03 - Sword of Vengeance (21 page)

Twenty miles.
Schwarzhelm must have walked all night and
into the morning. Had he slept at all?

Verstohlen crawled closer to the fire. The rabbit smelled
good. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten properly.

“I had no idea what happened to you,” he said, staring at the
flames, remembering the long days with no communication.

Schwarzhelm didn’t reply, and turned the rabbits over on
their twig spits.

“I was wrong,” said Verstohlen again. He thought of Natassja,
of Grosslich, of Leitdorf. “I was wrong about everything.”

“We were both wrong,” said Schwarzhelm. “Blame won’t change
that.”

He pulled the rabbit meat from the fire and tore it into
chunks. He gave Verstohlen half and started munching on the rest. Verstohlen ate
quickly, ramming the hot meat down his throat, feeling a bloom of warmth and
energy return. Schwarzhelm kicked earth over the fire, killing the smoke. Then
he sat back to chew.

“I sent you messages from Altdorf,” he said, his great jaw
working steadily. “You didn’t get them?”

Verstohlen shook his head. “Not much has come and gone out of
Averland.”

“So how much do you know about what’s happened?”

“Not as much, I guess, as you.”

“You guess right.”

Schwarzhelm sucked at his fingers, leaving flecks of fat in
his beard. He looked somehow older than when Verstohlen had last seen him. A
cold grief marked his features that hadn’t been there before.

“Helborg was no traitor,” said Schwarzhelm. There was no
emotion in his voice, no condemnation, just the bald facts. “But there was
corruption. Heinrich Lassus, my old tutor. He was the one who arranged for me to
come here. He knew me better than any man alive. He knew what would prey on my
mind, and what would cloud my judgement.”

As he spoke, the trees hissed in the wind. Verstohlen kept
eating, saying nothing.

“Above all, he knew I’d make the wrong decision. You were
allowed to see Natassja Leitdorf, and you were allowed to escape to pass on the
tidings. Certain things are now clear to me. She and Grosslich were in league
with one another. I don’t know whether Rufus, the husband, knew of their plans
or not. Is he dead?”

“No one knows.”

“In any case, he’s irrelevant. Grosslich has what he wants.
The province is his, and there are men streaming to join him every day.
Natassja, you may be sure, is by his side. We have delivered Averland to Chaos,
you and I. No mean feat.”

Verstohlen let the tidings sink in. With every revelation,
his part in things seemed more sordid, more damaging.

“Does the Emperor know?”

“An army is being gathered. I left him in no doubt of the
threat.”

“But what’s Grosslich’s purpose? He must know he can’t fight
the whole Empire, not once the deception is unravelled. There’s something more
to this.” He looked up at Schwarzhelm, doubt etched on his face. “Why was Lassus
involved?”

Schwarzhelm swallowed the last of a gristly chunk of meat,
wiped his fingers and reached into his jerkin. He withdrew a bundle of letters.

“These are from his private chambers. The answer will be in
them.”

“So what do they say?”

“I’ve no idea.” Schwarzhelm tossed them to Verstohlen.
“They’re written in cipher. Not one I recognise.”

Verstohlen unwrapped the bundle and started to look through
the leaves. The script was unintelligible. As he scanned the characters, nothing
meaningful formed.

“Me neither.”

“Then you should get to work. You’re the spy. There’ll be
plenty of time to look at them as we travel.”

Schwarzhelm hauled himself to his feet and went over to his
sword, hung from a nearby branch. Leaning against a tree trunk was another
blade. It was naked, and a notch had been taken from it halfway along its
length.

“Where are we going?” asked Verstohlen. He knew they needed
to move, but his body still ached. He could have slept for another whole day
under the shade of the trees.

“East,” replied Schwarzhelm, buckling the Rechtstahl to his
swordbelt. He took up the other sword and gazed at the steel blade for a moment.
“This is Helborg’s weapon. It needs to be returned.”

“But we don’t know if he’s still alive,” protested
Verstohlen, getting to his feet with effort. “There’s been no news since—”

“He’s alive,” snarled Schwarzhelm. For a moment, his eyes
flashed with a savage light. “The spirit of the blade is eager to be made whole.
It will lead us to the shard.”

