03 - Sword of Vengeance

by Chris Wraight - (ebook by Undead)

  The flaps of the tent entrance opened, and Schwarzhelm ducked down through the gap. He was ludicrously outsized for the cramped space, and stooped within like a giant trying to squeeze into the hovel of a peasant.

  “How do you feel?” he asked.

  “Better,” he lied.

  “There are rooms being made ready in the city. You should move to them.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Verstohlen, shuddering under his blankets. “Here is fine. I never want to see Averheim again.”

  Schwarzhelm shrugged.

  “So be it, but I’ll be gone soon. The Emperor has demanded my presence.”

  “I’m glad of it. He’s forgiven you?”

  “I doubt it. There’ll be penance for this. The north.”

  “More fighting? How dreadful for you.”

  Schwarzhelm didn’t smile, but nor did he scowl. A cloud of bitterness seemed to have lifted from him.

  “I could use a spy up there,” he said.

  Verstohlen shook his head.

  “I think my prowess on a battlefield has been demonstrated,” he said. “In any case, the days of the family are over.”

  He looked up at Schwarzhelm.

  “I’m sorry, my lord,” he said. “There’ll be no more of this for me.”

  Schwarzhelm raised an eyebrow.

  “You’re ill, Pieter. Make no hasty choices.”

  Verstohlen smiled sadly.

  “When Leonora died, all I wanted was a way to fight the enemy. You gave me that. We’ve done much good together, and I’m proud of it.”

  He shook his head, thinking back over the past months.

  “Not now. My usefulness is over. Perhaps there’ll be some other way to continue in service. Or maybe my time has ended.”

  Schwarzhelm pursed his lips thoughtfully. He gave Verstohlen a long, searching look.

  “We’ll speak on this again,” he said at last. “There are many ways a man can serve the Emperor, and your gifts are unique. Think on it anew when your wounds are recovered.”

  Verstohlen winced at the mention of his wounds. He knew that some of them would never be made whole.

  “As you wish,” he said, suddenly wanting to change the subject. “And what of you, my lord? This has been a trial for all of us.”

  “So it has,” said the Emperor’s Champion. “And there will be more trials to come. But we have prevailed here, and that is all that matters.”

  He rose awkwardly, hampered by the canvas above him.

  “I’m glad to see you recovering,” he said gruffly. “Remember what I said—make no hasty choices. Inform me of your progress when you can. I’ve lost many friends here, Pieter. I do not wish to lose another.”

  Friends. That was not a word he’d heard Schwarzhelm use before.

  “I will,” was all he said.

  Schwarzhelm nodded, then turned clumsily and pushed his way from the tent.

  Verstohlen lay back on his pallet, worn out by the exertion of conversation. Already he could feel the poisons within him boiling for a fresh assault. There would be no easy recovery from this, no simple road back to redemption.

  “Leonora…” he breathed, and closed his eyes.

  At the least, some good had been achieved. He saw her face clearly now. There were no more masks looming up in his dreams. The pain would endure, he knew, but the nightmares were over.

  On the ruined slopes of the Averpeak, Helborg and Volkmar surveyed the work below. Two miles distant, the ruins of Averheim smouldered. The day had dawned cold, and the smoke of many fires drifted across the wide plain. The stench of burning flesh and molten metal hung heavy in the air despite the sharp breeze still coming from the east.

  “You’ve had word from the Emperor?” asked the Reiksmarshal, gazing over the scene of destruction impassively. His wound had been re-stitched, and he looked fully restored to health. His armour glinted in the pale daylight, and his heavy cloak lifted in the breeze.

  Volkmar nodded.

  “He’s summoned Schwarzhelm back to Altdorf. I’m to remain until the city is secure.”

  “Anything else?”

  Volkmar smiled grimly.

  “He sent his congratulations. I think he wants you back in the north soon.”

  Helborg nodded curtly. That was to be expected. He was already itching to leave, eager to find the next battlefield. He’d return to Nuln, then to Altdorf, then onwards to wherever Karl Franz deployed him. Such was his life in the service of the Empire, and he’d have it no other way.

