01 - Sword of Justice

by Chris Wraight - (ebook by Undead)

  Schwarzhelm pressed home the attack. He could feel raw power coursing through his sinews. His wrath was what propelled him now. After so many days of frustration, of fatigue, of whispering against him, of weasel-worded legal arguments, the canker at the heart of Averheim had been unveiled.

  He kept the sword moving, adjusting his body minutely to compensate for its every stroke. They said the elven Sword Masters felt like this, lost in the perfect symmetry of stroke and counter-stroke. He and the weapon were fused together, each an extension of the other.

  The time had come to finish it. Schwarzhelm went for the kill. His blade whirled, blood-red in the firelight. Helborg fought back, meeting the heavy blows expertly, warding what he could. But the Marshal was weakened. He’d lost blood from his thigh. He wasn’t fighting with his full commitment. Something was holding him back. Something weighed him down. This wasn’t the Helborg who’d bested him a dozen times on the training grounds of Altdorf.

  The opening came. Helborg brought his sword up in another defensive move. As he drew back, his foot turned on the stone. He stumbled and the blade dropped out of the position.

  A whip of lightning scored across the heavens. For a split second, Helborg’s body was illuminated in stark relief. The chance was there, beckoning him.

  Schwarzhelm pounced. Summoning all the energy that remained to him, he plunged the Sword of Justice downwards. As if drawn by the prospect of blood, the blade nearly flew from his hands.

  It bit deep, carving through armour and into the flesh beyond. The metal sheered between spaulder and breastplate, unerringly finding the weak spot in the Marshal’s exquisite armour.

  Helborg roared with pain. His whole body tensed. Blood spurted high into the air. Schwarzhelm felt it splatter against his face. The liquid seared him as if it had been boiling oil. He withdrew the blade and staggered back, wiping his eyes.

  Helborg slumped to the ground, clutching his shoulder. His sword clattered to the stone harmlessly. The Marshal shot Schwarzhelm a final glance, one of mingled anger, pain and betrayal. Then he collapsed face down on to the stone, his blood spreading across the flags.

  A peal of thunder boomed across the city. It felt like the arch of the sky was cracking. Schwarzhelm suddenly felt his store of violent energy drain from him. He stood like a graven image, staring at his stricken brother.

  The man was broken. And he had done it.

  The world around seemed suddenly insubstantial and shifting. Rage was replaced by guilt, violence with grief. It was as if a mask of madness had fallen from him. He started forward; hands outstretched towards his old rival, his sparring partner, his friend.

  His victim.

  “Marshal!” The voice belonged to one of the Reiksguard. They’d seen their master cut down too.

  Schwarzhelm whirled around. There were knights backing up towards him. They were being attacked in their turn. He could make out horsemen wearing Grosslich’s colours bearing down on the steel lines. They would break. They were breaking.

  Schwarzhelm felt the indecision paralyse him. He didn’t know what to do. There was movement all around him. His certainty had vanished, his will had snapped. He stood immobile.

  I have killed him, he thought. The mantra repeated over and over in his head, paralysing him. Sigmar forgive me. I have killed him.

  Then the Reiksguard lines broke. Grosslich was breaking through, and the Imperial knights fell before the onslaught. They ignored Schwarzhelm. Several galloped over to the stricken Helborg. With peerless horsemanship, they swept him up into the saddle. The Klingerach stayed on the stone, forgotten.

  Schwarzhelm watched it all take place impotently. Horses veered past him on either side. His fingers felt loose around the hilt of the Rechtstahl. The events before him unfolded as if in one of his nightmares. He was just a spectator.

  Grosslich’s men streamed across the square, pursuing the fleeing Reiksguard. Leitdorf rode along with the Imperial knights, surrounded by stern-faced protectors. He cast a fleeting look at Schwarzhelm as he was carried away. His expression was one of terror, like a child caught up in games it doesn’t understand.

  Then they were gone, riding into the night and towards the flames. Grosslich’s men thundered after them, Heinz-Mark at their head. So many.

  Schwarzhelm remained unmoving. His face dripped with blood. Helborg’s blood. Amid all the tumult, still no one approached him. As if warned away by some unnatural force, the swordsmen stayed away.

