Helborg kept up the pace, trying to sort out the confusion as he went. Near the centre of the fighting he caught sight of a tight knot of men standing in clear ranks, four deep. They were wearing Leitdorf’s own colours, blue and burgundy, rather than the standard yellow and black garb of Averland. Once the personal livery of Marius’ house had been something men had looked to with pride and envy, but since the old count’s descent into madness, it had become a laughing stock. Still, it was distinctive enough, and that was all that Helborg cared about.
“I’ll take that detachment!” he shouted at Skarr, who was still close at hand. “You wheel around for the others.”
The Preceptor nodded and his men, half the company, peeled off to the left. They were closing, but the mass of Averlanders still hadn’t seen the Reiksguard at their backs. Only a few caught sight of their peril and tried to scuttle away. Helborg smiled coldly. It was pointless to run. If he’d truly cared about such small fry, he could pick them off at ease.
Then he was into the bulk of the struggling armies. He crashed into the seething pack of warriors. His steed, trained for war, ploughed straight through the rival groups of men, hardly breaking stride. Some laggards were dragged under its hooves, others cut down by his sword. Their screams were added to the general cacophony.
Once in their midst, Helborg began to slice his way towards the Leitdorf mob at the centre. Any soldiers in his way were slammed aside or carved down with the Klingerach. The noble blade was wasted on such scum, but it bit through their flesh just the same.
His men stayed at his shoulder, arranged into a tight wedge. Such a charge from the Reiksguard had been known to crush whole regiments of heavily-armed Chaos warriors. Smashing aside these mere dogs of war was, by comparison, hardly worth breaking a sweat over.
One of Leitdorf’s sergeants, a bulky man wearing the blue and burgundy of the bloodline, tried to organise some kind of resistance. A row of spearmen began to form in the midst of the melee, clearly intended to frustrate the cavalry charge. They didn’t realise who they were up against. Helborg rode straight at him. That was just insolent.
As he neared, a couple of spear-tips were lowered in his direction. He evaded them with ease and caught up with the portly captain. A single thrust of the Klingerach was all it took, and the man slid to the ground, his neck severed. That seemed to dim the enthusiasm of the rest, and they dropped their spears and ran. Leitdorfs defences had been torn apart. Helborg allowed himself a grunt of satisfaction. His prey was in sight.
Schwarzhelm was back in Averheim, his steed’s hooves clattering on the stone. Behind him, his bodyguard struggled to keep up with him and began to fall back. They didn’t matter. His escort was little more than a formality in any case. He needed no protection. Since seeing the city again, he was in no mood to let them catch up.
As soon as he’d passed the eastern gate and entered the Old City, he could feel the sense of oppression settle in his bones again. He hated the place. He hated its lore-masters and their obsession with procedure, he hated the sleepless nights in the sweltering heat, but most of all he hated the arrogant electoral candidates with their lust for power. Both could have learned something from Lassus, a man who had achieved everything but coveted nothing. There were none like him left in the Empire. They lived in a debased generation.
Schwarzhelm pressed the horse hard, urging it harshly onward through the empty streets. Signs of destruction were everywhere. The citizens had either been pressed into the armies of one of the rival counts, or cowered in their homes, or had left the city entirely. It lent Averheim an eerie, semi-populated feel.
He passed beneath the Averburg swiftly, not bothering to detain himself there. It was obvious where the fighting was. Huge columns of smoke rose into the air from the western end of the city, across the river and into the poorer areas. That was where he’d be needed.
As he rode, he drew the Rechtstahl from its scabbard. It was late afternoon, and the warm sun reflected in its surface like flame. Schwarzhelm gazed along its unsullied length. The blade had already tasted much blood since his arrival in Averland. It would do so again. The greenskins had suffered under its keen edge. Now its wrath would be reserved for the great enemy, the bane of mankind.
Ignoring the increasingly ragged breathing of the horse, he kicked his steed on faster. Though ground down by days of fighting, his spirit sapped by sleepless night and visions of terror before dawn, he was still the wielder of the Sword of justice. In the mood he was in, there were few who could stand before him. Perhaps only one other in the entire Empire.
