[Heroes 03] - Sword of Vengeance

by Chris Wraight - (ebook by Undead)

  Skarr continued to frown. “You can’t hide a castle.”

  “Of course not. Those who live locally know of its existence. But there are few villages in the region, and fewer staff in the retreat. My father set great store by having somewhere no one could find him.”

  “How far is it?”

  Leitdorf pursed his lips. “In the Marshal’s condition, maybe three days across country. Once we get there, we’ll be isolated. Even if Grosslich sends his men after us, we’ll see them coming from miles off. In any case, he’s sure to send his men to the houses he knows about first.”

  Skarr hesitated, studying the map carefully, weighing up various options. Leitdorf began to get frustrated. There were no other options.

  “Come on, man!” he snapped. “Surely you can see the sense of it?”

  Skarr whirled back to face him, his eyes bright with anger. Leitdorf recoiled. The preceptor had a quick temper.

  “Never give me orders,” hissed Skarr. There was a dark expression on his face, drawn from years of expert killing. “It’s down to you and your games that we’re in this damned mess.”

  Leitdorf felt the blood rush to his cheeks. “Remember your station, master kni—”

  “Remember yours! It is nothing. You may think you’re the elector of this blighted province, but to me you’re just the man who’s brought this whole thing down on us.” Spittle collected at the corner of Skarr’s mouth. He was consumed by rage. Leitdorf backed away from him.

  “Maybe I should leave you to Grosslich’s men,” Skarr muttered, turning away in scorn. “What they want with the Marshal is still a mystery to me.”

  Leitdorf, for once, found himself lost for words. His mouth opened, but nothing came out. He stood still, heart pounding, trying to think of a response.

  “Skarr,” came a croak from the bed.

  The preceptor turned quickly, wild hope kindling across his face. Helborg’s eyes were open. They were rheumy and ill-focussed, but they were open.

  “My lord!”

  “I heard enough,” rasped Helborg. His voice sounded as if it had been dragged over rusted iron. “Do as Leitdorf says.”

  “Yes, my lord,” replied Skarr, suddenly chastened. For his part, Leitdorf didn’t know whether to feel relieved or not. His position was still precarious.

  “And we take him with us,” continued Helborg. The effort of speaking produced fresh sweat on his brow. “We need him.”

  “Yes, though I—”

  Skarr didn’t finish. Helborg, exhausted by the effort, drifted back into sleep. His head sank deep into the bolster, his breathing ragged.

  Leitdorf turned to Skarr in triumph.

  “I think that’s given us our answer.”

  Skarr shot him a poisonous look.

  “We’ll do as the Marshal says. For some reason, he seems disposed to be charitable towards you.” The Reiksguard glared at Leitdorf, every sinew of his body radiating menace. “But I warn you, Herr Leitdorf, my only task is to safeguard Helborg’s life. If you do anything—anything—to put it in danger, then so help me I will throw you to the wolves.”

  * * *

  Night lay heavily on Altdorf. The turgid waters of the Reik flowed fast, swollen by weeks of rain. Fires still burned across the city, sending acrid peat-smoke curling into the air. Lights glimmered in the darkness and at the pinnacles of the many towers. As ever, the turrets of the Celestial College retained their thin sheen of blue, glowing eerily far above the compass of its rivals. Any men abroad at that quiet hour avoided looking at the unnatural lights and kept an eye on their surroundings.

  Schwarzhelm stole along the Prinz Michael Strasse, keeping his cloak wrapped tight around him and hugging the shadows. He feared no street urchin or cutpurse—the rats of the street went for easier pickings than him. Even stripped of his plate armour and helmet, Schwarzhelm was still a formidable-looking target.

  Mannslieb was full, throwing a cool silver light across the cobbled streets through broken rainclouds. Schwarzhelm reached the end of the street and paused, checking his bearings. The southern wall of the Palace complex lay ahead. From his long acquaintance with the sprawling site he knew it was the least watched. There was nothing much of value at the southern end of the estates—just scholars’ dens, storerooms, stables, fodder yards for the menagerie, and other semi-maintained buildings. Despite that, the walls were high and heavy, crowned with battlements and cut from unwearing granite. Along the top of them ran a wide parapet, ceaselessly patrolled by the Palace guards.

