01 - Sword of Justice
Author: Chris Wraight - (ebook by Undead)
Date: 2012-01-06T15:42:50+00:00
Keywords: Warhammer
Description: (v1.0)

A WARHAMMER NOVEL

SWORD OF JUSTICE

Heroes - 01

Chris Wraight

(An Undead scan v1.0)

With love to Hannah—thanks for putting up with all the late nights at the keyboard.

WARHAMMER HEROES

This is a dark age, a bloody age, an age of daemons and of sorcery. It is an age of battle and death, and of the world’s ending. Amidst all of the fire, flame and fury it is a time, too, of mighty heroes, of bold deeds and great courage.

At the heart of the Old World sprawls the Empire, the largest and most powerful of the human realms. Known for its engineers, sorcerers, traders and soldiers, it is a land of great mountains, mighty rivers, dark forests and vast cities. And from his throne in Altdorf reigns the Emperor Karl Franz, sacred descendant of the founder of these lands, Sigmar, and wielder of his magical warhammer.

But these are far from civilised times. Across the length and breadth of the Old World, from the knightly palaces of Bretonnia to ice-bound Kislev in the far north, come rumblings of war. In the towering Worlds Edge Mountains, the orc tribes are gathering for another assault. Bandits and renegades harry the wild southern lands of the Border Princes. There are rumours of rat-things, the skaven, emerging from the sewers and swamps across the land. And from the northern wildernesses there is the ever-present threat of Chaos, of daemons and beastmen corrupted by the foul powers of the Dark Gods. As the time of battle draws ever nearer, the Empire needs heroes like never before.

Chapter One

Andreas Grunwald scrambled backwards up the ridge. The beast was on him. Its musk was sharp in his nostrils. It sensed a kill.

Grunwald gripped his sword more tightly. He could feel his muscles protest. He was tired to the bone. His thick clothes hung from his body, heavy with rain. The water streamed across his face, nearly blinding him.

The beast bellowed, and charged up the slope.

“Sigmar,” whispered Grunwald. It was twice his height. Powerful muscles bunched under matted fur. Massive hands swung a crude, notched cleaver. A trooper’s sword still stuck out from its back, right where the man had plunged it, seconds before his death under the hooves.

Grunwald steadied himself, testing the uncertain ground beneath him. A heartbeat too soon, and he’d be lost. Timing was everything.

The beast was on him. Grunwald swung his broadsword. The blade sliced through the air, gore flying from the steel. The cleaver rose to parry. At the last moment, Grunwald shifted his balance, falling to one side, twisting the sword around the cleaver. He dropped to one knee, slipping under the beast’s guard. With all the strength that remained, he plunged his sword-tip upwards. The point was still keen. It punctured flesh, running deep into the beast’s innards.

The creature roared in pain. Its weight was thrown forward. The cleaver fell heavily, but Grunwald stayed firm, both hands on the blade, twisting it further. Thick entrails slipped down the edge, hot against his flesh. For a moment, the beast’s head lolled a few inches from his own. Grunwald could see agony on the horse-like features. So human. So utterly inhuman.

The light extinguished in its whiteless eyes. The beast’s bellows drained to a low growl, and it toppled. Grunwald pulled the sword free as the massive body rolled onto the sodden grass. Panting, his arms throbbing, he stood up and stole a look along the ranks of men on either side.

The line was still intact. All along the ridge, the other Imperial troops held their positions. Eight hundred men, Reikland State Troopers, battled to hold the high ground. They were arranged in long ranks, three deep. The halberdiers and pikemen were in the forefront, desperately trying to repel the beastmen advance from the forest cover at the base of the rise. Behind them, archers and handgunners struggled to maintain a protective barrage. The foul beasts were still trying to force the ascent. There were hundreds of them, surging up the slope. More emerged from the forest canopy every moment. Even though it was the middle of the day, the lowering sky made it look much later.

“Use the damn Helblasters!” Grunwald shouted, staggering back up the bank.

As he went, he felt fingers close over his ankle. A grasp like a steel trap. The beast wasn’t dead.

With a cry of exhausted frustration, Grunwald arced the sword back round. He stabbed down again and again, hacking at the stinking flesh. The monster’s blood, hot and black, coated him. Still he plunged, working the blade like a blacksmith’s hammer. Only when he felt dizzy from the effort did he stop. By the time he was done, the carcass at his feet was little more than a puddle of meat and hair.

Finally, the Helblasters blazed out. From higher up the ridge, a volley of shot flew through the air. There weren’t many of the precious guns left, but their cargo was still deadly. The front ranks of the beastmen stumbled, their fury broken. The creatures were deadly up close, but they had no answer to the artillery.

A second volley rang out, close-packed and lethal. More beasts fell. For a moment, the ragged lines wavered. They were driven by bloodlust, but they could still taste fear. The pikemen on the front lines sensed a change. Some began to creep forward.

“Hold your positions, you dogs!” Grunwald bellowed. All down the line, sergeants shouted the same thing. Staying tight against the ridge-top was their only chance. The guns bought them time, nothing more.

From over the heads of the defending lines, arrows span into the faltering ranks of beasts. Only a few found their mark, and the cattle-like roar of attack started up again. But the Helblasters had a third load to deploy. The barrels were rotated, and the shot rang out again.

That was enough. The beasts disengaged. Huge, shaggy creatures lumbered back to the cover of the trees below. Between them, smaller horrors scampered for cover. They didn’t go far. A few hundred yards away the open ground was swallowed by the forest. They were safe in there. Safe to lick their wounds, regroup, and come back stronger. It wouldn’t be long.

Grunwald limped back up along the ridge. All around him, detachments were re-forming. The harsh cries of the sergeants rang out amid the shuffling lines. Discipline was everything. As soon as the perimeter broke, it was over. For all of them. On the far side of the ridge lay the road, the vital artery they were protecting. The surface was churned and shiny with mud, but it was still more passable than the tangled forest around. It had to stay open. The Cauldron was only a few miles to the north, but every yard of it counted.

As Grunwald gained the higher ground, he saw Ackermann heading towards him. The captain was as covered in blood, sweat and grime as he was. His chainmail was caked in red filth and his beard was twisted and matted. Despite everything, Grunwald let slip a grim smile. The two of them looked like carnival grotesques.

“What d’you think?” growled Ackermann. He was breathing heavily, and he cradled his shield-arm gingerly.

Grunwald took a long look along the lines. The whole regiment was arranged near the summit of the snaking ridge. High up the slope, the pikemen had dug in. In between the extended pikes crouched the halberdiers, supported by a secondary row of state troopers. Further up the ridge, archers and handgunners had been placed, high enough up to have a line of sight over the halberdiers’ heads, but close enough to give the troops cover. Dotted amongst the pistoliers were the few artillery pieces they had left. They’d proved their worth already, and steamed ominously in the rain.

“We can’t take too much more of this,” said Grunwald. “They’ll come again soon.”

Ackermann nodded.

“That they will. We’re losing men, sir. We’ll have to pull back.”

“Where to? There’s nothing behind us but trees all the way back to the Cauldron.”

Ackermann muttered into his beard.

“He’s not coming. This is a damn fool errand. This ridge’ll be our grave.”

Grunwald lost his smile.

“Orders are orders,” he snapped. “Until we get the signal, we hold the position.”

Grunwald’s voice was iron-hard. Ackermann hesitated, then nodded. He looked resigned.

“Yes, sir.”

He headed back towards the front lines. Grunwald watched him go. The man was right. Ackermann was a veteran of twenty years. Few in the ranks lasted that long in the Emperor’s armies. He knew what he was doing. So did Grunwald. The longer they stayed on the ridge, the more beasts would come. The hordes were massing. Sooner or later, their position would become impossible.

Grunwald turned from the ridge and looked back to the empty road.

“Where is he?” Grunwald hissed impatiently.

His thoughts were interrupted. Back down at the foot of the ridge, the bellowing had begun again. The trees shook, and the first beasts burst from cover once more.

Wearily, Grunwald took up his broadsword and headed back to the ranks. The answer would have to wait.

North of the ridge, above the mighty Turgitz Cauldron, the sky was black with piled cloud. Squalls were being driven east by a powerful gale and the western horizon was dark with more. There would be no let up.

Captain Markus Bloch strode up the steep sides of the Bastion, his halberd light in his hands. The streaming rain did nothing to dampen his spirits. He’d been on campaign in Nordland and was used to the ice-cold blasts from the Sea of Claws. There was little the Drakwald could offer in comparison. He let the rivulets run down his grizzled face and under the collar of his jerkin.

He paused for a moment to survey the scene. The Cauldron was a vast, natural depression in the otherwise seamless forest. It was several miles across, huge and stark. Few trees grew within its limits. The earth enclosed by it was dark and choked with stone. The rain had turned it into a thick slurry of mud, but it was still more easily negotiated than the endless twisted leagues of woodland beyond.

The army had chosen to make its stand in the time-honoured place. The Bastion was the name given to the vast outcrop of dark rock that rose up in the very centre of the ancient bowl. It rose in a smooth hump from the floor of the Cauldron, half a mile wide and three hundred yards high at the summit. It was like a huge, natural fortress, capable of housing thousands of men and beasts on its back. The incline was shallow enough to ride a horse up on the lower flanks, but soon got steeper. All the way up the flanks of the mighty rock formation, terraces and clefts offered protection from the elements. Centuries of use had worn pathways between them into the hard stone. At the pinnacle, high above the Cauldron, great spikes of rock twisted up into the air like a crown.

The terraces carved into its flanks had been the redoubt of choice for commanders since before the annals of the Empire had been started. The local people, such as there were, said that Sigmar had created it with a celestial plough taken from Ulric while the god of war slept. Bloch was a devout man, but he wasn’t stupid enough to believe stories like that. The Cauldron was just what it was—a place where armies had come to fight for thousands of years. Maybe the blood in the soil was why the trees never grew back.

All around him, the host was preparing for battle. Companies were being marched into position by their captains. They looked like drowned rats, shuffling miserably in the downpour. As always, there was confusion. This was a large army. It took a lot of organising, crammed along the narrow pathways scored into the natural citadel of stone. There were baggage trains and artillery wains, all of which could be accommodated comfortably in the natural gorges of the huge edifice. Several thousand footsoldiers, three companies of cavalry, artillery barrages, irregulars, and mercenaries all crouched in their positions. The bulk of the army were halberdiers and spearmen, augmented with smaller detachments of handgunners and archers. There were more elite soldiers too, such as Baron Ostmer’s own greatswords and a whole company of Knights Panther. Almost all the forces were now deployed on the Bastion, leaving the wide floor of the Cauldron empty. The only exceptions were those who had ridden off to hold the southern approaches in the hope that Helborg would still come. Much as he liked a fight, Bloch didn’t envy them at all.

He absently ran his finger along the blade of his halberd. It probably needed sharpening. Too late now. He’d have to test the edge on the necks of beastmen instead, and they’d be here soon enough. They’d been massing for months, raiding and pillaging. The decision had been taken to quash their menace in one massive, orchestrated campaign. As Bloch gazed across the hurriedly organising ranks, that decision didn’t look as good as it had done in Altdorf.

He turned away from the vista and resumed his walk up the slope of the Bastion. Ahead of him, a familiar figure waited.

“Herr Bloch,” said Verstohlen. “You’re getting wet.”

Bloch never knew when Pieter Verstohlen was mocking him. It was always the same with the damned aristos. Their cut-glass accents were designed to make you feel inferior. Not that Verstohlen had ever explicitly said anything to slight his honour. He’d always been the soul of politeness. But Bloch didn’t like it. There was a place for smooth manners and cleverness, and it wasn’t on the battlefield.

“That I am,” replied Bloch. “I see you’ve come prepared.”

Verstohlen wore a wide-brimmed leather hat and a long coat. At his belt were two exquisite flintlocks. He wore a finely-tailored jacket and hardwearing boots. It was all plain, understated and utilitarian, but Bloch was enough of a man of the world to know how expensive it was. Unlike most of the men of the army, Verstohlen wore clothes that fitted him. They’d been tailored. It was unnerving. Unnatural.

Verstohlen nodded, and the rainwater slewed from the brim of his hat.

“As always,” he said. “No word of Commander Grunwald?”

Bloch shook his head.

“We got a message at dawn. He’s engaged them to the south. Nothing since then.”

“Is it wise, to wait so long? I’m not a commander, but…”

Bloch scowled. What was Verstohlen, exactly? He could almost have passed for a witch hunter, but the man was no Templar of Sigmar. He had the trust of the big man, that was certain, but why? It wasn’t like him to listen to a civilian.

“He’ll hold the line,” snapped Bloch, unwilling to debate tactics with the man. “He knows what he has to do.”

“I’m sure you’re right, Herr Bloch. But, as I understand it, the support from Marshal Helborg was due to arrive last night. If he’s not here now, and there is no prospect of his appearance from the dispatches, then perhaps keeping the road open is an unnecessary risk. The beast-men are already massing. Herr Grunwald is exposed.”

Bloch didn’t want to agree with him, but there was something in what he said. The big man was waiting too long. Helborg wouldn’t arrive. They all knew it. There was no point in pretending otherwise.

“So what d’you want to do?” he asked, affecting a casual disdain. “Try to persuade the chief? Good luck.”

Verstohlen remained impassive. He never seemed to react to anything. He had ice running through his veins. That was another thing Bloch didn’t like. A soldier should have some passion. Some spirit.

“Where are you assigned?” asked Verstohlen.

“On the west front of the Bastion with the Fourth and Ninth halberdiers. Why?”

“Keep an eye on the southern approaches, will you? I will try to remedy this myself, but I may run out of time. Keep some good men about you. There may be a need to make adjustments. Grunwald is a good fighter. We can’t afford to lose him.”

Bloch felt one of his fists balling, and unclenched it. Why did Verstohlen’s speech irritate him so much? It wasn’t even that the man was weak. Bloch knew that Verstohlen had killed plenty in his time. Those pistols weren’t for show, but there was something strange about him. He didn’t fit. And in an army, where you had to trust the man at your shoulder like no other, that was a problem.

“I’ll see what I can do,” said Bloch, turning away. He could hear Verstohlen start to say something else, but he pretended not to hear, and the rain drowned it out.

Bloch stalked over to his regiment. In the north, a low rumble of thunder echoed. The troops looked up nervously. At the edge of his vision, he was dimly aware of Verstohlen shrugging and walking off towards the command post. He took up his place beside the halberdiers.

“All right, lads,” he said. “The waiting’s almost over.”

There were a few murmured responses, but no fancy words. These were his kind of men. Grim, stoic, simple. Good to have at your shoulder.

He stared out westwards. The rain continued to drum on the rock. Far below the Bastion, at the edge of the Cauldron’s sheer sides, the trees were tossed about by the wind. In the far distance, right on the edge of hearing, there was a faint howling. The storm was coming. When it broke, the creatures of the forest would be hard on its heels.

Back on the ridge, the beastmen had come again. This time there were more. They piled out from under the tree line, bellowing with a fresh fury. Huge creatures strode amongst them, towering over the scampering horrors at their feet. One had the shoulders of a giant bull, the colour of dried blood and scored with tattoos. When it roared, the earth shook.

Grunwald hefted his broadsword with foreboding. So many.

“Hold your fire,” he cried. “Wait for the signal!”

All along the line, archers fitted their arrows to the string. They looked pale with fear. The constant attacks had got to them. Handgunners took aim, squatting amongst them, sheltering the matchcord against the rain. Pikemen fingered the poles of their weapons agitatedly, waiting for the horrendous clash of arms.

The gap closed. The eyes of the beasts became visible. They were like burning coals. They tore up the ridge towards the defenders.

“Helblasters!” shouted Grunwald.

With a crack, the cannons ignited. Grape and shot spun into the oncoming tide, punching holes in the first rank. Squeals of agony mingled with the guttural baying.

Still the beasts came.

“Gunners!”

The handgunners released their first volley. In the wake of their lead shot, arrows whined into the fray More beasts fell, clutching at their sides in pain. They were trampled by their fellows.

Still the beasts came.

“Blades!”

The pikemen lowered their poles and thrust them forward. The front row of creatures slammed into them. Some were impaled, seemingly heedless of the pain. Others leapt over the steel tips, just as far as the waiting line of halberds. The blades whirled, and the beastmen were thrown back. As long as the ranks held, there was no way through.

Grunwald sprang from his vantage point and entered the fray. There was no point standing back once battle had been joined. Now the assault was on them, and every sword was needed. With his last glance towards the forest edge, he saw the scale of the task. There were more beastmen then ever. The ground beneath the ridge boiled with grotesque bodies. They were clambering over one another to get at them. They only sensed one thing, only smelled one thing, only lusted for one thing. Blood. Their blood.

“For Sigmar!” he shouted, and hurled himself into the assault.

If they wanted his, they’d have to earn it.

Verstohlen hurried through the ranks towards the command enclosure near the summit of the Bastion. On either side of him, close-knit detachments of troopers waited nervously. They had the advantage of high ground, but little else. The beastmen could scale the slopes with ease, and there would soon be scores of them. The Imperial advance into the forest had roused the whole Drakwald. Verstohlen was as versed in the lore of the wilderness as any seasoned general. When there was blood to be spilled, they would come.

Ahead of him, the massed flags and standards marked out the general’s vantage point. Functionaries were scurrying around it, desperately conveying last-minute orders to the field captains. The ornate battle-standards flapped wildly, driven by the wind. There was no sign of the commander. Verstohlen looked around in vain, before catching sight of Tierhof, the Master of Ordnance.

“Where’s the general?” asked Verstohlen. Tierhof looked at him coldly. They all did, these soldiers. For some reason, he seemed to repel them. One day he would have to work out why and do something about it.

“With the Knights Panther,” said Tierhof. “What do you want him for? He’ll be riding to the front in moments.”

Verstohlen sucked his teeth irritably.

“Then I’m too late,” he said. “Have you had word from Herr Grunwald?”

