‘We needn’t be enemies, Magnus,’ came the voice. It sounded like it was coming from somewhere different, but it was unclear where. It was as fleeting and insubstantial as the leaping flames themselves. ‘What happened was years ago, and much blood and water has flowed since. You needn’t hunt me like I was some kind of fugitive. We’re the same, you and I. Cut from the same cloth. Will you listen to reason?’
For a moment, Magnus felt himself harking to the seductive words. They had been close, back then, the two of them. United against the ignorance and suspicion of the colleges. So long ago. It had seemed then that the new science would usher in an age of hope and progress. They had been at the forefront, the bright hope of the colleges, of the Empire itself.
But that was then. Too much had happened since. And some betrayals were too profound for forgiveness. He would not listen to reason. Not now. It was the application of reason that had led him to create the Blutschreiben. He didn’t know who he hated more, Rathmor for building it, or himself for coming up with the plans.
Magnus took another deep breath, and felt the ash-flecked air fill his lungs.
‘I’ll not listen to your arguments, Heinz-Willem,’ he said out loud. His voice echoed from pillar to pillar, and spun into the reverberating darkness. He knew he was taking a risk, and made his preparation to move. ‘What would either of us gain? You’ve kept building them, kept working on the plans. You know I can’t let you carry on. It’s a monster. When would you give up on it? How many have to die first?’
He’d given away his position. Magnus looked over to his left. One of the huge machines loomed only a few yards distant. It rose, tall and dark, high up into the firelit vaults.
A thin laugh echoed down from the shadows. It seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere.
‘That is the price!’ cried Rathmor. His voice sounded on the edge of hysteria. ‘You know that. Think what could be achieved, if we could perfect the designs. We’d surpass the art of da Miragliano. Princes would come and beg at our door, just for a glimpse at the power we could give them. That’s what you’re throwing away, Magnus.’
Ironblood tried to gauge the distance between the pillar and the shelter of the machine. Just a few strides in the open, then back into cover. He crouched low, tensing his muscles.
‘Are these the words you used to convince my father?’ Magnus said, letting the long years of anguish poison the words. ‘Do you really think you’ll make me follow him? If you’d had any shame, you’d have done what I did. Tried to forget. Instead, you persist in your delusions. It has to end, Heinz-Willem. It may as well be me that does it.’
Once again, the laugh echoed down from wherever Rathmor crouched.
‘That’s your final offer? There’s nothing I can do to dissuade you from your pointless quest for revenge?’
Magnus tensed. This was it. Surely now the man had an aim. This was Rathmor’s domain, after all. He knew all its ways.
‘You know the answer!’ Magnus cried. ‘Never!’
As the words left his mouth, he pitched forward. He felt the shot as it whistled past his shoulder and cracked into the pillar. He kept going, legs pumping, until he was in the shadow of the nearest machine. He placed his hand on the metal housing, and snatched it back. It was fiery hot. Shaking, he crouched down, looking all around him, trying to see some clue in the smoky gloom. There was nothing.
Then there was the sound of running, far down in the vast hall, echoing into the void. Rathmor had withdrawn. To reload, no doubt. For a moment, Magnus’s nerve failed him. He could still withdraw. He could run back up the winding stairs, up towards the light where his allies were fighting. He looked back over to the doorway into the octagonal chamber. It was still close. Tantalisingly close.
Magnus turned back to face the hall. He would only leave the forges when his task was done. Either that, or die here, the second Ironblood to be murdered by Rathmor.
Grimly, Magnus took up his pistol once more. Hugging the shadows, lurking like some creature of darkness against the heels of the churning machines, he crept forward. Step by step, he headed deeper into the heart of the mountain.
Scharnhorst pressed forward, a savage light in his features. Though few of his men would have guessed it, he hated standing safe from harm at the rear of his armies with his officers, ordering their movements through messengers and bugle-signals. For the most part, it had to be done that way. No commander could order his troops from the thick of battle. He had to have an overview of the whole, and a clear sense of which way the winds of fate and circumstance were blowing.
