Tochfel crept forward, looking around him carefully. The library looked deserted. The stone ceiling was low, built in the style of a crypt. Passages and antechambers led off in all directions, dark under narrow arches. Cracked leather tomes lined every wall. Their spines were inscribed in formal Reikspiel, but in the flickering light most were unreadable. It was cold. Even in the height of such a summer, the warmth of the sun never penetrated this far down.
The archive had many departments, and even Tochfel didn’t know them all. The one he wanted was straight on, down into the bowels of the scriptorium. He went quietly, his soft leather shoes making no noise against the stone. As the light from the torches ran out, he took the last one from the wall and held it as a brand. Its glow was warm and comforting, but it didn’t extend far. He didn’t like the way the flickering shadows reared up on the walls. They danced at the edge of his vision in an unnerving fashion.
He was getting closer. He passed more bookshelves, groaning under the weight of their heavy loads of parchment, vellum and leather. The noises from the corridor outside had died away. It was as if he’d entered a dark sanctum of calm, buried deep within the eye of the storm raging outside.
Then he saw it. Another light. In the chamber ahead, no more then twenty yards away. His heart stopped. Perhaps one of the loremasters had had the same idea. In these troubled times, one could never tell. He wished he’d brought a knife, a rod, anything to defend himself with. Suddenly, his brand felt flimsy in his grip. Not much of a weapon.
Tochfel swallowed.
“Achendorfer?” The words echoed mockingly through the empty vaults beyond. There was the sound of a book being slammed shut and the light guttered. Tochfel rushed forward, holding the brand aloft, trying to throw more light across the chamber.
There were more sounds, as if someone was hurriedly pushing something to one side. Then a face lurched up out of the shadows of the arch.
“Achendorfer!” cried Tochfel, feeling relief well up inside him. His heart still thumped heavily. “Mother of Sigmar, you scared me.”
The loremaster looked terrible. His ashen grey face was distorted by fear, and his forehead was shiny with sweat. Tochfel noticed the man’s hand shaking as he tried to relight his own brand.
“Sorry, Steward,” he mumbled, striking the flint clumsily. His voice sounded thick and strained, as if he had a heavy cold.
“What are you doing down here?” asked Tochfel, holding his own light up high, trying to illuminate some more of the cramped chamber. The volumes in here were obscure ones. Tochfel couldn’t remember if he’d ever ventured into this part of the library himself. The air was dank and unwholesome.
Achendorfer looked evasive. He was breathing with difficulty. He finally got his brand re-lit, and the orange light of the flames bathed him with a lurid glow.
“I could ask you the same thing.”
Tochfel looked at him carefully. There was something strange about his eyes. The man looked like he’d been taking something. Surely not the joyroot. That was only used by the gutter filth. He felt his fear return. Why was Achendorfer staring at him like that? Almost without thinking, he took a step back.
“Uriens?” he asked, feeling more unsure of himself with every moment. “Are you all right?”
Achendorfer came after him, his eyes shining in the torchlight. He seemed like he was trying to come to some kind of a decision, like a boy caught with his fingers in the honeypot and looking for an excuse. Tochfel clutched his brand more tightly. If he had to, he’d use it.
Achendorfer stared at him. His expression was tortured.
“I’m sorry, Dagobert,” he said. “For everything.”
Then there was a sudden crash behind them. Fresh light bloomed down from the main body of the library. Achendorfer looked panicked and scuttled back, away from the intrusion. Tochfel, grateful for any interruption, whirled around to face it.
Men were piling into the chamber. They were all bearing torches. The place was soon filled with firelight. Tochfel watched them fan out across the archive with alarm. It would only take one spark.
“Be careful!” he cried out, knowing how pathetic he sounded. The instinct of the official in him was strong, even in such terrible times.
“Don’t worry, Steward,” came a familiar voice. One of the men walked into the pool of light cast by Tochfel’s brand. He was dressed in armour, but it looked more ceremonial than anything else. The Alptraum crest was embossed on the breastplate, a rampant lion flanked by laurels.