“Not since the morning.”

“And from the Marshal?”

Tierhof laughed. It was not a merry sound.

“You’re still expecting him? We’re alone here, Verstohlen. You’d better get used to it.”

The Master made to leave, but Verstohlen was insistent.

“If we no longer expect Helborg, then we must send word for Grunwald to withdraw. The forest is alive with beastmen. He cannot hold his position.”

Tierhof gave him a disdainful look.

“The plans have been drawn up. The southern flank is held by Grunwald. Whether or not Helborg arrives, he must hold the line until the deployment is complete. There’s no time to give you a lecture on tactics, Verstohlen, I’m needed with the gunnery crews.”

Tierhof gave a brief nod, and was gone. Verstohlen stood alone, forgotten amongst the bustle of the senior officers. From far down below, cries of alarm rose into the air. The scouts had sighted something. Trumpets rang out across the bastion, and the clash and scrape of steel blades being raised echoed around the defensive lines.

“So this is it,” said Verstohlen to himself, taking a flintlock from his holster and checking it over. “Too late for Helborg now. And maybe for all of us.”

“Fall back! Fall back!”

The beastmen had broken through the defenders and on to the ridge. The huge bull-like monsters, blood-red and rearing furiously, shattered the fragile defensive lines. Even as Grunwald raced towards it, he could see the defences around him disintegrate. As long as they maintained a solid line, backed up with artillery and archery, they could hold out. Once a melee had formed, there were too few of them. The beasts numbered in their thousands.

The breach became a rout. Pikemen and halberdiers, hurrying to escape the swelling tide of beastmen, were trampled in their wake. The Helblasters roared a final time, and then the monsters were among them. Tusks gored with a blind fury. They hated the machines more than anything.

“To me!” cried Grunwald, swinging his broadsword wildly over his head. They had to stay together. An orderly retreat could still be salvaged, but the moment was slipping.

He stood at the summit of the ridge, eyes flickering as he assessed the situation. The regiment standard-bearer was soon beside him, sliding in the mud. All around, men toiled to escape the frenzy behind them. Some still fought. Ackermann was right in the thick of it, hammering away at the advancing beastmen with a fury nearly as savage as their own.

“Retreat, Morr damn you!” bellowed Grunwald.

The disengaged Imperial forces began to run down the far side of the ridge, down past the road and into the waiting maw of the forest below. There was no mad dash. Companies kept close together, their halberds and pikes in formation. They knew they’d have to cut their way out. Panic would finish them for good.

Cursing, Grunwald ran over to Ackermann. The man was holding his ground, trying to give the breaking ranks behind him more time. A goat-faced monster towered over him, raining down blows with a cudgel. Ackermann raised his shield to parry, but it was knocked from his grasp. The goat-creature bared its yellow teeth and swooped for the kill.

Grunwald barrelled into it, knocking it sideways. He felt his bones jar as the beastman reeled. It recovered quickly, whirling around. But Ackermann had recovered too. With a vicious slice, his blade took the creature’s distorted head clean off its shoulders. For a moment, that opened a gap. Grunwald grabbed Ackermann and pulled him from the fighting. The beasts were trampling the Helblasters in an orgy of rage. This was their opportunity. They had to withdraw.

“I can hold them!” spat Ackermann, regaining his balance and running alongside Grunwald.

“Use your eyes!” snapped Grunwald. There was no time to argue. As he ran, one of the swifter creatures, skinny with legs like a dog’s, tried to drag him down. He smashed his pommel into its face, barely breaking stride.

Ahead of him, the bulk of the regiment was streaming down the far side of the ridge. The foremost were already in the trees beyond. Those too slow or unlucky were caught by the beastmen, now swarming over the defences. The sound of their flesh ripping was like a stab in Grunwald’s stomach. The vantage point had been lost. Their only hope was to keep ahead of the pursuing beasts. If they were surrounded in the deep forest, there was no hope.

He and Ackermann reached the base of the ridge and plunged into the shadows of the trees. Grunwald’s earlier fatigue had left him. Now all that was left was the sharp fear that came from being hunted. They were at his heels. Even as he sped through the forest, leaping over fallen trunks in the semi-dark, he could hear them crashing through the undergrowth. The bellows had risen in ferocity. The Helblasters were forgotten. Now they were after human prey.

At his side, Ackermann laboured. He was a thick-set man clad in chainmail. Already his face was red and streaming with sweat. Ahead of him, he could see the rearmost ranks of the halberdiers. To their credit, they were still holding together. Maybe half of them had made it down, perhaps more.

“How far?” gasped Ackermann.

“A mile to the Cauldron’s edge, then more to the Bastion. But we’ll be seen by the sentries.” Ackermann spat as he ran. “If they’re still there.”

Grunwald felt the creepers snag at his feet. His heart hammered. One false step, and he’d be down amongst the briars. The light was poor. Little rain penetrated the thick canopy above, but the ground was a treacherous mire. He could hear his own breathing, heavy and thick. His muscles protested. His legs felt as heavy as lead. But he had to keep going. “Commander!”

The voice rang out through the trees. Grunwald spun round. A detachment of troopers had lagged behind. They were in the very jaws of the pursuit. Even as he watched, two of them were cut down by the lumbering beasts behind. They would never make it.

Ackermann responded instantly. He abandoned the flight, and ran back to their aid.

“Morr damn his eyes,” muttered Grunwald, struggling to stay with him. He knew he should keep going, marshal the retreat. But he couldn’t leave a man behind. Ackermann would be the death of him.

Then he fell. Something twisted round his feet in the murk, and he staggered forward. He landed heavily in the stinking gunge, his sword spinning into the gloom. He rolled over quickly, only to see the towering shape of a beastman above him. It whinnied with triumph, and raised its blade.

“Merciful Sigmar…” whispered Grunwald, scrabbling backwards. Too slow. He’d never make it.

The blade fell.

The full force of the storm hit the Cauldron. All across the northern horizon, thunder rumbled. Forks of lightning lit up the trees in savage relief and insubstantial, bestial shapes seemed to march across the heavens. It was barely after noon, but already as dark as dusk. The sun, ever the friend of man, was hidden. In its absence, the horrors of the forest would come out to play.

Bloch peered down from the Bastion. The beasts had not made themselves known yet. The expanse below them was still empty and howling with wind, but he knew they were there, just on the edge of sight, sheltering in the eaves. As he watched, the last of the scouts rode hard across the Cauldron’s base, anxious to get back to the safety of the rock before the beasts came after them.

One of them made it to safety and rode up towards Bloch’s position. As the incline became too steep, he dismounted and walked the horse up through the defensive lines.

“How many?” demanded Bloch as the man passed him.

The scout looked back blankly for a moment before answering. His steed’s flanks were coated with sweat and rainwater, and it shivered as it stood. The man’s cloak was sodden, and his face was grey. Bloch noticed that his hands shook too as they held the reins.

“More than I’ve ever seen,” he said weakly. He looked resigned. “Thousands. Thousands.”

Bloch looked uneasily over at his men. He didn’t want to get them more scared than they were already. He laughed casually, hoping it sounded convincing.

“Lots of them, eh?” he said, and gave his halberdiers a knowing look. “Just like at Kreigschelff, I’ll warrant. And they ran back into the woods with their tails between their legs, then. It won’t be any different this time.”

The scout didn’t respond to the bravado. His long dark hair hung slick against his face. He was still shaking, and it wasn’t from the cold.

“The whole forest’s alive,” the scout murmured, not really looking at anything in particular, lost in his own private horror. “D’you hear me? They’re coming for us. They’re numberless. The forest is alive.”

Bloch wanted to respond, but something in the scout’s expression stopped him dead. The man had lost it. He’d stared into the abyss, and it had got to him.

“Go on,” he snapped. “Get up to the command post. They’ll want your report, if you’ve the stomach to deliver it.”

The man didn’t reply, but turned back to his horse and trudged up the slope towards the limp row of standards at the summit.

Bloch felt disgust well up within him. Giving in before a blow had even been struck was spineless. That was the problem with the Empire of his time. If Magnus the Pious had had to work with such weaklings, Praag would never had been recovered.

He turned to his men. They looked up at him expectantly, like children to their father. Some of them were barely more than boys. A few clasped their halberds in fear, their knuckles white. The scout’s mood was contagious.

“Don’t listen to that filth, lads,” said Bloch, sweeping his gaze across them, daring any not to meet it. “He’s been out on his own for too long. We’re all in this together. Remember, no backward step. No surrender.”

He lifted up his halberd and planted it firmly against the stone.

“There are thousands of us here, all good men of the Reikland. They’ve no answer to honest courage, these beasts. And you know who’s leading us: The big man. He’ll see us—”

His speech broke off. All around the Cauldron, a low drumming had started. Long, deep rolls began to thud out from the trees. It grew in volume. Across the Bastion, men halted their chatter, and fell silent. The drums were coming from everywhere. North, east, west. The Bastion was almost entirely encircled. The floor of the Cauldron seemed to resonate with the rhythm. Only from the south was there no noise. Where Grunwald had been stationed. The beastmen still hadn’t closed off those approaches. Perhaps the commander still held his position. He should have been called back. He was doomed.

Despite himself, Bloch felt his nerve begin to go. How many must there be, to make that much noise? He remembered the ashen face of the scout.

The forest is alive.

He took a deep breath and clutched the shaft of his halberd.

“Come and get it then, you bastards,” he hissed, flexing his arms in readiness. “Just come and get it.”

Grunwald couldn’t even scream. He saw the blade descend, powerless to resist. Then there was a dark shape, tearing in from his left. A man slammed into the beast, knocking them both to the floor. Ackermann.

Grunwald scrambled to his feet. All around him, there were cries of combat from the trees. His men were being slaughtered. He retrieved his blade from the undergrowth, hands slipping as he fumbled for it. The creature and Ackermann rolled through the bracken, each trying to gouge and throttle the other. Grunwald raced over to them. The shadows were heavy. It was hard to make out which was which. But then, from the north, a flicker of lightning penetrated the gloom. A twisted, tooth-filled face leered up at him from the forest floor, sneaked with blood and rain.

Grunwald plunged his sword down. There was a scream, a twisted mockery of a man’s pain. Then a gurgling. Then limpness. Grunwald withdrew the blade and grabbed Ackermann’s shoulder.

“Come on,” he hissed. “They’re all around us!”

Ackermann rolled over. Where his face had been, there was nothing but a pulpy mass. One of the creature’s teeth had broken off and gleamed within the exposed slick of muscle and sinew.

Filled with horror, Grunwald let Ackermann’s body drop. He could hear more beasts coming up fast.

He ran.

On either side, the trees flitted passed him like shades of death. Grunwald didn’t dare look back, though he could hear the heavy panting of the creatures close by. They were on his heels, loping like wolves. He gritted his teeth, willing his legs to keep working. They were all around him. They’d got Ackermann, and now they were coming for him.

He kept running. Ahead, there was nothing but shadow, nothing but more trees. He’d lost sight of his men. All those behind him were dead or scattered. He was prey, alone in the woods.

Then, against all hope, he saw the break. It wasn’t over yet. He’d come further than he’d thought. There were only two places for miles around where the tree cover broke. One was the road. The other was the Cauldron.

From behind him, he could hear howls of frustration rise. They knew he was close to evading them. With a final, agonising spurt, Grunwald picked up speed. He leapt over fallen branches, barged through whipping thickets. There was no point in being cautious. If he tripped or slowed again, he was dead.

The light grew. All of a sudden, he broke out into the open.

The trees fell back. The vast plain of the Cauldron yawned away. It looked like a vision of some daemonic nightmare. Lightning licked the northern rim. Echoing drums rolled and boomed from all directions. The rain fell in sheets. In the centre of the depression, the dark form of the Bastion soared upwards. As he ran, Grunwald could see the detachments of men arrayed on its flanks, deployed just as his own regiment had been on the ridge. The entire army had been placed on the stone walls. There were rows and rows of halberdier companies arranged across the terraced flanks of the rock, all facing out across the plain. He could see artillery emplacements further up, dozens of them. He knew there were knightly companies among them too, as well as greatswords, handgunners, and all the troops that the Reikland could afford.

But it was a time of war across the Empire. In years past, the army would have been even greater. There would have been battle wizards, great cannons and engines of war. Many of these were detained north of Middenheim or on the blasted fields of Ostland. In desperate times, the general made do with what he had to hand, even for a campaign as prestigious as this one.

Ahead of him, out on the Cauldron floor, he caught sight of the broken remnants of his own forces. They were running, just like him. Like storm-tossed birds, they were fleeing before the deluge hit.

Grunwald felt his vision begin to waver. He was exhausted. He could feel his final strength giving out. The hours of fighting had taken their toll.

He risked a look backwards, expecting to see a few dozen beastmen pursuing him. But there were more. Many more. He was flying ahead of the horde itself. From left to right, his vision was filled with hollering, baying, snarling creatures. They had chosen their moment, and the woods were emptying. On all sides of the Cauldron, they poured towards the Imperial bulwark.

Grunwald kept going. His fear was giving way to despair. He’d never reach the Bastion. Neither would his men. At the last, they’d be overtaken. So close.

His features twisted in pain. His lungs felt fit to rupture, his legs ready to give out.

So close.

“Sir, there’s movement on the plain.”

Bloch pushed the halberdier away irritably.

“I can see that, lad. Stop waving that blade in my face.”

He peered forward, shading his eyes from the rain. There were men running across the base of the Cauldron towards the Bastion. They looked like insects.

“Grunwald,” he breathed. “Has to be.”

Above them, a trumpet sounded. There was the clatter of arms. All the men on the south-facing flanks had seen it. A few hundred survivors. Half of Grunwald’s command, no more.

Behind the running figures, towards the edge of the Cauldron, the beasts had broken cover. They poured from the trees in all directions. Tattered banners lurched along with them, daubed with crude figures. The eight-pointed star was on many of them. From others, mutilated human corpses hung. The drummers came out into the open. The noise rose even further. The Bastion felt like an island in a sea of madness. Soon the tide would be lapping at their feet.

Bloch glanced back down at the fleeing men. His mind working quickly, he gauged the distance. They’d be overtaken. Unless something was done, he’d have to watch as his comrades were butchered before his eyes.

Not on his command.

“Fourth Company!” he cried, striding from his vantage point. “Form a detachment. We’re going down. Ninth Company, remain in reserve.”

To their credit, the halberdiers of the Fourth got into position quickly. They could all see the beastman horde approach. Some, the less experienced, looked ready to vomit. Even the old dogs of war said nothing. This was dangerous. But Bloch didn’t ask the men to do anything he wouldn’t, and they knew it. At heart, he was one of them. The trappings of command would never change that.

“Let’s go,” he said.

The company filed along their defensive terrace and down the slope towards the Cauldron’s floor. As they descended, the noise grew. At the base of the Bastion, it was deafening.

“Keep tight,” warned Bloch. In the distance, he could see the first ranks of the beastmen. They weren’t far away. The remnants of Grunwald’s regiment were closer. They looked at the end of their strength. “Let’s get them home.”

He broke into a run. Behind him, his men did the same. Halberds were lowered. Even in the driving rain, the sharpened steel glinted menacingly. Bloch trusted his men. He’d drilled them hard. They stayed together, running in close formation. The distance closed.

Bloch felt his heart begin to thump harder. This was it. The first action. He gripped his halberd tightly, lowered the blade, and sought out his target. The rest was up to fate.

Verstohlen ran along the southern terrace. They could all see what was happening. Grunwald’s men would be slaughtered. The halberdiers moving to intercept them were too few. No other commanders would leave their defensive positions. He had to find the general. Losing Grunwald would be a disaster. Losing Bloch would be, if anything, worse. He began to regret his intervention with the halberdier captain.

He caught sight of Morgan, the captain of the Fifth Company of handgunners. He was standing with his men, watching. It was like some grim kind of spectator sport.

“Where’s the general?” Verstohlen snapped.

Morgan shrugged.

“You tell me,” he said. “If he’s got any sense, on the road back to Altdorf.”

Verstohlen shot him a contemptuous look.

“Watch your tongue,” he said. “If you knew him, you’d never say such a thing.”

Morgan was about to reply, but there was a commotion on the terraces above. Men were moving down to the lower slopes. Hooves clattered on the rock. Horses were being led down the winding paths from the summit. The Knights Panther. In the incessant rain their elaborate heraldry was soaked and sodden, but they still looked formidable in their plate armour and exotic hides. Their massive horses, enclosed in heavy banding, trod proudly. There was a whole company, nearly a hundred knights.

Verstohlen felt his heart leap. He rushed over to the preceptor, a tall, grim man with a hooked nose and scarred cheek. He knew him by reputation only. Leonidas Gruppen, scourge of the lower Drakwald.

“Preceptor, you’re riding out?” he asked.

Gruppen looked down at Verstohlen warily. They all did, these soldiers.

“Those are my orders,” he said. His voice was as hard as the rain-beaten rock beneath them.

“Wait for me to join you,” urged Verstohlen. “You could use a good shot.”

Gruppen kept walking.

“This is a time for warriors, counsellor,” he said. All around him, his knights were preparing to mount up. Squires hurried to their sides with lances. Helmets were donned, and the visors snapped shut. They were calm. Icy, even. The soldiers clustered around gazed at them in awe.

“You dare to speak to me thus?” said Verstohlen, his impatience rising. “I have the ear of the general. Has he ordered this? Where is he?”

Then, from the midst of the knights, a new figure emerged. He was clad in full plate armour, heavy and ornate. His horse was a sable charger, a hand taller than the others, led by a squire in the livery of the Emperor. Imperial emblems had been draped across its flanks. Foremost among them was the Imperial Seal, flanked by griffons rampant, the personal device of the Emperor. A laurel wreath crowned with an iron skull encircled his helm, and a pendant in the form of Ghal Maraz hung from his neck. His visor was raised, exposing his war-battered face. A voluminous beard hung from the close helm. Under the raised visor, his eyes glittered darkly. He carried himself with the utter assurance of command. Old scars covered the little skin that was exposed. Beside him, the formidable warrior Gruppen looked as callow as a milkmaid.

