“See anything, counsellor?”
Verstohlen stood up.
“No, Herr Euler. Not a thing. That may be a cause for satisfaction. They are not yet so bold as to leave traces of their presence behind. But we must not be complacent. Let us explore further.”
Euler nodded, but Verstohlen could see the doubt in the man’s eyes. None of his band wanted to believe that there were cultists in Averheim. Without tangible proof, they were always likely to distrust the word of a stranger. For the time being, though, they were not ready to question his orders.
From up above, Verstohlen could hear men going through the antechambers on the next level. There was the noise of crates being shifted and doors slamming. No fighting, though. No unnatural hissing, or warped barking. That was something to be thankful for.
“Come,” he said, turning round and heading back to the corridor outside. He led them out of the circular chamber and along the way he’d fled before. The smell of jasmine grew stronger as they went. Months of processing joyroot couldn’t be erased overnight.
Verstohlen entered the hall with the drying tables. As before, everything had gone. The refining kettles, the stacks of raw root, nothing remained.
“Have your men search this place closely,” said Verstohlen, letting his eyes roam across the scrubbed surfaces. “They may have left something behind.”
He pressed on further, studying every bare floorboard, every blank stone wall. Behind him he could hear Euler’s men clumping around, pulling apart anything they could prise from its fastenings. They were too clumsy for this work. With a twinge of regret, Verstohlen realised that they were as likely to destroy any evidence as discover it. The mission had been fruitless. Natassja and her horrific court were long gone.
He turned back, ready to order Euler to stand down. Just as he did so, something caught his eye. Once he’d seen them, he wondered how he’d missed them. Hung on the wall, two of them. Verstohlen walked over to them and took one down.
Euler came to his side.
“What are these?”
Verstohlen picked up the second and held the two together. They were masks. The faces had been artfully carved. In every respect, they resembled their real-life counterparts. The fidelity was remarkable. He found himself looking at the simulated flesh, marvelling at the detail and precision. The face in his left hand was his own. The one in his right was Schwarzhelm’s. In the low light, he could almost have been staring into the big man’s features. Only the eyes betrayed the origin of the masks. They were caked with blood and had been crudely rammed into the sockets. No doubt retrieved from Natassja’s long-suffering pets. Sigmar only knew what had happened to them.
“They are a warning, Herr Euler,” said Verstohlen, standing up. He let the ceramics fall to the floor. “Frau Leitdorf has a fondness for surgery. No doubt she wishes us to know the fate of those who stand against her husband.”
Euler looked down at the masks warily. They gazed back blankly from their unseeing eyes. Verstohlen stamped down heavily, shattering the fragile artistry.
“Ignore them,” he said, turning away from the scattered shards. “There’s nothing more to see here. It was a mistake to think there would be. Gather the men and prepare to leave. Grosslich will need our support.”
With that, he turned on his heel and walked towards the exit. He hoped he projected an aura of casual disregard. Deep down, though, he knew he didn’t.
Out on the fields of Averland, the orcs continued to cluster. More and more had streamed into combat, drawn from miles around. Schwarzhelm and the Averlanders had pushed them steadily east, wearing them down with a series of heavy cavalry charges followed up by ranks of footsoldiers advancing across the trampled turf.
As ever, Schwarzhelm was at the heart of it. All around him, ranks of orcs and men struggled for mastery. Readying his steed once more, he charged straight at the cluster of heavily-armed greenskins before him. With a sickening clatter, he smashed into their midst. The Rechtstahl swung down, slicing the hands of the nearest grasping warrior clean from its wrists. His horse whinnied frantically, clutched at from all sides by the orcs. Schwarzhelm kicked out against them, trying to turn the steed round. He could hear the cries of the honour guard as they fought their way to his position. For the moment, he was isolated, cut off by a sea of slavering orcs. There were too many. As the orcs hacked and dragged his steed down, he felt the noble beast give out a final shudder. He twisted free of the stirrups and leapt from the saddle as the horse was pulled to the earth.