Schwarzhelm knew the decision to leave had probably been a mistake. He knew he’d endangered the city. But that was behind him now. He was back, and he could finally put his anger to good use. There would be no more debates, no more tedious discussions of the law. The time of the loremasters was over. Now the matter at hand would be decided by the warriors, just as in the days of Sigmar.
Helborg smiled and brought his steed to a halt. Around him, the Reiksguard did the same. They were in the heart of the fighting, but none dared approach them. Ahead of them, Rufus Leitdorf was still surrounded by his bodyguard. They had the best of the armour he was able to afford. The man himself looked terrified, but there was nowhere for him to go. Frantically, he pushed his protectors forward, urging them to form a barrier.
That was fairly pointless. A footsoldier in their position stood little chance against a fully-armoured knight. And Helborg was no ordinary knight. He pondered spurring his charger straight through them, scattering them and riding down their master. It was an attractive thought.
No. Leitdorf deserved more than that. For all his youthful arrogance, the man had noble blood in him. That counted for much with Helborg. When the Empire lost its respect for rank, for the discipline of social standing, then all would be lost. If there was one thing he couldn’t stand, it was the rabble and their pathetic aspirations. Even a mad count was better than a sane peasant.
With a flamboyant swing he dismounted, landing easily and bringing his horse to a standstill. Around him, the rest of the Reiksguard did the same. Leitdorf’s men made no attempt to engage them. Most stood open-mouthed, staring at the knights as if Sigmar himself had come to visit. Several of them fled, preferring their odds against Grosslich’s rabble.
Rufus Leitdorf was less visibly cowed by Helborg’s arrival. To his credit, he didn’t back away but strode up to Helborg, sword in hand. As he did so, he pulled his helmet from his head, revealing his sweat-streaked face. He looked furious. In another man it might have been impressive. In the face of Kurt Helborg it merely looked petulant.
“What is this?” he spat, jabbing his finger at the Marshal. “What are the Reiksguard doing here?”
Helborg took off his helmet, making a concealed gesture as he did so. His troops fanned out around him, forming a cordon within the centre of Leitdorf’s makeshift army. For the moment at least, the count had been taken out of the fighting.
“Perhaps you don’t know who I am,” said Helborg, fixing him with a cold stare.
Leitdorf, against his best interests, didn’t seem deterred in the slightest.
“I know exactly who you are, Grand Marshal. And I ask you again, by what right do you intervene in this affair?”
Helborg checked the progress of the fighting all around them before replying. Behind the steel shield of the Reiksguard the struggle between the opposing groups still went on.
“Word reached me in Nuln that the succession here had descended into anarchy. I’ve seen it for myself. You should thank me, Herr Leitdorf. It doesn’t look like things are going your way.”
Rufus looked to be working hard to control his anger.
“So this is how the just and fair Imperial authorities conduct themselves,” he spat. “Is it not enough that the madman Schwarzhelm sides with my rival, in defiance of all law? Must I contend with the both of you? Are there not wars in the north to fight, Marshal?”
Helborg stopped in his tra
cks. That didn’t sound like Schwarzhelm. He was scrupulously fair. Annoyingly so.
“The Lord Schwarzhelm does not take sides. He is the Emperor’s representative.”
Leitdorf gave him a contemptuous look.
“Is that so? Then tell me why his adviser has been offering them his exclusive counsel. Tell me also why he’s been spreading lies about my loyalty to the Empire and why he went to Ferenc Alptraum to incite him to this violence. Believe me, general, I wanted none of this. Why would I provoke a war with Grosslich when he has such men working for him? It would be madness. It is madness.”
Helborg turned to the knight on his left, a tall Nordlander with a shock of blond hair. “Can you make out Skarr? Grosslich?”
“No, my lord. Not yet.”
Helborg turned back to Leitdorf. His expression was dark. He didn’t like feeling as if he’d been dragged into something under false pretences. Whatever Schwarzhelm had done here, he’d better have a damned good explanation for it. The whole thing was a shambles.
“Herr Leitdorf, I am taking you into my protective custody,” said Helborg, motioning for the Reiksguard to assume the place of the man’s own bodyguard. “I don’t know the rights and wrongs of this, but I won’t stand by and let you butcher each other on the strength of rumours. This thing ends now.”
