01 - Sword of Justice

by Chris Wraight - (ebook by Undead)

  As soon as the quarter began to fill up with such types, the rest of Altdorf knew it was pointless to pursue any further legal challenges. The various organised criminal syndicates had nothing on the quiet muscle of this old officers’ club. And as the new arrivals were mostly eccentric old codgers with their potent days far behind them, no one minded very much. The area became renowned for a kind of faded, civil gentility. That was a rare thing in Altdorf, and city-dwellers in less enlightened districts would occasionally pay a visit, just for a glance of another, more refined, way of life.

  There were many famous old names who’d ended up in the General’s Quarter, as it became known. Klaus von Trachelberg, the Butcher of Bohringen, now spent his time constructing bird cages from discarded walking canes. The fiery Boris Schlessing, renowned for his bloody defence of Skargruppen Keep during the incursion of Gnar Limbbreaker, had created a garden made entirely of fabulously expensive Cathayan miniature trees. This he watered every morning, clipping the edges of the tiny branches with a pair of silver scissors while humming tunes from his childhood.

  Not all the residents had descended into senility or dotage. Many noble reputations had been preserved in the quarter, and a steady stream of disciples made their way into it from time to time, looking for guidance and inspiration. So famous did it become, that the expression “to go to the Quarter” entered into common use, meaning to take time to seek some measured opinion from a wiser head.

  Schwarzhelm paused before entering the house. It was on the edge of the Quarter, in sight of the river but far from the worst elements of the quayside. It was modest by the standards of the area, but had a well-kept look about it. The seal of the Emperors hung over the main doorway, carved in granite. Schwarzhelm stared at it for a moment. He’d fought under that seal for nearly thirty years. He knew every line of its intricate form. The paired griffons rampant, the sable shield, the initials of Karl Franz and the devices of his Reikland forebears. It might as well have been branded on to his chest.

  “You can stare at it as long as you like. It won’t change.”

  The door opened. From inside, the speaker emerged. He was an old man, clad in a simple robe of pale grey. Though stooped with age, he still bore himself proudly. Something in the way he carried himself, the fearless manner in which he looked up at Schwarzhelm, gave his old profession away.

  “Master,” said Schwarzhelm, simply.

  “I suppose you want to come in?”

  The Emperor’s Champion nodded like a callow youth.

  “Do you have time?”

  “Of course. For you, always. Mind the mess as you enter, though. I’ve been brewing, and there are hops all across the scullery floor.”

  Ducking his mighty head under the low doorway, Schwarzhelm entered the house of Heinrich Lassus, and the door closed behind him.

  The two men sat in the old general’s drawing room. It was cluttered, filled with the residue of a long career in the saddle. Two wolfhounds slumbered in front of the empty fireplace. They hadn’t raised an eyebrow at Schwarzhelm’s entrance. They were old dogs, and his smell was familiar enough. Like their master, they’d seen better days.

  A row of battle-honours hung over the imposing marble mantelpiece. Some were old indeed, long superseded by more modern tributes. Few scholars would have recognised Wilifred’s Iron Hammer for anything other than a pleasing trinket, though most would have realised the importance of Lassus’ papers of commission, now placed behind glass to preserve the cracking vellum. Even the illiterate would have recognised the florid initials of the Emperor and the Imperial crest stamped in faded red.

  The greatest honour of all, though, was not on display on the walls. Schwarzhelm saw that Lassus still wore it himself. He was a humble man, but some gifts were beyond price and all soldiers had their weaknesses. As he always did, Lassus had the Star of Sigmar pinned to his robes, just above his heart. The greatest military honour in the Empire. As his chest moved, the iron comet emblem rose and fell with the fabric.

  “So it’s Averland,” he said.

  Lassus’ eyes drifted out of focus. His white hair looked almost transparent and his fingers shook a little as he cradled them in his lap. The proud features which had once inspired such devotion and terror had softened with the years. Schwarzhelm thought his skin looked more fragile than it had done the last time he’d called. When had that been? A year ago? More? The demands of the field were endless. For every night he spent in his bed in Altdorf, he’d lived through a week on campaign. He felt stretched. Drained. One day, something would break. He’d prove unworthy of the blade he carried. One day.

