“How far d’you reckon we are from Heideck?” Bloch asked, running his hands through his hair. He felt exhausted. No doubt they all did.
Fischer shrugged.
“Another day’s march. No more than two. But the country’s open there. Nowhere to hide. If there are orcs, we’ll have to fight them.”
“There’ll be orcs. They’re on our trail now. Maybe it’s better to come out and fight them. I’m fed up of this sneaking around.”
Bloch took another look across his men. They didn’t look ready for a fight. The constant running and skirmishing had muted the brief flame of defiance they may have felt at the beginning of the trek. Many of them slumped over their weapons, half-asleep in the middle of the day. The heat, the dust, the lack of sleep. It all took its toll.
“We’ll give them a few moments,” said Bloch. “They’ve already been driven too hard. But then we need to move.”
Fischer was about to reply when there was a crashing sound from deeper into the woods. Arrows whined across the clearing, thudding into tree trunks. The greenskins were back.
“Form up!” cried Bloch, springing into action immediately. He grabbed his halberd. His men rushed to form into defensive detachments.
The crashing became louder. From the shadows of the trees, the orcs burst into view. Bloch saw their leader before he saw the rest. Huge, bunched muscles, raging eyes and dripping tusks. There were dozens behind him, all heavily armoured like the ones they’d faced on the ridge.
He lowered his halberd. How many this time?
“Keep to your companies!” he roared. All around him, the men were falling into their detachments. The movements were expert, skilful. But they needed to move quicker.
The orcs closed, and the space under the trees filled with their battle roars. Bloch felt his fellows cluster around him. Even now they stuck to the defensive square. The familiarity was reassuring. As if by instinct, the leader of the greenskins made straight for Bloch. Its broad legs churned up the leaf matter on the forest floor, throwing it in all directions as it ploughed onward. Bloch adjusted his stance, legs apart, braced for the impact.
“Steady, lads,” he warned. “Blades up!” The lines came together, and the world descended once more into a storm of desperate combat. Bloch was knocked backwards by the force of the charge, but those on either side of him held the line. He recovered, hacking powerfully with his halberd. The greenskin screamed at him, covering his face with stinking trails of saliva.
Bloch grimaced, recovering his balance and pushed forward. His arms ached. His hands were calloused and bleeding. Like the others, he fought on. Any sign of weakness now and it would be over. They looked to him. He needed to stay strong, give them something to believe in.
With a mighty heave, he swung his halberd upwards, aiming to catch the greenskin in the face. The blade connected, slicing through the thick hide, spraying black blood into the canopy above. The monster staggered back, blundering into those around him. Even in the midst of their efforts, the men at Bloch’s shoulders broke into a coarse cheer.
“Enough of that,” roared Bloch, readying himself for the next thrust. “Keep your discipline!”
The orcs came again. There were dozens of them. Perhaps more. The leader was gathering himself for a fresh assault, its face streaming with blood.
Bloch made eye contact with it. He held it. This fight wouldn’t be over quickly.
“Come and get me then, you green bastard,” he snarled, his halberd running with gore. The invitation was accepted.
Tochfel hurried through the corridors of the Averburg. The feeling of unease he’d endured for days was getting worse. With Schwarzhelm and Verstohlen both gone, any semblance of order to the proceedings had vanished. He’d had to deal with frantic messages from both Leitdorf and Grosslich, each demanding to know when the next session would be. In Achendorfer’s absence, he had no idea. In fact, he had no idea where Achendorfer even was. The grey-faced loremaster wasn’t much of a companion in times of need, but at least he had an idea of the protocol for such things. Tochfel didn’t.
The Steward burst into his chamber, half expecting to see the man waiting for him. Instead, he was confronted with the toppling pile of parchment documents he’d left from the previous day. All of them required answers, but only Sigmar knew what they might be.
Tochfel sat down at his desk. He could feel his whole body tensing. The city was on the brink of anarchy, and there was nothing he could do about it. The few troops he’d had left at his disposal had been requisitioned by Schwarzhelm. He ran his hands through his hair. As he released the fingers, he saw loose strands of it twirl to the floor. He was getting old, tired and fractious.
