“Now then,” said Heidegger in his soft, almost feminine, voice. He put the cloth to one side. “Do not concern yourself with the physical pain you feel, my son. This is just the necessary prelude, the means by which your soul may be cleansed. Pain will pass, even if in death.”
He reached for another bowl, this time filled with clear water, and washed his hands. Everything he needed had been laid out on the bench, just as he liked it. There was his battered old prayer book, the leaves flaky and ancient, his vials of holy water, the icons of Sigmar and Magnus the Pious, the litanies of exorcism. And of course, the instruments of enquiry. The clamps, barbs, scalpels, gouges, pins and all the rest. All lovingly catalogued and labelled, ready for use. Most of them shone brightly in the firelight, polished to a high sheen and resting on soft cloth. The others, the ones that had already seen action, were covered in a second skin of crimson. He would look forward to cleaning them again in the evening.
“W-what do you want to hear?” sobbed Klopfer. “I’ll tell you anything. Anything!”
Heidegger folded his arms and tutted.
“That will not do. Have you not been listening to anything I’ve been saying? I want the truth from you. The whole truth. Tell me what you know, and your soul may be spared.”
“I worked for Leitdorf!” Klopfer cried. His anguished voice echoed from the high rafters. As he spoke, the scribe diligently transcribed his words. Alrich was a good servant. He never lost his place, never asked for a repetition. Whenever a session was over, he would present his sheaves of parchment, all neatly inscribed with the black letter Reikspiel record of the conversation. Heidegger was really very fond of him. So many scribes lost their minds as the long years wore on that it was a relief to find a true professional.
Klopfer’s voice began to quicken. “I was one of his captains. We knew that Grosslich was arming his men, so we did the same. Some of our troops came from his estates. They were carried in by river, under cover of night. Others we bought.”
“How did you acquire the funds for this work?”
“We had many sources. Leitdorf had money from his inheritance. His wife was rich too. Then there was the root. We imported it. Leitdorf’s men had control over the cartels. There were rival gangs in Averheim, but he controlled them all in the end. The money was good. They couldn’t stop buying it. I don’t know where the rest came from.”
“I’ve heard about the joyroot from others. Was it part of your corruption?”
“Corruption? I don’t—”
Heidegger reached for another instrument.
“Yes! Yes, it was! Please no more!”
Heidegger took up a fresh tool. It was a piece of real artistry, as elegant and refined as an elven maid’s ankle. He didn’t really want to use it. There was always the chance of snagging on a tendon and interfering with the mechanism. Perhaps later, if the conversation was beginning to flag.
“So the joyroot was part of your corruption. That is indeed the consensus I’ve picked up from others. Did you take it yourself?”
“No! Never. It was only ever given to those outside the organisation. Some of the mercenaries took it. Leitdorf gave us strict instructions never to touch it.”
“And why was that?”
“We saw what it did to the others. It made them lazy. He wanted us ready to fight.”
“Did you not question these orders when you realised that the joyroot was a tool of the great enemy?”
Klopfer looked at Heidegger with new terror. Tears started in his eyes. He was clearly struggling to know what to say. Admitting guilt was always difficult.
“You can confess all to me, my son,” said Heidegger kindly. “Though I know it doesn’t seem that way at present, I am here to help you.”
Klopfer began to break down into bitter sobs. That was disappointing. They so often did that when he offered them the benefit of his spiritual wisdom. Why were so many men deaf to the insights of the Temple, to the potential for salvation? Mortification of the flesh was only temporal. Damnation, on the other hand, was eternal.
Heidegger gave Klopfer a moment to recover himself.
“Speak to me, my son,” he said at last. He let a firm edge enter his voice then. Heidegger was a patient man, but his benevolence only stretched so far.
Klopfer brought his sobs half under control. He had a resigned, broken look about him. That was good. The penitent spirit would enter Sigmar’s halls.
“I knew there was something about it. Something wrong. I thought it was her doing.”
