01 - Sword of Justice

by Chris Wraight - (ebook by Undead)

  The corridor ended in another set of double doors. Without pausing, Verstohlen barged into them. He could hear the rattling pursuit behind him, metal against stone.

  The doors were unlocked, and slammed open. There was a large chamber beyond, lit by more of the jasmine torches. He had the vague impression of long tables, all covered with joyroot. Further back, giant vials boiled with liquid. They were refining it. There were six copper kettles. Naturally.

  As he burst into the chamber, the figures within turned slowly to face him. They were clearly Natassja’s creations. They’d all been altered. Most had no mouths or nostrils left. How they breathed was a mystery, but it must have kept them from sampling the stock. They stared at him with hopeless, empty eyes. Those who had eyes left.

  He ignored them, barging his way past the drying tables. The hissing was close behind. The pets were gaining. Despite having their bones rearranged, they were quick.

  A drone worker lurched into his path. Using his knife-hand, Verstohlen punched him in what was left of his face and pushed him aside, barely breaking stride. Those poor wretches were scarcely alive and were no threat to him. The far end of the chamber loomed. There were two doors in the far wall, one on the left, one on the right. Both were open, gaping like mouths.

  Which one?

  Verstohlen felt the scales pendant dangling at his neck. “Ward all harm,” he whispered.

  He chose left, pushing his way past three shambling, mouthless drones. From behind, he heard one of Natassja’s pets leap on to a table, scattering joyroot essence across the floor. The hissing was getting louder.

  Then he was through the door, back into another corridor, back into the shadows. He ran as fast as he could, ignoring the fact he could barely see. His heartbeats echoed in his ears. His heavy breaths turned to ragged, frightened panting. The joyroot dust was in the air. It intensified the panic. This whole place was laced with insanity.

  He burst into another chamber. It was narrow, high-ceilinged. Up above, windows let in natural moonlight from outside. An external wall. On the far side of the room, there was another door, heavy and lined with metal. Weapons had been stacked in the corner and the Leitdorf banner hung over them. Arms for Rufus’ men, ready to be deployed.

  There were men in the room, lounging around a low table. Even as he ran in, Verstohlen could smell the sour beer, see the crude playing cards. This was a guardroom. Perhaps his last obstacle before outside.

  One of the guards leapt up, reaching for a sword. Like the doorkeeper, his face had been stretched. Misshapen teeth stuck out at unnatural angles from his dog-jaw. The others, four of them, had been altered in the same way. They came at him.

  Verstohlen didn’t miss a stride. The first shot rang out, slicing straight through the dog-warrior’s face, knocking him backwards. His knife finished a second, emptying his innards across the floor with a wicked swipe. Then he spun away, out of the reach of their crude blades, switching to the second barrel as he went.

  They came after him. Verstohlen kept moving, leaping on to another low table, scattering flagons of ale. One nearly caught him. The knife flashed, and the guard lost his fingers. He howled in pain, before Verstohlen plunged the blade into his swollen eye socket.

  The last of them withdrew warily. Verstohlen flicked his eyes to the card table. There were keys on it. From the corridor beyond, scuttling noises came. The pets. They were nearly there. He sheathed his blade. For this, he’d need a free hand.

  He leapt towards the remaining dog-guard, kicking his boot out as he did so. The guard swung his blade clumsily to intercept, but the move was a feint. Verstohlen swerved away from the swipe easily and gained his real objective. The keys were heavy, strung on a loop of iron. He grabbed them and scrambled across to the door.

  The pets burst in. Like insects, they swarmed across the floor. One, confused perhaps, leapt on to the dog-guard. The frail youth tore his throat out with his teeth, swinging his head from side to side like an animal. The others came after Verstohlen.

  He slotted the key in the lock, then spun around. A pet reared up at him. A slim girl. Her robes bloomed out as she attacked, exposing the naked alabaster flesh beneath. Like all of Natassja’s victims, she’d been beautiful once. Now her eyes burned with lilac light, and her mouth extended wide for the feast. Her teeth were pointed, tipped with steel, and her tongue was forked.

  Verstohlen fired, feeling the heavy recoil of the pistol. The horror was hurled back. Her lithe body bunched up, limbs curled round like a wounded insect. Then he was through the door, out into the warm night.

