03 - Sword of Vengeance (5 page)

“She’s not ready?”

“Not yet,” said Natassja, stroking the handmaiden’s remaining
hair. “There will be three of them, at least to begin with. Their creation is
long and difficult. Then I will send them out. They will sweep across Averland
like crows, never pausing, never resting.”

She looked back at Grosslich, and her eyes were shining. “All
they need is the name.
Helborg
.”

Rufus Leitdorf looked down on the stricken face of Kurt
Helborg. The Marshal slept still, propped up on bolsters of duckfeather. The two
men were alone in the bedchamber of one of his father’s houses, far out in the
eastern reaches of Averland. The room was typically grand, with a high plastered
ceiling and heavy wooden furniture against all four walls. The bed itself was
larger than some peasants’ hovels, with fanciful images of dragons and crested
eagles carved into the headboard.

The night was old. Candlelight made Helborg’s face look even
paler. The craggy features, so admired and feared across the Empire, were now
haggard, and the proud moustache hung in lank strands across his cheeks. His
breathing was shallow, and a thick layer of sweat lay on his skin.

Leitdorf took up another towel and began to dab the moisture
away. Only a few months ago he’d never have stooped to minister to another man’s
discomfort, even a man as famed as Helborg, but things had changed. He was now a
fugitive in his own land, hunted by men he had once aspired to command. There
seemed little point in retaining old pretensions of grandeur.

He replaced the towel on the low table by the bed. Leitdorf
sat for a while, watching the man’s breast rise and fall under the coverlet.
Helborg fought with death. The wound in his shoulder had closed, but some
profound struggle was still going on within him.

There was a knock at the door. Leitdorf rose from the bed,
smoothing the sheets from where he’d been sitting.

“Come.”

Leofric von Skarr, preceptor of the Reiksguard, entered. He
was still in full battle armour and looked as grim and wolfish as ever. His dark
hair hung around his face, criss-crossed with the scars that so suited his name.

“Any change?”

“None.”

“He hasn’t woken?”

“Not while I’ve been with him.”

Skarr nodded. Around his neck hung the shard taken from
Helborg’s sword. It had become something of a totem for the depleted Reiksguard
company who still guarded their master, the emblem of his future recovery.

“There was another patrol out there, beyond the line of the
hills,” said Skarr. “We killed them all, but they were getting close. They’re
going to find us.”

“Then we move again.”

“You haven’t run out of houses?”

Leitdorf gave a superior smile. “My father owned more houses
in Averland than there are whores in Wurtbad.”

Skarr snorted.

“It’s no solution, this endless fleeing,” he said
dismissively, leaning against a fabulously expensive Breugsletter sideboard as
if it were a country gate. “They’ll catch up with us eventually, and we don’t
have the men to fight them all.”

“I’ve been thinking about that.” Leitdorf walked over to a
writing desk by the window. Across it lay a vellum map of Averland, lit by more
candles. It bore the crest of Marius Leitdorf in the corner and was obviously a
private commission. Each of the old count’s many manor houses and fortified
places was marked. “Look at this.”

Skarr joined him.

“We’re here,” said Leitdorf, pointing to a country mansion
several days’ ride from Averheim. “Far, but not far enough. We should be aiming
here
.”

He indicated a blank spot on the map. The nearest landmark
was a patch of scratchily-drawn highland called Drakenmoor.

“I don’t see anything.”

“I know,” said Leitdorf. “This is one of my father’s own
maps, and it isn’t even displayed here. That’s how secret he kept it. His last
retreat. The place he went to in order to escape the dreams.”

Skarr looked sceptical. “A hideaway.”

“Something like that.”

“How do you know of it?”

“There were
some
family secrets to which I was privy,”
said Leitdorf, affronted. The Reiksguard treated him like a spoiled, feckless
dandy.

Skarr continued to frown. “You can’t hide a castle.”

“Of course not. Those who live locally know of its existence.
But there are few villages in the region, and fewer staff in the retreat. My
father set great store by having somewhere no one could find him.”

“How far is it?”