  Schwarzhelm stepped out from the shelter of the street and turned left, walking close to the curve of the wall. He let his gaze slip over the stone as he did so. There were no gates, no windows, not even a grille or arrow-slit. The surface glared back at him, unbroken and smooth.

  He kept walking. From time to time he heard noises ahead of or behind him. Footsteps padding away in the dark, the distant cackle of a cheap strumpet, the barking of a chained dog. He ignored them all.

  He reached his goal. A culvert placed at the base of the wall, barred against entry and guarding the outflow of a drain. The slops from the Palace ran straight out into the street, gurgling down the edges of the roads and off into the maze of buildings beyond. The stench was marginally worse than Altdorf’s habitual fug of filth. The rains had made all drains in the city overflow, and a torrent of grey water surged from the outlet, filmy and dotted with floating refuse.

  Schwarzhelm looked back, watching to see if he’d been observed. The street was empty, and there were no guards on the rampart above. He drew a huge ring of keys from his belt, wrapped in cloth to ward against clinking. There were some advantages to being so high in the Emperor’s trust.

  But, of course, that was no longer true.

  He selected a long iron key. The arch of the culvert rose less than three feet above the surface of the street. Reaching down into the foaming water, he felt around for the lock. It was there, rusted closed. He tried the key.

  No luck. He reached for another and repeated his groping. On the fourth attempt, he found the one that fitted. It was not an exact match—he had to force it into the lock and then wrench it round. With a grinding sound, the mechanism snapped open. Schwarzhelm grasped the bottom of the barred gate and lifted it. The heavy iron grille took some shifting, and as he laboured foul water splattered up into his chest and face.

  Beyond the entrance, the drain ran into darkness, never more than a few feet high and dripping with noisome fluid. There was enough space between the surface of the water and the roof to breathe, though he’d be half-submerged in the stink. Schwarzhelm lay face-down on the street and began to worm himself into the gap. It was hard work—the grille had to be kept open while he snaked under it. Eventually he made it inside and the door slammed back down behind him. There was no way of locking it from the inside, and it was all he could do to keep his mouth and nose out of the drainwater. Like a beetle burrowing in manure, Schwarzhelm hauled himself along the cramped way, feeling his muscles bunch against the sides.

  Darkness pressed against him like swaddling. The uneven stone jagged on his clothes, his sword-belt, his boots. He shuffled forwards, mouth closed against the noxious effluent around him. After just a few feet he felt like gagging and stopped in his tracks, working to control himself. He was hemmed in, crushed by the tons of rock above him. A flicker of panic flared up in his stomach.

  He quelled it and pressed on. Working slowly, powerfully, he edged through the narrow space. Progress was slow, and he was almost wedged tight as the drain took a sharp dog-leg right before running onwards. As he hauled himself round the angle, he felt his heart thud rhythmically, his hands scrabbling at the cold stone.

  Then, ahead of him, he saw the far end of the culvert coming into view. A faint semicircle of open air, barred by a similar grille. He shuffled towards it, keeping a tight grip on the bunch of keys. Beyond was a small courtyard. Through the bars it looked like the rear area of a kitchen, or maybe a wash-house. There were barrels
littering the space, some open and on their sides revealing their contents of rank-smelling refuse and spoiled food.

  There was no movement in the square, and no light save that of the moon. Schwarzhelm fumbled with the lock. The key worked as before, and the grille clicked open. He shoved it up and pushed his way under it. As he rose, he made sure it was gently lowered back into position. He looked about him warily.

  He was alone. His cloak, jerkin and breeches were covered in slurry. He stank worse than an ogre’s jockstrap, and looked nearly as bad.

  So this was what he’d been reduced to. The last time he’d entered the Palace precincts he’d been wearing ceremonial armour and had been accorded a full guard of honour. Now he looked like the lowest common street thief.

  No matter. He was in. Now he had to find what he was looking for.

  The fevered nights over Averheim had given way to a more seasonal warmth. Cool airs ruffled the Grosslich standards as they hung from the walls of the Averburg, lit by the full face of Mannslieb.

