03 - Sword of Vengeance (39 page)

She smiled, exposing her impossibly delicate incisors,
tapered to a vanishing point of sharpness.

“My
creed.
Ah, the blasphemy of it.”

Natassja turned to Eschenbach.

“Enough of this. Have you seen what you came for?”

“I have, my queen.”

The pain in Eschenbach’s body had lessened. His senses were
operating at a heightened pitch of awareness. Visions rushed towards him like
waking dreams. He saw the numberless host of Grosslich’s men, legions of
darkness, marching in endless ranks, unstoppable and remorseless. He saw the
daemons circling the Tower like crows, ancient and malevolent, glorious and
perfect. He saw the full extent of the Stone buried in the earth below, as black
as the infinite void, a mere fragment of the future.

Some things began to make sense then. He no longer regretted
his choices.

“Will you report back to your master?”

Eschenbach shook his head.

“No, my queen.”

“Good. So you know what will please me.”

“I do.”

“Then please me.”

Eschenbach grinned. The movement ripped his mouth at the
edges, the muscles having long wasted into nothingness. He didn’t care. Pain was
nothing. There would be more pain, but that was nothing too. Only the Stone
mattered.

He stepped from the ledge and was swept upwards by the vast
power of the shaft. The flames seared him, crackling his flesh and curling it
from the bone. He laughed as he was borne aloft, feeling his tortured face
fracture. He was rising fast, buoyed up by the column of fire, speeding past the
sigils of Slaanesh. They glowed back at him with pleasure. He had finally done
well.

His eyes were burned away. He breathed in, and fire tore
through his body and into his lungs. At the end, before his charred figure
slammed into the roof of the shaft, he felt his soul pulled from his mortal
form, immolated by the will of the Stone, sucked into its dark heart and
consumed. In a final sliver of awareness, he knew just how much closer his
sacrifice had brought forward the great awakening. Before he could be pleased by
that, he was gone, the candle-flame of his life extinguished within the inferno
of something far, far greater.

On her ledge below, Natassja remained still, watching the
flames as they screamed past.

“Now then, Heinz-Mark,” she breathed, stretching out her hand
and watching the torrents caress her flesh. “Your servants are all gone. The
time has come, I think, for you to face me.”

Helborg’s army had descended from the highlands and made good
progress across the rolling fields of Averland. The men had been organised into
standard Imperial formations and strode down the wide merchants’ roads in
squares of halberdier and spearman companies. Their livery was patchy and
irregular, but they were well-armed and highly motivated. Helborg had made sure
they were fed and paid, and they rewarded him by maintaining good discipline.
With every mile they travelled, more came to join them. All the villagers in the
region had seen the column of fire in the west, and even their simple minds had
felt the corruption bleeding from it. Carts and supplies were commandeered and
added to the straggling baggage caravan. At the end of the first full day of
marching into the interior, his forces had swelled to near three thousand. The
few remaining Reiksguard were the only truly deadly troops among them, but the
rest at least had blades and some idea of how to use them.

At the end of each day, the army established camp in the
Imperial manner, raising earthworks around a close-packed formation of tents and
ramming stakes into the defences. As the army had grown, this task had become
more arduous and time-consuming, but it was necessary work. Grosslich’s forces
had yet to engage them, but the closer they came to the capital the more
inevitable an attack became. They were now little more than a day’s march away,
almost close enough to see the tips of the city’s spires on the northwest
horizon.

With the raising of the encampment, the men retired to their
positions for the night, sitting around fires and speculating about the booty
they’d receive for aiding the Reiksmarshal on campaign. They avoided discussion
of the forces ranged against them, or the growing presence of the pillar of
fire, or the reports from the forward scouts of a strange dark lower thrusting
up from the heart of the city.

In the centre of the camp the command group held council,
screened from the rank and file by canvas hoardings and sitting around a huge
fire. Helborg stood in the place of honour, his breastplate glowing red from the
flames. The Sword of Vengeance hung again from his belt, and it had made him
complete. His habitual flamboyance seemed to have been replaced with a kind of
grim majesty, and in the firelight he resembled nothing so much as the statue of
Magnus the Pious in the Chapel of Fallen.