Leitdorf pursed his lips. “In the Marshal’s condition, maybe
three days across country. Once we get there, we’ll be isolated. Even if
Grosslich sends his men after us, we’ll see them coming from miles off. In any
case, he’s sure to send his men to the houses he knows about first.”

Skarr hesitated, studying the map carefully, weighing up
various options. Leitdorf began to get frustrated. There
were
no other
options.

“Come on, man!” he snapped. “Surely you can see the sense of
it?”

Skarr whirled back to face him, his eyes bright with anger.
Leitdorf recoiled. The preceptor had a quick temper.

“
Never
give me orders,” hissed Skarr. There was a dark
expression on his face, drawn from years of expert killing. “It’s down to you
and your games that we’re in this damned mess.”

Leitdorf felt the blood rush to his cheeks. “Remember your
station, master kni—”

“Remember yours! It is
nothing.
You may think you’re
the elector of this blighted province, but to me you’re just the man who’s
brought this whole thing down on us.” Spittle collected at the corner of Skarr’s
mouth. He was consumed by rage. Leitdorf backed away from him.

“Maybe I should leave you to Grosslich’s men,” Skarr
muttered, turning away in scorn. “What they want with the Marshal is still a
mystery to me.”

Leitdorf, for once, found himself lost for words. His mouth
opened, but nothing came out. He stood still, heart pounding, trying to think of
a response.

“Skarr,” came a croak from the bed.

The preceptor turned quickly, wild hope kindling across his
face. Helborg’s eyes were open. They were rheumy and ill-focussed, but they were
open.

“My lord!”

“I heard enough,” rasped Helborg. His voice sounded as if it
had been dragged over rusted iron. “Do as Leitdorf says.”

“Yes, my lord,” replied Skarr, suddenly chastened. For his
part, Leitdorf didn’t know whether to feel relieved or not. His position was
still precarious.

“And we take him with us,” continued Helborg. The effort of
speaking produced fresh sweat on his brow. “We need him.”

“Yes, though I—”

Skarr didn’t finish. Helborg, exhausted by the effort,
drifted back into sleep. His head sank deep into the bolster, his breathing
ragged.

Leitdorf turned to Skarr in triumph.

“I think that’s given us our answer.”

Skarr shot him a poisonous look.

“We’ll do as the Marshal says. For some reason, he seems
disposed to be charitable towards you.” The Reiksguard glared at Leitdorf, every
sinew of his body radiating menace. “But I warn you, Herr Leitdorf, my only task
is to safeguard Helborg’s life. If you do anything—
anything
—to put it
in danger, then so help me I will throw you to the wolves.”

* * *

Night lay heavily on Altdorf. The turgid waters of the Reik
flowed fast, swollen by weeks of rain. Fires still burned across the city,
sending acrid peat-smoke curling into the air. Lights glimmered in the darkness
and at the pinnacles of the many towers. As ever, the turrets of the Celestial
College retained their thin sheen of blue, glowing eerily far above the compass
of its rivals. Any men abroad at that quiet hour avoided looking at the
unnatural lights and kept an eye on their surroundings.

Schwarzhelm stole along the Prinz Michael Strasse, keeping
his cloak wrapped tight around him and hugging the shadows. He feared no street
urchin or cutpurse—the rats of the street went for easier pickings than him.
Even stripped of his plate armour and helmet, Schwarzhelm was still a
formidable-looking target.

Mannslieb was full, throwing a cool silver light across the
cobbled streets through broken rainclouds. Schwarzhelm reached the end of the
street and paused, checking his bearings. The southern wall of the Palace
complex lay ahead. From his long acquaintance with the sprawling site he knew it
was the least watched. There was nothing much of value at the southern end of
the estates—just scholars’ dens, storerooms, stables, fodder yards for the
menagerie, and other semi-maintained buildings. Despite that, the walls were
high and heavy, crowned with battlements and cut from unwearing granite. Along
the top of them ran a wide parapet, ceaselessly patrolled by the Palace guards.

Schwarzhelm stepped out from the shelter of the street and
turned left, walking close to the curve of the wall. He let his gaze slip over
the stone as he did so. There were no gates, no windows, not even a grille or
arrow-slit. The surface glared back at him, unbroken and smooth.