  “It had to come at some point, I suppose.” Lassus’ gaze returned to focus. Old he may have been, but his mind was still working fast, teasing out the possibilities.

  “I can’t see the wisdom of it,” said Schwarzhelm, sullenly. Ever since his audience with the Emperor, his mood had been sluggish. There was something about the task ahead that chilled him, something indefinable. Facing doombulls was something he could cope with, even take a kind of enjoyment in. War was what he was built for. Politics was for lesser men.

  Lassus smiled tolerantly.

  “You’re going to lecture Karl Franz on statecraft now, Ludwig?” The old man looked at him fondly. “You haven’t changed. Not since you walked into my training ground for the first time. Even then, I knew you were something special. But you’ve always doubted yourself. You’ve never shaken that off. Your one weakness.”

  From another man, those words would have invited swift retribution. Schwarzhelm’s reputation was fearsome. On the battlefield, he was the very image of implacable, terrible resolve. To have that quality questioned was verging on heresy. And yet, Lassus remained free to ruminate unmolested. That was the honour given to the teacher. Even now, Lassus was the master and Schwarzhelm the pupil.

  “He’s sent me on many such missions in the past,” muttered Schwarzhelm. “Never have I even given the faintest hint of reluctance. But something about this turns my stomach. Averland has always been…”

  “Your home,” interrupted Lassus. “You have the blood of the Siggurd in your veins, my boy, though you’ve probably forgotten it. The Emperor isn’t stupid. He needs someone who understands the ways of your strange province. That’s why he sent you to stamp down on Leitdorf before, and it’s why you’re the only one to do it now.”

  Schwarzhelm listened to the words, but they brought him no comfort. Was comfort what he’d expected? That was for babes and women. He needed wisdom, even if it proved hard to hear.

  “So what would you do?”

  Lassus laughed. The sound was dry in the man’s leathery throat.

  “If I were young enough to still do my service? I’d go. You have no choice. But be careful. You’ve just been given a triumphal procession. Few men are afforded such an honour. That makes you enemies amongst the many who will never see such nonsense delivered in their name. Those whom the gods wish to destroy they first give a triumph. There may be those who will use this situation to harm you.”

  “Let them try,” growled Schwarzhelm.

  “I did not say: be defiant. I said: be careful. This manoeuvring is not your strength, my lad. You can fight your way out of almost anything where a sword is called for. But there are other ways of harming a man. Subtle ways. And there are plenty in Altdorf who would like to wield the Rechtstahl in your place.”

  Schwarzhelm felt his sullen mood return. Lassus had never been one to tell him what he wanted to hear. That was why he’d been the greatest fightmaster in the Reikland and before that one of her greatest generals. It was why he had been given the Star, and why he still wore it. No lesser man would have been able to tame the young Schwarzhelm, full of anger and dreams of conquest. And even then, the youthful Ludwig had given Lassus a hard time. Like an unbroken Averland colt, he’d been hard to teach without a fight. Hard, but not impossible.

  “I don’t say this to dishearten you,” the old man continued. “The first step in
avoiding a plot is to know it’s there. The world is changing. The Emperor knows it. New powers are rising. So he tests all his servants. You must prove yourself again, and this is the exam.”

  Schwarzhelm remained silent, pondering the words as Lassus spoke them.

  “And of course, he’s right about Averland. If the war hadn’t come, something would have been done earlier. It can’t go on, this uncertainty. A few merchants will get fat off it, and the luck of Ranald to them, but all good things come to an end.”

  Schwarzhelm stirred himself. It was clear that there was no escape from the onerous task. He had to take what wisdom he could from the old man.

  “It’s been too long since I was in Averheim,” Schwarzhelm said. “Much has changed in twenty years.

  “My agent Verstohlen has some contacts there, and he’s doing work on my behalf, but what would your judgement be? Where is the balance of power?”