“Leitdorf’s wife?”
“Yes. We were all scared of her.”
“Fear is no excuse.”
“I know! I know now. Believe me, I regret everything.”
Heidegger felt a warm glow of satisfaction bloom within him. This was what made his vocation such a blessed one.
“This ordeal is nearly over for you now. There is just one last thing.”
Klopfer looked up at him. There was a sudden, desperate hope in his tear-stained face.
“What is it?”
“I have been asked to enquire about the role of the Grand Marshal of the Reiksguard, Kurt Helborg. He is a powerful man. Of all the troubling aspects of this case, that is the most grave. The truth must be ascertained.”
As he spoke, Heidegger brought the instrument, his favourite, down gently against Klopfer’s face. The man stiffened and began to shake violently. Thankfully, he had been shackled expertly. His head could only move a fraction of an inch. With the tender touch of a lover, Heidegger rested the tip of the device on the skin below the man’s left eye.
“You will tell me the truth of this, will you not, my son? Was Helborg involved in this affair? Was he directing it from Altdorf, and then Nuln? Was he, along with Rufus Leitdorf and Natassja Hiess-Leitdorf, the true architect of this shameful episode?”
For a moment, Klopfer looked so stricken with terror that he could hardly speak. He tried to look at the device resting on his face but it was too close. He could feel it, though. And he could guess what it did.
“Speak quickly.”
Klopfer looked up into Heidegger’s eyes. There was a pleading there. An agonised pleading. He would say anything. Anything to avoid the pain. They always did, sooner or later. That was the genius of the exercise. They would come to the truth in the end. Whether it was the truth as they saw it, or the truth as he wanted it to be, it didn’t matter. Everything was relative, after all. All ways led to glory, to the greater praise of Sigmar, the origin of all beneficence.
“H-he was, my lord,” stammered Klopfer. As he spoke, fresh tears ran down his cheek. They glinted from the surface of the metal as they splashed over it. “Helborg was one of them. I saw the letters that passed between them. They were all traitors. Leitdorf, his wife, the Reiksguard Marshal.”
Heidegger sighed gently. Another confession. How quickly they came, once all the work had been done. Another soul had been saved. Another piece of information had been collated. His work was done. He withdrew the instrument. As he did so, Klopfer broke down again, slack against his bonds.
“There, now,” said Heidegger soothingly. “Does that not feel better? Confessing one’s sins is a cleansing process. Your soul is now free of the taint you have carried for so long. You should be proud.”
He placed the instrument back on the cloth. It clinked against its fellows gently as he rolled the covering up.
“That’s it?” asked Klopfer. The desperate hope had returned. “I’m free to go?”
Heidegger nodded. This was the part of the process he really didn’t like. It always seemed such a shame after all they’d been through together.
“There is no more. The ordeal is over. You are free to go.”
He picked up a cloth and dabbed his hands. They needed a wash. He’d been working too hard. Perhaps he needed a break.
“You have done well, my son,” said Heidegger, placing the cloth back on the table. “The information you have provided will root out this heresy.�
�
Klopfer didn’t seem to be listening. He was lost in some kind of reverie. That was ungrateful. This was for his benefit, after all. Heidegger felt deflated. He always did when the process was over. It was at this stage that his faith was weakest. In the darkest moments, he sometimes wondered whether he wouldn’t have been better employed in the Chapel at Wittenburg after all. Perhaps then his sleep wouldn’t have been as troubled as it was. Maybe then he wouldn’t find himself weeping for no reason at all, wracked by the inexplicable terrors that came to him when he was alone.
Enough. These periods of depression were a test. Everything was a test. He walked away from the table, turning to the scribe as he went.
“Did you get it all?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Including the testimony on Lord Helborg?”
“Yes, my lord.”
Of course he had. Alrich never missed a thing. Heidegger sighed. He was a diligent servant. They were both diligent servants.
He kept walking, snapping his fingers to attract the attention of the guards. Using the hand signals they understood, he gave them the only order he ever gave them.
