01 - Sword of Justice

by Chris Wraight - (ebook by Undead)

  It didn’t matter. His blood pumped vigorously around his body. The Rechtstahl hung reassuringly at his side. Soon the fields of Averheim would feel the thunder of his wrath. If the enemies of the Empire had intended to provoke him, they’d succeeded. Now he would teach them the true meaning of fury.

  Dagobert Tochfel looked from his window gloomily. Even from so high up in the spires of the Averburg, he could see the city burn. A hundred small fires sending their smoke rising into the warm night, lit by the mobs of the electoral candidates. They were running riot.

  Though their energy was aimed at each other, it was the city they were destroying. The city he’d served for three years, ever since Ironjaw had slain the last count.

  He’d put off a contest for as long as he could. He’d always known what it would bring. While Leopold remained alive, there had been the hope that a succession would pass off peacefully. But Rufus was a different proposition. The era of great men was over. Those who remained were like squabbling children. The days when the Empire could produce a Karl Franz, a Volkmar, a Todbringer, were gone. When the older generation passed on, there would be nothing left.

  Tochfel watched the fires burn for a little longer. Then he closed the window and turned away. It sickened his soul.

  His chamber was small and modestly proportioned. Pious icons of Sigmar and Verena hung over a simple desk. Candles burned in iron holders. A narrow bed, hard and unyielding, stood against the plain stone wall. Every inch a scholar’s room. Not much to show for a lifetime’s service, perhaps, but it reflected his character well enough. As things had gone, the very plainness seemed like an indictment. Averheim was drifting apart. Perhaps he should have devoted himself to a different cause. The law was no longer the protection the city needed.

  There was a knock at the door. Tochfel sat down at his desk.

  “Come.”

  A man entered. Achendorfer. He looked tired too. He’d borne the brunt of organising the legal procedure for the tribunal. Neither Schwarzhelm nor the opposing counsels had given him much room to manoeuvre. His normally pallid skin looked as white as death.

  “The papers you asked for, Steward.”

  Achendorfer placed a sheaf of parchment documents on the desk. When he spoke, his voice wheezed slightly. This thing was taking its toll on all of them.

  “Good,” Tochfel said. “The tribunal will start on time tomorrow?”

  Achendorfer shrugged. “I’ve been told it will. We’ve much to do before then.”

  Tochfel smiled, but there was little warmth in it.

  “Try to get some rest. In the end, it will come down to Schwarzhelm’s word. Precedent will not decide anything.”

  “In that case, there’s little point going through the motions.” His voice betrayed his irritation. He ran his hands through his thinning hair. “But that’s not why I’m here, Herr Tochfel. I’ve been approached by men from both camps. There’s more money floating around this than I’ve ever seen. I’ll not lie to you. I’ve been tempted. Others may have given in.”

  Why was the man telling him this? Could he really believe Tochfel didn’t know it all? Was it to vouch for his own probity?

  “I’m doing all I can, Uriens. I have my hands full with the riots. We need more militia. Even the Lord Schwarzhelm can’t quell it by himself.”

  Achendorfer looked sidelong at him. “The mighty Lord Schwarzhelm,” he mused. “You’ve spoken to him much?”

  Schwarzhelm spoke to no one much. When not locked away in the tribunals, he kept to his chambers in the tower. His movements were unannounced, his decisions arbitrary. Only the captain, Kraus and that enigmatic counsellor seemed included in his deliberations. It was like having an oddly powerful ghost controlling events in the city.

  “He consults me on everything. Why?”

  “There are whispers in the Averburg. There have been noises heard from his chamber at night. The man’s not well. You can see it yourself. We may have reached the point where—”

  He broke off.

  “Say what’s on your mind, Uriens.”

  Achendorfer still hesitated. He was an official, not used to rocking the boat.

  “Has he the confidence of the Grand County still, Steward? Can we trust the decision he comes to? I do not say this lightly, but…”

  He trailed off again. That was as far as he dared go. Tochfel didn’t reprimand him. All who were close to the process were thinking the same thing.

