Swords of the Emperor Page 7

  But this was no court dandy or effete noble. Helborg’s name was spoken of with reverence by all fighting men. Though they respected Schwarzhelm, they knew little of him. Helborg’s deeds, by contrast, were the stuff of legend. So much so, that he carried not the weapon of a mere general, but the blade of an elector. The Solland runefang, one the ancient twelve. It had many names, across many realms. In the annals of Altdorf it was known as Grollhalter, the Grudgebearer. Others called it the Lightshard, or Hellbringer, or Warpsbane. Helborg himself only used one title for it. Klingerach. The Sword of Vengeance. Thus was it whispered of across the homesteads and households of the Empire. When all seemed bleakest, it was Helborg and Klingerach the common folk prayed to see.

  As the Marshal approached, the knights and commanders fell silent. Helborg strode into the centre of the gathered men.

  “Where is General Schwarzhelm?” he asked. His voice was as weathered as the granite of the Bastion.

  No one knew. Seeing the indecision around him, Grunwald came forward. He was as senior a commander as any of the others.

  “He fights still, my lord,” he said, bowing deferentially. Helborg turned to face him. His glance was piercing, unforgiving.

  “The day is won,” said Helborg. “What fighting is there to do?”

  Grunwald hesitated. Making excuses for his master was a dangerous game. Schwarzhelm spoke for himself. He felt caught between two titans.

  “While beasts remain alive, there remains fighting to do,” came a deep voice from the shadows.

  Schwarzhelm emerged from the gloom beyond the brazier light. He looked terrifying. His armour dripped with dark blood and his heavy beard was caked in gore. His blade was smeared with it. It looked as though he’d waded through a well of entrails. Even Helborg seemed taken aback.

  Schwarzhelm approached him, leaving his blade unsheathed. As he came, he tore his helmet from his head. His expression was hard to read in the dark. Grunwald had witnessed his savage departure after the death of Raghram. He looked scarcely less angry now.

  Awkwardly, the two men embraced. That was as it should be. Brother warriors, congratulating one another after a crushing victory. But all present could see the stilted movements, the grudging handclasp. Schwarzhelm still smouldered with resentment, and the fire would not be put out easily.

  “This is your victory, Ludwig,” said Helborg. None but he could have used Schwarzhelm’s given name.

  “That it is,” snapped Schwarzhelm, and turned away. None but he could have shown his back to the Marshal. Grunwald looked at Tierhof, who looked at Morgan. None knew what to do. Even Gruppen seemed uncertain.

  Then, from far below, a trumpet sounded. Three notes, long and mournful. The signal for the end of the battle. The last of the beasts had been killed or driven into the trees. That seemed to break the spell.

  Helborg’s granite face broke into an unconvincing smile.

  “Yours will be the honour, my friend,” he said, addressing Schwarzhelm’s viscera-smeared shoulders. “You may count on it.”

  “If d better be,” muttered the Emperor’s Champion, as he stalked back off into the dark.

  Dawn broke cold and cheerless. The watery sun crested the eastern horizon, but did little to banish the heavy, low cloud. Though the worst of the rain had passed, the air was still chill. With the destruction of the beasts, the combined forces of Schwarzhelm and Helborg had camped as well as they could on the rock of the Bastion. Out of a combined force of more than seven thousand, fewer than three thousand remained. The heaviest casualties had been amongst those who had manned the pitiless walls of rock. Despite the cold, the surviving troops had slept as heavily as the dead. Grunwald himself had drifted into unconsciousness as soon as his head had hit the gravel of the terrace. When he awoke, the sunrise was long gone and preparations for the march home were already far advanced. The amalgamated forces would head back to Altdorf and report the utter destruction of the latest beastman uprising. They would say it had been shattered between the hammer of Helborg and the anvil of Schwarzhelm. They would say nothing of the botched preparations that had left half the army fighting on its own for the best part of a day, nor how many lives that had cost.

  Rubbing his eyes, Grunwald sat bolt upright. He could have happily slept for hours more, but he should have woken earlier. There were things to do, things to organise.

