[Heroes 01] - Sword of Justice

by Chris Wraight - (ebook by Undead)

  Grunwald found scant consolation in those words. He knew that he’d held out for as long as he could. Any longer and his entire command would have perished. But Schwarzhelm was a harsh taskmaster. He’d been ordered to keep the road clear. He had failed. Helborg had made it through at last, but how much sooner would he have arrived if the ridge hadn’t fallen to the beasts?

  “I worry not about whispering,” he said. “The verdict of my peers means nothing. But Schwarzhelm… He doesn’t forgive easily.”

  “He doesn’t forgive at all,” said Verstohlen, grimly. “But there’s nothing to berate yourself for. The field has been won. The beasts are scattered. Trust me, Grunwald. We will ride out with Schwarzhelm again, just as we always have done. You’ve won his trust a hundred times before. He’ll remember that.”

  Grunwald looked away, back over the grim vista of the Cauldron. Columns of men were picking their way across the stone, stripping weapons from the fallen. There was heavy labour ahead. Swords were precious, and would be recovered for the Emperor’s armouries. The beastmen would be left to rot where they fell. This place would be a scene of carnage for months, even when the last of the bones had been picked clean. “So you say,” he muttered. “So you say.”

  Clearing the battlefield took many hours. Troops, still wearing the armour they’d fought in, were ordered out onto the Cauldron to retrieve items of value and prepare the bodies of the slain for their mass immolation. The work was grim. Amidst the heaps of twisted, bestial enemies, every so often a trooper would discover the face of a man he knew, cold and staring. For them, victory had come too late.

  As the lines of men gradually picked their way across the battlefield, others piled wood high for the pyres. There would be two of them. No beastmen would share the same honoured burning as the human dead. Priests chanted over both sites. Prayers of benediction and thanks were offered up over the pyre reserved for the honoured slain. Litanies of exorcism and damnation were chanted over the beastmen’s pile. As the morning wore on, the kindling was ignited and pale flames leapt up into the air. One by one, arduously and with much effort, bodies were dragged to the pyres and thrown on the wood. Gradually, the noisome stench of crackling flesh began to mask that of the putrefying cadavers. Two columns of smoke, each black and heavy, rolled up into the grey air.

  Restored to his vantage point on the pinnacle of the Bastion, Schwarzhelm watched the grisly task unfold. With the cessation of combat, he had withdrawn to his general’s position. His armour had been wiped clean of blood and his sword shone again unsullied. His mood, however, remained dark. The Reiksguard had retreated to a position down in the Cauldron on Helborg’s orders. Despite the scale of the task, the two men avoided one another. Schwarzhelm’s own commanders, sensing his anger, mostly busied themselves with their own tasks.

  Only Gruppen, driven by necessity, had dared to disturb his isolation. Now even he was gone, organising the Knights Panther for their ride to Altdorf.

  Schwarzhelm stood alone, lost in thought. Why did Helborg rile him so? Was it fatigue? Or something more deep-seated? The ways of war were fickle. There could have been a thousand reasons why the Reiksguard had been held up. Their route had been blocked by beasts, despite his best efforts. But had the Marshal ridden with all the haste he could muster? It had happened so often, this last-minute charge to save the day. Surely the man didn’t deliberately plan these charges, just in the nick of time, to bolster his reputation. And yet…

  “My lord,” came a nervous voice from his shoulder.

  Ferren, his aide-de-camp, was there. His face was pale with fear.

  “Yes?”

  “The man you were seeking. Bloch. He’s been found.”

  That was good news. Schwarzhelm felt the worst of his mood begin to lift. He could worry about Helborg later. He had his own men to worry about first.

  “Show him to me.”

  Ferren withdrew, and Bloch took his place. The man looked unprepossessing. He was short in stature. Fat, even. His features were crude. A squat nose, crooked from repeated breaks, sat in the middle of a peasant’s face. The brow was low, the mouth tight. He had the look of a tavern brawler, a common thief. And yet, as Schwarzhelm knew from his own experience, a man’s worth was only measured in his deeds, not breeding. Without Bloch’s intervention, he would have lost Grunwald, one of his most trusted allies. That alone made up for any roughness around the edges.