  The door slammed shut behind him, but in his haste he’d left the keys stuck in the other side. He cursed his stupidity and kept running, kept facing forward, kept going. The fresh air cleared his head, but the panic was still with him. They’d followed him out. How many? Maybe three. Maybe more.

  Verstohlen couldn’t look back. All he had was speed. No bullets left. He stowed the pistol and pulled the knife from its scabbard again. He wasn’t sure it would be much good against those horrors.

  He risked a look over his shoulder. Purple eyes, swaying in the shadows. They were scuttling still, hissing for his blood. So Natassja was prepared to risk them being seen on the streets. That was bad.

  Verstohlen turned back, legs pumping, trying to exhort more speed from his burning muscles. There was no one abroad at this hour. For all important purposes, he was alone and far from help. More so than at Turgitz, more so than at any point in his life, he was afraid.

  He careered down the alleyway, breath ragged. A nightmarish sequence of streets and silent squares passed. There was no noise bar the hoarse rattle of his own breath and the distant hissing of the pets. He was lost. He had no time to stop, no time to gain his bearings. Around every corner, he expected to stumble into the arms of a grinning horror, sharpened teeth ready to tear out his throat.

  Then he saw it. The spires of the Averburg, vast against the night sky. The citadel was still distant, but its silhouette rose reassuringly large. If he could get there, he’d make it. With a redoubled effort, he sprinted down the street towards it. With a shriek of frustration, the pets saw his purpose.

  But they were far from the controlling will of their mistress. Verstohlen couldn’t risk another glance backwards, but the truth soon became apparent. They were falling behind. Whatever terrible perversions had been committed on their bodies had taken their toll. As Natassja’s power waned, so their altered bodies began to give out.

  Verstohlen careered around a corner and into a wide square. The windows were all dark or shuttered. But he knew where he was. This was the Old City, and the Averburg was at hand. He ran into the open space.

  Something had changed. In the midst of his terror, he was slow to spot it. But as he neared the far side of the square, he finally noticed it.

  Silence.

  The pursuit had been called off. As if they’d been nothing more than a nightmare, the pets had gone. There was a last, agonised shriek, and then nothing. No purple, glowing eyes. No billowing robes. No steel-tipped incisors.

  Verstohlen felt his own strength give out. He stopped running and sank to his haunches. His heart still hammered, his lungs still burned. He looked around again, watching every shadow carefully. Part of him expected them to leap out at him.

  Nothing. They’d been called back.

  Verstohlen waited for his breathing to return to normal. He stood, hands still trembling, blade still drawn.

  Then, from the far side of the square, the way he’d come, he saw a dark shape creeping across the floor. Slowly, awkwardly, a figure was dragging itself into the moonlight. Verstohlen tensed, gripping the knife tightly. He didn’t move. The creature came onwards. There was no hissing, just a pain-filled whimper.

  Verstohlen waited. It was on its own. The others were nowhere to be seen. There was no purple light in its eyes. It came onward blindly. Whatever force Natassja had used to control it was gone. Just as it had been in the throne-room, the wretch wa
s broken.

  Cautiously, mindful of the obvious trap, Verstohlen walked towards it. The creature was a young man, not much older than the smuggler he’d dragged to the townhouse that night. The sapphire gauze robes were torn and dirty. His every move looked like agony. Bereft of his unnatural sight, he dragged himself aimlessly along the flagstones.

  Verstohlen crouched down beside him. Sensing human warmth, the boy stopped moving. His ruined face gazed up blindly. Blood had pooled around the metal plates that stood in place of his eyes. Up close, Verstohlen could see the incisions all over his naked body. There were hundreds of them. This was an act of sadism beyond any he had ever witnessed. His fear began to be replaced with anger.

  He wondered if the wretch could speak. Perhaps he could extract some information, take him back to the Averburg, learn something to his advantage. Even as the thought occurred to him, he dismissed it. Despite all he’d seen, pity had never been driven from him. He felt hot tears of rage form in his eyes. This boy had done nothing to deserve such a fate. Neither had Leonora, nor any of the others who’d suffered under the twisted whims of the great enemy. That was why they fought. If they wavered, if they ever gave in, the whole world would be like this.

