Swords of the Emperor Page 22

  Kraus pulled alongside him. He was as impassive as ever.

  “Heideck,” said Schwarzhelm bluntly, gesturing ahead.

  Averland’s second city lay in the valley below, surrounded by its low, thick walls. Like most of the substantial settlements in the province, it had been made rich from trade. The Old Dwarf Road from Averheim to the mountain passes, the great artery of commerce in the southern Empire, ran right through it. Heideck had grown fat on the passing traffic. Its agents were known even outside Averland for being quick to spot the potential for a percentage. Despite being surrounded by lush pasture, few of the richest men in the city were farmers.

  In normal times, the thoroughfares would have been laden with the wains and caravans of the trading guilds. The greenskins, even the rumour of them, had finished all that. As the dawn waxed into early morning, the last of the watch fires smouldered on Heideck’s ramparts. There was no sign of fighting. The road ran down the slope before them, looping over broken ground and the ancient stone bridge crossing the River Pegnitz. It looked calm, prosperous, neat. The red tiled roofs of the merchant houses glowed in the early morning sun.

  “So the greenskins haven’t got this far west,” Schwarzhelm muttered. “If those bastards kept their swords to themselves while Grunwald protected them, I’ll—”

  He didn’t finish and kicked his horse back into motion instead. The animal whinnied in protest, but complied grudgingly. The column started moving again. The stragglers at the back would have no rest at all. Served them right.

  The cavalry picked up pace, travelling swiftly from the high ground down into the Pegnitz Valley. As they neared the city, Schwarzhelm sent a pair of buglers on ahead. The drowsy gatekeepers would no doubt need some warning of his presence. He didn’t plan on knocking on the door.

  Schwarzhelm felt tired but alert. His mind had cleared a little since leaving Averheim. Verstohlen was almost certainly right. He should have stayed in the city. But it was too late for second thoughts. He’d made his decision, and that was an end to it. The greenskins were his only concern now.

  As they rode, Kraus said nothing. The honour guard captain never gave anything away. He never questioned orders, never looked askance. Perhaps that was a failing. Schwarzhelm’s reputation made it hard to disagree with him. Grunwald had never done so. Nor had Gruppen. That was a weakness. His decisions had not been tested enough, and that left the door open to mistakes. He’d become intransigent. Intolerant, even. It was not a quality he liked seeing in himself. It wasn’t one he’d been born with.

  Verstohlen was the only one who ever stood up to him. It was one of the many reasons he valued the spy’s service. The man would have made a good witch hunter, if he hadn’t despised them so much. Too much independence of mind was never a good thing in a Templar of Sigmar. The young Pieter would have probably ended up in their employ anyway if Schwarzhelm hadn’t seen his potential. Verstohlen hated Chaos enough to be a witch hunter. He probably hated Chaos more than any man Schwarzhelm knew. For Schwarzhelm, the great enemy was one among many foes of mankind, each as foul as the next. But Verstohlen reserved a special loathing for the traitor, the heretic and mutant.

  Schwarzhelm knew why, of course. He’d seen Leonora’s body himself after she’d been retrieved from the pits. Back then he hadn’t known who she was. Just another victim of the insanity of a cult, another innocent soul sacrificed on the altar of misguided fervour. The memory of the corpse still made him shudder. She hadn’t given in to them, even at the last, even after all they’d done to her. That level of bravery had been astonishing in one so young. Verstohlen had been destroyed. A young man on the cusp of a scholar’s career. All his learning had been impotent in the face of the raw sadism of the cults. And what was worse, they’d been Templars of Sigmar. The very men charged with hunting down corruption. The watchdogs had turned on those they’d been employed to protect.

  After the cabal had been exposed, Schwarzhelm had hunted the men down personally. All of them. It hadn’t been much consolation, but Verstohlen had been grateful. Grateful enough to devote the rest of his life to Schwarzhelm’s service. The spy had since paid back any debt a thousand times over. Money was no motivation to him, neither was prestige. Schwarzhelm reckoned that nothing much drove him anymore except that one, burning quest. He wouldn’t stop until every last den of heresy was extinguished, every corrupted cabal purged.