  “They do things differently in Altdorf,” was all he said. “He has the trust of the Emperor. That’s enough for me.”

  Achendorfer was about to say something else, but there was a second knock at the door. As if the noise reminded him of his timid nature, the loremaster retreated into his robes.

  “Very well, Steward,” he said. “Perhaps we’ll talk about this again soon.”

  Tochfel stood and showed him to the door. Standing outside was Verstohlen, Schwarzhelm’s counsellor. Achendorfer bowed, and slipped away into the gloom of the corridor. Verstohlen barely seemed to notice him.

  “Do you have a moment?” he asked. He looked distracted.

  “It seems to be my night for visitors. Will you come in?”

  “No. I can’t stay. But there are things you should know right away. The Lord Schwarzhelm has been called east on urgent business. The cavalry forces in the city garrison have been requisitioned. You’ll have to maintain security without them.”

  Tochfel felt as if someone had knocked the floor from under his feet. Things were already bad. Now they would become impossible.

  “How… could he?” he exclaimed, incredulous. He now regretted his even-handedness with Achendorfer. The appointment process was descending into a farce. “How will we keep the mobs apart?”

  Verstohlen gave him a look that indicated he sympathised, but his hands were tied. “You have the rest of the militia, the city watch. They’ll have to suffice. I have my own business to attend to. The tribunal will have to be suspended. If you want my advice, you’ll try to persuade the two parties to withdraw from Averheim until it can be reconvened.”

  Tochfel felt light-headed. Matters were spiralling beyond his ability to deal with them. Neither Leitdorf nor Grosslich were in a mood to respond to persuasion. Their blood was up, and he wasn’t sure whether they could rein in their supporters even if they wanted to. With Schwarzhelm gone, the two men might easily resort to more direct means of gaining power.

  “This is madness, counsellor,” he said. There was an edge of bitterness in his voice. “We were promised Imperial aid to ensure a smooth transition. Is this the best you can do?”

  “Feel free to take it up with Lord Schwarzhelm when he returns. In the meantime, you have some decisions to make.” He gave Tochfel a significant look. “There are options. Not all the Empire’s armies are away in the north. When trouble looms, a wise commander looks for help close to hand.”

  Tochfel wasn’t reassured. Gnomic utterances were the last thing he needed.

  “I’ll bear that in mind.”

  Verstohlen bowed. “I’ll be in contact when I can.” Then he was gone, following Achendorfer into the cool depths of the Averburg.

  Tochfel left the door open. He stayed standing where he was for a moment. The tidings were the worst he could imagine. The prospect of the city tearing itself apart suddenly looked real. He ran over the possibilities. None looked good.

  He was not a proud man. The stewardship had always been an unwelcome burden. He wilted under the demands of power. Always had. That made him an uninspiring leader, but it prevented some of the worst vices of command. He knew when he was overmatched. This was one of those times.

  Tochfel stirred and reached for a small bell hanging over his desk. Almost as soon as the echoes of its ringing had died away, a functionary appeared. The man looked nervous. The unrest in the city had threatened to spread even to the Averburg, and everyone was looking over their shoulder.

  “Tell the stables to make an errand rider ready. Then return
here to collect a message. I’ll inscribe it myself.”

  The functionary hesitated. “Where will the message be sent, Steward? Some will refuse to ride east. They say the greenskins are roaming free.”

  Tochfel barely noticed the rank insurrection implied in that. His mind was already working on the contents of the missive. It would have to be worded carefully.

  “Tell them Nuln,” he said. “The Reiksguard garrison and Lord Helborg.”

  Schwarzhelm kicked his horse into a gallop. It responded immediately. In the night sky, Mannslieb remained low on the eastern horizon. It was waxing to the full, but its light was uncertain. Clouds drifted across the sky, the first he’d seen for days. The harbingers of storms, perhaps, driven from the Worlds Edge Mountains.

