The Averlanders began to confer animatedly.
“Do it quickly. We set off in moments,” said Bloch, growing in confidence. His spirit began to disseminate through the men, and they started to stand straighter. Like most soldiers, they could cope with almost anything if they understood the plan. It was when they didn’t know what was expected of them that morale collapsed.
Bloch started to plot possibilities in his mind. Perhaps he’d been too pessimistic about numbers. As he’d been speaking, more stragglers had found their way to their position. Maybe others had got away too. The orcs were still nowhere to be seen. If Grunwald’s men had held them up for longer than he thought, they might have a chance.
“Horseman!” came a cry from the edge of the ramshackle group. Bloch hefted his weapon instinctively. After a few moments, he saw it. A man, leading his steed through the trees. He looked nearly as exhausted as his own men. After a few moments, Bloch recognised the errand rider Grunwald had dispatched two days ago.
“What are you doing here?” he snapped, waiting for the man to come to him. “You should be halfway to Averheim.”
The rider shook his head.
“I had to turn back,” he said. “Commander Grunwald needs to know that his messengers haven’t been getting through. I found bodies. Two of them. They’d not bothered to hide them. The corpses were barely out of sight from the road, and the crows were still busy. So I came back to let him know. Only to find this—”
Bloch regarded him suspiciously.
“How did you find us?”
“Luck,” he said. “I nearly rode into the greenskins. I had to seek shelter somewhere. There are orcs roaming all over the fields to the east of you. Most are heading north, from what I could see. I think some other survivors have tried to make it to Grenzstadt, and they’re being pursued. You chose well to head this way.”
If that was true, it gave them some breathing space, though there was little comfort in achieving that at the expense of the remaining survivors. And if this messenger ended up drawing greenskins to their position, Bloch would kill him himself.
“I’ll need a fresh rider,” said Bloch, turning to the men around him. “Someone fast, and who knows the land between here and Averheim.”
After some discussion, the young spearman came forward. He looked nervous, but there was some steel in his gaze.
“What’s your name?”
“Herren. Joskar Herren.”
Bloch looked him directly in the eye.
“You’ve heard what this man said. The road is watched. I need you to find a way through. Averheim must be warned of what happened here. You need to ride fast, faster than you’ve ever ridden before. Can you do that?”
Herren nodded.
“Run this horse into the earth if you need to. Take a weapon. If you need a fresh steed, there are farms between here and the city. Use your wits and stay out of sight when you can. It’ll be dangerous. I’ll say it again. Can you do this?”
Herren held his gaze.
“Yes, sir.”
Bloch clapped him on the shoulder.
“Good lad. Go now, and Sigmar be with you.”
The young spearman mounted. He pulled the horse round expertly, and with a kick of hooves and a flurry of earth, he was gone. Bloch watched as the soldier galloped off under the trees. He’d be lucky to get through. Then again, they’d all be lucky to get through.
He turned back to his men. His expression was bleak. They looked back at him, waiting for instruction. That was good. They trusted him. Perhaps more than they had Grunwald. He’d have to work to ensure that trust wasn’t misplaced.
“This isn’t over yet,” he said, looking hard at each of those nearest in turn. “There are greenskins all over us. But we have one thing left to us. We’re men, and men of the Empire at that. They’ll have to work for our hides if they want them. They’ll have to earn them in blood.”
The survivors hung on his words. As he spoke, Bloch felt his confidence growing. They were his kind of men. And now he was responsible for them.
“Stay close together. We’ll go quickly but quietly. If we follow the valleys and stay under the trees, we’ll make it. Get to Heideck and everything changes. Schwarzhelm won’t leave us out here. We’ll regroup and come back fighting. And then we’ll pay the greenskins back double the pain they’ve caused us. It’ll be hard. Hard as nails. But keep your minds fixed on that. Vengeance. We’ll pay the bastards back.”
The men responded to that. The horror of the chase was fading. They knew what the odds were, but at least they had a plan, something they could work to.
Bloch turned to the Averlanders.
“Now show your worth,” he ordered. “Find me a route out of here.”
