Verstohlen turned to glance at the double doors. They were heavily guarded. Grosslich’s personal troops, decked out in the same outlandish livery, stood three-deep at the exit. Leitdorf had still not been found, and no one was in the mood to take any chances. Verstohlen knew that hundreds of Grosslich’s men were prowling the corridors of the Averburg even as the ceremony was due to take place.
He looked back at the high dais. The members of the Electoral Council had taken their seats. Some of them were old hands. He recognised Tochfel, looking uncomfortable in his new crimson garb. Most of the rest seemed to be members of Grosslich’s inner council. Euler was there. That was to be expected. He’d have been foolish not to put those closest to him in positions of power. A good elector knew how to cover his back.
The crowd grew more restive, and the smattering of gossip began to rise in volume. It was then that the trumpets finally blared out. The brazen notes echoed uncomfortably in the enclosed space, and Verstohlen found himself wincing.
Then the doors slammed open. A procession of citadel guards strode down the central aisle. As they came, the standing crowds shuffled to make room for them. The soldiers took up their places and turned to face the throng. They placed their spears on the stone in unison.
Then Schwarzhelm arrived. Verstohlen couldn’t suppress a smile of amusement when he saw him. He knew how much the great man hated ceremonial occasions. He was wearing his full suit of armour, freshly cleaned for the coronation. The metal which had been dented, scarred and covered in gore so recently now shone like starlight. He carried the Rechtstahl in its ancient scabbard and the pendant of Ghal Maraz swung from his neck as he walked.
Knowing his reputation for irascibility, the nobles crept even further back as he strode towards the dais. Schwarzhelm didn’t make eye contact with any of them. He had the look of a man who would have given money to be anywhere else.
He took his place at the head of the hall and turned back to face the crowd. There was an expectant hush. For a moment, the only sound was the faint echo of soldiers’ boots as they patrolled the corridors outside.
Then he arrived. Grosslich emerged in a robe of red lined with gold. That was clearly his favourite combination, though not an obvious choice for a soldier. He wore a loremaster’s cloth cap. Chains of office hung around his neck. Perhaps he was sending a subtle signal here. The time for war had passed, and he was as at home in the garb of a scholar as he was in the armour of a warrior. If that was so, then it boded well for Averland.
He strode confidently down the aisle. As he went, there was a general murmur of acclimation. Verstohlen might have imagined it, but there were semi-audible sighs from some of the younger women in the chamber. Grosslich was unmarried, and they all knew it. The situation was unlikely to remain the case for long.
Grosslich approached the dais. Schwarzhelm waited for him like some brooding idol in the jungles of Lustria. Grosslich knelt down. He was showing the proper degree of humility. That was wise.
“People of Averland,” announced Schwarzhelm. His heavy voice rolled round the chamber. For the first time, Verstohlen noticed the faint Averland accent to it. Strange that he hadn’t before. Perhaps the big man had returned to his roots after all. “By the authority vested in me by the Emperor, and according to the Imperial Law of Succession, I hereby crown Count Heinz-Mark Grosslich the new Elector of Averland. May his reign be long and prosperous. May he be blessed by Sigmar in battle, uphold the law, protect his people and smite the enemies of mankind.”
With that he took up the gold crown of the Electors of Averland. Grosslich removed his scholar’s hat, and Schwarzhelm placed the jewel-encrusted circlet on his head. The elector remained kneeling. The crown was unimportant. That was just a symbol. The artefact he really wanted was still to come.
From the rear of the dais, Tochfel shuffled forward carrying a heavy item draped in gold cloth. It was nearly as tall as he was and he looked weighed down with the burden.
Schwarzhelm took it from him in one hand and swung it around lightly.
“Behold,” he announced, sweeping the cloth from the blade beneath. “The runefang of Averland, the Sword of Ruin, the holy blade of the people of Siggurd.”
He brandished the blade. Like all the runefangs, the sword was a work of peerless craftsmanship. The steel glinted in the sunlight, exposing the intricate runes engraved on to the metal. As the runefang was revealed, a sigh of satisfaction passed across the crowd. That was what they had longed to see for so long. The runefang of Averland would be wielded once more.
