He began to read. Some of it was illegible, and other passages didn’t make sense at all. Perhaps written when his father’s mind was beginning to drift.
And then, as if it had been burned on to the page for that very purpose, there came a sentence that chilled his heart. He dropped the book, hearing it thud on to the desk. It fell open where he’d been reading.
Leitdorf stayed still for a moment, lost in shock. He no longer needed to read the phrase to see it. He couldn’t have been mistaken. There it was, scrawled in black ink, as plain as a hawk against the open sky.
Her name is Natassja. And she will kill me.
Verstohlen felt his strength begin to give out as he ran. His coat streamed behind him, more a hindrance than a help. The houses passed by in a haze of half-seeing. The moonlight covered everything with a faint outline of silver, but the pools of shadows were ink-black and deep as souls.
The streets were deserted. He had no idea where he was. Perhaps the terror was driving him somewhere in particular. Perhaps not. There was no time to think. He felt his legs protest, his muscles burn. This would be over soon.
He tore round a corner leading into a small square. Tall buildings on all four sides cut off the light, and it felt like running into a well of shadows. Behind him, the rattling grew even louder. The creature was almost close enough to reach out and touch him.
Verstohlen veered sharply to the left, darting to one side and trying to wrong-foot his pursuer. Something snagged at his coat, tearing the leather. Footfalls echoed around the enclosed space, making it sound like there was more than one of him trying to run. The illusion was cruel, only reinforcing his desperate isolation.
Bone-hard fingers clutched at his coat again, slicing through the expensive leather as if it were the flimsiest of gauze. One more lunge, and the creature would have him.
Verstohlen spun round, bringing the dagger up hard. He had a glimpse of the monster’s face. It nearly caused him to miss his aim. A ravaged visage, stripped of skin and eyes, studded with brass spikes and needle-tipped incisors. The blank eyes glowed lilac, shining in the night like corrupted stars. An inhuman shriek echoed round the square as Verstohlen’s blade scraped across what remained of the flesh.
Then he was moving again, running as before, heart labouring, sweat streaming from his brow. The creature barely paused. It scuttled after him, wheezing as it came. There was no blood on the dagger, just scraps of dry skin and sinew.
Verstohlen had seen enough. The horror had once been a man he knew. Tochfel’s features, or what was left of them, still existed, distorted by pain and artificial hatred.
The talons groped for him. He felt one of them scrape down his back, cutting through his clothes and drawing blood. Verstohlen roared with pain, twisting away from the agonising touch, feeling himself stumble.
Verstohlen rolled as he fell, getting his dagger up just in time to parry a fresh plunge of the talons. The Tochfel-creature’s robes fell away and Verstohlen saw the full extent of the man’s transformation. He was naked underneath the flimsy draping, though not much of his old human form remained. He was as much bone and iron as flesh, animated by some dread power and kept alive by forbidden sorcery. Spikes studded his ruined flesh, curved and barbed. A chasm had been cut in his chest and the ribs were still visible across the wound. Within that exposed shell beat a heart, though it was no natural organ. It pulsed with a lurid light, strapped in place with iron bands and surrounded by the eight-pointed star. Tochfel’s residual flesh curled away from it, as if burned by the terrible energy within. The stink of jasmine was pungent and close, as sweet as death.
The talons raked down, aiming at Verstohlen’s eyes. Frantically, driven by nothing more than pure fear, he fended off the blows, his dagger scraping along the scythes.
The end would come quickly now. Tochfel’s strength had been augmented three-fold and his sorcery-laced limbs quickly pinned Verstohlen to the ground. Talons scrabbled at his face again and he only just got the dagger up in time to ward them. The blade was knocked away by the force of the strike, sent spinning across the ground. Then he was defenceless.
Verstohlen looked up into the eyes of his killer. There was no humanity left there, just a sickening grin where Natassja had inserted rows of needle teeth. The Tochfel-creature’s smile widened, and its cheeks stretched impossibly taut.
“Verstohlen,” it whispered a final time, as if the name somehow gave it the power to kill. It opened its jaws wide and prepared to lunge.
