Swords of the Emperor Read online

  Tochfel was another of Verstohlen’s names. As was Achendorfer, the loremaster. There were plenty of power-brokers to contend with. Schwarzhelm let slip a long, grating sigh.

  “This is not the kind of fight I relish,” he said. “They say there are greenskins massing in the mountains. I hope they come. Cracking their heads will make this assignment a little less dull.”

  Lassus gave him a shrewd look.

  “Be careful what you wish for. A wise man does not seek to multiply his problems. The Emperor knows you can wield a warhammer. He’s looking for finesse on this occasion. Prove that to him and you need worry about Helborg no longer.”

  At Kurt’s name, Schwarzhelm felt his heart miss a beat. Was he that transparent?

  “Why mention him?”

  “Come, now. I mean no dishonour to the Marshal. You two hold the Empire aloft together. But don’t try to conceal the rivalry between you. I’ve watched it unfold for thirty years. All of Altdorf sees you sparring, and that’s just how the Emperor likes it. It keeps you both fresh. Helborg would have to be a saint beyond reproach not to wish to see you stumble, just a little. And from what I hear, he’s no saint.”

  Schwarzhelm scowled. This was too close to the bone.

  “I could use your counsel in Averheim,” he said, almost without meaning to.

  “Don’t be stupid.” The voice was his old fightmaster’s, berating him for sloppiness. Schwarzhelm could have been right back on the training yards, his wooden sword heavy in his blistered hands. “I’m too old. I was leading armies out across Ostermark when you were suckling at your mother’s breast. This is your time, Ludwig. None is held in higher esteem than you. Get this right and you will leave all your rivals behind. For good. There is nothing more I could do to aid you.”

  He fixed Schwarzhelm with that old look, at once savage, at once paternal.

  “This is your fate, my boy. Seize it, and magnify the honour due to you.”

  Schwarzhelm heard the words, but they gave him little comfort. The dark mood that had plagued him since his meeting with the Emperor was slow to lift. He found himself wishing to change the subject, deflect attention from himself.

  “You tell me to seek honour,” he said. “You never did.”

  Lassus looked shocked. Suddenly, Schwarzhelm felt rude and ignorant. That was what he was, at the core. Just another peasant from the provinces. No matter how long he stayed in Altdorf, he’d never learn the manners of Helborg.

  “Direct, as ever,” Lassus said. “Do you really think I ever wanted the kind of standing von Tochfel has? Or, Sigmar preserve us, the Leitdorfs? There are more ways than one to make a success of one’s life. Maybe when you’re as old as I am, you’ll see that. My battles are over. I’ve been granted the grace to retire from the field and see out the rest of my days in peace. Whatever the result of this affair, do you think Rufus Leitdorf will ever know such satisfaction?”

  Lassus looked at Schwarzhelm with poorly concealed affection.

  “I’ll take my pleasure in the achievements of others now, Ludwig. I have faith in you, even if you don’t. I’ll pray for you when you’re gone. And, when all is concluded, I’ll be here to welcome you back.”

  Schwarzhelm saw the look of trust in Lassus’ eyes. His old master had complete confidence. That was touching. Another man might have smiled back.

  “I’ll keep you informed of progress,” Schwarzhelm said gruffly. He rose from his seat and made to leave. “I fear it may be months before a decision is made.”

  Lassus remained seated.

  “Not if I know you,” he replied. “But do not be too hasty. Your enemies know of your quick temper. They will use it against you. Be careful, Ludwig.”

  Schwarzhelm looked down at the frail old man. It was a ludicrous scene. Schwarzhelm, even out of his armour, looked almost invincible. And yet it was Lassus who was most at ease, most in command.

  “I will be,” said Schwarzhelm. Then he turned, ducking under the low ceiling, and left the house of his master.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Pieter Verstohlen lay back in the bed, arms behind his head. The morning sun slanted through narrow windows, throwing bars of golden light across the sheets. It wasn’t long after dawn, and the noises of the city were beginning to filter up from the street outside. They weren’t the usual raucous obscenities. This was an affluent district, far from the worst of the rabble. The University was nearby, and its spires were just visible from the window. After the long campaign, it felt good to be in luxury again. He always missed it. “Awake, then?”

