01 - Sword of Justice

by Chris Wraight - (ebook by Undead)

  The Emperor looked up at Schwarzhelm. Some of the rage had left his expression, but the grief remained, scored across his face.

  “I trust your judgement, Ludwig. I always have. You’ve done as I asked you. None could have done more. I want you to take some time to yourself now. The war continues in the north. You’ll be needed there soon. But do not leave straightaway. I have kept you too busy. You need some rest.”

  Schwarzhelm began to protest. Rest was the last thing he needed. The Emperor held a warning hand up.

  “Enough. I will not debate this with you. Return to your lodgings in Altdorf. I’ll see to the remaining business in Averland. Perhaps I should pay a visit to this Grosslich. Or maybe summon him here.”

  He looked directly into Schwarzhelm’s eyes. The gaze was not without sympathy, but it was iron-hard.

  “I’ll call for you when you’re recovered. In the meantime, do not leave the city. That is an order.”

  Schwarzhelm thought about protesting. There were things he could do, services he could render. He thought of Turgitz, of the greenskins. Without his expertise, the armies of the Empire would be weakened. They’d already lost Helborg.

  It was no use. He’d seen similar expressions on the Emperor’s face before. As he’d always known, there were some kinds of warfare he would never win at.

  “Yes, my liege,” he said, forcing himself to keep his voice level.

  There would be no victory parade this time.

  Skarr looked down at Helborg’s face. The stricken Marshal lay amid piles of the finest goosedown linen. His old bandages, stiff with dried blood, had been taken from him and replaced with fresh ones, expertly wound. Fragrant herbs and salves had been crushed into the wound. Prayers had been said by the priest and passages of holy scripture recited over him.

  For the time being at least, it had done no good. Helborg was barely alive. But at least he was off his horse and out of the wilds. It had taken them two days to ride to the first of Leitdorfs safe houses. Then they’d moved on, heading further east after every rumour of Grosslich’s pursuit. Now, deep in the countryside, far from the well-travelled roads, they were hidden. For now. The Leitdorfs had more than one great house in Averland, but Grosslich would find them all in the end.

  No colour had returned to the Marshal’s cheeks. The wounded man looked like one of the undead. Skarr pressed his finger against the carotid, feeling carefully. There was a faint pulse. So faint, it was easy to miss. He was on the border between life and death. Skarr withdrew his hand. Helborg’s eyes remained closed. His breathing was thin and ragged.

  Skarr stood up from the bed.

  The wound on Helborg’s cheek had closed at last. After the apothecary had finished, Skarr had taken the shard of the Klingerach and kept it. Probably a useless gesture, but the runefang was sacred. He could sense the ancient metal against his skin as it hung from the chain around his neck.

  Skarr withdrew from the bedside. A fire blazed in the hearth even though the sun still shone warmly outside. The apothecary had advised them to keep the room heated. He reached for a log and threw it into the flames. The wood crackled as it settled, spitting sparks.

  “What do you think?” asked Leitdorf. The man sat in an extravagantly upholstered chair in the corner of the room. This whole place was extravagant. His father had clearly had money to waste on it, even though it was just one of many country houses kept in his name. Marius’ portrait hung from nearly every wall in the mansion.

  “He’s strong. But I don’t know.” Skarr sat down opposite Rufus. “How long before Grosslich’s men come after you here?”

  Leitdorf shrugged.

  “There are other places, even more remote. When he can travel, we can move again. None of my people will talk.”

  Skarr smiled humourlessly. “They will, if Grosslich sends interrogators worth anything.”

  “We have some time yet. Word has already got out. There are many who’ll bear arms for me in this part of the world.”

  Skarr suppressed a snort of derision. He placed more faith in his own Reiksguard than in whatever forces Leitdorf could still muster. Still, the safe houses were essential.

  “What are you going to do now?” asked Leitdorf.

  Skarr paused. He’d given it a great deal of thought as they’d ridden east, away from the harrying of Grosslich’s troops. If he’d learned one thing, it was that they were still in mortal danger. For whatever warped reason, the entire province had been raised against them. Schwarzhelm must have been a part of it. That was terrifying enough. If even the Emperor’s Champion could turn traitor, then something was horribly awry. He could still see the blood-streaked face, the staring eyes.

