[Heroes 01] - Sword of Justice

by Chris Wraight - (ebook by Undead)

  “Mother of Sigmar,” Helborg spat, looking over at Skarr. “We should have ridden harder.”

  Skarr gave him an expression that indicated he didn’t think it was possible to have ridden faster, Reiksguard or not.

  “The west gate is nearest,” was all he said. “We’ll have to ride through the poor quarter.”

  Helborg nodded. He knew Averheim. He’d visited as little as possible in recent years. All the Empire knew of his enmity with the late Marius. As far as Helborg was concerned, the elector had been an arrogant, raving fool. He’d brought his own death about through foolishness and lack of foresight. If Schwarzhelm hadn’t curbed his worse excesses twenty years ago, there would surely have been a coup against his authority then. Perhaps that would have been better. In Helborg’s experience, it was generally better to cut out an infection at source than let it grow. Now, twenty years on, they were still dealing with the legacy of the mad count, and it looked like even Schwarzhelm had failed to grapple with it.

  Then again, Schwarzhelm himself was another problem. The man was becoming irascible and difficult, even by his own standards. His behaviour at Turgitz had been embarrassing. If it had been another man, Helborg might have run him through for such impertinence. He could admire the man for his martial prowess, and there was no more steadfast ally to have on the field of battle, but Schwarzhelm didn’t understand politics. He made enemies too easily, was too quick to spot a slight or suspect a campaign against him. That was a serious flaw. One had to understand that military might was always subordinate to the demands of politics. There would always be intrigue, always be conspiracy. The trick was to understand it, get inside it, cultivate the right allies. Schwarzhelm never did. He was as clumsy with diplomacy as he was with women.

  Between them, Helborg and Schwarzhelm were the two mightiest warriors of the Empire, unmatched by any other. And yet they so often worked alone, driven apart both by the endless demands of the Emperor and by the differences in their essential character. It was foolish, wasteful, unnecessary. Maybe that would have to be rectified. The low-level feud was becoming damaging. When this was over, a summit would have to be convened. Schwarzhelm, Helborg and the Emperor would have to meet, thrash out some kind of accommodation. The bad blood could be drained from their triumvirate with a little imagination. The stakes were too high to let it continue festering.

  “Let’s go,” Helborg said, taking up the reins. There would be plenty of time for reflection when the two men met again. For now, the Reiksguard were clearly needed. Averheim had the look of a city that had drifted into anarchy. That could not be allowed to continue.

  The day was waning to dusk. In the west, clouds barred the setting sun. Averheim was still distant.

  As he rode, Schwarzhelm felt the effects of a long day in the saddle begin to wear on his battle-ravaged body. The landscape around him looked eerily familiar. He knew he’d travelled along the same road just days before at the head of a conquering army. Now he was riding back with an escort of less than a dozen riders, consumed with a mix of alien emotions. The certainties he’d enjoyed while pursuing the orcs had receded again. The further west he went, the more his mood began to return to one of darkness. The city was a curse for him, the home of the sickness that had blighted his sleep and impaired his judgement. And he was going back.

  The hooves of the horse thudded on the hard dirt of the track. The incessant rhythm began to have a soporific effect. Schwarzhelm shook his head, trying to clear the strands of sleep from his eyes. There were many miles of riding ahead. Neither he nor his bodyguard would rest more than they needed to. They all knew time was of the essence.

  Even as the light weakened, the rolling hills passed by. The uplands beyond Heideck were now far behind them. All around, the cattle-country extended. The grass was still deep green despite weeks of beating sun. This country was blessed indeed. The folk of the Drakwald, huddled around their meagre fires and living amongst their skinny animals, would have given anything to live in such rich plenty.

  But there was always a flaw, always an imperfection. Amid all the majesty of the Empire, there was corruption. Averland was no different. He’d felt it every night of the mission. How many days had he gone without proper sleep? Too many to keep a count of. A man could only go so long before he started to lose his mind.

  Perhaps he was losing his mind. Others thought it. He’d heard the whispered rumours, seen the sidelong glances in his direction. Half of Averheim probably doubted his state of equilibrium.

