Verstohlen looked on for a moment, his heart still beating heavily. His hands shaking slightly, he reloaded the pistol, watching the corpse all the while. There was a knock on the door. The guard.
“Sir? Everything all right in there?” came the muffled enquiry.
“Yes. You may come in now,” said Verstohlen, putting the amulet away and doing his best to restore a facade of calmness.
Kraus’ man entered. He glanced at the body in the chair. The merest flicker of surprise crossed his solid features. No doubt he’d seen much worse.
“This man was a heretic,” said Verstohlen, putting his instruments carefully back in their wrapping. “I was obliged to silence his blasphemy. His body will have to be burned, as will his clothes and the perishable items in this room.”
The soldier nodded smartly.
“It will be done,” he said.
“Ensure a priest is present, and alert the Temple of Sigmar. They’ll want to make their own enquiries. Tell them what I told you, but do not delay burning the body. If they have any complaints, they can speak to me.”
The soldier bowed, then rushed away to make arrangements. When he was gone, Verstohlen looked back on Fromgar’s body. Despite all his training, the sight of it turned his stomach. His assessment hadn’t changed. The man had been a crooked fool, no more. He’d had no real idea of what he’d been mixed up in.
But Verstohlen did. And as he contemplated the possibilities, the thought of it chilled his blood.
Chapter Nine
Gerhard Muller gripped the cudgel tightly. It wasn’t as easy to do as it should have been. His vision was still clouded with drink. The men around him looked unsteady on their feet too. That was predictable, of course. If you gave a bunch of thugs a handful of coins and told them to prepare for trouble, they were bound to drink it away. That was what thugs did when you indulged them. Averheim was a much friendlier place for his kind than it used to be. And it was getting even better.
He looked at the boys around him. He knew most of them. Some had been dragged out of some hole by Drucker, others looked entirely unfamiliar. They might just have been coming along for the ride. As far as Muller was concerned, they were welcome to. The more, the bloodier.
The gang of men rounded the last corner before the square. The targets were right in front of them, celebrating in the evening sunlight outside the inn on the far side. They looked pretty well-lubricated. Muller surveyed the scene quickly. Leitdorf’s men numbered about fifty. Maybe a shade more. They were relaxed. He didn’t see any weapons. Some of them had already passed out. It was just as Alptraum had told him.
“Charge!” he bellowed, waving the cudgel wildly over his head. All around him, his mates did the same. They made a pretty terrifying spectacle. In a disorganised tide, Muller’s band of brothers swept across the square. With satisfaction, Muller saw Leitdorf’s mob scramble to their feet. They were completely unprepared. That was sloppy. Really sloppy.
Then they were among them. Muller swung the cudgel with abandon. Most of Leitdorf’s men were unarmed. He enjoyed the way the heavy wood crunched against bone. One particularly vicious swipe audibly caved a man’s skull in. Muller liked that. He made it an ambition to do it again. There was something gloriously satisfying in the sound, the squishy, liquid squelch of brains being redistributed.
A man swung a table leg in Muller’s direction. It was a pretty pathetic sight. Muller hammered the cudgel into the man’s midriff, knocking the wind out of him. He collapsed, and the table leg skittered across the stone. The cudgel rose and fell quickly. Two, three blows and the man was out cold. Muller stood over him, feeling the surge of victory in his blood. He took aim and plunged the cudgel down at the prone man’s skull. It cracked, caving in like a chicken’s egg.
“Yes!” he cried, looking around to see if anyone had noticed. This game was getting better and better.
Drucker swayed up to him. He looked drunk, both on violence and on ale. He had a trail of blood across his mouth. Even Muller didn’t really want to know how he’d got that.
“We should torch this place,” Drucker said, grinning. “That’s what we’re being paid for. Who’s got the flints?”
“Thought you did.”
Muller laughed. As much as he liked his ale, he couldn’t deny that getting plastered got in the way of proper planning.
“Damn it. What are we going to do now?”