  A futile quest, of course. Even Volkmar didn’t believe that the great enemy would ever be truly defeated. All they had was resistance, the endless struggle against an infinite foe. Perhaps Verstohlen knew all that, deep down. If he did, he never admitted it. Every man needed a purpose, a way to keep the nightmares from taking over. That was his.

  The gates of the city drew nearer. The buglers had done their work, and the archway was open. Beyond the gatehouse, Schwarzhelm could see frantic activity. They were unprepared. Any watchmen they had on duty must have been asleep. That summed up the entire province. Drowsy, lazy and disorganised, even in the face of turmoil in Averheim and greenskins in the east.

  Schwarzhelm picked up the pace, driving the cavalry column into a gallop. By the time the column reached the gates, they were travelling fast. The hooves thundered on the old road, throwing dust high into the air. He didn’t pause at the gatehouse, but continued straight on up the main thoroughfare. The streets were half-empty. The few townspeople out and about rushed to get out of the way,, pressing themselves up against their neatly whitewashed houses. They looked fat. Slow. Lazy. This place had sheltered behind the protection of better men for too long.

  Flanked by Kraus and the honour guard, Schwarzhelm swept through the town and towards the main square. He didn’t need directions. The place had barely changed since he’d last visited it.

  The centre of Heideck was dominated by its merchant guild-funded Halzmann Platz. The wide space was framed on all sides by towering buildings, each decorated with guild symbols and intricate stonework. All the fraternities were represented. Tanners, miners, importers, landowners, money-changers. Each had their own brotherhood, sucking in money from the healthy flows of trade. All of them had spent vast sums on their ornate frontages, and the crests of the wealthy and powerful were all over them. Schwarzhelm recognised the Alptraum coats of arms in more than one place. So they were still powerful here, despite Leitdorfs best efforts. That boded well for Grosslich.

  Once in the centre of the Platz, he called a halt and dismounted. Around him, his guard did the same, their armour clattering against the stone. From the guildhouses, men were beginning to emerge. Some were rubbing their eyes, seemingly uncaring of how ridiculous that made them look. It was too early for them to be at their desks. They must have lived in the huge mansions too.

  From the largest building, a huge baroque edifice of fluted stone with rare coloured glass in its windows, a delegation of sorts filed out to meet him. Its members were dressed in the robes of town officials. At least most of them seemed awake. Schwarzhelm felt distaste stir in his frame. Officials. They were the same across the Empire. Tochfel, Achendorfer, Ferren. The names changed, but their characters never altered.

  The leader of the delegation came up to him and bowed low.

  “My lord Schwarzhelm. You honour us. If we’d known—”

  “Be silent. There are orcs on your doorstep. Where are your men?”

  The man’s face went grey. Next to Schwarzhelm, standing tall in his heavy armour, he looked little more than a child.

  “We have maintained a garrison here, just as we are required to do.”

  Schwarzhelm gave him a disdainful look. He felt like grabbing him by the neck and shaking him.

  “My commander passed through here days ago. What help did you render him?”

  “He asked for none. He was not here long. He headed east.”

  “I know that. What forces did you give him?”

  The official looked confused.

  “None. There were no orders. I don’t—”

  Then Sc
hwarzhelm snapped. His temper always seemed to be on the edge of breaking in recent days. Something about the petty man’s manner, combined with the dull ache of Grunwald’s death, pushed him over. He struck the man viciously with the back of his armoured hand. The official tumbled to the ground, squealing with pain and fright.

  His companions started. Some made to intervene, then crept back, daunted by Schwarzhelm’s presence. Kraus said nothing. Schwarzhelm leaned over the miserable figure of the official. Worm-like, he looked like he was trying to squirm away.

  “You filth,” Schwarzhelm hissed, his face iron-hard. “My commander is dead. He rode out to protect you. If you weren’t so feckless you’d have done the job yourself. No doubt your troops are well fed and watered here while better men died to keep you safe from harm.”

  The man looked up at him, clearly terrified. Schwarzhelm took no enjoyment in his humiliation. The official was nothing. A parasite. Like so many of those in positions of power across the Empire.

