03 - Sword of Vengeance (24 page)

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Verstohlen stared at his handiwork, his heart thumping. He’d
cracked it.

“About time,” said Schwarzhelm gruffly. “I’ll get us some
food. You can make a start in the morning.”

Verstohlen smiled to himself. Effusive praise wasn’t the big
man’s style. More importantly, though, the tone of his voice had changed. The
cold note of self-judgement was diminished. In its place, and for the first time
since he’d returned to Averland, there was hope for some answers.

The muster was complete. Across the plains south of Pohlbad
in the lower Reikland, Volkmar’s host was ready to march at last. Companies had
been moving down the short distance from Altdorf in an incessant stream for days
and gathering in the sprawling country estate of Duke Raffenburg Olsehn. With
every new arrival, the numbers of men stationed in the huge marshalling yards
swelled by another few hundred. Caravans of food and supplies had already set
off, heading south under heavy armed guard. Messengers had been sent on fast
horses, handing out warrants from the Imperial Palace for more materiel and men.
Requisitions had been made of the Gunnery School in Nuln, already working at
breakneck pace to supply the war in the north and now expected to arm another
whole army with only days’ notice. The fabric of the Empire, its finances and
its resolve, were being stretched to their very limit.

Volkmar stood on a high stepped platform overlooking the
duke’s grand parade ground, watching the fruit of his labours stand in row after
row, detachment after detachment. The standards of the various companies hung
limply from their poles. The morning had dawned overcast and still, turning the
stone of the mansion house behind them a dark, dull grey.

“Good enough?” mused Maljdir, watching the final units take their places in
the muster. He was standing beside Volkmar, as was Roll. Volkmar was arrayed in
the ceremonial robes of his office, and the eagle of Sigmar, cast in steel,
adorned his breast. The collar of his cloak, a deep ceremonial red, rose high
above his head, making his already massive frame even more imposing. Roll wore
the robes of a warrior priest and carried a double-headed axe in his clenched
fists. Maljdir wore the plate armour and chainmail of his Middenheim heritage.
His cloak was white, trimmed with the dark blue of the northern province.

“We’ll see,” said Volkmar, his eyes trained on the host
below. “Give the signal.”

The message was passed down from the platform, and a trumpet
blared out from rear of the parade ground, soon repeated across the open space.
Men stood to attention, and the sound of their boots snapping together echoed
through the air.

“Men of the Empire!” roared Volkmar. His huge voice boomed
out, spreading to all corners of the parade ground. Few men would have been able
to make themselves heard across such a wide area, but Volkmar’s oratory, honed
by a lifetime’s service to the Cult of Sigmar, was fuelled by his inexhaustible
faith. “You know why you’ve been summoned here. I’ll not weary your ears by
talking of Averland and its troubles. You need know only one thing. The great
enemy has made Averheim its home, and we march to expunge it from the face of
the Empire.”

As he spoke, Volkmar swept his eyes across the ranks. Every
man present, nearly thirty thousand infantrymen, remained silent, listening
intently to his words. None dared raise so much as a smile in his presence. The
Grand Theogonist, master of the arcane mysteries of the Church of Sigmar, was a
figure of awe and majesty.

“There will be no deception between us. The task will be
arduous. Before the victory, there will be death. Even as we assemble here, they
are recruiting men of their own, arming them and readying for the battle to
come. By such means do they hope to destroy our resolve, to crush our spirit
when the time of testing comes.”

He took a step forwards, gripping the brass railing and
leaning out over the masses.

“Do
not
be afraid!” he roared. “Do
not
give in!
We know, as they will never do, of the secret power of mankind, the source of
his greatness! Only in purity and steadfastness is there salvation. The mind of
the loyal soldier is more terrible to the false gods than anything our weapons
of steel and blackpowder can devise. While we profess our faith, they are
powerless against us!”

The host remained rapt, hanging on every word. Volkmar knew
how important the speech was. There would be few chances to address the entire
army again. He had to inspire them while the sun shone and the world seemed
hopeful, for he knew how dark the road would be.