  “Herr Bloch,” he said, trying to keep the habitual gruffness out of his voice. “Do you know why I wished to see you?”

  The man looked unsteady on his feet. He’d been wounded several times and there was a patch of dried blood on the jerkin over his shoulder. To his credit, he kept his posture as best he could and his eyes were level. Not every man could meet his gaze. “No, sir.”

  Schwarzhelm was used to being addressed as “my lord”. It was a proper title for his rank and station. No doubt Bloch was unaware of this. He liked that. The man was a warrior, not an official.

  “The commander of the southern flank was forced to withdraw. Your actions saved his life and that of many of his men. I would have arrived too late. That was a brave thing you did, captain.”

  Bloch looked uneasy. Like many of his kind, he could cope with insults, threats and banter. It was compliments that really threw him off guard.

  “Ah, thank you, sir,” he stammered, clearly unsure how to react.

  “How long have you been in the Emperor’s service?” This was easier to cope with.

  “Ten years, sir. Joined as a lad in the militia. Accepted into the state halberdiers when I turned twenty. Promoted to captain last year when Erhardt was killed at Kreisberg.”

  Schwarzhelm nodded with approval.

  “Good. You’ve learned your trade the way I did.”

  Schwarzhelm studied the man as he spoke, gauging his character from the way he carried himself, the way he responded, the almost imperceptible inflections that indicated a fighting temperament. It was similar to the way a trainer might select a horse.

  “There is much wrong in the way that the Empire runs itself, Bloch,” said Schwarzhelm, permitting himself a digression. “Many who rule do not deserve to. Many who are ruled could make a better fist of it. You’re a fighting man. You’ve seen armies commanded by fools and good men led into ruin by them.”

  Though he said nothing, Schwarzhelm could see the recognition in Bloch’s eyes.

  “But there’s opportunity in battle. Mettle will always show itself. There are men in the Empire who know how to reward talent and how to ignore low birth. The Emperor, Sigmar keep him, is one. It is to him I owe my station, not to my breeding. And so it is with me. I need good men around me. I’d like you to be one of them.”

  Bloch blinked, clearly struggling to take the speech in.

  “Yes, sir,” was all he said.

  “There are a number of captains I place my trust in. Not many, since only a few deserve it. In my judgement, you may prove worthy. I’m offering you a chance. Leave the employ of Reikland and join my retinue. The pay’s no better, and you’ll be campaigning more than you’ve ever done before. But there’s glory in it, and service. Many men would leap to serve me. Others would leap to avoid it. Which of those are you, Herr Bloch?”

  The man didn’t hesitate.

  “I’ll serve you,” he said.

  Schwarzhelm narrowed his eyes.

  “Be careful,” he said, warningly. “This offer will only come once. Danger follows me. I’ll not think less of you if you refuse. A life in the state halberdiers is an honourable one, and you’ll stand a better chance of seeing your children grow up.”

  To his credit, Bloch didn’t flinch. His assurance seemed to be growing. A good sign.

  “With your pardon, sir, I’ve never been one for changing my mind. I know a chance when I see one. I’ll fight with you, and you’ll not find a better captain in the Emperor’s armies.” Then he looked worried, like he’d overreached himself. “And I’m grateful for the chance. Real
ly grateful.”

  Schwarzhelm kept his gaze firmly on him. Nothing he saw contradicted his initial assessment. Here was a leader of the future.

  “Very good,” he said. “For now, remain with your company. They’ve fought hard, and you should reward them. When we’re back in Altdorf and your hangover has cleared, report to Ferren. He’ll sort out the papers of commission. Then you’ll report to me.”

  Schwarzhelm didn’t smile. He never smiled. But something close to a humorous light played in his eyes.

  “I like you, Bloch,” he said. “I wonder if you know what you’ve committed yourself to? Never mind. We’ll see soon enough. Return to your men and prepare for the journey home.”

  Bloch, his uncertain confidence looking a little dented, bowed awkwardly and limped away. From some distance away, Schwarzhelm heard Ferren begin to confer with him. He ignored the noise of their conversation, and turned to face the Cauldron. For the moment, his brooding on Helborg had lifted.

