[Heroes 03] - Sword of Vengeance

by Chris Wraight - (ebook by Undead)

  He went quietly and quickly, padding like a great bear on the threadbare carpet. The doorways passed silently, each inscribed with the initials of the official to whom the room within was devoted. Chancellor Julius Rumpelskagg, Magister F. H. Heilstaff, Egbertus Schumann, Under-Scribe of the Fifth Archives. Schwarzhelm knew where it would be, and knew just what he was looking for.

  Just before he reached the stairs he saw the nameplate glinting in the flame, its brass old and tarnished. Eryniem Hoche-Hattenberg, Master of the Keys. No official of that outlandish name had ever existed, though Schwarzhelm knew the room had been well used. He slid the key from Lassus’ chambers into the door and turned it. The lock clicked open.

  Inside, all was orderly and neat. The light of the lantern swept across a spartan chamber. Rows of books lined the walls. Most were treatises on warfare and military training. Schwarzhelm doubted Lassus had read many of them; the man had known all there was to know about war through experience.

  There was a single, draped window at the far end of the room. In front of the window stood the desk, a heavy construction in an archaic style with a polished surface and no drawers. The surface was almost empty, save for an inkwell, a penknife, a blotter and a tray of sand. A few used quills had been discarded in a basket next to the writer’s chair. No parchment remained, and there was no sign of any papers stacked up against the bookcases.

  For a moment, Schwarzhelm began to doubt his intuition. Perhaps Lassus had been too careful. He knelt down beneath the desktop, running his fingers under the wood. He groped further back, feeling for the tell-tale switch that would hide a compartment. Just as he was about to withdraw his hand, he felt the slightest variation in texture. He pressed hard. From deep within the desk there came a thunk, as if a brass mechanism had shifted into place.

  Schwarzhelm clambered to his feet. The right pedestal of the desk had opened, and a narrow door hung ajar on almost invisible hinges. The workmanship was perfect. When closed, the join would have been invisible even in full daylight.

  Schwarzhelm shone the light against the cavity, looking for needle traps. Seeing none, he reached inside carefully and pulled out a roll of parchment, tightly bound with leather straps. Without unwrapping the bundle, he could see what they were—letters written in some kind of cipher. Schwarzhelm was familiar with most of the battle codes used in the Empire, but this one looked strange and he could make no sense of it.

  He stowed the bundle in his jerkin and closed the door to the pedestal again. The first task on his list had been completed. He left the chamber, locking the door behind him. The corridor was as silent as before. He looked up at the window at the far end of the building. The clouds had parted again, and a feeble moonlight had returned. That would make things more difficult. He knew where the sword was being held, and taking that with him would be far more difficult than stealing letters.

  Extinguishing the lantern, Schwarzhelm headed back to the main door. The Chapel of the Fallen, right in the heart of the ancient Palace, awaited him.

  Pieter Verstohlen watched the moon ride clear over Averheim. For a change, he wasn’t in his tower room in the Averburg. His guest lived several streets away and had kindly offered him the use of her bedchamber for the night. Of course, he’d had to pay for the privilege. Or, to be more accurate, for her company within it.

  Visiting courtesans was not something he was proud of. He was careful, of course, and made sure only to procure the services of the higher class of courtesan. His stipend from Schwarzhelm, together with a history of cautious investments, had made him a man of comfortable means. He enjoyed the more exclusive things in life: good food, expensive wine, sophisticated women. Though the notion always seemed trite to him, it was true nevertheless—he valued them for their minds as much as their more regular services. Like many of his kind, solitude became a kind of mania after a while. It needed to be broken, even if that meant giving in to appetites that he’d rather not have had.

  He pushed himself up higher against the bolsters, trying to get a better view of the moonlit rooftops through the open window. On his shoulder, Elisabeth stirred. Her flame-red hair fell across her face as her head rose.

  “What is it?” she mumbled, brushing it free.

  Verstohlen stroked the tresses absently. She had a striking face. Ivory-white skin, dusted with freckles, deep green eyes.

  “Nothing. Just looking at the moon.”

  Elisabeth frowned. “Like a madman.”

  “Indeed.”

