[Heroes 01] - Sword of Justice

by Chris Wraight - (ebook by Undead)

  Breathing heavily, he swung his feet to the stone floor and padded over to the window. Naked, he stood before the open pane and looked across the city below. His heartbeat was returning to normal. Another nightmare. Where were they all coming from? He hadn’t had an unbroken night’s sleep for a fortnight. It wasn’t good for him. He could feel his tiredness growing during the daylight hours.

  He took a deep breath and gazed out over the rooftops. It was the deep of the night. Altdorf slept, at least in patches. A few fires still burned here and there, and the towers of the Celestial College retained their habitual blue aura. The memory of the dream was fading. The cool night air was clearing his head. Amidst the foul odours of the street, there were new smells. Summer was gradually coming, and even in Altdorf that sweetened the air.

  He turned from the window and looked grimly at his disarranged bed. He knew he’d get no sleep now. Not for the first time, he regretted living on his own. He’d had women in the past, of course. The last had been Katerina, the Amethyst wizard. Perhaps he’d been wrong to break it off with her. Perhaps he hadn’t. He’d never been good with women. That was another kind of warfare he was no use at. He never knew what they wanted from him and they never knew what he wanted from them.

  Just then though, with his mind plagued by the memory of the nightmare, he couldn’t help but think it would have been good to have a warm body in the bed beside him. Someone to protect. And maybe, though it was harder to countenance, to protect him. That was what nearly every man in the Empire, no matter how mean and baseborn, had. Something to care about. Something to make the fighting worthwhile. Something to come home to.

  He sat on the bed. In the corner of the room, the Rechtstahl had been hung. It was sheathed and the scabbard shone dully in the moonlight. The runes of its dwarfen makers were picked out in lines of silver. It was as impassive and uncaring as ever.

  Schwarzhelm lay back on the sheets. He was due to ride in the morning. He needed some sleep. Verstohlen would want to ply him with the information he’d gathered, and his mind would have to be alert.

  He let his great body relax, feeling the wooden frame of the bed creak under the weight. He closed his eyes, blotting out the moonlight, wrapping himself in darkness. He let his heart rate slow. Like any warrior, he was used to grabbing rest where he could. Normally, he’d be able to drift off in any situation. He tried all the tricks.

  He knew it was useless. Even if he found sleep, his dreams would be vivid. He couldn’t relax, couldn’t let go.

  Just like all the others, this would be a long night.

  Chapter Six

  The city of Averheim rose above the River Aver some three-hundred miles south-east of Altdorf. By the time a traveller had passed from the Reikland, through the free city-state of Nuln and into the province of Averland, the country had changed drastically. Gone were the powerful, ancient and gnarled forests that dominated the heart of the Empire. The south-eastern reaches of Karl Franz’s domain were formed of rolling hills and wide rivers. The earth was rich, the grass lustrous. In a fertile triangle between the Aver, the Upper Reik and the Worlds Edge Mountains, the people of Siggurd had carved out a prosperous way of life. Their cattle were the finest in the world and their horses not far behind. The province was studded with small, self-contained villages. Each of them sat amidst acres of productive land. So complacent had the populace become that many of the settlements had let their protective walls fall into ruin. Without an elector to coordinate the defence of the realm, the fractious militia were a tithe of their former strength.

  Most Averlanders saw little reason to change this. Apart from mild irritations, such as the unfortunate rampage of a rogue ogre in the outlying regions the previous year, war came to the province only sporadically. The barons sent gold for the Emperor’s armies and made sure token forces of men-at-arms were maintained in their ancestral manor houses to keep down the irregular beastmen or greenskin raids. Otherwise, trade was good. Demand for iron and tin was high, and the mines in the east of the province provided more of that than anywhere else. More trade moved down the River Aver since the Stir and Talabec had become more dangerous. Some even whispered that Averland should consider going the way of Marienburg. Perhaps then, freed of the onerous Imperial levies, the Grand County would rise to become richer than Reikland itself.