  Out on the plain, the columns of smoke rose ever higher. Another victory. The army would decamp before nightfall. And then it would start over again. The endless test, the endless struggle. Only now, in these brief moments, could any satisfaction be taken. He crossed his arms over his burly chest. The head of Raghram had been stuck on a spike near the summit of the Bastion. It would be taken to Altdorf and presented to Karl Franz. And that would be an end to it.

  For now.

  By late afternoon, the fires began to go out. Huge piles of charred flesh lay strewn across the Cauldron. While the army remained on the Bastion, the vultures steered clear of the smouldering carrion. But not all of the bodies could be retrieved and they knew that rich pickings remained. As soon as they left, the birds would descend. They would feast on the beasts only when the juicier remnants of the men were scraped clean. They knew the difference between wholesome flesh and the warp-twisted fodder of the deep forest.

  Gradually, as the worst of the carnage was cleared away, the army began descending from the Bastion to start the march from the Cauldron to the forest road. As they went, the state troopers glanced at the distant trees darkly. None of them relished the journey back under the close eaves of the forest. Only the foolish among them believed the beastman menace to have been extinguished. It had only been deferred. Perhaps a year, maybe two, and then they would mass again. Who knew how they replenished themselves? There were bawdy stories of mass ruttings in the shadowy heart of the woods, driven by crude ale and bestial fervour. All knew the tales of witches heading out into the darkness on the festival days of the Dark Gods, prepared for unspeakable rites. And then there were the children, the ones touched by the Ruinous Powers. When they were left in isolated clearings to die, who knew what happened to them? Did they find refuge amongst the twisted beasts, ever ready to fan the flames of their hate towards the unsullied scions of humanity? If so, it was a dark secret to hide, and one the mean folk of the Empire would never admit to.

  The Knights Panther were the first to ride out, with Gruppen at their head. They had restored their armour as best they could and went ahead to clear the road home of any residual beastmen. Behind them marched the ranks of halberdiers, archers and other state troopers. Every company was depleted. Some were leaderless and attached themselves forlornly to other companies. Some of the regiments had lost their standards in the fighting, and their shame hung heavy over them. Only a few carried themselves proudly. The fighting had been too bitter to take much satisfaction from. All the men cared about was getting back to the city in one piece. Their payment would stand for a few beers in a tavern and a night at the whorehouse. That would be enough for them to forget the horror, however briefly.

  Verstohlen watched them silently as they passed. It seemed a poor reward for all their heroism. And yet what else would they want? Would a king’s ransom really make them happy? They would just drink it away all the same. They were the Emperor’s fodder, nothing more, nothing less, and all knew it.

  He sighed and turned away from the sight. Such thoughts depressed him. He wondered, not for the first time, what he was doing amongst them. Better, perhaps, to have stayed in the more genteel world of lore and study. But he had made his choice, and the reasons for it hadn’t changed. Every man had his fate mapped by the gods, and he knew what his was.

  He began to pack his belongings away in his slim leather bag. The pistols were safely cleaned and bolstered, his blade sheathed.

  “Verstohlen!” came a familiar voice. It was Bloch. The man strolled up to him, looking like he’d inherited the fortune of Araby, and then drunk it. “It looks like you have some use after all. Get used to having me around. The big man’s promoted me!”

  Verstohlen feigned surprise.

  “That’s truly impressive, Herr Bloch. My congratulations to you. It makes me feel a little better for having drawn you into Grunwald’s rescue.”

  Bloch grinned. He must have found some ale from somewhere.

  “I won’t forget it,” he warned. “Next time we’re in a tight spot, I’ll call in the favour. You keep your wits about you, Verstohlen!”

  Then he was off, walking unsteadily down the Bastion. He, at least, had found something worth celebrating.

  “Enjoy it while you may, my friend,” whispered Verstohlen to himself.

  Then he pulled his coat about him, slung his bag over his shoulder and made his way down the slopes of the Bastion, back into the Cauldron, ready to start the journey home.

  Chapter Four

  Altdorf. Greatest city of the Old World.