  Julia returned to the side of the bed, her long dark hair falling around her face. She was wearing one of his shirts. She looked good in it. Very good. When she passed in front of the window, the sunlight picked out her silhouette through the fine fabric.

  “Just about. Why don’t you join me?”

  Verstohlen reached for the remains of his wine from the night before. He took a sip as Julia slipped the shirt off and lay beside him. The wine had turned vinegary in the night, but was still drinkable.

  “You were talking in your sleep.”

  Verstohlen felt a sudden spike of concern. That was unprofessional. The anxiety didn’t show on his smooth, open face, though. It never did.

  “Oh yes? Whispering undying love?” Julia sighed.

  “No such luck. I couldn’t make it out. But you looked worried. I almost woke you.”

  Verstohlen wriggled his arm under her and feigned indifference.

  “It’s been a long campaign,” he said nonchalantly. “A man forgets the pleasures of the city.”

  “I hope I’ve reminded you.”

  “Oh yes.”

  Julia was a whore, to be sure, but a very good one. Verstohlen had impeccable taste in all things, and women were no exception. She was educated, well-connected and discreet. All three were important to him. That said, she probably knew far more about him than she ever let on. Occasionally, he wondered who her other clients were. Generals, dukes, magisters, maybe a prince or two. He’d never asked, and he knew she’d never tell.

  “You’re going off again soon?” she asked, nuzzling against his shoulder comfortably.

  “How do you know these things?”

  “Schwarzhelm is going to Averland. Everyone knows that. And where he goes, you’re bound to follow.”

  Verstohlen smiled ruefully. That was true.

  “In a couple of days. The Emperor has decreed that the succession must be decided. Schwarzhelm will pass judgement on the claims.”

  “That’s a quick way to make enemies.”

  “You’re an astute judge, my dear.”

  “Thank you.”

  Verstohlen didn’t need to ask her where she got her information. That would have been indelicate. But she was right. It suited many Averlanders not to have an elector in place. With no incumbent in Averheim, they could get on with the business of cattle-rearing and horse-breeding without those inconvenient Imperial levies. They were far enough from the frontline not to care too deeply about the demands of war. Life was good in the south, and they were milking it for all they could get.

  “So which way do you think it’ll go?” she asked.

  “You’re asking me to predict the outcome before we get there? Have you so little regard for the Imperial law?”

  “Imperial law,” she scoffed. “If you cared anything for that, you wouldn’t be here.”

  “True enough,” he said. “But no, I have no idea which way the thing will turn. I’d say they were evenly matched, Grosslich and the Leitdorf heir. And, before you ask, we’re not under orders to pick one of them. This is a genuine contest. Schwarzhelm’s just there to force a decision.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I do.”

  As he spoke, Verstohlen realised how unusual that situation was. In any normal assignment, there’d be some clandestine objective. He might have to slip some misinformation here, or place a modest bribe there. On occasion, the cause demanded more drastic meas
ures, and he knew his poisons. He was good at it all. That was why Schwarzhelm trusted him. That, and many other reasons.

  This situation was odd. His role was to gather intelligence, and nothing more. That alone unnerved him. Perhaps that’s why he’d been talking in his sleep.

  “Are you travelling with him alone?”

  “Oh no. It’ll be the family. Schwarzhelm likes his own people around him. He’s good like that, picking up us waifs and strays.”

  “The family. Quaint.”

  “It keeps us out of mischief.”

  “So it’s you, Grunwald and Gruppen?”

  Verstohlen turned his head to give her a suspicious look. That was very well-informed, even for her.

  “Did you really not hear what I said last night?”

  Julia shrugged.

  “Come on. There’s no secret about his lieutenants.”

  “If I didn’t know my secrets were as safe with you as they would be with Verena herself, I’d begin to get worried. You could destroy my reputation.”

