03 - Sword of Vengeance (26 page)

He carried the massive Staff of Command in his hands at all
times. A lesser commander would have had it taken up by an underling, but such
luxuries were not for Volkmar. Though his palms were already raw from the weight
of the iron and ash he kept his grip on the sacred weapon tight.

Below them, his army crawled along the road. In the vanguard
came the companies of knights, Gruppen riding at their head. Their squires,
spare horses, armour and lances came in a long caravan behind them, such that
they almost constituted a small army in their own right. Behind them came the
long train of halberdier and spearman regiments, marching in close-knit squares
and decked out in their State colours. Drummers kept the pace tight. There was
little of the casual joking and bawdiness of a regular campaign. Volkmar drove
them hard, and the sergeants had kept the men on a short leash.

It took some time for the long lines of infantry to pass
Volkmar’s position. He watched them as a hawk watches its prey, scouring the
ranks for weakness and insubordination. Some of his own warrior priests were
among them, clustered in tight groups of half a dozen. Those fanatics asked for
neither rest nor privilege.

Behind them came the artillery train. Huge assault cannons
were hauled by teams of horses up to six strong, followed by the
infantry-killing pieces, the Helblasters and Helstorms. Handgunners, artillery
crew and engineers sat on their carts in their wake, keeping a close eye on the
wagons of blackpowder, matchcords, ammunition and spare parts. Volkmar’s brow
creased with disapproval as he surveyed them. He trusted blackpowder less than
he trusted faith and steel. Still, they would be called on, just as every other
part of the massive force would be called on.

Behind the artillery caravan came the auxiliary companies,
archers and irregular troops who’d been drafted in since the march had begun.
There was never a shortage of men willing to fight for a schilling, and much as
Volkmar loathed mercenaries too, he had the resources to employ them and turned
no man away.

The main baggage train followed, wagon after wagon loaded
with stores. Barrels of ale were piled high on open carts, mixed up with
cloth-covered food wains. Armour, cloaks, bundles of arrows, heaps of firewood
and fodder for the horses were all stacked closely and guarded watchfully by
Roll’s own men, as incorruptible as zealots. Dozens of his soldiers, clad in the
scarlet colours of Altdorf’s Church of Sigmar Risen and Transformed, swarmed
around the pay wains, the all-important guardians of the cases of coin that kept
the soldiers loyal.

Finally, bringing up the rear, were three companies of
greatswords and a unit of pistolier outriders, their steeds stepping
impatiently. Every so often a squadron of six of them would kick into action and
ride up the flanks of the huge army, peeling off into the terrain on either side
of the road to scout ahead before returning to the long slog, their need for
adventure satisfied for the moment.

Over thirty thousand regular troops, with maybe five thousand
more dogs of war who’d joined on the march from Pohlbad. More would come at the
rendezvous south of Nuln. A whole regiment of warrior priests to augment those
he already had, plus more artillery and heavy cavalry. It was a formidable
force, scarcely less powerful than the massive armies that marched across the
north of the Empire against the scattered warbands of Archaon’s invasion. If the
predictions of the Celestial magisters proved reliable, it would need to be.

“You look displeased,” said Roll, his bald head gleaming in
the cold light. The tone was one of mild remonstration. No other man in the
Empire would have dared to speak thus to the Theogonist.

“What use are mortal men here?” Volkmar muttered. “When have
they ever been able to stand firm against the great enemy? We’re leading them to
their deaths.”

Roll spat on the ground.

“It’s as you said. They’ll do their duty. The enemy will have
mortals too.”

Volkmar said nothing. He remembered the ranks of men marching
into ruin in the Troll Country with him at their head. As the daemons had
screamed across the sky and the rivers run with blood, mortal faith had done
little to stem the tide of insanity and pain. Above all, he remembered Be’lakor,
grinning from ear to ear, the daemon’s eyes little more than windows on to a
world of utter, terrifying horror.

“This will all come down to us, Roll,” he said.

“Don’t forget Helborg.”

“Helborg? Even if he lives, what can he do?”

“And Schwarzhelm.”