  Lassus looked pleased to be asked. No doubt in his retirement, studying the politics of the provinces was a welcome exercise for his subtle mind.

  “There are only two men who can take the runefang. Ferenc Alptraum has neither the stomach nor the support to do it, much to the chagrin of his formidable grandmother. The Alptraums would rather poison their own children than see another Leitdorf occupy the elector’s chair, so they’ll rally behind Grosslich, the pretender. That’s a powerful card for him to play. Grosslich’s popular with the masses. I hear he’s handsome. He’s also a bachelor, which holds the promise of a political marriage. That’ll bring other noble families to his side, at least those with eligible daughters.”

  “Heinz-Mark Grosslich,” said Schwarzhelm, repeating the name of the upstart contender for the vacant electorship. The man had emerged from relative obscurity to challenge for the prize. Where his gold had come from was shrouded in uncertainty. His family had never been particularly influential. The man had done well to carve out his claim. “Can he do it?”

  Lassus shrugged.

  “That’s your task to determine. The peasants love him. He knows how to play to them. There’s not a drop of noble blood in his body, but maybe that’s the way things are going. You’re no aristocrat yourself, after all.”

  Schwarzhelm grunted. He didn’t need reminding. “And Leitdorf?”

  “Rufus? He has the weight of tradition On his side. His father may have been mad, but he was an astute old fox in his way. There are many in debt to that man, even now. If the older son, Leopold, hadn’t died at Middenheim, maybe this would never have come up. But Rufus is a different breed of thoroughbred. Second sons never expect to inherit the seat. He’s spent his youth whoring and gambling, and it shows. I met him once, here in Altdorf. He didn’t impress me then, but that was while his father still ruled, and they say he’s married since. A woman can change a man, just as surely as a blade can. The Empire’s a conservative place. He remains the favourite.”

  Schwarzhelm digested the information. It was more or less the same as Verstohlen had told him. But the spy had named his wife, Natassja Hiess-Leitdorf. Where she’d come from was as opaque as Grosslich’s gold. That would have to be looked into. There were many things to be looked into.

  “Any others?”

  Lassus shook his head.

  “With the Alptraums behind Grosslich, there are no other challengers. This is a two-man race. But it won’t be simple. There are wheels within wheels. The guilds are still powerful, especially the horsemasters. Some would rather have no elector, some are desperate for one to be appointed. And watch out for the city fathers. Von Tochfel, the steward, is known here at the palace. He’s acquired a taste for power, like most men do when they’re allowed to sample it. He may find reasons not to stand aside.”

  Tochfel was another of Verstohlen’s names. As was Achendorfer, the loremaster. There were plenty of power-brokers to contend with. Schwarzhelm let slip a long, grating sigh.

  “This is not the kind of fight I relish,” he said. “They say there are greenskins massing in the mountains. I hope they come. Cracking their heads will make this assignment a little less dull.”

  Lassus gave him a shrewd look.

  “Be careful what you wish for. A wise man does not seek to multiply his problems. The Emperor knows you can wield a warhammer. He’s looking for finesse on this occasion. Prove that to him and you need worry about Helborg no longer.”

  At Kurt’s name, Schwarzhelm felt his heart miss a beat. Was he that transparent?

  “Why mention him?”

  “Come, now. I mean no dishonour to the Marshal. You two hold the Empire aloft together. But don’t try to conceal the rivalry between you. I’ve watched it unfold for thirty years. All of Altdorf sees you sparring, and that’s just how the Emperor likes it. It keeps you both fresh. Helborg would have to be a saint beyond reproach not to wish to see you stumble, just a little. And from what I hear, he’s no saint.”

  Schwarzhelm scowled. This was too close to the bone.

  “I could use your counsel in Averheim,” he said, almost without meaning to.

  “Don’t be stupid.” The voice was his old fightmaster’s, berating him for sloppiness. Schwarzhelm could have been right back on the training yards, his wooden sword heavy in his blistered hands. “I’m too old. I was leading armies out across Ostermark when you were suckling at your mother’s breast. This is your time, Ludwig. None is held in higher esteem than you. Get this right and you will leave all your rivals behind. For good. There is nothing more I could do to aid you.”