  There was a shout from further ahead. One of the outriders, mounted on a sleek mount of Araby picked for speed, was riding back along to the road to meet them.

  Schwarzhelm called a halt. Freed from the tyranny of the whip, the horses stood shivering in the balmy air, flanks shiny with sweat.

  The rider came amongst them. As the man approached, Schwarzhelm noticed the gentle hiss of the grass around them. The fronds moved in the warm breeze like waves on the sea. The tips were tinged with the golden light of the sun, though the roots were hidden in darkness. All around them, as far as the eye could make out, they were surrounded by an ocean of grassland. It was like a scene from one of his dreams. Everything was moving, everything was quiet.

  “My lord,” cried the rider. His voice sounded suddenly harsh against the soft backdrop of the scene. “I’ve found something.”

  “It’d better be good,” Schwarzhelm growled. His voice sounded thick and sullen, even to him. The scout, experienced by the look of him and from the Averheim garrison, swallowed nervously. “All the same, my lord. I think you should see this.”

  Schwarzhelm looked into the west. The sun was still above the horizon. There would be perhaps half an hour of light. Just enough.

  “Lead on,” he ordered, kicking his horse into motion once more.

  The scout turned, and the party followed him further along the road for some distance. No one spoke. The only sound was the faint noise of the grass in the breeze. In the east, far behind them and over the distant line of the Worlds Edge Mountains, the first of the stars became visible. Night was drawing on fast.

  Schwarzhelm knew where they were headed long before he could make out exactly what the scout wanted to show them. A few hundred yards from the road, a narrow track curved away and off into the fields. The earth was rutted and uneven, and the grass on either verge had been flattened recently. Without needing to ask for directions, Schwarzhelm nudged his steed to follow the branching path. He soon saw why the scout had turned from the road to follow the path. Carrion crows. Dozens of them. They looked as large and ragged as vultures against the darkling sky. Some wheeled around, black in the dusk, moving in lazy circles. Others perched on the branches of the trees, looking at them intently with their glossy eyes.

  None of the birds uttered so much as a caw. They had the air of sentries, silent watchers of the night. Crows were as common as the pox all across the Empire, but these had an unsavoury look. Perhaps it was the unnatural heat in the air, or the silence, or their size. Whatever it was, the effect was unnerving.

  , “I saw them from the road, my lord,” said the scout. He kept his voice low, eyes watchful. “There it is.”

  A ramshackle shed, isolated in the dark grassland. The fading sunlight leaked through the gaps in the wood. It had only half a roof and one of the walls had slumped into ruin. Perhaps it had been an old barn.

  Schwarzhelm halted. He felt as if an icy fist had clenched around his heart. He could feel his pulse quicken.

  “Are you all right, sir?”

  “We’ll dismount,” he said gruffly. “From here, we go on foot.”

  The men did as they were ordered. They swung stiffly from their saddles, legs sore from hours of riding. Schwarzhelm felt his own frame creaking as he landed heavily on the earth. The ground was baked hard. He could feel the waves of heat rising from it. Even as the sun edged towards the horizon, Averland still sweltered.

  The men waited for him to move. Schwarzhelm could sense their
fear. He stalked towards the ruined barn. Above him, the crows circled. Their loops seemed to compress. They were inquisitive. He ignored them, but kept his hand on the sword.

  On the northern wall of the barn, a wide opening gaped. It was hard to see much of what lay beyond the stone doorframe. The shadows were now long. A sickly sweet smell wafted across the air. For a moment, Schwarzhelm couldn’t place it. Was that jasmine? He went closer. The aroma was more familiar than that. It was the mark of battlefields across the Old World. The reek of death, of bodies rotting in the mud. That was what the crows were there for.

  Schwarzhelm looked up at them grimly. He’d deprived them of their meal. That, at least, was something.

  “You’ve been inside?” he asked the scout.

  The man shook his head, looking ashamed.

  “I… it seemed…” he began, then trailed off.