That question was answered more quickly than he expected. From the other side of the square, more men had arrived. They were bearing weapons. Just like Muller’s men, they were pretty crude. Meat hooks, hammers, blacksmith’s tongs, even rocks. Leitdorfs people weren’t entirely unarmed after all.
“Excellent!” exclaimed Muller, licking his lips. “They’re up for a fight.”
Drucker grinned savagely.
“I’ll squeeze their eyes out,” he wheezed, fingering his meat chopper lasciviously. Muller looked at the man uncertainly. He liked a good scrap as much as anyone, but Drucker could be a little alarming.
There wasn’t time to dwell on it. Muller’s men left their looting and charged the newcomers. The two groups met in the middle of the square. They were evenly matched. Soon the blood was flowing again. Muller began to really enjoy himself. He took a deep cut from a flailing knife. That was fine by him. Credit to the man who managed to land a blow. It all made for a more entertaining evening. Especially once the lad in question, a meek-faced boy with freckles and a tuft of light brown hair, was lying on the floor with his jaw knocked clean from his head. He made an appealingly agonised yelping as he crawled along the ground, a slick of blood and saliva in his wake. Muller walked after him casually, swinging the cudgel. He lined it up with the boy’s head, and wondered if he was likely to make it three skull cracks in a row.
Then there was the sound of trumpets blaring. Muller looked up, a horrible sinking feeling in his stomach. This fun could soon be about to end. The square began to fill with mounted warriors. Knights. They were wearing the livery of the Averburg garrison, wearing armour and carrying longswords. That was completely unsporting. He looked around, trying to see if there were any escape routes. The way they’d come was still open. If he ran, he’d make it.
Leaving the lad to choke on his blood, Muller broke into a sprint. The ale still swilling round his head made the going difficult. Running in a straight line was far harder than it should have been. He stumbled at one point, tripping over a prone figure on the ground. It might even have been Drucker, but he couldn’t stop to check. He picked himself up and carried on running. He was going to make it. The horsemen were busy mopping up the laggards behind. The side street beckoned.
Then something very hard and very heavy hit him on the back of the head. That really caused him problems. He fell down again. Getting up was difficult. The world was swimming. Something hot and wet ran down his back.
Muller pushed himself to his feet, trying to keep his legs steady. He looked up. There was a horseman looming over him. He couldn’t focus on the figure well. The man looked massive. He was wearing heavy armour and had a grey beard. His blade was unsheathed and it blazed silver. The man’s face in the open helmet was contorted with anger. It looked oddly familiar, though he couldn’t think why.
Muller could feel his awareness slipping away. The scrap was over. He’d had his fun and spent his money. That was really all a man like him could expect out of life. With any luck, this militia captain would give him a break and he’d spend a day or two in the stocks. After all, brawling was something that happened all over the Empire.
“You’ve got me, sir,” he drawled, dropping the cudgel and holding his hands up shakily. “I’ll come quietly.”
The horseman leaned forward, pulling his blade back as he did so.
“No, you won’t.” The voice was humourless, as cold as iron.
Muller looked up, just in time to see the sword sweep towards him. His last thought was how magnificent it looked. There were runes on the steel. That must have
cost a packet. Then it bit, and the game was over for good.
Schwarzhelm pushed open the door to his chamber and sat down heavily in his chair. His sword arm ached. It had been out of practice. Though he’d craved some action to offset the tedium of the tribunal hearings, there was no satisfaction in breaking up the mobs of Leitdorf’s and Grosslich’s supporters. Three more days had passed. The daylight hours were filled with legal arguments, the nights with suppressing the electors’ unleashed violence.
It was grim, depressing work. The gaols were full, and still the candidates found willing hands to do their sordid work. They were both as bad as each other, though each was careful to distance themselves from the trail of gold. It was getting worse. The city was drifting into lawlessness. The whole situation was listing out of hand.
Schwarzhelm poured himself a flagon of ale from the jug on his desk. He drank deep. He hadn’t slept for any of those three days. Even drink made no difference. It was making him fractious, paranoid. Something would have to change. Somehow, he’d have to turn things around. As it was, he felt like he was slowly going mad.
