03 - Sword of Vengeance (48 page)

“Coming back wasn’t exactly my idea.”

At the edge of the circle, Bloch spat a gobbet of blood onto
the ground. He’d lost
another
tooth. That made him angry. He reached for
his blade. Every part of him ached.

“Then it seems we’re both the victim of the choices of
others,” said Grosslich. “I didn’t want this either.”

“So give it up. Leitdorf still lives. He’ll happily take the
runefang back.”

It wasn’t clear if Grosslich smiled at that. His helmet
obscured his entire face, and behind the eye-slit there was nothing but
darkness.

“Your advice hasn’t got any better, counsellor. There are
other options for me. Though none left, I’m afraid, for you.”

Bloch staggered to his feet, feeling his boots slip against
the mud as he scrabbled for purchase.

“Verstohlen!”

He was too slow. With a sickening inevitability, Grosslich
drew his sword back. The counsellor stayed still, rooted to the ground, waiting
for the strike. Even as Bloch lurched across the circle of devastation, crying
out for Verstohlen to evade the blow, Grosslich swung the blade.

Rufus Leitdorf looked up at the gates. Grosslich had enlarged
and changed them, replacing the stone blocks with iron columns and decorating
the archway with a huge hammered “G”. The mighty pillars on either side of them
soared up nearly forty feet. Within the gaping chasm Natassja’s bloodfire raged,
filling the air with a surging, roaring sheet of flame. It looked like they were
approaching some gigantic stained glass wall. Beyond the cordon, dark outlines
of women flickered from roof to roof, swooping through the air like birds.

The legions still swarmed around them, but none could stand
against Volkmar and Helborg together. The two men rode at the head of the
vanguard, both wreathed in an aura of blazing gold. Any approaching dog-soldiers
were cut down, either by the power of the Staff or the harrowing edge of the
runefang. They were terrified of the sword. It seemed to have some hold over
them, like a totem of their destruction.

Leitdorf took some heart from that, and was happy enough to
ride in the lee of its protection. He’d felled a few of Grosslich’s minions
himself on the charge, but most of the deadly work was done by the Reiksguard.
Fewer than thirty of the knights remained after their daring ride through the
heart of Grosslich’s legions, but they still fought with a zeal and skill that
defied belief. They were nearing the site of their master’s defeat on the
Vormeisterplatz and the mood was one of cold vengeance. They would not leave
Averheim again without exacting their toll.

“The blood of Sigmar!” roared Volkmar, riding ahead of
Leitdorf, urging his troops on to greater feats. Every pace they took, every
blood-drenched step, brought them nearer to the city.

A huge man bearing the Imperial standard marched beside the
Theogonist, thundering out hymns of defiance even as he swung his warhammer.

“Despise the mutant!” he bellowed, smashing the skull of a
growling dog-soldier with a grim relish. “Purge the unclean!”

It was a brave show. For the time being, they were making
progress. It had been a long time since Leitdorf had last been in Averheim. It
looked like the place had changed quite a bit.

“You’re troubled, elector.”

Leitdorf turned to see Skarr riding beside him, his visor
raised and his broken-toothed mouth twisted in a wolfish grin. The preceptor was
breathing heavily and his sword was streaked with gore.

“What are we doing here, preceptor?” replied Leitdorf. “If we
make the gates, then what? We’ll never make it out again.”

Skarr shrugged.

“Helborg said he’d take you back to Averheim. He always keeps
his word.”

The Reiksguard knight had a fey look about him. Leitdorf had
seen it before from men in battle, particularly in the elite ranks of the
Imperial army. This was euphoria to them, this killing. Fear meant nothing once
that mood descended, just a semi-bestial love of the contest.

“Helborg has no idea of Natassja’s power.”

“I’d say he does. You heard Schwarzhelm’s testimony. She’s at
the heart of it.”

Leitdorf shook his head.

“Kill her,” he muttered. “So simple.”

Skarr laughed, a grating sound like the rattling of old
chains.

“I thought you’d be pleased to see her again,” he said,
pulling his steed round. “I’ve heard she’s a beauty.”

And then he was gone, spurring his horse into the attack, his
sword plunging into the wavering ranks of defenders.