  For once Schwarzhelm couldn’t bring himself to reprimand him. A cold vice of dread was wrapped hard around his own breast. Nothing, not the last golden rays of the sun nor the warming balm of the dusk air, could shift it. He merely nodded in response.

  “Be on your guard, then,” he said, drawing his sword. It gave a metallic rasp as it left the scabbard. “Stay watchful.”

  Turning back to the barn, he took a deep breath and ducked under the lintel. Inside, the stench was thick and cloying. Schwarzhelm felt his gorge rise and clasped his hand over his mouth. For a moment, he couldn’t see anything at all. Then his eyes adjusted to the gloom. Gaps in the ruined roof and the part-collapsed walls let in enough of the evening light to begin to make some sense of the interior.

  He couldn’t see how many corpses there were. Perhaps a dozen, maybe more. All men. Soldiers, by the look of them. Some of their armour still remained on them. Grunwald’s men, some Averheim troops. Here and there a sword-edge glinted. There was little flesh visible. One cadaver, strewn across the rough earth floor on his back, lay in the middle of a pool of weak light. His skin was grey. His eyes had long been pecked out by the crows and there were holes in his cheeks and neck. His expression was fixed in agony. His death had been painful. Possibly prolonged. Not all his injuries looked like the work of carrion fowl.

  Schwarzhelm felt his heart begin to beat harder. He consciously quelled it. He’d seen hundreds of bodies in his time, many in more terrible places. This was no different. Outside the barn, the grass continued to hiss in the breeze. It was as if the place was surrounded by a host of whispering ghosts.

  He looked away, down at the floor for a moment, trying to collect himself. He could feel his composure fraying. The days without sleep were getting to him. Something about this whole scene was getting to him. He turned back to his men. A couple of them had followed him in and were gazing at the piled bodies with ill-disguised nausea. Others held back, unwilling to enter the stinking interior.

  “Come,” said Schwarzhelm, feeling sick at heart. “There’s nothing more to see here.”

  Once outside again, he took a deep draught of pure air. It did little to lift the sense of corruption he felt about him. His bodyguard looked at him expectantly.

  “Was it as I feared?” asked the scout, looking nervous. “They were Commander Grunwald’s troops?”

  Schwarzhelm nodded. He knew exactly what they’d been. The riders sent back along the Old Dwarf Road to request reinforcements. Each of them had been waylaid, killed, their bodies dumped in a forgotten bam a mile from the trade route. Schwarzhelm himself must have ridden past the place on his journey east, oblivious to the secret contained within. Stumbling across it now was a rare chance. Perhaps more than that.

  “Anything else?” he asked.

  “Men have camped nearby. They’re long gone.”

  “We’ll take a look.”

  The scout led them further from the road. Several yards down the track, there was a collection of trees, isolated in the endless miles of rolling pasture. They rose tall and dark against the sky. At the base of the trunks, there were signs of fire. Schwarzhelm bent down and placed his hand over the ashes. Cold. He looked around him.

  “Whose lands are these?” he asked.

  One of the Averlanders answered. “We’re close to Leitdorfs estates. This is his family’s country.”

  Schwarzhelm looked over the deserted campsite. There were more blackened circles of old fires around the edge of the trees. The grass was heavily trampled. At one stage, many men had come and gone here. The exercise had been well planned. Perhaps other bands had been active too. In his mind’s eye, Schwarzhelm saw Leitdorfs fat face, running with arrogance and scorn. He remembered his bitter words. In my current position I cannot punish insolence. That will not be the case forever. Perhaps even then his forces had been mobilising.

  He shuffled further into the camp, studying, watching. There was little left. No weapons, no discarded clothing. He turned to leave.

  “Sir, this one’s still warm.”

  One of the Averlanders had walked off towards the edge of the field. At his feet lay another charred circle. Schwarzhelm came up to it. It was different. It was further from the camp, hidden by the whispering grass. They’d dug a hole in the parched earth and stuffed it with refuse. This hadn’t been a fire for food.