  “You’ll release your men into my command immediately. You don’t need papers. You don’t need orders. Anything my men need, you’ll provide. You’ll show Captain Kraus the keys to your treasury chamber. I’ll need gold and supplies. You’ll provide it all. You’ll do it quickly. And you’ll think yourself supremely fortunate you caught me in a good mood this day.”

  The official’s face was fixed in a kind of half-comical terror. Not many men could stand up to Schwarzhelm in full flow. This man wasn’t one of the few that could.

  “Y-yes, my lord,” he stammered. “You’ll get everything you need.”

  Schwarzhelm turned away in disgust. His point had been made. Just looking at the man made him feel nauseous.

  “What next, sir?” asked Kraus.

  “Rouse the garrison. I want them ready to march within the hour. Find fresh horses and re-form the cavalry. Whip those Averlander dogs if you need to. Just get them ready to leave. We don’t have much time.”

  Kraus bowed smartly and set to work. Across the square, orders rang out. Schwarzhelm watched it impassively. Somewhere out there, in all the empty land to the east, the orcs were waiting. If Sigmar willed it, Bloch would be there too, still on his feet. Schwarzhelm knew he needed more men, knew he needed to give the horses water, but all of this would take time. The frustration burned at him. He felt his fingers creep towards the hilt of the Rechtstahl. The spirit of the weapon was eager to be drawn.

  “Soon,” breathed Schwarzhelm, anticipating the slaughter ahead with a grim relish. “Very soon.”

  Ferenc Alptraum gazed out across Averheim. He was high up in his chambers. The ancestral castle, owned by the Alptraums for as long as anyone could remember, was second only to the Averburg in size. It offered him a commanding view. From the curve of the Aver up to the dominating bulk of the Old City, the landscape was studded with fires. The fruit of the power struggle he’d helped to create.

  That wasn’t what he’d wanted. It had never been what he’d wanted. If Rufus hadn’t been so hell-bent on violence, it could all have been avoided. His own men had died. Most were hired scum, but some were not. Members of his family entourage, dragged into the city from Heideck. This wasn’t their fight. The loss of a single one of them grieved him.

  He stepped away from the window. The destruction was depressing. For all that, he couldn’t withdraw. Not now. He’d committed himself to Grosslich. If he let things slip, showed even the slightest sign of weakness, it would be over. Averheim would be ruled by a mad elector again, and the Leitdorf grip on power would be resumed. It could not be allowed to happen.

  In the past, of course, an Alptraum had wielded the runefang. His grandmother, the formidable Ludmila, had governed the Grand County with a silken glove over a fist of iron. Perhaps she’d been too intransigent, too belligerent, trodden on too many people. Even the guilds had no desire to see an Alptraum back in the Averburg. That sad fact had become clear years ago, back when Ferenc had still had designs on the throne himself.

  But he was nothing if not resourceful. When Grosslich emerged, seemingly from nowhere, Ferenc was astute enough to spot a winning horse. Power was a fluid thing. If he could not be the figurehead himself, then he would have to be the next best thing. Grosslich was no man’s fool, but he was a provincial and could be moulded. He needed Alptraum money and Alptraum manpower. Ferenc had provided both.

  He thought of it as a business investment, the kind his family had made for centuries. For all he was supporting Grosslich now, the time would come when the debts would have to be repaid. The fact that the Alptraum name was on the gilt-edged bills would ensure the proceeds flowed directly to him.

  It would be worth it. Anything would be worth it to prevent another mad Leitdorf ruling from the Averburg. Rufus and his damned wife both. Natassja was clever, but she had the looks and morals of a courtesan. There had been rumours about her for months. Where had she come from? What hold did she have over Rufus? The marriage was an embarrassment. The woman dominated him despite her dubious lineage. Though Marius had never been an ideal count, he’d at least married into nobility and not brought his ancient line into complete ridicule. With Natassja, Rufus had made his final mistake. For every addled noble who’d been seduced by her, there were two more who’d do anything to see her banished from the province. Why Rufus couldn’t see that was something only he could answer.

  There was a knock on the door. Ferenc glanced at the elaborate clock mechanism on the wall, one of his proudest possessions. It was early. He wasn’t expecting Heinz-Mark until later. Instinctively, he made sure his dagger was in easy reach. You could never be too careful.

