“We have a choice,” said Schwarzhelm. “West to Averheim, or east to Grenzstadt and the passes? Which of them appeals to you, Herr Bloch? Which would you choose?”
Was he being tested? Bloch couldn’t believe that Schwarzhelm didn’t already know what he wanted to do. Bloch’s mind worked quickly, assessing the options, the manpower, the distances.
“Do we have to choose? We still have many men here. The orcs are mostly routed. If you need to return to Averheim with half the troops, I can lead the men who remain.”
Schwarzhelm looked at him shrewdly.
“That had occurred to me,” he said. “But we’ll be stretching ourselves thin. Maybe too thin.”
“But if the orcs have been scattered…”
“They’re still dangerous. We don’t how many remain.”
“A damn sight fewer than there were.”
And then, it almost happened. For a split second, Schwarzhelm’s face twitched. His eyes glittered mischievously. Some men might have called that a smile. Bloch wouldn’t have dared, but it was certainly something damn close to one.
“That there are, Herr Bloch,” Schwarzhelm said, a kernel of savage satisfaction in his voice. “That there are.”
He looked west again, as if by peering in the direction of Averheim he’d get some kind of confirmation of his decision.
“I’ll be honest with you,” he said at last. “Since arriving in Averland I’ve not felt myself. It’s been as if some force has turned against me, weighing down on my mind. The city is at the heart of it. If Verstohlen’s right, then it may be that Averheim is perilous for me. It’s only out here, doing the honest work of a soldier, that I’ve come even close to remembering who I am. I can think clearly here.”
Bloch said nothing. Schwarzhelm was speaking candidly. Amazingly candidly. It was as if the big man needed someone to confide it. In the absence of Verstohlen, it seemed to fall to Bloch to fulfil that role.
“Your offer of leading the men east to seal the passes while I respond to Verstohlen’s missive scares me.” Schwarzhelm turned back to Bloch. “Does that surprise you? That a man like me would be scared of anything?”
Bloch began to feel very uncomfortable. Before Turgitz, Schwarzhelm had been like a name from the time of legends, a figure of such transcendent power that the very idea of him having emotions or anxieties as a mortal man did would have been laughable. And yet here he was, laying them out as plain as day.
“You shouldn’t be,” Schwarzhelm continued. “Only a fool claims to fear nothing. I’ve heard the Emperor himself confess fears. It makes us stronger, to acknowledge the fear within us. The question, Herr Bloch, is what one does with that knowledge. Does fear become the master, propelling us forward like puppets, or do we test ourselves against it? Do we embrace our fear, or run from it?”
“I can’t imagine you running from anything, sir,” said Bloch. As soon as the words left his mouth, he wished he could reel them back in. He sounded clumsy and obsequious. He was not built for such talk.
“I did not say run. It’s a question of choice.”
Schwarzhelm fell silent. Bloch, worried about saying something equally stupid, kept his mouth shut. For a few terrible moments, Schwarzhelm remained unmoving, lost in thought. The wind around them lifted the grass gently. Below them, Bloch could hear the men of the army stir themselves. As the sun climbed higher, the need to move on would grow. They needed direction. As he had done in the woods after Grunwald’s death, Bloch felt the burden of command keenly. He had an inkling that Schwarzhelm felt it too. For some reason, he knew the decision he was wrestling with was vitally important. It was more than tactics, more than strategy. If Schwarzhelm went back to Averheim, then something was going to happen. He was the key to all of this. All of them, friend and foe alike, wanted him there for some reason.
“I will go,” Schwarzhelm announced at last. His voice had assumed its habitual tone of clipped command. “Verstohlen has never been wrong about these matters before. We’ll divide the army. I’ll ride back to Averheim with an escort, and the infantry will follow when they can. You will take the remainder of the men to Grenzstadt. Your orders are to head to Black Fire Pass. There is a garrison there that should have stopped this incursion before it reached the interior. Find out what happened, and above all else make sure the gap is sealed. Only when that’s done do I want to see you in the city. Do not disappoint me.”