  “This was too close, Theogonist,” he mused, looking over at the remains of the Tower. The shards of iron stuck up into the air like bones. “If Leitdorf hadn’t had the name of—”

  “He did,” said Volkmar sharply. “Providence willed it, and faith was repaid.”

  Helborg nodded slowly.

  “So it was,” he said. “All the same.”

  He turned away from the scene.

  “Will there be a cenotaph for Leitdorf?”

  “In time. He’ll be remembered as a hero.”

  “And his last wish?”

  “History will not be rewritten. The cause of Marius’ madness will not be disclosed.”

  Helborg nodded again. He regretted that, but knew the reasons for it.

  “Leitdorf thought he was immune to Chaos,” he said. “I didn’t believe it when he told me. Tell me Volkmar, are there bloodlines where corruption cannot hold?”

  Volkmar shrugged.

  “Perhaps,” he said. “It matters not. His line is ended, and speculation wins no wars.”

  “His words still trouble me. We could have learned much, had he lived.”

  “Do not delve too deeply. The ways of the enemy are subtle. Only faith and steel endure.”

  “For how long, Theogonist?” asked Helborg, looking at him bleakly. Both men knew what he meant. The war in the north would churn onwards indefinitely. With every victory there came ruinous cost. Averheim was just the latest in the litany of wounds suffered by the Empire. It couldn’t last forever.

  “Until the last of us falls,” replied Volkmar, and there was no comfort in his voice.

  They were interrupted then. A heavy figure clambered up the slope towards them, sinking deep into the churned-up soil in his plate armour. A longsword hung by his side, and a pendant in the form of Ghal Maraz swung from his neck.

  Volkmar bowed to Helborg.

  “I have much to detain me,” he said, preparing to head back to the city. “We’ll speak again this evening. The dawn may bring fresh counsel.”

  “Sigmar be with you, Theogonist.”

  “Oh, I’m sure He will be.”

  The man limped down the slope, nodding in greeting to Schwarzhelm as the men passed one another.

  Then there were only two of them on the ridge, Helborg and Schwarzhelm, the masters of the Emperor’s armies.

  They both stood in silence, looking back over the city. A fresh column of troops from Streissen had arrived and was making its way across the pitted, trench-laced battlefield. Even from such a distance, both Helborg and Schwarzhelm could see the amazement and horror on the men’s faces.

  “I hear you’re being taken from us,” said the Marshal at last, keeping his eyes fixed on Averheim.

  “Soon,” replied Schwarzhelm, his voice rumbling from deep within his barrel chest. “Karl Franz wishes to hear my penance.”

  “Then be sure to tell him everything,” said Helborg.

  “I will.”

  More silence. Even after the reconciliation on the moors, there had been few enough occasions for the two old warriors to converse. In the aftermath of the battle, they’d found ways of avoiding one another, dancing around the issue between them like old lovers reunited by chance. They were death-dealers, not wordsmiths, and expression did not come easily to either.

  “I’m glad you came back, Ludwig,” said Helborg at last. The words were clipped and awkward.

  “Duty demanded it.”

  “Even so. A
lesser man would have kept his distance.” He turned to Schwarzhelm, and a wry smile broke across his face. “I was ready to kill you.”

  “You’d have been within your rights.”

  Helborg waved his hand dismissively.

  “The great enemy was at work. We both know that.”

  “They played on my resentment, Kurt. That was real enough.”

  Helborg looked at Schwarzhelm carefully.

  “Then maybe you were within your rights too.”

  Schwarzhelm said nothing. Helborg turned back to the vista below and drew in a long, cleansing breath. High up the Averpeak, the air was less caustic than on the plain.

  “This must never happen again,” he said. “We will always be rivals, you and I, but we must never be enemies.”

  “Never,” agreed Schwarzhelm.