  “Come.”

  The door opened and a manservant appeared.

  “You have a visitor, highness. Schwarzhelm’s counsellor. He craves an audience.”

  That was odd. Ferenc had had almost nothing to do with the elusive Pieter Verstohlen since the selection process had started. Grosslich seemed to think he was nothing more than a functionary. Maybe not.

  “Show him in.”

  The servant withdrew. A moment later, the counsellor appeared. He looked terrible, like a man who hadn’t slept for several days. When Ferenc had last seen him, the man had seemed well groomed, urbane. Now he appeared more like his master, hollow-eyed and dishevelled.

  “Counsellor,” said Ferenc, showing him to a chair. “This is unexpected.”

  Verstohlen said nothing but sat heavily in one of Ferenc’s expertly carved chairs. There was a decanter of wine on the table to hand, and he poured himself a goblet. He took a long draft, then refilled it.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” he said, wiping his mouth.

  “Not at all.” Ferenc sat opposite him. “Have as much as you like.”

  “A Heissmuller, I see. Very nice,” said Verstohlen. He was referring to the chair. Not many men would have known the marque. Despite his appearance, the man had refined tastes.

  “That it is. 1400s. It’s older than the castle.”

  Verstohlen nodded appreciatively. The wine seemed to have restored his equilibrium, though Ferenc noticed that his hands shook slightly as he replaced the decanter stopper.

  “What can I do for you, counsellor?”

  “I’ll come to that. First I must enter into confidence with you. Is this place secure? Can we be overheard?”

  “This is my family house. You may speak freely.”

  Verstohlen looked only partly satisfied. His eyes continued to flicker, as if hunting for unseen pursuers. He took another draught of wine.

  “I am a member of Schwarzhelm’s inner circle,” he said. “I use the title counsellor, but my true functions are somewhat more specialised. A man like Schwarzhelm is recognised across the Empire. There are times when he needs information a public figure could never openly obtain. That’s the service I perform for him. Among other things.”

  A spy, then. That in itself was unremarkable. All powerful men had agents working on their behalf. But it was rare for one to voluntarily declare themselve
s. Verstohlen didn’t look stupid or indiscreet, so there must have been a reason. Ferenc listened carefully.

  “My master is out of the city at present. I suspect he has been drawn there deliberately by those who wish to see the succession battle continue indefinitely. Until recently, I might have suspected you of such motives. Maybe you still have them. As things transpire, it matters not.”

  Ferenc paid close attention, giving nothing away. Verstohlen was speaking frankly. A lesser man might have been offended by the suggestion that the succession had been deliberately prolonged, but Ferenc wasn’t put out in the slightest. They were both men of the world. In any case, it was perfectly true.

  “As part of my work here, I’ve made certain enquiries. They began with rumours concerning joyroot. This led to other things. I’m now certain that my earlier suspicions were correct. There are forces at work that wish to see the Emperor’s Champion removed from the city. They also wish him harm. Their general purpose is clear. The succession will be subverted.”

  Ferenc poured himself a glass and crossed his legs. Everything the spy said hinted at more. Despite his candour, Verstohlen was still being careful. Something had scared him, and for all his polished manners he couldn’t conceal that entirely.

  “Interesting,” said Ferenc, keeping his voice controlled. “I hope you’re not casting your gaze in our direction. For our part, there has never been anything but full cooperation with the Estates and with Lord Schwarzhelm.”

  Verstohlen looked briefly amused, and his worried features lifted.

  “Naturally. You needn’t worry, Herr Alptraum. If I thought you were behind the attempt to divert my master, I’d be having this conversation with your opponents. As it turns out, however, that would be impossible. I’ll not waste your time with evasion. The Leitdorfs have turned to the great enemy. They’re traitors, and their claim to the electorship is now void. Were Schwarzhelm here, he would declare the contest over and enlist your help in destroying them. In his absence, that task is left to me. So I have come to you, through no small peril, to deliver the verdict. Grosslich will be the new Elector of Averland. If he is not, then the province will be given over to damnation.”