[Heroes 01] - Sword of Justice

by Chris Wraight - (ebook by Undead)

  “How do you know these things?”

  “Schwarzhelm is going to Averland. Everyone knows that. And where he goes, you’re bound to follow.”

  Verstohlen smiled ruefully. That was true.

  “In a couple of days. The Emperor has decreed that the succession must be decided. Schwarzhelm will pass judgement on the claims.”

  “That’s a quick way to make enemies.”

  “You’re an astute judge, my dear.”

  “Thank you.”

  Verstohlen didn’t need to ask her where she got her information. That would have been indelicate. But she was right. It suited many Averlanders not to have an elector in place. With no incumbent in Averheim, they could get on with the business of cattle-rearing and horse-breeding without those inconvenient Imperial levies. They were far enough from the frontline not to care too deeply about the demands of war. Life was good in the south, and they were milking it for all they could get.

  “So which way do you think it’ll go?” she asked.

  “You’re asking me to predict the outcome before we get there? Have you so little regard for the Imperial law?”

  “Imperial law,” she scoffed. “If you cared anything for that, you wouldn’t be here.”

  “True enough,” he said. “But no, I have no idea which way the thing will turn. I’d say they were evenly matched, Grosslich and the Leitdorf heir. And, before you ask, we’re not under orders to pick one of them. This is a genuine contest. Schwarzhelm’s just there to force a decision.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I do.”

  As he spoke, Verstohlen realised how unusual that situation was. In any normal assignment, there’d be some clandestine objective. He might have to slip some misinformation here, or place a modest bribe there. On occasion, the cause demanded more drastic measures, and he knew his poisons. He was good at it all. That was why Schwarzhelm trusted him. That, and many other reasons.

  This situation was odd. His role was to gather intelligence, and nothing more. That alone unnerved him. Perhaps that’s why he’d been talking in his sleep.

  “Are you travelling with him alone?”

  “Oh no. It’ll be the family. Schwarzhelm likes his own people around him. He’s good like that, picking up us waifs and strays.”

  “The family. Quaint.”

  “It keeps us out of mischief.”

  “So it’s you, Grunwald and Gruppen?”

  Verstohlen turned his head to give her a suspicious look. That was very well-informed, even for her.

  “Did you really not hear what I said last night?”

  Julia shrugged.

  “Come on. There’s no secret about his lieutenants.”

  “If I didn’t know my secrets were as safe with you as they would be with Verena herself, I’d begin to get worried. You could destroy my reputation.”

  “And lose my best customer?” she said. “I don’t mean the money, either. You’re a handsome man, Pieter. I’d miss these special visits.”

  Verstohlen laughed.

  “Oh, you’re good,” he said. “But to answer your question, Leonidas won’t be there. His chapter’s been called to the front. The order came from high up. Very high up. Andreas will be going, though. And a new man. Bloch. I like him. He’s dangerous, but in the best way. Schwarzhelm sees something of himself in him, I reckon.”

  “He sees something of himself in all of you.”

  “In Grunwald, maybe. Not me. That’s why he trusts me. I’m Morrslieb to his Mannslieb.”

  Julia chuckled at that. As she laughed, Verstohlen admired the rise and fall of the crumpled sheets around her.

  “I’ll miss you, Pieter,” she said, wistfully.

  “What do you mean? I’ll be back. I can’t keep away from you.”

  “Don’t mock me. I mean it. You’re getting too old for whoring. You need a wife. And when you get one, that’s the last I’ll see of you. I know it. That damned sense of honour.”

  Verstohlen felt the good humour suddenly drain out of him. How was he going to respond to that? Perhaps with the truth, that most elusive and valuable of prizes. But there were only so many ways you could tell the story without sounding bitter. And where would he stop? Just with the fact that he had been married? Or with the fact that Leonora was dead? Or with the way that she’d died, at the hands of those monsters? Or with the fact that he’d loved her so much, so painfully and so completely, that there would never be another woman in his life again, not even if an avatar of blessed Verena herself descended and begged him to take her in blissful matrimony?

  The appetites of the flesh were one thing. He was a man, after all. But his soul belonged to another, and that would never change. He was no longer, as they said, the marrying kind.