On his left stood Hausman, in Skarr’s absence the most senior
Reiksguard. On his right was Leitdorf, looking uncomfortable in his armour.
There were four other captains drawn from the ranks, all veteran soldiers and
Leitdorf loyalists wearing the blue and burgundy.

Opposite Helborg, completing the circle, was Schwarzhelm. The
Emperor’s Champion looked almost as imposing as Helborg. He was back in armour,
and it seemed to have had a restorative effect on his demeanour. Verstohlen
stood, as ever, by his side. He remained in the margins, observing the
deliberations rather than contributing, just as his long service in the
clandestine arts had equipped him to do.

“You have all seen the pillar of fire,” said Helborg. “You
know the story of treachery we march to avenge. But there are greater forces at
work here. Lord Schwarzhelm has more knowledge of the foe we face than any of
us, so I have asked him to speak.”

All turned to the big man. The bad blood between him and
Helborg seemed purged after the drama of their first meeting, but the atmosphere
remained brittle. None of the captains seemed to know how to act around him.
Schwarzhelm, as was his manner, gave away nothing.

“We do not march alone,” he said, and his growling voice
seemed to reverberate from his newly-donned battle-plate. “The Emperor has been
warned, and we can be sure there will be Imperial forces hastening to counter
the threat. How close they are, I do not know. We may encounter them at
Averheim, or they may still be weeks away.”

His eyes swept the captains. There was a light kindled in
them, one Verstohlen hadn’t seen for many days. Not since Schwarzhelm had ridden
east from the succession debate to crush the orcs. He lived for this kind of
test.

“In either case, we cannot wait. I have been in Averheim. It
has been turned into a den of Chaos, and our duty is to purge it. We must do all
in our power to weaken the defences, whether or not other Imperial forces are
committed. Our survival is unimportant.”

The Averlander captains looked concerned by that. Helborg had
promised them victory, not sacrifice.

“How many men does Grosslich have under command?” asked one
of them.

“We don’t know,” said Helborg. “Nor does it matter.
Schwarzhelm’s verdict is the only one—as soon as we’re within range, we’ll
commit to an assault. I’ve sent messages to my lieutenant to gather all the men
he commands. We’ll join forces south of the city and make directly for it. The
bulk of the troops will engage the enemy while a strike force composed of
myself, the Lord Schwarzhelm and the Reiksguard will penetrate the Tower.
Grosslich is the heart of this—if we kill him, the edifice around him will
crumble.”

Leitdorf shook his head.

“Madness,” he muttered.

All eyes turned to him. The elector looked up guiltily, as if
he’d been talking to himself.

“Well, it is,” he said defiantly. “Even Ironjaw couldn’t
storm the heart of the city. It’s built to withstand a siege from armies five
times as big as this.”

Helborg glowered at him. “You forget who marches with you.
The Swords of Vengeance and Justice are not to be taken lightly.”

“No doubt. Neither is Natassja. And perhaps you’ve noticed
the bonfire she’s created over there—it’ll take more than two pointy sticks to
put it out.”

Verstohlen smiled in the dark. Against his better judgement,
he was beginning to like the elector.

Helborg showed no such tolerance. “Then I take it you have a
better plan,” he said, and his voice was icy.

Leitdorf shrugged. “The only hope is to rendezvous with this
Empire army. Your swords may be of help against the sorcery within the Tower,
but you’ll have to get close enough first.”

There was an uncomfortable silence. Helborg was unused to
being challenged, but Leitdorf had grown in stature over the past few weeks.
He’d also saved the Marshal’s life, which gave him something of an edge in the
discussion.

“They’ll come from the north,” said Leitdorf. “Invading
armies have always taken the high ground above the city before attempting an
assault. That’s where we should join them. You say that Preceptor Skarr has more
men? Good. We can sweep up the eastern side of Averheim, rendezvous with his
troops and then march to occupy the Averpeak. From there we’ll be able to hold
our ground until the Imperial forces arrive. If they’re already there, we’ll be
well placed to reinforce them ourselves. It’s the only course of action.”

Leitdorf’s voice had grown more confident the more he’d
spoken. Unlike at Drakenmoor, his captains actually listened.

Helborg said nothing, pondering the counsel. He still looked
undecided. Leitdorf’s manoeuvre would take longer, and they all knew time was
running short. Despite that, there was sense to it—this was his country, and
the elector knew the way the land was laid.