As he approached, the knights withdrew respectfully. Even against the towering pinnacle of the Bastion, wreathed in wind and lashed by rain, he seemed the most immovable object in the whole landscape.

“He is here,” said Ludwig Schwarzhelm, the Emperor’s Champion. At his side the Rechtstahl, the famed Sword of Justice, glinted. The blade was naked and rainwater ran down the steel. “Give Verstohlen a horse. Then we ride.”

Chapter Two

Bloch felt a lurch in his guts. Out on the Cauldron floor, mere yards ahead of his position, the beastmen had caught up with Grunwald’s men. He saw some of them get taken down, dragged to the rock floor. It looked like there were less than three hundred of them, a poor return for those who had set off towards the ridge.

“Faster!” he bellowed to his own men, and squeezed a dram more effort from his labouring thighs. All around him, the halberdiers responded. They were closing in on the slaughter, coming closer with every footfall.

A few heartbeats more and they were in amongst them. Some of Grunwald’s men, seeing the halberdiers arrive, tried to turn and fight. They looked near death from exhaustion.

“Get to the Bastion!” roared Bloch, pushing them back towards the pinnacle. “You’re no good here.”

The beastman vanguard was made up of their faster creatures, not the heavy gors. They were slim-limbed and flighty, bizarre amalgams of deer, dog and man. Already Bloch’s troops were in the thick of them. They’d kept close formation on the run. Now they sliced through the beast attack, forming a cordon around Grunwald’s stumbling troops, giving them the time to get back to the Bastion.

Bloch ploughed on. A fawn-coloured monstrosity, more whippet than man, leapt up at him. Three rows of teeth snapped at his face. Bloch’s halberd flashed, and the creature span into the mud, whimpering. A sharp downward blow and it was silenced. These frontrunners were easy to dispatch. When the gors caught up, then things would get interesting.

“Captain!” came a weary voice. Grunwald.

The commander limped towards him. His face was grey, his uniform caked in blood and grime. Beyond him, Bloch’s halberdiers rushed to hold the oncoming beasts back. Cries of battle, human and inhuman, rose into the gathering dark.

Bloch rushed over to him, catching him just as he stumbled to the ground.

“Are you the last?”

Grunwald nodded breathlessly.

“Anyone behind has been taken,” he panted. “The forest is alive.”

“So I’ve heard.”

Grunwald looked up at him, his breath gradually equalising.

“You must pull back! They’re all over the Cauldron.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” muttered Bloch, looking up to appraise the situation. It was getting difficult. The greater mass of beastmen had caught up with the outrunners. The line of halberdiers held against them, but they’d soon be overwhelmed.

“Get back to the rock,” said Bloch, pushing Grunwald roughly to his feet. “We’ll manage the retreat.”

Grunwald, his face drawn with fatigue, began to run again, limping after the straggling remnants of his command as they staggered towards the rock. Bloch turned away from him. Now his own detachment was the priority.

“Fall back!” he shouted, joining them at the front line. “Keep your face to the enemy. Run, and you’ll never see home again.”

He hefted his halberd, pushed his way past one of his own men, and brought it tearing downwards. With a satisfying crunch, it pierced the skull of a roaring horror on the beasts’ frontline. On either side of him, his troops worked their own blades skilfully. They struck in sequence, guarding each others’ flanks, maintaining the curtain of steel. After each offensive stroke, every successful rebuttal, they fell back in unison, letting the beasts come after them.

Bloch began to work up a sweat. He felt his muscles bunch in his arms. The stench of the beasts was everywhere, and their dark blood splattered against his face and chest. As his blade worked, he began to sense the strange, feral enjoyment that always accompanied the thick of battle. The line was holding, his company was maintaining its shape, and the Sigmar-forsaken beasts were falling under the blade. This was battle as he liked it.

Then the gors arrived.

With a horrifying roar, two massive beasts powered their way through the ranks, pushing their squealing kin aside. Their skin was black and their squat bull-faces burned with feral malice. The eight-pointed star had been scored into their chests and old blood laced their thick hides. When they bellowed, the pools of rainwater shivered. Heedless of anything but their battle-lust, they hurled themselves at the fragile halberdier lines.

Bloch manoeuvred himself into the path of the biggest, holding his halberd tightly in both hands. The angle would have to be just right. He felt his mouth go dry.

The bull lurched towards him, roaring some obscene mockery of language. One of Bloch’s men, knocked off-balance by an unlucky stroke, blundered into its path. The bull swatted him aside casually with a vast clenched fist. Bloch heard the spine snap cleanly. The monster launched itself at Bloch. Spittle flew into his face, thick and stinking.

Bloch roared his defiance in turn. He thrust his blade at the creature’s chest. The aim was good, angled upwards and left. The bull leapt to one side, evading the tip. Bloch had been expecting the feint, and twisted the shaft to match. The blade struck the creature’s flank below its enormous rib cage.

The bull bellowed. Ignoring the wound, it ground onwards, churning the earth with its cloven hooves. Bloch was pushed back, his halberd still in his hands. It was wrenched free. He grasped for the sword at his belt. Too late. The hammer-fist struck him on the shoulder.

Bloch flew back, landing heavily a yard distant. His vision swam. He could feel hot blood trickle down his stomach. The earth under him swayed. The bull, now just a blurred mass, charged him again. He tried to rise to his feet, but his legs felt like congealed fat. The ground drummed, as if a whole herd of horses was thundering across it. His shaking fingers found the pommel of his sword and he drew it from the scabbard. The bull came on.

Bloch raised the blade, trying to clear his vision. He saw his own halberd protrude from the monster’s flank like a mockery of his weakness. But there was no giving ground now, no escape.

Feet apart, heart thudding, head low, he waited for the collision.

The afternoon was waxing, and the last of the meagre light was fading. Heavier clouds rolled across the Cauldron from the north. Verstohlen stood with the company of knights at the very base of the Bastion where the rock surface gave way to the level surface of the Cauldron. Out on the plain he could see the hordes of beastmen charging from the tree cover. Closer to hand, he could also see the knot of fighting around the halberdiers. In moments they would be overwhelmed. Time was running out to effect any kind of rescue.

As the knights did around him, he mounted expertly. His steed, a chestnut rider’s horse as opposed to the massive chargers of the Knights Panther, was agitated. They always were when the beastmen were present. The steeds seemed to recognise the unholy spoor of the twisted creatures. His mount whinnied nervously, shaking the bridle.

“Easy,” whispered Verstohlen, bringing the nervous creature under control quickly. It was important the knights saw he could be relied on to master his steed. Schwarzhelm knew his quality, but the others didn’t. Anonymity had its price.

The Emperor’s Champion said no more, snapped his visor shut and kicked his horse into a trot. The knights fell in behind him, a glittering column of dark metal in the rain. Verstohlen joined them at the rear, keeping one hand on the reins and one on his pistol. If he was lucky, he’d get two shots away before switching to a blade.

The knights picked up speed. They left the defensive terraces behind. The hooves rang out against the stone. Verstohlen began to feel his pulse quicken. Out in the gathering darkness, the howling and drumming was getting wilder. Beasts were pouring into the Cauldron, drawn by the aroma of human fear. Soon the knights would be right in among them.

“Merciful Verena, ward all harm,” he whispered devoutly.

At the head of the column, Schwarzhelm reached the floor of the Cauldron and the pace rose again. Trots turned into a canter, and the canter into a thundering gallop. They headed straight for Bloch’s embattled halberdiers. Ahead of Verstohlen, the knights lowered their lances and adjusted their formation. With complete precision, moving at increasing speed, the charging formation extended into a line. Verstohlen manoeuvred himself behind the left flank. He’d be no good in the first clash, but his pistol would come into its own when the ranks were broken.

Hooves hammering, Gruppen’s company flew towards the oncoming horde, the rain-driven wind rushing past their ears. The lance-tips lowered further, each knight picking his target. The seething mass of approaching beastmen neared. With every thrust of the horses’ powerful muscles, the enemy came into sharper relief.

Verstohlen crouched in the saddle, peering out into the gloom. His heart raced. There they were, the halberdiers. Surrounded, overrun. He glanced down at his flintlock. The cool weight was reassuring.

The knights needed no orders to engage. Gruppen was as silent as the rest of them. Like the dread wings of Morr, the mounted formation swept past the knot of beleaguered troops and into the horde of beasts beyond.

The clash was sickening. Lances ran the creatures clean through, lifting them from the ground or shattering into wickedly sharp shards. The force of the charge knocked even the heavier gors backwards. Some were ridden down, others cut apart where they stood. The knights surged on, discarding their broken lances and pulling long broadswords from their scabbards for the return sweep.

One of the monsters, a massive bull-creature with a halberd protruding from its flanks, stood its ground. Denied its prey by the sudden charge, it roared defiance at the charging knights. The halberdier captain, looking shaky on his feet, staggered out of harm’s way. Schwarzhelm, right at the apex of the charge, kicked his charger towards the gor. At the last moment, in a move of superlative horsemanship, he drew the head of his steed aside. The bull-creature lunged and missed. Schwarzhelm’s sword flashed, and the gor’s head slipped down its chest, severed clean from its shoulders. The mighty body toppled, crashing into the mud.

Verstohlen galloped along in Schwarzhelm’s wake. A second huge beast rose from the wreckage and made to leap on to the back of a passing knight. He took aim and sent a piece of shot between its eyes. The creature snapped back, rolling its death-throes across the mire. Verstohlen kicked his horse’s flanks, and it leapt smoothly over the writhing horror. He flicked the mechanism on the flintlock, bringing the second barrel into play. An ingenious device and one which had never let him down.

He raised the pistol to fire again, but the beasts were fleeing, loping back the way they’d come, waiting for more of their kin to reach them. For the moment, the charge of the knights had broken them. Despite losses, the halberdier company had survived.

Verstohlen looked about him. The halberdiers were taking their chance and were staggering back to the Bastion as fast as they could. Below him, the one Schwarzhelm had rescued was struggling to keep up. The face was familiar.

“Herr Bloch!” Verstohlen yelled, pulling his steed around and shifting forward in the saddle. “Mount up behind me!”

Bloch, looking up blearily, took a moment to recognise what was happening. He was wounded, and his eyes weren’t focussing properly.

“What in the name of damnation are you doing here?” he said, his speech slurring.

Verstohlen laughed, extended a hand and helped pull him up. The man was heavy, and the horse protested, but they managed it.

“Don’t expect much respite when we get back to the rock,” said Verstohlen, following the knights as they regrouped and began to ride hard back to the Bastion. Already the gap they had cut was filling with beasts. “We’ve got you out of this mess, but the fighting has only just started.”

With the retreat of the knights, the Cauldron was left to the beasts. Uncontested, the hordes swept across the open space. Viewed from the temporary safety of the Bastion, it seemed as if the entire bowl was filled with howling shapes. More and more emerged from the woods. Capering dog-faced creatures were pushed aside by heavy gors from the heart of the forest. They strode to the front of the crowd, lowing and growling as they came. More tattered standards were brought forth from the trees, each decorated with some rough image of Chaos. Some of the men unlucky enough to be caught out in the open now hung from the wooden frames, carried aloft by massive, hulking bearers. Even from the vantage point of the rock, it was clear that they were still alive.

Back at the summit of the Bastion, still breathing heavily from his exertions, Ludwig Schwarzhelm stood on a slender outcrop, watching the enemy massing. The light was still bad, but he could see the thousands of beast-man warriors clearly enough. Many more than he’d been told would be there. The reports had been inaccurate. The campaign was in danger of becoming a massacre.

Gruppen stood at his side, looking at the gathering horde through his eyeglass.

“Even with the Reiksguard, we’d be pressed.”

Schwarzhelm didn’t reply. He let his heart rate return to normal. Helborg’s absence had left them dangerously exposed. His forces were half as strong as they should have been. What had kept the Marshal? For all he admired the man’s martial qualities, Kurt could be dangerously unpredictable.

Enough. He wasn’t coming. Even if he tried to, the road would be swarming with the enemy. He’d never get through.

“We recovered Grunwald?” asked Schwarzhelm, watching the beastmen working themselves into a frenzy on the plain.

“Yes,” replied Gruppen. “He’ll survive. Though half his command is gone.” Schwarzhelm nodded.

“And what of that halberdier captain?”

“He’s called Bloch. He’ll make it too.” Gruppen let a rare smile slip across his lips. “My men told me he wants to get back to the front.”

“Let him, if he can still hold a blade. And if he survives, I’ll want to see him.”

“Very well.”

Out in the mass of churning, chanting bodies, something was crystallising. The random movements were beginning to coalesce into something more regular.

“What are they doing?” asked Gruppen, a note of frustration entering his clipped voice. The man was eager to get back to work.

Something was emerging, a sound. The undisciplined howling was turning into a new chant.

Raaa-grmm.

“They wait for their champion,” said Schwarzhelm. His eyes stayed flinty, his expression calm. The exertion of the ride had been replaced by a grim equanimity. “Do you think a horde such as this creates itself? He will come soon.”

Across the Cauldron, the rolling of the drums grew even wilder. Fresh thunder growled across the northern rim and the lightning returned. Even the elements were preparing for the final onslaught. The rain poured in rivers from the rock, sluicing down into the ranks of the beasts below.

Raaa-grmm.

“Their standards are close enough to hit,” said Schwarzhelm. “Tell the archers to aim for the men strung up on them. We can give them a quick death at least. Then instruct the captains to ready the stakefields. It will not be long now.”

Gruppen saluted and left the outcrop. Alone, Schwarzhelm continued to observe, as still and silent as a statue in the halls of dead.

Raaa-grmm. The massed chant was getting louder, drowning out all else but the drums.

“You will come,” the Emperor’s Champion whispered. “You must face me. And then we will enter the test together.”

Verstohlen pulled aside the entrance flaps to the apothecary’s tent, careful not to snag them with the halberd he carried for Bloch, and ducked inside. The place was almost deserted. A dozen wooden pallets lay inside, arranged in two neat rows. Not nearly enough for the wounded of an entire army, but this one was for the officers only. Only if a man like Gruppen or Tierhof were injured would the precious jars of salve and holy water be broken into. The others could take their chances in the less well-appointed medical tents. “Morr damn you, let me go!”

Verstohlen smiled. Bloch had recovered his voice. And his temper. The man had been wounded by the gor, but Verstohlen had a feeling it wasn’t grave enough to keep him from the front.

He walked down to the far end of the tent where the halberdier captain was struggling with a state-employed apothecary and two sisters of Shallya.

“You can release this man,” said Verstohlen, showing the apothecary Schwarzhelm’s seal. They let him go immediately, and Bloch lurched to his feet unsteadily.

The apothecary, a wizened man with a balding pate and snub nose, shook his head.

“I was instructed to keep him here, counsellor. He’s been hit hard.”

“Not as hard as I’ll hit you,” growled Bloch. The sisters took a step back.

“Come,” said Verstohlen, handing Bloch the halberd. “Your place isn’t here.”

With Bloch still grumbling, the two men turned and left the tent.

“I could’ve handled those leeches,” he muttered. “You didn’t need to fetch me like a child.”

“They would have given you sleepwort, and you’d have missed the whole thing,” said Verstohlen. “Besides, I feel responsible for you. I asked you to look out for Grunwald, and you’ve suffered for it.”

Bloch grunted. He still looked groggy and his face was pale.

“How’re things looking?”

The apothecary’s tent was near the summit of the Bastion, shielded by high rock walls and far from the front. As they rounded a column of basalt, shining in the rain, the scene below them unfolded in all its full drama and horror.

The Cauldron was full with rank upon rank of beasts. There were at least thousands of them out there. Perhaps tens of thousands. The drums beat in unison, hammering out a steady, baleful rhythm. It wasn’t the mindless thumping of hides that it had been. Some sense of purpose had gripped the entire horde, and Verstohlen could see them swaying in time with the booming rolls. They were surrounded. Besieged.

Then there was the chant, endlessly repeated, throbbing through the rock beneath their feet, filling the air.

Raaa-grmm. Raaa-grmm.

Despite the man’s gruff exterior, Verstohlen could see that Bloch was shaken. There was no let up, no respite. The Cauldron had been turned into a seamless fabric of rage.

“What d’you think that means?” Bloch asked.

“The name of their champion,” replied Verstohlen, looking over the scene calmly. “We can’t see them, but there will be shamans in the forest. They’re working on something. All will become clear soon enough.”

Bloch shook his head.

“Well, that’s good then.”

Then, down below, there was sudden movement. The front ranks of beasts, which had been milling around the base of the Bastion without advancing, began to swarm up the lower slopes. Their stamping, bellowing and chanting was replaced by a massed roar of aggression. The tide, which had been lapping at the defences, surged and broke its bonds.

“I need to be with my men,” said Bloch, grasping the halberd with both hands. At the prospect of fresh fighting, his vision seemed to clear. “Where do you have to be?”

Verstohlen reloaded his pistol coolly.

“I thought I might tag along with you, if that’s acceptable.”

Bloch thought for a moment, clearly in doubt. The sounds of combat rose from the terraces below. Verstohlen couldn’t blame him for his hesitation. Bloch didn’t know who he was, nor why Schwarzhelm gave him the licence to do the things he did. None of the soldiers did, though some guessed. To most of them, he must have seemed like a strange hanger-on, dragged into the serious business of war on a whim.

“Do as you please,” Bloch said, striding off to where his company were positioned. “Just don’t get in the way.”

Verstohlen followed him silently, his long coat streaming with rain. His blood was still pumping from the ride out on to the Cauldron floor, and he made a conscious effort to calm his emotions. He’d need a steady hand, and an unwavering eye. The beastmen were hunting, and they were the prey.