“Yes, sir,” said Bloch.
“You will take the bulk of the footsoldiers and some of the Averlander cavalry. That’s over a thousand men, and you can resupply at Grenzstadt and take on reinforcements. I’ll send Kraus with you, and warrant documents. The rest of the men will come with me to Averheim. I’ll ride ahead with an advance guard; the remainder can follow on foot when they’re rested.”
Bloch felt relieved. Listening to Schwarzhelm agonise over the options had not been easy. Being given a task to perform, no matter how difficult or dangerous, was far preferable to having to second-guess an outcome.
“Who’ll command the forces sent east?”
Schwarzhelm gave Bloch a shrewd look.
“That, at least, is something I am clear about. I took a risk bringing you, Bloch, and it’s been rewarded. You’ll take them up to the passes. I’ll speak to the captains and to Kraus. You should be proud. I’m giving this army to you, Bloch. Use it well. You’re in command.”
Chapter Fourteen
Verstohlen was standing on the west side of the river with Grosslich’s men amidst a cluster of low buildings. He checked to see that his pistol was loaded and primed to fire. The campaign was going well. All the major bridges were now in Grosslich’s hands, and they’d made inroads into the poorer parts of the western bank. It seemed that wherever they chose to assault, they had the victory. Leitdorf’s men were demoralised and divided. By contrast, Grosslich’s were disciplined and effective. Verstohlen’s regard for the man as a commander had only grown.
“Keep it quiet,” whispered Euler. “Let’s make this quick and easy. One den at a time.”
The fighting here was house-to-house. No one knew where Leitdorf was holed up. The race to find him was intense. Grosslich had promised a hundred gold crowns for his head, which had encouraged a good deal of enthusiasm for finding him. Following a vague lead, Euler’s band had ended up in one of the smelliest alleys in the poor quarter. The walls were tall and narrow. As they crept down it, even the dominating Averburg was lost to view, as were the baking rays of the sun. That would have been a comfort had it not been for the refuse piled knee-high at alleyway’s base. In some sections it felt like they were wading through slurry.
The men went watchfully. Their numbers had swelled since the start of the campaign, and there were now thirty of them in the company. Euler crept up to the door at the end of the foetid alleyway. Rubbish was piled up against it and the wooden frame looked half-rotten. A terrible place for a hideout, but Leitdorf was no doubt running out of boltholes. Plenty of terrified citizens of the poor quarter had pointed them in this direction. For the most part they didn’t care which of the warring factions won control of the city. They just wanted the fighting to end.
Euler listened at the door for a few moments. Stepping carefully, regretting the mess the grime had made of his expensive Zellenhof boots, Verstohlen joined him. He placed his ear against the pitted surface of the wood. There was some noise from within, but too faint to make out. Movement, perhaps.
“You’re sure about this?” said Verstohlen, his voice low.
Euler shrugged. “It’s a lead. Got any better targets?”
“None. Let’s get it over with, then.”
The two men stepped back from the door. Euler placed his foot over the flimsy lock and kicked savagely. The door swung open on rusty hinges and they charged in.
There was a dingy chamber beyond, lit by dirt-streaked windows on one wall and a series of tallow candles on another. The smell was overpowering. Several men sat around a table in the centre. They were
armed, if poorly, and jumped up as soon as Euler and Verstohlen burst in. In such an irregular war it was impossible to tell at first glance who was fighting for whom, but they had the look of Leitdorf’s men, holed up away from the fiercest fighting.
Verstohlen stepped to one side, took careful aim and sent a bullet spiralling in the face of the nearest man. The man spun backwards, his cries of surprise cut cruelly short. Euler flew at the next nearest, knocking him back with a furious swipe of his sword. Then the rest of the men were in the chamber, tearing at the inhabitants.
Blades flashed in the semi-darkness, and blood splattered on the filth-strewn floor.
There was no way out, no rear exit. The fighting was mercifully brief. Leitdorf’s men put up a token struggle, but they were outnumbered and taken unawares. Verstohlen took little part in it and put his pistol in its holster.
