03 - Sword of Vengeance (28 page)

Schwarzhelm remembered the old man’s words at their first
meeting in Altdorf.
There are more ways than one to make a success of one’s
life. Maybe when you’re as old as I am, you’ll see that. My battles are over.
I’ve been granted the grace to retire from the field and see out the rest of my
days in peace.
At the time, the words had seemed like such calm, resigned
wisdom. All of it had been lies, then, just another layer of deception.

“Natassja’s powers were strong. She’s a beautiful woman, and
he was a frustrated failure. I’ve no idea how she corrupted him, but I’m certain
she did so. From then on, he was her tool, using his money and influence in
support of her and Grosslich’s ends. The letters make it clear that Lassus
arranged the weakening of the defences at Black Fire Keep. Gold was found to
induce the orcs to invade, and weapons too. It was all timed with impressive
precision. By the time he’d seen to it that you would be sent to handle the
succession, the passes were already under attack.”

“The greenskins had Imperial weapons.”

“A novelty for them, no doubt. Though I can’t imagine what
they did with the gold.”

Schwarzhelm tore the skin from the hare carcasses roughly. As
he remembered the fighting on the plains of Averland, the memory of Grunwald
came unbidden to his mind.

“What did he hope to achieve?”

“He would have joined Natassja and Grosslich in Averheim. The
Ruinous Powers offer the foolish an extension of their natural span, and he
expected to live for another hundred years. You should reflect on that, my lord.
Had you not killed him, the powers in Altdorf would only now be learning of
their danger, and Lassus would be safely hidden and growing in strength again.”

Schwarzhelm grunted. Such attempts to placate his sense of
guilt were unwelcome.

“And after that?”

“I can’t tell what their plans were beyond the coronation of
Grosslich, but they weren’t stupid. They knew the deception would only last for
so long. They needed time to do something else, something involving Averheim. By
deflecting accusations of treachery towards Rufus they let the world believe
that corruption in Averland had been defeated, and that has given them the space
they needed.”

Schwarzhelm let the tidings sink in, dissecting each morsel
of information, weighing it up against what he already knew. The process was
painful. He himself had been the tool by which Natassja and Grosslich had
corrupted the province, and the knowledge weighed heavily on him.

“So Rufus Leitdorf was an innocent in this.”

“He was. A dupe. I was to blame, my lord. When I witnessed
his wife, I assumed he was implicated. Grosslich and she played their parts
well.”

“That they did.”

Schwarzhelm finished skinning and dressing the hares, and
skewered them roughly. The fire was now burning fiercely, and at last the warmth
began to cut through the chill of the early morning.

“Anything else?” he asked.

“Not that I can decipher. There’s some link with the
Leitdorf’s that I don’t yet understand, and I have no idea why Averheim is so
important to them. If you truly want to fight this, then we should go back
there.”

“We will,” muttered Schwarzhelm. “I’ve thought of little
else, besides finding Kurt.”

Verstohlen paused. “And you’re still sure you want to do
that? You don’t have to. He may be dead, or he may be—”

“He’s alive, and he’s close,” snapped Schwarzhelm, shoving
the skinned hare into the fire. “Don’t try to dissuade me. I know some things
about this that you cannot. I had the dreams, sent to me by that witch. They
didn’t expect Helborg. He’s the element in this they couldn’t control. That’s
why Grosslich was so keen to kill him, and that’s why we have to find him first.
Kurt Helborg with the Sword of Vengeance will be a foe they cannot ignore.”

Verstohlen looked at Schwarzhelm for a long time then,
pondering his words.

“He’s not a forgiving man.”

Schwarzhelm nodded, watching the flesh of the hares crisp and
char in the flames.

“Of course,” he said, and his voice was low and steady. “So
it’s always been with him.”

He turned the meat in the fire, roasting it gently.

“Not long now, Pieter,” he said. “He’s nearby. The sword and
its master cannot be kept apart.”

Leitdorf took a deep breath before emerging on to the
balcony. He could hear the expectant mutter of the crowd outside, and they were
getting impatient.

“How many are there?” he whispered to Helmut Gram, the
seasoned Reiksguard who’d been assigned to him as bodyguard.

