Verstohlen wondered if that was true. Joyroot use seemed to be endemic across the city.
“Very wise.”
Grosslich paused before speaking again. He seemed to be weighing something up.
“Ferenc tells me you’re an agent of the Lord Schwarzhelm,” he said. “I assumed—forgive me—that you were merely an official.”
“It’s an impression I work hard to cultivate.”
“Then you’ll be an astute judge of politics. You’ll know, for example, that Herr Alptraum wishes to use me as a figurehead. He cannot succeed to the electorship himself, so he uses me as his proxy.”
Verstohlen had to admire the man’s judgement.
“Then why maintain your alliance?”
“I need him. His money, his connections, his arms. I have none of these. The only thing I have linking me to the electorship is a long forgotten blood-tie to an ancient count, and even that is contested. If there were better candidates than Alptraum and Leitdorf, I’d never had stood a chance.”
“You make it sound as if you do not wish to succeed.”
Grosslich stopped walking and looked at him seriously. “I wish for nothing else. This province has wallowed in indolence for too long. Sigmar willing, I will restore it to glory. We must no longer be the rich weakling amongst the Empire’s realms.”
“Ferenc Alptraum is an old hand at this game,” said Verstohlen. “Be wary of taking him on.”
“That is why I needed to speak to you. My victory here is almost at hand. Rufus’ men have been driven from the Old City and on to the western bank. We will hunt them down, and then I shall be crowned. But then the real battle begins. Alptraum cannot be allowed to rule through me. If that were to happen, nothing would change. We’d have swapped one tyrant for another. I need your help, counsellor. You have the skills for this work, whereas I am but a soldier.”
Verstohlen raised an eyebrow.
“Are you offering me a job, Lord Grosslich?”
Grosslich looked uncharacteristically uneasy.
“Not exactly. Some kind of advisory role, perhaps. I’m not a proud man, counsellor. I need help. You could provide me with it.”
Verstohlen smiled sadly.
“I appreciate your predicament. Be assured that while the taint of Chaos remains in Averheim, I will help you root it out. But after that, I’m Schwarzhelm’s servant. That, I’m afraid, is not something I can change. Not even for the Emperor himself.”
“Your devotion commends you,” said Grosslich, keeping his expression level. If he was disappointed, he hid it well. “Let me speak candidly, though. There are many here who wonder if the Lord Schwarzhelm deserves the services of one such as you. He is a son of Averland, but—”
Verstohlen raised his hand.
“Say no more. I will not hear this. If it were not for Schwarzhelm, Marius would have driven your province to ruin twenty years ago. Even now he fights to prevent it falling apart. He has been targeted by those we fight against, and a lesser man would have cracked long ago. Whatever you think, he is the greatest hope for your cause.”
Grosslich inclined his head in apology, withdrawing the criticism gracefully.
“Forgive me. I should perhaps have more faith.” He looked back along the river. In the distance, the great bridge over the Aver had begun to burn. The fighting had evidently reached the crossings, and the fires spread with it. “I wish I could discuss this at greater leisure, but I should go back to my men. You are to be commended, Hen Verstohlen. Your tidings given to Alptraum have set this in motion, and victory is at hand.”
“Does Leitdorf lead his forces?”
“He’s not been seen, but it’s not his way. He’ll be skulking in some cellar, letting his peasants lose their lives for him.”
“That concerns me. We’re driving them back too easily.”
Grosslich grinned. He looked supremely unworried.
“Worry not, counsellor. In an honest fight, there is only one winner. Whatever dabbling Leitdorf has been doing in spells and potions, it won’t make up for his poor judgement. Even his own men hate him. The city will be ours before nightfall tomorrow.”
Verstohlen looked at the burning bridge darkly. Something was wrong here. Though he couldn’t put his finger on it, every instinct he possessed warned him that they were winning too quickly. The ways of Chaos were subtle, and uprooting the contagion was never as simple a matter as this.