Not now. Thank Sigmar. The time for cold-blooded strategising was long gone. His men were running amok through Morgramgar, and the defences had crumbled. At last, he could take his proper place at the tip of the spear, sword in hand.
Scharnhorst swung his broadsword in a wide arc, and the defenders fell back again. On either side of him the heavily armoured knights rampaged, slicing their way through any resistance. Their armour was scratched and dented, their breastplates streaked with blood, their plumes ripped and tattered. They looked like death incarnate, tearing their way through the corridors and stairways of the upper citadel. None could stand against them.
They had fought hard up the many stairways and hidden chambers. Every bridge, every archway, every postern had been held against them. Each redoubt had been stormed, cleansed of the traitors who still clung to them. Anna-Louisa’s men knew better than to expect mercy. The Imperial electors were not merciful men. Scharnhorst had his orders, and they all knew it. So they fought like ferrets in a trap, desperately clinging on to every slight defensive position, only ejected after all had been slain. It was dirty, tiring work. But it felt good. Scharnhorst was a patriotic Hochlander. The rebels were vermin. They had forgotten their allegiance, and in a world of war, that was all that mattered. Removing them from the realm of the living would make the remainder purer. Even in their deaths, they were doing Sigmar’s work, after a fashion.
Scharnhorst looked over his shoulder. The vanguard was still at his heels. The knights clattered up the stone passageways to join him. Behind them, the state troopers clustered, baying for blood. He could dimly make out the vast shape of that engineer, Ironblood’s deputy. The man looked good in a fight.
The general turned back to the task ahead. They had fought their way to the base of the central tower. The bulk of the citadel now lay beneath them. The valley floor was several hundred feet distant, and wreathed in the shadows of the gathering dusk. Fires had been started in the lower levels behind the walls, and their flickering light bled up the steep slopes of the inner walls. The first level of the fortress had been taken, and the last of the guards were being remorselessly hunted in the shadows. The second level was now contested. Knowing the value of striking at the heart of the contagion, Scharnhorst had not tarried, but had carried on upwards, fighting all the way, clearing the stairwells of Anna-Louisa’s traitorous minions, pressing on to the central tower.
Now it loomed before them, stark and tall against the gloaming. There was a great courtyard set at its base, wide and paved with stone. At the edge of it there was an ornate parapet. The rest of the citadel was below that edge, and the stench of its burning rose above it.
In the centre of the courtyard, a wide stair rose. It ascended for many dozens of steps, and could have accommodated a whole company of knights. At the summit of the stairs, the huge tower soared into the air. Though only a single tower, it was larger than many small fortresses. The base was over forty feet wide, and the vast bole rose sheer and smooth from it. Studded into the courtyard-facing aspect were narrow windows, glowing with a lurid light.
Right at the top, leaning out over them, far above, was the final chamber. After everything, despite the ruins of the rest of the fortress, the windows of that bulbous pinnacle still shone with a bizarre green illumination. Far out into the gathering night they shone, staining the
smooth stone with a sickly sheen.
Scharnhorst watched with satisfaction as his men cleared the courtyard of the final few defenders. His victory was almost complete. Only the tower remained. Its massive doors were barred, but that was of little consequence.
‘Knights, to me!’ he ordered.
Kruger and his company were immediately by his side.
‘This is the final element,’ said Scharnhorst coldly, gazing up at the tower. ‘I will make the final kill. You will come with me.’
Kruger pulled his helmet off, leaned on his longsword for a moment, and wiped his brow. His face was flushed and ran with sweat, but his eyes were as piercing as ever. He looked at the doors doubtfully.
‘We’ll need a ram for those,’ he said. ‘Men won’t bring them down quickly.’
Scharnhorst smiled grimly.
‘I disagree,’ he said, and turned around, back towards the press of men at his back. ‘Where is the engineer?’ he bellowed, his voice rising above the tumult. ‘The man who was in Ironblood’s company? I saw him.’