  He fixed Schwarzhelm with that old look, at once savage, at once paternal.

  “This is your fate, my boy. Seize it, and magnify the honour due to you.”

  Schwarzhelm heard the words, but they gave him little comfort. The dark mood that had plagued him since his meeting with the Emperor was slow to lift. He found himself wishing to change the subject, deflect attention from himself.

  “You tell me to seek honour,” he said. “You never did.”

  Lassus looked shocked. Suddenly, Schwarzhelm felt rude and ignorant. That was what he was, at the core. Just another peasant from the provinces. No matter how long he stayed in Altdorf, he’d never learn the manners of Helborg.

  “Direct, as ever,” Lassus said. “Do you really think I ever wanted the kind of standing von Tochfel has? Or, Sigmar preserve us, the Leitdorfs? There are more ways than one to make a success of one’s life. Maybe when you’re as old as I am, you’ll see that. My battles are over. I’ve been granted the grace to retire from the field and see out the rest of my days in peace. Whatever the result of this affair, do you think Rufus Leitdorf will ever know such satisfaction?”

  Lassus looked at Schwarzhelm with poorly concealed affection.

  “I’ll take my pleasure in the achievements of others now, Ludwig. I have faith in you, even if you don’t. I’ll pray for you when you’re gone. And, when all is concluded, I’ll be here to welcome you back.”

  Schwarzhelm saw the look of trust in Lassus’ eyes. His old master had complete confidence. That was touching. Another man might have smiled back.

  “I’ll keep you informed of progress,” Schwarzhelm said gruffly. He rose from his seat and made to leave. “I fear it may be months before a decision is made.”

  Lassus remained seated.

  “Not if I know you,” he replied. “But do not be too hasty. Your enemies know of your quick temper. They will use it against you. Be careful, Ludwig.”

  Schwarzhelm looked down at the frail old man. It was a ludicrous scene. Schwarzhelm, even out of his armour, looked almost invincible. And yet it was Lassus who was most at ease, most in command.

  “I will be,” said Schwarzhelm. Then he turned, ducking under the low ceiling, and left the house of his master.

  Chapter Five

  Pieter Verstohlen lay back in the bed, arms behind his head. The morning sun slanted through narrow windows, throwing bars of golden light across the sheets. It wasn’t long after dawn, and the noises of the city were beginning to filter up
from the street outside. They weren’t the usual raucous obscenities. This was an affluent district, far from the worst of the rabble. The University was nearby, and its spires were just visible from the window. After the long campaign, it felt good to be in luxury again. He always missed it. “Awake, then?”

  Julia returned to the side of the bed, her long dark hair falling around her face. She was wearing one of his shirts. She looked good in it. Very good. When she passed in front of the window, the sunlight picked out her silhouette through the fine fabric.

  “Just about. Why don’t you join me?”

  Verstohlen reached for the remains of his wine from the night before. He took a sip as Julia slipped the shirt off and lay beside him. The wine had turned vinegary in the night, but was still drinkable.

  “You were talking in your sleep.”

  Verstohlen felt a sudden spike of concern. That was unprofessional. The anxiety didn’t show on his smooth, open face, though. It never did.

  “Oh yes? Whispering undying love?” Julia sighed.

  “No such luck. I couldn’t make it out. But you looked worried. I almost woke you.”

  Verstohlen wriggled his arm under her and feigned indifference.

  “It’s been a long campaign,” he said nonchalantly. “A man forgets the pleasures of the city.”

  “I hope I’ve reminded you.”

  “Oh yes.”

  Julia was a whore, to be sure, but a very good one. Verstohlen had impeccable taste in all things, and women were no exception. She was educated, well-connected and discreet. All three were important to him. That said, she probably knew far more about him than she ever let on. Occasionally, he wondered who her other clients were. Generals, dukes, magisters, maybe a prince or two. He’d never asked, and he knew she’d never tell.

  “You’re going off again soon?” she asked, nuzzling against his shoulder comfortably.