Then they came for him. Finding his feet, Schwarzhelm whirled around. The warriors here were massive, clad in heavy iron plates and wielding cleavers and crude halberds. They surrounded him, clamouring to get close. One jumped right in front of him, swinging a long sword in a wide arc. Schwarzhelm ducked under the swipe, feeling the soft earth give under his heavy armour. They were all around him, slavering with bloodlust. They knew who he was. More than anything, they wanted to take down the Emperor’s Champion.
He almost felt like smiling. Almost. Many orcs had vied for that honour. The result had always been the same.
Schwarzhelm clenched his gauntlet and punched the nearest adversary in the face. The metal bit deep, slashing even the tough orc hide open. Schwarzhelm kept moving, shifting balance, parrying blows and counter-striking with his own blade. More cudgels and blades swung in his direction. The Rechtstahl flashed. Howls of agony showed it had found its mark.
One brute, four foot wide and weighed down with burnished plate armour, charged straight at him. Schwarzhelm waited for the impact, then turned aside at the last moment. The orc brought down its cleaver in a heavy arc. Schwarzhelm swung the Rechtstahl back to meet it. When the metal met, a resounding clang rang out.
He pushed back, heaving against the bulk of the greenskin with all the strength that remained in him. The monster staggered back. A look of amazement passed across its grotesque features. It couldn’t have been often that a human had held such a monster up.
Schwarzhelm ignored it, turning quickly to meet the attacks coming at him from all directions. His sword moved ever more quickly, sparkling radiantly in the powerful sunlight. Even in his full armour, he could move faster than the orcs around him. Years of endless combat, honed and polished in the best training grounds in the Empire, had left their mark. Though his frame was battered and his body scarred, he was still more than a match for these lumbering foes. Steel clashed against iron, and the greenskin blood flowed freely.
Slowly, painfully, their bestial will began to break. Single-handedly, Schwarzhelm began to hammer them back. Some wavered, loath to concede the field to a lone human warrior. They were the first to fall. The Rechtstahl cut through their armour as if it were made of mere scraps of parchment. Like a master blacksmith pounding at a forge, Schwarzhelm waded into the throng, fearless and resolute.
Then Kraus and the honour guard broke through. The whole company of knights fought in the same style as their master. Swift, precise, controlled. Their blades like a wall of whirling steel, they slammed into the ragged orc ranks.
That was the final blow. Faced with Schwarzhelm and his retinue working in concert, the greenskins fell back, then broke. As the knights pursued them remorselessly, Schwarzhelm finally relented. His guard drove the orcs back, creating a window of calm amid the fury of the battlefield.
Breathing heavily, Schwarzhelm lent on his sword. His arms ached. His body ached. Sigmar had been his protector, as He always was.
“You were cut off, sir,” said Kraus, coming to stand beside him. There was a touch of reproach in his voice.
“An orc respects only one thing,” replied Schwarzhelm, ignoring the tone. “Bravery. If they see you’re willing to take the fight to them, and do it in a way they recognise as their own, they’ll know doubt. That’s the way to crush the greenskin.”
Kraus looked doubtful, but said nothing. Schwarzhelm was tempted to smile at his concern. He didn’t, though. He never smiled.
“Anyt
hing else to report?” he said, wiping his blade clean and looking around. The knights had cleared a space around him, but it wouldn’t last long.
“We’re holding our own. They’ve mustered in numbers, but we can match them. I’d like to have tougher men under my command than Averlanders, but there’s nothing I can do about that.”
Schwarzhelm shaded his eyes against the glare and tried to make sense of the fighting. His army had initially formed up in lines along the high ground to the west. The detachments were still intact and were now steadily advancing across the undulating grassland. The orc horde had become more ramshackle in its defence. Frequent charges by the cavalry had punctured the greenskin ranks, pushing them back further. The orcs were all footsoldiers, and they had no answer to the heavy cavalry assault. The greenskins had decent wargear, and fought with all the savagery of their race, but they were losing ground. The footsoldiers now scurried to follow the breakthrough up, labouring under the hot sun to keep the assault moving and secure the ground won.