“I will come with you,” he said. “You could use a good shot, and I want to see Leitdorf’s forces with my own eyes. Something has eluded me here, I am sure of it.”
Grosslich smiled confidently. “It’ll be an honour. We’ll drive them out together.”
Chapter Thirteen
Bloch felt his resolve begin to flag at last. The sun was failing. The fighting had been fierce and unrelenting for too long. His men were surrounded on all sides. They’d taken heavy losses. Of the several hundred he’d led in the orc rearguard, perhaps two thirds remained on their feet. They’d driven hard into the orc lines, but the greenskins had swallowed them up. This was beginning to look more and more like a mistake.
Even his arms, hardened by years of incessant combat, were near the end of their strength. Wielding the sword was hard. He’d already sustained several wounds due to the unfamiliar weapon. A halberd was more difficult to use in a confined space, but it served as both attack and defence. Without the long stave to use, Bloch found the hooked weapons of the orcs getting through his guard too often. He’d taken a flesh wound to his leg and only narrowly avoided being skewered by an unusually nimble greenskin warrior.
Too many of his men hadn’t been so lucky. Fischer was gone, dragged down by the combined attack of several orcs working in tandem. Bloch had reached him too late. After so many days on the run, his men were flagging. The battle with the orcs had ebbed and flowed, but it seemed as if they’d finally run out of the fortune that had preserved them since Grunwald’s demise.
“To me, lads!” he shouted, desperately trying to rally the men that remained. His voice cracked as he urged them on. The halberdiers and spearmen around him kept their heads down, desperately trying to stem the assault of the orcs. The formation still held, but only just. With every backward step, every orc assault, Bloch’s detachment was beaten back. They were surrounded, cut off from help.
Bloch raised his sword a final time. The men on either side of him looked drained. The orcs hung back for a moment, taking the chance to jeer at them before they charged. They swung their crude weapons wildly, relishing the impending victory. Bloch couldn’t make out what they were saying, but the gist was obvious enough.
Gritting his teeth, he prepared for the onslaught. He’d had a good run. He couldn’t complain. If d been worth the gamble.
Then, before his astonished eyes, the orc ranks were torn apart.
From nowhere, crashing through the press of greenskins, armoured knights charged straight through the mocking warriors. Heavy plate armour flashed in the sun as a wedge of horsemen tore through the orc resistance. No more than two dozen of them, an arrowhead of steel amid a sea of foes. But they were superb horsemen. Bloch saw one sweep a greenskin warrior from its feet on the charge, drop the lance, take up a sword and swing it round to decapitate another. All at speed, all in a heartbeat.
At their head was a figure he knew all too well. Schwarzhelm was like a force of nature. His armour was battered and dented all over, but his momentum on the charge was irresistible. He roared his defiance in that familiar resounding voice, hacking left and right with the Sword of Justice as he came on. In that moment, with the sun glinting from his armour like a halo, he looked like one of the heroes of old, the companions of Holy Sigmar who cleansed the Empire of the orc menace when the world was young and purer. With every mighty stroke, every hammer blow, the will of the greenskins to resist was thrown down.
In an instant, the situation was reversed. The orcs were smashed to one side. Bloch could see more knights galloping to join the assault.
They had the colours of Averheim. Bloch was transfixed for a moment, hardly daring to believe what he was seeing. The orcs scattered, ridden down by the knights. Suddenly relieved of the pressure of constant defence, his own men began to break out of the stricture. The greenskins, caught between two forces, broke under the assault.
Not all of them ran. Some of the larger warriors stood their ground, bellowing in frustration at the denial of their prize. A huge orc lurched up to Bloch, eyes blazing, axe swinging low against the ground. A halberdier charged straight at it, but was swatted away with a casual swipe of the monster’s vast claw-like hand. The creature fixed its pig-like eyes on Bloch. Somewhere deep within its violence-addled mind, it singled him out. With a guttural roar, it charged. Bloch tensed, waiting for the impact.
