03 - Sword of Vengeance (11 page)

“Remember your orders!” barked Bloch. “No arrows wasted.”

The archers settled into position and a stream of enemy bolts
began to spin down towards them. The armoured infantry formed protective ranks
in front of the lightly armed archers and did their best to shelter them from
the deadly hail from above. Once in position, the Imperial bows began to sing
and arrows flew up at the heavily guarded battlements and windows. Even as they
did so, the second round of cannon fire blazed out.

Kraus watched the flurry of bolts and shot impassively. Bloch
did likewise, seeing a soldier in the front rank of the exposed archery
battalion crumple to the floor, a black-barbed dart shivering in his chest. The
exchange of fire was lethal in both directions, but only one army was in proper
cover.

“We can’t keep this up for long,” Kraus said grimly.

Bloch knew that as well as he did.

“Keep firing!” he shouted, spittle flying from his lips. The
men had to know he was in charge, that this was all part of the plan.

“They’ll come out,” he hissed, his voice low so only Kraus
could hear.

“And if they don’t?”

Bloch didn’t answer. He didn’t want to think about that.

The day waxed across Averheim, and all along the river barges
bumped and jostled for position. Clouds had begun to drift from the east, and
the sky was no longer the unbroken arch of blue it had been for so long. A light
breeze whipped up the surface of the Aver, throwing flecks of foam against the
bows of the vessels in the water.

Men clambered from hold to hold, carrying goods or ticking
off items on requisition ledgers. Soldiers were everywhere. The number of men at
arms in Averheim seemed to have trebled. Some looked like Alptraum’s men, given
new uniforms and new weapons. Others had an unfamiliar look about them, as if
they were new to the city and out of sympathy with its residents.

Tochfel gathered his cloak around his shoulders, feeling the
cool air against his skin. He had no business on the wharfs today, and since his
meeting with Verstohlen he’d grown wary of any attempts to influence the traffic
there. If no one but he could see the problem in suborning an entire province to
the demands of a single building, then that was their problem. The time had come
to make his protests at the highest level, while he still had the protection of
his rank and title. He had no confidence in retaining either for long.

He hurried on down from the quayside, avoiding the glares
from the roving bands of soldiers. Grosslich’s men had become officious, as if
given special orders to stop and search anyone abroad without permission. Even
in the middle of the afternoon, some of them were clearly the worse for wear.
They were well-paid, that Tochfel knew, and there were only two things a soldier
spent his money on. The taverns and bawdy-houses had never done better business.

Striding on from the Griffon Bridge and the embankment
beyond, Tochfel made his way to the poor quarter. As he went, the crowds thinned
out. Even the patrols lessened, and before he’d gone more than half a mile the
roads and streets were eerily quiet. No taverns were open, no hearths glowed
behind lead-lined windows, no brothels rang with song and laughter. Everything
was buttoned-down, locked-up, shut fast.

Tochfel didn’t pause, but kept his head down. He knew what
kept the people away. Ahead of him, the Tower rose. It seemed to grow taller
with every passing hour. Iron fronds had shot up from the base like plants,
curling into the air and branching into new tendrils. The skeleton was gradually
being clad, and fresh beams criss-crossed between supporting struts like the
bone spurs of a lady’s corset. Even at such an early stage it was clear that the
final construction would be huge. When completed, the horrific needle of metal
and stone would dwarf the Averburg and cast a spiked shadow over half the city.
As Tochfel looked at it, he shuddered. Why could no one else see how
wrong
this was? Why was Verstohlen so relaxed about it?

Tochfel pulled his cloak tighter and pressed on. It was time
to get to the bottom of things. If Grosslich wouldn’t come to see him at the
Averburg, Tochfel would have to come to Grosslich at the Tower.

He turned into the long, straight street which led directly
to the construction site. The houses on either side of him were almost
completely silent. Even in the strong sunlight he felt a strange chill settle on
his bones. There were no open windows. A loose door banged in the breeze at the
far end, and from somewhere else there came the sound of a rusty hinge being
worked back and forth.