The speaker took his helmet off, revealing the thin face of Ferenc Alptraum.
“No doubt you’re here to secure the safety of the succession documents,” he said, smiling widely. In the distorted light, it looked more like a grimace. “I’m glad I arrived when I did. Now my men can help you.”
Tochfel didn’t know whether to feel relieved or terrified. Where had Achendorfer crept off to? And what had come over him? What was he sorry for?
“Am I a prisoner, then?” said Tochfel, trying to strike as dignified a pose as he could.
“Only if you want to be. It was foolish of you to try and hold the Averburg against us, but I don’t keep grudges. There’s been little blood spilled. Be thankful it was us that reached you rather than Leitdorf. There are things about him you should know.”
Tochfel felt his spirits sink. The propaganda of the victor. No doubt Grosslich’s faction had discovered some “dark secret” about their opponents. Tochfel wouldn’t believe a word of it. He was too old for such games.
“You can save your speeches, Herr Alptraum. As far as I’m concerned, you’re a usurper and a traitor to Averland. When the law is restored, I shall testify to that effect.”
Alptraum laughed, and the sound echoed from vault to vault.
“How noble. I’ll bear that in mind. But now you need to come with me. There are things to discuss, whether you wish to hear them or not.”
As Alptraum spoke, two of his men moved quietly to Tochfel’s side. Aside from their brands, they also carried naked swords. Tochfel finally saw the danger he was in. His bravado melted away.
“There are laws in Averheim still,” he said, but his voice sounded shaky and terrified. “You may not assail me. I am still the Steward.”
Alptraum came towards him, still smiling. There was cunning in his expression, but little malice.
“Oh, we’ll respect the laws, Steward. You need not fear for your own skin. This is a peaceful transition of power. I’ll need you at my side to ensure an orderly succession.” He looked around him with interest. “But I’m sure you know that some erroneous documents have found their way down here over the past few months. This collection is long overdue a little selective culling. We’ll be careful. Very careful.”
Tochfel felt the bitter taste of his failure. He’d been too late. If he’d retrieved the documents just an hour earlier, he might have been able to salvage something. Now it was over. The Grosslich version of events would be preserved, everything else destroyed.
“So you say,” he muttered.
“Now you’ll go with my men,” said Alptraum. “You’ll show them your private papers, while I shall also study. Then you’ll resume your duties, working under me. If you’re sensible, nothing need change for you, Herr Tochfel. The parchment will keep on coming across your desk. All will be well with the world.”
Tochfel glared at him for a moment, wondering whether to believe him. It didn’t matter very much if he did or didn’t. He had no power to resist. The vainglorious attempt to hold the Averburg had ended pathetically.
“It shall be as you command,” he said. With a deep sense of despondency, Tochfel allowed himself to be led off by Alptraum’s men. Ferenc himself took a final look around the archives before withdrawing and leaving a couple of guards on the door.
In the absence of the soldiers’ torches, the vaults sunk back into complete darkness. Heavy footfalls echoed along the spiral stairwells as they ascended and then dwindled to nothing. Everythi
ng was silent.
Except, hidden in the shadows, there was a faint, barely audible wheezing. Alone, forgotten, Achendorfer still crouched.
When the others had all left, he rose and made his way back to where he’d been hiding. He retrieved something from the antechamber, then hurried off into the darkness, following routes into the bowels of the citadel that only he knew.
Morning broke over the rolling grassland of eastern Averland. Bloch awoke suddenly. For a moment, he had no idea where he was. He couldn’t even remember falling asleep. Then it came rushing back. Some of it, at least.
The orcs had been destroyed. It had taken the entire day to finish them off, and they’d fought until dusk. But they had no answer to Schwarzhelm. He’d carved through them, giving them no respite or mercy. Every attempt by the greenskins to rally had been destroyed by him, every retreat pursued ruthlessly. Only with the coming of the dark had the army at last been able to sink into an exhausted rest. The rank and file halberdiers, spearmen and irregulars were clustered on the east-facing slopes of the hill they’d fought over so hard into the night. With the eventual destruction of the orc horde, that was where they’d spent the night, clustered together in a state of half-watchfulness, half-exhaustion.
