For as long as the procession lasted and the ale flowed, they would think humanity the undisputed master of the world, and their leaders the wisest and most benevolent of men.
In any case, all those dwelling in Altdorf knew that Schwarzhelm was no ordinary general. He had the Emperor’s favour more than any other (with the possible exception of his great rival), so the officials took especial pains to make sure all passed off as it should do. Less money than usual ended up disappearing between the coffers and the merchants’ guilds, and habitually slovenly workers found new reserves of diligence and attention to detail. Whole streets were cleared of their usual clutter. Market stalls were swept away, mounds of refuse dumped in the river, and fragrant oil-burners placed over the most noxious open sewers. Most impressively of all, the mighty thoroughfare leading from the Wilhelm III garrison to the grand gates of the palace was cleared. When the great flags were scraped clean of filth, men were amazed to discover that some of the graffiti still marking the stone dated back hundreds of years. Some less-than-flattering references to the Imperial ruling family and their proclivities were hastily scrubbed clean, though not before copies had been taken and circulated around the shabbier sort of tavern.
After many weeks of frenzied preparation, the great day finally dawned. Workers were given the day off by their employers and the streets filled with cheering crowds. Perhaps half of them had no idea why they were there. All they knew was that the drink was plentiful and the militia didn’t seem to mind. Many others knew exactly what they were witnessing. The Great Schwarzhelm. Children were shoved by their parents to the front of the teeming crowds. Normally placid men pushed and gouged their way to get a better view. A rumour went round that if he touched you then all illnesses would be banished. As the result the front ranks were dominated, aside from bewildered infants, by the leprous, the feverish and the consumptive.
When the procession came, it was no disappointment. Units of Reiksguard, resplendent in glittering armour, headed the cavalcade. That was no accident. Should any of the enthusiastic crowd get too carried away then the stern glances from the knights quickly restored some sense of order.
Behind them, ranks of soldiers marched in full regalia. Most had never been so finely kitted out and were determined to make the most of it. The younger men’s chins were laced with cuts where their shaving had been too vigorous, and the older ones had their facial hair arranged into ever more outlandish configurations. Each infantryman was cheered wildly by the crowd, even those who had no idea what they were celebrating. Flowers were strewn at their feet and kisses blown from maidens leaning from balconies. It didn’t matter that the flowers were half-rotten from storage and that the “maidens” generally charged half a schilling for their time. It was appearances that mattered.
When the commanders emerged, the cheering became even louder. Moving steadily up the causeway in full ceremonial armour, mounted on fine warhorses, Schwarzhelm’s retinue rode stiltedly between the baying mob. None of them looked comfortable. Leonidas Gruppen, accustomed by noble birth to feigned adulation from his subjects, was the most at ease. He wore his full battle armour minus the helmet, and raised his gauntlet now and again to acknowledge the shrieks all around. Andreas Grunwald was far less assured and picked nervously at his collar. Fighting beasts was one thing. Facing the full unleashed force of Altdorf’s citizenry was another. His companions looked equally unsure what to do. They went as quickly as they could, nudging their steeds impatiently, desperate to get the whole grotesque charade over with.
Finally, carried aloft on a ridiculous open carriage decorated with stucco images of Karl Franz vanquishing various breeds of monster, came the star attraction. Ludwig Schwarzhelm, Slayer of Raghram, Emperor’s Champion and dispenser of Imperial Justice, had somehow been persuaded to wear armour made of what looked like pure ithilmar. It probably wasn’t any such thing, but it blazed in the sun nonetheless. The only thing fiercer than the sheen of the fake silver was Schwarzhelm’s scowl. If he hadn’t owed his allegiance to Karl Franz above all others, he would never have allowed such a farrago to take place. As it was, his loyalty had barely survived the test, and he suffered the foolishness in silence.