Grunwald limped along the terrace, still feeling the effects of his flight from the ridge. He hadn’t seen Schwarzhelm since his return. All the other commanders were busy with their own units. He felt curiously bereft, cast adrift. Now that the assault had begun, there was no time to seek new orders or plan some new tactics. He’d rounded up all of his men who could still walk and carry a weapon, and taken them back to the defensive front. They may have failed to hold the ridge, but there was still service they could render.

The Bastion looked like it had been designed for war. Above the smooth lower slopes, the rock rose up in a series of steps. Schwarzhelm had arranged his forces in long ranks along these natural terraces. An invading force would have to come at them from below, suffering all the disadvantages of having to clamber upwards while under attack. Between the twisting rock ledges, paths had been worn. Some were natural, others the product of centuries of human footfalls. These were the weak points. If the invaders managed to force their way up the paths, then they could get on to the level of the terraces and cause havoc.

All across the lower reaches of the Bastion, commanders had deployed their forces to prevent this. The terraces were crammed with troops capable of dealing death from afar: handgunners, archers and pikemen. At the crucial intersections where the rock offered less protection, the heavy infantry had been stationed, halberdiers mostly, drawn from the Reikland regiments. In the places of most danger, squadrons of Knights Panther were deployed, grim and immoveable in their heavy plate armour. Clusters of greatswords were there too, grizzled warriors bearing the huge, two-handed blades of their forefathers in gnarled fists. Across the most accessible routes up the rock, wooden stakes had been driven into cracks in the stone. Behind these fragile-looking barriers, the troops stood ready, watching impassively as the beasts tore up the slope towards them.

“Stand your ground,” roared Grunwald. He knew his men were in a bad way. They’d already been driven from one battle. Some had been fighting for hours with no respite, and they all looked drained. “This is where we make amends! Give no quarter!”

The beasts surged towards the lines, hollering and whooping in their bloodlust. Grunwald felt the sweat start on his palms. On either side of him, rows of steel blades glinted in the low light. The beasts had followed his men all the way from the ridge, thirsting for their blood still.

The feeling was mutual. Grunwald watched as his first target, a shaggy behemoth with a tusked face, lumbered up the incline towards him. Its flanks were streaked with entrails and its maw dripped with gore. So, it had recently feasted.

“Your last victim,” hissed Grunwald, lowering his blade, fixing the beast with a look of unwavering hate and standing his ground.

Schwarzhelm looked down from his vantage point. He held an ancient-looking spyglass to one eye, sweeping across the grim vista below. His expression was unreadable. As he had done countless times before, he studied the enemy onslaught, watching for weakness, scouring for opportunities. As the battle intensified, functionaries hovered on the edge of his vision. Every so often, men would come running up with reports from the front. He responded with terse instructions.

“Redeploy the Third Halberdiers.”

“Instruct Herr Morgan to withdraw to the upper terrace.”

“The Helblasters are angled too high. And Jerroff’s rate of fire is poor.”

The officials would then scurry away into the rain, shepherded by Ferren, his aide de camp. A few moments later, Schwarzhelm would observe the adjustment in the response of the army. From his position, he could see across the entire rock. The army was like an extension of his will. When he uttered an order, the shape of the defence shifted. Somewhere, he knew that his adversary was doing the same. The beastmen may have appeared crude and barbaric, but they had their own ways of directing their horde. There was an intelligence out there, guiding the assault, apportioning its resources at the points of greatest weakness.

“Show yourself,” breathed Schwarzhelm, fingering the pommel of the Rechtstahl impatiently. “My lord?”

Gruppen was back, hovering at his shoulder. His blade was notched and his heavy breastplate had been scored with three great scratches. If their claws could do that to plate armour, then…

“Report,” said Schwarzhelm.

“Two terraces have been lost,” replied Gruppen. He was a military man and spoke dispassionately. There wasn’t a trace of fear in his voice, just realism. “We need more knights. The state troopers don’t have the armour for this fight.”

“Damn Helborg,” spat Schwarzhelm, giving away his exasperation.

He turned around slowly, letting his eyes take in the sweeping panorama of war. On every front, the beastmen were assaulting hard, scrabbling up the slope and throwing themselves at the defenders on the terraces. Despite the advantage of higher ground, the lines were being beaten back. Slowly, it was true, but his forces were being driven ever higher up the slopes. The beasts could afford to lose twice the number of fighters he could in every engagement, and still outnumber them for the final assault. All around the base of the Bastion, the landscape was lost in a seething maelstrom of monsters.

Tell the artillery captains to throw the last of the shot at them. “I don’t care if they run out. We need to blunt this thing now.”

Gruppen hesitated.

“Will you not descend, my lord? The men—” Schwarzhelm fixed the preceptor with a dark look.

Gruppen, who faced monstrous gors without a second thought, swallowed. “Do not question my judgement, master knight.”

warned Schwarzhelm. “I will descend when the time is right.”

As if to reinforce his words, a fresh chorus of Raaa-grmm echoed up from the battle below. The beasts could sense their master’s presence. Schwarzhelm could sense his presence. But, for the time being, he didn’t show himself.

Gruppen bowed and descended from the vantage point back to the fighting. Schwarzhelm listened to the clink of his armour against the stone. He wasn’t worried about being thought a coward. No one in the Empire would dare to make such a claim, and he had long stopped caring about what other men thought of him.

No. His place was here, marshalling his forces, squeezing out the last ounce of defence from his beleaguered men. They would stand their ground, grinding out every foot of surrendered stone with blood and steel. Not until the rock lay heavy with the corpses of beasts would his adversary be drawn out. And then the clash would come, the battle that would decide the fate of all of them.

“Show yourself,” hissed Schwarzhelm again, scouring the battlefield for the movement he yearned to see. “Face me.”

But the rain snatched his words away and the skirling wind mocked them. Across the plain, the beasts tore at the defences, their lust for human flesh unquenched.

Bloch arced his halberd downwards with a cry of exertion. The blade lodged deep in the neck of the gor scrabbling at his knees. The creature howled, shaking its head, spraying blood into the air. Bloch felt his grip come loose. The beast was powerful.

“Die, damn you!” he growled and twisted the halberd deeper. The struggles ebbed, and the gor tried to withdraw. From Bloch’s side, a second blade plunged into its flank. The growls were silenced and the beast slid back down the slope. Others leapt up to take its place immediately. Even with the advantage of the stone ridge, it was hard going keeping them out.

Bloch kept hacking, ignoring the protests from his gore-splattered arms. His round helmet was dented, his heavy leather jerkin ripped by claws and teeth. Dimly, he was aware that his wounded shoulder was throbbing again. The hot sensation of blood was creeping down his midriff. Something had come unstuck. Had that damned apothecary stitched him up cock-eyed?

A bull-headed gor, only slightly smaller than the one which had nearly killed him in the Cauldron, tried to leap on to the terrace. It took two arrows in the throat before its hooves touched the stone, and it was pushed back into the heaving press of bodies below. The halberdiers were holding their ground. Their fear had been replaced by a resigned, workmanlike determination. Every thrust was met with a counter-thrust, every strike with a determined parry.

“Herr Bloch,” came a familiar voice. Bloch felt his spirits sink. Not now.

He swiped the halberd back and forth, a difficult manoeuvre in the tight space. For the moment, the beasts before him withdrew. The foremost of them limped back down the slope. But already larger creatures were massing.

“What is it?” snapped Bloch, made angry by fatigue and the pain in his shoulder.

“The companies on the terraces either side of us have withdrawn,” said Verstohlen. “We are exposed. I thought you should know.”

Bloch looked hurriedly either side of him. It was true. The beasts were forcing men back up the slopes of the Bastion, step by step. Two terraces had been abandoned and the defenders were digging in higher up. Soon his own flanks would be left open.

“Is that what you do with yourself all day, Verstohlen?” he asked. “Spot isolated command groups?”

“Amongst other things, yes.”

Bloch scowled. Who was this man? Why did he never get angry?

“Fall back, men,” he cried, pushing the counsellor out of the way. “Up to the next terrace!”

It was difficult work, made harder by the rain-washed stone. The halberdiers knew enough not to turn their backs to the enemy. Warily, they filed along the terrace, making for the paths at the end of the ridge, backing up carefully.

The beasts were slow to spot the movement, but when they did, the roars of attack started up again. The gors powered up the slope, heads low, cleavers swinging.

“Keep together!” roared Bloch, raising his halberd. He’d be the last to leave. Only when every man was up on the next level would he join them. They were almost there.

The beasts clambered up on the vacated terrace-end, howling with victory. One of them came straight at Bloch. He ducked under the wild cleaver swipe, and planted the tip of the halberd into the monster’s leg. A twist and the bone was broken. The beast staggered, but there was another behind it, horse-faced and crowned with stubby antlers. Bloch withdrew, swinging his blade defensively. Too many. He began to back up. From behind him, he could hear his men safely occupying the terrace above. That was good, disciplined work. He was proud of them. Now he needed a little support.

He began to pick up the pace, shuffling backwards, swinging the halberd deftly. Horse-face advanced slowly, but then sprang, launching itself right at Bloch’s face. The beast was quick, far quicker than it looked. Bloch parried a blow from the cleaver, but the force of the impact knocked the blade from his hands.

“Damn.”

Weaponless and isolated, there wasn’t much to do. Bloch scrabbled up the slope as fast as he could. Hands from the upper terrace reached down to pull him to safety. His hand grasped one of them and he felt himself hauled upward. His legs kicked at the slavering mass below. He felt his iron-tipped boot connect with something. A jawbone, maybe.

But horse-face was still after him. Springing powerfully, the creature launched itself up the incline, clawing at his legs. The beast’s cleaver swung down, just missing Bloch’s thigh as he scrabbled to get out of the way. The next blow wouldn’t miss. Bloch screwed his eyes up, waiting for the agonising blow.

A shot rang out. Horse-face spun back into the horde beyond. Its fall knocked several beasts from their feet, and the assault up to the terrace faltered. In the brief hiatus, fresh hands grabbed Bloch and pulled him over the lip of the higher ridge.

For a moment, he sat stupidly on the stone, catching his breath. That hadn’t been a good experience. Verstohlen came up to him, his pistol smoking.

“I could’ve handled it myself,” Bloch muttered.

Verstohlen smiled briefly.

“This is a common theme with you, I observe.”

The respite was brief. New, larger gors were making their way to the front. There were no higher terraces left to withdraw to. The halberdiers took up their weapons again. Bloch clambered to his feet, seized a fresh blade and steadied himself. His shoulder was killing him, every inch of his body was bruised and the ice-cold rain was beginning to chill him to the core.

“Come on then!” he roared, baring his teeth and waving his halberd over his head like an ale-raddled savage. From either side of him, his men burst into foul-mouthed support, hurling defiant obscenities into the air. For a moment, they looked more bestial than the monsters that attacked them, a skill no doubt learned in the alehouses on a beer-soaked festival of Ranald.

Despite everything, Bloch felt a glow of pride. They were his lads. Rough as old leather, to be sure, but his lads all the same. Finest men in the Empire. The beasts would have to clamber over every last one of them to get where they wanted to go.

He lowered his blade, located his target and waited for it to come to him.

Schwarzhelm narrowed his eyes. A change had taken place. Out on the plain, something was moving towards the Bastion. Hidden, to be sure. His eyes couldn’t quite focus on it. It wasn’t a shadow as such, more a slippery patch of nothingness. Whenever his gaze fell on it, it seemed to slide to one side. And it was picking up speed.

“Ah,” he said. He knew enough of dark magic to recognise it. The shamans were old, wily and powerful. Only a fool believed the beasts had no art of their own. Their ways were those of the forest, the dark places where the nightmares of men were given shape.

The path of no-vision crept closer. There were gors all around it, huge creatures, bull-horned and carrying massive spears of iron. Whatever was at the centre of that sphere of disruptive magic, it was greater than they were.

Schwarzhelm drew the Rechtstahl. In the rain, the steel shimmered. No dark magic would ever stain its flawless surface. Only the runefangs themselves were purer. He had carried his blade beside him for all the years he’d been Emperor’s Champion. His predecessor had done the same, as had his. For generations, the sacred sword had been borne into battle at the side of Ghal Maraz, and the departed souls of those great warriors who had wielded it in ages past were still present. At times, Schwarzhelm could sense their power imprinted on the cold metal. The best of humanity, forged in war, tempered by righteous wrath, locked into the spirit of the blade for eternity. In such things did true power lie.

He let the rainwater run down the edge, watching the liquid sheer from the flat and on to the stone. Was he worthy to carry it? He knew the doubt would never leave him, no matter how many horrors he slew. Only in death, the final tally reckoned up, would he have his answer.

Schwarzhelm turned from his vantage point to see Gruppen climbing up to meet him again. He looked as haggard as before. His helmet had been knocked from his head and an ugly weal ran across his brow.

“My lord,” he said, breathlessly. “We can withdraw no further. We are penned in on all sides. What are your orders?”

Schwarzhelm’s expression was wintry.

“He is here,” he said, watching the meagre light glint from the surface of the Rechtstahl. “His pride draws him on. Too early. By such misjudgements are battles lost.”

Gruppen looked perplexed.

“I do not—”

“Enough. Rally your knights. The doombull is approaching. I will contest him. Follow me.”

Grunwald fought on, though his strength was nearly spent. It felt like they’d been retreating from the very beginning of the engagement, step by bitter step. The Bastion was now entirely encircled. All ways down had long since been blocked by the horde. The lower terraces were gone, covered in swarming crowds of jubilant monsters and heaps of bodies. Amid them, the larger gors strode, lost in a fog of blood-drunkenness. The bodies of men lay trampled under their hooves. That sent them into still higher levels of fury. The stench of the creatures was as overpowering as their noise. Even above the blood, the aroma of death, the powerful musk of the wild forest rose in his nostrils.

He could no longer feel afraid. Nothing but a blank fatigue had taken over. His arms worked automatically, swinging the blade as heavily as he was able. By his side, his men were the same. Pale-faced, listless, driven into the ground by the remorseless advance. The beasts seemed to know no weariness. On they came, hammering at the lines of steel, desperate to sink their teeth into flesh and crush the hated trappings of the Empire into the mud.

Grunwald grasped his halberd and made ready for yet another charge. For all he knew, it would be his last. He didn’t know how many men had died. The army had been horribly diminished by the assault. Perhaps a third of those who had marched to the Bastion had made it their grave. Half of those left were barely able to wield a weapon. They remained, like Grunwald, trapped in the narrow terraces, fighting for their lives. The proud campaign to purge the forest was in tatters. He crouched low, trying to still the shaking in his hands. He was cold to the marrow, and his clothes hung from his exhausted frame in heavy, sodden bunches. This was it. The final assault.

But it never came. Against all hope, the gors withdrew. Grunting and shuffling, they pulled back down the slope. It was the same all along the front. Grunwald looked down the lines on either side of him. Men, all as weary as he, looked out across the seething mass of beastmen. None cheered. None rushed out to press home the advantage. They all knew that the movement presaged only some fresh horror. So they stayed where they were, hunched in the rain, leaning against their weapons.

Then the reason became apparent. The chanting started out again.

Raaa-grmm. There was no fervour in it this time, just a low, mournful dirge. Grunwald listened carefully. A name? Raghram? That sounded as close to a name as a beastman ever got. He peered into the gloom. Something was approaching.

Far down the dark slopes of the Bastion, a shifting cloud of shadow drew near. It hurt the eyes to look at it. It wasn’t dark exactly, just an absence of anything. To stare into such a thing was to look into one of the aspects of Chaos. It had no place in the world of matter. It was an aberration, a cloak of madness. All along the crowded terraces, men drew back slowly. There were muffled cries of dismay from further up, quickly stifled.

On either side of the approaching terror, ranks of bull-horned gors strode in silence. They made no noise. No bellows of rage, no earth-shaking growls of menace. In silence they swung their iron spears. In silence they stared up at the fragile rows of human defenders. In silence they marched in unison, their knotted muscles evident under thick coats of twisted hair.

Behind them, the beasts fell into a trance-like state, chanting their endless mantra. The stone beneath Grunwald’s feet began to reverberate from the dull, repetitious sound. Even the rain seemed to lessen in the face of the grinding aural assault. When the water impacted against the swirling no-vision, it bounced off in steaming gouts. The very elements were horrified by the approaching outrage.

With a terrible certainty, Grunwald knew he was staring at defeat. No human could stand against such a creature. He felt his skin begin to crawl with sweat. His men were succumbing to panic. So this was the end. The battle had all been about this. With the defences strung out, weary, ready to crumble, Raghram had come. As the unholy vision drew nearer, he grasped his halberd with unsteady fingers. Though he knew it was hopeless, he prepared to leave the terrace and charge the monster. At least he would atone for his failure at the ridge.

“No further!” came a voice. It was as clear as a great bronze bell. Grunwald spun round.

Further up the slope of the Bastion, men still stood their ground. The Knights Panther, dismounted, naked broadswords in hand, barred the way. Their numbers had been thinned by the fighting, but Leonidas Gruppen was still among them, his uncovered face savage in the failing light. The preceptor was surrounded by his brothers in arms, all still encased in their dark, battle-ravaged armour.

At their head was Schwarzhelm. The wind whipped his cloak about him as he stood, feet planted heavily, sword resting on the stone.

“You have come too soon, beast of Chaos,” he said. His deep voice seemed to come from the heart of the Bastion itself. Even the gors halted, gazing at the human with a sudden doubt. “This blade has drunk deep of your kin’s blood before. It will do so again. You know its power. Look on it, horror of the void, and know despair.”

A sudden thrill ran through Grunwald’s body. On every side, halberds were raised into the air. Schwarzhelm was with them! Despair was replaced by a wild, desperate hope.