Kill him. Then bring in the next one.
Verstohlen stood on the terrace above the lower levels of the Averburg. The wind had picked up again. It made the city feel healthier. Since Leitdorf had been driven from the place, the air had changed. The lingering sweetness, the hint of rottenness, had gone. Grosslich had brought order to the place quickly. Of course, he’d been aided by Schwarzhelm. The man seemed back to his old self, if a little more withdrawn than was usual. He went about his business with the grim-faced efficiency for which he was known.
That alone convinced Verstohlen that their actions had been justified. The Leitdorfs might have succeeded for a time in driving Schwarzhelm from the city, in tying him up with legal paperwork, in using the subtle poisons of the mind to cloud his judgement, but all that was over now. Had their plans not been discovered when they were, they might have succeeded. Verstohlen was in no doubt they’d used the greenskins somehow. The precise mechanism was still hidden from him, but it would emerge. With the witch hunters given full rein to investigate, few secrets would remain hidden for long.
He looked out over the city. It seemed as peaceful as it had done when they’d arrived. There was little obvious sign of the scarring which had taken place since then. The merchants had come back. The streets had been tidied up. People were sick of the fighting. Even those who had previously sided with Rufus seemed resigned to the accession of Heinz-Mark. Anything was better than the gathering anarchy which had plagued them over the past few weeks.
There was a sound behind him. He whirled round in an instant, blade at the ready.
Tochfel stood before him, arms raised in surrender.
“Apologies, counsellor,” he said, looking at the knife nervously.
“Forgive me,” said Verstohlen, putting the dagger back in its sheath. “It’s been a difficult time.”
Tochfel came to stand next to him on the terrace.
“Think nothing of it. We must hope things have changed for the better.”
“You don’t sound convinced they will be.”
“I am cautious by nature.”
“I’d noticed.”
Tochfel smiled ruefully The two men stood for a while in silence, watching the city breathe below them. Some life had already returned to the river. Where there had been nothing but stagnant water, a few barges now plied their trade. It would take time for the bustle to return, but it was a start.
“I feel some measure of guilt for what happened, of course,” said Tochfel. Verstohlen raised an eyebrow. “It was I who summoned Helborg from Nuln.”
“At my suggestion, as I recall.”
“Even so.”
Verstohlen made a noncommittal gesture. All of Averheim seemed to be lost in introspection.
“You could not have known his role in this. None of us did. Only Schwarzhelm suspected his motives. At the time, I put it down to… professional rivalry. Perhaps he saw further than any of us. Of course, even he doubts himself now.”
Tochfel looked down at the stone balustrade. Like most of the architecture of the Averburg it had survived the fighting unscathed. Men had died, but the city remained intact.
“The witch hunters have concluded their investigations. The traitors all name Helborg in their confessions. Schwarzhelm need have no doubts.”
“Good,” said Verstohlen. “I’m sure the Templars have been very thorough. This paves the way for the coronation.”
“It does. Preparations have been made.”
“You don’t sound entirely happy with that either.”
Tochfel shrugged. “It’s not how I wanted it to happen. But what’s done is done. A tragedy has been avoided. I think I can work with Grosslich.”
“Good,” said Verstohlen. “There’s not a drop of noble blood in him, whatever he says, but he’s clawed his way to the top.” Verstohlen smiled to himself. “He rode straight at Helborg. By Verena, that’s bravery. He’s still not forgiven me for heading him off, even though it saved his life.”
Tochfel didn’t smile in return.
“I hope we can move beyond such things now. Averland is reeling. We need a leader who can govern, not a warlord.”
“He has the advice of Ferenc Alptraum and others like him. That’s a powerful alliance.”
“Have you seen Alptraum recently?”
Verstohlen paused. Now that Tochfel mentioned it, he hadn’t. In fact, he hadn’t seen Alptraum since leaving for the battle at the Vormeisterplatz.
“Has he left the city?”