  Wiser heads knew such talk was ludicrous. If it were not for the vast armies of Talabecland and Middenheim, nothing would have stood between the rich, fat south and the gibbering hordes of Chaos. Though many barons resented the taxes imposed from Altdorf, and the highhanded manner of the officials that came with them, they knew the money paid for the shield they sheltered behind. And so they stayed loyal. At least, as loyal as any other province in the bickering realms of men.

  There were few cities in the huge, open land. Averheim was four times as big as the nearest rival. It had been built on a wide curve of the river where the land rose up in a great steep-sided mound. More than two millennia ago, Sigmar himself had founded a fortress on the site. Or so the locals liked to claim. Even though that boast was possibly futile, no one disputed the settlement was old. Some of the stones at the base of the massive Averburg fortress on the east bank of the river were so large and so beautifully laid that many called them the work of dwarfs. Over the wearing years, the Averburg had been added to, amended, part-demolished, rebuilt and extended with the waxing and waning enthusiasm of successive counts. Despite everything the war-conscious Imperial architects had thrown at it to make it strong, it retained a certain elegance.

  Though the Averburg, with its sheer-sided walls and heavy ramparts, dominated the centre of the city on the east bank, there were other notable features within the snaking walls. To the north, where frequent flooding had prevented large-scale building, huge cattle showgrounds had been constructed. Visitors from less fortunate parts of the Empire had been known to gape in awe during the height of the showing season. The massed collection of Averland herds was one of the wonders of the Old World. It was said that when the first hammer of the season fell, there were thirteen cows in Averheim for every person. Those kinds of statistics were liable to provoke suggestive rumours from outsiders, but in truth they were jealous. The animals were valuable and had made Averland extremely rich.

  Those riches showed in Averheim’s mighty townhouses and guild-chambers. Most of these were many storeys high, constructed of warm brick and decorated heavily. On the richer east side of the river, elegant squares had been embellished with the bequests of rich men. Fountains gurgled even in the height of the hot summers, and there were fewer slums than in most Imperial cities. Though there was poverty, especially on the western fringes of the city where the migrant workers from Stirland and Tilea congregated, a careful visitor could ignore it. Such a thing was impossible in Altdorf.

  Since leaving the city of Karl Franz, Schwarzhelm had made good progress. The journey had taken many days, first along the Reik to Kemperbad, then by land across the Stirhugel Massif in the Lower Stirland. Being away from Altdorf had had a cleansing effect on his mind. The fresh air was invigorating. As he travelled with his entourage, the weather grew steadily warmer. The dank, shadowy world of the Drakwald gave way to the flower meadows of the Lower Aver. Even a man of war such as himself was not immune to their restorative effects. It was some compensation for the rigours of the road.

  Schwarzhelm reached the city on a typically fine morning. A cool breeze ran across the big man’s face as he crested the final rise before the Aver valley fell away in tumbled heaps of grassland. The river itself lay serene, glittering in the warm sun. In every direction, deep green fields stretched away. In the distance, the pinnacles of the Averburg rose high into the clear sky.

  “Bringing back memories?” said Verstohlen, reining in his horse alongside.

  “I’ve been here since I came to call Marius to heel,” said Schwarzhelm. “But yes, I am reminded of that.”

  Verstohlen flicked the reins and his steed came to a standst
ill. Ahead of them, the armed escort fanned out down into the valley. They were arrayed in the colours of Karl Franz and bore his coat of arms. In the strong sun, their weapons sparkled.

  “So much trouble, for such a pretty place,” mused Verstohlen, admiring the view.

  Schwarzhelm grunted.

  “A pretty face can hide a dark heart,” he said. “Don’t be deceived by appearances.”

  He kicked his horse back into motion and the heavy charger began stepping down the descent into the valley. There’d be time to admire the view on the way back. Until then, he was impatient to arrive. As far as he was concerned, this assignment couldn’t be over quick enough.

  “Welcome, my lord. Or, I should say, welcome back! Though it has been many years indeed since you were last among us as the ambassador of His Imperial Majesty. We are—the city is—extremely glad to have you among us again.”

  Verstohlen worked hard to suppress a wry smile. He knew how much Schwarzhelm hated flattery. True to form, the man looked as grumpy as hell. The ride had been a long one, and court pleasantries were the last thing any of them wanted.