There was a brief commotion as the state troopers tried to find the man the general wished to see. After a few moments, Hildebrandt was located, and pushed to the front of the crowd. He emerged looking more weary than surprised, and bowed clumsily.
‘What’s your name, man?’ asked Scharnhorst.
‘Hildebrandt, sir,’ replied the engineer, giving no hint of resentment at not being recognised. Both he and Scharnhorst knew that they had met and spoken many times on the long journey into the mountains, but it was not a general’s responsibility to remember such things.
‘Where’s Ironblood?’ asked Scharnhorst.
‘Fighting in the lower levels,’ replied Hildebrandt without hesitating.
Scharnhorst smiled. The man was loyal at least.
‘Then you’ll have to do,’ he said. ‘I know of the blackpowder bombs. The ones you used to destroy the guns. There’s one last task for them. Can you break down those doors?’
Hildebrandt looked over them, and nodded curtly.
‘I can.’
He reached to his belt, and pulled two of the round charges from it. There were leather straps around them. In Hildebrandt’s hands they looked little more than hens’ eggs.
‘Then do it,’ ordered Scharnhorst. ‘Blow them down on the first attempt, and I’ll forget any harsh words I’ve said concerning engineers. And you shall have the honour of being in the vanguard for the final assault.’
Hildebrandt didn’t need to wait for further instructions. He strode forward. Behind him, the ranks of men in the courtyard shuffled back. There was soon a wide gap between the doors and the first ranks of Scharnhorst’s army. Hildebrandt ascended the stairs, looking up as he went at the strange, silent bulk of the tower. There was no movement from above. As the evening waned towards night, it remained implacable.
Hildebrandt reached the top. He placed both of the charges where the massive ironbound doors met. The man retreated down the stairs far more quickly than he’d ascended them, and came running back to the protective ranks of soldiers. As he reached the safety of the general’s retinue, the charges went off. Two sharp cracks resounded across the courtyard, and twin orbs of fire rushed outwards. The doors rocked. One was blasted clean from its massive hinges. The flames and smoke cleared, and the damaged door swung open on one iron bracket. A dark green light leaked out from the interior.
For a moment, the men in the courtyard hung back. There was something unwholesome about the green glow coming from the shattered doorway. Scharnhorst himself felt an unusual pang of foreboding. What had been unleashed? Would a brace of daemons spill from the gap? Though the sounds of combat and looting still rose into the air from down below, the high courtyard was seized with a sudden hush. There was no movement from the tower. It stood darkly, looming over them like a noiseless portent of death.
Scharnhorst took up his sword, and was comforted by the weight of the steel in his hands. His doubts began to ebb away.
‘Come,’ he said, quietly but firmly. Around him, the knights raised their weapons as one. ‘The bitch von Kleister is there. The one who has brought this bloodshed on our land. Follow me. The time has come to end this.’
As the last natural light bled from the west, the vanguard strode up the stairs, towards the ruined gates and into the last tower.
Chapter Eighteen
‘I have learned, over long years of study, not to judge the exterior of any object without knowing the full details of its interior. The grandest building may conceal a rotten core, and the meanest-looking pistol may hide the finest rifling workmanship within it. That seems to me a good maxim for any engineer. We have often discovered that the way a device looks is no guarantee of its quality. In fact, though I hesitate to make the comparison directly, the same may too be said of men. Some of us who seem most fearful by reputation may turn out, on closer examination, to be nothing but weaklings and cowards. Conversely, even those who have sunk low, almost to the point of becoming nothing, may carry within them the smouldering spark of greatness, ready at any moment to leap once more into flame.’
The Notebooks of Leonardo da Miragliano
The machines toiled. Even after being abandoned by their makers, the valves and pistons still turned in the darkness. The channels of fire still burned, and the vaults still echoed. It was as if the place had a vital spirit all of its own, an animal awareness that filled its iron sinews and copper muscles.