At the end of the street the old wooden perimeter fence had
been replaced with something more permanent: iron, naturally, hammered into
eight-foot poles and elaborately spiked on the top. As far as he could see, it
looked like the new fence ran around the entire site, enclosing the workings of
the Tower completely.

Where the street met the fence, a high gate had been raised,
crowned with a stylised “G” set amid a crown of thorns. There were other shapes
sculpted there, though quite what they were was hard to make out. Despite the
strong daylight, lamps burned atop twin pillars on either side of the gates. The
flames within them were an odd colour, a deep orange, with the faintest blush of
pink at the edges. The fires flickered within their glass caskets like grasping
fingers.

Tochfel paused, suddenly uneasy. He’d heard the stories of
this place, just as everyone else had. The river was less than a mile away,
bustling with life, and yet it could have been left behind in another world. His
resolve began to waver. Perhaps coming had been a mistake.

“Declare yourself,” came a voice from beside the gate.

A man stepped from the shadow of one of the pillars,
brandishing a spear. Another approached from the opposite side. They were
wearing the crimson and gold of Grosslich’s army. Tochfel noticed that they were
better equipped than the guards at the Averburg and wore a close-fitting
breastplate, greaves and a tall helmet. Not very Averland-like. Almost…
elvish.

“The Steward,” said Tochfel, letting his cloak fall back and
trying to keep the fear out of his voice. Now that he’d been noticed, retreat
was impossible. The guards recognised him and lowered their spears.

“You’re here on your own, sir?”

“What does it look like? Open the gates.”

The guards looked at one another doubtfully. “Are you
expected, sir? The elector doesn’t like—”

“Open the damn gates, man. Neither he nor I like being kept
waiting.”

The lead guard shrugged. He went back to the pillar and
pulled some kind of brass lever set into the stone. There was a hiss, and the
gates swung inwards. Beyond them, a wide path had been cut, lined with some kind
of thorn-bush at ground level. Dotted clumps of the strange plant were visible
beside the path as it ran the several hundred yards up to the unfinished Tower.

Tochfel hurried inside, not giving the guards a second
glance. Behind him, the gates sighed closed, coming together with a soft click.
Like everything about the place, the motion was unsettling.

Within the fence, the ground had been cleared and flattened.
Huge paving slabs of dark stone had been laid. They were interlinked, and traced
out some obscure and massively complicated pattern. As Tochfel gazed at it, he
thought he caught something of its outline, but the totality eluded him. It was
both familiar and deeply strange. The artistry of the stones’ placement looked
superb, and the joins between sections were barely visible.

He went deeper in the compound. The silence became more
absolute. Only his own footfalls, soft against the polished stone, seemed to
make any noise at all.

Tochfel looked up as he went. The sky had lost some of its
lustre. There was a greyness to it. That was strange. As he watched, the colour
seemed to run out of it. He flicked his eyes earthwards, disorientated. The mass
of iron loomed ahead, a fraction more distinct than the sky behind it. It was no
longer dark. Everything was going grey, as if a mist had rolled across the plain
while he walked.

Tochfel could feel his heart thumping strongly. His palms
grew sweaty. The air around him smelled strange. There was a metallic taste on
his tongue, almost sweet. He felt light-headed and dizzy. This really had been a
mistake.

His breathing quickening, he turned and started to head back.
The place was cursed, and he had no place in it.

A sudden noise made him start. He felt panic rise in his
throat. It sounded like the wheeze of some huge dog, close by, somewhere in the
gathering mist. Tochfel hurried back the way he’d come. The scorn of the guards
didn’t matter now. There was something in the grey light, and it wasn’t natural.
Perhaps a hundred yards ahead, he could still see the dim outline of the pillars
with their flame lanterns. He’d be there in moments.

Then the pillars shrank from view. Both of them. As if some
order had been given from within the Tower, the colour-drenching mist swept up
and across the compound. Everything but the patterned stone beneath him
disappeared. Even his hands looked pale, like a cadaver’s.

Tochfel found himself struggling to keep a lid on his
bubbling fear. He began to run. To his left there was another dog-like sound,
closer than the last, right on his shoulder. He veered away from it, losing his
sense of direction. The last shreds of vision merged into the grey fog. It felt
like the whole world had been torn from existence. Heart hammering, breath
ragged, he stumbled blindly, mumbling prayers to Sigmar in his panic.

