03 - Sword of Vengeance (7 page)

The vista across the city calmed him. Despite all the
difficulties, he felt a certain pride in what he and Schwarzhelm had
accomplished. The streets were quiet. Averheim felt like a different place from
the febrile mess they’d arrived in at the start of the summer. And yet it was
strange that he hadn’t heard from him. Nothing had come out of Altdorf since the
man had left. That wasn’t like him. Amid all the contentment he felt at a job
well done, that made him anxious.

“You look worried, my love,” said Elisabeth with the
astuteness of her profession.

Verstohlen tensed. That was the only thing he ever asked
them, not to use the word “love”. There was only one love for him, and it had
been the purest, most sacred thing in his whole life. He made a mental note not
to use this one again. She’d provided an acceptable diversion, but he needed
companions who could be careful.

“Just expecting a message,” he said. “Nothing important.”

“Anything I can do to help? I know many influential men in
this city.”

“I don’t doubt it. Are you this helpful to all your clients?”

“Only the ones I really like.”

“I’m gratified,” said Verstohlen, though he wasn’t. It made
it more difficult if they liked him.

“I mean it. You know how to treat a lady,” Elisabeth said,
seemingly oblivious to the irony. “There are some brutes out there, believe me.”

“I’m sure.”

“I had one last week. Stinking of root. Almost sent him
away.”

“Joyroot?” asked Verstohlen, his interest piqued.

Elisabeth smiled. “You sound surprised. I had you for a man
of the world.”

Verstohlen didn’t return the smile. “I thought Grosslich had
outlawed it.”

“That’s what he said he’d do. That’s what the last one said
too. But you can still get it. Even I could get it, if you wanted.”

“No,” said Verstohlen. “I do not.”

Elisabeth laughed, a girlish, babbling sound. “So serious!
There’s no harm to it.”

Verstohlen said nothing. A dark thought had entered his mind.
The Leitdorf’s had controlled the trade. If it was still coming in, then there
could only be two possibilities: they were still active in Averheim, or someone
else had taken it over. Neither was an attractive proposition.

“Look, I’m awake now, love,” continued Elisabeth, a
mischievous sparkle in her eyes. “What do you suppose we might do about that?”

Verstohlen ignored her. His mind was now occupied with other
things. He needed advice. With Schwarzhelm out of the city and Bloch engaged in
the east, he was running short of allies. He determined to speak to Tochfel. He
would know what to do.

Schwarzhelm crouched down low, making sure his cloak was
close around him. He’d moved towards the heart of the Palace complex. The shabby
buildings had been replaced by grand structures of marble and gilt, and the
patrols had increased proportionately. Though no one really cared about the
half-forgotten cells of a few scholars in the semi-derelict southern wing, the
core of the Palace complex contained treasures beyond the dreams of Ranald, and
the defences were formidable.

It helped that Schwarzhelm was privy to the secrets of the
inner circles. He could take routes that few knew existed, could circumvent
places where he knew the guards would congregate, could open hidden doors and
slip past traps designed to catch the unwary. There were wards engraved across
the many gateways against the powers of Chaos, but he knew what they were and
what they were looking for. He passed under them silently, feeling the blank
scrutiny of the occluded sigils on his shoulders. It felt as if the arcane
magicks could sense the guilt burning in his soul, and he didn’t linger by them
for longer than he needed to.

He couldn’t avoid all the many layers of watchfulness by
knowledge and stealth. Three times since leaving Lassus’ old chambers he’d been
forced to spring from the shadows to silence an unwary patrol. He’d held himself
back from killing, even though the risk of one of his victims coming round made
his position ever more precarious. There’d been enough slaying of loyal troops,
and he planned to keep the Rechtstahl sheathed unless the need was desperate. It
was a mean, dishonourable way of fighting, and with every blow of his mighty
fists he felt the shame of it.

In the distance, he heard the eerie call of some fabulous
creature. Unearthly shrieks rang out across the deserted courtyards of the
Palace. The Imperial Menagerie wasn’t far away, and the beasts within were
disturbed.