  “We’ll give the Marshal time to heal. I don’t know what’s happened here to make us fugitives, but I’ll not risk harming his recovery.”

  “And if he doesn’t recover?”

  Skarr looked at him darkly.

  “If that comes to pass,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “then I will hunt down the one who has done this. I will hunt him across the Empire, and I will hunt him across the length of the Old World if I have to. And then, Sigmar and the fates willing, I will do to him what he has done to my master.”

  Skarr looked at Leitdorf, not bothering to hide the murderous feelings stirring within him.

  “Vengeance will come. You may count on it.”

  Schwarzhelm knocked on the door. Lassus’ house was just as he remembered it. Neat, orderly, unassuming. The rest of the General’s Quarter was similarly unprepossessing. The weather had turned cold and blustery, and the topiary in the generals’ gardens looked more fragile than ever.

  After a few moments, there was a heavy click as the door was unlocked. Then it swung open, revealing Schwarzhelm’s master. Heinrich Lassus looked, if such a thing were possible, a little older. His face was more lined, his skin drier. Only the eyes still gave away his essential vitality. They still glittered with the acute edge that had made him such a feared general in his day.

  “So. You’re back.”

  Schwarzhelm ducked under the lintel.

  “I said I’d call.”

  “You’re always welcome.”

  Lassus led him through into one of his private rooms. Leather-bound books lined the uneven walls. A fire burned in the grate. The wooden floor was hidden with a series of fine rugs. Over the mantelpiece hung some mementos of Lassus’ time marching under the Emperor’s banner. A ceremonial dagger. A fine Boccherino pistol. A beast’s skull, lovingly cleaned and hung.

  “You were successful, then?” asked Lassus, lowering himself carefully into a low chair. Schwarzhelm sat opposite him. The warmth from the fire was welcome. After so long in the heat of Averland, the damp of Altdorf took some adjusting to.

  “Grosslich was appointed. What else have you heard?”

  Lassus shrugged. “Some news came my way. I know there was trouble.”

  Schwarzhelm wondered why he’d come. He didn’t need a confessor. Or perhaps he did. The enforced inactivity was driving him to distraction.

  “Something like that. Have you heard the news of Helborg?”

  “Nothing reliable. He’s not been seen here for weeks. I was told he was in Nuln.”

  “Then you’ve not heard. He was implicated in it all. With Leitdorf. There’s testimony from the witch hunters.”

  Lassus paused.

  “What are you saying?”

  “That he was a traitor, master. That’s what I’m saying.”

  A flurry of emotions passed across the old man’s face in rapid sequence. Amazement. Disbelief. Anger. Confusion. Schwarzhelm had been there ahead of him. He’d expected nothing less. Helborg had been the golden boy. It would take time for people to get used to the idea.

  “You must be mistaken.” The tone was a familiar one. It had been used when Schwarzhelm had made a mistake on the training ground. Or not tried hard enough. Or lied.

  “He tried to kill my counsellor. He rode against us in battle. If I’d n
ot been there, he’d have killed Grosslich too.” Schwarzhelm felt suddenly weary. This had been a mistake. He’d not come here to rehearse the arguments again.

  He’d been running them through his head for days already. “We fought. The two of us.”

  Lassus was looking at him with a kind of horrified, rapt attention.

  “And?”

  “I’m still here.”

  The old man shrunk back in on himself, looking horrified.

  “Blessed Sigmar!” he whispered, shaking his head. “By all the saints.”

  “Chaos was at work in Averheim. Leitdorf and his witch were behind it. I don’t know how Helborg was dragged in, but it matters little now. They are all destroyed.”

  “And Grosslich?”

  “He is safe. My agent is still with him. Bloch, my commander, remains in Averland. I’d hoped to join him, to organise the rebuilding. That won’t be possible now.”

  “Why not?”

  “I am forbidden to return. The Emperor wishes me to have nothing more to do with the affair.”