The gates drew closer. As Helborg and Volkmar forged a path
towards them, Grosslich’s defenders dwindled. None retreated back through that
archway. They seemed more scared of the city than of the attackers before them.
Or perhaps there was some other reason why they wouldn’t enter.

From within the mighty walls, the throbbing echo of power
grew louder. Leitdorf could see the Tower properly now. The iron shell contained
a heart of deepest vermillion, pulsing angrily like an artery. The clouds
swirled still around its tip, dark and forbidding, and lightning lanced down its
flanks.

It was vast.

Leitdorf let his fingers creep to the book at his belt,
though its presence gave him little comfort. He mouthed the last words recorded
there, the ones he’d committed to memory.

She comes for me in my sleep, walking in my mind like a
nightmare. I cannot defeat her. None can defeat her. Even now, my mind breaks.
There is nothing. No hope, only madness. Her name is agony. Her name is
Natassja, and she will kill me.

After that it was nonsense, a stream of half-syllables. Some
poorly-remembered fragment of a dream, the final ravings of a great mind brought
low by a woman.

“The gates!” cried Helborg, spurring his horse towards them.

The final push came. Volkmar, Skarr, the Reiksguard and the
surviving Imperial troops pressed forwards, cutting their way towards the iron
columns. Leitdorf, just as he had been at the Vormeisterplatz, was carried along
in the midst of them, surrounded by knights and swept like flotsam on the tide.

The last of the defence fell under the onslaught of the
Klingerach and the Staff of Command. Helborg rode under the iron portal, his
steed stepping proudly. Volkmar followed him, and the golden aura of his passing
lit up the agonised faces locked in the metal.

One by one, the surviving Empire troops stepped over the
threshold, passing through the curtain of fire and into Averheim. The sounds of
battle receded, replaced with the numb roar of the bloodfire.

Leitdorf took a look around him. The city he knew had gone.
In its place was death. Nothing but death.

Verstohlen saw the sword come at him. He couldn’t move. His
muscles were locked in place, held down by some weight. Even as the blade-edge
swung at his neck, dripping with black fluid, his limbs remained frozen. He was
going to die.

“Verstohlen!”

Bloch’s voice, thick as a bull’s, roared out from behind him.
He was coming, tearing back into the line of danger, just as he always did.

Suddenly, from somewhere, the force clamping him in place
lessened. Verstohlen jerked back. Grosslich adjusted too late and the tip of the
blade missed its target, slicing across his chest. Verstohlen cried aloud as the
metal cut through his leather jerkin and parted the flesh beneath. He fell to
his knees, clutching at the wound. Blood, mingled with ink-black slurry, poured
over his grasping fingers.

Then Bloch barrelled into Grosslich, knocking him sidelong
with the force of the charge then landing a flurry of crushing blows on the
traitor elector. He wielded his stave with a ferocious, controlled skill.

“I’ve marched halfway across this bloody province for this
fight,” Bloch snarled through gritted teeth. “Now you’re getting one, you
bastard.”

“Leave him!” cried Verstohlen, feeling his vision fade into
dizziness. Something in his wound was poisoning him, rushing into his
bloodstream and spreading toxins through his body. He tried to rise, but his
legs gave out and he fell back to his knees. “He’s too strong.”

Recovering from his surprise, Grosslich began to meet Bloch’s
attack. His sword-edge whirled in tight arcs, picking out the weaknesses in the
halberdier’s technique. The twin blades still clashed together in unison. At the
edges of the circle, other soldiers were beginning to find their feet.

“A man with the stomach to face me,” mused Grosslich,
hammering Bloch back two paces with a single swipe. “A soldier after my own
heart.”

“I’m nothing like you,” growled Bloch, pivoting the staff
round and bringing the heel up for a jab.

“Maybe as I was, then,” said Grosslich, evading the blunt
stave and switching his grip for a backhanded thrust. “I’d have found a place
for you here.”

“And I’d have died before taking it.”

Bloch jerked the blade back round and parried Grosslich’s
strike, giving ground with every exchange. Though his eyes glittered with
determination, he was unequal to this foe. The battle had already been long, and
Grosslich’s muscles were animated with an unnatural strength.

Verstohlen clambered back to his feet, the world swaying
around him. Stumbling drunkenly, he went for his dagger, thrown yards clear by
Grosslich’s theatrical arrival. His movements were clumsy and broken. Something
virulent was worming its way within him. He grabbed the knife and whirled round,
fighting the growing tide of nausea.