  Tochfel sat in his chamber high in the citadel wanting nothing more than to sleep. The day had been long, and his run-in with Euler had been an inauspicious start. The demands of the new elector were legion. Even though Grosslich was almost impossible to track down in person, his orders, delivered by messenger, just kept coming.

  Most of them concerned the new building. Requisitions were coming in at nearly a dozen a day for everything from masonry and metalwork to wine and silverware. The proud home of the Averlander electors, the seat of the Alptraum and Leitdorf dynasties, was being emptied. Soon it would be nothing more than a cold stone shell, a faint reminder of the glories of the past.

  But it was not the tide of paperwork that kept the Steward awake. He had a visitor sitting before him, a thin-faced man with receding hair and a wild look in his eyes. Odo Heidegger, the witch hunter in charge of the purgation of Averheim. He sat before Tochfel, his thin fingers clasped on his lap. He’d eschewed the leather coat and breeches worn by most of his order, and instead wore the ceremonial robes of his office—dark red lined with black. They were coloured that way, no doubt, to hide the blood.

  “I do not understand,” Heidegger said again in his reedy, mellifluous voice. “There was no objection to these names when they were first submitted to your office.”

  Tochfel ran his hand through his thinning hair. He was strung out. He really needed to sleep. “And as I told you, Herr Heidegger, I’ve not seen this list until now. I had no idea there were so many.”

  In his hands he held the offending list. At the top was the stamp of the Temple of Sigmar in Averheim. Heidegger had been promoted to the pinnacle of the local hierarchy shortly after Grosslich had been installed. Since then it had been his solemn duty to oversee the remaining interrogations and to arrange suitable punishment for those found to have aided the traitors.

  “Yes, it is sad, is it not, that so many chose to fall into darkness,” said Heidegger. He looked genuinely mournful. “But they all confessed. You can see the signatures.”

  Tochfel swallowed as he looked at the series of scrawled names from the literate victims and crosses from those who weren’t. All of them were shaky, as if the owners’ hands had barely functioned by the time they were called into action. Several were half-obscured by dark-brown smudges.

  “Some of these names are known to me,” protested Tochfel. “Here is Morven, my aide. What possible reason could you have for—”

  “He confessed, Steward. What more do you want? It is there, all on the list.”

  Tochfel could read it for himself. Wantonly held the Averburg against the forces of the rightful elector, thus delaying the campaign against the Traitor Leitdorf. Sentence: Death by flame. That was a travesty. Tochfel had passed those orders himself. At that stage in the campaign, no one knew the scale of Leitdorf’s treachery, nor that Grosslich had the blessing of Schwarzhelm. For that matter, he himself could be liable to…

  He shuddered.

  “I will not sign these,” he said, putting the papers down. “I need more time. There’s been no scrutiny, no examination.”

  Heidegger retained his sorrowful expression. There wasn’t a hint of anger there. He looked a little like one of those otherworldly Jade magisters, lost in a reverie of gentle regret. And yet Tochfel was judge enough to see the fragility of the man’s mind. Most witch hunters went mad sooner or later, and this one would not be long.

  “That is regrettable, Steward,” Heidegger said. “I will have to report it. The elector will not be happy to hear that his quest for justice has been impeded.”

  “I don’t care,” snapped Tochfel, his fatigue making him unwary. “There are men on this list innocent of any crime. Why has the court of inquiry not included Templars from other cities? I’ve not been present at any of your interrogations.”

  “You’re welcome to join me. Some people find them… distasteful.”

  Tochfel shook his head. Going up against the Temple of Sigmar was dangerous, even more so since Achendorfer had gone missing. He was running short of allies.

  “I did not say I would block these sentences,” said Tochfel, speaking carefully. “I merely wish for more time to study them. Give me until the end of the week.”

  Heidegger thought before replying. “I do not like it,” he said. “Justice must be seen to be done.”

  “There’ve been enough burnings already,” muttered Tochfel. “A hiatus will do you good, give you time to buy in more firewood.”

  Heidegger shrugged. “As you wish. I shall inform the elector of your views.”