  The vista across the city calmed him. Despite all the difficulties, he felt a certain pride in what he and Schwarzhelm had accomplished. The streets were quiet. Averheim felt like a different place from the febrile mess they’d arrived in at the start of the summer. And yet it was strange that he hadn’t heard from him. Nothing had come out of Altdorf since the man had left. That wasn’t like him. Amid all the contentment he felt at a job well done, that made him anxious.

  “You look worried, my love,” said Elisabeth with the astuteness of her profession.

  Verstohlen tensed. That was the only thing he ever asked them, not to use the word “love”. There was only one love for him, and it had been the purest, most sacred thing in his whole life. He made a mental note not to use this one again. She’d provided an acceptable diversion, but he needed companions who could be careful.

  “Just expecting a message,” he said. “Nothing important.”

  “Anything I can do to help? I know many influential men in this city.”

  “I don’t doubt it. Are you this helpful to all your clients?”

  “Only the ones I really like.”

  “I’m gratified,” said Verstohlen, though he wasn’t. It made it more difficult if they liked him.

  “I mean it. You know how to treat a lady,” Elisabeth said, seemingly oblivious to the irony. “There are some brutes out there, believe me.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “I had one last week. Stinking of root. Almost sent him away.”

  “Joyroot?” asked Verstohlen, his interest piqued.

  Elisabeth smiled. “You sound surprised. I had you for a man of the world.”

  Verstohlen didn’t return the smile. “I thought Grosslich had outlawed it.”

  “That’s what he said he’d do. That’s what the last one said too. But you can still get it. Even I could get it, if you wanted.”

  “No,” said Verstohlen. “I do not.”

  Elisabeth laughed, a girlish, babbling sound. “So serious! There’s no harm to it.”

  Verstohlen said nothing. A dark thought had entered his mind. The Leitdorf’s had controlled the trade. If it was still coming in, then there could only be two possibilities: they were still active in Averheim, or someone else had taken it over. Neither was an attractive proposition.

  “Look, I’m awake now, love,” continued Elisabeth, a mischievous sparkle in her eyes. “What do you suppose we might do about that?”

  Verstohlen ignored her. His mind was now occupied with other things. He needed advice. With Schwarzhelm out of the city and Bloch engaged in the east, he was running short of allies. He determined to speak to Tochfel. He would know what to do.

  Schwarzhelm crouched down low, making sure his cloak was close around him. He’d moved towards the heart of the Palace complex. The shabby buildings had been replaced by grand structures of marble and gilt, and the patrols had increased proportionately. Though no one really cared about the half-forgotten cells of a few scholars in the semi-derelict southern wing, the core of the Palace complex contained treasures beyond the dreams of Ranald, and the defences were formidable.

  It helped that Schwarzhelm was privy to the secrets of the inner circles. He could take routes that few knew existed, could circumvent places where he knew the guards would congregate, could open hidden doors and slip past traps designed to catch the unwary. There were wards engraved across the many gateways against the powers of Chaos, but he knew what they were and what they were looking for. He passed und
er them silently, feeling the blank scrutiny of the occluded sigils on his shoulders. It felt as if the arcane magicks could sense the guilt burning in his soul, and he didn’t linger by them for longer than he needed to.

  He couldn’t avoid all the many layers of watchfulness by knowledge and stealth. Three times since leaving Lassus’ old chambers he’d been forced to spring from the shadows to silence an unwary patrol. He’d held himself back from killing, even though the risk of one of his victims coming round made his position ever more precarious. There’d been enough slaying of loyal troops, and he planned to keep the Rechtstahl sheathed unless the need was desperate. It was a mean, dishonourable way of fighting, and with every blow of his mighty fists he felt the shame of it.

  In the distance, he heard the eerie call of some fabulous creature. Unearthly shrieks rang out across the deserted courtyards of the Palace. The Imperial Menagerie wasn’t far away, and the beasts within were disturbed.

  Ahead of his current position, the man-made mountain of the Holswig-Schliestein Hofburg soared into the night sky, a confection of twisted columns and graven images. To his left, the mighty banqueting halls, all eleven of them, had been piled on top of one another, each vying with its companions for tasteless splendour. When one of the many Imperial receptions was in session they were filled with light and laughter, sparkling from the diamond chandeliers and from the crystal necklaces of the noble ladies. Now they were empty and sullen, brooding in the dark like jilted lovers.