  The wretch opened his mouth, exposing the steel teeth. He was trying to speak. Tears of blood ran down his cheeks.

  “K-kill m-me.”

  That was the only thing left, the only decency remaining. Verstohlen brought his blade down. With a shuddering sigh, the ruined body went still.

  Verstohlen rose. His hands still shook, but now with a cold rage. The sickness in Averheim had been uncovered. The proud line of Leitdorf was now a vessel for the will of Chaos. The decision had been made. At any cost, Rufus must be destroyed.

  He began to walk back to the Averburg. It wasn’t clear what he should do. Schwarzhelm was gone. Grunwald was dead. Achendorfer was a traitor. For all he knew, so was Tochfel. Maybe even the Averburg was no longer safe. Not a promising situation.

  But something would occur to him. It always did. With his mind working quickly, scouring possible avenues, looking for every chance, weighing up odds and calculating risk, Verstohlen passed quickly through the night. They’d played their hand well so far, but now the facts were out, the game had changed.

  And they’d made one mistake. Up until now he’d been doing his job dispassionately. Now that had changed. They’d drawn something out of him that his countless victims, perhaps misled by his generally phlegmatic demeanour, had discovered was the very worst thing they could do.

  They’d made him angry.

  Chapter Eleven

  Schwarzhelm brought his steed to a standstill on the ridge. The stallion pulled up reluctantly, stamping and rolling its eyes. The beast was exhausted, its flanks shivering and wet. The ride through the night had been punishing and the day had barely dawned. Dew still hung heavy on the lush grass. In the valleys, pale mist rose lazily from the rivers. As ever in Averland, the scene was one of peaceful beauty.

  Behind him, he could hear the vanguard come to a halt. Further back, the detachments of Averheim cavalry were still riding to catch up.

  Kraus pulled alongside him. He was as impassive as ever.

  “Heideck,” said Schwarzhelm bluntly, gesturing ahead.

  Averland’s second city lay in the valley below, surrounded by its low, thick walls. Like most of the substantial settlements in the province, it had been made rich from trade. The Old Dwarf Road from Averheim to the mountain passes, the great artery of commerce in the southern Empire, ran right through it. Heideck had grown fat on the passing traffic. Its agents were known even outside Averland for being quick to spot the potential for a percentage. Despite being surrounded by lush pasture, few of the richest men in the city were farmers.

  In normal times, the thoroughfares would have been laden with the wains and caravans of the trading guilds. The greenskins, even the rumour of them, had finished all that. As the dawn waxed into early morning, the last of the watch fires smouldered on Heideck’s ramparts. There was no sign of fighting. The road ran down the slope before them, looping over broken ground and the ancient stone bridge crossing the River Pegnitz. It looked calm, prosperous, neat. The red tiled roofs of the merchant houses glowed in the early morning sun.

  “So the greenskins haven’t got this far west,” Schwarzhelm muttered. “If those bastards kept their swords to themselves while Grunwald protected them, I’ll—”

  He didn’t finish and kicked his horse back into motion instead. The animal whinnied in protest, but complied grudgingly. The column started moving again. The stragglers at the back would have no rest at all. Served them right.

  The cavalry picked up pace, travelling swiftly from the high ground down into the Pegnitz Valley. As they neared the city, Schwarzhelm sent a pair of buglers on ahead. The drowsy gatekeepers would no doubt need some warning of his presence. He didn’t plan on knocking on the door.

  Schwarzhelm felt tired but alert. His mind had cleared a little since leaving Averheim. Verstohlen was almost certainly right. He should have stayed in the city. But it was too late for second thoughts. He’d made his decision, and that was an end to it. The greenskins were his only concern now.

  As they rode, Kraus said nothing. The honour guard captain never gave anything away. He never questioned orders, never looked askance. Perhaps that was a failing. Schwarzhelm’s reputation made it hard to disagree with him. Grunwald had never done so. Nor had Gruppen. That was a weakness. His decisions had not been tested enough, and that left the door open to mistakes. He’d become intransigent. Intolerant, even. It was not a quality he liked seeing in himself. It wasn’t one he’d been born with.