Leitdorf laughed, though the sound was bitter and shrill.
“So you say. But you might have more on your hands than you think. Here comes my rival. I don’t think he likes what your men have done to his army. Will you fight him too, or is this all just for show?”
Helborg whirled round. On the east side of the Vormeisterplatz, trumpets had been sounded. Over the heads of the men around him, Helborg could see fresh cavalry charging into the fray. At their head was a tall man in full battle-armour. Beside him was a squadron of armoured riders. In the front rank was a man wearing a leather coat and a wide-brimmed hat. He looked far too familiar for comfort.
Schwarzhelm’s man, the counsellor. Could Leitdorf have been telling the truth?
“Damn them all,” he muttered, before turning back to the Nordlander. “This is getting ridiculous. Find a horse for the elector. He comes with us.”
“We’re withdrawing?”
Helborg gave him a shocked look. “Are you mad? Skarr needs reinforcing. We’ve taken the head from one army. It’s time we did the same for the other.”
With that, he pulled himself back into the saddle. All around him, his guard did the same. Leitdorfs troops looked on helplessly as their leader was plucked from their midst. They seemed unsure whether to keep fighting at all. Unfortunately, their choice was being made up for them. Grosslich’s men were pressing home the advantage. The brawl was becoming a massacre.
“Follow my lead,” growled Helborg, lowering the Sword of Vengeance and pointing out Grosslich amid the advancing cavalry. “Kill those around him if you have to, but we take the leader alive.”
The Reiksguard swung their horses round as one. With a single command, the phalanx moved off, smashing aside any foolish enough to get in their way.
As he rode through the sea of men, all struggling against each other in an increasingly pointless battle, Helborg felt his mind racing. The whole situation had descended into farce. Dark farce.
“Damn you Schwarzhelm,” he muttered, keeping his eyes fixed on the approaching front rank of Grosslich’s troops. “What have you done here?”
Verstohlen caught up with Grosslich just as the cavalry vanguard thundered into the Vormeisterplatz. As he rode alongside the elector, Heinz-Mark flashed him a wide grin. “You catch up fast!” he cried.
Verstohlen said nothing in reply. His pistol felt reassuringly heavy in his hand, but his heart still misgave him. Grosslich’s forces looked impressive, but they’d be no match for the servants of Chaos. At each turn, at every corner, he still expected to see Natassja’s honors burst into view. He earnestly hoped he was wrong.
“There they are!” cried Grosslich as they careered around the final bend and galloped into the square. Behind them, trumpets sounded. The cavalry vanguard streamed into the Vormeisterplatz. Three hundred horsemen, all armed with the best weapons Alptraum money could buy, all eager for the hundred crown bounty. When they sighted Leitdorf’s beleaguered army, a cry of scorn and mockery broke out across their ranks.
“Euler’s done well,” shouted Verstohlen, his eyes scanning the battle before them. Leitdorf’s troops were pinned back, locked behind ranks of Grosslich’s men. The fighting was already fierce. It would be mere moments before they were plunged into the thick of it.
“That he has. We’ll finish this today!”
Grosslich looked carried away by his battle-rage. As he rode, he swung his heavy broadsword around him. His eyes glittered with the strange joy that some men took in killing. Unlike Leitdorf, this man was every inch the warrior.
“What are those riders?” asked Verstohlen. They were closing fast. Amid the press of infantry, mounted knights were heading in their direction. “Mother of Sigmar, they’re Reiksguard!”
He looked across at Grosslich in alarm. How did Leitdorf come to have Reiksguard fighting for him? The gap between the riders closed further. They were less than a hundred yards away.
“Grosslich, those are the Emperor’s troops! Pull back!”
Grosslich shot him an impatient look. The light of battle was in his eyes. With a terrible certainty, Verstohlen suddenly realised he wasn’t going to stop.
“I don’t care who they are,” he roared. “If they’re protecting Leitdorf then I’ll kill them too! This is my province, and my war!”