It never came. A knight rode between the two of them, cutting off the orc’s attack. There was a blaze of sunlight as the rider’s sword plunged downwards. The greenskin crashed to the ground, decapitated, its severed neck pumping blood. The ruined corpse rolled several times before coming to a halt, its claws still twitching. The knight tore onward, hardly pausing to regain his balance. Ahead of him, the rest of the orcs were being driven away. The horde had been smashed. In the wake of the knights, Averlanders poured into the breach. They rushed over to Bloch’s beleaguered men, sweeping the orcs from their hard-pressed lines and pursuing them as they broke and ran.
Finally, the relief had arrived.
Bloch felt his sword arm go weak at last. He’d been fighting with barely a break for days. It had taken its toll. He felt his vision begin to cloud, and he felt suddenly light-headed.
Then a shadow fell across him. Shading his eyes against the sun, he looked up. Schwarzhelm towered above him. His charger’s flanks were glossy with sweat. The man’s massive armoured form must have taken some carrying. Schwarzhelm’s presence was like the return of a welcome dream. There was the familiar armour, the laurel-wreathed helmet, the massive breastplate with the Ghal Maraz pendant swinging from it.
“My lord!” cried Bloch.
Schwarzhelm pulled his horse around and dismounted in a single movement. The blood of the orcs sluiced down the Sword of Justice. He walked up to Bloch. The Emperor’s Champion was as grim-faced as ever, but there was an icy satisfaction in the man’s eyes.
“You survived,” said Schwarzhelm. “I knew you would. I am not too late.”
He clasped Bloch on the shoulder. The grip was as heavy as any blow he’d received on the battlefield, and he had to work not to stagger under it.
“It’s becoming a habit, sir,” said Bloch, his worn face breaking into an expression of pure relief.
“What is?”
“Riding to the rescue. Just like in the legends.”
More Averlander troops were arriving every moment, striding across the battlefield. In the face of the reinforcements, the remaining orcs were driven back further. All around them, Bloch’s men were falling to the earth in exhaustion. Their places were taken by fresh footsoldiers, backed up by the ever-present knights.
“Can you still wield a blade?” asked Schwarzhelm, clearly itching to be after the remaining greenskins.
Bloch grinned. His energy returned in an instant. Even after everything, the prospect of fighting alongside the great man was something he relished. There were men who would have given their own families into slavery to have the honour of marching beside Schwarzhelm.
“Give me a proper weapon to wield and I’ll fight with you till the End Times come and we’re all damned together.”
Schwarzhelm nodded with approval.
“Get this man a halberd!” he roared. “Then we finish this thing.”
Kurt Helborg drew his horse to a standstill. The armoured bridle clinked as the beast shook its head impatiently. On either side of him, Reiksguard knights took up position. One hundred of them, all in full battle array despite the stultifying heat. The Reiksguard livery of red and white looked pristine in the sharp, clear light, and their weapons glistened with menace. It was a formidable contingent. If the reports coming out of Averland were true, they would be needed.
Skarr pulled up beside him. The man’s lank hair was slick with sweat. Flies buzzed around the muzzle of his horse. Everything was dank, warm and humid.
“What do you think?”
“Looks peaceful enough.”
They looked from their vantage point into the valley beyond. The road ran on for a few hundred yards before dipping sharply to follow the contours of the land. Perhaps a mile or two in the distance lay the town of Streissen, roughly halfway between the industrial might of Nuln and the rural backwater of Averland’s interior. As befitted a town on the border, it reflected a mix of regional styles. The walls were high and crenulated. They’d been whitewashed in imitation of Altdorf’s naturally white stone, though the long years had stained the surface a dirty grey. There were high watchtowers at regular intervals along the protective barrier.
The River Aver looped around the southern edge of the town before running west, and there were landing stages all along the bank. They didn’t look busy. The water was still and sluggish under the sun. There was very little traffic on the road. The place looked half-asleep.
“This heat,” complained Skarr, wiping his face with a rag. The cloth was already sodden.
“Do you sense anything?” asked Helborg, looking at the town before them intently.