  He struggled to his feet and looked around. Across the wide bowl of the Cauldron, bodies lay in heaps. Some were those of men, most those of the beasts. Already vultures were circling above. The stench was ripening. As the day waxed, it would only grow. Even now, he thought he could make out figures picking their way among the cadavers, looking for something they could use. There was a woman, young and slim with short dark hair, merely yards away from him down on the floor of the Cauldron. She was oblivious to his presence. He was too tired to be angry. Too tired for anything.

  Grunwald shook his head to clear it. He was still groggy. His clothes clung to his limbs, cold and deadening.

  “Good morning, Herr Grunwald,” came a familiar voice.

  Andreas turned to face Pieter Verstohlen. “Counsellor,” he replied, and there was warmth in his greeting.

  Verstohlen came over to him, and the two men embraced.

  “I’m told I have you to thank for my life,” said Grunwald.

  Verstohlen shrugged.

  “I had some small part in it. Schwarzhelm can be persuaded, if you know the right means. But there was a halberdier captain out there too, a man named Bloch. If you owe anyone thanks, it is he.”

  “Aye, I know him. Did he make it back to the Bastion?”

  “I was fighting with him before the doombull arrived. If he’s alive, then the general will seek him out. Battle may be the making of a man. Bloch has advanced his reputation.”

  Grunwald felt a sudden pang of shame.

  “Where I failed,” he said, almost to himself.

  Verstohlen frowned.

  “In what way? You held the ridge for as long as anyone could have asked. It was foolish of the commanders not to send relief earlier, and I told them so. There’s no whispering against you, Andreas.”

  Grunwald found scant consolation in those words. He knew that he’d held out for as long as he could. Any longer and his entire command would have perished. But Schwarzhelm was a harsh taskmaster. He’d been ordered to keep the road clear. He had failed. Helborg had made it through at last, but how much sooner would he have arrived if the ridge hadn’t fallen to the beasts?

  “I worry not about whispering,” he said. “The verdict of my peers means nothing. But Schwarzhelm… He doesn’t forgive easily.”

  “He doesn’t forgive at all,” said Verstohlen, grimly. “But there’s nothing to berate yourself for. The field has been won. The beasts are scattered. Trust me, Grunwald. We will ride out with Schwarzhelm again, just as we always have done. You’ve won his trust a hundred times before. He’ll remember that.”

  Grunwald looked away, back over the grim vista of the Cauldron. Columns of men were picking their way across the stone, stripping weapons from the fallen. There was heavy labour ahead. Swords were precious, and would be recovered for the Emperor’s armouries. The beastmen would be left to rot where they fell. This place would be a scene of carnage for months, even when the last of the bones had been picked clean. “So you say,” he muttered. “So you say.”

  Clearing the battlefield took many hours. Troops, still wearing the armour they’d fought in, were ordered out onto the Cauldron to retrieve items of value and prepare the bodies of the slain for their mass immolation. The work was grim. Amidst the heaps of twisted, bestial enemies, every so often a trooper would discover the face of a man he knew, cold and staring. For them, victory had come too late.

  As the lines of men gradually picked their way across the battlefield, others piled wood high for the pyres. There would be two of them. No beastmen would share the same honoured burning as the human dead. Priests chanted over both sites. Pray
ers of benediction and thanks were offered up over the pyre reserved for the honoured slain. Litanies of exorcism and damnation were chanted over the beastmen’s pile. As the morning wore on, the kindling was ignited and pale flames leapt up into the air. One by one, arduously and with much effort, bodies were dragged to the pyres and thrown on the wood. Gradually, the noisome stench of crackling flesh began to mask that of the putrefying cadavers. Two columns of smoke, each black and heavy, rolled up into the grey air.

  Restored to his vantage point on the pinnacle of the Bastion, Schwarzhelm watched the grisly task unfold. With the cessation of combat, he had withdrawn to his general’s position. His armour had been wiped clean of blood and his sword shone again unsullied. His mood, however, remained dark. The Reiksguard had retreated to a position down in the Cauldron on Helborg’s orders. Despite the scale of the task, the two men avoided one another. Schwarzhelm’s own commanders, sensing his anger, mostly busied themselves with their own tasks.