  “And lose my best customer?” she said. “I don’t mean the money, either. You’re a handsome man, Pieter. I’d miss these special visits.”

  Verstohlen laughed.

  “Oh, you’re good,” he said. “But to answer your question, Leonidas won’t be there. His chapter’s been called to the front. The order came from high up. Very high up. Andreas will be going, though. And a new man. Bloch. I like him. He’s dangerous, but in the best way. Schwarzhelm sees something of himself in him, I reckon.”

  “He sees something of himself in all of you.”

  “In Grunwald, maybe. Not me. That’s why he trusts me. I’m Morrslieb to his Mannslieb.”

  Julia chuckled at that. As she laughed, Verstohlen admired the rise and fall of the crumpled sheets around her.

  “I’ll miss you, Pieter,” she said, wistfully.

  “What do you mean? I’ll be back. I can’t keep away from you.”

  “Don’t mock me. I mean it. You’re getting too old for whoring. You need a wife. And when you get one, that’s the last I’ll see of you. I know it. That damned sense of honour.”

  Verstohlen felt the good humour suddenly drain out of him. How was he going to respond to that? Perhaps with the truth, that most elusive and valuable of prizes. But there were only so many ways you could tell the story without sounding bitter. And where would he stop? Just with the fact that he had been married? Or with the fact that Leonora was dead? Or with the way that she’d died, at the hands of those monsters? Or with the fact that he’d loved her so much, so painfully and so completely, that there would never be another woman in his life again, not even if an avatar of blessed Verena herself descended and begged him to take her in blissful matrimony?

  The appetites of the flesh were one thing. He was a man, after all. But his soul belonged to another, and that would never change. He was no longer, as they said, the marrying kind.

  “Don’t trust too much to honour,” was all he said. His voice was bleak. “It has a way of letting you down.”

  Julia, with all the grace of her profession, sensed a nerve had been touched. Smoothly, expertly, she ran a finger down his cheek.

  “So serious,” she whispered. “I could help with that. How long before you have to leave?”

  Verstohlen rolled over, looking her in the eyes. He didn’t like to remember the past. Anything that helped him forget was welcome. And Julia certainly helped him forget.

  “Long enough.”

  “That’s good news,” said Julia, pulling him towards her.

  Much later, Markus Bloch relaxed against the wooden bench, feeling good. He was full of ale. So full, it felt as if it would soon start running out of his eyes. It was Altdorf filth, not as good as he’d get back home in the sticks, but it did the trick. His vision was blurred, his gut overfull, his head heavy. He felt fantastic.

  What made it better was sharing his fortune with his best friends. To be fair, they had only been his best friends for the past few hours. It was uncanny the way a man could strike up such close relationships after walking into a tavern with a purse full of schillings. If he was cynical, he might put it down to the generous rounds he’d been able to stump for. But that would be churlish. These men were the finest in the world. His kind of people. The salt of the earth.

  Bloch let his gaze sweep across the interior of the inn. He couldn’t remember its name. Something like The Seagull, although that would be odd, since Altdorf was hundreds of miles from the sea. The bar was crowded and acrid clouds of pipesmoke hung heavy in the shadows. The smells were reassuringly familiar. Beer, straw, sweat, piss.

  Most of the patrons were human, though there were dwarfs skulking in the shadows. Altdorf was a cosmopolitan place, and no eyebrows were raised at their presence. They drank from massive iron tankards carved with runes while the men knocked back their beer from rude pewter cups.

  You had to hand it to the dwarfs, thought Bloch. They cared about their beer, and they knew how to put it away. He hadn’t seen one of them drunk under the table in all his many happy years in the inns of the Empire. He’d tried to achieve the feat himself. Twice. It hadn’t ended happily on either occasion. The first time he’d lost his dignity, the second his wallet. Still, it had been worth it. One day he’d do it. He just needed more practice.

  With that thought in mind, he downed the last of his drink. The beer became unpleasantly silted at the base of his cup, but you had to drain it to the end if you wanted to get a fresh one. House rules, and damned good ones they were too.