Verstohlen looked doubtful. Averland was a big place, and the
mystical power of ancient swords seemed like a poor guide.

Unconcerned, Schwarzhelm hoisted his bag over his shoulder
and began to walk. He had the grim, almost cavalier air of a man who had nothing
more to lose. It made Verstohlen uneasy. He looked down at the letters, still
clenched in his hand. Nothing made sense. Nothing had made sense for a long
time.

“If you say so,” he muttered to himself, limping after
Schwarzhelm and trying to ignore the pain in his back.

The parade ground of the Imperial College of Arms was full of
men. Regiment after regiment entered the open space, wheeled around, paraded
across the gravel and wheeled back again. Sergeants shouted orders and cuffed
those who failed to keep up. The pace was relentless. The white and grey of
Reikland was predominant, but there were many other State colours on display.

Over eight thousand men, all marching in step. The earth
shook under their boots, and this was less than a quarter of the army Volkmar
was assembling. When the final host departed for Averheim, it would clog the
roads for miles. The baggage train alone was nearly as well-manned as the entire
force Schwarzhelm had taken with him to Averland. Chasing greenskins was one
thing. Taking back a renegade province was another.

“They look sloppy,” said Gruppen, standing with Volkmar on an
observation platform on the south side of the parade ground. The two of them
were alone behind the railing. Above them, the sky was a lighter grey than it
had been. The rain was clearing, driven west by powerful winds piling in from
the far distant mountains.

“What do you expect?” said Volkmar. “They’ll learn discipline
on the road.”

“Where do these men come from? I thought the regiments were
all in the north.”

“Some were called back. Some are from the reserves. Some are
fresh-drafted.”

As Volkmar spoke, one unfortunate infantryman stumbled,
bringing three of his comrades down with him. The detachment halted in
confusion, earning them a tirade of abuse from the sergeants clustered around
them. Gruppen shook his head.

“Little better than murder, sending
them
into battle.”

Volkmar scowled. “If I had more time, things would be different.” He turned
away from the pacing ranks. “The Emperor wants more speed. The Celestial College
has seen portents of a terror growing. We can’t afford to linger until they know
how to hold a halberd.”

Gruppen narrowed his eyes disapprovingly. “A shame they
didn’t report such portents before,” he said. “Have they released any
magisters?”

“Two. And we have three Bright wizards, and a trio of Light
magisters. Not the best, of course—they’re in Middenheim still—but powerful,
all the same.”

Volkmar had once marched at the head of a host that filled
the valleys of Ostland from peak to peak. He’d commanded whole batteries of
heavy artillery, capable of razing companies in a single barrage. At the city of
the White Wolf he’d stood alongside the defenders while the numberless hordes of
Archaon had besieged the walls and the skies had been torn apart by the shadows
of madness. Those campaigns had taken weeks to muster. For the retaking of
Averheim, Karl Franz had given him days.

And there was still the doubt gnawing at him. He had yet to
discover if Archaon had destroyed more than his body in that duel. He suppressed
the doubts, pushing them down beneath an external shell of calm.

“I won’t lie to you, Gruppen,” he said, his expression like
flint. “We could have a hundred thousand such men, and it wouldn’t matter. This
battle will be fought by others. The priests. The magisters. The knights. You’ve
faced the great enemy before, so you know what to expect.”

Gruppen nodded bleakly. “How many of those poor scum do, I
wonder?” he said, gesturing to the parading regiments.

“They’ll do their duty,” said Volkmar. “A man should expect
nothing more from life.”

More men filed into the parade ground. These were
Middenheimers, greatswords by the look of them, and they marched with the
confidence of seasoned campaigners. Gruppen broke into a grim smile.

“That’s better,” he said. “They look like they won’t run at
the first sight of killing.”

Volkmar said nothing. War was always a dirty, terrifying
business, but he wasn’t worried about that. Even the meanest peasant in the
Empire had seen killing, and they could all be taught to hold their ground.

But Chaos was different. He’d seen the reports from the
Celestial College, and the looks of fear on the faces of the seers. Something
terrifying was growing in Averheim, and if it wasn’t staunched at the source,
that terror would just keep spreading. The Emperor was right. They had to meet
it head-on, and there was no time to waste.