  All except one. Verstohlen dismounted. The spy walked up to him, concern etched on his face.

  “You answered my call,” he said.

  Schwarzhelm didn’t reply. He couldn’t take his eyes off the Klingerach, lying discarded on the stone. He walked over to the sword and picked it up. He held the blades together for a moment, comparing the lengths of steel. They were so alike. Only the notch in the Sword of Vengeance marked it out. Otherwise, they were sister weapons.

  Verstohlen came to his side.

  “You were right to stop him, my lord. Even the mightiest can turn to darkness.”

  Schwarzhelm turned to face him. All around them, men streamed from the square. The remainder of Leitdorf’s forces were being hunted down. What-fighting remained was brutal and self-contained. The murderous chase had begun through the streets and alleys of Averheim.

  “Darkness has been at work here,” said Schwarzhelm thickly. The words left his throat with effort. “Your words bring me no comfort.”

  “They should. Leitdorf would have turned this place into a slaughterhouse. You can feel it in the air.”

  Schwarzhelm looked off into the distance. His eyes swept the square, now littered with bodies.

  “He was the mightiest of us all, Pieter. Never have I regretted a kill to this day. And now…”

  He felt his voice begin to break, and tailed off. If this was victory, it left a bitter taste. He lingered for a moment longer, staring at the spot where Helborg had fallen. Then he finally turned, allowing himself to be led from the scene by Verstohlen. Slowly, haltingly, the two men walked from the battlefield. Behind them, the last of the fighting in the square limped to its bloody conclusion. None hindered their passing.

  Through war and treachery, the succession of Averland had been decided. Heinz-Mark Grosslich would take up the runefang, and Leitdorf would be cast into damnation.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Hundreds of miles away at the other end of the province, Bloch looked up at the looming peaks of the Worlds Edge Mountains, darkening quickly as the sun went down. Though his army was still in the pasture country of Averland’s eastern marches, the land was now rising steeply. Soon they’d be in the foothills, the treacherous, uneven landscape they’d surveyed before encountering the orcs. Then their path would take them higher, far up the winding gullies and coombs towards Black Fire Pass.

  He felt a shiver pass through him. After so many days of unremitting heat, the weather had begun to turn at last. With the sunset, the air had chilled appreciably. He pulled his cloak around him. Perhaps the summer was finally coming to an end.

  “Cold, commander?”

  Kraus had a look of mild amusement on his weather-beaten face. The man didn’t say much, but Bloch was still glad to have him at his shoulder. Schwarzhelm had been generous to lend the honour guard captain to him for the remainder of the campaign. Either that, or he didn’t quite trust Bloch enough to lead an army on his own.

  “Not as cold as I’m going to be,” he muttered.

  He looked back over the column behind him. Over two thousand men, all well rested and resupplied, followed him and Kraus along the Old Dwarf Road. The men had proper weapons and armour again. They looked in good spirits. A baggage train, stocked with food and barrels of ale, trundled along in their wake. The folk of Grenzstadt had been grateful for the relief from the orc attacks. To provision the army that had saved them was the least they could have done, but the stocks were still appreciated. After all those days living hand-to-mouth in the wilderness,
it certainly made a change.

  Beyond the toiling figures of the troops, the wide landscape of Averland yawned away towards the horizon. Even in the failing light, Bloch could see for miles. The road ran like a ribbon across the gently rolling hills, heading west towards Grenzstadt. The town itself lay in the distance, looking peaceful and prosperous. Unlike Heideck, the place had defended itself well from the remnants of the orc raiders and the task of relieving it had been straightforward. Now the few greenskin stragglers had been driven up into the hills and the campaign had entered its final stages.

  After Grenzstadt the plains gradually disappeared into the haze of the gathering sunset. Far on the western horizon, it looked like rain clouds were gathering. A storm, even. That would be welcome for those who’d endured the oppressive heat for so long. Maybe things were changing at last. Out here, Schwarzhelm’s pessimism seemed strangely misplaced.

  “Have you traversed the pass before, Herr Kraus?” Bloch asked, turning from the view.

  “Many times. But not always to fight. It is a holy place, after all.”

