03 - Sword of Vengeance (4 page)

Night air gusted through the shutters. The fire had burned
low in the grate. The rain continued to plague the city, and he could hear the
constant drum of it outside. He’d been working for hours, and was not an
eloquent scribe. Composing the letter to the Emperor had taken him the best part
of the day and all of the evening. Even now he wasn’t sure everything was
ordered correctly. He found himself wishing Verstohlen was around. He’d have
been able to advise. He’d always been able to advise.

Schwarzhelm brushed sand over the parchment and folded it up.
He slipped it into an envelope, reached for the candle of sealing wax and tipped
a gobbet of it on the join. As the wax hardened he pulled his personal seal from
the drawer at his side. That too was hard to look at. The Sword of Justice
entwined with the Imperial seal atop the initials L.S. Once it had been a source
of pride to him. Now, like everything else, it had been sullied.

He pressed the seal onto the wax, watching as the red fluid
solidified, then placed the letter on the desk in front of him. Beside it was
the key he’d taken from Heinrich Lassus’ house. It had taken a while for him to
discover which lock it opened, but he still had friends in the city. The old
traitor had been careful, but not careful enough. He’d trusted in his
reputation, and that alone had been sufficient to fool everyone. Even now, only
Schwarzhelm himself knew of the man’s treachery. The fire had concealed evidence
of his transformation, and men assumed that the old general had suffered from a
terrible accident. For the time being, that was how Schwarzhelm wanted it. The
truth would emerge in good time.

He took up the key and ran it over his fingers. Iron glinted
in the candlelight. Even after much time had passed, he still had no idea why
Lassus had done it. As far as he knew, the old swordmaster had no connections in
Averland and no interest in the succession. He’d never had any concern with
matters of rank or promotion. That was precisely why he’d been so admired.
I’ve been granted the grace to retire from the field and see out the rest of my
days in peace.
That’s what he’d told Schwarzhelm, back before he’d ridden to
Averheim. Such an effortless, professional lie, so smoothly delivered.

With an effort of will, Schwarzhelm turned his mind back to
the present. The longer he lingered on his many failures, the less useful he
could be. Deep down, the tidings of Verstohlen nagged away at him. The spy had
seen the mark of Chaos in the city, and his reports had been vindicated by the
horrific manner of Lassus’ death. Schwarzhelm had to assume that Natassja was
still alive. Perhaps Rufus Leitdorf was too. In any event, for as long as
Verstohlen remained in Averheim, the counsellor was in terrible danger.
Schwarzhelm had sent coded messages by secret courier, but had little hope of
them getting through. The only course left to him was to return there himself.
Amends had to be made, debts settled, secrets uncovered.

He’d tried to seek an audience with the Emperor to explain
his worries, but that had proved impossible. Never before had any request of his
to meet Karl Franz been turned down. That hurt him more than anything else that
had happened. Perhaps the Emperor was still angry. Perhaps he was trying to
protect Schwarzhelm from any further involvement, thinking it best that he
recovered from his trials. Or perhaps there was corruption even in the heart of
the Palace, blocking his missives from reaching their target.

In any case, it didn’t matter now. His mind was made up. He
would leave for Averheim as soon as his work in Altdorf was done. There were
only three things he needed to do first.

He rose from the table, taking the key and the letter with
him and placing them in his jerkin pocket. He took a dark cloak from the hook in
the wall beside him and wrapped himself up in it. At his side he felt the cool
presence of the Rechtstahl. He hadn’t drawn it since returning from Averland,
and he dreaded seeing the rune-carved steel again. The spirit of the weapon was
sullen and accusatory. Like all dwarf-forged master swords, it cared about the
nature of the blood it spilt.

Schwarzhelm turned to leave the room. Three simple tasks. To
leave the letter where the Emperor would find it. To enter Lassus’ private
archives in the Palace vaults. To retrieve the Sword of Vengeance, ready to
return it to its master if he still lived.

Simple to list, difficult to do. With a final look around his
study, Schwarzhelm blew out the candles and left to break in to the most heavily
guarded fortress in the Empire.

