Part of him didn’t understand why he was so nervous. He’d worked with the big man for years. As far as one ever got with Schwarzhelm, they were close. Grunwald had proved himself on the battlefield countless times. They were both common soldiers, both had risen through the ranks. And yet, there had never been a failure like Turgitz. Before, he’d always met the challenge, always found a way. Perhaps that had raised expectations.
There was no use delaying things. He’d been summoned, and the big man cared about punctuality. After a few heartbeats more, Grunwald swallowed and knocked on the door. The raps resounded down the vaulted passageway.
“Come.” Schwarzhelm’s voice was unmistakable. He didn’t sound angry. But it was the first time he’d been summoned since the failure at Turgitz. You could never tell with the big man.
Grunwald pushed the door open. Inside, Schwarzhelm sat at a huge desk. It was covered with parchment maps and documents of requisition. More charts hung on the walls. They covered all the provinces of the Empire. Some even went further afield. There was one ancient-looking sheet of vellum with a depiction of what looked like a massive, circular island hanging on the far architrave. Sigmar only knew where that was.
“Sit,” ordered Schwarzhelm. Grunwald did as he was told, taking a low chair opposite the desk. Was the Champion still in a bad mood? By the expression on his face, yes. The man’s face looked more lined than usual and there were grey bags under his eyes. The huge beard, normally a source of pride, looked unkempt. He had the look of a man who hadn’t been sleeping.
Grunwald didn’t ask why he’d been summoned. He knew better than that. He sat and waited.
“You’ll be leaving with a detachment of my personal forces tomorrow,” said Schwarzhelm at length. He pushed the chart he’d been studying aside and looked at Grunwald.
“Yes, my lord.” That was a relief. Grunwald had been wondering whether he’d be included in the Averland assignment at all.
“There’ve been more reports of greenskins massing in the east,” continued Schwarzhelm. “From Grenzstadt. And now close to Heideck. Too many for comfort. Averland’s got lazy without an elector. If we have to, we’ll do their work for them.”
“I understand.” He knew what the score was. The incursion would have to be kept away from Averheim while the legal process was expedited. That was all that mattered. “Do the Averlanders have forces of their own?”
Schwarzhelm made a dismissive noise.
“Plenty. But the two sides are keeping them back in case the selection turns ugly. I’ve already sent letters of requisition. We’ll see how far we get with them.” He shook his head. “They’re my countrymen, so I ought to understand them. But when they’ve got an incursion on their doorstep, you’d have thought—”
He broke off, looking disgusted.
“They’ve forgotten about Ironjaw already,” he concluded.
Grunwald stole a glance at the maps on the desk. Schwarzhelm had scrawled all over them. Supply lines, possible attack routes, staging posts, he’d got it all worked out. That was no surprise. He always had the alternatives mapped out. Grunwald would have to study them himself later.
“You’ll be taking Markus Bloch with you,” said Schwarzhelm. “He’ll be under your command.”
Grunwald let the ghost of a frown pass across his face before suppressing it.
“Bloch? The halberdier?”
“You have a problem with that?”
“No, my lord. Except… he’s not worked with us before.”
Schwarzhelm looked calm. He could be intolerant when his decisions were questioned.
“He’s proved his worth already. Or had you forgotten who guarded your retreat?”
Grunwald felt his ears go red, despite his long training. The shame of his failure still hung heavy on him.
“I know,” he mumbled. “And I should say… I mean, I’m sorry. We lost the ridge.”
Schwarzhelm didn’t respond with words of comfort. Nor did he add condemnation. He looked implacable.
“You did your best,” he said. “The day was won. But maybe we need some new blood. New ways of doing things. We can always learn.”
The criticism was implicit. Grunwald should have found a way to hold out longer.
“Yes, my lord,” he acknowledged, working hard to keep the resentment from his voice. No one knew how hard it had been on the ridge except him and Ackermann. And his deputy was dead, now to be replaced with a halberdier captain he hardly knew.