  Bloch knew what he meant. For all the cathedrals to Sigmar across the Empire, the high pass through the Worlds Edge Mountains was still the place where children learned of the deeds of their God-Emperor. It was in the narrow defiles, lost in the wearing years, where the race of men had teetered on the edge of oblivion and had been pulled back by the actions of a single man.

  “Aye, that it is.” For once, Bloch couldn’t think of a wry comment. There were some things a loyal Empire soldier didn’t joke about.

  He turned back to the march. They had a long haul to get past before the first of the many massive granite crags that reared above them, flecked with white and scored with a thousand cracks and gullies. Beyond that, the way would get harder. These roads weren’t travelled lightly, even in summer. He felt the shiver return, and worked to quell it. It wouldn’t do to look weak before the men, many of whom had fought as hard as he had to get there alive.

  But there was one nagging feeling in the back of his mind that wouldn’t leave him. The Black Fire Pass was heavily guarded. As the only route into Averland from outside the Empire, a whole garrison of seasoned soldiers was stationed at the mouth of the pass in order to seal the narrow passage. They should have been able to hold the greenskins back. That was what they were there for. Either there was some explanation for the incursion, or the keep in the mountains would be full of bodies. Neither of those choices filled Bloch with enthusiasm for the climb ahead.

  He put his head down and kept walking. There was nothing for it but to keep going. Schwarzhelm had charged him with discovering what had happened at Black Fire Pass, and he wouldn’t return before he’d uncovered the mystery.

  Pieter Verstohlen awoke late. He shifted and immediately felt the stabbing pains in his muscles. For a moment, he didn’t register where he was. Then the events of the previous night came rushing back. He could still taste the ash from the fires on his lips. He lay still for a moment, remembering. They were not pleasant memories.

  After a while, he pushed the covers back with stiff hands. It was nearly midday, but his chamber was still dark, shuttered against the bright sun. His chest was clammy from the heat. Even after the thunderstorm during the night, Averheim was still warm.

  Gingerly, he swung his legs from the sheets and limped over to the window. He pulled the shutters open and sunlight flooded in. His chamber was high up in the western front of the Averburg. He had a commanding view over the entire city. The Aver lay far below, glittering in the sun. It looked somehow cleaner. The last of the fires had burned themselves out. The palls of smoke that had hung over the city had cleared. The storm had done some good in dousing them.

  There was a pitcher of clear water by the sill. Verstohlen took a long swig. He felt the cool liquid run down his throat, soothing his parched flesh. He reached up and carefully felt for the bloody lump on the side of his head. His hair was matted with dry scabs and the flesh beneath was tender. That had been a hard fall. Not a very distinguished way to receive a battlefield wound, even from so mighty a hand.

  There was a quiet knock on the door. Verstohlen reached for a robe and wrapped himself in it.

  “Come.”

  Tochfel entered. The man looked tired. How long had it been since Verstohlen had last seen him? Many days ago. The last hurried conversation they’d snatched seemed like an age away.

  “I’ve tried to see you twice already,” the Steward said. “I wondered if you’d sleep all day.”

  Verstohlen smiled politely. If the old fool had been in the midst of the fighting himself, he might have been less snide.

  “Take a seat, Steward. How have you been?”

  Tochfel pulled a chair from by the wall. Verstohlen sat on the side of bed. As the straw mattress yielded, he found himself wishing he could crawl back under the sheets. The rest had been too short.

  “There’ve been some… adjustments to make here.” Tochfel looked rueful. “Ferenc Alptraum runs this place now. He’s retained my services in the meantime. That’s something, I suppose.”

  “There’ve been many hasty decisions made recently,” said Verstohlen. “Some of them may have to be rescinded. Where is the Lord Schwarzhelm?”

  “He sleeps still. Since you both returned, none have dared to rouse him. Perhaps you’d noticed that beforehand he’d not seemed to be sleeping too well. We can hope, perhaps, that the rest will make him less… unpredictable.”

  “He’s always been unpredictable. And there have been forces working against him that would have killed a lesser man. Against all of us. Verena willing, we’ve ended that now.”

  Tochfel nodded. “I think that is becoming apparent, even to those who doubted him.”

