03 - Sword of Vengeance (17 page)

“The city?”

“I saw it for myself. He never slept properly There were bad
dreams. It was almost as if…”

Leitdorf trailed off. It was painful to recall those
sleepless nights, the screams of his father echoing down the long corridors of
the Averburg. Nothing the physicians could do would ease the pain. Though his
father had known the courtiers were laughing at him behind his back, Marius
never once shirked his duty as a result of the night terrors. Not once, even
though it drove his mind to the brink of breaking.

“They say he was a proper swordsman,” acknowledged Skarr, and
his voice had a grudging approval in it. “The Marshal wanted to offer him a
duel, but the opportunity never arose.” The grizzled knight smiled again, this
time less forced. “Perhaps, when he’s recovered,
you
should take up the
challenge.”

Leitdorf felt his pride stung at the mockery, and went red
with anger.

He pushed it down. This was his problem. He had no means of
coping with the banter of ordinary conversation. That was why he was feared
rather than loved, ridiculed rather than respected. Instead, he did his best to
return the smile.

“I’d not give him much of a fight.”

Skarr couldn’t disagree, and gave an equivocal shrug.
Leitdorf winced.

“You don’t think much of me, do you, preceptor?” he said.

Skarr looked surprised.

“It’s not important what I think. It’s about survival now.”

“Perhaps.” Leitdorf looked up ahead. The road was curving
round to the right, snaking steadily up a long, shallow incline. Remnants of the
mist curled around the hooves of the horses as they laboured up it, ghostly and
insubstantial. The Drakenmoor castle was close, staffed by members of his
father’s most devoted staff and safe—for the moment—from the prying eyes of
Grosslich. This had been his decision, perhaps the first he’d ever truly made
without his father or his wife peering over his shoulder. That was an odd
thought.

“Maybe I don’t think that much of myself, either,” he said.
“A man’s defined by what’s around him. I’m beginning to wonder if the company
I’ve kept has always worked to my advantage.”

“War can change a man, my lord,” said Skarr. “I’ve seen it
happen. It asks a question of you.”

“We’re at war?”

“Assuredly. The Marshal has no thoughts of escaping. He’ll
take the fight back to Grosslich.”

Leitdorf pondered that. Such a course was hugely dangerous.
Grosslich had the resources of the entire province at his disposal. It would be
easier for Leitdorf to slip over the mountains into Tilea, to lick his wounds
amongst old allies of his father and gather strength slowly Staying in Averland
was the riskiest option of all.

And yet the Marshal had not built his reputation for nothing.
Now Leitdorf—chubby, tantrum-ridden Rufus Leitdorf—had the chance to ride
alongside the legend.

“So the question will be asked,” he mused. “Let us hope, when
the time comes, I have the right answer.”

The Iron Tower kept growing. Every hour, more metal beams
were lowered into place, slotting into a plan of dazzling complexity. Even
semi-complete, it had the look of a building that could survive a thousand
years. Great spars shot into the air, now reinforced by hundreds of cross-beams.
A thick outer shell had begun to creep up in their wake, hard and shiny like the
carapace of an insect.

Halfway up the monstrous structure, a chamber had been
created. It was small, just a foretaste of the mighty halls which would fill out
the shaft in due course. Giant crystal windows covered three of the walls, and
in the centre a curved throne had been placed. There was no other decoration,
just blank panels of iron. Natassja’s aesthetic sense had not yet been brought
to bear, for this was Grosslich’s commission.

Standing by the windows, nearly a hundred feet above the
centre of the circular plain below, the elector gazed down on the majesty of his
creation. Natassja preferred to remain below ground. That relieved him. Though
she was as addictive as the narcotics she created, her presence was wearing on
his nerves. Grosslich had seen what happened to servants who failed her. From
time to time, a nagging doubt even entered the back of his own mind.

Will I be next?

No. That wouldn’t happen. He was the lord of this realm, and
she was his ally. They both needed each other for the fulfilment of the great
vision. Though the mask was gradually slipping away, just as it had to, there
was still the appearance of normality in Averheim. The ordinary people could
grumble about the imposition of rules and military tithes, but none of them
suspected the truth behind the manoeuvrings. The knowledge would come later,
once all was ready. In the meantime, they had the joyroot again to addle their
minds.