Light exploded, blinding him. There was a heavy blow from somewhere close by, and Verstohlen felt the creature knocked into the air. He scrabbled free, rubbing his eyes. Something huge and heavy strode across his field of vision. Moonlight flashed down the length of a mighty sword, carved with runes and with the sign of the comet etched on its surface.
“You’re a hard man to find,” growled Schwarzhelm, before plunging after the wounded Tochfel-creature, His sword flashed again in the night, and battle was joined.
Deep under the Iron Tower, the screams now never ceased. Insulated from the surface by many feet of solid stone, they resounded from the polished walls of the lower dungeon, rising through the snaking vaults and shafts before spilling out across the throne chamber, mixed together in a symphony of suffering. As the catacombs had expanded, hewn from the rock by Natassja’s growing army of Stone-slaves, the scope for experiments had only grown. So many of the fine young men who’d volunteered for Grosslich’s forces had ended up serving a rather different mistress. No doubt those coins didn’t look like such a good deal now.
Natassja knew that Grosslich didn’t like her taking a tithe of his warriors for her own purposes, but that really was too bad. She understood, as he could not, what purpose they served. The inflicting of pain was not merely done for her enjoyment—though, to be sure, she did enjoy it. There was method behind it, a necessary accumulation of souls in anguish. The time was coming when the object of her labour would become apparent. Not yet, but soon.
Natassja walked down towards the Chamber of the Stone. She was already far below ground level and the floor was still sloping down. The rock walls of the corridor had been carved recently and she hadn’t had time to decorate them yet. Maintaining an appropriate aesthetic was important, and she would have to set her architects to work on the lower levels without much further delay. Grosslich thought such work was a waste of effort, which only went to show how meagre his understanding of the great plan was.
Natassja reached the archway that led to the chamber. From within, she could hear Achendorfer chanting away. He’d been busy, the little lizard. Such diligence really deserved some kind of reward. Perhaps one of the slave girls from the upper pens could be given to him before too much work was done to her.
Natassja entered the domed chamber, feeling the waves of suppressed energy surge towards her, bathing her body in the raw essence of the aethyr. The Stone recognised her.
The chamber was perhaps forty feet in diameter and perfectly circular, though it rose far higher than that and the roof was lost in shadow. At floor level the rock had been ground smooth and reflected the light like a mirror. Torches had been placed high up on the walls, covering the scene in a lurid purple glow. Achendorfer stood to one side, reciting passages from the book he’d taken from the Averburg library. As he read, the flames seemed to wave and flicker in appreciation. Something in the chamber was listening to him.
Natassja looked up at the Stone, the centrepiece and foundation of everything she’d done. Only the merest tip of it had been exposed and even that was massive, thrusting up from the floor like a miniature mountain. It was pure black, shiny and diamond-hard. She didn’t know exactly how long it had lain under Averheim, locked deep within the earth, cold and forgotten by men. What she did know was that it was gigantic, a vast fragment of tainted substance, hidden away since the forgotten wars of the great powers at the dawn of the world.
The Stone. Ancient and malignant, locked out of sight for millennia, expose
d to human contact again just two days ago. Even now its energies were bleeding upwards, suffusing the structure of the Tower and taking it over. With every cry of agony, the slumbering giant groped more surely to awakening.
Natassja breathed in deeply, feeling the throbbing air fill her lungs, glorying in the latent, thrumming energy around her.
“How long have you been working, Uriens?” she asked, gazing fondly at the little insect.
“Six hours,” he replied, looking exhausted.
“Get some rest,” she said, stroking his bald head absently. “I’ll have something nice sent to your chamber.”
Achendorfer closed the book and bowed, his limbs trembling from fatigue. Dried blood had collected around his cracked lips. He shuffled back into the tunnel, leaving Natassja alone with the Stone.
She walked up to it and ran her fingers down its many-faceted surface. It was warm to the touch. The spirit had been roused. Her pupils dilated, and a smile of satisfaction spread across her elegant face.
“Not long now, then,” she breathed. “Not long now.”