“Look around you, my sons,” he said, sweeping his arms in a
wide gesture. “See what the hand of man has built here. Look at the powers
ranged in our defence. We have gunnery from Nuln capable of tearing down the
walls of any castle standing. We will have magisters of the colleges in our
ranks, each of them masters of the winds of magic. I myself will command a full
regiment of warrior priests, all sworn enemies of the heretic and the daemon.
Alongside them will ride the Knights Panther, deadliest swords of the Empire.”

He pointed out each elite company as he spoke, noting
Gruppen’s nod of acknowledgement as his finger isolated the proud regiment of
knights, standing not more than thirty yards from him.

“And so you do not march alone. For every sword they possess,
we possess a sharper. For every fallen sorcerer, we have an exalted master of
magic. For every twisted warrior, cursed with the warping gifts of their dark
masters, we have armoured knights wearing sanctified armour and carrying the
blades of their forebears. So when the moment comes, stride forth with
confidence! Let anger be your guide, not fear. Let fury drive you, the fury of
the just man at the insolence of those who have taken our lands and despoiled
them!”

Volkmar’s voice rose, channelling the anger he felt himself.
It was always there, just beneath the surface. As he spoke, he remembered
Be’lakor’s twisted face, the savage leer of the daemon as it turned to horror in
the face of his implacable wrath. He had triumphed then, and the taste of
victory had never left his lips. He was strong enough for this.

“We will give them no mercy!” he bellowed, and a ripple of
agreement passed across the army. “We will drive them into the ground! We will
rip their false idols down, burn their blasphemous temples and tear their souls
from their gibbering carcasses! We will sweep through Averland like an avenging
storm, with the fire of Holy Sigmar in our hearts and the steel of His Empire in
our hands!”

The army pressed forwards. Men raised their fists, stirred by
the emotion shaking in Volkmar’s words. They were almost ready to be unleashed.

“Remember who you are!” he shouted, his knuckles white as
they gripped the railing. “You are
men,
the rightful masters of the
world! None shall stand before us, not the beast of the forest, the orc of the
mountain, nor the corruption from within! We shall cleanse Averland just as
Middenheim was cleansed, as Praag was cleansed, and as every city will be
cleansed that is defiled by those without faith, without honour, and without
hope!”

The murmur turned into a swell of acclamation.

“So we ride, men of the Empire! We ride to glory, not for
ourselves, but for the one who leads us. For Karl Franz! For Sigmar! For the
Empire!”

The army raised its fist as one, hurling cries of “For the
Empire!” into the air. The noise was deafening, a wall of sound that rose up
from the gravel of the parade ground and swelled up to the highest pinnacle of
the mansion house beyond. The earth drummed as the stamp of thirty thousand feet
hit home. As if a gale had been sent by Sigmar Himself, the standards of the
massed regiments suddenly burst into life, streaking out and displaying the
proud devices of the myriad companies.

Volkmar felt his heart beat powerfully. On either side of
him, Roll and Maljdir had raised their weapons high, and were stirring the host
into new heights of fervour. The sea of men, filling the ground before him, had
been roused. They would remember this moment on the long march ahead, and when
the clash finally came, it would fill their hearts with the courage they would
need to weather the storm.

Volkmar raised his arms high in a gesture of defiance, then
stepped back from the edge of the platform. The host continued to roar with
undiminished enthusiasm. He turned to Maljdir, and his grim face was set.

“Bring my charger,” he growled. “Now we march.”

High in the Iron Tower, work continued apace. Metal was
twisted around metal, ever rising, ever growing. The pinnacle now dominated the
city, casting its shadow over the poor quarter and stretching to the river.
Nowhere in the city was now free of its gaze, and the skeleton framework of the
topmost chambers was already snaking into the sky. A thousand Stone-slaves now
toiled on its construction, their spirits crushed by the malevolence of the
shard buried beneath them, their eyes glazed and wills destroyed.