But then Raghram unveiled himself. The shroud of nothingness slipped from his shoulders, dissolving against the stone like smoke. He rose to his full height, towering over even Schwarzhelm’s mighty frame. He was vast and old, reeking of death and corruption. His eyes blazed blood-red and his leathery fingers clasped an axe the size of a man. Cruel horns, four of them, rose like a crown over his heavy brow and tusks hung from his ruined face. He wore twisted iron armour over his shoulders and breast, crudely hammered into place and daubed with the foul devices of the Dark Gods.

In that face there was malice, ancient malice, the long, slow bitterness of the deep wood. To gaze into that expression was to see the tortured, endless hatred of the primal world for all the doings of man. Nothing existed there but loathing. Nothing would quench its fury but death.

With a thunderous roar, Raghram cast off the last of his unnatural cloak and charged. The gors fell in beside him. Under the lowering sky, desperate and valiant, the knights stood to counter the assault. Schwarzhelm threw his cloak back and his blade flashed silver. Then all was lost in shadow.

Chapter Three

Crouched in his terrace, Bloch saw the change coming, felt it in the stone beneath his feet.

“Why have they stopped?” he hissed.

All down the line, the gors had ceased their attack. They pulled back from the terrace, leaving several yards of cold stone between them and the defenders. The narrow gap was dark with blood. Once withdrawn, they hung back, lowing ominously. Flickers of bone and steel glinted amongst the dull hides. It was getting dark. At the summit of the Bastion, braziers had been lit, but the flames did little to lift the gathering gloom. The stench remained powerful.

“They’re watching something,” said Apfel, a young Ostlander in his company. The boy looked pale under his sodden hair. Bloch peered into the shadow. The lad was right. The gors were holding back, craning their bull-necks over to the right. The low, grinding call started up again. Raaa-grmm. What in the underworld was that?

Verstohlen crouched beside him, cleaning his pistol absently while looking into the face of the horde.

“I’m needed elsewhere,” he said.

“Again?” said Bloch. “Where do you need to be now?”

“You can see the change. The architect of all this is here. They defer to him. The honour of the first kill will be his.”

The counsellor smiled softly. “How ironic. We do the same thing on our hunts. To the victor, the prestige of the mercy stroke. An interesting parallel.”

Bloch shook his head irritably. He had no idea what the man was going on about.

“Their commander’s here?” he snapped. “Is that why they wait?”

Verstohlen nodded, finished cleaning his weapon and stood up again.

“He thinks we’re broken. So now he shows himself. But Schwarzhelm still stands. And I must stand beside him.”

Bloch looked Verstohlen up and down, failing to suppress a sneer of disbelief. The counsellor was slim, urbane, civilised. More importantly, he wore no plate armour. He looked like he’d snap in a light breeze.

“You think he’ll want you with him?”

“Always.”

Verstohlen made to stride off towards the source of the most intense chanting. Bloch felt a sudden qualm.

“Wait!” He put his burly hand on the man’s shoulder. “If this thing’s to be settled, I should be there too.”

Verstohlen cast a glance at the ranks of beasts below, just a few yards distant.

“This respite is only temporary, Herr Bloch. They will come at you again soon. Stay with your men. Your place is here.”

Bloch felt his blood rising. Something in Verstohlen’s simple, clipped tone of command made him furious. He could cope with orders from a military man, but not from, well, whatever Verstohlen was. He raised his fist, searching for an appropriate insult.

He never found it. The beasts started to advance again. The chanting continued, ominous and in unison. Without saying another word, Bloch turned back to the defence. Behind him, unnoticed, Verstohlen slipped away. His leather coat flicked in the gloom and was then gone.

Bloch hefted his halberd. The staff was slick with rain. It suddenly felt heavy and hateful to him. The rush of battle-joy had long departed.

“One more time, lads,” he exhorted, trying to raise the spirits of his men. But in his heart, he knew they were running out of time. From below, snarling and growling, the scions of the forest came for them again.

Schwarzhelm readied himself as Raghram came at him. The doombull was massive. The musk around him was thick and cloying. Beneath his hooves, spoor clung to the rock, stinking. The wide bull-mouth bellowed. The axe swung, spraying rain. On either side of him, the Knights Panther took up their positions against the doombull’s entourage of gors. The elite troops of the two armies came together on the slopes of the Bastion, and the fury of the storm above was but an echo of the savagery of their encounter.

Schwarzhelm met the onslaught full on, blunting the full force of the charge. Coarse iron clashed with pure steel, sending sparks spinning into the shadows. The blow was heavy, far heavier than that of a man. Schwarzhelm judged it carefully, dousing the momentum without aiming to stop it. When the moment was right, he withdrew the blade, sprang aside and plunged a stabbing blow at the monster’s flank. It connected, and black blood pumped down the beast’s twisted legs.

On either side of him, Schwarzhelm could sense the presence of the knights. They were locked in combat with the gors. Dimly, right at the edge of his vision, he could see the ebb and flow of battle. A knight would fall, pierced with a cruel horn-tip. Or a beast would stumble, its chest opened by an Imperial blade. It was finely balanced.

But these were just the ghosts of images, flitting at the periphery. Ahead of him, roaring its rage, the doombull came again. Again the axe fell, again it was parried.

Schwarzhelm wielded the sword expertly, making play of its speed and keenness. As it worked, the failing light flashed from the steel.

Schwarzhelm let the Rechtstahl guide his hand. He was a master swordsman, second only to one other in the entire Empire, but you could not wield a holy blade as if you owned it. The sword was its own master, and he was but the most recent of its stewards. Only after half a lifetime of wielding it did he understand some of its secrets. Most would never be uncovered.

Raghram maintained the charge and the axe swung like a blacksmith’s hammer. In the massive, bunched arms of the doombull, it looked like a child’s toy. Schwarzhelm saw the feint coming and angled the sword to parry. At the last moment, he shifted his weight. The blades clashed once more. Feeling the camber of the slope beneath his feet, adjusting for the force of the attack, he pushed back.

His arms took the full momentum of the doombull’s weight. For an instant, Schwarzhelm was right up against the monster. The ruined face was above his. The eyes, kindled with a deep-delved fire, blazed at him. Strings of saliva drooled down from the tooth-filled jaw. Raghram wanted to feast. He was drunk on bloodlust.

Then Schwarzhelm’s foot slipped. The rock was icy with surface water and he felt his armoured sabaton slide on the stone. The axe weighed down, the blade-edge hovering over his torso.

Schwarzhelm gritted his teeth, pushing against the weight. The power of the doombull was crashing, suffocating. But Schwarzhelm was no ordinary man. Tempered by a lifetime of war, his sinews had been hardened against the full range of horrors in the Old World. He’d stared into the rage-addled faces of greenskin warlords, the horror-drenched gaze of Chaos champions, the cruel and inscrutable eyes of the elves. All had met the same fate. This would be no different.

He twisted out of the encounter, arching his body to deflect the secondary blow, using the power of the beast to drag it forward. He could still sense the battle raging around him. There was no way of telling who was winning. All his attention was bent on the monster before him. This was the fulcrum of the battle. If he failed now, then they all died.

He pulled back, but Raghram was upon him. The axe swung down again. The obvious choice was to step back, evade the curve. But the Rechtstahl seemed to draw him on. Inured to hesitation, Schwarzhelm plunged inside the arc of the axe, crouching low. He was within the grasp of the beast. Twisting the blade in both hands, he brought the tip up. With a savage lunge, he thrust it upwards, aiming beneath the doombull’s ribcage.

The tip pierced its flesh, driving deep. Fresh blood coursed over his face, hot and rancid. The doombull roared afresh and pulled back. Schwarzhelm withdrew the blade, ducking under flailing fingers, feeling the monster nearly grasp him. He pulled back again, feeling his breathing become more rapid. There was no fatigue, no weariness, but the sheer power of the beast was impressive. He would need to do more than stab at it. From somewhere, the killing blow would need to be found.

Now the creature was wary. It lowered its head. The horns dripped with rain. The axe hung low against the ground. When it growled, the earth seemed to reverberate in warped sympathy. Schwarzhelm held his position, sword raised. His eyes shone in the dark. Every movement his opponent made, every inflection, needed to be observed. He would wait. The Rechtstahl felt light in his hands. On either side, the savage cries of battle still raged. His knights were holding their ground. No gor would get to him while any of them could still wield a blade. The duel would be undisturbed.

Raghram charged again. Even as the hooves pushed against the rock, Schwarzhelm could see the energy exerted. The muscles in the goat-shaped thighs bunched, powering the massive creature forward. The head stayed low, trailing long lines of blood-flecked drool. As the doombull moved, its horns swayed.

Schwarzhelm adjusted his stance. His armour suddenly felt like scant protection. Keeping his eyes on the swaying axe-blade, he braced for impact.

It was like being hit by a storm. A human, however strong, had no chance of halting such a monster. It was all Schwarzhelm could do not to get knocked from his feet. Bringing all the power he could to bear, he traded vicious blows from the axe with the Rechtstahl, giving ground with every one. Raghram let slip a crooked smile as it advanced. Deep within that deranged face, something like amusement had emerged. He was being toyed with.

Schwarzhelm leaped back, clearing half a yard of space, and let the Rechtstahl fly back in a savage backhanded arc. If it had connected, it would have spilled the monster’s guts across the Bastion floor. But Raghram was too old and wily for that. With a deceptive grace, it evaded the stroke, its momentum unbroken.

This was dangerous. Schwarzhelm felt his balance compromised, but there was no room to retreat. The axe blade hammered down, and he barely parried it. His blade shivered as the full force of the axe landed on it, and he felt the power ripple through his body.

He gave ground again, losing the initiative. Raghram filled the void, hacking at his adversary even as it roared in triumph.

Then the axe got through. Whether it was skill or luck, the doombull’s blade cut past Schwarzhelm’s defence. It landed heavily against his right shoulder, driving deep into the metal of the pauldron. He felt the plate stove inwards. An instant later sharp pain bloomed out, and he staggered back from the blow.

Raghram leapt up. The axe was raised, and a look of scorn played across the bull-face. Schwarzhelm raised his sword in defence, watching the advance of the monster carefully The doombull came on quickly. Too quickly. In its eagerness to land the killing blow, its axe blade was held too far out.

Schwarzhelm swept his sword up, twisting it in his hands as he did so. He left his torso unguarded. That was intended. The manoeuvre was about speed. Raghram reacted, but slowly. The Rechtstahl cut a glittering path through the air. Its point sliced across the beast’s face, pulling the flesh from the bone and throwing it high into the storm-tossed air.

Raghram staggered backwards, a lurid gash scored across its mighty cheek and forehead. The great creature lolled, stumbled and rocked backwards, blinded by its own blood.

Schwarzhelm recovered his footing. The Rechtstahl glistened eagerly. Taking the blade in both hands, he surged forward. The tip passed clean between the beast’s protruding ribs, deep into the unholy torso and into the animal’s heart.

Raghram screamed, and the last veils of shadow around it ripped away. The sudden lurch nearly wrenched the blade from Schwarzhelm’s grip, but he hung on, twisting the sword further into the monster’s innards. It bit deep, searing the tainted flesh like a branding iron on horsehide. The doombull attempted to respond, flailing its axe around, searching for the killer blow.

But its coordination was gone. Slowly, agonisingly, the pumping of the mighty heart ebbed. The light in its eyes went out. With its throat full of bubbling, foamy blood, Raghram, the master of the horde, sank down against the stone. The iron axe-head clattered against the rock uselessly.

Schwarzhelm pulled the Rechtstahl free at last. He stood back, lifted the blade to the heavens and roared his triumph.

“Sigmar!” he bellowed, and his mighty voice echoed from the stone terraces around him.

Even in the midst of their close-packed combat, the cry reached the ears of man and beast alike. The Knights Panther knew what it portended immediately and redoubled their efforts. Under Gruppen’s grim leadership, they began to hammer the gors further down the slope. Raghram’s body slumped down the dank stone, its rage silenced. Step by step, yard by bitter yard, the tide began to turn. Bereft of the guiding will of the doombull, the assault on the rock citadel foundered. The dark-armoured knights pursued them ruthlessly, their longswords biting deep into the beastmen’s hides.

Schwarzhelm sank back against the stone, his breathing heavy. For the moment, the counter-assault was conducted by others. The respite would be short, but after such a duel it was needed.

“Nice work,” came a voice from higher up the rock. Verstohlen emerged from the shadows, his pistol cocked ready to fire. “I’m glad of it. Not sure this thing would have been much use against that.”

Schwarzhelm didn’t smile. He never smiled.

“Its hand was forced. Something new has arrived.”

Verstohlen followed his gaze. Far off, beyond the sea of beastmen out on the Cauldron floor, there was a change. It was hard to make out in the failing light, but there were flashes of steel out in the gloom. Then, as the beastmen finally ceased their chanting, the sound gave it away. The clear horn blast of an Imperial host. There was no noise like it in all the Empire. After a hundred battlefields, it was as familiar to Schwarzhelm as the rain on a thatched roof.

“Reiksguard,” he said. “Helborg. At last.”

Verstohlen gave an appreciative nod.

“That is welcome. We’re still outnumbered. This will turn the balance.”

Schwarzhelm shot him a disdainful glance.

“Don’t make excuses for him,” he snapped. “He’s overdue. And if he tries to claim the credit for this victory, I’ll string him up myself. We did this, and paid the price in blood.”

Verstohlen raised an eyebrow. He looked genuinely taken aback by Schwarzhelm’s vehemence. He started to reply, then seemed to think better of it.

Schwarzhelm finished wiping Raghram’s gore from the Rechtstahl in silence, then drew himself up to his full height. Around them, the knights had regrouped and were beginning to pursue the remaining gors down the slope. The beastman advance was dissolving into confusion.

“Go back to the summit,” growled Schwarzhelm. “Someone’ll be needed to keep the army together.”

“If you wish. Where are you going?”

Schwarzhelm gave him a flat look. His expression was murderous.

“Hunting.”

Hours later, Grunwald leaned on his halberd. He was near the summit of the Bastion, and had long withdrawn from the fighting. The spires of rock at the pinnacle reached into the sky like fingers. Night had come, and the flickering light of the braziers cast long shadows across the stone. At last, the rain had lessened. Now that the battle was nearly over, he felt the chill enter his bones. His clothes were sodden. His armour and weapons needed cleaning.

That could wait. It was all he could do to keep standing.

Morgan came up to him. Like all of them, the commander looked drained.

“Andreas,” he said. Grunwald nodded in acknowledgement. “A fine victory.”

Grunwald felt hollow. There were victories he had enjoyed, too many to remember. This was not one of them. His task had been to guard the road, to enable the Reiksguard to ride to the Cauldron unimpeded. He had failed, been driven from his position. Being rescued, even by the Emperor’s Champion himself, was a bitter potion to swallow.

“How goes the battle?” he asked.

“Helborg’s broken them,” said Morgan. The bodies of the beasts lie two-deep across the Cauldron. “They’ll take years to recover from this.”

“Schwarzhelm killed the doombull,” said Grunwald. “That was the turning point. I was there.”

Morgan laughed.

“This isn’t a competition, Grunwald.” Then his face darkened, as if humour so soon was inappropriate. “The day’s been barely won. We’ll return with fewer than half the men we brought. The halberdiers have suffered most, lust be content that we didn’t all die here.”

Grunwald suddenly thought of Ackermann. The man’s body would never be found now, never be buried. He deserved better.

“Believe me, I’m content,” he lied.

There was a commotion on the terrace below. Men were moving up to the pinnacle. Gruppen was among them, leading a squadron of battle-ravaged Knights Panther. There were less then twenty of them with him. Grunwald also recognised Tierhof and other commanders. This was a general’s retinue. But there was no general to lead them.

The captains strode into the light of the braziers. Noble faces all, streaked with blood and mud. Their fine armour was dented and scored. Some had looks of triumph on their faces, others blank weariness. Their labours were over for the night, and now they came to confer on the clear-up.

Then a new group arrived. Their armour was battle-scarred, but nothing like that of the Knights Panther. They wore no pelts or other elaborate garb. Their plate armour was simple and effective. Their colours were black, red and white. That livery was known all across the Empire. Reiksguard.

They strutted with the supreme confidence of the Emperor’s elite. Unlike Schwarzhelm’s forces, who had been fighting for hours without respite, they looked fresh. Grunwald could see Morgan and the others try to make themselves look more respectable. He rolled his eyes.

Then their commander arrived. All knew who he was. His face was the third most recognisable in the whole Empire, after that of Sigmar and Karl Franz himself. Miniatures of his profile adorned the lockets of maidens, and were painted into tavern signs across the provinces. Songs were sung about him by all loyal troops, most of whom would have given their own daughters away just to serve under him. To utter his name was to invoke the saviour of the Empire, the hero of mankind, the master of the Emperor’s numberless armies. Loyal wives would forget their vows the moment he rode into town, and their husbands would forgive them for it.

He was Kurt Helborg, Kreigsmeister, Hammer of Chaos, Grand Marshal of the Reiksguard. Unlike Schwarzhelm, he cut an elegant figure. His armour shone brightly, glinting in the flames. Despite his ride through the heart of the beastman horde, it seemed like he’d barely suffered a scratch. His equipment was pristine. Even his famed moustache, carefully oiled and stiffened, was immaculate. He could have walked straight from one of the Empress’ balls and he would not have looked out of place.

But this was no court dandy or effete noble. Helborg’s name was spoken of with reverence by all fighting men. Though they respected Schwarzhelm, they knew little of him. Helborg’s deeds, by contrast, were the stuff of legend. So much so, that he carried not the weapon of a mere general, but the blade of an elector. The Solland runefang, one the ancient twelve. It had many names, across many realms. In the annals of Altdorf it was known as Grollhalter, the Grudgebearer. Others called it the Lightshard, or Hellbringer, or Warpsbane. Helborg himself only used one title for it. Klingerach. The Sword of Vengeance. Thus was it whispered of across the homesteads and households of the Empire. When all seemed bleakest, it was Helborg and Klingerach the common folk prayed to see.

