“But you know why he did it.”
“Of course. I know many things.”
“Who are you?”
The maw expanded rapidly, and a choking sound slopped out of it. The flesh flapped and fresh eyes burst out across the moving skein. That might have been something like a laugh.
“You know who I am. I’ve been in your dreams for weeks. Your mind is an interesting one, Schwarzhelm. So full of anger. If you knew the damage those emotions caused, I doubt you would think so highly of yourself.”
Schwarzhelm began to advance once again. He knew not to listen to the ravings of a spawn. Perhaps the speaker was a fracture of Lassus’ consciousness. Or maybe something worse. Whatever it was, only a fool listened to the blandishments of Chaos.
“I will discover the truth behind this,” he said, choosing his moment to attack with care. The spawn, seeing the blade come nearer, withdrew in on itself again.
“Be careful what you wish for. The truth can help you, or it can drive you mad. Which do you want?”
“Neither. I wish to uphold the law.”
“As you did in Averheim, then! I look forward to mocking your failure. Just as you have done already. Helborg is dead, and his soul is in torment. You have ruined Averland, Emperor’s Champion. Soon daemons will roost in the eaves of the Averburg and the streets will be lined with screams. This is all your doing. You were our instrument. You were our tool! Hail, herald of Chaos! The Lord of Pleasure salutes you!”
That was enough. Schwarzhelm let rip at last, swinging the Rechtstahl with ferocious abandon. Ignoring the fresh tentacles sent darting in his direction, he hacked and thrashed at the disgusting bag of slime and sinew. The blade rose and fell with astonishing speed and power. There was no pretence at precision, no semblance of control. Like a farmer with the grain flails, he surged through the spawn’s defences, cutting down everything that reached for him.
As the blade carved through the gelatinous surface of the orb, the maw split in several pieces. One mouth let out an unearthly screaming. The others grew spine-like fangs and snapped at him.
Schwarzhelm went straight for the mouths, plunging the sword into each one in turn. Blood the colour of sapphires and garnets spurted out, drenching his hands and chest. Where it touched naked skin it burned like hot wax. He ignored it.
The spawn began to weaken. Its vital essence sluiced across the floor, splashing up against the walls. What little coherence it possessed began to dissipate. Schwarzhelm didn’t relent. He whirled the sword in tighter circles, cutting through the trembling miasma. He was soaked in foul-smelling fluid. The tentacle barbs had lefts welts on his hands and neck. His exposed flesh was scored with pinpricks from where the teeth had bitten.
All were superficial wounds. None of them mattered. Soon the spawn could no longer muster even token attacks. Its flesh slopped from the edge of the Rechtstahl like slurry. The eyes went dark, hard and rolled across the floor like marbles. The screaming subsided to a whimper.
In the end, all that remained amid the pools of liquid was a quivering pile of semi-transparent muscles and sinew. Twisted blood vessels curved around a mockery of a heart. There were a few tufts of human hair and what might once have been a voicebox. All of it was distorted and perverted. Even as Schwarzhelm watched, the pathetic creature tried to mutate further, to shape itself into some kind of viable form. It looked like it was trying to speak again. The voicebox trembled, and new sinews formed on its outer reaches. Something like a fluted mouth began to emerge.
Schwarzhelm raised the Sword of Justice a final time. The edge glinted. He plunged the tip down. It pierced the heart. The remainder of what had been the spawn burst open. In the centre of the pools of plasma and fluid lay a single object. Lassus’ Star of Sigmar. The small iron token lay amid the filth like a mockery.
Ignoring the stench, Schwarzhelm picked it up and cleaned the slime from its surface. He looked down at the reeking mire contemptuously.
“For the Lassus I knew,” he said.
There was no time for either anger or mourning. Schwarzhelm’s mind worked quickly. A clarity had descended over him. There were things he had to do.
He retrieved the decanter of wine from where it lay, still intact and half-full. He poured the contents over the jellied remains of the spawn. He didn’t think of Helborg. To do so now would be fatal. The time for remorse would come later. He left the room, heading for the chamber on the next floor.