  Schwarzhelm bent over it. The ashes were barely warmer than the air around him. The faintest impression of heat lingered over them. It looked like a sack had been flung into the fire-pit. Scraps of fabric, black and curling, lay amidst the spent fuel. He thrust his hands into the ashes, scattering them, combing through the white flakes. Here and there, fragments of parchment. Nothing large enough to make out. Orders, perhaps, sent by courier from Averheim. They’d been thorough when they left. Nothing could be made out on them.

  Then he saw it. Mere inches from the fire, a scrap of dry parchment, no more than two inches long. Eagerly, he grasped it. The light was poor, and there was nothing much on it. It looked like a strip torn from a page. There were five words visible on it, scribbled hastily. Part of something larger.

  …forces to RL from Nuln…

  That was the name he needed, not that he’d been in any doubt. But it was the final word that chilled his blood. He remembered Verstohlen’s words, days ago. They’re getting help from outside. He’d assumed it was Altdorf, someone at court, an Averlander exile with a stake in one of the contenders. But Nuln. That was much closer.

  It was probably nothing. Probably part of routine orders.

  But the ice around his heart had returned. He knew who was at Nuln.

  “Let’s go,” Schwarzhelm said gruffly, standing up again and walking back to the horses.

  His men hurried to comply. The last of the light was failing, and there would be hard riding ahead before they could rest. They walked back past the ruined barn, through the fields and on to the road. As they went, Schwarzhelm said nothing. He didn’t look back. His mind was working, running through the possibilities. He felt the return of that great pressure, the presaging of the nightmares that he knew would come as they approached Averheim.

  He took a deep breath and mounted his horse. The others did likewise, and soon they were heading west once more.

  Behind them, lost in the night, the barn stood alone. Lazily, the crows descended to the rafters. Their meal had been interrupted, but it could now commence again.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Holed up in his temporary command post deep in the poor quarter of Averheim, Rufus Leitdorf raged. He could feel the spittle form at the corners of his mouth. The room was malodorous and squalid. Ancient plaster hung from the walls of the second storey chamber, curling with mould. The heat and filth were everywhere. He hurled the pile of maps to the corner of the room, watching the parchment curl up and slide across the floor. His captains, what was left of them, cowered.

  “You pack of useless dogs,” Rufus spat, running his accusatory eyes across them in turn. “We knew Grosslich would move against us. Where are your tactics? Where is the counter-attack?”

  One of the captains, a thick-set
, swarthy man named Werner Klopfer, was brave enough to respond.

  “It happened sooner than we anticipated, highness. Schwarzhelm has given Grosslich his blessing. It’s drawn more support to his side.”

  “Schwarzhelm isn’t here! He’s been taken away. That’s the whole point. We should have had this place to ourselves. Now it’s all gone to ruin. The trade’s in tatters, we’ve lost control of the Old City, and we’ve barely got the money left to pay our miserable fighters another day.”

  Rufus could feel his anger begin to get the better of him. He had to calm down. He knew he couldn’t lose it entirely in front of the men. They all knew the reputation of his father, and it hung heavily over him. The Mad Count of Averland. Rufus wouldn’t go down that road. That’s why he’d made the choices he had. Difficult choices. Not many would have made them. But he needed the power. He had to have the power. Without Averland, his life was nothing. Nothing at all.

  “Where’s my wife?” he asked, his voice sullen.

  There was a series of blank looks from the assembled captains. Natassja hadn’t been seen for days. That alone was enough to drive him mad. He needed her. She’d planned all of this. It had all been her idea, even from the very beginning. Now, just when their plans were beginning to unravel, she was nowhere to be found.

  “Damn her,” he hissed, banging his fist on the table before him.

  “Grosslich has moved quickly across the river,” ventured another one of the officers. “She may have become cut off in one of the root houses. There’s still fighting in the Old City, whatever they say on the streets.”

  “What good is she to me from there? Don’t tell me about things I have no control over.”

  One of the officers shot another of his companions a weary glance. That made Rufus even angrier, but he pushed the fury down. They were despairing of him. His rages, his tantrums, his impossible demands. He knew they were losing faith. His instinct was to have them all dismissed, to lead the rest of the men himself, to sweep all resistance before him into the Aver.