Bloch still couldn’t remember how the battle had ended for him. At some point he must have given out, fallen to the earth with fatigue like those around him. It was all so hazy.
He rolled over, still in his full armour, and staggered to his feet. Immediately he felt the stabbing pain of the wound in his leg. He looked down. It had been bandaged. Had he done that? He didn’t remember doing it. He didn’t remember anyone else doing it either.
It wasn’t just his leg that ached. Every muscle in his body protested as he moved. He could barely walk. There was a low, hammering headache behind his eyes. He needed something to drink. How long had it been since he’d eaten properly? Sigmar only knew.
All around him, the rest of the army looked in the same kind of shape. Schwarzhelm had pushed the Averlanders hard, and many of them were slumped in exhaustion in the grass, their eyes hollow and staring. The survivors of Grunwald’s command were in even worse condition. Some were still on their feet, but many had collapsed during the final stages of the battle. Even after the orcs had been routed and the field won there had been no celebration.
The heat didn’t help. Bloch fumbled at his collar, trying to release his jerkin. He felt grimy, caked in old sweat that had never truly dried. The sunlight, still low in the east, hurt his eyes. This whole province was too damnably bright. Not like the wholesome grey skies of the Reikland or the brooding forests of the north. No wonder Averlanders were so strange. Their country was fit for cattle, not honest humans.
As his senses gradually returned, he saw that the army around him had been put in some kind of order. The footsoldiers were arranged in companies and there were watchmen on the edges of a makeshift camp. Wains had caught up with them, full of provisions from Heideck. There were tents, which must have gone up during the night. There were even fires, their thin pillars of smoke curling into the blue sky. From such a scene of desolation just the day before, the place was starting to look something like a proper camp. “Herr Bloch.”
The voice came from further up the slope. Bloch turned to face it. It was Kraus. The honour guard captain looked almost unscathed, though his gait betrayed his weariness. It had been a testing campaign for all of them.
“Lord Schwarzhelm is back from orc hunting. He asked me to find you. Can you walk?”
Bloch grimaced. Every time he moved, a sharp pain shot up his thigh. He was damned if Schwarzhelm would know about it.
“I’m fine. Show me to him.”
Kraus walked up the slope. As Bloch limped alongside him, he took a look at the faces of the men around them. Some of the men must have got some sleep in the night. Others still slumbered, prostrate on the grass where they’d fallen after dragging themselves back from the fighting. They were still perhaps a day’s march out from Heideck and further still from Grenzstadt. That was a long way from anywhere, given the condition of the men. For the time being, they’d have to make this place their own.
At the summit of the hill the Imperial Standard had been planted. It had rarely flown over such a hastily concocted and dishevelled army, thrown together in haste and with no proper planning for its deployment. But, held together by little more than Schwarzhelm’s will, it had succeeded in its task. The horde had been destroyed and its remnants scattered. Heideck was no longer threatened, and the way was clear to rid the rest of the province of the greenskin menace. Not a bad result. To the extent he’d played a part in it, Bloch felt proud. It could have gone very differently.
Only one man stood beside the standard. His massive bulk against the horizon was familiar. His plate armour still glinted, though it had been ravaged by blows. The longsword still hung from his belt, decorated with the comet motif and engraved with runes of warding. As Bloch approached Schwarzhelm, Kraus tactfully withdrew. The general looked up from a sheet of parchment he’d been studying. His face was lined with concern. When he saw the halberdier captain, his expression lightened a little. Only a little.
“Herr Bloch,” he said, rolling the parchment up and putting it away. “I trust you slept well? The bedding was to your liking?”
Bloch didn’t know quite how to respond to that. Was that what Schwarzhelm called a joke? It was impossible to read the expression on that vast, scarred, bearded face. He decided it was probably meant to be amusing.
“Not bad. Could have done with a few more feathers in the bolster.”
Schwarzhelm grunted. He didn’t look amused.
“In any case, you deserved some rest. It was heroic, to last so long out here. I’ve served with men who’d have given in long before I found you.”