  He rose, brushing at his robes as he did so. His fingers were forever fidgeting, as if they longed to grasp the instruments.

  “Goodnight, Steward.”

  “Goodnight, Herr Heidegger.”

  The door closed, leaving Tochfel alone in the chamber. For a moment, he thought about climbing on to his narrow bed. Then he saw the pile of papers on his desk, and realised just how much more work he had to get through.

  “This is getting beyond my control,” he mused, speaking to himself in his fatigue. “I will speak to Verstohlen. He will know what to do.”

  Schwarzhelm moved ever closer to his quarry. He went slowly, keeping to the darkness, watchful for the teams of sentries. He’d cleaned the worst of the muck from his clothes. The rain had started again. It might have been sent from blessed Shallya herself, as it damped down his stench and made the guards unwilling to patrol too zealously out in the open.

  The interior of the Palace complex was a vast morass of interconnected corridors and buildings. No living man knew them all, though Schwarzhelm was as familiar with them as anyone. He’d never penetrated so far into the southern wings of the mammoth structure, but he knew that Lassus had had his private chambers there. They were modest, less than would normally have been offered to a general of Lassus’ stature. Until recently, Schwarzhelm had been pained by the lack of respect shown to his old master. Now he cursed the fact that he even had chambers within such hallowed precincts.

  From the courtyard, he’d moved quickly towards the collection of apartments given to distinguished retired officers. Most were housed in a heavy sandstone monstrosity covered in eroded gargoyles and overworked copies of the Imperial coat of arms. In an attempt to mask the grotesque devices, huge stretches of ivy had been allowed to creep across the stone, obscuring all but the steep tiled roof with its iron guttering. Originally the building had been set amid a pleasant ornamental lawn, though the demands of the Imperial bureaucracy had ensured that it was now surrounded by three gothic scriptoria and a gloomy vaulted archive.

  Schwarzhelm paused, taking in his surroundings. The regular Palace guards were issued with crossbows, and without his armour he was vulnerable. If he was unlucky enough to stumble across Reiksguard, his situation would be far graver. For once in his life, stealth would have to take precedence over ostentatious bravery.

  He crouched tight against the wall of one of the scriptoria. The rain splattered do
wn from the leaky roof, bouncing from his hunched shoulders on to the uneven stone flags beneath him. Ahead, maybe thirty yards away, two sentries walked lazily around the perimeter of the apartments. They had hoods cast over their faces to ward against the rain and said nothing. By their manner, Schwarzhelm could see they weren’t the Emperor’s finest. They moved off, heading in the direction of the walls. Schwarzhelm waited until there was complete silence, then moved.

  He crept across the open space quickly, lingering in the pools of shadow. Zigzagging from doorway to doorway, he reached the porch of the first set of apartments. The twin oak doors were flanked by crude sandstone columns, wrapped in ivy and surmounted by the coat-of-arms of some long-dead military commander.

  He looked back the way he’d come. Nothing. He withdrew the keys from his belt and tried several in the lock. None of them worked. That was unsurprising—there were a thousand keys for different parts of the Palace and most were jealously guarded by their owners.

  Schwarzhelm stowed them. There was a time and a place for finesse, and this wasn’t it. He pulled back, gathering his strength, and barged into the doors. They buckled against his massive frame, but held. He slammed into them again, sending a dull thud out into the night. On the third attempt, they caved in, swinging back violently and cracking against the walls. He went in quickly, pulling them behind him.

  Inside all was dark. The place was deserted, as were most of the buildings in the outer reaches of the Palace at night. A central corridor ran back into the gloom, marked by regular doorways leading off on either side. Two high windows at either end let in the scant starlight, but little was illuminated. Schwarzhelm reached into his jerkin and retrieved a flint and a fist-sized lantern. The metal frame of the lantern was carved in swirling lines and the clear windows were crystal—the gift of a grateful elven prince after a battle over a decade ago.

  He lit the wick of the candle and closed the lantern. The light glowed softly from the crystal, throwing diffuse shadows down the corridor. At the far end of it Schwarzhelm could see a stairway leading to the next floor.