  “Don’t trust too much to honour,” was all he said. His voice was bleak. “It has a way of letting you down.”

  Julia, with all the grace of her profession, sensed a nerve had been touched. Smoothly, expertly, she ran a finger down his cheek.

  “So serious,” she whispered. “I could help with that. How long before you have to leave?”

  Verstohlen rolled over, looking her in the eyes. He didn’t like to remember the past. Anything that helped him forget was welcome. And Julia certainly helped him forget.

  “Long enough.”

  “That’s good news,” said Julia, pulling him towards her.

  Much later, Markus Bloch relaxed against the wooden bench, feeling good. He was full of ale. So full, it felt as if it would soon start running out of his eyes. It was Altdorf filth, not as good as he’d get back home in the sticks, but it did the trick. His vision was blurred, his gut overfull, his head heavy. He felt fantastic.

  What made it better was sharing his fortune with his best friends. To be fair, they had only been his best friends for the past few hours. It was uncanny the way a man could strike up such close relationships after walking into a tavern with a purse full of schillings. If he was cynical, he might put it down to the generous rounds he’d been able to stump for. But that would be churlish. These men were the finest in the world. His kind of people. The salt of the earth.

  Bloch let his gaze sweep across the interior of the inn. He couldn’t remember its name. Something like The Seagull, although that would be odd, since Altdorf was hundreds of miles from the sea. The bar was crowded and acrid clouds of pipesmoke hung heavy in the shadows. The smells were reassuringly familiar. Beer, straw, sweat, piss.

  Most of the patrons were human, though there were dwarfs skulking in the shadows. Altdorf was a cosmopolitan place, and no eyebrows were raised at their presence. They drank from massive iron tankards carved with runes while the men knocked back their beer from rude pewter cups.

  You had to hand it to the dwarfs, thought Bloch. They cared about their beer, and they knew how to put it away. He hadn’t seen one of them drunk under the table in all his many happy years in the inns of the Empire. He’d tried to achieve the feat himself. Twice. It hadn’t ended happily on either occasion. The first time he’d lost his dignity, the second his wallet. Still, it had been worth it. One day he’d do it. He just needed more practice.

  With that thought in mind, he downed the last of his drink. The beer became unpleasantly silted at the base of his cup, but you had to drain it to the end if you wanted to get a fresh one. House rules, and damned good ones they were too.

  “Renard!” he bellowed, feeling the liquid swill around his insides. “I’ll have the next one now.”

  His Bretonnian companion, beer-bellied and greasy like the rest of the drinkers, grinned. The man had done well out of the evening so far and seemed happy to stand for another drink. Unlike most of his effeminate countrymen, he was content with proper man’s ale. That was what Bloch had always liked about him. Ever since he’d first met him. An hour ago.

  “You can handle it, Bloch, I’ll give you that,” said the Bretonnian. He was smiling. Bloch smiled back. His benevolence knew no bounds. “Tell us more stories. They�
��re entertaining.”

  Bloch looked around the table. All eyes were on him. There was Clovis, the travelling peddler from Bogenhafen. He looked shifty and sallow, and hadn’t bought a drink all night. Walland was a better man. Thick as a giant, but generous and ready with a dirty laugh. His eyes were drooping now. And then there was the builder’s mate Holderlin, and the halfling Tallowhand, and Bruno the hired muscle. All fine men. His kind of men. He felt like telling them he loved them.

  “All right,” he slurred, watching his next drink arrive with approval. The serving wench had an appealing set of curves, but she moved too quickly for him to grab anything. Anyway, she was badly blurred. “I’ve saved the best till last. You’re going to love this.”

  He took a long swig. Bilge water. All eyes were on him.

  “I told you about the Turgitz campaign, when I killed the doombull,” he continued, wiping his mouth. “But that’s not the best of it. After I’d pulled the halberd out and cleaned it, I noticed the general was in trouble. That’s right lads, the general of the whole bloody army.”

  Bloch noticed with satisfaction that they were hanging on his every word. Marvellous men, they were.

  “Another man would’ve looked after himself. After all, I’d just killed the bull, and I was pretty bloody tired. But no, I thought. Damn it, the general’s a fine man. The finest of men. Just like you fellas. So I hoisted my blade and launched in. I was pretty fired up by then, and I tell you, you don’t want to get on the wrong side of me when I’m angry.”