“We cannot be sure the Empire has responded yet,” said
Schwarzhelm.

“Indeed,” said Verstohlen, giving Leitdorf a wry nod of
support. The elector had the self-command not to look surprised. “But they are
our best chance of success in this. We should plan our advance around them. If
we arrive and they’re not there, then we can consider the other options.”

“We’ll lose the element of surprise,” muttered Helborg.
“They’ll see us come up from the east flank.”

“There
is
no element of surprise,” said Leitdorf
grimly. “They know where we are as surely as they know the positions of the
stars. Trust me, I was married to the woman.”

There was another long silence. Helborg shot an enquiring
glance at Schwarzhelm, but the big man said nothing. Eventually, the Marshal let
slip a scraping laugh.

“So be it!” he said. “The elector has made his judgement.
Skarr will rendezvous with us to the east of Averheim, from where we’ll take
position in the north. Messengers will ride out tonight, and we break camp at
dawn.”

He looked over at Leitdorf, and his expression was a mix of
amusement and approval.

“Not many men overrule my judgement in matters of war, Herr
Leitdorf. Let us hope your confidence repays us with a victory.”

Leitdorf bowed in return. There was neither diffidence nor
arrogance in the gesture.

“This is my realm, Reiksmarshal,” he said. “It is time I took
control of it.”

The plains north of Averheim had once been lush, covered in
the thick grass that had made the wealth of the province. The wide river Aver
had fed a dozen smaller tributaries, all of which had watered the fertile black
soil and nurtured the thick vegetation. Herds of cattle had been driven across
the rolling country for centuries, growing fat and sleek on the goodness of the
land.

Now all had changed. The city was still consumed by the
column of fire. Its streets were havens of horror and madness, its residual
inhabitants in hopeless thrall to the Dark Gods. Though the daemons did not
venture outside the cordon set by their mistress, others of Natassja’s creatures
had not been slow to venture beyond the city walls. They marched in file, rank
after rank, trampling the grass beneath their iron-shod feet. Great engines of
war were hauled up from the depths of the forges, swaying on iron chains the
width of a man’s waist. Channels of witch-fire were kindled in the six lesser
towers. These ran swiftly from their source, burning what little remained of the
once healthy country and turning it into a bare, stark wasteland of choking ash.
For miles in every direction, the canker spread. Averheim stood alone, a city of
twisted iron spires amid a desolate plain of ruin.

Upon that charred and fouled wilderness, the Army of the
Stone made its camp. Lines of tents were raised, each surmounted with the skulls
of those slain resisting the elector. Braziers were set up, sending clouds of
smog rolling over the land and coating it in a cloying pall of soot. Massive
spikes were hauled from the forges under the Tower and placed around the edges
of the vast encampment. Trenches were dug by a horde of mute slave labour, then
filled with quick-kindling oils, roaring with green-tinged flames.

Above it all, the Tower loomed, vast and brooding, isolate
and defiant, a shard of night-black metal thrusting up from the tortured land
like a blade. The storm circled around it, its clouds drawn to the pinnacle by
the rupture in the world’s fabric, furious and yet impotent. Lightning danced
under the eaves of the piled mass of darkness, flickering along the flanks of
the Tower, throwing rare glimpses of light into the perpetual gloom of the lost
city. It might have been night, it might have been day—beneath the wings of
the storm it was impossible to tell. The aegis of fire remained, boiling and
churning as it tore into the heavens, drowning out all other sounds, the
terrible mark of the corruption of Averland.

Two miles distant, a high ridge ran around the northern
approaches to the city. No trees had grown there even in the days of health and
plenty, and from its vantage one could see across the entire Aver flood-plain.
South of the ridge, the land fell smoothly down to the level of the river, the
road looping and circling towards the flat ground before the mighty gates of the
city. Men had long called the ridge the Averpeak, and they said it was Siggurd’s
barrow that caused the earth to rise. At its summit it was broad and smooth,
running east-west for several miles before the rolling hills broke its curving
outline. In the semi-remembered past, armies had camped on the mighty bulwark,
poised like eagles to swoop down on the city below them. Only Ironjaw, the last
great besieger of the city, had rejected its advantages, so drunk had he been on
the wine of conquest.