Schwarzhelm looked back at the greenskin army, squinting against the morning sun. The nearest ranks of orcs, separated from him only by the swords of the honour guard, were still howling in a mass of incoherent rage. But beyond them, something else was happening. Incredibly, hidden by the press of bodies, there was the sound of more fighting.
So that was why the orcs were in trouble. There was a second front to the east. They were being attacked from two directions.
“Find me a fresh horse,” he said, suddenly filled with an unexpected hope. “Then re-form the cavalry detachment.”
“We’re consolidating?”
“Mother of Sigmar, no. Can’t you see it? We’re not the only men at work here. We’ll cut our way through to them, right through the heart of the horde. They’ll be gutted like a fish. We’ll take a detachment of the heavy cavalry. Fast and deadly. I want those men relieved.”
Kraus looked out across the heaving rows of bodies uncertainly. Striking out again risked breaking their formation, leaving the mass of halberdiers and spearmen behind them unprotected. Schwarzhelm knew the manoeuvre was dangerous. But everything worthwhile was.
“Who do you think it is?”
Schwarzhelm hefted the Rechtstahl once more, relishing as always the solid weight of steel.
“Only one man it could be,” he said. “And we’re not leaving him to fight alone.”
Bloch reeled backwards, knocked almost from his feet by the blow. The orc warrior before him roared in triumph, pressing home the advantage. Bloch desperately tried to parry, but his halberd was ripped from his hand. On either side of him, his men were being pushed back. Perhaps the decision to charge after the orcs hadn’t been such a good idea after all. The horde was still massive. He’d always been guilty of taking too much on.
He staggered backwards, weaponless, as the orc charged him again. With a sudden sense of despair, he realised he stood no chance. He had nowhere to go, no way of warding off the killing blow.
Balling his fists, he acted in the only way he knew how in such situations. He let fly with a torrent of filthy invective, every obscenity he’d collected over a long career in the Emperor’s forces and hostelries and prepared to fight with his bare hands. It was pointless, and he’d be dead in seconds. But at least he’d go down scrapping.
Then the orc shuddered, stumbled and keeled over to one side. With a crash, the heavily armoured warrior slumped to the earth.
Bloch stood nonplussed. That hadn’t been expected.
“I should swear more often,” he mused.
Fischer emerged from the shadow of the fallen greenskin. His spear was in two pieces. One end remained in his hands. The other protruded from the orc’s back, still shivering as the massive creature died. The spearman threw Bloch a sword. For a young man in the thick of the fighting, he looked remarkably assured.
“That’s one I owe you,” Bloch cried.
“I’ll hold you to that.” Fischer looked like he was enjoying himself.
“Come on, boys!” bellowed Bloch, his vigour restored. “One last push!”
All around him, his men cheered, but the cries were muted. They were fighting hard, going toe to toe with the rearguard of the orc horde. The fighting was bloody and confused. It was hard to retain tight formations in the close press, and the attack was at risk of turning into a disorganised melee. That handed all the advantages to the heavier, stronger orcs. If this wasn’t to end in disaster, he needed to act.
“To me!” he roared, waving his new sword around his head and trying to pull his men around him. “Shoulder to shoulder. Don’t get drawn out!”
Being overheard above the din of the battlefield was hard, and not all his troops heeded the command. But those closest to him did, and they began to draw together. Soon they were formed up in something like proper Imperial ranks. Bloch himself kept in the thick of it. Ignoring his wounds, he led from the front. On either side of him, his men were kept busy, hacking and thrusting against the stubborn orc resistance.
Bloch was no different, stabbing with his sword against the greenskins. He didn’t enjoy using the blade. A halberd was his weapon, the one he’d been trained to use since he was a boy. The sword was for noblemen and princes. It cut through greenskin flesh all the same though, and the blades working in tandem on either side of him gave him some protection.
“No mercy, lads!” he roared. “No respite! Keep at them!”