As the Marshal approached, the knights and commanders fell silent. Helborg strode into the centre of the gathered men.

“Where is General Schwarzhelm?” he asked. His voice was as weathered as the granite of the Bastion.

No one knew. Seeing the indecision around him, Grunwald came forward. He was as senior a commander as any of the others.

“He fights still, my lord,” he said, bowing deferentially. Helborg turned to face him. His glance was piercing, unforgiving.

“The day is won,” said Helborg. “What fighting is there to do?”

Grunwald hesitated. Making excuses for his master was a dangerous game. Schwarzhelm spoke for himself. He felt caught between two titans.

“While beasts remain alive, there remains fighting to do,” came a deep voice from the shadows.

Schwarzhelm emerged from the gloom beyond the brazier light. He looked terrifying. His armour dripped with dark blood and his heavy beard was caked in gore. His blade was smeared with it. It looked as though he’d waded through a well of entrails. Even Helborg seemed taken aback.

Schwarzhelm approached him, leaving his blade unsheathed. As he came, he tore his helmet from his head. His expression was hard to read in the dark. Grunwald had witnessed his savage departure after the death of Raghram. He looked scarcely less angry now.

Awkwardly, the two men embraced. That was as it should be. Brother warriors, congratulating one another after a crushing victory. But all present could see the stilted movements, the grudging handclasp. Schwarzhelm still smouldered with resentment, and the fire would not be put out easily.

“This is your victory, Ludwig,” said Helborg. None but he could have used Schwarzhelm’s given name.

“That it is,” snapped Schwarzhelm, and turned away. None but he could have shown his back to the Marshal. Grunwald looked at Tierhof, who looked at Morgan. None knew what to do. Even Gruppen seemed uncertain.

Then, from far below, a trumpet sounded. Three notes, long and mournful. The signal for the end of the battle. The last of the beasts had been killed or driven into the trees. That seemed to break the spell.

Helborg’s granite face broke into an unconvincing smile.

“Yours will be the honour, my friend,” he said, addressing Schwarzhelm’s viscera-smeared shoulders. “You may count on it.”

“If d better be,” muttered the Emperor’s Champion, as he stalked back off into the dark.

Dawn broke cold and cheerless. The watery sun crested the eastern horizon, but did little to banish the heavy, low cloud. Though the worst of the rain had passed, the air was still chill. With the destruction of the beasts, the combined forces of Schwarzhelm and Helborg had camped as well as they could on the rock of the Bastion. Out of a combined force of more than seven thousand, fewer than three thousand remained. The heaviest casualties had been amongst those who had manned the pitiless walls of rock. Despite the cold, the surviving troops had slept as heavily as the dead. Grunwald himself had drifted into unconsciousness as soon as his head had hit the gravel of the terrace. When he awoke, the sunrise was long gone and preparations for the march home were already far advanced. The amalgamated forces would head back to Altdorf and report the utter destruction of the latest beastman uprising. They would say it had been shattered between the hammer of Helborg and the anvil of Schwarzhelm. They would say nothing of the botched preparations that had left half the army fighting on its own for the best part of a day, nor how many lives that had cost.

Rubbing his eyes, Grunwald sat bolt upright. He could have happily slept for hours more, but he should have woken earlier. There were things to do, things to organise.

He struggled to his feet and looked around. Across the wide bowl of the Cauldron, bodies lay in heaps. Some were those of men, most those of the beasts. Already vultures were circling above. The stench was ripening. As the day waxed, it would only grow. Even now, he thought he could make out figures picking their way among the cadavers, looking for something they could use. There was a woman, young and slim with short dark hair, merely yards away from him down on the floor of the Cauldron. She was oblivious to his presence. He was too tired to be angry. Too tired for anything.

Grunwald shook his head to clear it. He was still groggy. His clothes clung to his limbs, cold and deadening.

“Good morning, Herr Grunwald,” came a familiar voice.

Andreas turned to face Pieter Verstohlen. “Counsellor,” he replied, and there was warmth in his greeting.

Verstohlen came over to him, and the two men embraced.

“I’m told I have you to thank for my life,” said Grunwald.

Verstohlen shrugged.

“I had some small part in it. Schwarzhelm can be persuaded, if you know the right means. But there was a halberdier captain out there too, a man named Bloch. If you owe anyone thanks, it is he.”

“Aye, I know him. Did he make it back to the Bastion?”

“I was fighting with him before the doombull arrived. If he’s alive, then the general will seek him out. Battle may be the making of a man. Bloch has advanced his reputation.”

Grunwald felt a sudden pang of shame.

“Where I failed,” he said, almost to himself.

Verstohlen frowned.

“In what way? You held the ridge for as long as anyone could have asked. It was foolish of the commanders not to send relief earlier, and I told them so. There’s no whispering against you, Andreas.”

Grunwald found scant consolation in those words. He knew that he’d held out for as long as he could. Any longer and his entire command would have perished. But Schwarzhelm was a harsh taskmaster. He’d been ordered to keep the road clear. He had failed. Helborg had made it through at last, but how much sooner would he have arrived if the ridge hadn’t fallen to the beasts?

“I worry not about whispering,” he said. “The verdict of my peers means nothing. But Schwarzhelm… He doesn’t forgive easily.”

“He doesn’t forgive at all,” said Verstohlen, grimly. “But there’s nothing to berate yourself for. The field has been won. The beasts are scattered. Trust me, Grunwald. We will ride out with Schwarzhelm again, just as we always have done. You’ve won his trust a hundred times before. He’ll remember that.”

Grunwald looked away, back over the grim vista of the Cauldron. Columns of men were picking their way across the stone, stripping weapons from the fallen. There was heavy labour ahead. Swords were precious, and would be recovered for the Emperor’s armouries. The beastmen would be left to rot where they fell. This place would be a scene of carnage for months, even when the last of the bones had been picked clean. “So you say,” he muttered. “So you say.”

Clearing the battlefield took many hours. Troops, still wearing the armour they’d fought in, were ordered out onto the Cauldron to retrieve items of value and prepare the bodies of the slain for their mass immolation. The work was grim. Amidst the heaps of twisted, bestial enemies, every so often a trooper would discover the face of a man he knew, cold and staring. For them, victory had come too late.

As the lines of men gradually picked their way across the battlefield, others piled wood high for the pyres. There would be two of them. No beastmen would share the same honoured burning as the human dead. Priests chanted over both sites. Prayers of benediction and thanks were offered up over the pyre reserved for the honoured slain. Litanies of exorcism and damnation were chanted over the beastmen’s pile. As the morning wore on, the kindling was ignited and pale flames leapt up into the air. One by one, arduously and with much effort, bodies were dragged to the pyres and thrown on the wood. Gradually, the noisome stench of crackling flesh began to mask that of the putrefying cadavers. Two columns of smoke, each black and heavy, rolled up into the grey air.

Restored to his vantage point on the pinnacle of the Bastion, Schwarzhelm watched the grisly task unfold. With the cessation of combat, he had withdrawn to his general’s position. His armour had been wiped clean of blood and his sword shone again unsullied. His mood, however, remained dark. The Reiksguard had retreated to a position down in the Cauldron on Helborg’s orders. Despite the scale of the task, the two men avoided one another. Schwarzhelm’s own commanders, sensing his anger, mostly busied themselves with their own tasks.

Only Gruppen, driven by necessity, had dared to disturb his isolation. Now even he was gone, organising the Knights Panther for their ride to Altdorf.

Schwarzhelm stood alone, lost in thought. Why did Helborg rile him so? Was it fatigue? Or something more deep-seated? The ways of war were fickle. There could have been a thousand reasons why the Reiksguard had been held up. Their route had been blocked by beasts, despite his best efforts. But had the Marshal ridden with all the haste he could muster? It had happened so often, this last-minute charge to save the day. Surely the man didn’t deliberately plan these charges, just in the nick of time, to bolster his reputation. And yet…

“My lord,” came a nervous voice from his shoulder.

Ferren, his aide-de-camp, was there. His face was pale with fear.

“Yes?”

“The man you were seeking. Bloch. He’s been found.”

That was good news. Schwarzhelm felt the worst of his mood begin to lift. He could worry about Helborg later. He had his own men to worry about first.

“Show him to me.”

Ferren withdrew, and Bloch took his place. The man looked unprepossessing. He was short in stature. Fat, even. His features were crude. A squat nose, crooked from repeated breaks, sat in the middle of a peasant’s face. The brow was low, the mouth tight. He had the look of a tavern brawler, a common thief. And yet, as Schwarzhelm knew from his own experience, a man’s worth was only measured in his deeds, not breeding. Without Bloch’s intervention, he would have lost Grunwald, one of his most trusted allies. That alone made up for any roughness around the edges.

“Herr Bloch,” he said, trying to keep the habitual gruffness out of his voice. “Do you know why I wished to see you?”

The man looked unsteady on his feet. He’d been wounded several times and there was a patch of dried blood on the jerkin over his shoulder. To his credit, he kept his posture as best he could and his eyes were level. Not every man could meet his gaze. “No, sir.”

Schwarzhelm was used to being addressed as “my lord”. It was a proper title for his rank and station. No doubt Bloch was unaware of this. He liked that. The man was a warrior, not an official.

“The commander of the southern flank was forced to withdraw. Your actions saved his life and that of many of his men. I would have arrived too late. That was a brave thing you did, captain.”

Bloch looked uneasy. Like many of his kind, he could cope with insults, threats and banter. It was compliments that really threw him off guard.

“Ah, thank you, sir,” he stammered, clearly unsure how to react.

“How long have you been in the Emperor’s service?” This was easier to cope with.

“Ten years, sir. Joined as a lad in the militia. Accepted into the state halberdiers when I turned twenty. Promoted to captain last year when Erhardt was killed at Kreisberg.”

Schwarzhelm nodded with approval.

“Good. You’ve learned your trade the way I did.”

Schwarzhelm studied the man as he spoke, gauging his character from the way he carried himself, the way he responded, the almost imperceptible inflections that indicated a fighting temperament. It was similar to the way a trainer might select a horse.

“There is much wrong in the way that the Empire runs itself, Bloch,” said Schwarzhelm, permitting himself a digression. “Many who rule do not deserve to. Many who are ruled could make a better fist of it. You’re a fighting man. You’ve seen armies commanded by fools and good men led into ruin by them.”

Though he said nothing, Schwarzhelm could see the recognition in Bloch’s eyes.

“But there’s opportunity in battle. Mettle will always show itself. There are men in the Empire who know how to reward talent and how to ignore low birth. The Emperor, Sigmar keep him, is one. It is to him I owe my station, not to my breeding. And so it is with me. I need good men around me. I’d like you to be one of them.”

Bloch blinked, clearly struggling to take the speech in.

“Yes, sir,” was all he said.

“There are a number of captains I place my trust in. Not many, since only a few deserve it. In my judgement, you may prove worthy. I’m offering you a chance. Leave the employ of Reikland and join my retinue. The pay’s no better, and you’ll be campaigning more than you’ve ever done before. But there’s glory in it, and service. Many men would leap to serve me. Others would leap to avoid it. Which of those are you, Herr Bloch?”

The man didn’t hesitate.

“I’ll serve you,” he said.

Schwarzhelm narrowed his eyes.

“Be careful,” he said, warningly. “This offer will only come once. Danger follows me. I’ll not think less of you if you refuse. A life in the state halberdiers is an honourable one, and you’ll stand a better chance of seeing your children grow up.”

To his credit, Bloch didn’t flinch. His assurance seemed to be growing. A good sign.

“With your pardon, sir, I’ve never been one for changing my mind. I know a chance when I see one. I’ll fight with you, and you’ll not find a better captain in the Emperor’s armies.” Then he looked worried, like he’d overreached himself. “And I’m grateful for the chance. Really grateful.”

Schwarzhelm kept his gaze firmly on him. Nothing he saw contradicted his initial assessment. Here was a leader of the future.

“Very good,” he said. “For now, remain with your company. They’ve fought hard, and you should reward them. When we’re back in Altdorf and your hangover has cleared, report to Ferren. He’ll sort out the papers of commission. Then you’ll report to me.”

Schwarzhelm didn’t smile. He never smiled. But something close to a humorous light played in his eyes.

“I like you, Bloch,” he said. “I wonder if you know what you’ve committed yourself to? Never mind. We’ll see soon enough. Return to your men and prepare for the journey home.”

Bloch, his uncertain confidence looking a little dented, bowed awkwardly and limped away. From some distance away, Schwarzhelm heard Ferren begin to confer with him. He ignored the noise of their conversation, and turned to face the Cauldron. For the moment, his brooding on Helborg had lifted.

Out on the plain, the columns of smoke rose ever higher. Another victory. The army would decamp before nightfall. And then it would start over again. The endless test, the endless struggle. Only now, in these brief moments, could any satisfaction be taken. He crossed his arms over his burly chest. The head of Raghram had been stuck on a spike near the summit of the Bastion. It would be taken to Altdorf and presented to Karl Franz. And that would be an end to it.

For now.

By late afternoon, the fires began to go out. Huge piles of charred flesh lay strewn across the Cauldron. While the army remained on the Bastion, the vultures steered clear of the smouldering carrion. But not all of the bodies could be retrieved and they knew that rich pickings remained. As soon as they left, the birds would descend. They would feast on the beasts only when the juicier remnants of the men were scraped clean. They knew the difference between wholesome flesh and the warp-twisted fodder of the deep forest.

Gradually, as the worst of the carnage was cleared away, the army began descending from the Bastion to start the march from the Cauldron to the forest road. As they went, the state troopers glanced at the distant trees darkly. None of them relished the journey back under the close eaves of the forest. Only the foolish among them believed the beastman menace to have been extinguished. It had only been deferred. Perhaps a year, maybe two, and then they would mass again. Who knew how they replenished themselves? There were bawdy stories of mass ruttings in the shadowy heart of the woods, driven by crude ale and bestial fervour. All knew the tales of witches heading out into the darkness on the festival days of the Dark Gods, prepared for unspeakable rites. And then there were the children, the ones touched by the Ruinous Powers. When they were left in isolated clearings to die, who knew what happened to them? Did they find refuge amongst the twisted beasts, ever ready to fan the flames of their hate towards the unsullied scions of humanity? If so, it was a dark secret to hide, and one the mean folk of the Empire would never admit to.

The Knights Panther were the first to ride out, with Gruppen at their head. They had restored their armour as best they could and went ahead to clear the road home of any residual beastmen. Behind them marched the ranks of halberdiers, archers and other state troopers. Every company was depleted. Some were leaderless and attached themselves forlornly to other companies. Some of the regiments had lost their standards in the fighting, and their shame hung heavy over them. Only a few carried themselves proudly. The fighting had been too bitter to take much satisfaction from. All the men cared about was getting back to the city in one piece. Their payment would stand for a few beers in a tavern and a night at the whorehouse. That would be enough for them to forget the horror, however briefly.

Verstohlen watched them silently as they passed. It seemed a poor reward for all their heroism. And yet what else would they want? Would a king’s ransom really make them happy? They would just drink it away all the same. They were the Emperor’s fodder, nothing more, nothing less, and all knew it.

He sighed and turned away from the sight. Such thoughts depressed him. He wondered, not for the first time, what he was doing amongst them. Better, perhaps, to have stayed in the more genteel world of lore and study. But he had made his choice, and the reasons for it hadn’t changed. Every man had his fate mapped by the gods, and he knew what his was.

He began to pack his belongings away in his slim leather bag. The pistols were safely cleaned and bolstered, his blade sheathed.

“Verstohlen!” came a familiar voice. It was Bloch. The man strolled up to him, looking like he’d inherited the fortune of Araby, and then drunk it. “It looks like you have some use after all. Get used to having me around. The big man’s promoted me!”

Verstohlen feigned surprise.

“That’s truly impressive, Herr Bloch. My congratulations to you. It makes me feel a little better for having drawn you into Grunwald’s rescue.”

Bloch grinned. He must have found some ale from somewhere.

“I won’t forget it,” he warned. “Next time we’re in a tight spot, I’ll call in the favour. You keep your wits about you, Verstohlen!”

Then he was off, walking unsteadily down the Bastion. He, at least, had found something worth celebrating.

“Enjoy it while you may, my friend,” whispered Verstohlen to himself.

Then he pulled his coat about him, slung his bag over his shoulder and made his way down the slopes of the Bastion, back into the Cauldron, ready to start the journey home.

Chapter Four

Altdorf. Greatest city of the Old World.

Marienburg may have been larger, Nuln older, Middenheim more warlike, Talabheim stronger. But none of those pretenders could compete for sheer exuberance and unruly majesty with the home of the Emperor Karl Franz. At the mighty confluence of the Talabec and the Reik, where the pure waters running down from Averland mixed with the silt-laden torrents from the heart of the Drakwald, the spires, towers and crenulated bridges all jostled for space. Ships rubbed up against each other in the crowded harbours, rocking gently on the grey, filmy waters. Vast warehouses stood on the quaysides, rammed with goods both legal and contraband. Tenements crowded next to one another along the twisting alleyways and stairwells. Like the long-forgotten forest that had once stood on the ancient site, the buildings competed with each other for the light, strangling and throttling one another as they strained ever upwards.

The lower levels had been left behind by the race towards the sun. They were now half-drowned in bilge and the haunt of none but brigands, cutthroats or worse. And yet somehow, amidst all the violence and squalor, buildings of an awesome grandeur and vision had been raised on such foundations. The Colleges of Magic, varied and inscrutable, towered over the streets around them. The Imperial University, unwittingly built on the site of human sacrifices in the pagan days before Sigmar, stood proud and austere in the bright sunlight. Huge garrisons broke the skyline, each stuffed with arms and the men to wield them. Slaughterhouses, temples, marketplaces, mausoleums, scriptoria, merchants’ apartments, monasteries, brothels, cattle pens, counting-houses, all ran up against one another. Like a priest caught in bed with a prostitute, the high and noble rubbed shoulders—sometimes more than shoulders—with the filth and desperation of the gutter.

