[Heroes 01] - Sword of Justice

by Chris Wraight - (ebook by Undead)

  Then he saw it, far below. A shape, tumbling down into the infinite darkness. It spun lazily in the current, twisting and falling. Schwarzhelm kicked his legs and plunged towards it. His powerful limbs pushed him through the water. Long before he reached the tumbling form below, he knew what it was. He tried to stop then, but his momentum carried him down and down. The water grew darker and colder. Suddenly he became aware how far he’d come. He might not be able to return, even if he wanted to.

  Then the body rolled over. Its motion was sluggish. Helborg’s limbs dragged in the water like trailing weeds. The flesh was pale, reflecting the last of the sunlight filtering from the surface. The mouth was open, fixed in a stare of outrage and accusation.

  Schwarzhelm flailed, trying to swim back up, away from the corpse. He was dragged down, faster and faster. The current had him now. The water became icy.

  Helborg’s empty eyes stared at him. They’d been pecked out, just like the soldiers’ eyes in the barn. His flesh was bone-white. Parts of it had begun to flake away, drifting off into the abyss like fragments of china.

  Schwarzhelm felt the horror well up within him, choking him. He could no longer hold his breath. He felt his lungs begin to ache. Whatever he did, he couldn’t push himself up.

  Helborg’s shoulder rotated into view. The wound was still there, still pumping blood into the water. It would never heal, never be made right.

  Schwarzhelm felt the ache turn to a sharp pain. He couldn’t take a breath. He was drowning. He rolled over, desperate to look away from the cadaver below. Far up above, he could see the play of sunlight on the surface. He’d never reach it. It was too far. He was too tired. Too weak. His guilt weighed him down like lead. It dragged him down.

  His lungs gave out. He opened his mouth. The water rushed in.

  Schwarzhelm lurched awake. With a warrior’s instinct he sat bolt upright, hands searching for his weapon. His bedclothes were tangled across him. Some had been thrown to the floor. His palms were dripping with sweat. He breathed heavily, drawing in the air with relief.

  He was safe. He was in the Averburg. He wasn’t alone.

  Opposite him, sitting on a low stool at the foot of bed, a man was waiting for him.

  “Bad dreams?” he said.

  Schwarzhelm still felt disorientated. The dream still hadn’t quite left him. For a moment, he didn’t recognise who was speaking.

  Then Verstohlen’s face crystallised. Schwarzhelm felt his memory return. For the first time in weeks, he’d slept through the night. Though his dreams had remained vivid, they hadn’t shaken him awake. Something had changed. The mental oppression that had plagued him for so long had lifted. The air felt purer. He took a deep breath, feeling it fill his mighty chest.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Forgive the intrusion. I was worried about you.”

  “That’s not your job.”

  “It’s always been my job.”

  Schwarzhelm scowled. He didn’t like the protective tone in Verstohlen’s voice. He pushed himself from the bed. There was a robe hanging nearby, and he donned it. Despite the heavy slumber, he felt strangely alert. His body was still filthy. As he moved, he could feel the crack of the dried blood across his skin. His beard felt heavy and matted. How had he let himself get into such a state?

  “How long have I been asleep?”

  “The day is nearly past. I’d say you needed the rest.”

  Schwarzhelm grunted. He walked over to a pitcher of water and doused his face. The liquid dripped back red. He scrubbed at his eyes and old blood streamed back into the water below. None of it was his.

  “How stands the city?”

  “Grosslich’s still hunting Leitdorf’s men down. They’ve rounded up some of his captains who were too slow to get out. There’s a witch hunter court of enquiry being set up.”

  Schwarzhelm’s face creased with disapproval. Like his counsellor, he hated witch hunters. Every right-thinking man hated witch hunters.

  “Things seem to be in hand, then.”

  Verstohlen gave him a significant look.

  “Yet you still look troubled.”

  Schwarzhelm gave him an irritated look. Verstohlen could be like an old woman at times.

  “Grosslich had better remember who put him in this position,” he growled. “I want no further actions taken until I’ve given the orders for them.”

  “He’ll be back in the citadel tonight.”

  “Good. We’ll talk then.”

  “And is there anything else you wish to discuss, my lord?”