Verstohlen looked deep into the eyes of Artoldt Fromgar. The man was terrified. Verstohlen couldn’t blame him for that. If he’d been shackled to an interrogator’s chair in the dungeons of the Averburg and surrounded by men like Kraus, he’d be scared too. He almost felt pity for him. Whatever was going on in Averheim, Fromgar was nothing more than a small part of it. He probably had no idea what was going on beyond his petty activities. But if Verstohlen’s suspicions had any foundation to them, then he couldn’t allow pity, or any other emotion, to guide his actions.
“Do you want me to remain here, sir?” asked Kraus. He’d plucked Fromgar from the street with admirable efficiency. The captain of the honour guard was a capable man. Schwarzhelm knew how to pick his lieutenants.
“No, that will be all, captain. Place a man on the door and see that we’re not disturbed.”
Kraus bowed, withdrew, and the door slammed shut. There were no windows. Candles burned in lanterns around the narrow chamber. They threw flickering shadows across the dark stone walls. Verstohlen walked away from the man bound in the chair. He could smell his fear. That was good. The more afraid he was, the easier this would be. Verstohlen didn’t enjoy this work. It brought back too many memories of the past. The sooner it was over, the better.
He walked over to a chest of drawers and took a bundle of instruments from the top drawer.
“Do you know why you’re here, Herr Fromgar?” he asked coolly, masking his own nerves, unwrapping the tools.
The man could hardly get the words out of his mouth. “N-no, my lord,” he stammered. “No idea. No idea at all.”
He was beginning to babble. Verstohlen arranged the steel items on the desk, one by one. They made an echoing clink as they were placed. Some were sharp. Some were twisted. Some were crudely blunt. They all had their purpose.
“I’ve been asking around,” continued Verstohlen. “Your name came up more than anyone else’s. You’ve been doing well for yourself. How much have you sold in the past month? Enough to buy you those expensive clothes, I see.”
Fromgar began to whimper.
“It’s a lie,” he blurted. “I’ve got rivals in business. They’re not above slander. I’m a wine merchant. It’s all a lie!”
Verstohlen finished arranging the tools. He selected one. It was old, forged long before Karl Franz had taken up the throne. Such deadly finery wasn’t produced anymore. He would have appreciated the artistry if its purpose hadn’t been so black. Despite himself, he loathed it. With the instrument in hand, he walked back over to the chair. The candlelight reflected from the polished metal. When Fromgar’s eyes saw it, they went wide. A trickle of liquid collected at the legs of the chair. He was incontinent with fear.
“Are you absolutely sure about that, Herr Fromgar?” asked Verstohlen, coming up to him and trailing the tip of the device down his cheek. The man was sweating heavily. He already smelled bad. It would soon be a lot worse.
“I—ah—I…”
Verstohlen withdrew the slender shard of steel to give the man a better view. Fromgar’s pupils followed it all the while. “W-who are you? What are you going to do?”
That was a good question. Few people knew who Verstohlen was. It was kept secret for a reason. A reason hidden in th
e past, in deeds too terrible to bring to the surface.
Leonora.
Verstohlen winced and turned his mind back to his work.
“That depends on you, friend. You shouldn’t doubt my resolve. I want to know where you get the joyroot, how much you pay, and where it’s coming from.”
Fromgar swallowed nervously. The sweat was now shining all over his face. He looked like he might be sick soon.
“And if I tell you? Can I go?”
Verstohlen smiled grimly. The man was in no position to bargain.
“Tell me what you know and you’ll never see me again. I’m after answers, Herr Fromgar. That’s all. Answers.”
He brought the instrument back to bear, placing it carefully just under the man’s right earlobe.
“Enough!” Fromgar screamed, going rigid in the seat. Verstohlen withdrew the blade. “I don’t know where it comes from! That’s the truth. I’d tell you if I did. By Sigmar, on the souls of my daughters, I’d tell you if I did.”
Verstohlen stepped back and leaned on the edge of the desk. He kept the instruments in full view. The man was talking now. They’d served their purpose.