He kept walking. From time to time he heard noises ahead of
or behind him. Footsteps padding away in the dark, the distant cackle of a cheap
strumpet, the barking of a chained dog. He ignored them all.

He reached his goal. A culvert placed at the base of the
wall, barred against entry and guarding the outflow of a drain. The slops from
the Palace ran straight out into the street, gurgling down the edges of the
roads and off into the maze of buildings beyond. The stench was marginally worse
than Altdorf’s habitual fug of filth. The rains had made all drains in the city
overflow, and a torrent of grey water surged from the outlet, filmy and dotted
with floating refuse.

Schwarzhelm looked back, watching to see if he’d been
observed. The street was empty, and there were no guards on the rampart above.
He drew a huge ring of keys from his belt, wrapped in cloth to ward against
clinking. There were some advantages to being so high in the Emperor’s trust.

But, of course, that was no longer true.

He selected a long iron key. The arch of the culvert rose
less than three feet above the surface of the street. Reaching down into the
foaming water, he felt around for the lock. It was there, rusted closed. He
tried the key.

No luck. He reached for another and repeated his groping. On
the fourth attempt, he found the one that fitted. It was not an exact match—he
had to force it into the lock and then wrench it round. With a grinding sound,
the mechanism snapped open. Schwarzhelm grasped the bottom of the barred gate
and lifted it. The heavy iron grille took some shifting, and as he laboured foul
water splattered up into his chest and face.

Beyond the entrance, the drain ran into darkness, never more
than a few feet high and dripping with noisome fluid. There was enough space
between the surface of the water and the roof to breathe, though he’d be
half-submerged in the stink. Schwarzhelm lay face-down on the street and began
to worm himself into the gap. It was hard work—the grille had to be kept open
while he snaked under it. Eventually he made it inside and the door slammed back
down behind him. There was no way of locking it from the inside, and it was all
he could do to keep his mouth and nose out of the drainwater. Like a beetle
burrowing in manure, Schwarzhelm hauled himself along the cramped way, feeling
his muscles bunch against the sides.

Darkness pressed against him like swaddling. The uneven stone
jagged on his clothes, his sword-belt, his boots. He shuffled forwards, mouth
closed against the noxious effluent around him. After just a few feet he felt
like gagging and stopped in his tracks, working to control himself. He was
hemmed in, crushed by the tons of rock above him. A flicker of panic flared up
in his stomach.

He quelled it and pressed on. Working slowly, powerfully, he
edged through the narrow space. Progress was slow, and he was almost wedged
tight as the drain took a sharp dog-leg right before running onwards. As he
hauled himself round the angle, he felt his heart thud rhythmically, his hands
scrabbling at the cold stone.

Then, ahead of him, he saw the far end of the culvert coming
into view. A faint semicircle of open air, barred by a similar grille. He
shuffled towards it, keeping a tight grip on the bunch of keys. Beyond was a
small courtyard. Through the bars it looked like the rear area of a kitchen, or
maybe a wash-house. There were barrels littering the space, some open and on
their sides revealing their contents of rank-smelling refuse and spoiled food.

There was no movement in the square, and no light save that
of the moon. Schwarzhelm fumbled with the lock. The key worked as before, and
the grille clicked open. He shoved it up and pushed his way under it. As he
rose, he made sure it was gently lowered back into position. He looked about him
warily.

He was alone. His cloak, jerkin and breeches were covered in
slurry. He stank worse than an ogre’s jockstrap, and looked nearly as bad.

So this was what he’d been reduced to. The last time he’d
entered the Palace precincts he’d been wearing ceremonial armour and had been
accorded a full guard of honour. Now he looked like the lowest common street
thief.

No matter. He was in. Now he had to find what he was looking
for.

The fevered nights over Averheim had given way to a more
seasonal warmth. Cool airs ruffled the Grosslich standards as they hung from the
walls of the Averburg, lit by the full face of Mannslieb.

Tochfel sat in his chamber high in the citadel wanting
nothing more than to sleep. The day had been long, and his run-in with Euler had
been an inauspicious start. The demands of the new elector were legion. Even
though Grosslich was almost impossible to track down in person, his orders,
delivered by messenger, just kept coming.