There was a sharp rap on the door.
“Come!” Tochfel’s voice sounded reedy and quavering. He hoped it would be Achendorfer. Instead, it was Morven.
“Steward, I bring a message from Lord Grosslich,” the aide de camp announced. His expression gave away the fact this was going to be bad news.
“I’m not going to like this, am I?”
“I’m charged to inform you that the Grosslich candidacy for the Estates has been withdrawn. His lordship accuses the Lord Leitdorf of turning traitor to the Empire and has declared himself elector in order to preserve the integrity of the Grand County. He wishes to inform you that his forces have been mustered and that they have begun their assault upon the city. None of the citizens therein will be harmed unless they have declared for Leitdorf and bear arms in his cause. However, any person resisting his just crusade will not be spared. The Lord Grosslich will not cease until the traitors have been destroyed and the city returned to the rule of the electors.”
Tochfel listened with growing despondency. So that was it. The mastery of the city had been taken from him at last. The passage of the law, so dear to his heart, had been utterly subverted. Whichever man eventually took up the runefang, Leitdorf or Grosslich, it would be as a result of might, not legal procedure. Such was the way of the wilderness, not the greatest realm of men in the Old World.
“What grounds has he for these claims?” asked Tochfel, trying to maintain an outwardly calm demeanour.
“I don’t know, Steward. I only report.”
“Where is the Lord Leitdorf? Still in the city?”
“He cannot be reached. But there are reports of fresh fighting in the Old City. Grosslich’s men are moving. It may not be safe here. We should consider abandoning the Averburg.”
That wasn’t worth contemplating. The citadel hadn’t been given up to an enemy in two thousand years. Even Ironjaw hadn’t penetrated the outer walls.
“What about Schwarzhelm? Or his counsellor?”
“Still missing. Though I have reason to believe Herr Verstohlen has lent his support to Lord Grosslich. It may be a sign that the allegations against Leitdorf have foundation.”
Tochfel shook his head.
“Allegations? They’re nothing more than rumours. Grosslich has used Schwarzhelm’s absence to seize his chance. They’re vagabonds, the pair of them, whatever noble blood they claim to have.”
As he spoke, Tochfel began to feel a strange sensation well up within him. The constant slights, the endless struggle to maintain authority, had all begun to take their toll. For once, he found that resignation wasn’t what he felt. It was anger.
“This farrago has gone on long enough,” he said, balling his fists on his desk. “All of them, Schwarzhelm, Grosslich, Leitdorf, have treated this place like their private fiefdom. No more. The rot stops here.”
Morven looked shocked, but said nothing. He was no doubt unused to being addressed by Tochfel in such a manner.
“We will not surrender the Averburg,” continued Tochfel, feeling more assertive the more he spoke, “to either faction. Until I hear from the Emperor’s representative himself, I remain the lawful keeper of this city. We will arm the men with what weapons we have. The gates will be barred. Grosslich and Leitdorf can hammer on them all they like. These walls wer
e built to keep out worse foes than them.”
“We’re not soldiers, Steward,” protested Morven, looking appalled. “The garrison has been—”
“Don’t tell me what has happened to the garrison!” snapped Tochfel, his eyes blazing. “I know exactly what happened to it. But we still have men at our command and weapons in the armoury. Distribute them. See the gates are guarded. Go now, and report back to me within the hour.”
Still looking startled, Morven bowed hurriedly and scuttled out. Tochfel, his blood still hot, slammed the door behind him and strode over to the window. He looked over the city, just as he did every evening. The fires still burned. They were growing in number. He even fancied he could hear the noise of Grosslich’s forces marching through the distant streets.
As he watched, his sudden anger was steadily replaced with a grim, implacable resolve. The city was descending into war. The Averburg, home for most of his adult life, would soon be an island in the midst of the fighting. In times past, Tochfel might have found the prospect terrifying. Now, he took a strange kind of comfort from it.