Again, Bloch hardly knew what to say. He’d still not learned how to cope with compliments. They were strange things, alien to his whole way of being.
“Forgive me,” he stammered. “I don’t exactly recall—”
“You don’t remember the final hours? It was an honour to have you alongside me. When I finally ordered you to retire, you could hardly see. By then, the worst was over.” Schwarzhelm gazed down on the ranks of men below, most of them lying on the grass as Bloch had been doing, utterly drained. “This is still a formidable army. The men need rest, but they’ll recover. We lost many, but the orcs lost more. The tide has turned.”
Bloch followed his gaze, trying to gauge how many men they had left. Still more than two thousand capable of bearing arms, he estimated. A serious contingent. He didn’t like to estimate how many were from his own command. It would be too few. They’d suffered badly in that last assault.
“Tell me,” said Schwarzhelm, his tone a little less confident, “how did Grunwald die?”
In a flash, Bloch saw it in his mind’s eye. The commander, borne down by a whole pack of orcs, shouting at him to flee. He winced. That vision would haunt him.
“Well, sir. He held the line while we withdrew.”
Schwarzhelm looked at Bloch intently. Those eyes, set deep into the lined face, were penetrating. Bloch felt an overwhelming urge to look away. With effort, he held Schwarzhelm’s gaze. It was always a mistake to look away.
“A good commander,” was all Schwarzhelm said, though there was an edge of bitterness in his words.
“He was, sir.”
“You know that his requests for reinforcements never reached Averheim?”
“I’m told the road was blocked.”
“It was. Greenskins, maybe, though it seems unlikely. Perhaps men allied to one of the candidates.”
“Whoever it was, they knew what they were doing. We heard nothing from you either. Grunwald wasn’t even sure you’d made it to Averland.”
“It’s something to be investigated. If I had the time and the men, I’d scour the highways now. Rest assured, when I find those responsible…”
He trailed off. Bloch waited. Schwa
rzhelm seemed more troubled than he’d ever been. After witnessing him at the crushing victory at Turgitz, the change was remarkable. He was still dominating, but he looked tired. Huge bags hung under his eyes and his pupils were dull. How much rest had he had in the last few weeks?
“As it happens, I have neither the time nor the men for what needs to be done,” Schwarzhelm said at last. “We’ve achieved a great deal here, but the task is not finished. But I’ve had word from Averheim. An armoured party from Ferenc Alptraum, of all people, has caught up with us. My counsellor has been speaking to him, it would seem. They’re calling me back.”
Bloch didn’t know what to say to that. He’d not been party to any of the events in the city. Saying anything risked exposing his ignorance.
“How goes the succession?” he asked, hoping that wasn’t a stupid question.
Schwarzhelm snorted his disdain. “They’re fighting openly now. But it’s worse than that. The Leitdorf candidate’s a traitor. Verstohlen’s message found me just this morning.” He looked west and his lungs filled with a huge, weary sigh. “I’ll have to return. If he’s right, this can’t be ignored.”
Bloch looked back down at the army uncertainly. The orcs had been defeated, but there would be splinter bands still at large. To turn back now would risk all that had been achieved.
“Does Verstohlen say how serious a threat Leitdorf is?” asked Bloch. “We still have—”
“I know. You want to finish the task at hand. There are greenskins left alive.” Schwarzhelm pursed his lips in thought. “We are being stretched. Do you not think it odd that, just when my presence is needed in Averheim, an incursion of orcs comes through the most heavily guarded pass in the Empire to cause havoc? And that when I have been drawn out here to snuff out that threat, then it’s Averheim that dissolves into civil war? We are being played with, Herr Bloch. Verstohlen warned me we were being manipulated. They’re assaulting us on all fronts.”
Bloch felt the truth of that. The more he learned about the situation, the less he liked it. They needed more men, more time, more supplies. For all its beauty, Averland was turning into a swamp. He couldn’t see a solution. To ignore the situation in the city was impossible. To ignore the orcs was irresponsible.
[Heroes 01] - Sword of Justice Page 27