There was a gentle knock at the door. Verstohlen again. The man was like a bad schilling.
“Come!” he roared.
The agent entered. His face looked grave.
“I’ve not been able to contact you,” he said. Was there reproach in that voice? There’d better not have been.
“I’ve been busy,” Schwarzhelm growled.
“I heard about it. That’s the second night of disturbance in the Old City.”
“They’ve both got their hired boneheads out in force. I had to adjourn this afternoon’s hearing. These men are powerful, and they know what they’re doing. We can’t run the tribunal while the city burns.”
“You’re halting it?”
Schwarzhelm shook his head. “It’ll continue. We’re making progress. They’ll accept the Imperial decree. They’ll have to.”
“I’m glad they’re coming around. But the closer you get to a decision, the worse things will get on the streets.”
“You think I don’t know that?”
Verstohlen paused.
“There are other options.”
“I know what you’re going to—”
“You should give it some consideration.”
Schwarzhelm’s eyes blazed. His anger seemed to come so readily. He had to keep a lid on it. Verstohlen was only doing his job.
“You’re questioning my authority,” he said, warningly.
“I’m doing no such thing. I’m questioning your judgement.”
Only Verstohlen could have said that. Kraus or Grunwald would have died before such words could have passed their lips. That was the difference between soldiers and ordinary men. Soldiers knew when to shut up and take orders.
But Verstohlen wasn’t ordinary, in any sense.
“I won’t debate with you,” Schwarzhelm said bluntly. “I don’t want Helborg brought into this. You know my reasons.”
Verstohlen held his ground for a few more moments, looking like he was going to argue. Then he clearly thought better of it. “Heard from Grunwald yet?”
Schwarzhelm shook his head.
“Nothing.”
“And that doesn’t concern you?”
“He can look after himself. When things are more stable, I’ll send more men.”
Verstohlen didn’t look happy. He was a professional spy and could project any demeanour he wanted to. He didn’t bother hiding the way he felt with Schwarzhelm. That, at least, was a minor courtesy.
“I think things are more complicated here than may be apparent,” Verstohlen ventured, choosing his words carefully. “If this were just a matter of the electors-in-waiting fighting amongst themselves, maybe I’d agree with you. But I no longer think it is.”
Schwarzhelm found himself getting impatient. If his agent had a flaw, it was a tendency to see hidden schemes in everything. As a soldier, he took the world as it appeared. He listened, though, quelling his bubbling irritation.
“This joyroot,” continued Verstohlen. “The substance I told you about. I’ve been conducting some experiments. It’s tainted.”
“Poisonous?”
“No. Tainted.”
Schwarzhelm paused. “You’ve seen evidence of this?”
“As firm as it ever gets. The narcotic is relatively harmless on the surface, but I no longer believe its traffickers are interested in money alone. Its spread has been carefully planned. My estimate is that it’s been distributed here for a year or more. I don’t know its ultimate function, but you cannot have missed the sense of wrongness here. It’s undermining Averheim. No one has a good word to say about the place. The city is sick.”
Schwarzhelm nodded slowly. He found himself reluctant to follow the implications of Verstohlen’s report. There was no time to get bogged down in an investigation. But corruption was corruption. It couldn’t be ignored.
“What do you propose?”
“You know my counsel.”
“Witch hunters.”
Verstohlen looked surprised.
“How long have you known me? I despise them.” There was a shard of vehemence in the quiet man’s voice. “They’d blunder across the trail, destroying everything. No, I can get to the bottom of this.”
Schwarzhelm looked at him carefully. “Don’t let your past interfere with your judgement, Verstohlen. Sooner or later, they’ll have to be brought in. If you’re right about this, that is.”
Verstohlen looked back at him defiantly.
“They will. When I’ve traced this back to the source.” He seemed unwilling even to countenance their employment. Schwarzhelm didn’t feel like pressing the point. He knew why. “In the meantime, we should send for reinforcements from Nuln,” continued Verstohlen. “Recall Grunwald. The city must be secured. I can’t work through this anarchy.”