“I’ve completed the commission documentation,” continued Schwarzhelm, turning back to his piles of paper. “There’s money to pay the men and warrants of supply with agents in Averheim. When you get there, make sure to keep me informed. I’ll be no more than a few days behind you. There are things to arrange here, and I don’t want to arrive in the middle of a greenskin plague. I can trust you to handle this?”
Grunwald felt the flicker of resentment bloom into a flame. Why was he asking him this? When had he ever proved wanting, except at Turgitz?
“You can rely on me, my lord.”
Schwarzhelm nodded.
“I hope so. Now come and look at these deployment plans.”
Grunwald rose to study the annotated charts. As he did so, he was already thinking forward to the campaign ahead. This was his chance for vindication. The only one he’d get. He stood beside Schwarzhelm, and the commander began to reel off his orders and recommendations.
Silently, efficiently, Grunwald committed them all to memory. He wouldn’t fail again.
A day later, Bloch still had a headache. He sat uncomfortably in the saddle, watching Schwarzhelm’s army take shape. The grey morning light breaking over the wide parade ground made him wince. All across the space below him, regiments of men shuffled into position. He’d been able to conceal the wound at his neck well enough, but there was no escaping the black eye. Every time he passed a row of soldiers, he could feel the suppressed humour. When he was gone, they’d be laughing at him. He could understand that. As a halberdier in the ranks, he’d have done the same. As long as they thought he’d picked up the marks in some honest fight, he’d be fine.
He adjusted his position, trying to find the least discomforting position, and surveyed the scene before him. The muster yard, several miles south of the city, was full of men. Schwarzhelm’s army, the Fourth Reikland, had come together again, ready for the long march south. They’d been at Turgitz, though you’d hardly have known it to look at them. A few weeks’ rest, plenty of ale and a wallet stuffed with copper coins, and they’d recovered most of their energy for the fight. The gaps in the ranks had been filled quickly. There was never a shortage of men willing to fight under Schwarzhelm. They trusted him, which you couldn’t say about some Imperial commanders. They may not have liked him, but they knew his reputation. Better to fight under a grim bastard who never smiled than a flighty aristocrat who’d ride off at the first sign of trouble.
The bulk of the army were halberdiers, just like him. Four thousand of them. They’d been arranged in their marching detachments. Even as Bloch watched, the sergeants were making last minute adjustments to formations, bawling out any troops with defective equipment or misaligned livery. They were all in the Reikland colours of white and brown, and they’d scrubbed up pretty well.
Not so many years ago, Bloch would have been one of those men himself. His elevation had been quick. That was fine by him. He was a born fighter, and the men around him knew it. They were already responding well to his orders. If he could keep out of trouble in taverns, he’d have no problems.
He scanned the rest of the deployments. There was little artillery. A few light pieces and one middle-sized iron belcher. Since the war had broken out in the north, demand for the big guns had risen. If even Schwarzhelm couldn’t commandeer more, then that told its own story. There were no knights, nor pistoliers. This was an infantry force, a holding army. A few companies of handgunners gave them a little ranged support, and there were archers too. That was good,
though not as many as he’d have liked. He’d faced orcs before, and they were tough opponents. He’d have preferred to have more heavy armour.
“Like what you see?” came a familiar voice. Bloch turned to see Grunwald coming towards him. The man looked rested. Bloch couldn’t help notice the finery of his garb, the close fit of his leather jerkin and mail. The man looked like a proper commander. He guessed that he cut a sorry figure in contrast. He really needed to cut down on the ale and meat. He was getting fat.
“They’re in good order, sir,” he said, hiding his misgivings.
“I agree. Are any units still to report ready?”
“No. All the sergeants’ papers are in.” Grunwald nodded with satisfaction. “Then you may give the order to march, Herr Bloch. They’ve been drilled here long enough. Averheim awaits.”
“Yes, sir.”