Grosslich looked down. The elaborate pattern of stonework on
the courtyard below was almost complete. It was dazzlingly beautiful. From three
hundred feet up, the eventual height of the Tower, it would be even more
impressive. The Mark of Slaanesh, etched in circling rows of obsidian and picked
out with silver. At ground level, the shapes were unintelligible, and only here
was their true purpose apparent.

He followed the progress of a pack of dog-soldiers as they
crept across the open space, far below him. Once he’d have baulked at having
such creatures working for him. No longer. He’d seen for himself what the Empire
really was: a club for the privileged and the noble-born. It didn’t matter that
his bloodline had sent its sons to die on the sodden fields of war, had built up
a trade in cattle-rearing from nearly nothing and donated vast sums to the
Church of Sigmar and the Knights of the Blazing Sun. For the elite in Altdorf,
the Grosslichs would always be commoners. The electoral battle had been about
nothing more than blood proofs. The fact that Grosslich was twice the warrior
Leitdorf would ever be counted, seemingly, for nothing.

All that had changed with Natassja. Until she’d proposed her
alliance, he’d been a minor landowner and frustrated powerbroker, nothing more.
It was she who’d taught him how to use his money, how to influence the right
people, buy the right alliances, smooth over the trifling difficulties of the
law, and dispose of those who couldn’t be bought.

Heinz-Mark had learned the lessons well. Only later had the
joyroot emerged, and then soon after that the knowledge of her corruption. She’d
come to his rooms at night, draped in perfume, and the seduction into the dark
had begun.

Though he’d not known it at the time, that had been his last
chance to turn back. By then, though, he was entangled in a thousand deals and
treaties. She showed him visions of such splendour, gave him experiences of such
magnificence, that he’d been unable to say no. He denied her nothing after that,
trapped in the honeypot she’d so skilfully placed before him, addicted to the
pleasures she doled out to him like toys to a child.

Grosslich still liked to tell himself that she needed him,
that the plan would have ground to a halt without his efforts. Perhaps that was
true in part, but he wasn’t deluded enough to put any faith in it. He was the
lesser partner, and that made things dangerous for him. When the Tower was
completed and his armies mustered, perhaps Grosslich would have to do something
to reinforce his position. She was powerful, to be sure, but only a woman. He
was a warrior, tempered by combat since childhood and destined for command.
Surely the Dark Prince would reward him when the time came. He had, after all,
done so much to please him. There would be opportunities. There were always
opportunities.

There was a knock from the corridor outside. Grosslich
turned, his dark cloak following him like furled wings. He gestured with his
finger, and twin doors slid back into the iron walls. Eschenbach and Heidegger
came in. Far from the prying eyes of the Averburg, they were free to shed their
appearance of normality. Eschenbach had let his eyes resume their pink hue and
had donned robes of subtly shifting colour. Heidegger looked perfectly normal,
although the mania in his eyes was more pronounced. The poor dupe was working
under a heavy burden of interwoven spells, and still believed he was doing
Sigmar’s holy work. Despite the abundance of evidence of Chaos around him, the
part of his mind that could discern the world truly had been drilled out by
Natassja. Now he only saw what she wanted him to see.

Grosslich had to hand it to her. Subverting a witch hunter
was hard.

“Report,” he ordered, walking over to the throne and taking
his seat.

“The executions you ordered have been carried out,” said
Heidegger, his eyes flickering back and forth. The man’s mind was cracking. “The
objections of Steward Tochfel seem to have been overcome, though I wasn’t able
to see him personally to confirm this. More heretics have been unearthed and
justice handed out according to your instructions.” The old man shook his head.
“So much corruption here,” he mused. “When will they ever learn?”

“When indeed?” agreed Grosslich. “Thankfully, your services
have been invaluable, Herr Heidegger. Continue the programme. We cannot stop
until all faithless have been uncovered, though I assume you have not yet found
the spy Verstohlen?”