Grosslich reached the bottom of the staircase. The echoing
screams had now become a gorgeous cacophony, rising from the depths of the crypt
and snaking through the many passages and antechambers of the whole foundation
layer. For a moment, Grosslich paused to take in the sound. He could almost
smell it. That wonderful mix of fear, desperation and utter hopelessness. They
had no idea how lucky they were to be shown such exquisite varieties of
sensation. Their minds were being expanded. Involuntarily, it was true, but
expanded nonetheless. Sometimes literally.

At the bottom of the stairs, a long gallery ran ahead for two
hundred yards. Far below the surface of the city, Natassja had been able to
indulge her peerless sense of design. The floor was glassy and smooth. A gentle
lilac light rose from it, picking out the detail of the baroque walls, each
carved with the same care and intricacy as the doors above. The themes were the
ones she loved—lissom youths of both sexes, locked in what looked like a
ballet of agony. The artistry was such that the iron figures could almost have
passed for real bodies, locked into eternal stasis and bound into the
foundations of the Tower.

At regular intervals along the gallery, archways had been cut
into the walls. Each of these was decorated in the same fashion, with sigils
dedicated to Pleasure engraved over the keystone. The noises came from beyond
these arches. Grosslich hadn’t had time to explore all the rooms in person, but
he knew they were where Natassja carried out her works of artistry. On the rare
occasions when he’d felt able to peer within their confines, he’d found the
experience difficult. He knew that a part of him was still mired in human
weaknesses. Even now, after so much transformation, to see some of those…
scenes
made his flesh shiver. He’d have to work on that. The weakness in
him, small as it was, was the last remaining impediment to glory.

At the far end of the gallery a large octagonal chamber had
been hewn from the earth. When the Tower was completed, the chamber would sit
directly beneath the centre of the mighty shaft. For now, all that stood above
it was an iron cat’s cradle.

Grosslich walked across the glass floor, enjoying the echoing
click of his boots. The sound produced a pleasing counterpoint to the sobbing
whimpers coming from door number four. As he passed it, he was pleased to see
Natassja already waiting for him in the octagon.

“My love,” he said, marvelling as he always did at her
splendour.

Natassja sat on an obsidian throne at the centre of the
chamber. Her skin, once ivory, was now a shimmering pale blue. Her eyes had lost
their pupils and become pure black jewels in her flawless face. Her teeth still
shone as white as they’d ever done, even if the incisors looked a little longer.
She wore a sheer gown of nightshade silk, and a necklace of ithilmar spikes now
graced her neckline. Her hair, black as pitch, hung loose around her shoulders.

At Grosslich’s approach, she rose from the throne.

“What word from Altdorf?” she asked, descending from the dais
to meet him. Her voice was cool, though a sibilant undertone had been added to
it.

“The Emperor summoned me. I played for time.”

Natassja looked thoughtful. “He won’t remain patient
forever,” she said. “Schwarzhelm will tell him the truth soon, if he hasn’t
already.”

Grosslich frowned at that. Everyone was always so worried. It
was inexplicable, given the position of strength they were in.

“You’re
sure
Lassus gave much away?”

“He was weak,” spat Natassja. “Even now his soul is shriven.
I have seen it. A thousand years of torment to ponder a slip of the tongue.”
Vehemence made her voice shake. “And yes, he did give much away. His presence in
this has given us all away. Schwarzhelm is damaged, but he’s still powerful.”

“Then I’ve no doubt you’ve plans in place.”

“We still have agents in the Palace,” she said. “For as long
as possible we must maintain the illusion that Rufus was the traitor here. In
the meantime, there are two men we have to kill. One is Schwarzhelm, though that
will be difficult at such a range. The other is closer to hand.”

“Verstohlen.”

“Quite. See to it.”

“Of course,” said Grosslich. That would be a singular
pleasure—the man’s bleating had become insufferable.

“And then there’s the pursuit of Rufus. That troubles me.”

Natassja spoke quickly but clearly. There was no trace of
mania in her eyes. Back when he’d been a normal man, Grosslich had assumed all
cultists were raving fanatics. Natassja had her moments, but her demeanour
habitually remained as smooth as onyx. Perhaps that shouldn’t have surprised
him. She’d been active in this, after all, for centuries.

