He knew that was a fantasy. He was alone. His allies had deserted him. The Alptraums hated his whole family, and they were still powerful. The only sure support he had was Natassja, and now she too was missing. He could only hope that she was working on some means of recovering their position. She was resourceful, that one. Devious. Intelligent. Beautiful. Even a day without her was torture. He needed her back.
“Very well,” he said wearily, trying to keep his voice under control. “We need to decide what to do.”
“Leave the city, highness,” urged Klopfer. “Grosslich controls all but a fragment of it. We cannot fight him here.”
Rufus looked at him disdainfully.
“Flee? Is that your only advice?”
“We can regroup at your family estates. Restore the trade along the river. Hire more men. If we stay here, we’ll be discovered. Sooner or later, our positions will fall to them.”
There was a nod from one of the other captains. Rufus failed to control a sneer. They were weak. None of them had the slightest idea what was at stake, what had been sacrificed for the goal of power. If they’d been privy to his and Natassja’s full plans, then they wouldn’t have dared to roll their eyes in his presence or doubt his commands. He was playing for higher stakes than they could possibly imagine.
“Do you understand nothing? The succession is being decided now. Grosslich has declared himself elector. Once he has control over the city, the Emperor will crown him. As things stand, we remain in contention. If we leave now, it will all go to dust. To dust!”
He looked Klopfer in the eye. Did the man have an ulterior motive? Why was he so keen to concede defeat? Perhaps he’d better see about removing him. Not that there were many left to replace him.
“And there’s Natassja,” he added, his voice fervent. “I’ll not leave her. We’ll fight until she’s found and that bastard Grosslich driven back into the Old City.”
For a moment there was silence. None of the captains wished to assent. None of them wished to pick a fresh fight. They looked dejected, half-beaten already. Rufus felt his scorn for them grow. Natassja was worth a hundred of them. Where was she?
Then there was a commotion in the hall outside the chamber. A soldier burst in, panting from exertion. One of his own men, bearing the Leitdorf colours. More trustworthy than the mercenary scum he’d been driven to using.
“Your pardon, highness,” he blurted. “Speak quickly.”
“We’ve been discovered. Grosslich has sent an advance detachment here. The rest of his army follows. They’ll be here soon.”
Rufus shot a glance at Klopfer. The man had a smug look of vindication on his face.
“This is it, then,” Rufus said. “We’ll meet them.”
Klopfer met his gaze. Still defiant.
“With respect, that is madness, highness,” said Klopfer. Bold words. When this was over, the man might live to regret such candour. “We no longer have the numbers to take on Grosslich’s men openly.”
On another occasion, Rufus might have raged at him, thrown objects at him, ordered him to fall on his sword. Not this time. The knowledge that the net was closing in on him brought a strange sense of resignation. There would be no retreat. The Leitdorfs might have been many things. Mad, unpredictable, feckless. But they weren’t cowards. Not when it really mattered.
“We’ve spent months buying this army,” he said. His voice was strangely quiet, unusually firm. “They’ve failed us so far. It’s only fair to give them a chance to redeem themselves.”
He turned to Lars Neumann, the one lieutenant he still felt some degree of confidence in.
“Get the word out. Muster everyone we still have. Promise them double the gold. We’ll meet them in the Vormeisterplatz. The retreat stops here.”
Neumann hesitated for a moment, then bowed and hurried from the room. Rufus ran his gaze across the remaining captains. None of them looked convinced.
“If any of you are thinking of getting out of this, I warn you there will be no forgiveness from me. There are forces at work here that you have no idea about. Once I’m elector, I’ll remember any treachery.”
He drew his sword. His father’s old blade, the Leitdorf Wolfsklinge. It was an ancient weapon, studded with the symbols of his house. Not as prestigious as the runefang lying in the Averburg, but still potent. There were old runes on the steel, just as on the weapons of the electors.
“Gather your men,” he said, gazing at the blade with fondness. “This isn’t over yet.”