The narrow towers rose high over the lapping waters of the Reik. Chimneys belched out steady columns of muddy brown filth, staining the whitewashed walls a dirty flesh colour. Yet none of these buildings was more than a footnote to the mightiest of them all. The sprawling, ancient, ever-changing, ever-evolving Imperial Palace stood in the very heart of the city. Like the city it dominated, the palace was an architectural mess. Gothic arches of dark stone rubbed up against graceful elven-inspired gardens. Huge fortifications, some semi-ruined, were piled up against flimsy wattle-and-daub outhouses. Immaculate baroque halls of gold and copper were placed right next to boiling ceremonial kitchens, stinking with cooking fumes and slopping with goosefat.

No single man knew the full extent of the Imperial Palace. It descended into the bowels of the earth for nearly as far as its squat towers rose above the city. Many rooms within it had been left to fall into ruin, or were flooded, or had been locked in ages past to keep some terrible secret from the hands of the unwary. Few ventured into those uncharted areas at night unless driven by some awful need. There were strange things buried in the deep places, accumulations of generations of Emperors and their servants. When the candle-flames went out, not all the shadows were natural.

Even in the normally habitable regions, officials guarded their little kingdoms with obsessive jealousy. Vicious feuds, some stretching back across many lives of men, dominated the corridors of power. Behind the artful politesse and diplomacy, access to the Emperor and his court was ruthlessly sought. When it was secured, it was clung on to. The entire place was a microcosm of the world outside, complete with its civil wars, power struggles, dynastic manoeuvrings and applications of subtle poison in the dark.

And yet, somehow, out of all this ceaseless intrigue and politicking, the business of the Empire was conducted. From the gilded salons and audience chambers, orders were given. Inscriptions were made on parchment and vellum, and scribes passed them to officials and commanders. Though no one could track the paths these orders took, far less trace them back to their author, laws were made and decisions were taken. Trade agreements were entered into, appointments were made and broken, lands were granted and taken away. Most importantly, the armies of the Empire were deployed. From the stroke of a quill deep in the candlelit study of some grey-skinned scribe, a thousand men on the other side of the Empire could find themselves sent on campaign, or disbanded, or ordered back to barracks. Thus, imperfectly and with many detours, was the will of Karl Franz enacted across his domains.

So it was that weeks after the victory at the Turgitz Cauldron, a homecoming parade was ordered in honour of the Emperor’s Champion. Gold was procured for the event by means both legal and dubious. Hundreds of officials left their regular tasks to bend all their attention to it. Times were harder than usual across the Empire. Ceaseless war had taken its toll and the people were weary. When a great victory came, it needed to be celebrated. For no more than a moment, the impoverished masses would believe that all their troubles were over.

For as long as the procession lasted and the ale flowed, they would think humanity the undisputed master of the world, and their leaders the wisest and most benevolent of men.

In any case, all those dwelling in Altdorf knew that Schwarzhelm was no ordinary general. He had the Emperor’s favour more than any other (with the possible exception of his great rival), so the officials took especial pains to make sure all passed off as it should do. Less money than usual ended up disappearing between the coffers and the merchants’ guilds, and habitually slovenly workers found new reserves of diligence and attention to detail. Whole streets were cleared of their usual clutter. Market stalls were swept away, mounds of refuse dumped in the river, and fragrant oil-burners placed over the most noxious open sewers. Most impressively of all, the mighty thoroughfare leading from the Wilhelm III garrison to the grand gates of the palace was cleared. When the great flags were scraped clean of filth, men were amazed to discover that some of the graffiti still marking the stone dated back hundreds of years. Some less-than-flattering references to the Imperial ruling family and their proclivities were hastily scrubbed clean, though not before copies had been taken and circulated around the shabbier sort of tavern.

After many weeks of frenzied preparation, the great day finally dawned. Workers were given the day off by their employers and the streets filled with cheering crowds. Perhaps half of them had no idea why they were there. All they knew was that the drink was plentiful and the militia didn’t seem to mind. Many others knew exactly what they were witnessing. The Great Schwarzhelm. Children were shoved by their parents to the front of the teeming crowds. Normally placid men pushed and gouged their way to get a better view. A rumour went round that if he touched you then all illnesses would be banished. As the result the front ranks were dominated, aside from bewildered infants, by the leprous, the feverish and the consumptive.

When the procession came, it was no disappointment. Units of Reiksguard, resplendent in glittering armour, headed the cavalcade. That was no accident. Should any of the enthusiastic crowd get too carried away then the stern glances from the knights quickly restored some sense of order.

Behind them, ranks of soldiers marched in full regalia. Most had never been so finely kitted out and were determined to make the most of it. The younger men’s chins were laced with cuts where their shaving had been too vigorous, and the older ones had their facial hair arranged into ever more outlandish configurations. Each infantryman was cheered wildly by the crowd, even those who had no idea what they were celebrating. Flowers were strewn at their feet and kisses blown from maidens leaning from balconies. It didn’t matter that the flowers were half-rotten from storage and that the “maidens” generally charged half a schilling for their time. It was appearances that mattered.

When the commanders emerged, the cheering became even louder. Moving steadily up the causeway in full ceremonial armour, mounted on fine warhorses, Schwarzhelm’s retinue rode stiltedly between the baying mob. None of them looked comfortable. Leonidas Gruppen, accustomed by noble birth to feigned adulation from his subjects, was the most at ease. He wore his full battle armour minus the helmet, and raised his gauntlet now and again to acknowledge the shrieks all around. Andreas Grunwald was far less assured and picked nervously at his collar. Fighting beasts was one thing. Facing the full unleashed force of Altdorf’s citizenry was another. His companions looked equally unsure what to do. They went as quickly as they could, nudging their steeds impatiently, desperate to get the whole grotesque charade over with.

Finally, carried aloft on a ridiculous open carriage decorated with stucco images of Karl Franz vanquishing various breeds of monster, came the star attraction. Ludwig Schwarzhelm, Slayer of Raghram, Emperor’s Champion and dispenser of Imperial Justice, had somehow been persuaded to wear armour made of what looked like pure ithilmar. It probably wasn’t any such thing, but it blazed in the sun nonetheless. The only thing fiercer than the sheen of the fake silver was Schwarzhelm’s scowl. If he hadn’t owed his allegiance to Karl Franz above all others, he would never have allowed such a farrago to take place. As it was, his loyalty had barely survived the test, and he suffered the foolishness in silence.

Ahead of him, the severed head of Raghram was carried aloft on a long pole. As it passed, it was pelted with missiles from the crowd. Some thought it nothing more than a bull’s head, placed there for no better reason than to provide some sport for them. Others, more accustomed to the life of the forest beyond the city walls, recognised it for what it was and gaped in renewed awe at Schwarzhelm as he passed them. A doombull was a mighty prize.

So it was that, slowly and with as much pomp as the Imperial bureaucracy could muster, the victory parade made its way from the lower quarters of the city to the gates of the palace itself. When the various dignitaries had passed through the massive bronze-inlaid doors, mighty wheels within the stone walls were turned. The gates closed with a clang. Dried flower petals showered down from murder holes above the gatehouse and a flock of baffled doves lurched into the air. The crowd surged forward, eager for more. At the edges of the mob, scuffles broke out. Some thought that was the end of their entertainment.

Sadly for the military commanders, the ordeal was not yet over. Above the mighty gates was a stone portico.

Carved out of the heavy facade was a wide balcony, supported by flamboyant gargoyles with the wings of griffons and lined with a balustrade of fluted sandstone. One by one, the members of Schwarzhelm’s retinue emerged on to the space to receive the adulation of the crowd. There they stood, gazing with a mix of embarrassment and contempt at the raucous mob beneath them. The horde cared nothing for that. Most were too far gone with ale to reliably recognise their own children, let alone the disdainful expressions on the face of each Imperial commander.

Just as the beasts had done at the Cauldron, a chanting began to take over. The people wanted to see their hero.

“Schwarzhelm!” came the cry, over and over again.

Eventually, with a face like thunder, he answered their call. Still dressed in his blazing silver armour, Schwarzhelm strode onto the balcony. The horde of people below broke into wild cheers. The flowers, by now broken and foetid, were hurled up to the railing, where they showered back on to the people directly below. Schwarzhelm gazed over the scene impassively. Had any of the people been close enough to see his face, they would have recoiled at his studied look of distaste.

For a few moments longer the party on the balcony acknowledged the applause of the crowd. Eventually, clearly anxious to escape, they made to leave. But there was a final surprise. A new figure joined them, also clad in a suit of improbably polished armour. Immediately, the mob below changed their chant.

“Helborg!” came the cry. Men and women alike surged forward, desperate for a glimpse of the hero of the Empire. The Grand Marshal was happy to oblige, and raised a gauntlet in salute. That sent them even wilder. The press at the gates began to become acute. The Reiksguard captain stationed on the walls discreetly gave the signal to begin the dispersal. Troops began to emerge from the side streets, some very heavily armed. The commanders began to shuffle from the balcony. From a distance, all looked as it should be. The glorious heroes of the Empire, arrayed together for all to see their splendour. An observer would have had to have been very close by indeed to witness the frosty look that passed between Schwarzhelm and his great contemporary as they left the balcony to enter the palace.

But then they were gone, and the doors closed for good. The militia commanders ordered their troops steadily into the thoroughfare, making sure their weapons were raised and visible. All but the most beer-addled celebrants took the hint. The last of the petals drifted down from the murder holes, and the Reiksguard took guard in front of the closed gates. The party was over.

“Morr damn this nonsense!” spat Schwarzhelm, feeling his temper fray at the edges. The Emperor Karl Franz sat back in his heavily upholstered chair and looked with amusement at Schwarzhelm as he struggled out of his armour.

Aside from two manservants helping Schwarzhelm with the heavy plate armour, the two men were alone, cloistered together in one of the Emperor’s many private chambers. From the south wall, the warm summer sun streamed through large mullioned windows. Thick embroidered carpets adorned the wooden floors and gaudy portraits of Karl Franz’s illustrious ancestors hung from the panelled walls. The Emperor himself looked supremely at ease. He ran a finger around the edge of his gold-rimmed goblet, his dark, acute eyes glistening. He had the harsh features of all the Holswig-Schliestein line. His neck-length hair shone glossily in the filtered light, framing a battle-ravaged, care-lined face. Few of his subjects would ever have seen him thus, clad simply in a burgundy robe and soft leather shoes. A heavy gold medallion hung across his broad chest was the only sign of his high office.

Within the palace, the Emperor had no need for the finery of state. One look from his grey eyes gave away his mastery of the place. This was his lair, his seat, the well-spring of all his immense temporal power. Freed from the endless gaze of his people for a few precious moments, he could be something like himself. He could be amused.

“Don’t tell me you didn’t enjoy it just a little bit,” Karl Franz said. “I know you too well, Ludwig. You need the adulation. We all do.”

Schwarzhelm didn’t reply, but pulled the last of the frippery from his body. One of the manservants took up the piece reverently and placed it next to the carefully arranged stack of pauldrons, greaves, cuirass, cowter, poleyns and other sundry components of the armoured knight’s wardrobe. With the final elements retrieved and wrapped in cloth, the two hunched figures withdrew, closing the ornate doors behind them as they went.

Schwarzhelm pulled on a white robe and flexed his fingers. In the corner of the room, a great clock gently ticked. It was one of the newest innovations from the College of Engineers, presented to the Emperor in thanks for his long years of patronage. They’d said it had Ironblood workings inside, but they were probably lying about that.

“So. Now you’re free of all that, come and have a drink.”

Karl Franz was a genial host. Unlike his guest, he was clean-shaven. His voice was that of a statesman, calm and controlled. A lifetime spent in the higher echelons of the Empire’s ruling classes had given him easy manners. And yet the polished facade hid a mind of utter, ruthless determination. If it had not done so, the Empire would have long since succumbed to its many enemies. Karl Franz was the strand of iron that held the fractious realms of men together, and all those close to him knew it well.

Schwarzhelm sat heavily opposite him, traces of his scowl still present. Unlike his master, his social graces were rough. The battlefield was his home, and all other places were unnatural to him. He grasped a goblet from the table beside him and poured a large measure from the decanter.

“I’m sorry you had to go through that,” said the Emperor, letting the last of his amusement drain from his face. “The people need to see their heroes from time to time. Without that, they lose faith. And faith is everything.”

Schwarzhelm took a long swig.

“I’ll leave the politics to you. You know how to keep the crowds happy.”

“Don’t scorn that talent. You should trust my judgement.”

“I do. Why else would I go through with it?” Karl Franz smiled.

“Never have I tested your loyalty more,” he mused. He placed his goblet down on the table next to him. “But that charade is over now. We need to discuss more serious matters.”

Schwarzhelm let the wine sink down his gullet. Here it came. The next assignment. The scant days of reprieve had passed too quickly.

“I make no apology for publicly celebrating your victory at Turgitz,” said Karl Franz. “The beasts will be back, that we know. But not for a while, and that frees up resources for other things.”

He looked directly at Schwarzhelm.

“My mind has turned to healing old wounds,” he said. “One in particular. Ludwig, we need to do something about Averland.”

So that was it.

“Averland. Why now?”

“Why not?”

Karl Franz leaned forward in his seat. His eyes sparkled. It was the only outward sign he ever gave of excitement.

“We may never get a better chance. For the moment, our northern borders are free from threat. Though I will not say the war is over, it has abated for a season. There are matters left hanging, threads to be tidied away. Leitdorf’s seat is empty. A province must not be left without a master.”

“Maybe so, but that’s not in our gift to alter.”

“You disappoint me. How long have I known you? Have you learned nothing of the arts of state?”

Schwarzhelm said nothing. Even a gentle rebuke from the Emperor felt like a stain on his honour. That was his peculiar gift. He didn’t inspire loyalty. He inspired devotion.

“I recall when you were a young man,” continued the Emperor, picking up his wine again and rolling the liquid around in the crystal. “Leitdorf was still alive, but even then his mind was disarranged. He couldn’t be left to run things alone. You had no qualms about imposing the imperial writ then.”

“That was different.”

“Not really,” said Karl Franz.

“We can’t interfere with the coronation of an elector. It’s never been done.” Karl Franz let slip a sly smile.

“I don’t believe you really think that, Ludwig,” he said. “But hear me out. I have nothing underhand in mind. It’s in our interests—in the Empire’s interests—for Averland to have a strong man at the helm. The situation cannot be left to fester. There are plenty in that province who have no desire to see restoration of an electorship, but none of them can see beyond their own selfish noses. Even now we hear of greenskins in the passes, remnants of Ironjaw’s ravagers. The integrity of the Empire is at stake. The runefang must be wielded.”

Schwarzhelm pursed his lips. This sounded like politics already. He loathed politics. The only word he liked in that monologue was “greenskin”. Those, he knew what to do with.

“I’m waiting for you to tell me how I fit into this.”

“You are the dispenser of the Emperor’s justice,” replied Karl Franz. There was the faintest trace of irritation in his voice. “You carry the sword. Just as you did twenty years ago, I want you to go to Averheim. Oversee the succession of a new count. They can’t be allowed to drag their feet any longer. Take an army with you. If you have to use force, do it. The other electors won’t like it, but they have their own worries. I don’t care who ends up with the title, as long as it’s legal and as long as it happens soon.”

It was getting worse. Electoral law, the most fiendishly complicated legislation in the Old World. This wasn’t just politics. It was high politics. The kind that men lost their souls over—or their minds.

“My liege,” began Schwarzhelm, struggling to find the correct form of words, “are you sure I’m the right person for this? There are legal scholars in Altdorf, men steeped in…”

He trailed off. The Emperor looked at him with a disappointed expression.

“I have a thousand legal scholars here. Averheim has them too. Can any of them do what you can? Do any of them embody my Imperial power? What are you telling me? That you’re afraid of this?”

Ludwig felt the burning spark of shame kindle. He knew what the Emperor was doing. Karl Franz knew how to find a man’s weak spot. He was being tested. Always being tested. The examination never ended.

“I fear nothing but the law and Sigmar.”

“Then do as I ask.”

“Are you ordering me?”

“Do I need to?”

Schwarzhelm held the Emperor’s gaze for a few moments. This was the tipping point. He’d never queried an order. Never even queried a request. But this felt wrong. Some sense deep within him resisted. He could already see a host of possible outcomes, branching away from him like the tributaries of rivers. None were good. He should decline.

“No,” he said, giving in to duty. “Of course not. I am your servant.”

The Emperor smiled, but the gesture had an edge of ice to it.

“I’m glad you remembered.”

Far from the Imperial Palace and the grandeur of its associated institutions, a special area of elegant housing had been devoted to a single purpose. There had never been an official edict authorising the quarter to be so given over, but over many years a number of quietly influential people had started buying up portions of land and letting them to various other quietly influential people. A complicated series of trusts had been established, and some recalcitrant undesirable tenants had it discreetly but firmly made clear to them that they were no longer welcome in the area. Older structures were demolished, including a rare example of Mandred-era stonework, and handsome townhouses took their place. These were somewhat more desirable than the ramshackle Altdorf norm and were all constructed of solid oak beams and well-laid brick.

Whenever anyone tried to make enquiries as to the legal basis of all this change, they were met by an impenetrable wall of ownership, cross-ownership and counter-ownership. It was surprisingly difficult to discover who owned what and how the money had been unearthed to build such a fine collection of handsome dwellings. Over time, however, it became clear that all of the new inhabitants were peculiarly similar. They were all men, all old and all retired from the highest reaches of the Empire’s armies. Unlike the rank and file, who mostly died on the field or sloped back to a life of penury in the villages whence they’d come, these were wealthy men. Generals, regiment commanders, grand masters and master engineers. They had the resources to fund a comfortable retirement and the connections to snare the best of the available property in the city. They could have gone anywhere, but they liked being with their own kind.

