01 - Sword of Justice

by Chris Wraight - (ebook by Undead)

  The leader of the delegation came up to him and bowed low.

  “My lord Schwarzhelm. You honour us. If we’d known—”

  “Be silent. There are orcs on your doorstep. Where are your men?”

  The man’s face went grey. Next to Schwarzhelm, standing tall in his heavy armour, he looked little more than a child.

  “We have maintained a garrison here, just as we are required to do.”

  Schwarzhelm gave him a disdainful look. He felt like grabbing him by the neck and shaking him.

  “My commander passed through here days ago. What help did you render him?”

  “He asked for none. He was not here long. He headed east.”

  “I know that. What forces did you give him?”

  The official looked confused.

  “None. There were no orders. I don’t—”

  Then Schwarzhelm snapped. His temper always seemed to be on the edge of breaking in recent days. Something about the petty man’s manner, combined with the dull ache of Grunwald’s death, pushed him over. He struck the man viciously with the back of his armoured hand. The official tumbled to the ground, squealing with pain and fright.

  His companions started. Some made to intervene, then crept back, daunted by Schwarzhelm’s presence. Kraus said nothing. Schwarzhelm leaned over the miserable figure of the official. Worm-like, he looked like he was trying to squirm away.

  “You filth,” Schwarzhelm hissed, his face iron-hard. “My commander is dead. He rode out to protect you. If you weren’t so feckless you’d have done the job yourself. No doubt your troops are well fed and watered here while better men died to keep you safe from harm.”

  The man looked up at him, clearly terrified. Schwarzhelm took no enjoyment in his humiliation. The official was nothing. A parasite. Like so many of those in positions of power across the Empire.

  “You’ll release your men into my command immediately. You don’t need papers. You don’t need orders. Anything my men need, you’ll provide. You’ll show Captain Kraus the keys to your treasury chamber. I’ll need gold and supplies. You’ll provide it all. You’ll do it quickly. And you’ll think yourself supremely fortunate you caught me in a good mood this day.”

  The official’s face was fixed in a kind of half-comical terror. Not many men could stand up to Schwarzhelm in full flow. This man wasn’t one of the few that could.

  “Y-yes, my lord,” he stammered. “You’ll get everything you need.”

  Schwarzhelm turned away in disgust. His point had been made. Just looking at the man made him feel nauseous.

  “What next, sir?” asked Kraus.

  “Rouse the garrison. I want them ready to march within the hour. Find fresh horses and re-form the cavalry. Whip those Averlander dogs if you need to. Just get them ready to leave. We don’t have much time.”

  Kraus bowed smartly and set to work. Across the square, orders rang out. Schwarzhelm watched it impassively. Somewhere out there, in all the empty land to the east, the orcs were waiting. If Sigmar willed it, Bloch would be there too, still on his feet. Schwarzhelm knew he needed more men, knew he needed to give the horses water, but all of this would take time. The frustration burned at him. He felt his fingers creep towards the hilt of the Rechtstahl. The spirit of the weapon was eager to be drawn.

  “Soon,” breathed Schwarzhelm, anticipating the slaughter ahead with a grim relish. “Very soon.”

  Ferenc Alptraum gazed out across Averheim. He was high up in his chambers. The ancestral castle, owned by the Alptraums for as long as anyone could remember, was second only to the Averburg in size. It offered him a commanding view. From the curve of the Aver up to the dominating bulk of the Old City, the landscape was studded with fires. The fruit of the power struggle he’d helped to create.

  That wasn’t what he’d wanted. It had never been what he’d wanted. If Rufus hadn’t been so hell-bent on violence, it could all have been avoided. His own men had died. Most were hired scum, but some were not. Members of his family entourage, dragged into the city from Heideck. This wasn’t their fight. The loss of a single one of them grieved him.

  He stepped away from the window. The destruction was depressing. For all that, he couldn’t withdraw. Not now. He’d committed himself to Grosslich. If he let things slip, showed even the slightest sign of weakness, it would be over. Averheim would be ruled by a mad elector again, and the Leitdorf grip on power would be resumed. It could not be allowed to happen.