Schwarzhelm and his escort reached the Aver valley. All about them the countryside stretched away in serene curves of pasture. The river at the base of the incline was as wide and turgid as before, green with blooms of algae. The city itself lay ahead at the end of the road, sweltering under the midday sun. The fires were still visible, staining the open sky with lines of smoke. It looked like more of them than when he’d left. Even the noise of the fighting was faintly audible. So Averheim had truly descended into anarchy.
This was what he had been appointed to prevent. Schwarzhelm let his fingers clench around the hilt of the Rechtstahl. It wasn’t too late.
“What standards are those?” he asked, pointing to the flags hanging from the distant Averburg, just on the edge of sight.
One of his bodyguards, a young man with keen eyes called Adselm, came forward.
“Hard to make out, my lord. The standard of Averland no longer flies. Maybe Grosslich’s devices.”
Schwarzhelm grunted. That was good. If Verstohlen was right, then Grosslich was now their only chance. It would be some time before the rest of Schwarzhelm’s army could make its way back to Averheim from Heideck. In the interim they’d need Heinz-Mark’s men to keep order.
“Let’s move,” he said, taking up the reins.
The riders around him did likewise, but their movements were sluggish. They were exhausted after the punishing ride. For a moment, Schwarzhelm felt their weariness infect him. He felt like he’d been in the saddle for weeks, hurtling back and forth, trying to keep order as Averland gradually pulled itself apart.
He knew he was tired. He knew his judgement was impaired. But there was no time. There was never any time.
“Follow me,” he said, and kicked his horse into movement once more. As he did so, he had a low sense of foreboding. Things were drawing together. There was a canker at the heart of Averheim, something rotten and concealed. It had been eating away at him for weeks. One way or another, it would be uncovered soon.
Helborg and the Reiksguard rode up to the west gate of the city. It was open. The guards had long gone. The courtyard beyond, normally bustling with traders and cattle merchants, was deserted. The handsome buildings flanking the open space stood empty, their rich owners having fled the fighting soon after it had got out of control. The elegant glass windows had been smashed and the interiors looted. It was a scene of desolation.
As the Marshal rode under the parapet, a few scavengers looked up, eyes wide with fright. They darted into the shadows like rats, their rags fluttering behind them.
Helborg stopped. On either side of him, the front rank of the knights formed up. Their visors were down and their swords were drawn. There were few more formidable sights in the Empire than a whole company of Reiksguard in full battle-gear. They looked grim and deadly. The noonday sun flashed from their polished armour and naked blades. The horses stamped in the heat, impatient to move on.
Still Helborg paused. Skarr drew alongside him.
“Where now?”
Helborg inclined his head, listening. “There’s fighting. I can hear it. This thing must be ended quickly. We’ll make an example of them.”
“As you command.”
“Tell the men to kill on sight. I don’t care which faction they belong to.”
“What of Lord Schwarzhelm?”
“If he makes an appearance, then we’ll worry about him. Until then, assume we’re the Imperial authority here.”
With that, he drew his sword
. The Klingerach glittered in the sunlight. The runes on its surface blazed as if lit from within. Once again, the Solland runefang had been called on. For a blade that had cleaved the armour of Chaos warlords and vampire counts apart, it felt almost churlish to draw it in such circumstances. But Averheim needed to be cowed. If insurrection was tolerated anywhere, it would soon spread like a cancer across the whole Empire. Whatever Schwarzhelm had tried in order to stem it, he had failed. Helborg would not repeat those mistakes.
“Reiksguard,” he roared, pointing the sword straight ahead, “to battle!”
After a resounding shout of acclimation, the knights kicked their steeds into action. With a thunder of hooves on stone, the company rode from the courtyard and into the interior of the city.
Grosslich’s scattered warbands were being drawn together on the east bank of the river. Hundreds of men had been assembled and more were arriving at every moment. Above them all, the vast bulk of the Averburg towered over the preparations.
Leitdorf had been found. Everything else could be forgotten. Once they had the renegade in their hands, dead or alive, then it would be over.