“Do not kill them all!” he cried.
By then there was one survivor, cowering in the corner. He had no weapon and seemed older than the others. Euler held up his hand, and the assault stopped. Six men lay dead on the floor, five of them Leitdorfs.
Euler went over to the man in the corner. He was skinny, almost emaciated, with lank hair that hung to his shoulder. His skin was a pale grey, almost blue in the folds of flesh under his eyes. He looked utterly wretched. As Euler stood over him, the man scrabbled to get even further back into the corner, like a trapped animal in a cage.
“Leave this to me,” said Verstohlen, walking over to the corner.
Euler shrugged. “As you wish. We’ll have a look around.”
Verstohlen squatted down facing the trembling figure. The man smelled as bad as everything else. The heat had turned half of Averheim into a cesspit.
“What’s your name?” asked Verstohlen, keeping his voice calm.
The man stared back at him, wide-eyed, and said nothing. He seemed to be having trouble focussing. Verstohlen leaned forward and sniffed. Somewhere, buried beneath the layers of body odour, halitosis and excrement, there was an element of jasmine.
A joyroot user. Verstohlen had begun to wonder whether Leitdorf had stamped the trade out amongst his followers.
“Where do you get your supply?”
The man shook his head, still trembling. It was as if his mouth had been glued together. Verstohlen couldn’t decide whether the man was terrified of him, or just generally terrified. The narcotic was certainly capable of inducing paranoia.
“There’s nothing more for us here,” said Euler, coming to stand at his shoulder. “You think it’s worth questioning this one?”
“I do. Will you wait outside for me?”
Euler nodded. “Don’t be too long. There are more leads to follow. I could use those gold pieces.”
The men filed out of the chamber and back into the alley. The last one to leave pulled the door closed behind him. Verstohlen and the man were alone.
“I think you understand why I’m asking you these things,” said Verstohlen, fixing the ruined figure with a hard stare. “If you choose to give me answers, it will go better for you.”
The man shook his head, keeping his mouth clamped closed. Then, as if as an afterthought, he spat in Verstohlen’s face. He shrank back after that, looking even more scared than before.
“So be it.” The spy reached into his coat. As ever, when he retrieved the amulet, the metal was hot. It knew when it was near corruption. Indeed, the device was part of that corruption, just a shard of the horror that still existed at the roof of the world. It was a dangerous thing to use. Dangerous, but invaluable.
As Verstohlen withdrew the amulet, the man looked at him sidelong. He could obviously sense something, but didn’t seem to know what it was.
“Look at this,” ordered Verstohlen and thrust it before the wretch’s eyes.
Just as had happened with Fromgar, the change was instantaneous. The blurred eyes became sharply focussed. The bluish lines around them seemed to pulse with a lurid light, as if thick veins had suddenly generated around the lids. The man tried to get up, scrabbling at the stone. His breath started to come in thick wheezes.
Verstohlen stood and withdrew a few paces. He pulled the pistol from its holster and aimed it at the man’s face.
“Speak to me,” he commanded.
The red-rimmed eyes blazed.
“You cannot command me!” the man cried, and spittle flew from his mouth. The voice was strange and twisted, like a cross between a man’s and a woman’s.
“I have the power to kill you. You’d do well to speak to me.”
The man laughed, and his skeletal chest shuddered with the effort.
“And what? You’ll spare my life?” He nearly choked on his laughter and broke into a racking cough. “I don’t think so. You have no idea about life and death anyway. You’re ignorant, human. As ignorant as the rest.”
“Maybe so. Why not enlighten me?”
“What do you wish to know? How the six dimensions of pleasure are interwoven? How the nexus of desire derives from the kernel of a nightmare? How the world will end? I can tell you all of this, human. All of this and more.”
Verstohlen ignored the ravings. All cultists thought they had privileged access to arcane secrets. That was what made them so pathetic. To acquire genuine knowledge was a long and difficult process. Expecting it to be handed over on a silver platter in exchange for performing a few rites over a pentangle was tedious in the extreme.