He looked south. The dark leagues of endless forests were
behind them, and the country was now beginning to open up. Far in the distance
lay the wide ribbon of the Aver, winding through the grassland ahead.

“Schwarzhelm has done enough. If he attempts to interfere
again before this thing is ended, I have the authority to prevent him.”

He turned to Roll, and his gaze was bleak.

“I have
all
authority in this. The Emperor’s Champion
has served faithfully for a generation of men, but weakness is weakness. I will
judge the matter when he’s found.”

Roll raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Volkmar paused for
a few more moments on the ridge, before kicking his horse onwards, back down to
join the vanguard of the immense host. His guard did likewise, and soon the high
place was bare once more, home to nothing more than the sigh of the wind and the
rustle of grass.

The Tower was nearly complete, and the last veils over the
charade were close to being lifted. Smaller versions of the Tower were being
built at six points on the city walls, each also made of iron and given the same
spiked profile as the master construction. The vista across Averheim had been
marred irrevocably. Ancient halls had been demolished, the stone carted off to
bolster the new fortifications springing up across the old walls. Merchants’
townhouses had been commandeered for garrisons, while the Averburg was now
nothing more than a vast store of arms. Soldiers were everywhere, thronging the
streets, clustering in the squares, camped out to the north of the city on the
flat plains running towards Stirland.

Above it all, the Grosslich banner hung proud. The
six-pronged crown of the Tower had been completed at last, and long pennants
with the crimson boar’s head draped down towards the massive courtyard, three
hundred feet below. Red and gold were ubiquitous, drowning out the memory of any
other allegiance the city may once have had. Alptraums and Leitdorf’s were
forgotten. Now only the new dispensation had any meaning.

As night fell, the new aspect of the city showed itself to
most effect. The Tower was lit along its entire height by a series of lilac
beads, each glowing like stars. At the summit a pale flame burned incessantly.
Lanterns in the streets below shone with a range of intense shades, banishing
shadows from the night and bathing the city in a mingled fog of colour. Those
citizens not steeped in joyroot found their sleep interrupted and fractious. A
certain faded elegance had been replaced by rampant excess.

Those few clear-sighted citizens who remained now knew beyond
all doubt that Grosslich was a tyrant, and one whose perversion of the Imperial
Law had only just started. Insurrections were ruthlessly put down, and the hated
witch hunters of Odo Heidegger kept the furnaces burning. Any faint flicker of
revolt was overwhelmed by the vast numbers of troops arriving every day from
every corner of the wastelands south of the Grey Mountains, drawn by the promise
of money and glory. Some were paid in joyroot, and that seemed to satisfy them.
Just as it had been in the spring, the roads were lined with drooling,
vacant-eyed figures, slumped against the stone and lost in dreaming.

All of them, deep in their reverie, whispered the same thing.

She is coming. She is coming. Blessed be her path,
everlasting be her reign. Queen of pleasure, mistress of the world. She is
coming. She is coming.

Endlessly they mumbled the mantra until their lips were
calloused and cracked, and they crawled off to find more root to numb the pain.
Whatever debaucheries Averheim had known before, it suffered a hundredfold more
then, stepping down a path of ruin as surely as if guided by the Lord of Pain
himself.

Elector Grosslich now rarely ventured from the pinnacle of
his precious Tower. The topmost chamber had been fitted out in silks and
upholstered with fine soft leather. The floor was polished marble, veined like a
flayed muscle, shining in the light of a dozen suspended orbs. There were six
windows in the iron walls, each overlooking one of the massive suspended spikes.

The view was commanding. Grosslich’s armies, so long in the
mustering, were now mobilising. The numbers astounded even him. Where there was
corruption and power, humans seemed to drawn to it like insects around a candle
flame.

Grosslich himself was swathed in crimson robes, beautifully
lined with fur and monogrammed with the flowing “G” motif. A tall crown had been
forged for him in the hidden pits of the Tower below, a swirling sculpture in
steel which tapered to a point above his forehead and sent tendrils of slender
metal curling down across his cheeks. Natassja had designed it herself, but he’d
made it his own.