“Any more news from your men?” she asked. “How goes the
hunt?”

“It’s difficult, my goddess,” said Grosslich, not bothering
to hide the truth. “He’s in his own country, protected by his own people. I send
more men east every day, but we can’t search every house.”

Natassja shook her head. “Not quick enough. Come with me. I
have something to show you.”

She led him back into the long gallery. With a faint shudder,
Grosslich realised they were heading for one of the antechambers. Number one.
He’d never been allowed in that one.

“The one uncertain factor in this is Helborg,” said Natassja
as she walked. “He was not part of the original plan, though we were able to
make use of him. My senses tell me he still lives.” She turned to face Grosslich
before entering the chamber, and her expression was intense. “I fear his
presence. He was not foreseen from the beginning. It might have been better if
he had never come.”

She ducked under the archway. As Grosslich followed into the
darkness his eyes took a moment to adjust.

“I thought you used him? To goad Schwarzhelm further?”

Natassja nodded. “We did. Lassus and I had discussed the
contingency. At every stage, we made it appear as if Helborg and Rufus were
working in tandem. But that was always in addition to the main objective. I was
never sure it was the right decision.”

Grosslich’s vision began to clarify. The antechamber
retreated far back into the darkness of the earth. He couldn’t see the far wall
for shadow. On either side of him were long wooden tables with leather
restraining straps. There were vials of a lilac-coloured liquid and gut tubes
leading from them. Surgical instruments had been placed on a separate table, and
they glistened in the low light. Across every surface, parchment made of human
skin had been draped, painstakingly inscribed with tight-curled script. There
were diagrams, etched in blood so old it had turned black. The floor, hidden in
the gloom, was sticky. In the darkness beyond, he could faintly make out a
rattling sound. Something was moving.

“I saw the blow that felled him,” said Grosslich, trying to
concentrate on the task at hand. “He may yet die from it.”

“Possibly. But we have to be sure. Come forwards.”

The last command hadn’t been directed at him. The rattling
grew louder. Something was shuffling into the light.

“What is this, my goddess?” asked Grosslich. He was nervous.
Despite all his training, all his immersion in the world of the Dark Prince, he
was still nervous. He still had some way to go.

“A new toy,” she replied, eyes fixed on the approaching
shape. “A refinement of the creatures I was working on before. I call them my
handmaidens. What do you think?”

The figure that emerged had been a woman. She had once been
beautiful, perhaps. She was slim, pale-skinned, with mouse-brown hair arranged
in long plaits. Maybe in the past she had moved with an easy grace, laughing in
the sun and trying to catch the eye of the troopers marching to war.

Now she moved silently. Her once flawless skin was covered in
incisions and sutures. Her eyes were gone, replaced with blank brass plates.
Black rags had been draped over her naked shoulders, but they did little to
obscure the surgery that had scored her body. Exposed bone glinted from her
hips, her knees, her neck. Most strikingly of all, her fingers had been replaced
with long curved talons. They shone coldly in the dark. What was left of her
face was contorted into a silent, frozen howl of agony. It was unclear if she
could still speak. It looked like she could barely walk.

“Impressive,” said Grosslich, trying not to imagine the full
horror of the transformation. “What can she do?”

“There has been extensive replacement,” said Natassja coolly.
“At her heart there burns an iron casket containing a shard of the Stone. That
keeps her alive, despite the removal of the spine. Once given an instruction,
she will never stop. These ones no longer need to be near me to retain their
power.”

The handmaiden shuffled closer. It seemed blind as well as
crippled. Every movement it made was tight with pain.

“It doesn’t move fast.”

Natassja smiled and ran a finger gently down the handmaiden’s
scarred cheek. “Do not be fooled by her current state. When given the proper
command, she will change.” Natassja looked at her tenderly, like a proud mother.
“For now, she only has her own private world of pain. That can be altered by
giving her a name.”

“A name.”

“A name is a mystical thing, Heinz-Mark. It has resonance in
the aethyr. They can use it to find their prey. When they are ready, I will give
it to them.”