  Around him, the cavalry responded. Five hundred head of horse. The best that Averheim had to offer. Kraus and the honour guard were at the forefront. They’d accepted their orders without question. They always did. It had taken them mere moments to check their equipment and mount up. Even in the night shadow they looked magnificent, the moonlight glinting from their armour. They were as fine as Reiksguard. Maybe finer. Every man in the company had been picked by him. Their loyalty was unquestionable.

  The Averlanders had been slower to organise. He’d had to storm into the stables himself to get them in a suitable shape to ride. There was no excuse for such slovenly behaviour. It was true that some of them had previously been pressed into controlling the mobs in Averheim, but such work was nothing compared to the rigours of campaign. The whole province seemed to have gone soft. This was what happened when scholars took over. The Empire had always been ruled by military men, men who knew how it felt to lead a cavalry charge into the heart of an enemy. When that order was subverted, it was no wonder that sickness took hold. Sigmar had been a chieftain, not a loremaster.

  As the hooves hammered on the hard ground, the mounted troops left the Averburg stables behind. They tore through the streets of Averheim. Any men still out quickly ducked into the alleys as the company of knights thundered along the thoroughfares. As he went, Schwarzhelm saw how many fires still burned in the squares and crossroads. The elector candidates had eschewed the last of their restraint. That was too bad. Tochfel would have to deal with it until he got back.

  For some reason, that made him think of Grunwald again. A shard of pure pain entered him. Andreas had been a good man. A brave commander. The last time the two of them had spoken, he’d given him nothing but harsh words. If the tidings were true, he hoped he’d died honourably. That would be at least some consolation.

  Schwarzhelm shook his head, trying to clear it. His mind was forever dwelling on failures. That wasn’t like him. Why was his mind so troubled?

  The gates were approaching rapidly. The horses didn’t slow. A trumpet blared from further back in the column. Frantically, the drawbridge was lowered and the mighty doors swung open. They were out, past the walls and into the Averland countryside. Kraus’ honour guard fanned out on either side of him. The men rode in unison, hooves beating on the road in a thudding rhythm. Further back, the Averlanders struggled to keep up.

  Schwarzhelm gave them no quarter. The pace would be hard. They’d ride through the night and ride through the day until they made Heideck. Then onwards, into the countryside, hunting the greenskins. He’d known he should have attended to the incursion as soon as he’d arrived in Averland. Now was the chance to make amends. This kind of combat was what he was born to do.

  He grasped the hilt of the Rechtstahl, feeling the weight of it as he crouched in the saddle. It was eager to be drawn. Schwarzhelm had felt the spirit of the weapon sicken, just as he had, imprisoned in the stultifying heat of the tribunal chamber. It would be wielded soon enough, just as its makers had intended, on the field of battle.

  For the first time in days, Schwarzhelm began to feel invigorated. He urged his horse on. The hooves thundered. The countryside began to slip by faster. This was what he needed. The chance to revive his animal spirits, shake off whatever malady had been inflicting him.

  He looked towards the eastern horizon, shrouded in darkness. The air was no longer still and humid. Storms were active in the far distance and lightning flickered against the serrated line of mountains. The clouds had cleared from the face of the moon and pale light streamed across the silent fields.

  He looked over his shoulder. Averheim was already some distance behind. Thin towers of smoke still rose into the sky. It looked lost, forlorn, vulnerable. He remembered Verstohlen’s words. They want you out of the city.

  He turned back, setting his face like flint. Averheim would have to look after itself. His duty drew him to Heideck, to Grenzstadt, to battle and vengeance. He kicked his horse again and the pace quickened once more.

  Like a storm wind, the cavalry tore through the sleeping countryside. Even while Averheim burned, the Rechtstahl rode east.

  Chapter Ten

  Verstohlen crouched down. The trail had taken him close to the river on the east bank, down amongst the forlorn warehouses and goods yards. The alleyway he squatted in stank, and he covered his nostrils. The air was still warm, even in the deep of the night.

  The two men he’d been following had stopped and were conferring with one another. They looked nervous. They had every right to be. Gangs of rogues were still roaming the streets. Whether or not the mobs were being actively controlled by Grosslich or Leitdorf was immaterial if you were caught by one of them. The two candidates had unleashed lawlessness on Averheim, and Verstohlen doubted if they knew the true effects of their actions.