“Five hundred,” replied the knight, showing no trace of
emotion. “Not many. Better than nothing.”

Leitdorf swallowed. Addressing armed men had always been
something he’d dreaded. Not much of a soldier himself, he’d never been able to
look them in the eye. He’d made up for his natural reticence with a kind of
studied arrogance, but he knew it had fooled few of them. When he remembered his
churlish behaviour with Schwarzhelm back in Averheim, he shuddered.

“Should I take the sword?”

Gram’s eyebrow rose in surprise. “The Wolfsklinge? Of course.
It is a holy blade.”

All this fuss about swords. That was the one thing that
seemed to unite the fighting men of the Empire, a universal reverence for their
antique blades. His father’s weapon was hardly as prestigious as the runefangs
or the Sword of Justice, but it had a long and proud history nonetheless. Like
all such blades, there were runes hammered into the steel, augmenting the
belligerence of the wielder and guiding the edge to its target. He’d never felt
comfortable in its presence, and it hung heavily from his sword-belt.

“Yes, of course,” he mumbled, and stepped closer to the
balcony. Outside, clustered in the courtyard of the Drakenmoor castle, were the
recruits the Reiksguard had worked so hard to draw together. There were hundreds
more, he’d been told, flocking south to be armed and trained to fight for him.
As a result of all that activity, Grosslich must surely have discovered where
they were by now. The only option left was to take the battle to him.

“They’re waiting, my lord.”

Leitdorf swallowed, then pushed aside the doors leading to
the balcony and stepped outside.

Below him, rammed tight into the enclosed space, the core of
his new army stared up expectantly. Most were well armed, the product of his own
armouries as well as Skarr’s raids on the supply caravans. Here and there he
could see men wearing the blue and burgundy of the Leitdorf house, as well as
the black and yellow livery of Averland. Such men were to be the captains and
sergeants of the greater host to come, the leaders of the peasants and
farm-hands who’d flesh out the ranks. Many of them looked experienced and
capable. Others looked worryingly callow.

“Men of Averland!” Leitdorf cried. His voice sounded thin,
snatched away by the breeze, and he worked to lower it. “You all know why you’ve
been summoned here. The traitor Grosslich has seized this province and plans to
deliver it to the great enemy. This muster marks the very beginning of our
struggle. We will fight our way north of here, gathering men as we go, raising
the countryside against those who dare to take it from us. I will lead you,
Rufus Leitdorf, son of electors and master of this realm!”

There was a sporadic burst of applause, and a few men broke
into a cheer. It wasn’t convincing. With a sick feeling in his stomach, Leitdorf
realised he was losing them. They all knew his reputation. He tried to remember
what he’d planned to say, but the words slipped from his grasp.

“So I say, do not fear! The five hundred of you here today
will be a thousand by dawn tomorrow. As we march, more will flock to our
standard. By the time we reach Averheim, the hills will tremble at our coming.”

The murmurs of approval began to die out.

“I have fought Grosslich before!” shouted Leitdorf, trying to
work up some enthusiasm. “He is nothing but a peasant, a low-born master of
horse manure! I, on the other hand, am a noble-born leader of men and hence
blessed by Sigmar. March with me, and I will return Averland to the rule of
those fitted for it!”

That didn’t go down well. Most of the troops were low-born,
even those given command roles. Grosslich’s popularity had always stemmed from
his mastery of the common touch. Leitdorf realised his error too late, and began
to lose his thread. The crowd had fallen silent.

Then the doors behind him slammed open. Leitdorf turned to
see Helborg striding to stand beside him, though for a moment he hardly
recognised the man.

The Marshal was wearing the heavy plate of the Reiksguard
once more, cleaned and restored by his knights and shining like polished
ithilmar. He’d donned his hawk-winged helmet, and the sun glinted from the steel
pins holding the feathers in place. A heavy cloak hung from his shoulders,
draped across massive pauldrons. Helborg’s visor was lifted, his craggy face
exposed. The moustache had been trimmed, waxed and moulded back to its former
glory, the envy of men and fascination of women. His skin was no longer grey,
but full of a tight, uncompromising vigour. His blue eyes, two points of
sapphire set deep in that lean, handsome face, fixed the crowd below with an
unwavering gaze. Beside his imposing frame, Leitdorf suddenly felt meagre and
superfluous.