  “And where’s Grosslich?”

  “The Elector Designate still rides. Leitdorf has not been found. But the city is being purged of his followers. The witch hunters have been summoned.” At that, Tochfel gave Verstohlen a look of reproach. “Perhaps they should have been summoned days ago, when some of you first had suspicions.”

  Verstohlen raised an eyebrow. “A criticism, Herr Tochfel?”

  The Steward quickly averted his eyes. “I’m sure you acted as you thought best. In any case, Lord Alptraum has commissioned Odo Heidegger, an experienced hand in such matters. Our own Temple in Averheim seems to have been… disturbed by the recent events, and there are no witch hunters to be found in the city.” Tochfel gave Verstohlen a significant look, as if to suggest that fact was hardly coincidental. “Heidegger is master of the Temples on the Alptraum ancestral lands. He’ll be in Averheim soon. Then the rooting out of heresy will begin in earnest.”

  Verstohlen felt his heart sink at the prospect. It could hardly be opposed, given what had happened, though the thought of more savagery being unleashed depressed him.

  “Ferenc’s moved quickly. Until Grosslich receives the runefang, Schwarzhelm is still the authority here.”

  “What would you have him do? It is the great enemy we’re dealing with here.”

  Again, the tone was accusatory.

  “You seem to have come around to his mastery with some speed, Herr Tochfel,” said Verstohlen, looking at the steward carefully. “Grosslich will replace you as ruler of this city. Do you not mind that?”

  Tochfel smiled sadly.

  “Such is life. The right choice has been made.”

  “And what of Alptraum?”

  “As I say, he commands the Averburg. He was marshalling the defences here while Lord Grosslich was fighting last night. I gather that decision did not go down well. Alptraum thought it important to ensure that certain records in our archives were… looked after. His family has a long history in this place. Perhaps there are facts he would rather weren’t widely available.”

  “Understandable.” Verstohlen began to cast his mind forward. The worst of the fighting was over but there was still much to do before Averheim could return to normal. Grosslich would have to be invested. The wit
ch hunters, regrettably enough, were best qualified to root out the last of Leitdorfs heresy. A court of inquiry would no doubt be set up. And of course there were still mysteries to uncover about the Reiksguard.

  “You say Leitdorf is still at large. Where is his wife?”

  “Nothing has been seen of her. Troops are moving through the city as we speak, hunting her down.”

  “I should be with them,” said Verstohlen, rising from the bed.

  Tochfel raised his hand warningly.

  “There will be time for that, counsellor. If you place weight on anything I say, I’d counsel you to rest a little longer. The coming days will be hard on all of us. Enjoy some respite while you can.”

  Verstohlen hesitated. The man spoke sense, though it was not in his nature to rest while others laboured.

  “Very well,” he said, relaxing. “I’ll dress and be with you shortly.”

  Tochfel rose awkwardly. It looked like he’d aged years over the past few weeks. No doubt such excitement was not what he’d hoped for out of life.

  “Perhaps we can talk again later,” he said, moving to the door. “There are some things about this affair I still don’t understand.”

  Verstohlen knew what he meant.

  “That would be good, Steward,” he said, trying to keep his voice untroubled. “No doubt we shall have much to discuss.”

  Schwarzhelm sank further into the deep, deep pool of sleep. He felt like he was floating in a vast, warm abyss. The layers of water pressed down on him, enveloping him, imprisoning him, protecting him. The outside world was a lifetime away. Its cares, its terrors, were all hidden. As long as he languished in the deep places, they couldn’t reach him. He was alone, forgotten, safe.

  He dived down further, pushing against the languid water, feeling it slide past his battered body. There was nothing around him. No fish, no drifting plants. This was the isolation he had always craved, the sense of being alone he hadn’t enjoyed since being a child.

  Then he saw it, far below. A shape, tumbling down into the infinite darkness. It spun lazily in the current, twisting and falling. Schwarzhelm kicked his legs and plunged towards it. His powerful limbs pushed him through the water. Long before he reached the tumbling form below, he knew what it was. He tried to stop then, but his momentum carried him down and down. The water grew darker and colder. Suddenly he became aware how far he’d come. He might not be able to return, even if he wanted to.