03 - Sword of Vengeance (56 page)

The flaps of the tent entrance opened, and Schwarzhelm ducked
down through the gap. He was ludicrously outsized for the cramped space, and
stooped within like a giant trying to squeeze into the hovel of a peasant.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

“Better,” he lied.

“There are rooms being made ready in the city. You should
move to them.”

“I don’t think so,” said Verstohlen, shuddering under his
blankets. “Here is fine. I never want to see Averheim again.”

Schwarzhelm shrugged.

“So be it, but I’ll be gone soon. The Emperor has demanded my
presence.”

“I’m glad of it. He’s forgiven you?”

“I doubt it. There’ll be penance for this. The north.”

“More fighting? How dreadful for you.”

Schwarzhelm didn’t smile, but nor did he scowl. A cloud of
bitterness seemed to have lifted from him.

“I could use a spy up there,” he said.

Verstohlen shook his head.

“I think my prowess on a battlefield has been demonstrated,”
he said. “In any case, the days of the family are over.”

He looked up at Schwarzhelm.

“I’m sorry, my lord,” he said. “There’ll be no more of this
for me.”

Schwarzhelm raised an eyebrow.

“You’re ill, Pieter. Make no hasty choices.”

Verstohlen smiled sadly.

“When Leonora died, all I wanted was a way to fight the
enemy. You gave me that. We’ve done much good together, and I’m proud of it.”

He shook his head, thinking back over the past months.

“Not now. My usefulness is over. Perhaps there’ll be some
other way to continue in service. Or maybe my time has ended.”

Schwarzhelm pursed his lips thoughtfully. He gave Verstohlen
a long, searching look.

“We’ll speak on this again,” he said at last. “There are many
ways a man can serve the Emperor, and your gifts are unique. Think on it anew
when your wounds are recovered.”

Verstohlen winced at the mention of his wounds. He knew that
some of them would never be made whole.

“As you wish,” he said, suddenly wanting to change the
subject. “And what of you, my lord? This has been a trial for all of us.”

“So it has,” said the Emperor’s Champion. “And there will be
more trials to come. But we have prevailed here, and that is all that matters.”

He rose awkwardly, hampered by the canvas above him.

“I’m glad to see you recovering,” he said gruffly. “Remember
what I said—make no hasty choices. Inform me of your progress when you can.
I’ve lost many friends here, Pieter. I do not wish to lose another.”

Friends.
That was not a word he’d heard Schwarzhelm use
before.

“I will,” was all he said.

Schwarzhelm nodded, then turned clumsily and pushed his way
from the tent.

Verstohlen lay back on his pallet, worn out by the exertion
of conversation. Already he could feel the poisons within him boiling for a
fresh assault. There would be no easy recovery from this, no simple road back to
redemption.

“Leonora…”
he breathed, and closed his eyes.

At the least, some good had been achieved. He saw her face
clearly now. There were no more masks looming up in his dreams. The pain would
endure, he knew, but the nightmares were over.

On the ruined slopes of the Averpeak, Helborg and Volkmar
surveyed the work below. Two miles distant, the ruins of Averheim smouldered.
The day had dawned cold, and the smoke of many fires drifted across the wide
plain. The stench of burning flesh and molten metal hung heavy in the air
despite the sharp breeze still coming from the east.

“You’ve had word from the Emperor?” asked the Reiksmarshal,
gazing over the scene of destruction impassively. His wound had been
re-stitched, and he looked fully restored to health. His armour glinted in the
pale daylight, and his heavy cloak lifted in the breeze.

Volkmar nodded.

“He’s summoned Schwarzhelm back to Altdorf. I’m to remain
until the city is secure.”

“Anything else?”

Volkmar smiled grimly.

“He sent his congratulations. I think he wants you back in
the north soon.”

Helborg nodded curtly. That was to be expected. He was
already itching to leave, eager to find the next battlefield. He’d return to
Nuln, then to Altdorf, then onwards to wherever Karl Franz deployed him. Such
was his life in the service of the Empire, and he’d have it no other way.

“This was too close, Theogonist,” he mused, looking over at
the remains of the Tower. The shards of iron stuck up into the air like bones.
“If Leitdorf hadn’t had the name of—”

“He did,” said Volkmar sharply. “Providence willed it, and
faith was repaid.”

Helborg nodded slowly.

“So it was,” he said. “All the same.”

He turned away from the scene.

“Will there be a cenotaph for Leitdorf?”

“In time. He’ll be remembered as a hero.”

“And his last wish?”

“History will not be rewritten. The cause of Marius’ madness
will not be disclosed.”

Helborg nodded again. He regretted that, but knew the reasons
for it.

“Leitdorf thought he was immune to Chaos,” he said. “I didn’t
believe it when he told me. Tell me Volkmar, are there bloodlines where
corruption cannot hold?”

Volkmar shrugged.

“Perhaps,” he said. “It matters not. His line is ended, and
speculation wins no wars.”

“His words still trouble me. We could have learned much, had
he lived.”

“Do not delve too deeply. The ways of the enemy are subtle.
Only faith and steel endure.”

“For how long, Theogonist?” asked Helborg, looking at him
bleakly. Both men knew what he meant. The war in the north would churn onwards
indefinitely. With every victory there came ruinous cost. Averheim was just the
latest in the litany of wounds suffered by the Empire. It couldn’t last forever.

“Until the last of us falls,” replied Volkmar, and there was
no comfort in his voice.

They were interrupted then. A heavy figure clambered up the
slope towards them, sinking deep into the churned-up soil in his plate armour. A
longsword hung by his side, and a pendant in the form of Ghal Maraz swung from
his neck.

Volkmar bowed to Helborg.