Then, from nowhere, a patch of curling vapour ripped from the
rest and let a shaft of the world’s sun into the cloud. Ahead of Tochfel was a
man. No, not a man. It had an armoured snout, impossibly long, plated and dark.
It crouched low, as if its joints were twisted backwards. A snarling, grating
sound came from its muzzle, and it clutched a crystal-bladed halberd in a pair
of clawed hands.

Tochfel screamed. He screamed like he’d never screamed in his
life. Other soldiers emerged from the shifting clouds, each panting and growling
like a dog, each limping towards him like a grotesque parody of both man and
beast.

Then the beam of sunlight passed, obscured by the grey miasma
once more. Tochfel’s screams lasted for a moment longer, and were then
extinguished, muffled by the mist. Silence rolled back across the construction
site. After a few moments the mist sank back to earth, wavering and rippling as
it sighed out of existence.

Back at the gates, the guards did their best not to pay any
attention. They’d learned it wasn’t wise to interfere with what went on in the
Tower. They hadn’t seen the mist anyway. Only one man in Averheim had seen the
mist, and he was gone. Just on the edge of hearing, there was a faint noise. It
could have been a trick of the wind, but it sounded like a woman laughing, cool
and elegant.

Then it too was gone. The compound looked as it always did,
empty and echoing. Across the wide expanse of stone there was no sign of the
dog-soldiers, nor of Tochfel. If the human guards had been foolish enough to
venture inside the compound, perhaps curious as to his fate, they would have
found no body, and no blood.

There was no blood, because he hadn’t been killed. That
wasn’t the way of the Tower. He’d been taken, just as the others had been,
alive. And that, of course, was only the beginning.

Arrows flew up at Black Fire Keep, peppering the stone and
clattering back to earth. The cannon still boomed, but only the faintest of
cracks had been opened up on the ramparts. It was too old, too strong. The orcs
stayed clustered in safety, locked out of harm’s way. Frustration began to
spread across the besieging army.

Bloch sensed it before he saw it. He was barely out of the
ranks himself, plucked from being a company captain by Schwarzhelm after the
engagement at Turgitz, and knew all the moods of a halberdier detachment. They
were getting close to boiling over. They could all see the exposed archers being
picked off from the ramparts, all hear the jeers of the capering orcs on the
battlements. This was death by attrition.

“Pull them back,” hissed Kraus through clenched teeth. Nearly
two dozen archers lay dead, and another score had been wounded. They were having
almost no effect.

“No,” said Bloch, watching the carnage blankly. “It’s keeping
their eyes where I want them. We won’t pull back.”

“Damn you, commander, pull them back!” Kraus looked livid.
His fingers itched at his side, eager to draw his sword and exact retribution
for the losses.

“Bring out the bait,” said Bloch, clenching his jaw to hide
his anguish. His faith in his plan was being sorely tested.

Kraus shook his head, but called out the order. A company of
Averlander spearmen rushed from the reserve position to the front ranks of the
army. Still out of bowshot, but ahead of the main body of halberdiers, they
stopped. Each of them carried a heavy bag on their back. Some were bent double
under the weight, and others were carried by two men.

Their captain, a veteran of the Averheim garrison who’d
ridden out with Schwarzhelm, looked up to Bloch for confirmation.

“Do it!” Bloch roared, before turning to Kraus. “Send the
word out. The army holds position. Do
not
threaten the gates, d’you
hear?”

The orders were passed on. The hail of artillery and arrows
was kept up, nearly obscuring the Keep beyond with its drip feed of provocation.

On the plain, in full view of the Keep’s massive gatehouse,
the Averlanders began their work. All slammed their bags to the ground and
pulled the fabric back. Within them were the bodies of fallen greenskins. Most
were goblins, scrawny and spiteful-looking even in death. Some of the cadavers
were of larger breeds, and there were even a couple of heavy warriors, carried
by two or more men and as thick as the bole of a fallen oak.