Verstohlen pushed his way through the throng towards Grosslich. When he found him, the man already looked flushed with the prospect of impending victory.
“You’re joining us?” asked Grosslich, buckling the last of his armour with the help of his squire and preparing to mount his horse.
“Perhaps. I’m worried about this.”
Grosslich gave him a weary look.
“Counsellor, your advice has been invaluable, but do you not think your fears have been allayed now? Leitdorf is finished. Even his own men no longer obey him.”
“You know what I fear. The great enemy always looks weaker than it is.”
“We’ve caught them too soon,” insisted Grosslich, donning his open-faced helmet and smiling confidently. “They haven’t had time to respond. That’s your doing, Pieter. You should be proud.”
Verstohlen wasn’t consoled. Ever since the encounter with the cultist, he’d been feeling like he’d missed something. How had he known his name? What dark purpose was being enacted here?
“Is Natassja with him?”
As the mention of her name, Grosslich couldn’t prevent his face twisting into a sneer of disgust.
“The witch? They never leave one another’s side. If we kill one Leitdorf, we’ll kill them both.”
“I hope that’s so. She has powers of her own. I’ve seen her servants. They are deadly.”
“Then I’ll hunt her down myself. We need to ride. Euler has already gone ahead with the vanguard to pin them down.”
“Very well. I’ll join you when I can. Be careful, Heinz-Mark. The enemy has subtle powers. Verena be with you.”
“And Sigmar with you, counsellor.”
With that, Grosslich dug his spurs into his steed’s flanks and the horse sprung forward. Behind him, the mounted troops followed suit. The mounted column clattered off towards the poor quarter, blades drawn and standards unfurled. For all their mixed livery, they were an impressive sight. In the wake of the cavalry, Grosslich’s infantry companies struggled to keep up. They ran down the streets, their boots thudding on the stone. They looked eager, keen to be involved in the final struggle.
Verstohlen watched them go. He was torn over whether to join them. It had been days since his message had been sent to Schwarzhelm. Had he received it? If he had, would he answer the request for aid? For all Verstohlen knew, the greenskins still controlled the east of the province. Battle was unpredictable, and the roads remained dangerous.
“They cannot handle this on their own,” he breathed, talking to himself in his agitation. “They haven’t seen the horror in their midst. They need the Emperor’s Champion.”
He drew in a deep breath. Mumbling like a madman would do nothing to bring Schwarzhelm back.
Still plagued by doubts, Verstohlen took a horse from one of Grosslich’s stablehands. He mounted quickly and drew his pistol from its holster. The time for running skirmishes in the streets was over. The forces had come together at last. Now in earnest, the battle for Averheim had begun.
Captain Tuler charged into the Vormeisterplatz. He was on foot, as were all his men. In his hand he carried a broadsword. Those around him had an assortment of weapons: halberds, cudgels, spears, halberds, even kitchen knives and skewers. Grosslich had worked hard to equip his men properly, but this was still a semi-irregular war. For every trooper kitted out in full Imperial regalia there were many dogs of war, wearing and wielding whatever they could get their hands on.
It didn’t matter much. If they knew how to use their weapon and follow orders they were helpful. Euler had been put in charge of the entire vanguard. That comprised several hundred men, all champing at the bit for a first look at the hated Leitdorf. It was nothing personal, but the promise of a hundred gold crowns had a way of inflaming the passions.
Once in the wide square, Euler had little time to take in the surroundings. The Vormeisterplatz was huge, nearly the same size as the famed Plenzerplatz in the Old City. It had been constructed for similar reasons, to allow the huge trade caravans within the city walls for the great seasonal shows. In more peaceful times, the great squares would have been full of covered wagons proffering delicacies from all corners of the Grand County. Averlanders liked their food and drink, and the ale-fuelled fayres would last long into the night.