Schwarzhelm strode forwards, whirling his sword back into position, watching as the horror before him gathered itself to strike. It was like some massive, terrible insect. Its limbs cradled around itself, stretched and distended.
It looked up and screamed at him. The sound was unearthly, like a man’s and a woman’s voices mixed together and stretched almost beyond recognition. The lilac eyes flashed, the teeth snapped in the dark.
Then it sprang. The talons extended, slashing at his eyes.
Schwarzhelm brought the sword up sharp, cutting the blade into the oncoming torso and bending back out of range of the swiping talons. The creature crumpled around the sword and a flash of light shot out, just as before. The horror was sent flying back, its scrawny legs cracking as it hit the stone. Quick as hate, it was back on its claws, scuttling into the attack.
It leapt at Schwarzhelm. The Champion parried the claws away, stepped back out of the range of the snapping jaws, working his blade with phenomenal speed.
The Tochfel-creature dropped low, coiling to pounce at Schwarzhelm’s legs. Its movements were fast but clumsy, like a spider trying to manage too many limbs. It sprang, both hands outstretched.
Schwarzhelm darted back again, the Rechtstahl flickering in a defensive pattern. Next to the ruined amalgam of man, machine and sorcery, he looked even more solid and immovable than usual, a bulwark of coiled force and endurance. No emotion crossed his craggy features as he worked, no fear shone in his eyes. In combat Schwarzhelm was irresistible, as elemental as the storms of nature, as unyielding as the bones of the hills.
Verstohlen staggered to his feet, dagger poised. He had no chance of intervening—this fight had been taken from him. The Tochfel-creature struck again, screaming with frustration as it tried to find a way past Schwarzhelm’s wall of steel. Every time it lashed out, a flash of light broke across the square. The Rechtstahl had been forged for monsters such as this. No ordinary blade would have withstood the clattering talons or gnashing incisors, but the Sword of Justice had been wound with spells of warding and drenched in litanies of destruction.
Schwarzhelm waited patiently, watching the horror flail at him, keeping it engaged until the opening emerged. It leapt up again, trying to rake at his eyes with its sweeping claws. He slammed the sword round, connecting solidly with the Tochfel-creature’s iron-bound chest and sending it spinning through the air. It hit the stone hard, and there was the sound of something snapping. The lilac light in its eyes flickered for an instant.
Schwarzhelm went after it quickly, rotating the sword in both hands and holding it point down. The horror was almost too quick. As soon as its spine hit the ground it began to gather for another strike. Only for the briefest moment was its ruined torso exposed. Schwarzhelm plunged the Rechtstahl down cleanly, through the flesh and bone. The tip went down into it all, rending as it went, impaling the abomination like a fly on a pin.
The Tochfel-creature screamed, flailing wildly, raking its talons and trying to claw at Schwarzhelm’s eyes. The Emperor’s Champion held firm, keeping the blade lodged in place, letting the holy steel purge and cleanse.
Slowly, punctuated by shrieks, whines and hisses, the light in the monster’s eyes dimmed. Its iron heart lost its lustre and the ravaged limbs fell still. Schwarzhelm kept the sword in place, not daring to withdraw it until the last energy had been bled from the creature of Chaos. It took a long time for the final twitches to subside. Eventually, the fire extinguished, and the talons clanged to the ground, bereft of a guiding will, as inert as an unwielded dagger.
Schwarzhelm pulled the Rechtstahl free, keeping it poised for a second strike. It wasn’t needed. The terror had been extinguished.
He felt Verstohlen limp to his side before he saw him. The man looked terrible. He’d lost weight, and his face had the pallor of one who’d stared at his own death. Blood stained his shirt and coat, and he looked like he was having trouble keeping his feet.
“Where’ve you been?” he demanded.
“We’ll talk later,” replied Schwarzhelm, supporting him with his free hand and keeping the Rechtstahl unsheathed. “For now we need to get out of the city. Come with me.”
He dragged Verstohlen back into the shadows, out of the square and towards the eastern gates. There’d be more fighting before they’d be out, but at least the guards there would be human.
