “I will consider it. For now, this council is over. We have real work to do.”

  He shot a final look of warning at Maljdir, then swept from the chamber, cloak streaming out from behind him, staff thudding on the floor as he went.

  Once he’d gone, Gruppen moved his hand discreetly away from the pommel of his sword and relaxed.

  “What’re you doing?” said Roll to Maljdir.

  “He’s losing it. Surely you can see it.”

  “I see nothing but your thick neck.”

  “This is personal for him. He wants to make up for Archaon. Tell me truly, does this fury seem normal to you?”

  Roll shook his head. “You should have spoken out earlier. Averheim beckons. He will lead us there, whatever qualms you’ve suddenly developed.”

  Maljdir clambered to his feet. “If he directs it at Grosslich, I’ll be right beside him. If he takes it out on our own kind, I’ll not stand aside again.”

  He hefted Bloodbringer lightly, and his expression was grim.

  “You may count on it.”

  Bloch froze. The dagger parted his skin, worming through the flesh. The pain was sharp. His day had just gone from surprising to downright insane.

  “Get back!” he yelled at his men, some of whom had started to edge forwards. He knew something of Reiksguard from his time in the ranks. They were terrifying bastards and he had no doubt the preceptor would twist home his knife in an instant if he felt the slightest justification for it.

  “Time’s running out,” the preceptor warned, keeping the metal close.

  Bloch felt a line of sweat run down his temple. After all he’d done, this continual ingratitude was getting ridiculous.

  “I’ve no idea where he is,” he said, trying to keep his voice as steady as possible. “On Sigmar’s honour I don’t. Now why don’t you tell me why you’re so happy to kill me to find out?”

  The Reiksguard kept his scarred, ugly face close. Bloch could feel the man’s breath on his cheek.

  “Not good enough,” he snarled. Something had made him very angry indeed. “One more chance.”

  Bloch swallowed. The knife dug a little deeper. A hot trickle of blood slipped down his collar. It would be important to get the next few words right.

  “I can’t tell you, because I don’t know,” he said, .peaking slowly and carefully. “The last time I saw him was weeks ago. He ordered me to retake Black Fire Keep from the orcs. I did that. Now I come back here, and everybody wants to kill me. Perhaps I wouldn’t be so angry about that if I had any idea why.”

  The Reiksguard paused. Bloch dared to start hoping again. From the corner of his eye he could see Kraus, itching to pile in.

  “You weren’t in Averheim with him?”

  “No, though I was hoping to find him there.”

  Another pause.

  “You really have no idea why I might want to spill blood to find him?”

  “No idea at all. Less than none. Though if you do find a lead, perhaps you’d let me come along with you. There’s a lot I’d like to ask him too.”

  As suddenly as he’d struck, the preceptor withdrew the knife. Bloch spun out of the armlock and staggered away, feeling his neck gingerly. His men took a menacing pace forwards again.

  “Enough!” he rasped, waving them back. Something very strange was going on, and this was his best chance to find out what. “Morr’s balls, that hurt.”

  The preceptor didn’t look obviously sorry. He and his men radiated aggression.

  “Be thankful I didn’t finish the job. If I hadn’t seen you fighting against Grosslich’s men, you’d have died a lot sooner.”

  Bloch winced. That didn’t make him feel a lot better.

  “Look, we could put all this behind us if you’d just tell me what in the nine hells is happening here. When I headed east, there was a battle for succession going on. Now it seems like this Grosslich is in charge and he’s killing anyone left who isn’t him. I’m pretty sure that’s not what Schwarzhelm intended.”

  The preceptor regarded him suspiciously. His knights stayed poised to attack. It didn’t seem to matter to them that it was thirty knights and a rabble of ill-trained peasant filth against two hundred battle-hardened infantry. Reiksguard were crazy like that. They’d take on anyone.

  “You haven’t heard about Lord Helborg, then?” asked the Reiksguard darkly.

  Bloch shook his head. The last he’d heard, Helborg had been in Nuln.

  “Then we have much to discuss, you and I,” said the preceptor. “I will tell you what I know. Perhaps you can explain the rest. Then, once things are a little clearer between us, I’ll decide what to do with you.”

  Another drear, cold day was drawing to a close. Blankets of cloud obscured the sunset, but the darkness stealing from the east came on quickly enough. Helborg stood on a ridge, his gaze drawn north. He was alone. The rest of the army was busy erecting camp half a mile away. While the light remained, the Marshal surveyed the country ahead, planning the next day’s march, weighing up the dangers ahead, choosing where to recover more supplies, horses and fodder to fuel their onward progress.

  The army had reached the edge of the highlands. To the north the land fell away sharply, turning from barren scrub into the rich grassland for which Averland was famous. From Helborg’s position, right on the summit of a scarp on the borders of the moor-country, he could see for miles. The heart of the province beckoned, its grasses ruffled by the ceaseless wind, its open skies marred by storms.

  The column of fire weighed on his mind. Now, just as the army was poised on the cusp of descending into the interior, it was ever-present, visible even during the middle of the day. The broken clouds swirled above it, drawn inwards as if summoned by a Celestial magister of awesome power.

  The Marshal gazed at the angry glow for a while, reflecting on the paucity of men he had under arms. Nearly two thousand now marched with him, the gleanings of Leitdorf’s ancestral lands. As a result of Skarr’s plunder he had money to pay them, supplies to give them and weapons to arm them with. That might well not be enough. The more Leitdorf told him what was in Marius’ notebooks, the more he dreaded the encounter to come. Not for his own sake—he was a fighting man, and battle had never held any terrors for him—but for the sake of the Empire. If the corruption was not staunched at its source then it would spread as surely as the pox in a whorehouse. The Empire was already overstretched with the endless war in the north. A drawn-out campaign in Averland would be disastrous. Maybe even fatal.

  Two thousand men. On such meagre forces did so much depend.

  “My lord.”

  Helborg turned to see a group of Reiksguard standing to attention. They were led by Rainer Hausman, the one he’d sent
ahead to scout the flanks of the rearguard.

  “I gave instructions to be left alone,” he said.

  Hausman bowed in apology.

  “I know. We have a prisoner.”

  As the man spoke, his captive stepped forwards.

  It was perfectly clear the man was no prisoner. He stood nearly a head taller than the knights around him and was more powerfully built than them even out of his armour. His beard looked a little greyer, his skin a little tighter, his stance a little less upright, but there could be no mistake about it.

  It was him. After so many nights of dreaming of that mighty face, contorted with rage and madness, he was back.

  Helborg felt his blood begin to pump. The wound in his shoulder suddenly flared, as if recognising the man that had dealt it. His hand flew for his sword quicker than thought and his fingers curled around the grip. His jaw locked. For once, his fluent speech deserted him. His knuckles went white.

  Schwarzhelm stood motionless. His face was as grim as it had ever been. He said nothing. The Reiksguard withdrew, leaving the two peerless warriors alone, exposed on the escarpment, facing one another as the wind whipped about them. From the northwest, a rumble of distant thunder rolled across the plains.

  Helborg took a step forwards, face taut with rage. The anger burned him; the deep, smouldering sense of injustice that had burned since the duel in Averheim. For so many nights, drifting on the borders of death, that rage had sustained him. For so long he’d lived for nothing more than the thought of vengeance. Now his fury flared into the real world, animating his sinews, firing his lungs, screaming at him to wield the blade.

  It felt unreal, like the lingering memory of a dream. The grip on his sword grew tighter. He couldn’t lift his arm.