  In the past, of course, an Alptraum had wielded the runefang. His grandmother, the formidable Ludmila, had governed the Grand County with a silken glove over a fist of iron. Perhaps she’d been too intransigent, too belligerent, trodden on too many people. Even the guilds had no desire to see an Alptraum back in the Averburg. That sad fact had become clear years ago, back when Ferenc had still had designs on the throne himself.

  But he was nothing if not resourceful. When Grosslich emerged, seemingly from nowhere, Ferenc was astute enough to spot a winning horse. Power was a fluid thing. If he could not be the figurehead himself, then he would have to be the next best thing. Grosslich was no man’s fool, but he was a provincial and could be moulded. He needed Alptraum money and Alptraum manpower. Ferenc had provided both.

  He thought of it as a business investment, the kind his family had made for centuries. For all he was supporting Grosslich now, the time would come when the debts would have to be repaid. The fact that the Alptraum name was on the gilt-edged bills would ensure the proceeds flowed directly to him.

  It would be worth it. Anything would be worth it to prevent another mad Leitdorf ruling from the Averburg. Rufus and his damned wife both. Natassja was clever, but she had the looks and morals of a courtesan. There had been rumours about her for months. Where had she come from? What hold did she have over Rufus? The marriage was an embarrassment. The woman dominated him despite her dubious lineage. Though Marius had never been an ideal count, he’d at least married into nobility and not brought his ancient line into complete ridicule. With Natassja, Rufus had made his final mistake. For every addled noble who’d been seduced by her, there were two more who’d do anything to see her banished from the province. Why Rufus couldn’t see that was something only he could answer.

  There was a knock on the door. Ferenc glanced at the elaborate clock mechanism on the wall, one of his proudest possessions. It was early. He wasn’t expecting Heinz-Mark until later. Instinctively, he made sure his dagger was in easy reach. You could never be too careful.

  “Come.”

  The door opened and a manservant appeared.

  “You have a visitor, highness. Schwarzhelm’s counsellor. He craves an audience.”

  That was odd. Ferenc had had almost nothing to do with the elusive Pieter Verstohlen since the selection process had started. Grosslich seemed to think he was nothing more than a functionary. Maybe not.

  “Show him in.”

  The servant withdrew. A moment later, the counsellor appeared. He looked terrible, like a man who hadn’t slept for several days. When Ferenc had last seen him, the man had seemed well groomed, urbane. Now he appeared more like his master, hollow-eyed and dishevelled.

  “Counsellor,” said Ferenc, showing him to a chair. “This is unexpected.”

  Verstohlen said nothing but sat heavily in one of Ferenc’s expertly carved chairs. There was a decanter of wine on the table to hand, and he poured himself a goblet. He took a long draft, then refilled it.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” he said, wiping his mouth.

  “Not at all.” Ferenc sat opposite him. “Have as much as you like.”

  “A Heissmuller, I see. Very nice,” said Verstohlen. He was referring to the chair. Not many men would have known the marque. Despite his appearance, the man had refined tastes.

  “That it is. 1400s. It’s older than the castle.”

  Verstohlen nodded appreciatively. The wine seemed to have restored his equilibrium, though Ferenc noticed that his hands shook slightly as he replaced the deca
nter stopper.

  “What can I do for you, counsellor?”

  “I’ll come to that. First I must enter into confidence with you. Is this place secure? Can we be overheard?”

  “This is my family house. You may speak freely.”

  Verstohlen looked only partly satisfied. His eyes continued to flicker, as if hunting for unseen pursuers. He took another draught of wine.

  “I am a member of Schwarzhelm’s inner circle,” he said. “I use the title counsellor, but my true functions are somewhat more specialised. A man like Schwarzhelm is recognised across the Empire. There are times when he needs information a public figure could never openly obtain. That’s the service I perform for him. Among other things.”

  A spy, then. That in itself was unremarkable. All powerful men had agents working on their behalf. But it was rare for one to voluntarily declare themselves. Verstohlen didn’t look stupid or indiscreet, so there must have been a reason. Ferenc listened carefully.