  Ahead of him lay the vast bulk of the Imperial Chapel, a sprawling cornucopia of heavy plasterwork and staring gargoyles. That was where the daily procession of warrior priests ended up, all hollering their praises to Sigmar and swinging incense-loaded warhammers as they swayed towards the high altar. Within those mighty transepts benedictions were offered and penitent prayers issued on behalf of the wayward citizens of the Empire. Beasts were slaughtered before the eternal flames of the inner sanctum, their blood running down iron channels in the marble floor. Massive censers of brass revolved endlessly from chains set into the distant roof, powered by devices from Nuln and Tilea. Gold-plated cherubs poured a ceaseless torrent of pungent smoke from goblets of bronze, obscuring the tombs of the worthy and turning the stone coal-black.

  The holy transepts of the Cult of Sigmar were not Schwarzhelm’s destination, though. At the southern end of the soaring Chapel, a smaller building had been raised. Here there was no gold plate or churning machinery. The stone was blank and unadorned, and pairs of iron eagles gazed darkly out from the guttering. Even during the day the place was kept quiet and dark. Obsidian columns stood sentinel in the gloom, watching over the rows of graves within.

  This was the Chapel of the Fallen, the resting place of the honoured protectors of the Empire. The guards were drawn from the priesthood of Morr, as were the attendants of the ranks of tombs. No hymns of praise were sung in that place, only a low dirge of remembrance. Few came to visit it, and fewer stayed to pray there. The heavy pall of death hung over the altars.

  Schwarzhelm was close to it, and could make out the blank eyes of the eagles as they stared out across the jumbled squares and courtyards. There was a doorway opposite him, barred with metal and surmounted with a death’s head, no more than thirty yards across a cobbled space overlooked on all sides. The low hum of the turning censers in the larger chapel masked his footfalls, and there were plenty of shadows to keep to.

  He waited, checking for patrols. Instinctively his fingers crept to the pommel of his sword. The square was quiet. The dawn was still hours away, and none of the priests would be out of their cells for some time yet.

  Moving more softly than his bulk suggested possible, Schwarzhelm crept out from the lee of the near wall and headed for the door. He heard his breathing grow quicker as he neared, and brought it under control. The death’s head loomed up at him from the night, its hollow eye-sockets like wells of ink. As with all doors in the Palace, it was locked at night. Schwarzhelm drew the ring of keys from his belt and began to try them, one by one. Finally, he found one that fitted. The lock rasped open and the door began to swing back.

  “What are you doing there?”

  Schwarzhelm’s heart froze. The voice came from behind him, close on his right shoulder. He’d been sloppy. He felt the tip of a sword press into his back, hard against the fabric of his cloak. Slowly, he raised his hands, showing he had no weapon drawn. He’d need to pick his moment.

  “I could ask you the same thing, soldier,” he said, his voice assuming the habitual tone of command.

  He turned as casually as he was able, neither seeking to evade the sword at his back nor getting any closer to its bearer. When he moved, he’d have to be quick.

  Two men were facing him, both in the red and white of the Reiksguard. Both had their blades drawn, gleaming dully in the fractured moonlight. The nearest had the grizzled look of a sergeant. His companion, standing further back, was younger. For once, experience proved to be a liability. The sergeant recognised Schwarzhelm’s features, and his sword-tip wavered.

  “My lor—” he began.

  He never finished. Schwarzhelm swung a fist into his face, smashing into the man’s temple and sending him staggering to the ground. The youngster rushed forwards, sword poised to plunge into Schwarzhelm’s torso. He evaded the stab easily, drawing his own weapon as he stepped away from the strike. The Sword of Justice flickered with an icy fire as it was released. The younger Reiksguard brought his blade up again, this time in a cutting arc. Schwarzhelm parried, and the metal met metal with a shuddering clang.

  The sergeant leapt back to his feet. Schwarzhelm worked his sword quickly and carefully, mindful of the quality of his foes. They pressed home the attack expertly, swords working in concert, stabbing and retreating like ghosts.