They were holding their own. They were maintaining their formation. But it couldn’t last forever. This warband was far bigger than the ones they’d been pursued by over the past few days. Either he was right, and a relieving army was fighting on its western flank, or he’d made a terrible mistake.
From the heart of the greenskin mass, a series of roars rose into the air. They were gearing themselves up for a final push. Something had got them angry. Bloch hoped to Sigmar that was what he thought it was.
But then his vision was blocked by yet another greenskin warrior, tusks lowered and eyes raging. They weren’t giving up. They’d keep fighting until the last one of them fell to the ground. Bloch respected that. He felt the same way.
With a feral look in his eyes, he raised his sword and got stuck in.
Euler’s band had returned from the Old City. Going quickly through the backstreets, they’d reached the bridges over the Aver at last. Verstohlen had kept tight-lipped since leaving the townhouse, letting Grosslich’s captain make the decisions. He was eager to find the core of the fighting. That was as it should be, but still not reassuring. Chaos was always stronger than it appeared. Weakness was always fleeting. Even as Grosslich’s men drove the traitors from the Old City on to the western bank, his mind was unquiet. Far too easy.
Captain Euler brought the warband to a halt. The men looked like they needed a break. Though late in the afternoon, the sun was still strong. Truly, Verstohlen had never known a summer like it. The whole province was baking.
“This is the place?” asked Verstohlen.
“It is, and the hour. He should be here soon.”
Verstohlen looked around. They were on a wide boulevard that ran along the eastern bank of the river. The street was cobbled and warehouses rose up behind it.
The smell of the water was rank. Under the blistering sun, the water looked green and sickly. With no wind to drive the smells away, the air was heavy with the stench of gutted fish and refuse. The few boats moored nearby sat low in the water, their sails and ropes slack.
Further ahead, Verstohlen could see the bulk of the Averburg rise up against the empty sky. He couldn’t tell whether it was still manned. The standard of Averland hung from the flagpole at the summit, but that meant little. Surely Tochfel had surrendered it to one of the warring parties by now. The question was, which one?
Verstohlen put his knife away. In the daylight, with the enemy flying before them and the Old City nearly locked down, it was hard not to become complacent. He knew that would be a mistake. Verstohlen was no coward, but he wa
s no fool either. Deep down, he was still afraid. Mortally afraid. The consequences of what he’d seen were terrible enough.
“He approaches now,” said Euler, breaking Verstohlen’s concentration. He looked along the quayside.
Heinz-Mark Grosslich in armour looked even more the picture of a commander than he had done in civilian robes. The sun shone from his exposed blond hair. He appeared calm, confident and in command. The self-appointed elector was surrounded by greatswords from the Alptraum estate. Their notched armour betrayed the fighting they’d been in, but they bore no resemblance to the scruffy mercenaries who formed the bulk of the fighting men on both sides. Ferenc had given him the best to work with..
As Grosslich came up to him, Verstohlen bowed politely.
“Did you find anything, counsellor?” the count asked.
Verstohlen shook his head.
“As I feared, they’d long flown the nest. They’d worked hard to cover their tracks, too.”
“Any sign at all? Any signal?” Verstohlen thought of the masks.
“No, my lord.”
Grosslich nodded grimly. “Then we’ll keep hunting.” He motioned for his bodyguard to stand down. “Walk with me,” he said to Verstohlen and moved towards the water’s edge. Verstohlen fell in beside him. Euler and his men, grateful of the respite, put their weapons down and began to talk amongst themselves.
“I’ll confess that Ferenc’s news came as a surprise,” said Grosslich, keeping his voice low. “I’ve never hidden my dislike for Rufus and his slut, but if I’d known about the—”
“It is in the nature of corruption to be hidden,” interrupted Verstohlen, wanting no mention of the details. “Do not trouble yourself.
“The joyroot is at the heart of it. This I suspected for many months. Leitdorf is not as wealthy as his lineage suggests, and it is I who have the support of the guilds. Only through this trade could he have armed his men. I won’t let those in my employ touch it.”
[Heroes 01] - Sword of Justice Page 25