  Verstohlen was the only one who ever stood up to him. It was one of the many reasons he valued the spy’s service. The man would have made a good witch hunter, if he hadn’t despised them so much. Too much independence of mind was never a good thing in a Templar of Sigmar. The young Pieter would have probably ended up in their employ anyway if Schwarzhelm hadn’t seen his potential. Verstohlen hated Chaos enough to be a witch hunter. He probably hated Chaos more than any man Schwarzhelm knew. For Schwarzhelm, the great enemy was one among many foes of mankind, each as foul as the next. But Verstohlen reserved a special loathing for the traitor, the heretic and mutant.

  Schwarzhelm knew why, of course. He’d seen Leonora’s body himself after she’d been retrieved from the pits. Back then he hadn’t known who she was. Just another victim of the insanity of a cult, another innocent soul sacrificed on the altar of misguided fervour. The memory of the corpse still made him shudder. She hadn’t given in to them, even at the last, even after all they’d done to her. That level of bravery had been astonishing in one so young. Verstohlen had been destroyed. A young man on the cusp of a scholar’s career. All his learning had been impotent in the face of the raw sadism of the cults. And what was worse, they’d been Templars of Sigmar. The very men charged with hunting down corruption. The watchdogs had turned on those they’d been employed to protect.

  After the cabal had been exposed, Schwarzhelm had hunted the men down personally. All of them. It hadn’t been much consolation, but Verstohlen had been grateful. Grateful enough to devote the rest of his life to Schwarzhelm’s service. The spy had since paid back any debt a thousand times over. Money was no motivation to him, neither was prestige. Schwarzhelm reckoned that nothing much drove him anymore except that one, burning quest. He wouldn’t stop until every last den of heresy was extinguished, every corrupted cabal purged.

  A futile quest, of course. Even Volkmar didn’t believe that the great enemy would ever be truly defeated. All they had was resistance, the endless struggle against an infinite foe. Perhaps Verstohlen knew all that, deep down. If he did, he never admitted it. Every man needed a purpose, a way to keep the nightmares from taking over. That was his.

  The gates of the city drew nearer. The buglers had done their work, and the archway was open. Beyond the gatehouse, Schwarzhelm could see frantic activity.
They were unprepared. Any watchmen they had on duty must have been asleep. That summed up the entire province. Drowsy, lazy and disorganised, even in the face of turmoil in Averheim and greenskins in the east.

  Schwarzhelm picked up the pace, driving the cavalry column into a gallop. By the time the column reached the gates, they were travelling fast. The hooves thundered on the old road, throwing dust high into the air. He didn’t pause at the gatehouse, but continued straight on up the main thoroughfare. The streets were half-empty. The few townspeople out and about rushed to get out of the way,, pressing themselves up against their neatly whitewashed houses. They looked fat. Slow. Lazy. This place had sheltered behind the protection of better men for too long.

  Flanked by Kraus and the honour guard, Schwarzhelm swept through the town and towards the main square. He didn’t need directions. The place had barely changed since he’d last visited it.

  The centre of Heideck was dominated by its merchant guild-funded Halzmann Platz. The wide space was framed on all sides by towering buildings, each decorated with guild symbols and intricate stonework. All the fraternities were represented. Tanners, miners, importers, landowners, money-changers. Each had their own brotherhood, sucking in money from the healthy flows of trade. All of them had spent vast sums on their ornate frontages, and the crests of the wealthy and powerful were all over them. Schwarzhelm recognised the Alptraum coats of arms in more than one place. So they were still powerful here, despite Leitdorfs best efforts. That boded well for Grosslich.

  Once in the centre of the Platz, he called a halt and dismounted. Around him, his guard did the same, their armour clattering against the stone. From the guildhouses, men were beginning to emerge. Some were rubbing their eyes, seemingly uncaring of how ridiculous that made them look. It was too early for them to be at their desks. They must have lived in the huge mansions too.

  From the largest building, a huge baroque edifice of fluted stone with rare coloured glass in its windows, a delegation of sorts filed out to meet him. Its members were dressed in the robes of town officials. At least most of them seemed awake. Schwarzhelm felt distaste stir in his frame. Officials. They were the same across the Empire. Tochfel, Achendorfer, Ferren. The names changed, but their characters never altered.