  “Will you swear it?” asked Helborg. “The swords are holy enough. They will witness an oath.”

  He drew the Klingerach, and the blade glistened in the cold light. The notch was still present, halfway along the length of the blade. It would be forged anew when time allowed.

  “I will swear it,” said Schwarzhelm, and drew the Rechtstahl.

  The blades crossed, meeting at the hilt. Both men faced one another, divided by the locked steel.

  “For the Empire,” said the Emperor’s Champion, gripping the Sword of Justice tightly. “No division between us.”

  “For the Empire,” replied the Reiksmarshal, holding the Sword of Vengeance two-handed. “No division.”

  They stood in that position for many heartbeats, letting the spirits of their weapons hear the words, keeping the blades in place while the oath still echoed. Below them, the fields of death stretched away, a monument to the folly and avarice of treachery. The blackened stones still smoked from the fires of war, and the river remained clogged and choking.

  Beyond them, though, on the horizon, fields of grass remained as lush as before. Mankind remained the master of Averland. In the distance, the cloud cover broke, exposing shafts of sunlight on the far hills. There was still beauty in the world, still riches worth fighting for.

  At length, the swords were unlocked and sheathed. The two men said nothing more, but turned to walk down the slope of the Averpeak and back to the city. Behind them, the wind moaned across the grasses of the ridge, tousling the tufts and running down the far side to where the honoured dead had been buried.

  There lay Skarr, and Bloch, and Gruppen, and others who had perished in the final battle for Averheim. No headstone marked their resting places, nor monument recorded their endeavours. Their deeds had been enough, and they were heroes just as much as those that still lived, a part of the tapestry of actions that had shaped the Empire since the days of Sigmar, a fleeting echo amid the clamour of the war that would never end, the war that would give birth to fresh heroes with every sword-thrust and spear-plunge, that would spawn treachery and deceit anew from the halls of madness at the roof of the world, and that would drench the lands of men in blood and valour until the End Times came and the long-honed mettle of humanity was put to the ultimate test at last. Until then, their trials were over.

  EPILOGUE

  It was far into the east of Averland, far from the worst of the fighting. A mean place, just a few houses clustered inside a low stone wall. Chickens rooted through the straw and rubble of the only street, and old puddles of grimy water sat under the eaves of the dwellings.

  So small it barely merited a name, the settlement had played no part in any of the great events of the province. It sat on the very edge of Marius Leitdorf’s old domains, forgotten by all, cherished by none. In the five months since the recovery of Averheim, the new owners hadn’t even bothered to organise a tax collection, and it remained as isolated as it had ever been.

  At the far end of the village, one house maintained a burning hearth even in the middle of the day. Dirty smoke poured from the unseasoned wood, rolling into the grey sky. There were screams from the house within. Women came and went, some carrying pails of water, others with blood-soaked rags.

  There was a girl inside. Maybe seventeen summers. Her cheeks were red with pain and effort, and her skin was glossy with sweat.

  “Shallya,” cursed the wisewoman, throwing down another drenched rag and reaching for another. “We’ll lose both of them.”

  The mother of the girl, cradling her head in her lap, stroked her daughter’s hair.

  “Strength to you, my child,” she whispered. Her anxiety made her words tremble.

  The girl gritted her teeth for another contraction. Her screams echoed all round the village, shaming the men who stood at the filthy tavern bar. None of them was the father. They all knew who the father had been. They ground their teeth and knocked back the ale, trying to forget the ignominy. They’d done nothing to prevent it.

  When the child was born at last, all three women were at the end of their strength. Against all predictions, the girl survived it, though her cheeks were rosy with fever and her eyes strayed out of focus.

  The wisewoman wrapped up the baby in a dirty bundle of rags and made the sign of the comet over it. It was bawling with confused rage, fists clenched tight, eyes screwed closed.

  “What is it?” demanded the girl’s mother, peering at the wisewoman’s bundle.

  “A man-child,” said the wisewoman, handing the baby to its mother.