  Schwarzhelm paused. Verstohlen was his counsellor, not his confessor. “Helborg.”

  There was a long silence. The Swords of Vengeance and Justice hung next to one another by the bed. One had a scabbard, the other was naked. Schwarzhelm felt the grief rush back, as if it had been unlocked by saying the name.

  “He was riding with Leitdorf,” said Verstohlen, quietly. “A proven traitor.”

  “I only have your word for that, Pieter. In the heat of battle—”

  “You didn’t see what I did.”

  “Exactly.”

  Verstohlen looked agitated then. That was strange. The man was normally so calm.

  “We did the right thing, my lord. The Leitdorfs were damned! Whatever Helborg was doing supporting them is his affair. The enemy has corrupted greater men.”

  As Verstohlen spoke, Schwarzhelm remembered the scraps of parchment by the road. They had planted the seed of doubt in his mind, the suspicion that had come to such dreadful fruition in the Vormeisterplatz. Strange to have stumbled across the proof of treachery so far out into the wilds. Perhaps it had been Sigmar guiding him. Or maybe some other force.

  He didn’t want to discuss it any further. The pain was too raw. He needed to think, to reflect.

  “I feel like I’ve not been myself these past few days,” he muttered.

  “And how do you feel now?”

  Schwarzhelm paused.

  “Better.”

  “Then there is your proof. We have broken the hold of that witch over Averheim. Do you not sense it in the air? There had been corruption here for far too long. Subtle corruption. There are things a sorcerer can do, ways of influencing the mood of a place. They have been attacking you, my lord, maybe even before you arrived. You know the truth of this.” Verstohlen looked at him earnestly as he spoke. “He was as fervent as ever in his denunciation of Chaos.”

  “We have beaten them. The court of enquiry will vindicate us. Leitdorf and his bitch will be found. Then the truth will emerge. Take comfort in this. We have beaten them.”

  Schwarzhelm began to reply, but then changed his mind. Verstohlen was right. Something did seem to have changed. And yet, deep within, like a worm coiled around the core of a ripe apple, the seed of doubt had been laid. If he’d been wrong about Helborg, if it had been his pent-up jealousy that had truly wielded the Sword of Justice, then he would never forgive himself.

  “I trust you’re right, counsellor,” was all he said.

  Skarr called the knights to a halt. Night was falling and they needed somewhere to lay low for the night. It had been a hard ride to escape Grosslich’s men, and the horses shivered with exhaustion.

  The young knight Eissen rode up to him. He looked ready for fresh fighting. Like all Reiksguard he hated flying before the enemy, though he’d understood the need to withdraw. In the aftermath of the fighting at Averheim, Grosslich had been able to send hundreds of troops after them. In the battle to get out of the city many of the Reiksguard had been cut down. Skarr’s company now numbered less than fifty, half the number Helborg had led into combat.

  More importantly, they couldn’t fight while the Marshal remained so close to death. As long as Helborg remained unconscious, they would act to preserve him. That was the only task left for them. Averland politics, and vengeance, could wait.

  “How is he?” asked Skarr.

  Eissen shrugged.

  “The same, preceptor. The wo
und is deep.”

  Skarr looked over to Helborg’s horse. The Marshal had been strapped to the saddle, propped up by a knight riding behind him. His face was white, his eyes closed. The bandages he’d hastily tied over the wound were soaked with blood again.

  “We can’t ride further tonight,” said Skarr. He looked over to an isolated copse in the field beyond. It wasn’t much, but at least it was cover. “We’ll set up camp there. Bring the Marshal down carefully.”

  What remained of the Reiksguard Company rode across the field and dismounted under the eaves of the trees. Helborg was borne from his saddle with all the reverence given to the remains of an Imperial saint and placed carefully on the dry earth.

  Skarr knelt over him with fresh bandages. There were not many left. Working quickly, he untied the blood-soaked cloth. Though hardened by years of battle injuries, the wound in Helborg’s shoulder was still a shock. Schwarzhelm’s sword had pierced deep, lifting up the flesh and boring beneath the shoulder plate. It was bleeding profusely, though thankfully not as strongly as it had done when he’d first tended to it. Many men would have perished from a blow as severe. Even Helborg looked near death, his breathing shallow. He had drifted into a fever. His pale forehead was clammy.