  “Renard!” he bellowed, feeling the liquid swill around his insides. “I’ll have the next one now.”

  His Bretonnian companion, beer-bellied and greasy like the rest of the drinkers, grinned. The man had done well out of the evening so far and seemed happy to stand for another drink. Unlike most of his effeminate countrymen, he was content with proper man’s ale. That was what Bloch had always liked about him. Ever since he’d first met him. An hour ago.

  “You can handle it, Bloch, I’ll give you that,” said the Bretonnian. He was smiling. Bloch smiled back. His benevolence knew no bounds. “Tell us more stories. They’re entertaining.”

  Bloch looked around the table. All eyes were on him. There was Clovis, the travelling peddler from Bogenhafen. He looked shifty and sallow, and hadn’t bought a drink all night. Walland was a better man. Thick as a giant, but generous and ready with a dirty laugh. His eyes were drooping now. And then there was the builder’s mate Holderlin, and the halfling Tallowhand, and Bruno the hired muscle. All fine men. His kind of men. He felt like telling them he loved them.

  “All right,” he slurred, watching his next drink arrive with approval. The serving wench had an appealing set of curves, but she moved too quickly for him to grab anything. Anyway, she was badly blurred. “I’ve saved the best till last. You’re going to love this.”

  He took a long swig. Bilge water. All eyes were on him.

  “I told you about the Turgitz campaign, when I killed the doombull,” he continued, wiping his mouth. “But that’s not the best of it. After I’d pulled the halberd out and cleaned it, I noticed the general was in trouble. That’s right lads, the general of the whole bloody army.”

  Bloch noticed with satisfaction that they were hanging on his every word. Marvellous men, they were.

  “Another man would’ve looked after himself. After all, I’d just killed the bull, and I was pretty bloody tired. But no, I thought. Damn it, the general’s a fine man. The finest of men. Just like you fellas. So I hoisted my blade and launched in. I was pretty fired up by then, and I tell you, you don’t want to get on the wrong side of me when I’m angry.”

  He might have imagined it, but it looked like Renard shot a low glance at Clovis then. What was that about? Never mind. He was in full flow now.

  “So I launched in, like I said. You don’t want to get on the wrong side of me when I’m angry. Like I said. One, two, and he’s done. I’ve stuck him. Right in the g
uts. Not the general, mind. He’s a fine man, the best of men. I’ve killed the gor. That bloody great gor that was giving him some trouble. And when it’s all over, he turns to me—the general, that is—and he says, ‘Bloch, that was the finest fighting I’ve seen in my fifty years in the Emperor’s armies. Forget your service with the Reikland halberdiers. Come and join my retinue.’ So I did. And that’s what’s brought me back here. I told you I was a halberdier captain. No bloody longer, mates. I’m the general’s man now. And he’s a fine man, I tell you.”

  There it was again. Renard was definitely up to something. Clovis was looking shifty. But Holderlin was hanging on his every word, as was Bruno.

  “Which general?” said Tallowhand, looking suspicious. Damned half-breeds. This was difficult. He knew he should keep names out of this. Ferren had told him to. But the story was running out of steam. Clovis looked bored. They needed something big. Something to impress them.

  He took a long, gulping swig.

  “You’re not going to believe it, mates,” he said, wiping his mouth. “But it’s the truth. I swear it on Sigmar’s holy mother, it’s the truth. I wouldn’t lie to you.”

  He leaned forward, milking the moment for all it was worth. Holderlin was wide-eyed, and even Walland had woken up.

  “He’s the foremost general in the Empire,” he said, his voice low. “The Emperor’s right-hand man.” He sat back, folded his arms, and waited for the gasps. “Helborg!” exclaimed Holderlin. Bloch nearly spilt his drink.

  “Damn you!” he bellowed, all thought of secrecy forgotten. “Not that prancing pretty boy. Schwarzhelm. You know, the Champion.”

  That silenced the room. Bloch felt a twinge of unease. Why were they so quiet?