Once they’d gone, the square sank back into silence. No lights shone from the buildings around it. The only signs of the struggle were a couple of long bloodstains on the stone, and the crumpled shape of Dagobert Tochfel, his reign as Steward finally over, his suffering ended at last.
Clearing the orcs’ filth from Black Fire Keep had taken long, wearying hours. Fresh from the last of the fighting, soldiers had been forced to douse the floors and scrub them until their fingers were raw. The refuse left behind by the fortress’ occupiers defied belief. They’d lived worse than animals, fouling every recess or secluded corner, destroying any furniture not made of solid stone, smearing foul slogans and symbols over every open patch of wall.
The stench remained even after the last of them had been rooted out of the castle and dispatched. In the narrow bunk rooms where the exhausted infantry tried to snatch sleep, the foul reek was indescribably bad, like a mix of all the ill-kept cattle-pens, slaughterhouses and public privies in the seamiest and most dilapidated of Altdorf’s slum districts, amplified and concentrated into a heady musk of singular, unforgettable horror.
Such things did little to dent Bloch’s pleasure at having achieved what he’d been commanded to do. Once the last of the bitter combat had ended he’d led the victorious human armies under the gates in triumph, casting down the leering symbol of the moon and restoring the Averland coat of arms in its proper place. Now the Solland sun flew again over Black Fire Pass beside the banners of the Empire, Reikland and the bergsjaeger.
The toil hadn’t ended with the fighting. Bloch had been determined to order the defence of the Keep personally before the deep of the night fell on them. Only after many hours of labour did he retire at last, retreating to a chamber high up in the Keep as the bulk of his men slept below. Once sleep took him, it took him soundly. He knew that if any orcs remained alive in the mountains, they would be pitifully few in number and unable to do more than squat in the clefts and hollows of the hills, waiting for a warlord to unite their fractious bands again and lead them to more fruitless bloodshed.
Morning broke cold and severe, as it did every day in the high peaks. The sky was low, and dark clouds had passed overhead in the night. The wind remained strong, blasting across the bare peaks and tearing down the glens towards the lowlands to the west. It brought with it rain, which did much to wash the scrawlings from the walls of the castle.
Bloch woke with a start, reaching for his weapon and wiping his eyes. It took a moment for him to remember where he was and what had happened. He’d been dreaming of the wide grassla
nds again, of Grunwald’s last charge in the heart of the horde.
“I avenged you, at least,” muttered Bloch, swinging his legs from the narrow cot and on to the icy stone flags. “You stupid bastard.”
His cell was narrow. From the curve of the wall it was evident it was on the edge of the fortress’ outer wall, high in one of the five towers that rose above the points of the star. There wasn’t much in it: just a bunk, a rickety table and a pitcher of frigid water. The sole window was an arrow slit, unglazed. A chill breeze sighed through the gap. He’d not had much more to keep him warm than his cloak and some ragged furs he’d found somewhere or other. If the chamber had once housed the trappings of a commander, the orcs had long since taken them all.
Bloch shivered and pulled his cloak tight around him. He felt as dirty and ragged as a hound. He splashed water from the pitcher across his face and rubbed it into his eyes. His temples were sore and he had bruises all across his body, but he could still walk without a limp, so that was better than usual.
He found Kraus and Drassler already awake and sitting at a long oak table in one of the tower rooms. There were four windows, all narrow but giving a panorama of the mountains in each cardinal direction. The peaks stretched off towards the far horizons, majestic, ice-bound and massive.
“Morning, commander,” said Kraus, rising gingerly. He’d taken a heavy blow to the ribs from a warhammer during the last phases of the castle recovery and only his armour had saved him. Though tough as old bones, he’d not got back on his feet quickly and it had been the Averlanders who’d saved his hide.
“So it is,” replied Bloch, coming to the table. Drassler nodded as he and Kraus sat down, the mountain guard captain looking as rangy and implacable as ever.
“Sweet dreams?” he asked.
“Very sweet,” replied Bloch, seeing a plate of stale bread and grabbing a handful greedily. “Me and the nice girls of Madame de Guillaume’s. Shame to wake up.”
03 - Sword of Vengeance Page 14