“I have much to detain me,” he said, preparing to head back
to the city. “We’ll speak again this evening. The dawn may bring fresh counsel.”

“Sigmar be with you, Theogonist.”

“Oh, I’m sure He will be.”

The man limped down the slope, nodding in greeting to
Schwarzhelm as the men passed one another.

Then there were only two of them on the ridge, Helborg and
Schwarzhelm, the masters of the Emperor’s armies.

They both stood in silence, looking back over the city. A
fresh column of troops from Streissen had arrived and was making its way across
the pitted, trench-laced battlefield. Even from such a distance, both Helborg
and Schwarzhelm could see the amazement and horror on the men’s faces.

“I hear you’re being taken from us,” said the Marshal at
last, keeping his eyes fixed on Averheim.

“Soon,” replied Schwarzhelm, his voice rumbling from deep
within his barrel chest. “Karl Franz wishes to hear my penance.”

“Then be sure to tell him everything,” said Helborg.

“I will.”

More silence. Even after the reconciliation on the moors,
there had been few enough occasions for the two old warriors to converse. In the
aftermath of the battle, they’d found ways of avoiding one another, dancing
around the issue between them like old lovers reunited by chance. They were
death-dealers, not wordsmiths, and expression did not come easily to either.

“I’m glad you came back, Ludwig,” said Helborg at last. The
words were clipped and awkward.

“Duty demanded it.”

“Even so. A lesser man would have kept his distance.” He
turned to Schwarzhelm, and a wry smile broke across his face. “I was ready to
kill you.”

“You’d have been within your rights.”

Helborg waved his hand dismissively.

“The great enemy was at work. We both know that.”

“They played on my resentment, Kurt. That was real enough.”

Helborg looked at Schwarzhelm carefully.

“Then maybe you were within your rights too.”

Schwarzhelm said nothing. Helborg turned back to the vista
below and drew in a long, cleansing breath. High up the Averpeak, the air was
less caustic than on the plain.

“This must never happen again,” he said. “We will always be
rivals, you and I, but we must never be enemies.”

“Never,” agreed Schwarzhelm.

“Will you swear it?” asked Helborg. “The swords are holy
enough. They will witness an oath.”

He drew the Klingerach, and the blade glistened in the cold
light. The notch was still present, halfway along the length of the blade. It
would be forged anew when time allowed.

“I will swear it,” said Schwarzhelm, and drew the Rechtstahl.

The blades crossed, meeting at the hilt. Both men faced one
another, divided by the locked steel.

“For the Empire,” said the Emperor’s Champion, gripping the
Sword of Justice tightly. “No division between us.”

“For the Empire,” replied the Reiksmarshal, holding the Sword
of Vengeance two-handed. “No division.”

They stood in that position for many heartbeats, letting the
spirits of their weapons hear the words, keeping the blades in place while the
oath still echoed. Below them, the fields of death stretched away, a monument to
the folly and avarice of treachery. The blackened stones still smoked from the
fires of war, and the river remained clogged and choking.

Beyond them, though, on the horizon, fields of grass remained
as lush as before. Mankind remained the master of Averland. In the distance, the
cloud cover broke, exposing shafts of sunlight on the far hills. There was still
beauty in the world, still riches worth fighting for.

At length, the swords were unlocked and sheathed. The two men
said nothing more, but turned to walk down the slope of the Averpeak and back to
the city. Behind them, the wind moaned across the grasses of the ridge, tousling
the tufts and running down the far side to where the honoured dead had been
buried.

There lay Skarr, and Bloch, and Gruppen, and others who had
perished in the final battle for Averheim. No headstone marked their resting
places, nor monument recorded their endeavours. Their deeds had been enough, and
they were heroes just as much as those that still lived, a part of the tapestry
of actions that had shaped the Empire since the days of Sigmar, a fleeting echo
amid the clamour of the war that would never end, the war that would give birth
to fresh heroes with every sword-thrust and spear-plunge, that would spawn
treachery and deceit anew from the halls of madness at the roof of the world,
and that would drench the lands of men in blood and valour until the End Times
came and the long-honed mettle of humanity was put to the ultimate test at last.
Until then, their trials were over.

It was far into the east of Averland, far from the worst of
the fighting. A mean place, just a few houses clustered inside a low stone wall.
Chickens rooted through the straw and rubble of the only street, and old puddles
of grimy water sat under the eaves of the dwellings.

So small it barely merited a name, the settlement had played
no part in any of the great events of the province. It sat on the very edge of
Marius Leitdorf’s old domains, forgotten by all, cherished by none. In the five
months since the recovery of Averheim, the new owners hadn’t even bothered to
organise a tax collection, and it remained as isolated as it had ever been.

At the far end of the village, one house maintained a burning
hearth even in the middle of the day. Dirty smoke poured from the unseasoned
wood, rolling into the grey sky. There were screams from the house within. Women
came and went, some carrying pails of water, others with blood-soaked rags.

There was a girl inside. Maybe seventeen summers. Her cheeks
were red with pain and effort, and her skin was glossy with sweat.

“Shallya,” cursed the wisewoman, throwing down another
drenched rag and reaching for another. “We’ll lose both of them.”

The mother of the girl, cradling her head in her lap, stroked
her daughter’s hair.

“Strength to you, my child,” she whispered. Her anxiety made
her words tremble.

The girl gritted her teeth for another contraction. Her
screams echoed all round the village, shaming the men who stood at the filthy
tavern bar. None of them was the father. They all knew who the father had been.
They ground their teeth and knocked back the ale, trying to forget the ignominy.
They’d done nothing to prevent it.

When the child was born at last, all three women were at the
end of their strength. Against all predictions, the girl survived it, though her
cheeks were rosy with fever and her eyes strayed out of focus.