  The girl took it and looked into the bawling infant’s face. It had pudgy features. Not attractive, but redolent enough of the father.

  “You must name him,” urged the mother. The anxiety in her voice had been replaced by excitement.

  “He will take his father’s name,” she murmured, lost in awe at the screaming ball of life in her arms.

  “Insolence!” hissed the wisewoman. “Choose another.”

  The girl glared defiantly at her.

  “I will name him as I please,” she said.

  The wisewoman glared back.

  “Choose carefully, girl,” she warned. “You are favoured, but do not anger the gods. This is a child of the wyrdblood.”

  She reached over to the baby and pulled the rags away from its face. It stopped crying and returned her glance. It shouldn’t have been able to focus at all.

  “Blessed Sigmar,” she whispered, taken aback. “Keep him hidden, and guard him well. There is a destiny on this one. Just as there was on the father.”

  The girl looked down at her child. Her defiance faded as the baby looked back at her. Its brown eyes were steady, and there was no fear in them.

  “Siggurd, I will call you,” she said. “Siggurd, son of Rufus, son of Marius.”

  She smiled, and the pain of labour seemed to fall from her features.

  “You will be mighty,” she cooed. “Mightiest of them all. And when the time is ripe, the runefang will be yours.”

  The wisewoman looked at her carefully. The girl was already feverish. Her eyes were lit with a strange light. She’d be lucky to survive the night.

  “Siggurd, my son,” she whispered, falling into an exhausted slumber even as she held him tight to her breast. “The runefang will be yours.”

  APPENDIX

  My dear Erich,

  As requested, please find enclosed the documents pertaining to the Averheim affair for deposit in the Palace Archives. Regrettably, the journals of the late Elector Marius Leitdorf did not survive the destruction of the city, though I have succeeded in retrieving some related papers from His Lordship’s retreat at Drakenmoor. These will prove of limited interest, being mostly routine matters of state, but are included for completeness.

  The correspondence between Heinrich Lassus and Natassja Heiss-Leitdorf is of more enduring importance. Though much of the communication between the pair will now never be found, the letters the Lord Schwarzhelm recovered from Lassus’ office comprise a reasonably thorough account of their intentions.

  Regrettably, my somewhat hasty deciphers did not survive the unpleasantness at Averheim, and in any case I would not
wish to vouch for their total reliability—you’ll understand that I was working under rather unusual circumstances. Since I have now left my previous employment, I judged that the best course of action would be to send you the originals, together with a summary of the means to their deciphering. It is simple enough—surprisingly so, perhaps, given the nature of what was discussed: an orthodox implementation of a Vignius polyalphabetic cipher with a substitution key of “Wenenlich”. For convenience, I have reproduced the table here:

  To decipher the texts in your possession, move to the row indicated by the first letter of the key, then along to the cell containing the corresponding letter in the ciphered text. The character at the head of the column will yield the deciphered character. Then move to the next letter of the key and ciphered text, and repeat. Be aware that the original text has been highly truncated, and that even after decoding it will require further work to render fully legible.

  I need not remind you of the sensitive nature of the material, and recommend complete discretion in its handling. The Palace Archivists will be able to advise further, though be sure to seek guidance from one of the more enlightened, and one you can trust. Sadly, one can never be too careful in these straitened times.

  I trust this finds you well, and please send my best regards to Alicia and the boys. I had no idea Rikard was in the pistolier corps—how time flies! Before long we will be old men, and such things as these will be long forgotten. As for me, I am uncertain where life will lead me next. I will depart Altdorf soon, perhaps for a long time. If you have some pressing need to contact me, the Shrine of Verena behind the courtrooms on the Salzenstadt may be able to assist, though I place no assurance on it.

  I hope we may meet again at some point to discuss these and other matters. Until then, may all harm be warded from you, now and forever.

  P. E. Verstohlen

  Altdorf, Kaldezeit 2523.

  Scanning, formatting and

  proofing by Flandrel,

  additional formatting and

  proofing by Undead.