The city was his too, locked in an iron grip of control. More
dog-soldiers were being spawned in the basements, all answering to his command.
There were other creatures down there too, terrible products of Natassja’s
imagination, taking shape under her pitiless tutelage. Soon the whole host would
be ready, a legion of terror ready to sweep across the river and destroy the
army he knew had been sent from Altdorf to rein him in.

A chime sounded from outside the chamber. Grosslich turned
from the windows and sat down on his throne, an obsidian block composed of
tortured limbs, just like the one Natassja had used to dupe Verstohlen.

“Come,” he said, and marvelled at how his voice had changed.
Gone were the gruff, plain tones that had drawn peasants flocking to his banner
in the early days. Now his speech was clipped and refined, almost as smooth as
Natassja’s own. The Dark Prince had changed him in many ways, not all of them to
Grosslich’s liking. Still, it was too late for regrets.

A glass door at the far end of the chamber swung open
silently and Holymon Eschenbach entered. The man had continued to change. His
eyes were now entirely white-less and glowed a subtle pink. His flesh was
bleached and his lips stained the colour of old wine. Like Achendorfer, he
walked with a pronounced limp, as if some terrible rearrangement had taken place
beneath his robes of swirling colour. The old smugness had gone, wiped from his
features by Grosslich’s merciless drive to bring the city under his control.
Eschenbach had assumed all the duties of Stewardship in the wake of Tochfel’s
unfortunate demise, and the burden had proved heavy.

“You asked to see me, your Excellency?” he whispered. He
could barely speak above a sibilant hiss these days, another result of the
improvements made to his otherwise unremarkable body.

“Steward, perhaps you could tell me the names of the
fugitives we have been so assiduously pursuing since our ascension to the
electorship.”

Eschenbach looked nervous. He knew what was coming.

“The traitors Leitdorf and Helborg, as well as the spy
Verstohlen.”

“Well done. And can you inform me how close we are to
tracking them down?”

“Your armies are spreading further east with every day.
Courts of enquiry have opened in Heideck, and Grenzstadt will not be far behind.
It cannot be—”

Grosslich extended a hand lazily and clenched his fist.
Eschenbach gasped and fell to his knees. As he did so, his neck seemed to
constrict, veins bulging on his temples. He choked, falling forwards, scrabbling
to release the pressure.

“You think I don’t
know
this?” Grosslich hissed,
watching with only mild pleasure as the fat Steward writhed in agony. “You have
the entire resources of a province at your disposal. Your orders are simple.
Find them and kill them.”

Grosslich released the vice around Eschenbach’s neck, and the
man fell forwards, panting like a dog.

“All Leitdorf’s houses have been stormed,” the Steward
gasped. “His estates have been plundered. I have men scouring the countryside.
What more could I do?”

“Listen carefully,” snarled Grosslich, leaning forwards in
his throne. “Things are approaching a delicate stage. The mistress’ plans are
nearing fruition, and the Empire is beginning to wake up. An army will be here
within days. It is imperative that this matter is concluded before then.”

Eschenbach nodded miserably.

“There’s another aspect to this,” continued Grosslich,
choosing his words carefully “The mistress has dispatched creatures of her own
to dispose of Helborg. It would be…
preferable
for my own troops to
find the Marshal first. As for the Leitdorf pup, I want to bring him in myself.
This is very important to me. I’m not convinced you’re giving your work the
attention it deserves.”

Eschenbach began to panic. He’d been on the end of too many
punishments from Grosslich already.

“I am, your Excellency! A thousand men have been sent east
this very day. They have orders to bring in Helborg and the pretender. There
have been reports of supply columns being raided in the far south, towards the
moors. If he’s there, he’ll be uncovered.”

“Double the numbers,” he ordered. “They have licence to burn
the countryside to a husk if they have to. Spare no expense, and give them no
respite. Helborg must be found.”

Eschenbach nodded. His eyes gave away his misery. Raising
that many troops would be difficult, especially given the numbers he’d been
instructed to make ready for the defence of Averheim.