Bloch barked an order to a waiting messenger, who ran off to the signallers. A few moments later, trumpets blared out across the muster yard. Halberds were hoisted and the detachments smoothly moved into position. Regimental standards swung upwards and rippled in the breeze. With admirable efficiency, the regiments started to move from the yard and on to the road.
Grunwald and Bloch rode to the vanguard, where the remainder of the commanders waited on horseback. For a moment, Bloch felt like he had no place among them, that he should be back in the ranks with the company captains. He pushed such thoughts to the back of his mind. Schwarzhelm had picked him, and that was good enough for him. When the greenskins came for them, then he’d show his worth. He’d a damn sight more bottle than Grunwald, anyway. That had been proven already.
He kicked his horse onward, joining the vanguard as they made their way into position. The time for pondering, reflecting and drinking wages away was over. They were on the road again, back on campaign, lust the way he liked it.
“Have another glass. It’s good stuff,” said Verstohlen.
Orasmo Brecht was happy to take another. The man’s cheeks were rosy in the candlelight. It was the last of Verstohlen’s haul from the cellars of the heretic Alessandro Revanche. He was sorry to see it go, but this was in the cause of business. The exquisite vintage had a way of loosening guarded tongues. He didn’t even need to add any truthpowder. That was a good thing, as he was running low on that too.
Verstohlen poured himself a smaller glass of the same stuff and sat back in his seat. The two men were at dinner in Verstohlen’s small but elegant apartment. The dining room was decorated in the latest style. Fine wax candles burned slowly in silver candelabras. The food was served on china rather than metal, something hardly ever seen outside the homes of the very wealthy. Verstohlen wasn’t exactly wealthy, but he did know the right people. His stuff had come from a Cathayan junk via about a dozen intermediaries and handling agents. The path of the import documentation was obscure, but that didn’t matter. Verstohlen had contacts down in the harbourside. He had contacts everywhere. Like Orasmo Brecht.
“My wife won’t thank you for making me so fat,” said Brecht, dabbing at one of his many chins with a napkin. “If I eat here again, that might be the end of our marriage.”
Verstohlen smiled. The man was a glutton. He’d eaten twice the portions that Verstohlen had and hadn’t even noticed. No matter. What Brecht lacked in table manners he made up for in political knowledge, and he’d just come back from Averheim after two years there working for an importers’ cartel. Good timing.
“I hope not,” Verstohlen said. “I’d miss these little chats. It would be a shame to lose you to Averland for good.”
Brecht belched, and shook his head. “Worry not. I’ll not be going back. Never again.”
“Really?”
“Absolutely. Averheim leaves a nasty taste in the mouth. I prefer it here. Altdorf’s filthy, but at least it’s honest filth. And the food’s better.”
Verstohlen played with his fork absently. No one seemed to have a good word to say about Averheim. That was odd. It had a reputation as one of the Empire’s more civilised places.
“You’re not the first to tell me that,” he said. “I’m thinking of going there myself soon. I’d be interested to know what’s so bad about it.”
Brecht helped himself to another leg of duck before replying.
“D’you know, I can’t quite put my finger on it myself,” he said, chewing carefully. “I liked the place when I first got there. The people are decent enough, if a bit rural. And the city’s cleaner than Altdorf. I can’t tell you when it all began to change.”
Verstohlen stayed silent, letting the man drift into a monologue. When a contact was happy to talk, it was best to leave him to it. You never knew what would come out.
“If I had to pick something,” said Brecht, “it might be the joyroot. That’s certainly a part of it.”
This was new. And interesting.
“I’ve not heard that name. What is it? Some kind of narcotic?”
“So I believe. You never saw any of it a few years ago. Now it’s becoming a problem. They smoke it. You’ve seen what the poppy’ll do to people? Joyroot’s not as bad as that. They get listless. I’ve been told they don’t sleep so well. Nothing too dreadful. But I don’t like it. It makes business difficult. There are only two drugs a man should take: wine and women. And they’re dangerous enough.”
Brecht laughed at his own joke and his jowls wobbled. Verstohlen smiled politely.