Ahead of him, the severed head of Raghram was carried aloft on a long pole. As it passed, it was pelted with missiles from the crowd. Some thought it nothing more than a bull’s head, placed there for no better reason than to provide some sport for them. Others, more accustomed to the life of the forest beyond the city walls, recognised it for what it was and gaped in renewed awe at Schwarzhelm as he passed them. A doombull was a mighty prize.
So it was that, slowly and with as much pomp as the Imperial bureaucracy could muster, the victory parade made its way from the lower quarters of the city to the gates of the palace itself. When the various dignitaries had passed through the massive bronze-inlaid doors, mighty wheels within the stone walls were turned. The gates closed with a clang. Dried flower petals showered down from murder holes above the gatehouse and a flock of baffled doves lurched into the air. The crowd surged forward, eager for more. At the edges of the mob, scuffles broke out. Some thought that was the end of their entertainment.
Sadly for the military commanders, the ordeal was not yet over. Above the mighty gates was a stone portico.
Carved out of the heavy facade was a wide balcony, supported by flamboyant gargoyles with the wings of griffons and lined with a balustrade of fluted sandstone. One by one, the members of Schwarzhelm’s retinue emerged on to the space to receive the adulation of the crowd. There they stood, gazing with a mix of embarrassment and contempt at the raucous mob beneath them. The horde cared nothing for that. Most were too far gone with ale to reliably recognise their own children, let alone the disdainful expressions on the face of each Imperial commander.
Just as the beasts had done at the Cauldron, a chanting began to take over. The people wanted to see their hero.
“Schwarzhelm!” came the cry, over and over again.
Eventually, with a face like thunder, he answered their call. Still dressed in his blazing silver armour, Schwarzhelm strode onto the balcony. The horde of people below broke into wild cheers. The flowers, by now broken and foetid, were hurled up to the railing, where they showered back on to the people directly below. Schwarzhelm gazed over the scene impassively. Had any of the people been close enough to see his face, they would have recoiled at his studied look of distaste.
For a few moments longer the party on the balcony acknowledged the applause of the crowd. Eventually, clearly anxious to escape, they made to leave. But there was a final surprise. A new figure joined them, also clad in a suit of improbably polished armour. Immediately, the mob below changed their chant.
“Helborg!” came the cry. Men and women alike surged forward, desperate for a glimpse of the hero of the Empire. The Grand Marshal was happy to oblige, and raised a gauntlet in salute. That sent them even wilder. The press at the gates began to become acute. The Reiksguard captain stationed on the walls discreetly gave the signal to begin the dispersal. Troops began to emerge from the side streets, some very heavily armed. The commanders began to shuffle from the balcony. From a distance, all looked as it should be. The glorious heroes of the Empire, arrayed together for all to see their splendour. An observer would have had to have been very close by indeed to witness the frosty look that passed between Schwarzhelm and his great contemporary as they left the balcony to enter the palace.
But then they were gone, and the doors closed for good. The militia commanders ordered their troops steadily into the thoroughfare, making sure their weapons were raised and visible. All but the most beer-addled celebrants took the hint. The last of the petals drifted down from the murder holes, and the Reiksguard took guard in front of the closed gates. The party was over.
“Morr damn this nonsense!” spat Schwarzhelm, feeling his temper fray at the edges. The Emperor Karl Franz sat back in his heavily upholstered chair and looked with amusement at Schwarzhelm as he struggled out
of his armour.
Aside from two manservants helping Schwarzhelm with the heavy plate armour, the two men were alone, cloistered together in one of the Emperor’s many private chambers. From the south wall, the warm summer sun streamed through large mullioned windows. Thick embroidered carpets adorned the wooden floors and gaudy portraits of Karl Franz’s illustrious ancestors hung from the panelled walls. The Emperor himself looked supremely at ease. He ran a finger around the edge of his gold-rimmed goblet, his dark, acute eyes glistening. He had the harsh features of all the Holswig-Schliestein line. His neck-length hair shone glossily in the filtered light, framing a battle-ravaged, care-lined face. Few of his subjects would ever have seen him thus, clad simply in a burgundy robe and soft leather shoes. A heavy gold medallion hung across his broad chest was the only sign of his high office.