  They were standing in the great hall of the Averburg. It was tall and narrow. The bare stone walls soared upwards to a hammerbeam roof into which bosses with the devices of past counts had been embedded. The place was crowded with nobles, knights and the richer sort of merchants. They’d done their best to make a good show of it. Bright coloured cloth from Ind and Tilea mixed with highly polished ceremonial armour. Banners hung from the roof with the emblems of the Grand County and its many guilds. Verstohlen felt like he’d stumbled into some kind of pageant. It was a bit garish for him, but one had to make allowances for rural tastes.

  The speaker was the Steward of Averheim, Dagobert Matthias Rauch von Tochfel. He was an unassuming character with a balding pate and grey skin. He looked like the kind of man who hunched over papers by the light of candles, totting up expenditure and income balances into the small hours of the night. Verstohlen couldn’t have imagined a figure less likely to impress Ludwig Schwarzhelm, a man who had driven armies of thousands to victory by the sheer force of his will.

  Predictably enough, Schwarzhelm gave him short shrift.

  “That’s fine, Steward,” he muttered. “But we’ve had a long journey, and there’s work to do. When do we get started?”

  Tochfel looked taken aback.

  “Well, we had rather hoped that you would join us for a banquet in the hall this evening. The claimants are not yet in Averheim, and there are formalities to ob—”

  “Damn your formalities,” snapped Schwarzhelm. “I’ll eat with you and your court, and then I’ll want to see your records of the legal process. You’ve kept the Emperor waiting for too long already. And send messages to the claimants to hasten their progress to the city. I won’t wait forever.”

  Tochfel looked like he’d been slapped in the face.

  “V-very well,” he stuttered.

  Schwarzhelm ignored him and turned to the commander of his honour guard, a flint-faced veteran named Kraus.

  “Take your men and examine our quarters. When you’re content they’re secure, place a man at the entrance and organise a watch.”

  “My lord,” said Kraus, bowing. He and his men filed out of the audience chamber, roughly pushing aside any curious nobles who got in their way.

  “When do we eat?” said Schwarzhelm to Tochfel, who now looked pale.

  “Whenever you wish, my lord,” said the Steward. Verstohlen noted that the man was getting the hang of things.

  “Good. How about now?”

  Tochfel looked around the assembled throng nervously. No doubt they’d been promised some kind of access to the great man.

  “Of course. I’ll have the high table laid.”

  Schwarzhelm grunted something inaudible, then stalked off in the direction Kraus had taken. All around the hall, a low murmuring broke out. The Emperor’s Champion had not been quite what they were expecting.

  “So that was Ludwig Schwarzhelm,” mused a man standing close to Verstohlen. A legal scholar by his look. He wore a charm with the figure of Verena over crimson robes. “Something of a disappointment. I’d expected more.”

  Verstohlen gave him a contemptuous look. As the crowd started to disperse, he made his way to the dejected figure of the Steward.

  “Herr von Tochfel? I’m Verstohlen, Lord Schwarzhelm’s counsellor. If you’d contacted me prior to this meeting, I could have warned you of the likely result. But never mind. Do you have somewhere private we can go? We need to discuss the itinerary.”

  Tochfel looked at Verstohlen like he was some gift from the gods.

  “Did I offend him somehow?”

  “No more than usual,” reassured Verstohlen, taking the man’s arm and guiding him smoothly through the milling figures around them. “He doesn’t like ceremony. There’ll need to be some of that, of course, but we’ll have to manage that together. The important thing is to get Leitdorf and Grosslich here as soon as possible. Can you do that? Good. If you give me the names of your officials, I’ll ensure the messages get through. He wants to meet both of them in private before the legal arguments are heard. That’s not entirely usual, but it’s perfectly within his rights as the Emperor’s Judge. Again, if you can give me some names, I’ll get that done. And there’s the matter of security at the Averburg.”

  Verstohlen spoke quickly but firmly. He guessed that Tochfel wouldn’t be used to presiding over more than cattle fairs. If the assignment was not to unravel before it had started, then work needed to be done.

  As they neared one of the side doors to the hall, Tochfel hesitated. He looked like he was having trouble taking everything in.