  Only Gruppen, driven by necessity, had dared to disturb his isolation. Now even he was gone, organising the Knights Panther for their ride to Altdorf.

  Schwarzhelm stood alone, lost in thought. Why did Helborg rile him so? Was it fatigue? Or something more deep-seated? The ways of war were fickle. There could have been a thousand reasons why the Reiksguard had been held up. Their route had been blocked by beasts, despite his best efforts. But had the Marshal ridden with all the haste he could muster? It had happened so often, this last-minute charge to save the day. Surely the man didn’t deliberately plan these charges, just in the nick of time, to bolster his reputation. And yet…

  “My lord,” came a nervous voice from his shoulder.

  Ferren, his aide-de-camp, was there. His face was pale with fear.

  “Yes?”

  “The man you were seeking. Bloch. He’s been found.”

  That was good news. Schwarzhelm felt the worst of his mood begin to lift. He could worry about Helborg later. He had his own men to worry about first.

  “Show him to me.”

  Ferren withdrew, and Bloch took his place. The man looked unprepossessing. He was short in stature. Fat, even. His features were crude. A squat nose, crooked from repeated breaks, sat in the middle of a peasant’s face. The brow was low, the mouth tight. He had the look of a tavern brawler, a common thief. And yet, as Schwarzhelm knew from his own experience, a man’s worth was only measured in his deeds, not breeding. Without Bloch’s intervention, he would have lost Grunwald, one of his most trusted allies. That alone made up for any roughness around the edges.

  “Herr Bloch,” he said, trying to keep the habitual gruffness out of his voice. “Do you know why I wished to see you?”

  The man looked unsteady on his feet. He’d been wounded several times and there was a patch of dried blood on the jerkin over his shoulder. To his credit, he kept his posture as best he could and his eyes were level. Not every man could meet his gaze. “No, sir.”

  Schwarzhelm was used to being addressed as “my lord”. It was a proper title for his rank and station. No doubt Bloch was unaware of this. He liked that. The man was a warrior, not an official.

  “The commander of the southern flank was forced to withdraw. Your actions saved his life and that of many of his men. I would have arrived too late. That was a brave thing you did, captain.”

  Bloch looked uneasy. Like many of his kind, he could cope with insults, threats and banter. It was compliments that really threw him off guard.

  “Ah, thank you, sir,” he stammered, clearly unsure how to react.

  “How long have you been in the Emperor’s service?” This was easier to cope with.

  “Ten years, sir. Joined as a lad in the militia. Accepted into the state halberdiers when I turned twenty. Promoted to captain last year when Erhardt was killed at Kreisberg.”

  Schwarzhelm nodded with approval.

  “Good. You’ve learned your trade the way I did.”

  Schwarzhelm studied the man as he spoke, gauging his character from the way he carried himself, the way he responded, the almost imperceptible inflections that indicated a fighting temperament. It was similar to the way a trainer might select a horse.

  “There is much wrong in the way that the Empire runs itself, Bloch,” said Schwarzhelm, permitting himself a digression. “Many who rule do not deserve to. Many who are ruled could make a better fist of it. You’re a fighting man. You’ve seen armies commanded by fools and good men led into ruin by them.”

  Though he said nothing, Schwarzhelm could see the recognition in Bloch’s eyes.

  “But there’s opportunity in battle. Mettle will always show itself. There are men in the Empire who know how to reward talent and how to ignore low birth. The Emperor, Sigmar keep him, is one. It is to him I owe my station, not to my breeding. And so it is with me. I need good men around me. I’d like you to be one of them.”

  Bloch blinked, clearly struggling to take the speech in.

  “Yes, sir,” was all he said.

  “There are a number of captains I place my trust in. Not many, since only a few deserve it. In my judgement, you may prove worthy. I’m offering you a chance. Leave the employ of Reikland and join my retinue. The pay’s no better, and you’ll be campaigning more than you’ve ever done before. But there’s glory in it, and service. Many men would leap to serve me. Others would leap to avoid it. Which of those are you, Herr Bloch?”