With that, he kicked his horse savagely and thundered towards the approaching knights. Helpless to prevent him, Verstohlen followed in his wake. His finger slipped from the trigger. He suddenly remembered his advice to Tochfel, and began to realise what was happening. This wasn’t what he wanted at all. If Grosslich took on the Reiksguard, there could be only one result.
He spurred his horse on, tearing across the remaining ground. With teeth gritted, unsure what he’d do when he arrived, Verstohlen charged into the heart of the combat.
Schwarzhelm finally felt his strength begin to flag. Perhaps he’d pushed himself too far. Even with the sun dipping in the sky, the heat dragged at him. This was the end of the long trek. He was in the heart of the city, less that a mile from his destination. Whatever had transpired in his absence he’d soon find out. Something told him he wouldn’t like what he found.
His bodyguard still followed, but they were lagging. If things hadn’t been so pressing he’d have stopped to give them some respite, but there was no chance of that. Averheim was aflame, and there was no time to attend to the weakness of the body. They would have to catch up when they could.
Schwarzhelm passed quickly over the bridges and into the poor quarter of the city. The streets were narrower there and clogged with the effects of the rioting. Some buildings had been half-ruined, their broken walls tumbling into the street. Refuse was everywhere, some of it smouldering where the gangs had set it alight, all of it stinking.
He knew exactly where he was going. Two huge palls of smoke hung heavily over the west of the city. The sound of men clashing echoed down the narrow alleyways. Whatever Leitdorf had unleashed had been cornered in that place. The sooner he arrived there to snuff out his heresy, the better.
As he neared his destination, the sounds of battle grew louder. The air was thick with the acrid smoke of the fires. He passed men running down the streets, some towards the fighting, some away. He ignored them. They themselves seemed to have very little idea what was going on. As was ever the case, when men of the Empire fought amongst themselves, allegiances were quickly confused. There was no honour in such fighting, just the petty satisfaction of the few noblemen who benefited. It sickened his heart.
He was nearly there. Just a few more streets, passing in a flash, and he emerged into a wide square. He took the scene in. Two forces, each numbering many hundreds, were fight
ing at close quarters on the far side of the space. He recognised the livery of both Leitdorf and Grosslich, though he could see neither of the rivals. The combat looked vicious and disorganised. The mass of infantry was locked together in a bloody melee. It was unclear which side had the mastery. To his relief, Schwarzhelm neither saw nor detected any sign of Chaos. These were mortal men struggling, the kind that had been fighting sporadically in the city ever since he’d arrived.
He pressed on. Every lurch of the horse carried him nearer. Faces began to come into focus, formations began to clarify. He needed to find Verstohlen. The spy would be at the thick of it, no doubt with Grosslich. Schwarzhelm stood up in the saddle, craning to make out what was going on. Everything was fluid, everything was in motion. Some men ran up to him, trying to waylay him before he could join the fray. The Rechtstahl cut them down with almost contemptuous ease. He whipped the horse faster, bearing down on the core of the fighting.
He saw Leitdorf first. The flamboyant armour was hard to miss. The man still wore a cape of blue and burgundy, just as his father had done. He didn’t ride alone. He was surrounded by a bodyguard of knights. They looked terrifyingly efficient, carving their way through Grosslich’s troops with a cold precision that reminded him of…
Reiksguard. Schwarzhelm felt his heart nearly stop. He pulled his horse to a standstill. The beast skidded to a halt, whinnying in protest. Even in the midst of the conflict, with men fighting and falling on either side of him, Schwarzhelm stood as still as a graven image. A terrible feeling had come over him, as if the nightmares of his past had suddenly caught up and become real before his eyes.
Helborg was there. Fighting with the traitor. His mind flashed back to the eyeless corpses in the barn. There are plenty in Altdorf who would like to wield the Rechtstahl in your place.
It couldn’t be. He wouldn’t believe it.
He nudged the horse into a walk, still unsure, still hesitant. The battle around him passed into a blur. All he could see was his great rival, master of the Reiksguard, laying into Grosslich’s men with his familiar gusto. And at his side was Rufus Leitdorf, the architect of Averheim’s ruin, grinning stupidly, surrounded by an honour guard he scarcely deserved.
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