  He might have imagined it, but it looked like Renard shot a low glance at Clovis then. What was that about? Never mind. He was in full flow now.

  “So I launched in, like I said. You don’t want to get on the wrong side of me when I’m angry. Like I said. One, two, and he’s done. I’ve stuck him. Right in the guts. Not the general, mind. He’s a fine man, the best of men. I’ve killed the gor. That bloody great gor that was giving him some trouble. And when it’s all over, he turns to me—the general, that is—and he says, ‘Bloch, that was the finest fighting I’ve seen in my fifty years in the Emperor’s armies. Forget your service with the Reikland halberdiers. Come and join my retinue.’ So I did. And that’s what’s brought me back here. I told you I was a halberdier captain. No bloody longer, mates. I’m the general’s man now. And he’s a fine man, I tell you.”

  There it was again. Renard was definitely up to something. Clovis was looking shifty. But Holderlin was hanging on his every word, as was Bruno.

  “Which general?” said Tallowhand, looking suspicious. Damned half-breeds. This was difficult. He knew he should keep names out of this. Ferren had told him to. But the story was running out of steam. Clovis looked bored. They needed something big. Something to impress them.

  He took a long, gulping swig.

  “You’re not going to believe it, mates,” he said, wiping his mouth. “But it’s the truth. I swear it on Sigmar’s holy mother, it’s the truth. I wouldn’t lie to you.”

  He leaned forward, milking the moment for all it was worth. Holderlin was wide-eyed, and even Walland had woken up.

  “He’s the foremost general in the Empire,” he said, his voice low. “The Emperor’s right-hand man.” He sat back, folded his arms, and waited for the gasps. “Helborg!” exclaimed Holderlin. Bloch nearly spilt his drink.

  “Damn you!” he bellowed, all thought of secrecy forgotten. “Not that prancing pretty boy. Schwarzhelm. You know, the Champion.”

  That silenced the room. Bloch felt a twinge of unease. Why were they so quiet?

  “You shouldn’t have said that about Marshal Helborg,” said Walland in a low voice. His slow face looked surly. That annoyed Bloch. What did these peasants know about Helborg? They were idiots, the lot of them. He couldn’t recall what he’d ever seen in them.

  “Oh yes?” Bloch said, a sinister note creeping into his voice. “And why’s that?”

  Holderlin was nodding in support of Walland.

  “He’s the hero of the Empire, that’s why,” he said. His voice was thin and annoying. Bloch felt his temper rising.

  “He’s nothing compared to the big man. Gods, you weren’t there after he killed the doombull. He was like Sigmar reborn!”

  “I thought you killed the doombull?” said Clovis, obsequiously.

  Bloch got angrier. These people were scum. Real scum.

  “Yeah, we both did, all right? And then we carved our way through the rest of those damned beasts. And where was your pretty boy Helborg? Riding around the Drakwald on his own, lost! He’s not half the man Schwarzhelm is, and I’ll fight anyone who says otherwise.”

  That changed things. At the mention of the word “fight”, Tallowhand and Holderlin finished their drinks and quietly slipped away. Bruno was close behind, but Walland remained. His expression had lowered further, and he looked surly. Renard and Clovis stayed in their seats, watching.

  “You don’t know nothing ’bout Helborg,” Walland growled. Bloch saw him reach down to his beltline. This was getting nasty.

  “I know a damn sight more than you, fat man.”

  Walland stood up. He had a knife in his hand and his flabby cheeks were flushed.

  “No one calls me fat,” he said.

  Bloch felt a surge of hot blood rush to his temples. He didn’t have a weapon, but he was more than capable of taking on a drunken provincial hick like Walland. He rose in turn, pushing the bench back. As he did so, the inn lurched uncomfortably and he had to grab the table for support. This ale was damned strong stuff. Perhaps more than he’d thought.

  “Gentlemen,” interjected Renard, rising quickly. “You don’t want to be ruining a pleasant evening like this. We’re all friends here.”

  He pressed something shiny into Walland’s palm and whispered something in the man’s ear. Walland grunted and retreated, glowering at Bloch all the while.