At last, the pretence of the legal process had been removed. The succession in Averland would be determined through strength of arms and force of will. Perhaps that was the purer way. In any case, at least his task was clear.
The Averburg must be preserved. That, and that alone, was his concern now.
* * *
Kurt Helborg, master of the Reiksguard, bowed low. He felt his forehead touch the cold marble floor. He stayed in position for a few moments, prostrate. The position was one of penitence, of humility. Before such a judge, there was no other attitude to adopt. Heartbeats passed in the silence.
Then, his observance done, Helborg rose to his knees once more. The altar of Sigmar soared above him. He made the sign of the comet on his chest and clambered to his feet.
The Chapel of the Lord Sigmar Martial was one of the oldest and grandest in the Empire. The citizens of Nuln were justly proud of it. The floor was chequered with patterns of black and white marble imported from Sartosa, the very best gold could buy. The columns that sprung up to hold the distant ceiling had been carved into a host of intricate shapes. Some resembled tree trunks, complete with branches and leaves. Others had been shaped into dizzyingly complex geometrical figures, a fitting compliment to the mathematical heritage of the city. Aside from the light given by the massed racks of candles, the massive nave was clad in darkness. Hulking statues to various ancient warriors and dignitaries brooded in the gloom. The Imperial religion was not one of light and beauty. It celebrated steadfastness, gravity and bitter resolve.
Helborg liked that. He liked the whole place. Its evident riches, its seriousness of purpose, its ancient foundations. This was what a chapel should be. This was what the Empire should be.
With a final bow, he turned from the towering altar of Sigmar. The brass cherubs surrounding his effigy, each bearing a mechanical crossbow or repeater handgun, gazed back blankly.
He walked from the transept into the long nave of the chapel. The place was nearly deserted. A few priests shuffled in the shadows, tending to the candles and the votary incense burners. No ordinary people would ever come here. It was reserved for the mighty of the Empire. Despite himself, Helborg enjoyed that feeling too. Hierarchy was everything. Control was everything. Discipline was everything. As long as they were maintained, mankind would continue to dominate the ancient lands of Sigmar. If they were forgotten, the end would come swiftly.
As he neared the exit, he caught sight of a lone figure waiting for him just inside the porch. The shape was unmistakable. Years of fighting alongside a man made his armoured profile almost as familiar as one’s own. Leofric von Skarr, Preceptor of the Ninth Company of the Reiksguard. One of his most trusted men. Honest, capable, utterly brutal. Just as he preferred his officers.
“My lord Helborg,” Skarr said, keeping his voice deferentially low. Even in whispers, the words echoed eerily in the vaults of the chapel. “My apologies for disturbing your prayers.”
“It’s fine. Come outside.”
Skarr opened the gigantic brassbound doors of the chapel for the Marshal, and warm sunlight flooded into the shadowy nave. The two men stepped through it.
They were high up on the north side of the city. The courtyard before the east front of the chapel offered a sweeping panorama. Around them, the greater mass of Nuln spread out in all its confused, tumbled majesty. The sound of the forges, ever-present even during the night hours, filled the air. Huge columns of black smoke rose into the summer sky from several quarters. The buildings were stained with soot. Below their vantage point, the River Reik ran dark and polluted. It would take miles before the filth of the forges was washed from its water again.
Such things mattered not. Nuln had not been built for beauty. The hammers of the blacksmiths fashioned weapons for the defence of the Empire. That was the city’s function. The greatest foundry and workshop of war west of the Worlds Edge Mountains. Helborg loved it.
“So what is it, Skarr?” he asked, retrieving the sheathed Klingerach from the chapel warden and donning the ancient runefang.
“A messenger, my lord,” said the grizzled preceptor. His face was heavily scarred, as befitted his name. He’d lost an eye at the siege of Urkh five years ago, and the leather patch made him look half-feral. He had an angular face and his long hair hung dark and lank about it. There wasn’t an inch of fat on his severe features. Everything was taut, muscular, spare. “From Averheim.”