“Not yet, my lord. We found evidence of him at a
boarding-house on the east side of the river. He must still be in the city,
since the ordinance on movements prevents any unauthorised departure. The end
will come soon for him, you may be sure of it.”

“Good,” said Grosslich. “Then I will not detain you from your
work. Go now, and report to me again in two days.”

The corrupted witch hunter bowed again and shuffled out, the
doors sliding open to allow his passage.

Eschenbach watched him go with ill-concealed scorn. “Do we
need his services still? His stench sickens me.”

“You should learn to value him,” warned Grosslich. “As with
everything we’ve done, appearance is important.”

“Really?” said Eschenbach, his teeth exposed. “Leitdorf and
his men are gone, Schwarzhelm is gone, and the spy will soon be dead. It offends
my sense of propriety that we continue to maintain this charade.”

Grosslich frowned. He’d promoted Eschenbach himself, one of
the few members of the cabal not to be brought in by Natassja. Could he really
be so stupid?

“I don’t think you fully appreciate the balance here,” he
said. “The Emperor knows of our allegiance now. Do you think he will hesitate to
send an army here? One is already marching, and it will be ten times the force
Schwarzhelm had. While we prepare for it, we must maintain the little game, keep
the province quiet and give us the space we need.”

Eschenbach shook his head. “It disgusts me. I have to deal
with dullard thugs in the Averburg as if they were equals. I would rather tear
their stomachs from their fat bodies and eat them before their own eyes.”

Grosslich listened with some weariness. Eschenbach was
proving a disappointment. He didn’t need sadists and madmen around him—the
dog-soldiers were perfectly capable of dealing out terror. He did need advisers
with a clear head and a strategic grasp. He began to suspect that Natassja had
let him promote Eschenbach
because
he was a liability.

“There’ll be plenty of time for that,” Grosslich said. “In
the meantime, double the supply of root to the markets, and see that the price
goes down. And speed up the recruitment drive. We’ve not got enough men yet, and
she’s getting impatient.”

“Gold supplies are running low. These troops aren’t cheap.”

“Keep spending it. More will come. Don’t disappoint me,
Steward.”

Eschenbach gave out one of his fat, thick-lipped smiles. “Of
course not,” he replied smoothly.

Something about the man’s manner stung Grosslich then. He
extended his hand, and a nimbus of lilac quickly formed around Eschenbach’s
neck. The Steward clutched at it, suddenly panicked.

“What is this, my lord?” he blurted, eyes bulging.

“I’m not sure you’re taking my advice seriously enough,
Steward,” snarled Grosslich, giving vent to all of his many frustrations.
“Perhaps something of a lesson is in order.”

“No, my lord!” shrieked the Steward, writhing against the
nimbus. “All is perfectly well understood!”

“Even so.”

While Eschenbach writhed in the grip of his luminescent
collar, Grosslich flicked out his left hand. An iron wall panel slid open,
revealing a new chamber beyond.

“Look at him, Eschenbach.”

The Steward struggled, unwilling to gaze into the chamber.
“It’s not necessary, my lord! Really, you’ve no need to—”

“Look at him,”
commanded Grosslich, feeding the nimbus
energy and twisting the man’s neck round to face the revealed chamber.

Eschenbach’s eyes widened further, and his pale skin went
grey with horror. A figure was suspended in the chamber, seemingly hanging in
the air. An angry red glow surrounded him, as if flames licked his body. The
man’s eyes were even wider than Eschenbach’s. If he’d wanted to close them, he
would have needed his skin back. The white of bone glistened amongst the glossy
red of the exposed muscle. He should have been dead, killed long ago by shock,
but through some forbidden power the unfortunate soul was still alive. His face,
what was left of it, was fixed in an open-mouthed howl of utter, unending agony.
The pupils stared straight at Eschenbach, pleading for help. From his tortured
mouth came only a silent, never-ending scream. He couldn’t produce anything
else. He’d never be able to produce anything else.

“Watch well, Steward,” said Grosslich, ensuring the spectacle
had its full effect. “This man once thought to replace me. His family ruled this
province, and saw me as a tool for returning to power. This is what happens to
those who seek to use me, Herr Eschenbach. This is what they become.”