  He regretted Schwarzhelm’s decision to leave deeply. It was the worst possible decision. While the Emperor’s Champion was in the city, there was at least a chance that the situation could be brought under control. Rufus Leitdorf may have hated him, but he was easily scared. Grosslich was tougher, though Schwarzhelm was still more than capable of cowing the man. Schwarzhelm was capable of cowing anyone.

  When he was himself, that was. Verstohlen had never seen him so ground down by an assignment before. For the first few days, he’d put it down to the heat. That explanation would no longer suffice. Maybe his best years were behind him. After so many years in the saddle, maybe the great old warrior had finally lost his nerve.

  That wasn’t it either. Schwarzhelm was a great man. One of the greatest in the Empire. Verstohlen had reason to be grateful for that. For Leonora’s memory. Schwarzhelm hadn’t been able to save her, but he’d ensured that those responsible had died. For that alone, he deserved Verstohlen’s unwavering loyalty. He’d commanded it for ten years, and he’d have it for the rest of his life. There was little enough left to him to attach any allegiance to.

  Verstohlen snapped back into focus. He was tired. His mind was wandering. The men began to move off. They walked with exaggerated casualness, the way a thief does when he has something to hide.

  Leaving a few moments to let them get ahead of him, Verstohlen crept after them. Wrapping his dark coat about him, hugging the shadows, he maintained a safe distance. He wasn’t close enough to hear what they were saying, but some energetic conversation was clearly taking place. They were on edge. At least one of them wasn’t happy with the plan.

  Then they seemed to relax. They’d reached the river’s edge. Dark water lapped quietly against the quays. No one was around. Moored boats gently bumped against the stone. The still air was only punctuated by the creak of ropes and the distant crackle of the fires. Verstohlen shrank back again, waiting. This was what he’d been expecting. Now he’d see if the information he’d worked so hard to get had any substance to it. There was only so much one could do with a single name.

  The men hung around at the water’s edge for a few moments. Time passed. They began to get impatient. Verstohlen wasn’t. He settled back against the stone wall of a nearby storehouse and checked the knife at his belt. His pistol was with him, as ever, but for this he’d need stealthier tools.

  Eventually, something changed. The men pe
rked up. Verstohlen leaned forward. Even with the moonlight on the water, it was dark.

  A boat drew up to the quay. It was a small one, a dinghy used by the river pilots. Somewhere, perhaps several miles upstream, a larger cargo barge would be moored, no doubt heavily guarded. There were several men on the dinghy, their faces masked. The two men on the quayside helped to moor the craft, where they were joined by the cloaked figures. There was a brief, low-voiced conversation and two packages changed hands.

  Their business transacted, the two groups separated. The cloaked men climbed back into the dinghy, and the oars creaked. With a commendable lack of noise, the sail was hoisted and the vessel glided back off into the night. The men on the quayside, looking more relaxed than they’d been previously, started to walk away.

  Verstohlen waited, keeping his body flat against the stone. They approached his position, oblivious to his presence. He let them pass. They got close enough for him to smell their breath. Then, as they walked off, he slipped out. The knife flashed, plunging deep into the back of the man on the left. Verstohlen pulled him round, twisting the knife as he did so.

  His companion was slow to react. By the time he’d realised what was happening, he was pressed up against the wall, the blade at his neck. Verstohlen had the cargo in his hands, a carefully-wrapped oilskin package. He didn’t need to open it to know what was in it.

  “Where are you taking this?” he hissed into the man’s ear. The smuggler froze. He was nearly paralysed with fear. At his feet, his accomplice was expiring in a frothy pool of blood. Just like Fromgar, they were hardly hardened criminals, just small-time vagabonds drawn into a network of powerful men who preferred their couriers expendable. “Your friend is dead. If you do not wish to join him, tell me where you’re taking this.”

  “H-Hessler’s townhouse,” he stammered. “Old City. Below the tanner’s.”