Night was falling. Outside the perimeter fence the ceremony
was starting up again. Hundreds of soldiers moved through the streets of
Averheim, isolating those not performing their duties with sufficient zeal and
dragging them to the holding pens. Iron lamps had been lit at every street
corner, throwing an angry red glow across the stone. Numbly, the citizens of the
city emerged to do obeisance to their new lords and masters. Most had the
tell-tale signs of joyroot addiction around their eyes.

The populace had been told the ceremony was a ritual of
praise to Sigmar, held to erase the sins of the citizens during the time without
an elector. Many of them believed that, and sang the words with devout fervour.
Others, knowing that they weren’t Reikspiel and had the ring of some unholy
foreign tongue, did so reluctantly. They had little choice but to comply.

Many of the people still supported Grosslich, despite the
steel fist that had descended on the city. Money continued to flow, and the food
and root were both plentiful. Relaxations on long-standing edicts against
drunkenness and fornication were popular in the slums, and the nobles who would
normally have opposed such measures were Grosslich’s allies, or had been cowed
into submission, or were dead.

From his crystal chamber in the Tower, the elector looked out across the
city, watching with satisfaction as the points of light spread out from the
centre like a spider’s web of flame. Far below, he could see shuffling masses in
the streets, whipped into a frenzy of chanting by the soldiers around them. Some
of them had looks of religious transport on their faces.

Though they were doing his work, he despised them more than
he could express. At least those who opposed him had some backbone. Until
Natassja got her hands on them, that was.

“Enjoying the view?”

He hadn’t heard her enter. No doubt she enjoyed these
demonstrations of her superiority, but they were beginning to become trying. He
turned slowly, attempting to look as if he’d known she’d been behind him all
along.

“The mask has almost slipped now,” he said. “Few will be
fooled for much longer. Is any of this pretence worth keeping up?”

Natassja came over to stand beside him and looked out across
the twinkling mass of lights.

“It most certainly is,” she said. The blue tinge in her skin
had become more pronounced and the pure black of her eyes glistened. “Why reveal
ourselves before deception becomes impossible?”

Grosslich shook his head. “I can’t understand how they don’t
see it.”

Natassja shrugged. “Because they don’t want to see it. You
were chosen to end the anarchy. Right up until the end, there will be those who
fail to see what you’ve done with your power.”

She turned away from the window. As ever, her manner was cool
and controlled. Despite the outlandish nature of her appearance, it was hard to
reconcile the grace of her bearing with the terror she was capable of
inflicting.

“Maintain the ceremony,” she said. “The hymns aid the
awakening of the Stone, and it gives the rabble something to do.”

Grosslich didn’t like the tone of command in her voice. For
so long, he’d been willing to let her dominate him, aware he had much to learn,
but now his own powers were increasing. The issue of respect was something he’d
have to address.

“Is the chamber below complete?” he asked.

Natassja nodded. “Achendorfer has been busy. The process will
quicken soon, and then you’ll have tools at your disposal no mortal elector has
ever possessed.”

“I’ll look forward to it.”

“Enjoy them while you can. The Stone is useful in other ways.
I’ve seen a great army heading south, commanded by the master of the boy-god’s
church. They’re travelling fast.”

“Do they pose a danger?”

“Everything is dangerous.”

“And do you ever give a straight answer?”

Something like a smile played across Natassja’s purple lips.
With a sudden pang, Grosslich realised how well she was playing him.

“You can handle them, my love,” she said, coming up to him
and placing a slender hand on his chest. Despite everything, Grosslich felt a
shudder of desire at her touch. “With the powers I will give you, no mortal army
will be able to stand against us.”

She came closer, her lips parted, her dark eyes shining.
Grosslich could feel her breath, laced with lilac perfume. This was her most
potent weapon. Herself. He had no means of combating it.

“Have no fear,” she whispered, pressing her body against his.
“The outcome has already been determined. By the time they arrive, this place
will be a fragment of the Realm of Pain on earth. We will crush them, my love,
just as we have crushed Averland.”

From down in the city, the noise of frenzied revels was
growing. Grosslich felt his will sapped, his resolve weaken. Natassja was more
beautiful then than she’d ever been. Thoughts of trying to resist her divine
mastery seemed not so much foolish as pointless.