With reverence, Schwarzhelm handed the sword to Grosslich. The count stood to receive it, taking it in both hands. For a moment he remained motionless, staring at the sacred sword. Schwarzhelm stepped back, letting him savour the moment.
Then Grosslich rose and turned to face the crowd. The sunlight from the sword reflected onto his face. He looked the very image of an elector count. He held the runefang aloft in both hands.
“For Sigmar!” he roared. His eyes were alive with jubilation. “For the Empire!”
“For the Empire!” cried the crowd before him, before bursting into rounds of cheers. Verstohlen kept apart from the excitement, watching carefully as was his habit. He couldn’t blame them. After years of enduring the mad count, then the painful experience of hiatus, they deserved something to cheer about.
Verstohlen looked up at Schwarzhelm. Though he wasn’t smiling—which was to be expected—he did have an expression of grim satisfaction on his battered features. That was good. The big man had suffered more than the rest of them. He deserved his triumph. When he returned to Altdorf, he would no doubt receive the full credit for all that had happened here, and Verstohlen knew how much that meant to him.
Letting his habitual reserve slip for just a short while, Verstohlen joined in the cheers of the crowd. It would have been churlish not to. This was a great day.
The party had taken a while to die down. After the crowning ceremony, there had been a series of legal procedures to endure. Then the crowd had retired to the grand ballroom in Alptraum’s mansion for a feast of epic proportions. The wine had slopped from crystal buckets all night.
As he recalled the evening, Elector Count Heinz-Mark Grosslich couldn’t prevent a smile from creasing his broad face. He had done it. After all those months warring against the bastard Rufus, he had done it.
He trod heavily back to his private chambers, feeling the weight of the runefang against his thigh as he climbed the spiral stairs. He could get used to that. The sword was palpably ancient. He could sense the latent power within the blade. It felt like it was eager to be drawn.
He arrived at his chambers. Two guards stood to attention as he approached.
“You can go now, lads,” he said to them.
They looked back at him blankly.
“We were ordered to remain here all night, sire,” said one of them.
Grosslich looked at him benevolently. On another occasion he might have berated them for not following his orders instantly. But he was in a good mood. All had come to fruition. A bright future lay ahead.
“I don’t think we need worry about my safety tonight,” he said, looking significantly at the sword hanging from his belt. “There’s wine left over in the ballroom. Enjoy yourselves. We’ve all earned it.”
The two men looked at each other, then grinned.
“Thank you very much, sire,” one of them blurted, then they were gone, hurrying down the stairs before the rest of the banquet was consumed.
Grosslich pushed the door open. He smirked a little as he remembered the number of propositions he’d had that night. It wasn’t as if he’d had trouble attracting women before, but it was amazing what an Imperial title did for one’s amorous prospects. He’d almost been tempted to take one of them up on it.
Almost, but not quite. There was only one woman for him.
“You’re back late,” said Natassja, drawing the bed curtains aside and rising from the bed.
&nbs
p; Grosslich locked the door and turned to face her. He drew the runefang with a flourish.
“Look at it, my love,” he said, gazing at the sword with undisguised relish. “Finally.”
Natassja smiled tolerantly. She was clad in a black nightdress. It clung to her in all the right places. Suddenly, Grosslich couldn’t decide which of the two prizes he was more interested in.
“Very nice. Now come here.”
Grosslich put the sword down and approached her. They embraced. As they did so, the candles in the room flickered and went out. A lilac glow replaced the natural flame, throwing lurid patterns across the massive four-poster bed. That was more like it. He began to feel at home again.
“It’s been too long,” he said, gazing into her dark eyes. “Have you found Leitdorf yet?”
Grosslich felt a little wounded. Was she going to talk business now? This was his hour of triumph. She could show a little appreciation.
“Not yet, my love. It’s only a matter of time. I’ve hundreds of men searching for him.”
“Perhaps I can help.”
“Not until Schwarzhelm’s left.”