“I get my supply from a man called Lepp. He brings them down the river, from the east. We’ve got an arrangement. Exclusivity. There’s stuff that comes in from elsewhere, but it’s not as good.”
“Is this Lepp in the city now?”
“No. He comes and goes. He could be anywhere now.”
“How do you get in touch with him?”
“He sends a message to me when he’s in town. I collect the gold from my clients and pick up the stock.”
“Sounds like dangerous work. His cargo is valuable.”
Fromgar didn’t know what to do unless he had a direct question. He froze, eyes still staring.
“I guess. I’ve been careful, though. Not like some of the others.”
“Not careful enough,” mused Verstohlen, running his finger along the edge of the instrument. “Have you taken the root yourself?”
Fromgar shook his head.
“So you’re happy to let others pollute their bodies, but not your own?”
“It’s their choice,” he mumbled miserably. “I never forced it on anyone. No one. It’s them that comes back for more.”
Verstohlen felt a swell of disgust. A petty kind of evil, though destructive enough. He began to lose any residual sense of pity for Fromgar.
“I don’t doubt it,” he said. “If I’m right, this is powerfully addictive stuff. Perhaps more so than the poppy. What would it do to a man, the first time he took it?”
Fromgar was still scared, but something in Verstohlen’s manner seemed to have assured him that he wasn’t in immediate physical peril. He even managed a nervous smile.
“It makes them happy,” he said. “That’s all. Takes away the cares of the world for a while. Lifts their burden. It’s helpful.”
Verstohlen walked over the chest of drawers again. Fromgar stiffened in the chair.
“Would I be right in thinking that a novice user would experience a particularly powerful reaction?”
“I guess so. Maybe. I don’t know.”
Verstohlen retrieved another cloth-wrapped bundle, the size of a fist, and returned to the chair.
“I think you do,” he said, unwrapping the bundle. “I think you’ve forgotten your pledge to tell me everything you know.”
Fromgar lapsed back into a state of fear.
“Yes!” he cried, his voice rising. “It can have the effect, in the beginning. It depends on your strength of mind to start with. Some don’t take to it. Some do. That’s just how it is.”
Verstohlen paused. That was interesting.
“Strength of character?” he mused. “Did you mean to say that? Perhaps you’re referring to physical strength?”
Fromgar shook his head. His shirt was sodden with sweat.
“It’s their minds,” he said, looking warily at the bundle in Verstohlen’s palm. “It’s all in the mind. How virtuous, or not how virtuous. It makes a difference.”
Verstohlen nodded, filing the information away. That might prove useful.
“Very well. You’ve been most helpful.”
Fromgar’s eyes lit up.
“That’s it? Can I go?”
Verstohlen gave an ice-laced smile.-He felt his own heart begin to beat a little faster. Here came the real experiment. This was where his suspicions would be allayed or confirmed.
“Go? Oh no,” he said. “You see, I brought you here for another purpose. I’ve purchased some of this joyroot. It might have even come from your own stock. It’s very interesting. I’ve had it ground down. Now, though I’ve some alchemical knowledge, I’m no expert. I have a feeling I know what its powers are, but of course I’m not stupid enough to try it myself.”
Fromgar began to struggle against his bonds. He wasn’t entirely stupid either.
“You can’t!” he said. “Once you’re hooked—”
Verstohlen reached up to the man’s face and grasped his nose with his left hand, closing the nostrils. Being so close to the gutter-rat made him feel slightly nauseous. The stench was now acute.
“I’m aware of the effects,” he said coldly. “Just as you were aware when you peddled it.”
Fromgar struggled for breath. His head lashed one way, then the other, but Verstohlen kept the grip tight. Eventually, the man had to open his mouth. As he did so, Verstohlen slapped his other hand over it. Fromgar immediately coughed the powder back up, gagging on the plume of pink vapour.
Verstohlen withdrew, placing a silk handkerchief over his own mouth. The man had managed to splutter some of it out, but he’d taken in enough. Verstohlen sat back against the chest and waited.