  The man didn’t hesitate.

  “I’ll serve you,” he said.

  Schwarzhelm narrowed his eyes.

  “Be careful,” he said, warningly. “This offer will only come once. Danger follows me. I’ll not think less of you if you refuse. A life in the state halberdiers is an honourable one, and you’ll stand a better chance of seeing your children grow up.”

  To his credit, Bloch didn’t flinch. His assurance seemed to be growing. A good sign.

  “With your pardon, sir, I’ve never been one for changing my mind. I know a chance when I see one. I’ll fight with you, and you’ll not find a better captain in the Emperor’s armies.” Then he looked worried, like he’d overreached himself. “And I’m grateful for the chance. Really grateful.”

  Schwarzhelm kept his gaze firmly on him. Nothing he saw contradicted his initial assessment. Here was a leader of the future.

  “Very good,” he said. “For now, remain with your company. They’ve fought hard, and you should reward them. When we’re back in Altdorf and your hangover has cleared, report to Ferren. He’ll sort out the papers of commission. Then you’ll report to me.”

  Schwarzhelm didn’t smile. He never smiled. But something close to a humorous light played in his eyes.

  “I like you, Bloch,” he said. “I wonder if you know what you’ve committed yourself to? Never mind. We’ll see soon enough. Return to your men and prepare for the journey home.”

  Bloch, his uncertain confidence looking a little dented, bowed awkwardly and limped away. From some distance away, Schwarzhelm heard Ferren begin to confer with him. He ignored the noise of their conversation, and turned to face the Cauldron. For the moment, his brooding on Helborg had lifted.

  Out on the plain, the columns of smoke rose ever higher. Another victory. The army would decamp before nightfall. And then it would start over again. The endless test, the endless struggle. Only now, in these brief moments, could any satisfaction be taken. He crossed his arms over his burly chest. The head of Raghram had been stuck on a spike near the summit of the Bastion. It would be taken to Altdorf and presented to Karl Franz. And that would be an end to it.

  For now.

  By late afternoon, the fires began to go out. Huge piles of charred flesh lay strewn across the Cauldron. While the army remained on the Bastion, the vultures steered clear of the smouldering carrion. But not all of the bodies could be retrieved and they knew that rich pickings remained. As soon as they left, the birds would descend. They would feast on the beasts only when the juicier remnants of the men were scraped clean. They knew the diff
erence between wholesome flesh and the warp-twisted fodder of the deep forest.

  Gradually, as the worst of the carnage was cleared away, the army began descending from the Bastion to start the march from the Cauldron to the forest road. As they went, the state troopers glanced at the distant trees darkly. None of them relished the journey back under the close eaves of the forest. Only the foolish among them believed the beastman menace to have been extinguished. It had only been deferred. Perhaps a year, maybe two, and then they would mass again. Who knew how they replenished themselves? There were bawdy stories of mass ruttings in the shadowy heart of the woods, driven by crude ale and bestial fervour. All knew the tales of witches heading out into the darkness on the festival days of the Dark Gods, prepared for unspeakable rites. And then there were the children, the ones touched by the Ruinous Powers. When they were left in isolated clearings to die, who knew what happened to them? Did they find refuge amongst the twisted beasts, ever ready to fan the flames of their hate towards the unsullied scions of humanity? If so, it was a dark secret to hide, and one the mean folk of the Empire would never admit to.

  The Knights Panther were the first to ride out, with Gruppen at their head. They had restored their armour as best they could and went ahead to clear the road home of any residual beastmen. Behind them marched the ranks of halberdiers, archers and other state troopers. Every company was depleted. Some were leaderless and attached themselves forlornly to other companies. Some of the regiments had lost their standards in the fighting, and their shame hung heavy over them. Only a few carried themselves proudly. The fighting had been too bitter to take much satisfaction from. All the men cared about was getting back to the city in one piece. Their payment would stand for a few beers in a tavern and a night at the whorehouse. That would be enough for them to forget the horror, however briefly.