“What do you mean?”
If he was honest, Helborg couldn’t quite place what he meant. There was an air of something about the countryside around them. Perhaps the heat was part of it. Perhaps it was just the effects of the long ride from Nuln. But something put him on edge. It felt wrong. Just on the edge of sensation, he thought he could smell jasmine, though they were far too far north for the flowers to bloom.
“I don’t know. Ignore it. Have we heard anything from Averheim?”
Skarr shook his head. Messengers had been sent on ahead to the capital, but they hadn’t returned. There were any number of explanations for that. The Empire was a dangerous place.
It was still strange.
“Let’s press on,” said Helborg, nudging his horse back into motion. “This place isn’t worth bothering with. We’ll carry on to Averheim.”
Tochfel hurried along the ramparts of the Averburg. The situation couldn’t last much longer. Any sense of defiance he’d felt over the past two days had melted in the face of the sustained assault on the city. Just as he’d feared, the citadel was now an isolated spot of sanity amid a swirling torrent of violence. He had no idea who was winning the war for the streets. From his vantage point, the destruction was senseless, whoever was causing it.
He turned a corner rapidly, only to bump into Morven. The man was carrying a stack of arrows. They scattered across the stone. He was about to burst into a furious string of expletives when he saw who’d caused the accident.
“M-my apologies, Steward,” he stammered, reaching for the arrows. “I didn’t know it was—”
“What are you doing, carrying these?” asked Tochfel, helping him retrieve them. “Aren’t there others for this kind of work?”
Morven gave him a look of despair.
“They’re all on the walls, Steward,” he complained. “We barely have enough to give even the pretence of resistance. If they want to storm the walls, they can do so whenever they please.”
Tochfel rose to his feet. He walked up to the parapet and risked a look down between the battlements. Far below, men clustered around the gates. They were well armoured and arrayed for an assault. He guessed several hundred were stationed along the ramp leading to the gatehouse, and more looked to be arriving from the Old City all the time. All they required was a ram for the doors and the attack would surely begin.
“Which one of them is it?”
“Ferenc Alptraum.”
Tochfel rolled his eyes. Of course. His family had once ruled from the Averburg. No wonder he wanted it back. He stole another look over the edge. There were se
asoned troops down there. If the Averburg had been manned they’d have posed no threat at all, but the hastily arrayed guards of the citadel were mostly scribes and junior lore-masters. There were mere dozens of them on the walls and scarcely more waiting on the inside of the great doors to repel intruders. The charade wouldn’t fool anyone for long.
“Keep them out for as long as you can,” said Tochfel, handing the chief of staff his bundle of arrows and turning back the way he’d come.
“Where are you going?” came the querulous voice of Morven.
Tochfel ignored him. He descended into the castle swiftly, following routes he’d known since childhood. Once inside the cool stone, he began to think more clearly. The end would come soon. Alptraum must surely have realised how meagre their defences were, and he’d waste little time taking over once he was inside. That could not be prevented, but there was one service he could render before he lost control of the citadel.
The records. The precious records of the succession battle. They must not fall into either Grosslich’s or Leitdorfs hands. Though it would probably prove futile, Tochfel knew that he had to preserve them. One day the law would be restored and the chronicle of these times would be required again.
He went down the narrow spiral staircase that led to the archives. The repository of Averland’s history was in the oldest part of the ancient citadel, locked behind walls many yards thick. He was as familiar with it as he was with his own chambers. Over his life, he’d probably spent as much time in there.
He reached his destination. He was far below ground level, and the only light came from torches clamped to the stone walls. Some of them had gone out, and the shadows hung heavy on the stone flags.
The thick oak door to the library was open. That was unusual. It should have been locked. Only two men had the keys to the archives. He was one of them. Achendorfer was the other. He felt a sudden sense of wariness take him over. From far above he could hear muffled sounds. Perhaps the attackers had broken in at last. Time was running out.
[Heroes 01] - Sword of Justice Page 26