Magnus steeled himself. The sound of Rathmor’s footsteps had died away, and the cathedral-like forge was free once more of human sounds. Clutching his pistol carefully, poised to fire at the slightest movement, he crept free of the lee of the vast machine that sheltered him. Far ahead, the light of the fires seemed to ebb. Magnus went towards the end of the hall warily, keeping close to the cover of the mighty devices and hugging the shadows of the columns. Every so often he would jump as a sudden spurt of steam or belch of liquid fire caught him off guard. Then he would spin around, or flatten himself against the hot stone, his heart beating. But Rathmor had gone, fled into the lower levels, further into the dark heart of his kingdom. For the moment, Magnus was alone.
He took a deep breath. He could still taste the ash on his lips. He went on. The columns passed by in stately succession. As he padded silently, each fresh machine emerged from the fiery murk, and passed back into it behind him. He lost count of how many there were. Each one was more elaborate and heavily ornamented than the last.
Eventually, Magnus reached the end of the long rows of foundries. The final mechanical device in the hall had a great wolf’s head carved from metal on its summit. Just like the gates. Thick brown smoke rose in a steady, boiling pillar from its central chimney. It smelled foul, and a brackish ooze lapped at its base. Magnus stepped around it carefully, knowing enough of Rathmor’s ways not to get any of the strange liquid on his clothes. The pool looked poisonous in the gloom.
The light of the fires was losing its vibrancy. Most of the great channels of magma were now far behind him. Magnus began to descend again. He screwed his eyes against the perpetual murk. There were more chambers ahead, soaked in shadow, lit by measly, smoky torches. Their filth clogged the already acrid air. He had to stop himself coughing. Grimly, he pressed a rag to his mouth, and carried on.
It got darker, and lower. Magnus passed huge storerooms. Some of the contents of them could only be guessed at. They looked like they’d been bored directly into the rock. It was hard to gauge their size. In the gloom inside them, row upon row of weapons waited. Spears were piled in huge bales next to sheaves of swords. And there were guns, placed in racks and hanging side by side. They were long guns, the kind that had been used against the army in the passes. Even in the thick murk, Magnus could see the distinctive serpentines adorning their barrels. So they had been forged here, wrought using Rathmor’s diabolical machinery. There were none quite
like them in all the Old World. Dwarfish, and yet not dwarfish. There were still riddles to unravel.
The atmosphere started to cool. The fires were left behind. Magnus pulled his leather coat closer round his shoulders. The fine cloud of dust and soot lifted, and the air became sharper. It smelled dank. As the last of the fire-pits diminished into the distance, the light once more became dim. The few torches bracketed against the walls were scant compensation, and threw a thin orange light across the uneven floor. The elaborate paving of the hall was forgotten. The roof of the chamber had sunk to little more than a few dozen feet high. The magnificence of the forges was replaced by a cold, forgotten procession of dreary tunnels and store-chambers.
In one of them, great dark shapes loomed in the shadows. They were covered in some kind of fabric. There were no torches flickering above them, but their outline was unmistakeable. Infernal machines. Rathmor’s devices. A dozen more. It was hard to tell if they were finished, waiting for deployment at a moment’s notice, or still in construction. All had the basic outline of the Blutschreiben. They were copies. Shams. But still deadly, for all that. Magnus shook his head in disgust. They were abominations. If Rathmor was allowed to complete his plan, it would spell destruction on a terrible scale for the Empire. Magnus felt the smooth weight of his pistol in his palm, and it reassured him. There was still time to halt it all.
He walked on further in the gathering gloom. He had begun to lose track of distance. The storerooms came to an end, and the darkness grew. Magnus stopped, and listened carefully. It was hard to make out much ahead. He felt as if he’d descended to the very root of the mountain. The shadows were as cold and ancient as any in the world. Going any further would be hard without a torch. But carrying a flame would make him an easy target. He decided to do without. It made his progress even slower. At any moment, Magnus expected to hear the report of a pistol. Even as he walked, his every muscle seemed to tense.
The Empire Omnibus Page 28