No more. The Vormeisterplatz was a rubbish-strewn mess. Two huge piles of refuse at either side of the massive courtyard burned steadily, casting an angry red light across the flagstones. The afternoon sun was beginning to weaken, and its amber rays blended with the flames. It looked like the hearth of some monstrous kitchen.
Towering buildings rose up on all four sides of the square. Most were trader’s warehouses, bleak and utilitarian. All had their windows smashed or doors broken in. Other buildings, merchant’s houses and official institutions, had fared similarly badly. It hadn’t taken long for the citizens of Averland’s capital to take advantage of the anarchy in the streets.
On the far side of the square, Leitdorfs men had arranged themselves. There were more than Euler had expected. They were arranged in rough-looking detachments. Some of them looked pretty well-equipped. He guessed they were Leitdorfs own family regiments, drafted in from his estates further east. They would have had feudal obligations to the count and would fight for him even when his gold ran out. No one else would.
The mercenaries were another matter. They looked even more ramshackle than the very worst of Grosslich’s men. Some had no armour at all, not even a helmet. Their mixture of weapons was just as eclectic as Euler’s own troops. Leitdorf had placed them on the flanks of the army where they belonged. Only in the core did he have any number of regular soldiers.
“This is it, lads!” Euler shouted as he ran, willing his men onward. His forces were outnumbered by Leitdorf’s men, but that mattered not. He had faith in his soldiers, and Grosslich would not be far behind them. Then the game would truly be up. “Keep in formation. A hundred crowns for the head of Leitdorf!”
That brought a cheer. It always did. They streamed across the open space, leaping over broken flagstones and running through the patches of refuse.
But Leitdorf’s men were not there just to cower in the shadows. With a shout of aggression nearly as loud, they surged forward in their turn. None were left in reserve. There were no elaborate tactics or manoeuvres. Just as it had been for the last few days, this was the fighting of the gutter, hard and vicious.
The gap narrowed quickly. Euler could see the eyes of his opposite numbers as they charged towards him. They looked mad with rage. They weren’t going to back off this time. He began to swing his blade, building up momentum for the crash.
“The protection of Sigmar,” he whispered, making the sign of the comet with his free hand.
Then the two forces slammed into one another. The lines broke into a confused mess of stabbing, hacking, punching a
nd hammering. The voices of captains rose above the fray, trying to impose some kind of order on the murderous encounter.
It was futile. The melee soon descended into a vicious series of lethal struggles. In the thick of it, Euler worked his broadsword skilfully. He and his men punched their way toward the heart of the enemy. It might have been terrible tactics, but there was method in their recklessness.
Euler respected Grosslich and wanted him to prevail. But more than that, he wanted the money. A man could do a lot with a hundred gold pieces.
“For Grosslich!” he bellowed, and hacked his way into the centre of the fighting.
* * *
Helborg heard the fighting before he saw it. Even over the thudding of the horses’ hooves, the tumult was audible from several streets away. There was no sound quite like it, a mix of frenzied shouting, the clash of steel against steel, screams of agony. It didn’t sound like an isolated skirmish. They were heading into a major engagement.
He crouched in the saddle, riding his horse expertly across the hard surface of the street. The windowless buildings and burned-out warehouses passed by in a blur. Ahead, the street looked like it opened on to a wide expanse beyond. That was where the noise was coming from.
“Keep it tight,” he cried to Skarr, who was on his left flank. “Sounds like a lot of them.” Skarr grinned.
“They picked a bad day for a fight.”
“That they did. We’ll divide the company. I’ll take the Leitdorf pup, you try to find his rival. If we can get them out of this, we’ll break it up quickly.”
“Yes, sir.”
Then they were out of the streets and into the Vormeisterplatz. The space was huge. Across the far side, two forces, each several hundred strong, were locked in what looked like a mass brawl. There was little sign of formation or tactics. It wasn’t even clear from the liveries who was whom. This would be tricky to unpick. The battle was framed by two enormous fires, and the smoke drifted in rolling gouts across the flags.
[Heroes 01] - Sword of Justice Page 30