“So the militia haven’t impeded the import of this… joyroot?” he asked. Brecht shrugged.
“Maybe they’re on top of it. I don’t know. It’s probably not that important to them. That’s what happens when you don’t have a good man at the top. The little things slip.”
Verstohlen nodded absently. Brecht was right. But maybe this wasn’t such a little thing. You could never tell.
“Then we must hope for a speedy resolution to the succession.” Brecht snorted disdainfully.
“You’ll never get that. The merchants’ guilds have no interest in it. Believe me, they run Averheim. Anyway, both the Leitdorf pup and this Grosslich have legal problems with their claims. Many make out Rufus is illegitimate. Whispers are that he’s the son of one of Marius’ housemaids, and that she’s been packed off to the family estate with a wad of gold and an armed guard. Grosslich’s no better. He’s got papers proving his noble birth, but no one thinks they’re real. He’s got scholars poring over them for him, trying to prove it. Leitdorfs people are doing the same, trying to discredit them. These arguments will run for months. Maybe years. It’ll take a war for Averland to sort it out.”
Verstohlen listened carefully, taking note of everything. None of this information was new to him, but it was useful confirmation. Much might turn on the validity of the genealogical records.
“They may get their war, if they’re not careful,” he said grimly.
Brecht laughed. He didn’t seem to think the prospect was that alarming.
“They’ll be all right,” he said, munching on the last of the duck. “The summer’s coming, and the weather’s good down there. They’ll be getting the harvest in soon, and they say it’ll be a good one. Whatever happens in the rest of the Empire, the Averlanders will look after themselves.” He paused.
“Maybe that’s why I don’t like it down there,” he mused. “They’re just a little… self-satisfied. Something’s not natural, anyway. Better to be here among honest thieves.”
He laughed again. This time Verstohlen couldn’t share the amusement. Too many people from Averland had used that phrase, “not natural”. He didn’t like that at all. The words had presaged trouble for him in the past. It was probably nothing more than the casual xenophobia of Reiklanders, but it still rankled. This joyroot was something else to worry about. Schwarzhelm would have to be told.
“Anyway, you’re very interested in all of this, Pieter,” said Brecht, washing down the duck with the last of his wine. “How long are you going away for?”
“Oh, not long,” Verstohlen said, reaching to
top him up. “At least, I hope not. From what you say, I’m not sure I’d like it.”
Brecht shrugged, and looked around the table for more food. His eyes fell on a pig’s cheek in jelly and he reached for it eagerly with his fork.
“You’ll be fine,” he said. “They like their food down there. You’ll fit right in.”
He began to eat again and his fat face radiated happiness. Verstohlen sat back and nursed his wine. He knew he should eat some more. He and Schwarzhelm were due to leave in the morning, and the ride was a long one. But for some reason, his appetite had gone.
Schwarzhelm awoke. He was in Averheim. It was still night. The sickle moon, Mannslieb, rode in the deep sky. The stars were, familiar to him. The stars of his homeland. Even in Altdorf, they were different.
He felt sick. He’d not slept well. He reached for the table by his bed, where an iron goblet had been placed. Gratefully, he placed it against his lips and took a long draught.
Immediately, he spat it out. He tasted the blood before he saw it. He threw the goblet to one side, hands shaking. He looked down. The sheets were splattered with blood. He pulled the sheets aside. There was blood everywhere, hot and sticky. From outside his chamber, the sound of laughter rose into the night sky. He looked up at the moon. It was disfigured, changing. A face was forming. He felt terror grip his heart. He tried to cry out, but his mouth had stopped working. There were men in the room, laughing at him. How had he missed them? He didn’t recognise all of them. But there was Helborg, right in the middle of the crowd.
“You’ve failed,” he crowed, preening his moustache. “They should have sent for me! You’ve failed!”
Schwarzhelm awoke with a start, properly this time. His sheets were drenched with sweat. He was in his chamber in one of the palace towers. Moonlight, real moonlight, streamed through the window.
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