“Indeed. But you’ll like my latest experiments. They may prove useful.”
Grosslich shivered with anticipation. Natassja’s imagination was terrifying.
“How did you stand being with that fool for so long?”
Natassja smiled coldly.
“He was easy to deceive. Most men are.” She looked into his eyes. Her pupils were mirrored like a cat’s. “Most men. Not all.”
From somewhere, the aroma of jasmine filtered into the room. The musk was thick and heady.
“We should be thankful for that. All of this has traded on deception.”
“There were unexpected factors. I didn’t foresee Helborg. That nearly ruined us.”
Grosslich laughed then. He couldn’t help it.
“Of all the ironies. It was Schwarzhelm who cut him down.”
“You sound surprised. Don’t forget the long hours I spent walking in his mind. I have never been so tested. I couldn’t break him. Not after using spells that would have destroyed a normal man. All I could do was plant the suggestion. Do not be too eager to celebrate. Just as it was with Marius, I couldn’t break him.”
Grosslich pulled her closer to him. He could feel her body under the nightdress. The anticipation almost made him sick.
“Enough talking. I am eager to celebrate.”
Natassja gave him a savage look. With surprising ease, she flung him on to the bed, pinning him down. As her face lowered over his, her feline eyes were filled with a lilac flame. The glow in the room darkened and became more intense.
“And so you shall. Just remember who’s in charge here.” Grosslich grinned.
“As you wish, my love,” he sighed. “Everything shall be just as you wish.”
Chapter Nineteen
Schwarzhelm waited. That wasn’t something he was used to doing. The mirrored corridor ran for over a hundred yards, and he was the only one in it. Not even the Reiksguard came down here to disturb the peace. The Emperor knew he was there. And still he waited.
He ran his mind over the past few days. At times there were gaps in his memory. Half the time it had felt as thought he’d been fighting against his own nightmares. The moments he remembered vividly were the deaths. Grunwald. Helborg. Although maybe he wasn’t dead yet. The body hadn’t been recovered. He didn’t know what to hope for.
After the trails of the past few weeks, the journey back from Averheim had been easy. As Schwarzhelm had ridden north, the weather had turned. The open skies had been replaced with slate-grey cloud. Altdorf was sodden with rain. The gutters were overflowing, the roofs dripping, the river turgid and filthy. It felt just as the Empire should feel. Averland was a strange and unsettling place in comparison. He was glad to be away from it.
“Come!”
The voice echoed down the mirrored hallway. As he answered the summons, the Sword of Justice clanked on his belt. He carried the Sword of Vengeance in his hands. Helborg still had the scabbard, for all he knew. The bare metal was almost flawless in his hands. He’d washed the blood, his own blood, from it carefully. The only blemish was the notch. The one he’d caused.
Schwarzhelm walked to the gold-lined doors at the end of the corridor. The Imperial seal had been inscribed on them in ithilmar. They must have been fabulously expensive. He pushed against them and they swung open smoothly.
The chamber beyond was completely different. It was vast, dark and old. Rows of bare stone columns marched along its flanks. The windows were tall and narrow, like those of a fortress. The grey sky outside only let a meagre light bleed into the shadowy space. At the far end of the chamber, hidden by the gloom, a massive altar of Sigmar had been carved. Unlike the gilt images in most Imperial chapels, it was simple. The stonework was crude. Schwarzhelm could just make out the brooding face of the God-King looming above him. The long-dead sculptor had chosen to accentuate the unforgiving aspect of the Imperial deity. He brooded over the mournful space like a wronged patriarch.
The Emperor sat on a simple chair in the centre of the nave. There was no other furniture in the room. His robes were dark and simple. Like the image of Sigmar above him, he did not smile.
Schwarzhelm approached the chair and bowed. The Emperor said nothing.
“There is an elector in Averland, sire,” said Schwarzhelm. His voice echoed around the vaulted chamber. “The task has been accomplished.”
Karl Franz nodded. Still he said nothing.
“There is other news.” Schwarzhelm offered him the runefang. The Emperor took it and placed it on his lap. He stared down at the dark blade. In the poor light it looked dull, as if carved from obsidian.