  It was only then that Lassus seemed to notice the anguish on his face. Schwarzhelm knew he hid it badly. The trust of the Emperor had been everything to him. The knowledge that it had gone was a bitter taste to take. As bitter as gall.

  “I had no idea.”

  “Of course not. We spoke in private. I should not be talking to you about any of this.”

  “I’m glad you did, Ludwig. Did I not warn you there would be treachery in Averland? But you have prevailed. Can you not take some pleasure in that? You have done what was asked of you.”

  Those were the words that were hard to take. Not the scorn, not the criticism. Sympathy was the most painful gift of all.

  “But at what price?” Schwarzhelm felt as if he was back on the training fields, holding a sword for the first time.

  He was sick of the doubt, sick of the uncertainty. It was as if a part of him had been wounded in Averheim and had never truly recovered.

  Lassus rose from his chair with difficulty. His hands shook slightly. He limped over to a cabinet on the far side of the room and poured himself a goblet of wine.

  “Will you have one?”

  Schwarzhelm shook his head. Lassus took a swig, then refilled the goblet. As he retook his seat, the shaking had reduced somewhat.

  “I’d not expected this news,” he muttered. “Helborg gone. Could things be worse?”

  “They could. He might not have been discovered. He might be in Averheim with Leitdorf now. With the Emperor’s armies occupied in the north, what would there be to stop him? It could have been much worse.”

  Lassus nodded and took another sip of wine. “Of course. You’re right. This is much to take in, though. Very much to take in.”

  He looked up at Schwarzhelm.

  “I’m sure you did the right thing, Ludwig. You’ve been vindicated by Grosslich’s election. You were there. You saw his actions. You saw the message on the parchment. The evidence was before you.”

  Schwarzhelm took some comfort from that.

  “Indeed,” he said. “Those were the things that I—”

  He stopped.

  “What parchment?”

  “You said it yourself. On the road to Averheim.”

  “I said no such thing.” Lassus frowned.

  “I’m sure you mentioned it. That was the thing that finally confirmed your suspicions, was it not? That’s what you told me.”

  Schwarzhelm felt a sudden chill strike at his heart. He didn’t want to believe it. He couldn’t believe it.

  “I’ve not told you of it,” he said, feeling a mounting wave of dread within him. He felt like being sick. “I’ve not told anyone of it. Even Verstohlen.”

  Lassus seemed suddenly nervous. He let out a weak laugh. “Well perhaps I did hear from somewhere else. I’m not as young as I used to be. Sometimes I forget.”

  Schwarzhelm rose from his seat. His hand crept down to the hilt of the Rechtstahl.

  “How could you know that, master?”

  Lassus looked scared.

  “Sit down, Ludwig,” he snapped. “Don’t tower over me like that in my own house. What are you doing?”

  “How could you possibly know that?” He suddenly remembered Verstohlen’s discovery of the letters. Weeks ago. Messages have been sent from the castle to Altdorf. It’s been going on for some time. Lassus tried to rise in turn, but his hands were now shaking uncontrollably.

  “I think you’d better leave.”

  Schwarzhelm felt his confusion begin to crystallise into anger. “It was you. Of all the horrors. By Sigmar, it was you.”

  Then Lassus’ face stretched into a snarl. “Don’t be stupid, Ludwig. I’ve known you since you were a boy! Sit down!”

  Schwarzhelm drew the Rechtstahl. The blade slipped from the scabbard easily. As the sword flew out, the steel hummed. The spirit of the weapon was roused. It thirsted.

  Lassus staggered back, knocking over his wine. At the sight of the sword his eyes went wide with fear.

  “What are you going to do? Kill me? Have you lost your mind?”

  Schwarzhelm felt a dark clarity come over him. Though the man made him sick to the pit of his stomach, killing Lassus would solve nothing. There were mysteries here still. The secrets had not been uncovered.

  “Kill you?” he said, his voice like scraped steel. “No. You’ll come with me. You know what’s been happening here. Your secrets will be wrung from you. Every last one of them. I will find out what happened in Averheim.”