Helborg. For the first time, Schwarzhelm felt his will began to waver. There would be a price to pay if he sent for the Reiksguard. He’d never be allowed to forget it. What was worse, the suspicion that Helborg had stationed himself at Nuln for just such an eventuality still hadn’t left him. The man was clever enough. He was also ambitious.
Schwarzhelm looked at Verstohlen carefully, putting the tankard down beside him. Perhaps the man was right. The situation was becoming hard to contain. Perhaps it was time to summon help.
Suddenly, there was hammering at the door outside.
“My lord,” came a voice from the other side. “It was Kraus. Word from the east.”
Schwarzhelm leapt up from his seat and wrenched the door open. Kraus stood in the corridor beyond, looking even grimmer than usual.
“A messenger has arrived. He’s half-dead from riding, but we’ve got tidings out of him. Grunwald is dead, my lord. His army is broken. Herr Bloch has assumed command of what remains and is aiming for Heideck. Grenzstadt is cut off. What are your orders?”
For a moment, Schwarzhelm stood stunned. Grunwald slain. His army destroyed. The news felt like a series of hammer blows. He reached for the doorframe and leaned against it. The stone was cool under his fingers.
“My lord?” asked Kraus again.
Schwarzhelm felt his heart begin to race, just as it had been doing in the silent hours of the night. A sweat broke out on his brow. His policies were unravelling. Every decision he made seemed to be foundering. For the first time in his long and distinguished career, he didn’t know what to do. He was surrounded by men who wished to see him fail. He remembered Lassus’ words in Altdorf. There are other ways of harming a man. Subtle ways. They couldn’t best him in battle, so they were striking at those close to him.
Kraus said nothing, though Schwarzhelm could see the concern in his face. The captain had never seen indecision from his master before. The look in the man’s eyes struck at his heart.
“My lord?” This time, the voice was Verstohlen’s. “Are you all right? You look sick.”
That was it. He was sick. Something ha
d been poisoning him. Eating away at his mind. Ever since Turgitz. What was it? Why couldn’t he fight it?
“Enough!” he roared, pushing himself away from the doorframe. He strode back into the chamber, looking for his sword. “Enough of this skulking in the shadows!”
He retrieved the Rechtstahl and buckled the scabbard to his belt. Kraus and Verstohlen looked on worriedly. Let them fuss. The time had passed for intrigue and plotting. Blood had been drawn, and it needed to be matched.
“Gather the men,” he said to Kraus. “We’ll muster the remainder of the garrison here and ride out tonight. Grunwald will be avenged.”
“Yes, my lord.” The man bowed and hurried away. Kraus looked reassured. All he wanted was leadership. That was all any of them wanted.
Except for one.
“Is this wise?” hissed Verstohlen. He followed Schwarzhelm out into the corridor. “You can’t leave the city like this. With you gone, there’ll be nothing—”
“Damn the city,” snapped Schwarzhelm, striding down the corridor towards the armoury. “They’ve brought it on themselves. I’ve stayed cooped up here too long.”
“They want you out of the city,” insisted Verstohlen. “These attacks aren’t random. Why do you think the roads are blocked? Who’s doing that?”
Schwarzhelm whirled around to face Verstohlen, his face a mask of anger. Grunwald’s death was sinking in. A deep, dark anger had been unleashed within him. Justice would have to wait. Vengeance demanded it.
“Silence!” Schwarzhelm snarled. Even the agent, used to his temper, shrank back. “Pursue your theories if you want to. Good men have died, and I should have been with them. Tochfel can handle the mobs. Keep an eye on him. And warn those warring fools: when this is over, I will return.”
For once, Verstohlen was speechless. In the face of Schwarzhelm’s cold ferocity, it was all he could do to nod weakly.
Schwarzhelm swung round and resumed his march to the armoury. A black mood consumed him. Deep down, part of him knew he was being drawn into this. Part of him knew that his judgement was impaired. He needed sleep. Part of him knew that he might be making a terrible mistake.
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