“I know why you bring me this,” said the Emperor. His voice sounded hollow. All the easy diplomatic charm of their last meeting had gone. He looked like a bereaved father.
Schwarzhelm should have known better than to hope he could break the news. Karl Franz had ways of gathering information that were unknown to all but himself.
“I had no choi—”
“There is always a choice.” The Emperor’s face shook with grief and anger. He locked eyes with Schwarzhelm. In them was grief. Bottomless grief. “Are you absolutely sure? Is there any room for doubt?”
For a heartbeat, Schwarzhelm paused. Of course there was doubt. Every waking moment since the Vormeisterplatz there had been doubt.
“He was fighting for Leitdorf, whose corruption has been verified by those close to him.” As he spoke, the words sounded cold and officious. “The witch hunters have confirmed what we feared. I am sorry. He was working against us.”
The Emperor stood up. The sword in his lap clanged to the floor, and the echoes ran into the dark recesses of the chamber. He’d never have treated the sacred blade thus had its wearer been present. Besides the loss of Helborg, clearly nothing else mattered.
He walked up to Schwarzhelm. Though his body remained still, his eyes blazed with a cold fire.
“I don’t care what the witch hunters say,” he said, his voice low and fervent. “I’ve fought with him. You’ve fought with him. He led my armies. If there is any doubt at all, even the slightest possibility you’re wrong—”
Then it was Schwarzhelm’s turn to feel the anger boil over within him. He towered over the Emperor. He could understand his grief. They all grieved. He hadn’t been there. He hadn’t seen the sickness.
“What do you want me to say?” Schwarzhelm cried, balling his fists impotently. He felt like he wanted to strike out at something. “I carry out every task you ask of me! Averheim was a den of Chaos. We have rooted it out. The greenskins have been destroyed. A new elector sits on the throne. What more could I have done?”
Karl Franz withdrew half a pace. His eyes betrayed his surprise. No one spoke to him like that.
Schwarzhelm felt his iron-hard voice crack with emotion.
“He was my brother. Do you think, if I didn’t believe
it…”
Then there was nothing else to say. He saw Helborg’s final look again in his mind’s eye. Why are you doing this Ludwig? The betrayal.
The Emperor didn’t reply. He turned slowly, bent down and retrieved the sword. He looked like an old man then, bereft of his habitual assurance. The years had not been kind.
Schwarzhelm stood stiffly, as cold and solid as the columns on either side of him. The silence filled the chamber.
“You’re not sure he’s dead,” said the Emperor at last.
Schwarzhelm shook his head. “The Reiksguard took him. The ones he rode with.”
“My Reiksguard. That is something.” The Emperor sat in the chair once more. His expression remained dark. “If he still lives, he must be taken back alive. I want him brought here. I will examine him. None but I shall examine him. Leitdorf doesn’t matter. But Helborg…”
Schwarzhelm felt the old shame return. Like a boy, he’d always been competing with Helborg for his master’s attention. Even now, with his rival declared a traitor and struck down, he was still competing.
“You want me to go back?” Schwarzhelm couldn’t conceal his hatred of that idea. The Emperor shook his head.
“I think you’ve done enough, don’t you?”
That cut deep. The Emperor seemed to regret it as soon as he said it. He drew in a deep sigh, and looked at the dark blade again.
“You think I’m being harsh on you, Ludwig,” he said softly. “I do not mean to be. But he was like a son to me. You both were. Even his death in battle would be preferable to this… corruption. While there’s the slightest shard of doubt, I’ll not let it rest.”
Schwarzhelm hung his head. He wondered how many interrogations had been performed here. The Emperor chose no audience chamber lightly.
“Maybe I have erred,” said the Emperor. “Your rivalry was useful to me. I liked the fact you competed. It kept you both strong. I should have realised the potential for harm.” He ran a finger down the cold length of the runefang. It paused at the notch in the blade. “Perhaps he delved too deep for a way to best you. If so, then I am to blame.”
[Heroes 01] - Sword of Justice Page 38