“There’s no running from this, Gruppen,” said Volkmar, his
voice low. “Not for any of them. It’s stand fast, or die.”

Kurt Helborg limped along the landing of the Drakenmoor
castle, his shoulder aflame with pain, sweat beading on his forehead. He leaned
on a staff like an old man, wincing with every step. The infirmity made him
furious. Every passing hour wasted in the cause of recovery fuelled the
smouldering sense of injustice and frustration. He needed to escape, to take up
his sword again, to find the ones who’d done this to him.

The wound Schwarzhelm had given him was still weeping blood.
He’d seen off the fever, but his sinews needed time to knit together. All he
could do was rest and wait. The enforced inaction was far more of a torment than
the stabs of pain that still ran across his upper body.

He barely noticed the finery around him. Though the bronze
busts of ancient warriors were coated in dust and the woodwork was showing signs
of worm, Drakenmoor was still a place of shadowy majesty. The stairways were
broad and sweeping, the floor laid with slate tiles, the ceiling plastered and
richly decorated. Marius Leitdorf had been wealthy even by the standards of his
office, and as Helborg shuffled along he passed priceless urns, irreplaceable
statues and portraits by the finest painters in the Empire.

None of it made the slightest impression. He might as well
have been limping through a desolate wasteland. As he went, his breath came in
ragged gasps and his teeth clenched hard. His waxed moustache, once his pride
and joy, had become straggling and wild, and his dark hair hung down to his
collar in matted clumps. Only his eyes, the clear blue eyes that had won the
hearts of so many women across so many provinces, still flashed with their old
icy intensity.

Helborg reached the door to Marius’ old study. The old
count’s feckless son had spent most of his time locked away in there since
they’d arrived. That was no longer good enough. If they were going to survive
the storm to come, he’d have to make himself more useful.

Without knocking, Helborg kicked the door open. It swung back
heavily, banging against the wooden panels of the wall.

Leitdorf was sitting with his back to the door, hunched over
his father’s old desk, surrounded by papers. The deposed elector spun round,
snapping closed the book he’d been reading. His face was pale, as if he’d been
reading horror stories. By the redness of his eyes, Helborg guessed he’d been at
it for some time.

Helborg shook his head. The boy was no warrior. Never would
be.

“Found anything interesting?” the Marshal growled, hobbling
over to the single bed against the wall.

Leitdorf pushed the book under a pile of parchment.

“My lord,” he replied, ignoring the question. “How are you
feeling?”

“Like a newborn lamb on a warm spring morning,” Helborg
rasped, hoping the sweat on his brow wasn’t too obvious. “Any more stupid
questions?”

Leitdorf looked instantly chastened.

“Then I’m glad you’re recovering,” he said.

The last time Helborg had spoken to Leitdorf had been in the
Vormeisterplatz. After that, there hadn’t been the chance. It felt strange to be
looking at his face again. Leitdorf had lost some weight. Something of the old
arrogance had been knocked out of him too, maybe. If so, that was all to the
good. Helborg settled on the bed, feeling his muscles protest as he moved.

“And what are you doing with yourself, Herr Leitdorf?” he
said. “How will you aid our fight for survival?”

“I’m no warrior, Marshal. But if you order me to fight for
you, I’ll do what I can.”

So meek, so defeated. The old Leitdorf would at least have
shown some spirit. Helborg didn’t know which incarnation was worse.

“Damn right you’ll fight,” he snarled, letting his disdain
come to the surface. “If you hadn’t brought this province to the edge of ruin,
none of this would have happened. Sigmar’s bones, I
still
don’t know why
we’re being chased down by this provincial rabble, nor why that madman
Schwarzhelm did what he did.”

“I do,” said Leitdorf quietly. “I didn’t up until now. Truly,
I was as deceived as you. But now some things are becoming apparent to me that
should have been clear a long time ago.”

Helborg paused.

“Maybe you’d better tell me what you know.”

Leitdorf turned back to the desk and retrieved the book.

“I don’t know why I tried to hide it from you,” he said,
looking at the cover mournfully. He opened it and began flicking through the
pages. “This is my father’s journal. It’s nearly full. The last months of his
reign are chronicled here, when the madness was at its height. The final entry
describes his preparations to face Ironjaw. A few weeks later, he was dead.”