“I don’t know. Nobody knows. Just as nobody knows where Achendorfer, my loremaster, has gone.”
“When did you last see him?”
“Just before Alptraum took control of the citadel. He was acting… strangely.”
Verstohlen looked at Tochfel carefully. Was he trying to insinuate something? The man didn’t look like he had an agenda of his own.
“What are you telling me, Steward? Should I be worried about this?”
Tochfel shrugged. “Perhaps there’s been enough intrigue. I don’t wish to reopen wounds. But I thought you should know.”
“Thank you. I’ll make enquiries.”
As the words left his mouth, Verstohlen realised how empty they were. His cover had been blown. All the players left in Averheim knew who he was, what he did and who he worked for. He had no function any longer beyond Schwarzhelm’s errand runner. If there were secrets to uncover still, then someone else would have to find them.
“I should go,” said Tochfel. “Coronation preparation.” Verstohlen nodded. “I don’t envy you.”
The steward withdrew, leaving Verstohlen alone again. He remained silent. His hair lifted in the breeze. Below him, the Aver glittered in the sun. All was as it should be. The mission was concluding and a decision on the succession had been made. When they left Averheim, it would be safe in the hands of a new elector.
He should have been content. Happy, even. But then he’d never been very good at being content. Not since Leonora’s death. Even in periods of victory, his mind still worked apace, seeking out the potential for danger, fearing the potential for loss. It was not a quality he liked in himself, but he could no more change it than change his past.
After the coronation Schwarzhelm would leave. The big man wanted to give the news of Helborg’s treachery to the Emperor in person. Verstohlen had been ordered to stay to oversee the remaining work of pacification. There was much to do. Bloch’s army had to be contacted with the news. Leitdorf and Natassja had to be tracked down. The roads had to be made safe again. It was interesting work. Demanding work. Normally, he’d have jumped at the chance to ensure it was done well.
But not this time. After all that had happened, Verstohlen was sick of Averheim. Though his sense of duty would never let him admit it, he had come to loathe the place. The sooner he could leave and return to Altdorf, the be
tter.
He continued to look over the cityscape for a few moments longer. Then he turned and headed back into the citadel. The terrace was empty once more, buffeted by the cold wind from the east. There was no corruption in it, but no comfort either.
Just as it had been for Schwarzhelm’s arrival, the great hall of the citadel was lined with people. The finery was not quite what it was, but given all that had taken place, the noble citizens did as well as they could. If some of the silk had been hastily patched up, and some of the jewellery hanging round the necks of the court ladies seemed slightly tarnished, then people were prepared to look the other way. There was a general sense of relief in the crowds of nobles. Many had only just been able to return to their opulent townhouses after retreating to their country estates. Now they were back, they were eager to see no repeat of the anarchy that had driven them away.
The great hall had been decorated with banners holding the symbols of Averland. Most were in the black and yellow of the province, decorated with a stylised sun image derived from the lost realm of Solland. There were the devices of the noble families too, as well as the ubiquitous comets and Imperial eagles, griffons and lions. The symbol of the Alptraums was prominent among them, though Verstohlen could see no sign of Ferenc in the crowds.
The new addition to the rows of standards was the newly embroidered battle-flag of the Grosslich line. It was a gaudy affair. A black boar’s head, surrounded by gold laurel leaves set on a blood-red field. The new elector clearly hadn’t been chosen for his aesthetic sensibility. Still, if that’s what he wanted, that’s what he’d get. No elector had ever been deposed for having a silly flag.
As the time dragged on, the crowd began to get restive. With the paraphernalia of the witch hunters having been cleared away, the great hall had been restored to its habitual sunlit state. The strong sun lanced through the high mullioned windows. With so many people gathered, the temperature soon started to rise. Verstohlen felt a certain dampness under his collar and eased it open. Grosslich was keeping them waiting. He’d learned a few tricks of the trade, then. Arrive late, leave early.
[Heroes 01] - Sword of Justice Page 37