Within the palace, the Emperor had no need for the finery of state. One look from his grey eyes gave away his mastery of the place. This was his lair, his seat, the well-spring of all his immense temporal power. Freed from the endless gaze of his people for a few precious moments, he could be something like himself. He could be amused.
“Don’t tell me you didn’t enjoy it just a little bit,” Karl Franz said. “I know you too well, Ludwig. You need the adulation. We all do.”
Schwarzhelm didn’t reply, but pulled the last of the frippery from his body. One of the manservants took up the piece reverently and placed it next to the carefully arranged stack of pauldrons, greaves, cuirass, cowter, poleyns and other sundry components of the armoured knight’s wardrobe. With the final elements retrieved and wrapped in cloth, the two hunched figures withdrew, closing the ornate doors behind them as they went.
Schwarzhelm pulled on a white robe and flexed his fingers. In the corner of the room, a great clock gently ticked. It was one of the newest innovations from the College of Engineers, presented to the Emperor in thanks for his long years of patronage. They’d said it had Ironblood workings inside, but they were probably lying about that.
“So. Now you’re free of all that, come and have a drink.”
Karl Franz was a genial host. Unlike his guest, he was clean-shaven. His voice was that of a statesman, calm and controlled. A lifetime spent in the higher echelons of the Empire’s ruling classes had given him easy manners. And yet the polished facade hid a mind of utter, ruthless determination. If it had not done so, the Empire would have long since succumbed to its many enemies. Karl Franz was the strand of iron that held the fractious realms of men together, and all those close to him knew it well.
Schwarzhelm sat heavily opposite him, traces of his scowl still present. Unlike his master, his social graces were rough. The battlefield was his home, and all other places were unnatural to him. He grasped a goblet from the table beside him and poured a large measure from the decanter.
“I’m sorry you had to go through that,” said the Emperor, letting the last of his amusement drain from his face. “The people need to see their heroes from time to time. Without that, they lose faith. And faith is everything.”
Schwarzhelm took a long swig.
“I’ll leave the politics to you. You know how to keep the crowds happy.”
“Don’t scorn that talent. You should trust my judgement.”
“I do. Why else would I go through with it?” Karl Franz smiled.
“Never have I tested your loyalty more,” he mused. He placed his goblet down on the table next to him. “But that charade is over now. We need to discuss more serious matters.”
Schwarzhelm let the wine sink down his gullet. Here it came. The next assignment. The scant days of reprieve had passed too quickly.
“I make no apology for publicly celebrating your victory at Turgitz,” said Karl Franz. “The beasts will be back, that we know. But not for a while, and that frees up resources for other things.”
He looked directly at Schwarzhelm.
“My mind has turned to healing old wounds,” he said. “One in particular. Ludwig, we need to do something about Averland.”
So that was it.
“Averland. Why now?”
“Why not?”
Karl Franz leaned forward in his seat. His eyes sparkled. It was the only outward sign he ever gave of excitement.
“We may never get a better chance. For the moment, our northern borders are free from threat. Though I will not say the war is over, it has abated for a season. There are matters left hanging, threads to be tidied away. Leitdorf’s seat is empty. A province must not be left without a master.”
“Maybe so, but that’s not in our gift to alter.”
“You disappoint me. How long have I known you? Have you learned nothing of the arts of state?”
Schwarzhelm said nothing. Even a gentle rebuke from the Emperor felt like a stain on his honour. That was his peculiar gift. He didn’t inspire loyalty. He inspired devotion.
“I recall when you were a young man,” continued the Emperor, picking up his wine again and rolling the liquid around in the crystal. “Leitdorf was still alive, but even then his mind was disarranged. He couldn’t be left to run things alone. You had no qualms about imposing the imperial writ then.”
“That was different.”
“Not really,” said Karl Franz.