Bloch was fighting like a man possessed. Verstohlen had never
seen a halberd wielded with such power and speed. Even the troops shuffling
forwards on the far side of the circle seemed daunted by it. A dog-soldier made
to leap into the fray, but Grosslich sent it back with a dismissive gesture.

“Get back, filth,” he spat.

“Want me for yourself?” jeered Bloch, seizing advantage of
the diversion to launch a flurry of downward plunges.

Grosslich met them easily, adjusting his stance to absorb the
blows. Verstohlen felt despair grow within him. Even if Bloch’s blade connected,
Grosslich’s armour looked invulnerable. The counsellor limped back towards the
duelling warriors too slowly, his dagger clutched in his clammy hands, sweat
streaming from his brow. He felt useless, pathetic, wasted.

“A warrior’s right,” replied Grosslich, planting his feet
squarely and aiming a two-handed thrust at Bloch’s chest.

Bloch swerved to avoid it, but the edge scraped along his
breastplate, knocking him off balance. He regained his feet just in time to
block the follow-up.

“You have no—”

He never finished. Grosslich’s follow-up was a feint. His
blade spun round in his hands as it dropped down and plunged deep into the flesh
below Bloch’s breastplate.

“Markus!” Verstohlen cried out as he struggled, mere feet
away, his hand outstretched impotently.

Bloch’s face contorted into a mask of agony. His halberd, the
weapon that had taken him from Turgitz, to Black Fire Pass, and finally back to
Averheim, thumped to the ground. The staff shivered as it rolled across the
earth.

Grosslich shoved the blade in further, grasping the stricken
halberdier by the shoulder and hauling him up along the impaling sword-edge.

Bloch gasped, choked, and a well of thick blood spilled from
his throat. He clutched frantically at Grosslich’s armour, scrabbling for some
kind of purchase. Verstohlen crawled towards them both, nearly overwhelmed with
black sickness.

“Markus…” he choked, watching the man die before him.

It was always the soldiers. First Grunwald, now Bloch.
Verstohlen was consumed by a wave of self-loathing. His charmed existence seemed
like a curse to him then. This was his fault. Again.

Bloch looked at him. His eyes were glazing over. Blood
bubbled from his mouth, running down his chest, streaked with black. From
somewhere, he summoned the strength to grasp at Grosslich’s armoured bulk. He
grabbed the elector in a bear-hug. He could no longer speak, could barely stand,
but the final look he shot Verstohlen was as clear as glass.

Do it.

Verstohlen’s grief transmuted into fury. Thrusting aside his
nausea, ignoring the pain streaming through his poisoned limbs, he leapt
forwards, dagger in hand.

Grosslich sensed the danger and whirled round, trying to draw
his weapon, but Bloch’s dying body hampered his movements. His sword remained
lodged, and for a second, a mere second, he was unprotected.

Verstohlen raised the dagger high over Grosslich and plunged
it down with all his strength and skill. It went in between the rim of his
breastplate and helmet, sliding through like a stick in water.

Grosslich screamed. He flung Bloch free. The halberdier’s
body swung into the air before crashing to the earth with a heavy, final thud.

Verstohlen staggered back, his veins thumping in his temples.
His hands were shaking. Grosslich grabbed the dagger and hurled it from his
neck. It spun through the air, spraying his own blood. Incredibly, he still
stood.

Verstohlen began to back away, his dizziness returning, the
blackness around his eyes closing in. Across his chest, the wound still leaked
hot, pumping slurry.

“Damn you, counsellor,” Grosslich snarled, twisting his
helmet off and letting it fall to the ground. His face was drawn with pain. He
strode towards Verstohlen, sword brandished in his hand, the dark light of
hatred in his eyes. “
That
was the worst of your many errors.”

Verstohlen gazed up at the man’s face in horror. It was a
pale white, and the eyes were ringed with purple growths. The flesh was as
glossy and rigid as his armour. Blood pumped from the wound at his neck, but it
barely seemed to trouble him. It should have killed him.

“You could have
resisted
her,” said Verstohlen,
feeling his consciousness weaken. He had no weapon. Even if he had, he was now
too weak to use it.