“Nothing so grand. Tell me about Natassja. Where’s she from?”
The man grinned widely, and his tongue ran around his cracked lips. For the first time, Verstohlen noticed how long it was. It looked forked.
“Ah, the queen. Have you not guessed it? She’s a rare one.”
He seemed to be passing into some kind of rapture. He ran his bony fingers over his body as he spoke. It looked like a grotesque parody of a lover’s caress.
“Why do you call her the queen?”
“You’ll see. You’ll see!”
“Where is she? Where is Rufus?”
“Nearby. And they have their pets with them! You’ve seen them already, haven’t you?”
Verstohlen felt a twinge of anxiety. That was what he feared. There were still horrors being held in reserve. Grosslich’s men were pushing on too quickly. They didn’t know what they faced.
“Tell me where Rufus is.”
A wicked look passed over the man’s face.
“I don’t know where he is. But I can tell you where someone else is. Someone you haven’t seen for a long time.”
“I’m listening.”
The cultist reared up like a snake, his hands stretched out in a twisted motion. He looked suddenly delighted, as if a new game had occurred to him. His tongue flickered out. As he rose, his rags fell from his body. Verstohlen saw with disgust how diseased his filthy flesh had become. The joyroot had become everything to him, more important even than food. He kept the pistol trained carefully. He should have tied him up before applying the amulet.
“She is in torment at the feet of the master of pain!” he cried, his voice increasingly shrill. “Her soul writhes in delicious agony under the weight of his glorious debauchery!”
Verstohlen primed the weapon to fire: There was an unholy gleam in the cultist’s rheumy eyes.
“Cease this nonsense. Where is Leitdorf?”
“I’ve seen her in my dreams, Pieter Verstohlen. Your lovely wife, shriven before the altar of his infinite lust!”
“Do not speak of her.”
“She’s damned, Pieter Verstohlen!”
“Be silent!”
“Damned to an eternity of torment! And there’s more. Do you know the worst part?”
Verstohlen stepped forward, his hand shaking. He felt sick.
“I will fire. Cease this now!”
“She has been corrupted! They corrupted your Leonora! She enjoys it! She—”
The pistol rang out. The cultist was instantly silenced, flung back against the dirt-caked wall. He slump
ed to the ground. From his forehead, thick blood pumped from a neat round hole. It was nearly purple.
Verstohlen stood motionless for a moment, the gun still in position. His hands were trembling.
Slowly, with difficulty, he brought his emotions under control. The cultist lay at his feet like a crushed spider, his tortured limbs bent in every direction. Verstohlen replaced the gun in the holster and carefully backed away.
That had been a mistake. It was foolish to think he could bring an end to this through such means. It had all been a mistake.
He withdrew, opened the door and stepped outside. Euler was waiting. His men had moved to the far end of the alleyway.
“Are you all right?” asked the captain, looking at him with concern. “I’m fine.”
“You look like—”
“I’m fine.”
Euler gave him a doubtful stare, then let it drop.
“Find out anything useful?”
“No. He was mad. We need to keep moving.”
Euler shook his head resignedly.
“Very well. There’s another lead we can follow.”
He began to walk off down the alley. Verstohlen followed close behind, his breathing gradually returning to normal. The cultist had been raving. It was nonsense. They said whatever came into their diseased head. They wanted to unsettle you. That was their mission, their miserable purpose. Best to ignore.
As he went, though, one thought remained lodged in his mind. It wouldn’t leave, even when he emerged once more into the sunlight of the open street.
It knew my wife’s name.
Even before Helborg had ridden into the outskirts of Averheim, he’d been able to smell the burning. He brought his steed to a halt. Around him, his men did likewise. The ranks of Reiksguard controlled their mounts perfectly. They stood for a moment, looking at the city before them. The thin columns of smoke hung over Averheim, staining the clear sky. It looked like the place was under siege, yet there was no army camped around the walls.
[Heroes 01] - Sword of Justice Page 28