  “Make a fire,” ordered Skarr, tearing fresh strips of bandage. “I don’t care if we’re seen. I need hot water.”

  He set to work, cleaning the wound and picking out the old scraps of cloth around the angry weal. Thankfully no metal had broken off in the flesh. The Sword of Justice had bitten true and the laceration was clean.

  As Skarr worked, Helborg began to wince. The pain seemed to half-revive him. His eyes flickered open. He tried to speak, but no words came from his parched throat.

  “Give him water,” ordered Skarr. A knight came forward bearing a gourd. The man managed to tip a few drops into Helborg’s mouth. The Marshal swallowed a few before breaking into an anguished coughing. “Enough. Tell me when you have boiling water.”

  The brushwood on the copse floor was dry after weeks of heavy sun, and the fire crackled into life quickly. A helmet was filled with some of the scarce drinking water and placed over the flames. After a few minutes it reached boiling point and was brought over.

  Skarr took a needle, gut thread and a pouch of dried herbs from the saddlebag of his mount. He emptied the contents of the pouch into the boiling water. Immediately a caustic aroma sprang up, making his eyes water. In its fresh state, healwort was an effective ward against contagion setting in. It was less efficacious when dried and stored, but still better then nothing. Skarr cleaned the wound with the infused water, sluicing the last remnants of foreign matter from the blood-red flesh. Then he threaded the iron needle and placed it against the edge of the broken skin. Helborg looked like he’d drifted back into unconsciousness. Skarr began to sew, pulling the flaps of skin tightly. He was accustomed to such work, having acted as a makeshift apothecary for years. All Reiksguard knew how to stitch up a blade wound.

  With the laceration closed, he began to wind fresh sheets of bandage across it. He finished with a layer of leather strapping before replacing the jerkin on top. Even before he was finished he saw the spider-like tendrils of crimson begin to appear again.

  Skarr stood up, putting the needle and thread away. He felt no confidence in his work. Helborg needed the services of a real apothecary. The longer they stayed out in the wilds, the worse his condition would get.

  “What are we going to do about him?” Eissen had come to his shoulder. He gestured towards the sullen figure of Leitdorf. The deposed count huddled far from the fire, watched over carefully by his guards. Skarr felt a sudden flush of anger. This was all because of that wretched, figure.

  “Douse the fire,” he ordered. “Organise a watch party. I’ll speak to him.”

  He strode over to Rufus, his expression dark. As he approached, Leitdorf shrank back even further, looking like he’d seen a wraith.

  “Now then, my lord,” said Skarr, lacing his words with heavy irony. “I think it’s time you explained what in Morr’s name happened back there.” He crouched down opposite the shaking figure and looked him directly in the eye.

  “Tell me everything.”

  Bloch shaded his eyes. The cold had grown steadily. Ahead of him, the Worlds Edge Mountains reared their lofty peaks towards the sky. The flint-grey cliffs soared ever higher, flecked with frost and lingering snow at the summits. The walls of rock were massive, far higher than those of the Drakwald or the Mittebergen. Truly, Bloch saw how the range had earned its name. As he gazed at the mist-shrouded peaks in the distance, piled atop one another in an endless series of stone faces, gullies and terraces, it seemed indeed that they marked the limits of the realm of mortals. Whatever lay beyond such vast pinnacles must have been shut out for a reason. This was where the jurisdiction of the Emperor ran out. The lands on the far side could surely be nothing but blasted wastes.

  The army had already climbed far. As they’d travelled, storms had passed over them, moving swiftly westward. As if to compensate for the weeks of unbroken sun, now the world threw heaps of storm cloud at the lush pastures of Averland. The wind was biting. Bloch found himself missing the hammering heat of the lowlands. He’d cursed it when he’d been marching through it, but even that sweltering weather was better than the endless swirling gusts of ice-wind in the high peaks.