  “So who’s in charge here?” he said. “You, or him?”

  Verstohlen stopped in his tracks, genuinely amazed. Were the deeds of the Emperor’s Champion really not known here? What kind of backwater was this?

  “Don’t be a fool, man,” he snapped. “Lord Schwarzhelm is the Emperor’s right arm. I merely arrange. You’d do well to remember that, or this visit will be more painful for you than you can possibly imagine.”

  With that, he half-guided, half-pulled Tochfel through the door and into the corridor outside. The door shut behind them, and the grumbling of the crowd beyond was silenced.

  Schwarzhelm sat at the long table in one of the Averburg’s many gilded reception rooms. He felt weary and irritable. His sleep at night was still erratic. The air was getting too hot for comfort and flies plagued his room. He was aware he’d become irascible, even with his own men. They’d have to live with it. Two days waiting for the claimants to turn up was beyond insolent. He didn’t believe the excuses. They were lazy and arrogant, the pair of them. If he hadn’t been bound by the strictures of his office, he’d have ridden out to meet them himself. As it was, he was forced to wait. The delay was maddening.

  Apart from the ever-present Verstohlen, calm as ever, the chamber was empty. Tochfel’s flunkies had departed and Kraus’ men guarded the doors. They wouldn’t be disturbed.

  “Have we heard from Grunwald yet?” Schwarzhelm asked. The long wait with no news was preying on his mind.

  “Nothing.”

  “You’ve sent out fresh messengers?”

  “As you commanded.”

  That was troubling. There should have been something by now. He knew the army had arrived in Averheim two days before he had. Grunwald had then departed immediately for the east, following new intelligence on massed orc raids in the mining country beneath the Black Fire Pass. That was just as he’d been ordered to do, but the lack of communication since his departure was unusual. Grunwald was normally scrupulous about such things.

  “How many men are garrisoned here?” asked Schwarzhelm. “If we don’t hear soon, I may have to do something myself.”

  “Give him time,” said Verstohlen. “He’ll send tidings when he’s able. Worry not. He’s your finest commander.”

  Schwarzhelm grunted. That might h
ave been assent, or it might not.

  “Which one of the bastards are we due to see now?” he asked wearily.

  “Leitdorf arrived in the city this morning. He’s on his way now.”

  “Marius’ brat. Anything more I should know about him?”

  “He’s bringing his wife. They’re devoted to each other. The one never leaves the other’s side. That’s been a source of friction with those you’d expect to be loyal to him. We don’t know where she comes from, and neither do they.”

  “That’s not like you, Pieter. Find out.”

  “I’m working on it. If it’s any consolation, Tochfel’s as much in the dark as we are. That goes for his loremaster too, Achendorfer. Her presence makes them uneasy. It makes everyone uneasy. But Rufus has inherited his father’s pigheadedness. He can’t see that such things damage his cause. This is a conservative province.”

  “That it is.”

  From the far end of the chamber, beyond the closed doors, noises broke out. Someone had arrived.

  “What’s her family name? Hiess? Does that mean anything to you?”

  “Nothing. I’ve got people making enquiries.”

  There was an exaggerated knocking at the far doors. Schwarzhelm stood and smoothed the juridical robes over his massive frame. His head was feeling heavy. He really needed some sleep soon. When this was over, he might ask Verstohlen for some sleepwort.

  “I hope they’re good people.”

  The doors opened. In the antechamber beyond he made out the figure of Tochfel, hovering in the background as ever. Kraus had prevented him from entering. Good man.

  Only two came into the room. No doubt they’d come with a retinue, but those too had been detained by Schwarzhelm’s honour guard. That made things even.

  The foremost was Rufus Leitdorf. He was dressed in a ludicrous burgundy-coloured outfit, replete with a floppy hunting hat and spurred boots. As he walked across the stone floor, the spurs clattered. He wore his hair long. Like his father’s, it was brown, fading to grey prematurely. He had the Leitdorf eyes with the famous hooked nose. Rufus had already run to fat, though, and had none of his father’s swordsman’s poise. He didn’t look like he could hold his own in a fight. Maybe Leopold had been given the fencing lessons, for all the good that had done him.