  “My master is out of the city at present. I suspect he has been drawn there deliberately by those who wish to see the succession battle continue indefinitely. Until recently, I might have suspected you of such motives. Maybe you still have them. As things transpire, it matters not.”

  Ferenc paid close attention, giving nothing away. Verstohlen was speaking frankly. A lesser man might have been offended by the suggestion that the succession had been deliberately prolonged, but Ferenc wasn’t put out in the slightest. They were both men of the world. In any case, it was perfectly true.

  “As part of my work here, I’ve made certain enquiries. They began with rumours concerning joyroot. This led to other things. I’m now certain that my earlier suspicions were correct. There are forces at work that wish to see the Emperor’s Champion removed from the city. They also wish him harm. Their general purpose is clear. The succession will be subverted.”

  Ferenc poured himself a glass and crossed his legs. Everything the spy said hinted at more. Despite his candour, Verstohlen was still being careful. Something had scared him, and for all his polished manners he couldn’t conceal that entirely.

  “Interesting,” said Ferenc, keeping his voice controlled. “I hope you’re not casting your gaze in our direction. For our part, there has never been anything but full cooperation with the Estates and with Lord Schwarzhelm.”

  Verstohlen looked briefly amused, and his worried features lifted.

  “Naturally. You needn’t worry, Herr Alptraum. If I thought you were behind the attempt to divert my master, I’d be having this conversation with your opponents. As it turns out, however, that would be impossible. I’ll not waste your time with evasion. The Leitdorfs have turned to the great enemy. They’re traitors, and their claim to the electorship is now void. Were Schwarzhelm here, he would declare the contest over and enlist your help in destroying them. In his absence, that task is left to me. So I have come to you, through no small peril, to deliver the verdict. Grosslich will be the new Elector of Averland. If he is not, then the province will be given over to damnation.”

  Ferenc felt his heartbeat quicken. He had to work to control it. The spy spoke calmly and with authority. He felt his fingers loosen on his goblet and grasped it more tightly. This was news indeed. If true, it would change everything. The battle would be over. Grosslich would gain the Averburg, and his own long plans would come to fruition at last.

  Ferenc took a deep breath. He’d need to play this carefully The game of power was a subtle one. Verstohlen might be lying. He might be mistaken. He might be a dozen other things, none of them helpful.

  “Why come to me?” As Ferenc spoke, his mind raced ahead, considering the possibilities. All things being equal, having the Emperor’s Champion onboard was a priceless opportunity. But in politics, things were rarely equal.

  “You’re the gatekeeper to Grosslich, just as I am to Schwarzhelm. I could no more gain an audience with him than you could with the Emperor. If I judge things right, then you’re the real power behind his campaign. The Alptraum coffers are still full, and you’ve always known how to use them.”

  Ferenc smiled. The flattery didn’t deceive, even if the man was right.

  “Your insinuation that Grosslich is anything less than the leader of our campaign distresses me. But you’re right to come to me in the first instance. He listens to my counsel. If he’s to take me seriously, though, I’ll need more from you than a rumour. These are serious allegations. I’m loathe to believe them without some form of proof.”

  In actual fact, the more Ferenc thought about it, the more sense Verstohlen’s story made to him. Natassja was surely at the heart of it. She had the look of a witch. Rufus was no doubt the dupe in all this. He couldn’t bring himself to feel sorry for him. The spoiled brat had it coming.

  “I can give you none,” said Verstohlen. “My own testimony is all I have, and I’ve seen the corruption with my own eyes. But consider this. You’ve nothing to lose by answering my call for aid. In Lord Schwarzhelm’s absence, I speak with the authority of the Imperial warrant. The city is in peril. Help me save it, and Karl Franz won’t forget it.”

  They were convincing words. Inwardly, Ferenc found himself persuaded. Grosslich could be brought around. Heinz-Mark would need little argument to mount further attacks on Leitdorf’s forces. As things stood, the turn of events was welcome. Very welcome.