“We can’t interfere with the coronation of an elector. It’s never been done.” Karl Franz let slip a sly smile.
“I don’t believe you really think that, Ludwig,” he said. “But hear me out. I have nothing underhand in mind. It’s in our interests—in the Empire’s interests—for Averland to have a strong man at the helm. The situation cannot be left to fester. There are plenty in that province who have no desire to see restoration of an electorship, but none of them can see beyond their own selfish noses. Even now we hear of greenskins in the passes, remnants of Ironjaw’s ravagers. The integrity of the Empire is at stake. The runefang must be wielded.”
Schwarzhelm pursed his lips. This sounded like politics already. He loathed politics. The only word he liked in that monologue was “greenskin”. Those, he knew what to do with.
“I’m waiting for you to tell me how I fit into this.”
“You are the dispenser of the Emperor’s justice,” replied Karl Franz. There was the faintest trace of irritation in his voice. “You carry the sword. Just as you did twenty years ago, I want you to go to Averheim. Oversee the succession of a new count. They can’t be allowed to drag their feet any longer. Take an army with you. If you have to use force, do it. The other electors won’t like it, but they have their own worries. I don’t care who ends up with the title, as long as it’s legal and as long as it happens soon.”
It was getting worse. Electoral law, the most fiendishly complicated legislation in the Old World. This wasn’t just politics. It was high politics. The kind that men lost their souls over—or their minds.
“My liege,” began Schwarzhelm, struggling to find the correct form of words, “are you sure I’m the right person for this? There are legal scholars in Altdorf, men steeped in…”
He trailed off. The Emperor looked at him with a disappointed expression.
“I have a thousand legal scholars here. Averheim has them too. Can any of them do what you can? Do any of them embody my Imperial power? What are you telling me? That you’re afraid of this?”
Ludwig felt the burning spark of shame kindle. He knew what the Emperor was doing. Karl Franz knew how to find a man’s weak spot. He was being tested. Always being tested. The examination never ended.
“I fear nothing but the law and Sigmar.”
“Then do as I ask.”
“Are you ordering me?”
“Do I need to?”
Schwarzhelm held the Emperor’s gaze for a few moments. This was the tipping point. He’d never queried an order. Never even queried a request. But this felt wrong. Some sense deep within him resisted. He could already see a host of possible outcomes, branching away from him like the tributaries of rivers. None were good. He should decline.
>
“No,” he said, giving in to duty. “Of course not. I am your servant.”
The Emperor smiled, but the gesture had an edge of ice to it.
“I’m glad you remembered.”
Far from the Imperial Palace and the grandeur of its associated institutions, a special area of elegant housing had been devoted to a single purpose. There had never been an official edict authorising the quarter to be so given over, but over many years a number of quietly influential people had started buying up portions of land and letting them to various other quietly influential people. A complicated series of trusts had been established, and some recalcitrant undesirable tenants had it discreetly but firmly made clear to them that they were no longer welcome in the area. Older structures were demolished, including a rare example of Mandred-era stonework, and handsome townhouses took their place. These were somewhat more desirable than the ramshackle Altdorf norm and were all constructed of solid oak beams and well-laid brick.
Whenever anyone tried to make enquiries as to the legal basis of all this change, they were met by an impenetrable wall of ownership, cross-ownership and counter-ownership. It was surprisingly difficult to discover who owned what and how the money had been unearthed to build such a fine collection of handsome dwellings. Over time, however, it became clear that all of the new inhabitants were peculiarly similar. They were all men, all old and all retired from the highest reaches of the Empire’s armies. Unlike the rank and file, who mostly died on the field or sloped back to a life of penury in the villages whence they’d come, these were wealthy men. Generals, regiment commanders, grand masters and master engineers. They had the resources to fund a comfortable retirement and the connections to snare the best of the available property in the city. They could have gone anywhere, but they liked being with their own kind.
[Heroes 01] - Sword of Justice Page 8