Ahead of his current position, the man-made mountain of the
Holswig-Schliestein Hofburg soared into the night sky, a confection of twisted
columns and graven images. To his left, the mighty banqueting halls, all eleven
of them, had been piled on top of one another, each vying with its companions
for tasteless splendour. When one of the many Imperial receptions was in session
they were filled with light and laughter, sparkling from the diamond chandeliers
and from the crystal necklaces of the noble ladies. Now they were empty and
sullen, brooding in the dark like jilted lovers.

Ahead of him lay the vast bulk of the Imperial Chapel, a
sprawling cornucopia of heavy plasterwork and staring gargoyles. That was where
the daily procession of warrior priests ended up, all hollering their praises to
Sigmar and swinging incense-loaded warhammers as they swayed towards the high
altar. Within those mighty transepts benedictions were offered and penitent
prayers issued on behalf of the wayward citizens of the Empire. Beasts were
slaughtered before the eternal flames of the inner sanctum, their blood running
down iron channels in the marble floor. Massive censers of brass revolved
endlessly from chains set into the distant roof, powered by devices from Nuln
and Tilea. Gold-plated cherubs poured a ceaseless torrent of pungent smoke from
goblets of bronze, obscuring the tombs of the worthy and turning the stone
coal-black.

The holy transepts of the Cult of Sigmar were not
Schwarzhelm’s destination, though. At the southern end of the soaring Chapel, a
smaller building had been raised. Here there was no gold plate or churning
machinery. The stone was blank and unadorned, and pairs of iron eagles gazed
darkly out from the guttering. Even during the day the place was kept quiet and
dark. Obsidian columns stood sentinel in the gloom, watching over the rows of
graves within.

This was the Chapel of the Fallen, the resting place of the
honoured protectors of the Empire. The guards were drawn from the priesthood of
Morr, as were the attendants of the ranks of tombs. No hymns of praise were sung
in that place, only a low dirge of remembrance. Few came to visit it, and fewer
stayed to pray there. The heavy pall of death hung over the altars.

Schwarzhelm was close to it, and could make out the blank
eyes of the eagles as they stared out across the jumbled squares and courtyards.
There was a doorway opposite him, barred with metal and surmounted with a
death’s head, no more than thirty yards across a cobbled space overlooked on all
sides. The low hum of the turning censers in the larger chapel masked his
footfalls, and there were plenty of shadows to keep to.

He waited, checking for patrols. Instinctively his fingers
crept to the pommel of his sword. The square was quiet. The dawn was still hours
away, and none of the priests would be out of their cells for some time yet.

Moving more softly than his bulk suggested possible,
Schwarzhelm crept out from the lee of the near wall and headed for the door. He
heard his breathing grow quicker as he neared, and brought it under control. The
death’s head loomed up at him from the night, its hollow eye-sockets like wells
of ink. As with all doors in the Palace, it was locked at night. Schwarzhelm
drew the ring of keys from his belt and began to try them, one by one. Finally,
he found one that fitted. The lock rasped open and the door began to swing back.

“What are you doing there?”

Schwarzhelm’s heart froze. The voice came from behind him,
close on his right shoulder. He’d been sloppy. He felt the tip of a sword press
into his back, hard against the fabric of his cloak. Slowly, he raised his
hands, showing he had no weapon drawn. He’d need to pick his moment.

“I could ask you the same thing, soldier,” he said, his voice
assuming the habitual tone of command.

He turned as casually as he was able, neither seeking to
evade the sword at his back nor getting any closer to its bearer. When he moved,
he’d have to be quick.

Two men were facing him, both in the red and white of the
Reiksguard. Both had their blades drawn, gleaming dully in the fractured
moonlight. The nearest had the grizzled look of a sergeant. His companion,
standing further back, was younger. For once, experience proved to be a
liability. The sergeant recognised Schwarzhelm’s features, and his sword-tip
wavered.

“My lor—” he began.

He never finished. Schwarzhelm swung a fist into his face,
smashing into the man’s temple and sending him staggering to the ground. The
youngster rushed forwards, sword poised to plunge into Schwarzhelm’s torso. He
evaded the stab easily, drawing his own weapon as he stepped away from the
strike. The Sword of Justice flickered with an icy fire as it was released. The
younger Reiksguard brought his blade up again, this time in a cutting arc.
Schwarzhelm parried, and the metal met metal with a shuddering clang.