  At that, Lassus seemed to lose control of himself. His fingers flew to his neck, scraping at his windpipe. He let out a shriek of horror. The dry skin began to crack at the edges of his mouth. He tried to clamber past the chair, out in the hallway beyond.

  He was too slow. Schwarzhelm grabbed his cloak with his left hand. It felt like his fingers had closed on a sack of bones.

  “Don’t do this,” begged Lassus. There were tears of fear in his eyes. “Kill me if you must, but do not make me talk!”

  Schwarzhelm loomed over him, digging his fingers into the frail old man’s shoulder. “Why not?” he hissed. He was angry enough to kill him. It would be better than he deserved, but the truth was more valuable even than vengeance.

  For a moment, Lassus stared back at him, lips trembling. His whole body had started shaking. He was in mortal terror.

  “She won’t let me talk! She won’t permit it!”

  Schwarzhelm let the wretched figure drop to the floor.

  “What do you mean? Who are you talking about?”

  But the truth was already becoming apparent. Under Lassus’ loose robes, a transformation was taking place. Whatever information he possessed, his dark patron wasn’t about to let him divulge it.

  Schwarzhelm backed away. He’d seen this happen before. He brought his sword up, ready to strike.

  Too late. With a shudder, Lassus’ cloak shrunk back on itself. The fabric sucked inwards, like water running down a drain.

  Then it exploded. Fragments of cloth spun out in all directions, ripped apart by the detonation at their core.

  Beneath the shredded fabric, Lassus had disappeared. In his place, an obscene ball of pulsing flesh had appeared. With breathtaking speed, the orb began to change. Growths shot out in different directions, latching on to objects and sucking them into the growing mass. Jaws opened, lined with mucus, then snapped shut and sank beneath the fleshy folds around them. Limbs burst out, wrapping themselves around furniture before snapping off and wriggling blindly back to their origin.

  The spawn began to grow. A vast maw, ringed with pin-sharp teeth, opened up in its midriff. Eyes popped out all around it, hundreds of them. They glowed purple. The flesh around them was as white as teeth and ink-dark veins throbbed under the surface.

  Lassus had gone. His mistake had been a costly one.

  Schwarzhelm pulled the Rechtstahl back, preparing the strike. It was hard to know what to aim for.

  “Do not cut me!” c
ried the spawn. The voice was like Lassus’. It sounded as if he was still there, buried deep within the flexing glands.

  Schwarzhelm ignored the pleas. There was nothing he could have done to save him even if he’d wanted to. And he didn’t want to.

  The Sword of Justice arced downwards. As it bit into the mutating flesh, a foul stench burst from the bulging sacs. Sharp musk spurted into the air, splattering against the walls.

  The spawn screamed. Tentacles, each laced with purple barbs, shot out from the heart of the maw. They latched on to Schwarzhelm’s clothes, clutching and binding. He swung round, tearing them free, slicing the hooks from his leather jerkin and cloak.

  “You killed Helborg!” screamed the spawn from mouths that rapidly formed and then closed again. “You killed him, Schwarzhelm!”

  Schwarzhelm ploughed towards the heart of the tentacle swarm, hacking each one down as it snaked towards him. For every barb that was cut down, two more shot out, aiming for his eyes, his throat, his fingers.

  Schwarzhelm held his ground, letting the sword find its path through the flailing lengths of extended flesh. He had to keep calm. The thoughts rushing through his head weren’t helping. This was no longer the Lassus he knew. Perhaps that man had died long ago. All that lay before him was a twisted amalgam of dark magic and ruined matter.

  The contest continued for some time, but then the swarm abated. One by one, the tendrils fell to the ground, either severed or withdrawn. The orb of flesh remained, shivering and weeping. The maw was there too, surrounded by eyes. As it drooled, the pupils popped in and out.

  “Very good,” mocked the voice. It sounded scraped and warped, as if the vocal cords within were undergoing radical rearrangement. “You’ve been taught well.”

  Schwarzhelm ignored the taunts.

  “Why?” he said, keeping the blade high, watching the remaining tentacles as they slithered across the floor.

  “Who are you asking? Heinrich Lassus? He’s in here. But not much of him. His soul has been taken to another place.”