  Marienburg may have been larger, Nuln older, Middenheim more warlike, Talabheim stronger. But none of those pretenders could compete for sheer exuberance and unruly majesty with the home of the Emperor Karl Franz. At the mighty confluence of the Talabec and the Reik, where the pure waters running down from Averland mixed with the silt-laden torrents from the heart of the Drakwald, the spires, towers and crenulated bridges all jostled for space. Ships rubbed up against each other in the crowded harbours, rocking gently on the grey, filmy waters. Vast warehouses stood on the quaysides, rammed with goods both legal and contraband. Tenements crowded next to one another along the twisting alleyways and stairwells. Like the long-forgotten forest that had once stood on the ancient site, the buildings competed with each other for the light, strangling and throttling one another as they strained ever upwards.

  The lower levels had been left behind by the race towards the sun. They were now half-drowned in bilge and the haunt of none but brigands, cutthroats or worse. And yet somehow, amidst all the violence and squalor, buildings of an awesome grandeur and vision had been raised on such foundations. The Colleges of Magic, varied and inscrutable, towered over the streets around them. The Imperial University, unwittingly built on the site of human sacrifices in the pagan days before Sigmar, stood proud and austere in the bright sunlight. Huge garrisons broke the skyline, each stuffed with arms and the men to wield them. Slaughterhouses, temples, marketplaces, mausoleums, scriptoria, merchants’ apartments, monasteries, brothels, cattle pens, counting-houses, all ran up against one another. Like a priest caught in bed with a prostitute, the high and noble rubbed shoulders—sometimes more than shoulders—with the filth and desperation of the gutter.

  The narrow towers rose high over the lapping waters of the Reik. Chimneys belched out steady columns of muddy brown filth, staining the whitewashed walls a dirty flesh colour. Yet none of these buildings was more than a footnote to the mightiest of them all. The sprawling, ancient, ever-changing, ever-evolving Imperial Palace stood in the very heart of the city. Like the city it dominated, the palace was an architectural mess. Gothic arches of dark stone rubbed up against graceful elven-inspired gardens. Huge fortifications, some semi-ruined, were piled up against flimsy wattle-and-daub outhouses. Immaculate baroque halls of gold and copper were placed right next to boiling ceremonial kitchens, stinking with cooking fumes and slopping with goosefat.

  No single man knew the full extent of the Imperial Palace. It de
scended into the bowels of the earth for nearly as far as its squat towers rose above the city. Many rooms within it had been left to fall into ruin, or were flooded, or had been locked in ages past to keep some terrible secret from the hands of the unwary. Few ventured into those uncharted areas at night unless driven by some awful need. There were strange things buried in the deep places, accumulations of generations of Emperors and their servants. When the candle-flames went out, not all the shadows were natural.

  Even in the normally habitable regions, officials guarded their little kingdoms with obsessive jealousy. Vicious feuds, some stretching back across many lives of men, dominated the corridors of power. Behind the artful politesse and diplomacy, access to the Emperor and his court was ruthlessly sought. When it was secured, it was clung on to. The entire place was a microcosm of the world outside, complete with its civil wars, power struggles, dynastic manoeuvrings and applications of subtle poison in the dark.

  And yet, somehow, out of all this ceaseless intrigue and politicking, the business of the Empire was conducted. From the gilded salons and audience chambers, orders were given. Inscriptions were made on parchment and vellum, and scribes passed them to officials and commanders. Though no one could track the paths these orders took, far less trace them back to their author, laws were made and decisions were taken. Trade agreements were entered into, appointments were made and broken, lands were granted and taken away. Most importantly, the armies of the Empire were deployed. From the stroke of a quill deep in the candlelit study of some grey-skinned scribe, a thousand men on the other side of the Empire could find themselves sent on campaign, or disbanded, or ordered back to barracks. Thus, imperfectly and with many detours, was the will of Karl Franz enacted across his domains.

  So it was that weeks after the victory at the Turgitz Cauldron, a homecoming parade was ordered in honour of the Emperor’s Champion. Gold was procured for the event by means both legal and dubious. Hundreds of officials left their regular tasks to bend all their attention to it. Times were harder than usual across the Empire. Ceaseless war had taken its toll and the people were weary. When a great victory came, it needed to be celebrated. For no more than a moment, the impoverished masses would believe that all their troubles were over.