  Schwarzhelm had his back to the door, penned in by the onslaught. With a sick lurch of dread, he knew he’d have to kill them. If one or both escaped to raise the alarm, he’d never escape the Palace. He’d have to spill their blood, and two more good men would die.

  Schwarzhelm brought the Rechtstahl round in a crushing parabola. The younger Reiksguard parried, but the blow was too powerful. It drove through his defence, sending him sprawling. The sergeant pressed the attack, raising his blade in the orthodox position. Schwarzhelm knew the moves all too well—he’d coached his own honour guard in the same techniques. The Rechtstahl glimmered as it cut back sharply, meeting the sergeant’s blow and knocking the sword upwards. Schwarzhelm punched out with his left hand, catching the sergeant in the torso before swinging back with the sword-tip.

  The blades clashed once, twice, three times. The sergeant was good, quicker than he looked and as strong as a carthorse, but few men could withstand a prolonged assault from Schwarzhelm. As his companion struggled to his feet, Schwarzhelm saw the opening and the Sword of Justice flew into the gap. The blade bit between plates of armour, deep into the armpit. Blood spurted out, and the man crumpled heavily.

  Schwarzhelm pulled his sword free, ready for the assault from the other man. He wasn’t quick enough. With a cry of rage, the young Reiksguard leapt at him, sword swinging wildly, eyes lit with anger.

  Schwarzhelm got his blade up just in time, but the force of the blow sent him reeling. He crashed heavily against the unlocked door. It gave way behind him, forcing him into the chapel beyond.

  The Reiksguard plunged in after him, whirling his sword in a series of heavy, ill-aimed blows. The boy had been driven into a fury by the felling of his commander, and the rage was making him dangerous.

  Schwarzhelm parried and countered, meeting the ferocity head-on and waiting for it to ebb. He withdrew step by step, containing the threat and drawing the Reiksguard deeper into the chapel. The interior was silent, cold and bleak. The heavy sword-clashes echoed down the long aisles, bouncing from the stone and rebounding like mocking imitations. Schwarzhelm could smell the pungent aroma of myrrh, could hear the clink of metal-tipped boots against the polished marble floor.

&n
bsp; As the blades turned and thrust, effigies of the heroes of the past gazed down from dark altars. It was never going to last long. The knight was capable, but limited. He tried too hard to finish it, and his sword overextended. Schwarzhelm swung heavily at the moving blade, knocking it from the boy’s hands and sending it skittering across the floor. Before the lad could react he hauled the Rechtstahl back, driving the metal of his right pauldron in and shattering the shoulder blade. The Reiksguard slumped to his knees, his cry of pain echoing down the transept. Schwarzhelm plunged the blade down a third time, finishing the task cleanly. The knight’s lifeless body fell heavily to the marble. Almost immediately a pool of blood began to creep across the pristine surface.

  Schwarzhelm gazed down coldly at the scene, waiting for his heartbeats to return to normal. He felt nothing but disgust within him. He half expected the commotion to bring a flurry of Morr priests coming to see what was happening. Part of him even hoped they’d come—that would at least have given some meaning to the Reiksguard’s actions.

  But there was nothing, no sound, no response. The chapel, lit only by narrow, heavily barred windows, remained cold and unmoving. The last of the echoes died away.

  Schwarzhelm stirred into action again. The bodies needed to be hidden.

  He looked up. There in front of him, either by chance or some more capricious fate, was the object of his quest. The Magnus Memorial—a vast statue of the greatest Emperor after Sigmar—soared up into the vaulted roof, black as smog. The severe face of that puritan warrior was fixed in an attitude of grim piety, just as it had been, so all the records attested, in life. At its huge armoured feet was the Altar of Remembrance, carved from stone taken from Praag after the great siege and sanctified by a hundred Amethyst magisters at the very dawn of their order.

  Above the altar, laid on a chaplet of black silk, was the sword. It was naked, and a notch had been taken from the blade halfway along its length. So Karl Franz had ordered it to lie until Helborg either returned to claim it, or was killed, or was proved to be a traitor beyond the doubt of the Theogonist.