For a moment, nothing much changed. Fromgar breathed heavily. He said nothing, though he continued to sweat profusely. His skin was an unhealthy pallor, but that could have been through fear as much as anything. The remains of the powder streaked his shirt, turning an ugly purple where it soaked up the moisture.
Then, it started working. Verstohlen watched intently, his body taut with expectation. Fromgar’s muscles began to relax. The grip of terror left his features. His fingers went limp in their bonds. His breathing slowed and a gentle sigh escaped from his lips.
“Feeling better?” asked Verstohlen.
Fromgar nodded listlessly.
“Heh,” he gurgled. “This really isn’t so bad.”
“Tell me what you’re seeing.”
Fromgar looked like he was having trouble concentrating. “Ah, well, I’m not really seeing anything. I’m just feeling a lot better. Sigmar, I’ve not felt this good since…”
He drifted off into unintelligible mumbling. A childlike smile spread across his face.
“Do you know where you are?”
Fromgar nodded. “In the Averburg.”
So he retained some sense of the real world. The root could just be a harmless relaxant. There was always that chance.
Verstohlen stood up again and went to the chest for a final time. There was one more item he needed to deploy. Of all of them, it was the most proscribed. It was why Kraus couldn’t stay in the room, and why the interrogation couldn’t be disturbed. If the witch hunters knew he had it, he ran the risk of facing interrogation himself. He retrieved it and went back to Fromgar.
“Can you hear me, Herr Fromgar?” he said, quietly but firmly. He clasped the object in his hidden hand carefully. The metal felt hot against his skin already.
Fromgar’s head was beginning to loll. With some effort, he looked up.
“I can see you,” he drawled.
“I am going to show you something. You must look into it. Do this last thing for me and I’ll leave you alone with your dreams. Do you understand? This is very important.”
Fromgar nodded. The joyroot seemed to make him both suggestible and benign. There was no resistance.
Verstohlen took a deep breath. There were dangers associated with this. He drew out
the object. It was an amulet. On the silver surface the design of a serpent had been inscribed. On the reverse face a script had been engraved. There were none now who could read it. It belonged to a realm that had long since been scoured from the face of the world. But Verstohlen knew what it had been made for. And he knew what power was still bound within it.
He thrust the amulet before Fromgar’s eyes.
The change was immediate. The benign smile was replaced with a malignant leer. Fromgar’s tongue flickered across his exposed teeth. His body went rigid again, his fingers scrabbling at their bonds. Flecks of spittle flew from his mouth.
“Ach!” he cried, writhing against the rope that held him. “Herself! Ah, so beautiful!”
The convulsions began to accelerate. Verstohlen withdrew the amulet. Fromgar began to spasm. He looked wracked between some kind of ecstasy and crippling pain. The chair started to shuffle across the floor as his feet kicked out. That shouldn’t have been possible. It was solid oak, bound with iron.
Verstohlen watched carefully, reaching for his pistol. Pricks of sweat burst out across his palms. This had always been the danger. With such work, there was always this danger. He primed the weapon, his eyes fixed on Fromgar the whole time.
The foaming got worse. The man was drifting into a seizure. He began to shriek. His voice sounded strangely feminine, like an adolescent boy’s before it broke.
“She is coming!” Fromgar wailed, then his speech drifted back into gibberish. Verstohlen watched carefully, trying to make sense of the words. They were nonsense. Or some language he didn’t understand.
Suddenly, he realised what was going on. Fromgar’s eyes snapped open and the man stared at him. The pupils were gone. In their place, lurid pink spheres blazed out. Lines of blood ran down his cheeks. A deranged grin distorted his face. The language wasn’t nonsense. It was as ancient as the amulet.
“She is coming!” he said again in Reikspiel.
The chair began to rise from the floor.
The pistol rang out, twice. The first shot went through Fromgar’s heart, the second through his forehead. The chair fell back to earth with a clang. Fromgar slumped in his bonds, drool and blood running down his chin. His fingers clenched, then relaxed. The light went out from his eyes.
01 - Sword of Justice Page 17