“Ah,” said Helborg, the ghost of a smile on his lips. “Ludwig’s little project. How goes it for my unsmiling brother?”
“Not well, I fear. The Steward has requested aid. The factions for the electorship have resorted to arms. He doesn’t have enough men to keep order.”
Helborg frowned. “How many men does he need? He has Schwarzhelm. That ought to be enough.”
“Lord Schwarzhelm isn’t in the city.”
“Not in the city? Where is he then?”
“In the east. The message says no more than that.”
Helborg felt a sudden qualm of unease. That sounded wrong. Schwarzhelm was a stickler for the law. When given orders, he stuck to them until the bitter end. Such unbending devotion was what made him so formidable. It was also what made him such a pain in the arse. The fact that he’d left his duty for some other purpose was out of character, and that alone was a cause for worry.
“Are the Reiksguard in readiness to march?”
“Always, my lord.”
“Then I’ll study this message myself. I don’t like the implication in it.”
“Yes, my lord. The message bearer is still lodged at the garrison. I’ll summon him to your chambers.”
“Do it.” Helborg’s voice was as it always was when dealing with subordinates. Clipped, gruff, solid. But his mood of contentment had been punctured. Something was wrong in Averheim. Deep within, like a fleck of rust amidst the smooth workings of a cannon bearing, the germ of suspicion had lodged. Schwarzhelm had been behaving oddly recently. Maybe the man’s judgment was failing.
As Skarr departed, Helborg looked out over the city again. The sun was high in the sky. Its warmth bathed the spires of Nuln generously. The manufactories were working at full tilt, hammering blades and gun-workings for the war in the north. He could have spent weeks in the city, ordering the production to best effect. The need for arms had never been greater.
Helborg shook his head. Whatever the messenger reported, his instinct told him his services would be called on. His work in Nuln would be cut short. His devotions would have to wait. As it ever did, duty called for the Reiksguard.
Chapter Twelve
Schwarzhelm and the Averheim garrison had reached the wide pasturelands east of Heideck. In the far distance, the Worlds Edge Mountains were just visible, jagged and low against the horizon. For miles around them, the undulating countryside ran unimpeded, lush and green under the ever-present sun. In the distance, warmth shimmered from the d
eep grass. The light was blinding from the honour guard’s polished armour.
The army had broken into a gallop. Schwarzhelm tensed in the saddle. He made a minute adjustment to his posture, eking out a fractional increase in speed from his charger. The knights on either side of him worked to keep up. He looked over his shoulder quickly. They were still in close formation. Kraus and his men in the front rank, the Averlanders behind. Some distance in their wake, hundreds of footsoldiers from Heideck streamed across the fields. All had weapons drawn. In combination with the elite guard at his disposal, he now had the tools he needed. More importantly, he had the will to use them.
He turned back to the chase. Prey had been sighted. Like the predators of the wild, his army had responded to the quarry. Clods of turf flew from the horses’ hooves as they accelerated into a fully-fledged gallop. Lances were lowered. As they charged, the warriors looked like they were wreathed in a halo of light.
The heat was crippling. Schwarzhelm felt the sweat pool under his breastplate. He didn’t care. For the first time in weeks, he felt fantastic. This was what he was born to do. His face was twisted into a cry of pure, unbridled aggression. As he roared his fury, his knights bellowed their defiance alongside him. The crescendo of noise thrilled his heart.
The orcs were running, loping like animals across the grass. It was a large mob, but no match for his forces. The sun flashed from their armour as they went. They looked better equipped than usual. He thought he could make out straight swords and halberds amongst their ranks. That was more than rare.
On either side of him, the knights moved expertly into formation. The honour guard were flawless, controlling their mighty warhorses with almost unconscious ease. The Averlanders, good horsemen all, kept close behind. Lances extended, the cavalry formed a single sweeping row of steel.
[Heroes 01] - Sword of Justice Page 23