Schwarzhelm swept through the narrow house, uprooting chests, emptying boxes, lifting up floorboards. As he did so, the remains of the spawn gurgled in isolation. The fluids ran between the cracks in the floor, seeping into the rugs, pooling in the dark places under the finery.
Eventually, after much searching, Schwarzhelm took only one item from its place. An old iron key, found in a rosewood box under Lassus’ austere single bed. Perhaps it meant nothing. Perhaps it didn’t. There was nothing else of any note.
With that done, he returned to the lower chamber. Everything was as he’d left it. The spawn continued to gurgle. Slowly, unbelievably, some of the liquids were beginning to coalesce again. Schwarzhelm took a flint and struck a spark on to the oily pool of wine and plasma. The mixture kindled immediately, throwing off a strong scent of jasmine.
Schwarzhelm didn’t wait to see the results. Making sure he had the Star of Sigmar and the key with him, he turned on his heel and walked from the room. Behind him the flames caught quickly. On the edge of hearing, he thought he could hear the ghost of screams, an old man crying out in agony.
He kept walking. As he left the house, smoke began to curl from the upper window.
Schwarzhelm passed from the General’s Quarter and headed for the river. A kind of cold resignation had seized him. The guilt was finally rushing back. He saw Helborg’s face. Why are you doing this, Ludwig?
Because of the deception. Because the great enemy clouded all things.
Because they’d known how to exploit the jealousy that lay there already, untouched, ready to be used.
He reached the river. The water was thick, grey and fast moving. Rain whipped at the surface, mottling the surface scum into foam. Far out, industrial barges plied their heavy trade. On the other side, half-lost in the haze of rain and smoke, factories rose into the air. Their brown smoke rose into the polluted air, adding to the stain of the elements. Everything was tainted, old, tired.
His emotions surged through him, as fluid as the spawn’s flesh. It had been Lassus, not Helborg. Lassus.
Schwarzhelm stared into the water for a long time. The brown water stared back. The torrent was heavy, bolstered by the storms upriver. He wouldn’t last long. Not even he, the Emperor’s Champion, defender of the Empire, mightiest general of the Old World. His heavy jerkin would drag him down. The silt would clog his lungs.
He carried on staring. The quayside was deserted. A chill wind, laced with rain, gusted at his coat.
Then his hands slipped to the pommel of the Sword of Justice. His fingers closed around the hilt. He drew it. The metal glinted grey in the filthy light. The insignia of the comet glistened along the long blade.
It was ancient. It had been wielded long before he’d been born. It would be carried on to the field of battle long after he’d gone. His only task was to be a good steward, to carry it faithfully in the time allotted to him.
Schwarzhelm drew the steel surface closer to him. He could see his reflection looking back at him. His expression was savage. The lines of loss were still vivid. All those he’d been close to had gone. He’d been wrong. He had failed. He was alone.
So be it.
He sheathed the sword once more. With a final, parting shot at the mighty Reik, he turned away from the torrent. Any man could fall into error. The test was what he did to rectify it.
As he strode, Schwarzhelm felt some sense of purpose return. His limbs regained some vigour. His mighty heart began to beat again with strength.
He would use the key. He would find a way to contact V
erstohlen. He would return to Averheim somehow. He would seek out Helborg, if he still lived. There was atonement to be made. Restitution. Forgiveness.
He had to go back. Schwarzhelm now knew he’d been wrong about many things, but one above all. He’d thought the battle for the soul of Averheim had been averted, that the corruption had been cut off at source. That was what he’d tried to achieve.
It was not so. His master’s house was burning. People rushed out to see the blaze, gawping and gesturing like puppets. He ignored them. As he strode past the smouldering wreckage and back to the centre of the Imperial capital, he knew the truth of it at last.
The war for Averland had only just begun.
The story will continue in the sequel, Sword of Vengeance.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Chris Wraight is a freelance writer based in the south-west of England. He has written a number of books and short stories for Black Library set in the Warhammer Fantasy universe, starting with Masters of Magic in 2008. His most recent title is Iron Company.
For more information please visit
www.chriswraight.wordpress.com
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