  He looked up. Even so high up, the road was wide and well ordered. The engineers who had carved the way had been artisans of the highest order. That didn’t prevent some perilous passages as the path twisted up into the heights. Ahead of him, the route passed under a cliff edge on the right-hand side. To his left, the stone fell away sharply. A deep ravine had been carved into the living rock and the sound of running water echoed between the buttresses of stone. Beyond that the landscape dissolved into a tumble of windblasted outcrops and crags on either side of the path.

  Kraus came to stand at his shoulder.

  “We loop around that cairn?” Bloch asked, pointing to a conical pile of rocks at the summit of a typically fractured rise. On either side of it, the going looked tough. Scree littered every exposed surface.

  Kraus squinted up at the rising stone. The sunlight reflected harshly from the cold rock, and his old face wrinkled as he studied the way ahead.

  “Aye. There’ll be a way-fort soon. But we’re still far from the passes.”

  “How far?”

  “A day. Maybe two.”

  Bloch felt his heart sink. They’d already spent more time than he’d have liked hauling themselves up into the mountains. The sooner they reached the fortress at the head of the pass, the better.

  “You’re not filling me with confidence.”

  “Two days, then. I’d bet on it.”

  “How much?”

  “A schilling.”

  “You’re a tight bastard, Kraus, and you’re still not filling me with confidence.”

  Kraus laughed. It was a tough, grating sound. The man looked almost as battered as the stone around him.

  Then Bloch saw the shadow against the rock. He tensed immediately.

  “See that?” he hissed, grabbing his halberd.

  Kraus was ahead of him. He dropped into a half crouch, pulling the sword from its scabbard with a swift movement.

  “Aye,” he whispered. His eyes narrowed.

  Bloch turned and frantically signalled to the men toiling up the ridge behind him. They halted, and the order passed down the ranks quickly. The only sound was the serried drawing of weapons. They’d already encountered the last fragments of the orc army in the foothills. Bloch had assumed they’d finished off the last of them. Perhaps not.

  He looked back up. The wind moaned against the granite. Everything looked empty.

  “What d’you think?” he whispered, peering up at the cliffs.

  Kraus shrugged. “Maybe noth—”

  He never finished his sentence. From the cliff above them, dark forms fell. Bloch tried to get his halberd in position,
but he was far too slow. Before he knew what had happened, Kraus and he were surrounded by nearly a dozen men. They were dressed in Imperial garb modified for the cold. Most had fur-lined jerkins, cloaks and heavy leather boots. The colours suited the mountains around them; grey, pale, drab. From a distance, one would never have known they were there.

  Bloch froze. He found himself staring down the bronze barrel of a long gun. At the other end of it, carefully shielding the cord, a man with a grey moustache and thin lips was staring at him. He didn’t look friendly.

  “State your business,” he growled. His voice sounded almost as harsh as Kraus’. At the edge of his vision, Bloch could see the other intruders move to disarm the guard captain. Three of them had guns. The rest carried crossbows, all loaded with bolts.

  “Who’s asking?” said Bloch, working hard to maintain his dignity. He didn’t like having a gun pointed in his face. He also didn’t like people being rude to him.

  The man smiled coldly.

  “You’re not in a position to be asking questions, master halberdier.”

  “Oh yes? You might want to take that up with the men behind me.”

  “They’ll not attack while we hold you.”

  “Don’t be so sure. I’m a tyrant. They might be pleased to see me dead.”

  The gunner smiled again. He let the gun drop.

  “Something tells me you’re not like the others.”

  Bloch relaxed his shoulders. His fingers had been clenched tight around the halberd, ready to swing it up in a sudden movement. He let them loosen. All around him, the other gunners lowered their barrels. But they kept the guns to hand.

  “What others?”

  “First tell me who you are. This is my country.”

  “Fair enough. I am Commander Markus Bloch, charged by the Lord Schwarzhelm to drive the greenskins from Averland and reinforce the passes. This is Captain Kraus of the general’s honour guard. You’d better introduce yourself now. Some of my men have itchy trigger fingers of their own. I’d hate you to take a stray bullet now we’ve become such good friends.”

  “Schwarzhelm, eh?” said the man, looking impressed. “I’d heard he was headed for Averland.” He gestured to his men, and they stood down. He extended a gnarled hand to Bloch. “Captain Helmut Drassler, bergsjaeger of the passes.”