  Though he wouldn’t have admitted it to anyone but himself, Bloch felt relief. He wasn’t that steady on his feet. The tavern interior was pitching alarmingly. They really ought to fix that.

  Renard came to his side, supporting him. Somehow, Clovis ended up on his other arm. Bloch blinked furiously, trying to clear his vision.

  “Another drink?” he suggested cheerfully.

  “I think you’ve had enough,” said Clovis. The man wasn’t smiling. Bloch felt himself being manoeuvred towards the tavern entrance. That was a shame. The evening had just been getting started.

  “So what are we up to now, boys?” Bloch asked, noticing how cloudy his eyesight was even as they left the tavern and staggered out into the street beyond.

  Renard smiled again, but said nothing. The man was always smiling. Bloch didn’t like that. You couldn’t trust a man who smiled too much. That was one of the many great things about Schwarzhelm, Sigmar preserve his soul.

  “Did I tell you about how I rescued Grunwald?” Bloch asked, hoping another story would rekindle the bonhomie between them. “He’s a damned pansy, if you ask me. Lost his position and ended up being chased by the beasts all the way to me. He’ll be my superior officer, more’s the pity, but he won’t have anything on me. What’s he going to do when I refuse to follow orders? I saved his life! That’s a pretty good position to be in, don’t you think? Lads?”

  They didn’t reply.

  “Lads?”

  “You can stop talking now.” The voice was Clovis. He’d stopped even pretending to be civil. Bloch looked around him. Everything was in shadows. Where had they taken him? It looked like an alley of some sort. It was quiet. Very quiet. Damn.

  “Forget it,” Bloch said, with as much bravado as he could muster. “I’ve handled worse than you before. If you step away now, we’ll call it…”

  He felt the cool metal of the blade against his neck. It pressed in close. He felt a line of blood form on his skin. It trickled down the inside of his jacket.

  “We’ve heard all about it,” said Renard from his shoulder. The man’s face was close, and Bloch could smell the cheese
on the man’s breath. But not ale. Had he been the only one drinking? “You’re an entertaining fellow. I’d hate to end your stories for good. So why don’t you hand over those shiny schillings you’ve been so free with. We know you’ve got more. The Emperor’s Champion pays handsomely.”

  Bloch felt his fists balling instinctively. Could he fight his way out of this? For a moment, he weighed up the options. Clovis had a blade too and looked anxious to use it. He didn’t share his companion’s friendly manner.

  The knife pressed harder against his skin. Bloch felt the skin part. The pain cut through his drunken haze. There was no chance.

  “Just stick him, Renard,” spat Clovis, looking eager to be gone.

  “All right!” said Bloch, hurriedly rummaging through his pockets. The pouch with Schwarzhelm’s payment was still there. Still nearly full. He pulled it out and threw it to the ground. Clovis darted after it.

  “Everything there?” asked Renard, still pressing the knife to Bloch’s neck.

  There was a coarse laugh from the shadows.

  “Oh yes. This’ll do nicely. Very nicely indeed.”

  Renard twisted the blade into Bloch’s flesh.

  “You’re a lucky man,” he said. “Taking money puts me in a good mood. And I never kill when I’m in a good mood. But if you weren’t lying about your new employer, you’d better wise up fast. You’re not as impressive as you think.”

  The blade was removed. Bloch whirled around, trying to catch Renard, but the movement made him feel sick. Everything span, and he couldn’t see a thing. He stumbled forward, trying to catch at least one of them.

  He saw the fist too late. With a crunch, it hit him square between the eyes. He fell heavily, feeling the last of his vision give out. From somewhere, Clovis’ laughter echoed up the narrow alleyway. With the metallic taste of blood in his mouth, Bloch tried to rise, failed, then passed out.

  The vast corridor in the Imperial Palace was empty. Even the guards that had escorted Grunwald down the six levels from the South Gate had left. Their echoing footfalls had ebbed into nothing, and the shadows in the empty space hung heavily. That hadn’t improved Grunwald’s nerves. All around him were depictions of great military engagements of the past. Over the doorway he was facing there was a massive frieze of the relief of Praag. The artist had really made an effort with the daemonic hordes. That didn’t improve his mood.