The sergeant leapt back to his feet. Schwarzhelm worked his
sword quickly and carefully, mindful of the quality of his foes. They pressed
home the attack expertly, swords working in concert, stabbing and retreating
like ghosts.

Schwarzhelm had his back to the door, penned in by the
onslaught. With a sick lurch of dread, he knew he’d have to kill them. If one or
both escaped to raise the alarm, he’d never escape the Palace. He’d have to
spill their blood, and two more good men would die.

Schwarzhelm brought the Rechtstahl round in a crushing
parabola. The younger Reiksguard parried, but the blow was too powerful. It
drove through his defence, sending him sprawling. The sergeant pressed the
attack, raising his blade in the orthodox position. Schwarzhelm knew the moves
all too well—he’d coached his own honour guard in the same techniques. The
Rechtstahl glimmered as it cut back sharply, meeting the sergeant’s blow and
knocking the sword upwards. Schwarzhelm punched out with his left hand, catching
the sergeant in the torso before swinging back with the sword-tip.

The blades clashed once, twice, three times. The sergeant was
good, quicker than he looked and as strong as a carthorse, but few men could
withstand a prolonged assault from Schwarzhelm. As his companion struggled to
his feet, Schwarzhelm saw the opening and the Sword of Justice flew into the
gap. The blade bit between plates of armour, deep into the armpit. Blood spurted
out, and the man crumpled heavily.

Schwarzhelm pulled his sword free, ready for the assault from
the other man. He wasn’t quick enough. With a cry of rage, the young Reiksguard
leapt at him, sword swinging wildly, eyes lit with anger.

Schwarzhelm got his blade up just in time, but the force of
the blow sent him reeling. He crashed heavily against the unlocked door. It gave
way behind him, forcing him into the chapel beyond.

The Reiksguard plunged in after him, whirling his sword in a
series of heavy, ill-aimed blows. The boy had been driven into a fury by the
felling of his commander, and the rage was making him dangerous.

Schwarzhelm parried and countered, meeting the ferocity
head-on and waiting for it to ebb. He withdrew step by step, containing the
threat and drawing the Reiksguard deeper into the chapel. The interior was
silent, cold and bleak. The heavy sword-clashes echoed down the long aisles,
bouncing from the stone and rebounding like mocking imitations. Schwarzhelm
could smell the pungent aroma of myrrh, could hear the clink of metal-tipped
boots against the polished marble floor.

As the blades turned and thrust, effigies of the heroes of
the past gazed down from dark altars. It was never going to last long. The
knight was capable, but limited. He tried too hard to finish it, and his sword
overextended. Schwarzhelm swung heavily at the moving blade, knocking it from
the boy’s hands and sending it skittering across the floor. Before the lad could
react he hauled the Rechtstahl back, driving the metal of his right pauldron in
and shattering the shoulder blade. The Reiksguard slumped to his knees, his cry
of pain echoing down the transept. Schwarzhelm plunged the blade down a third
time, finishing the task cleanly. The knight’s lifeless body fell heavily to the
marble. Almost immediately a pool of blood began to creep across the pristine
surface.

Schwarzhelm gazed down coldly at the scene, waiting for his
heartbeats to return to normal. He felt nothing but disgust within him. He half
expected the commotion to bring a flurry of Morr priests coming to see what was
happening. Part of him even hoped they’d come—that would at least have given
some meaning to the Reiksguard’s actions.

But there was nothing, no sound, no response. The chapel, lit
only by narrow, heavily barred windows, remained cold and unmoving. The last of
the echoes died away.

Schwarzhelm stirred into action again. The bodies needed to
be hidden.

He looked up. There in front of him, either by chance or some
more capricious fate, was the object of his quest. The Magnus Memorial—a vast
statue of the greatest Emperor after Sigmar—soared up into the vaulted roof,
black as smog. The severe face of that puritan warrior was fixed in an attitude
of grim piety, just as it had been, so all the records attested, in life. At its
huge armoured feet was the Altar of Remembrance, carved from stone taken from
Praag after the great siege and sanctified by a hundred Amethyst magisters at
the very dawn of their order.