Helborg placed his gauntlets on the balcony railing with a
heavy clang. The murmuring of the crowd picked up again. All of them knew who he
was, though most had only dreamt of seeing him in the flesh. Men shuffled
closer, eager to catch a glimpse of the legend.

“Men of the Empire!” roared Helborg, his voice echoing in the
narrow courtyard and resounding from the high walls of the Drakenmoor castle.
Leitdorf’s entreaties were instantly forgotten. Helborg’s voice was grinding,
rumbling, stone-hard, tempered by years of command on the battlefield and
infused with the expectation of obeisance. When the Reiksmarshal spoke, all
other voices were stilled.

“You have heard the words of your elector. Listen to them! He
is the rightful heir of the realm of Siggurd and the true bearer of the
runefang. Averheim is in the hands of a traitor, one who has sold his soul to
the great enemy and even now plots to deliver this proud province into ruin.”

His voice softened, but his glare remained fierce. As his
eyes swept the crowd, each man felt his soul being examined, tested on the anvil
of Helborg’s unyielding conviction.

“Perhaps some of you supported Grosslich in the early days.
Maybe you thought a man of the people would right the wrongs of the past and
give you a life of comfort and justice.”

Helborg’s gauntlet balled into a fist and slammed the
railing. Fragments of stone showered on to the crowd below.

“Lies!” he bellowed, spittle flying from his mouth. “The man
is a creeping worm, the most contemptible of animals, the progeny of traitors
and the scion of whores. The least of you is worth a hundred such crawling
beasts, for they have forgotten themselves and become less than the insects of
the dung heap. For as long as he remembers the law and the word of Sigmar, the
lowliest serf towers over such degenerate scum.”

His eyes narrowed, and he pulled himself to his full height.
Sunlight glinted from his helm, and his cloak lifted in the wind.

“Maybe you joined this army for gold, or for glory, or out of
some long-earned pledge of allegiance. If so, then you may as well return to
your homes now and live the rest of your life cowering in fear. Gold you will
have, and glory there will be, but it is for
honour
that we are mustered
here today. Your realm has been stolen from you, your heritage debased and your
future ransomed to the fickle will of the Dark Gods. Have you no shame for that,
men of Averland? Have you no
anger
?”

The crowd started to murmur again. Helborg’s words held them
rapt.

“
This
is why we march!” he roared, sweeping out his
sword and holding it aloft. “To take back our birthright. To hold our heads high
and resist the usurper, the heretic and the traitor. I will lead you in this,
men of Siggurd. I, who have commanded armies that made the very earth tremble,
whose holy blade has run dark with the blood of the Emperor’s enemies. I, Grand
Marshal of the Reiksguard, Hammer of Chaos, Kreigsmeister, the hand of
vengeance!”

His voice rose in fervour. Men below were shouting in
acclamation now, fists clenched, roused to a pitch of emotion. They would do
anything for him. Leitdorf watched in awe as Helborg moulded them to his will.
So
this
was why he inspired such devotion.

“Go back to your villages!” he roared, sweeping his sword
down and pointing the tip at each man in turn. “Bring your men to me and I will
make them killers. With me at your head, no army shall dare oppose our will. We
will not relent until we have cleansed the city of the filth that squats in it.
They sowed the seeds of this war through treachery, but we will repay them
twenty times over in their own blood. March with me, men of Averland, and I will
deliver you! For the Empire! For your elector! For the holy blood of Sigmar!”

As one, the men below rose up, shaking their fists and
repeating the cry. They were seething, ready to sell their lives for the cause.
The army had been born.

As
For the Empire!
rang out across the courtyard,
Helborg swept his imperious gaze back to Leitdorf.

“How do you
do
that?” asked Rufus, still watching the
frenzied crowd below.

“Learn from it,” snapped Helborg. “And learn it fast.”

As he pulled back from the balcony, Helborg winced. His
wounds had not entirely healed.

“I’ll not wait here any longer,” he rasped. “The time has
come to lead these men. War calls, Herr Leitdorf, and I will answer.”