  “You’ve given me much to think about,” Ferenc said, masking his growing enthusiasm. “In the interim, I’ll send word to Heinz-Mark. I can’t speak for him, but, between us, I think you needn’t worry. We all have a duty to protect against corruption.”

  Verstohlen nodded.

  “Good. But time is short. Leitdorf knows his secret has been discovered. Even now, he’ll be mobilising. I don’t know how deep the rot runs. He may have allies. For our own part, we’re in great danger the longer we hesitate. I urged the Steward to summon aid from Nuln before Schwarzhelm left. Even if he’s done so, we’ll need more help. We must summon Schwarzhelm back.”

  “It will be done.”

  “Send a heavily-armed party. The roads are no longer safe.”

  “Worry not. My family’s estates are in the east. I have messengers who know the hidden routes to Heideck and beyond, and there are no faster messengers in Averland. Your message will get through.”

  Verstohlen took another swig of wine. The lines of worry across his brow seemed to be receding somewhat.

  “I’ll stay here for the time being, if I may,” he said, looking slightly sheepish. “The Leitdorfs have a renewed interest in tracking me down, and the Averburg will offer no protection. If Grosslich has any sense, he’ll arm his men quickly and secure this place. We’re on a precipice here.”

  Ferenc sat back in his chair, exuding confidence. The news was dramatic, to be sure, but it boded nothing but good for his prospects. A few cultists could be snuffed out with ease. Grosslich was a formidable commander, for all his political naivety. What was really valuable was the seal of Imperial approval. He, Ferenc Alptraum, could do great things with that.

  “Never fear,” Ferenc said. “You did the right thing to come to me. We’ve restrained our forces until now out of respect for the law. But all that’s changed. We’ve arms, and men, and funds to pay them. Trust me, we’ll have that traitor Leitdorf run out of the city before the week is ended.”

  Verstohlen looked straight back at him. His eyes still bore the signs of some great fear.

  “I hope so, Herr Alptraum,” he said, his voice shaking with vehemence. “By holy Verena, I hope so.”

  The forest was about as cool as anywhere out in the baking eastern countryside. Even under the leaves of the trees, the air was heavy with heat. Flies circled lazily in the ambient warmth.

  Bloch leaned on his halberd, welcoming the shade. He’d got used to the never-ending sun, but he was tired to his bones. The harrying of the orcs, day and night, had strained his nerves and his sinews. He’d lost count of the days. Three? Four? They’d had some luck, it was
true. The bulk of the greenskins had indeed turned back to Grenzstadt, just as the messenger had said. But the last of Grunwald’s forces in that direction must have been long since destroyed. Now bands of orcs roamed the whole eastern marches of Averland, pillaging as they went. The damage they wrought was terrible.

  Bloch looked over the ragtag army he’d managed to salvage from the ruins of Grunwald’s campaign. They were snatching a few moments’ rest under the shade of the trees. Over the past couple of days his forces had grown. More men had got away from the orcs than he’d first thought, and they’d been able to rescue further scattered groups as they’d headed west towards Heideck. There were maybe five hundred of them now, arranged into makeshift companies of a few dozen each, headed by the most experienced soldiers among them. Not much, maybe, but better than nothing. As the orc bands had splintered into smaller packs, they’d even been able to extract some measure of revenge.

  Their bravery was beginning to cost them, though. The orcs weren’t stupid. Despite his best efforts, Bloch couldn’t hide his forces from them forever. Word had got out that a kernel of resistance still existed, and the hunt was on. He didn’t have enough men to stand against them in the open. The only chance was to keep going to Heideck, to consolidate there with whatever forces remained in that garrison and then strike back.

  It wasn’t something he put all his faith in. The men of Heideck, from memory, were soft-bellied fools. But it was all he had.

  “What are your orders, sir?” came a voice from beside him.

  Bloch shook himself out of his introspection. Lars Fischer, his hastily promoted lieutenant, looked at him with weary eyes. The man was an Averlander and had proved invaluable so far. If they ever got to safety, it would be down to the local knowledge that had guided them down hidden paths in the woods and gorges.