As soon as the quarter began to fill up with such types, the rest of Altdorf knew it was pointless to pursue any further legal challenges. The various organised criminal syndicates had nothing on the quiet muscle of this old officers’ club. And as the new arrivals were mostly eccentric old codgers with their potent days far behind them, no one minded very much. The area became renowned for a kind of faded, civil gentility. That was a rare thing in Altdorf, and city-dwellers in less enlightened districts would occasionally pay a visit, just for a glance of another, more refined, way of life.

There were many famous old names who’d ended up in the General’s Quarter, as it became known. Klaus von Trachelberg, the Butcher of Bohringen, now spent his time constructing bird cages from discarded walking canes. The fiery Boris Schlessing, renowned for his bloody defence of Skargruppen Keep during the incursion of Gnar Limbbreaker, had created a garden made entirely of fabulously expensive Cathayan miniature trees. This he watered every morning, clipping the edges of the tiny branches with a pair of silver scissors while humming tunes from his childhood.

Not all the residents had descended into senility or dotage. Many noble reputations had been preserved in the quarter, and a steady stream of disciples made their way into it from time to time, looking for guidance and inspiration. So famous did it become, that the expression “to go to the Quarter” entered into common use, meaning to take time to seek some measured opinion from a wiser head.

Schwarzhelm paused before entering the house. It was on the edge of the Quarter, in sight of the river but far from the worst elements of the quayside. It was modest by the standards of the area, but had a well-kept look about it. The seal of the Emperors hung over the main doorway, carved in granite. Schwarzhelm stared at it for a moment. He’d fought under that seal for nearly thirty years. He knew every line of its intricate form. The paired griffons rampant, the sable shield, the initials of Karl Franz and the devices of his Reikland forebears. It might as well have been branded on to his chest.

“You can stare at it as long as you like. It won’t change.”

The door opened. From inside, the speaker emerged. He was an old man, clad in a simple robe of pale grey. Though stooped with age, he still bore himself proudly. Something in the way he carried himself, the fearless manner in which he looked up at Schwarzhelm, gave his old profession away.

“Master,” said Schwarzhelm, simply.

“I suppose you want to come in?”

The Emperor’s Champion nodded like a callow youth.

“Do you have time?”

“Of course. For you, always. Mind the mess as you enter, though. I’ve been brewing, and there are hops all across the scullery floor.”

Ducking his mighty head under the low doorway, Schwarzhelm entered the house of Heinrich Lassus, and the door closed behind him.

The two men sat in the old general’s drawing room. It was cluttered, filled with the residue of a long career in the saddle. Two wolfhounds slumbered in front of the empty fireplace. They hadn’t raised an eyebrow at Schwarzhelm’s entrance. They were old dogs, and his smell was familiar enough. Like their master, they’d seen better days.

A row of battle-honours hung over the imposing marble mantelpiece. Some were old indeed, long superseded by more modern tributes. Few scholars would have recognised Wilifred’s Iron Hammer for anything other than a pleasing trinket, though most would have realised the importance of Lassus’ papers of commission, now placed behind glass to preserve the cracking vellum. Even the illiterate would have recognised the florid initials of the Emperor and the Imperial crest stamped in faded red.

The greatest honour of all, though, was not on display on the walls. Schwarzhelm saw that Lassus still wore it himself. He was a humble man, but some gifts were beyond price and all soldiers had their weaknesses. As he always did, Lassus had the Star of Sigmar pinned to his robes, just above his heart. The greatest military honour in the Empire. As his chest moved, the iron comet emblem rose and fell with the fabric.

“So it’s Averland,” he said.

Lassus’ eyes drifted out of focus. His white hair looked almost transparent and his fingers shook a little as he cradled them in his lap. The proud features which had once inspired such devotion and terror had softened with the years. Schwarzhelm thought his skin looked more fragile than it had done the last time he’d called. When had that been? A year ago? More? The demands of the field were endless. For every night he spent in his bed in Altdorf, he’d lived through a week on campaign. He felt stretched. Drained. One day, something would break. He’d prove unworthy of the blade he carried. One day.

“It had to come at some point, I suppose.” Lassus’ gaze returned to focus. Old he may have been, but his mind was still working fast, teasing out the possibilities.

“I can’t see the wisdom of it,” said Schwarzhelm, sullenly. Ever since his audience with the Emperor, his mood had been sluggish. There was something about the task ahead that chilled him, something indefinable. Facing doombulls was something he could cope with, even take a kind of enjoyment in. War was what he was built for. Politics was for lesser men.

Lassus smiled tolerantly.

“You’re going to lecture Karl Franz on statecraft now, Ludwig?” The old man looked at him fondly. “You haven’t changed. Not since you walked into my training ground for the first time. Even then, I knew you were something special. But you’ve always doubted yourself. You’ve never shaken that off. Your one weakness.”

From another man, those words would have invited swift retribution. Schwarzhelm’s reputation was fearsome. On the battlefield, he was the very image of implacable, terrible resolve. To have that quality questioned was verging on heresy. And yet, Lassus remained free to ruminate unmolested. That was the honour given to the teacher. Even now, Lassus was the master and Schwarzhelm the pupil.

“He’s sent me on many such missions in the past,” muttered Schwarzhelm. “Never have I even given the faintest hint of reluctance. But something about this turns my stomach. Averland has always been…”

“Your home,” interrupted Lassus. “You have the blood of the Siggurd in your veins, my boy, though you’ve probably forgotten it. The Emperor isn’t stupid. He needs someone who understands the ways of your strange province. That’s why he sent you to stamp down on Leitdorf before, and it’s why you’re the only one to do it now.”

Schwarzhelm listened to the words, but they brought him no comfort. Was comfort what he’d expected? That was for babes and women. He needed wisdom, even if it proved hard to hear.

“So what would you do?”

Lassus laughed. The sound was dry in the man’s leathery throat.

“If I were young enough to still do my service? I’d go. You have no choice. But be careful. You’ve just been given a triumphal procession. Few men are afforded such an honour. That makes you enemies amongst the many who will never see such nonsense delivered in their name. Those whom the gods wish to destroy they first give a triumph. There may be those who will use this situation to harm you.”

“Let them try,” growled Schwarzhelm.

“I did not say: be defiant. I said: be careful. This manoeuvring is not your strength, my lad. You can fight your way out of almost anything where a sword is called for. But there are other ways of harming a man. Subtle ways. And there are plenty in Altdorf who would like to wield the Rechtstahl in your place.”

Schwarzhelm felt his sullen mood return. Lassus had never been one to tell him what he wanted to hear. That was why he’d been the greatest fightmaster in the Reikland and before that one of her greatest generals. It was why he had been given the Star, and why he still wore it. No lesser man would have been able to tame the young Schwarzhelm, full of anger and dreams of conquest. And even then, the youthful Ludwig had given Lassus a hard time. Like an unbroken Averland colt, he’d been hard to teach without a fight. Hard, but not impossible.

“I don’t say this to dishearten you,” the old man continued. “The first step in avoiding a plot is to know it’s there. The world is changing. The Emperor knows it. New powers are rising. So he tests all his servants. You must prove yourself again, and this is the exam.”

Schwarzhelm remained silent, pondering the words as Lassus spoke them.

“And of course, he’s right about Averland. If the war hadn’t come, something would have been done earlier. It can’t go on, this uncertainty. A few merchants will get fat off it, and the luck of Ranald to them, but all good things come to an end.”

Schwarzhelm stirred himself. It was clear that there was no escape from the onerous task. He had to take what wisdom he could from the old man.

“It’s been too long since I was in Averheim,” Schwarzhelm said. “Much has changed in twenty years.

“My agent Verstohlen has some contacts there, and he’s doing work on my behalf, but what would your judgement be? Where is the balance of power?”

Lassus looked pleased to be asked. No doubt in his retirement, studying the politics of the provinces was a welcome exercise for his subtle mind.

“There are only two men who can take the runefang. Ferenc Alptraum has neither the stomach nor the support to do it, much to the chagrin of his formidable grandmother. The Alptraums would rather poison their own children than see another Leitdorf occupy the elector’s chair, so they’ll rally behind Grosslich, the pretender. That’s a powerful card for him to play. Grosslich’s popular with the masses. I hear he’s handsome. He’s also a bachelor, which holds the promise of a political marriage. That’ll bring other noble families to his side, at least those with eligible daughters.”

“Heinz-Mark Grosslich,” said Schwarzhelm, repeating the name of the upstart contender for the vacant electorship. The man had emerged from relative obscurity to challenge for the prize. Where his gold had come from was shrouded in uncertainty. His family had never been particularly influential. The man had done well to carve out his claim. “Can he do it?”

Lassus shrugged.

“That’s your task to determine. The peasants love him. He knows how to play to them. There’s not a drop of noble blood in his body, but maybe that’s the way things are going. You’re no aristocrat yourself, after all.”

Schwarzhelm grunted. He didn’t need reminding. “And Leitdorf?”

“Rufus? He has the weight of tradition On his side. His father may have been mad, but he was an astute old fox in his way. There are many in debt to that man, even now. If the older son, Leopold, hadn’t died at Middenheim, maybe this would never have come up. But Rufus is a different breed of thoroughbred. Second sons never expect to inherit the seat. He’s spent his youth whoring and gambling, and it shows. I met him once, here in Altdorf. He didn’t impress me then, but that was while his father still ruled, and they say he’s married since. A woman can change a man, just as surely as a blade can. The Empire’s a conservative place. He remains the favourite.”

Schwarzhelm digested the information. It was more or less the same as Verstohlen had told him. But the spy had named his wife, Natassja Hiess-Leitdorf. Where she’d come from was as opaque as Grosslich’s gold. That would have to be looked into. There were many things to be looked into.

“Any others?”

Lassus shook his head.

“With the Alptraums behind Grosslich, there are no other challengers. This is a two-man race. But it won’t be simple. There are wheels within wheels. The guilds are still powerful, especially the horsemasters. Some would rather have no elector, some are desperate for one to be appointed. And watch out for the city fathers. Von Tochfel, the steward, is known here at the palace. He’s acquired a taste for power, like most men do when they’re allowed to sample it. He may find reasons not to stand aside.”

Tochfel was another of Verstohlen’s names. As was Achendorfer, the loremaster. There were plenty of power-brokers to contend with. Schwarzhelm let slip a long, grating sigh.

“This is not the kind of fight I relish,” he said. “They say there are greenskins massing in the mountains. I hope they come. Cracking their heads will make this assignment a little less dull.”

Lassus gave him a shrewd look.

“Be careful what you wish for. A wise man does not seek to multiply his problems. The Emperor knows you can wield a warhammer. He’s looking for finesse on this occasion. Prove that to him and you need worry about Helborg no longer.”

At Kurt’s name, Schwarzhelm felt his heart miss a beat. Was he that transparent?

“Why mention him?”

“Come, now. I mean no dishonour to the Marshal. You two hold the Empire aloft together. But don’t try to conceal the rivalry between you. I’ve watched it unfold for thirty years. All of Altdorf sees you sparring, and that’s just how the Emperor likes it. It keeps you both fresh. Helborg would have to be a saint beyond reproach not to wish to see you stumble, just a little. And from what I hear, he’s no saint.”

Schwarzhelm scowled. This was too close to the bone.

“I could use your counsel in Averheim,” he said, almost without meaning to.

“Don’t be stupid.” The voice was his old fightmaster’s, berating him for sloppiness. Schwarzhelm could have been right back on the training yards, his wooden sword heavy in his blistered hands. “I’m too old. I was leading armies out across Ostermark when you were suckling at your mother’s breast. This is your time, Ludwig. None is held in higher esteem than you. Get this right and you will leave all your rivals behind. For good. There is nothing more I could do to aid you.”

He fixed Schwarzhelm with that old look, at once savage, at once paternal.

“This is your fate, my boy. Seize it, and magnify the honour due to you.”

Schwarzhelm heard the words, but they gave him little comfort. The dark mood that had plagued him since his meeting with the Emperor was slow to lift. He found himself wishing to change the subject, deflect attention from himself.

“You tell me to seek honour,” he said. “You never did.”

Lassus looked shocked. Suddenly, Schwarzhelm felt rude and ignorant. That was what he was, at the core. Just another peasant from the provinces. No matter how long he stayed in Altdorf, he’d never learn the manners of Helborg.

“Direct, as ever,” Lassus said. “Do you really think I ever wanted the kind of standing von Tochfel has? Or, Sigmar preserve us, the Leitdorfs? There are more ways than one to make a success of one’s life. Maybe when you’re as old as I am, you’ll see that. My battles are over. I’ve been granted the grace to retire from the field and see out the rest of my days in peace. Whatever the result of this affair, do you think Rufus Leitdorf will ever know such satisfaction?”

Lassus looked at Schwarzhelm with poorly concealed affection.

“I’ll take my pleasure in the achievements of others now, Ludwig. I have faith in you, even if you don’t. I’ll pray for you when you’re gone. And, when all is concluded, I’ll be here to welcome you back.”

Schwarzhelm saw the look of trust in Lassus’ eyes. His old master had complete confidence. That was touching. Another man might have smiled back.

“I’ll keep you informed of progress,” Schwarzhelm said gruffly. He rose from his seat and made to leave. “I fear it may be months before a decision is made.”

Lassus remained seated.

“Not if I know you,” he replied. “But do not be too hasty. Your enemies know of your quick temper. They will use it against you. Be careful, Ludwig.”

Schwarzhelm looked down at the frail old man. It was a ludicrous scene. Schwarzhelm, even out of his armour, looked almost invincible. And yet it was Lassus who was most at ease, most in command.

“I will be,” said Schwarzhelm. Then he turned, ducking under the low ceiling, and left the house of his master.

Chapter Five

Pieter Verstohlen lay back in the bed, arms behind his head. The morning sun slanted through narrow windows, throwing bars of golden light across the sheets. It wasn’t long after dawn, and the noises of the city were beginning to filter up from the street outside. They weren’t the usual raucous obscenities. This was an affluent district, far from the worst of the rabble. The University was nearby, and its spires were just visible from the window. After the long campaign, it felt good to be in luxury again. He always missed it. “Awake, then?”

Julia returned to the side of the bed, her long dark hair falling around her face. She was wearing one of his shirts. She looked good in it. Very good. When she passed in front of the window, the sunlight picked out her silhouette through the fine fabric.

“Just about. Why don’t you join me?”

Verstohlen reached for the remains of his wine from the night before. He took a sip as Julia slipped the shirt off and lay beside him. The wine had turned vinegary in the night, but was still drinkable.

“You were talking in your sleep.”

Verstohlen felt a sudden spike of concern. That was unprofessional. The anxiety didn’t show on his smooth, open face, though. It never did.

“Oh yes? Whispering undying love?” Julia sighed.

“No such luck. I couldn’t make it out. But you looked worried. I almost woke you.”

Verstohlen wriggled his arm under her and feigned indifference.

“It’s been a long campaign,” he said nonchalantly. “A man forgets the pleasures of the city.”

“I hope I’ve reminded you.”

“Oh yes.”

Julia was a whore, to be sure, but a very good one. Verstohlen had impeccable taste in all things, and women were no exception. She was educated, well-connected and discreet. All three were important to him. That said, she probably knew far more about him than she ever let on. Occasionally, he wondered who her other clients were. Generals, dukes, magisters, maybe a prince or two. He’d never asked, and he knew she’d never tell.

“You’re going off again soon?” she asked, nuzzling against his shoulder comfortably.

“How do you know these things?”

“Schwarzhelm is going to Averland. Everyone knows that. And where he goes, you’re bound to follow.”

Verstohlen smiled ruefully. That was true.

“In a couple of days. The Emperor has decreed that the succession must be decided. Schwarzhelm will pass judgement on the claims.”

“That’s a quick way to make enemies.”

“You’re an astute judge, my dear.”

“Thank you.”

Verstohlen didn’t need to ask her where she got her information. That would have been indelicate. But she was right. It suited many Averlanders not to have an elector in place. With no incumbent in Averheim, they could get on with the business of cattle-rearing and horse-breeding without those inconvenient Imperial levies. They were far enough from the frontline not to care too deeply about the demands of war. Life was good in the south, and they were milking it for all they could get.

“So which way do you think it’ll go?” she asked.

“You’re asking me to predict the outcome before we get there? Have you so little regard for the Imperial law?”

“Imperial law,” she scoffed. “If you cared anything for that, you wouldn’t be here.”

“True enough,” he said. “But no, I have no idea which way the thing will turn. I’d say they were evenly matched, Grosslich and the Leitdorf heir. And, before you ask, we’re not under orders to pick one of them. This is a genuine contest. Schwarzhelm’s just there to force a decision.”

“If you say so.”

“I do.”

As he spoke, Verstohlen realised how unusual that situation was. In any normal assignment, there’d be some clandestine objective. He might have to slip some misinformation here, or place a modest bribe there. On occasion, the cause demanded more drastic measures, and he knew his poisons. He was good at it all. That was why Schwarzhelm trusted him. That, and many other reasons.

This situation was odd. His role was to gather intelligence, and nothing more. That alone unnerved him. Perhaps that’s why he’d been talking in his sleep.

“Are you travelling with him alone?”

“Oh no. It’ll be the family. Schwarzhelm likes his own people around him. He’s good like that, picking up us waifs and strays.”

“The family. Quaint.”

“It keeps us out of mischief.”

“So it’s you, Grunwald and Gruppen?”

Verstohlen turned his head to give her a suspicious look. That was very well-informed, even for her.

“Did you really not hear what I said last night?”

Julia shrugged.

“Come on. There’s no secret about his lieutenants.”

“If I didn’t know my secrets were as safe with you as they would be with Verena herself, I’d begin to get worried. You could destroy my reputation.”

“And lose my best customer?” she said. “I don’t mean the money, either. You’re a handsome man, Pieter. I’d miss these special visits.”

Verstohlen laughed.

“Oh, you’re good,” he said. “But to answer your question, Leonidas won’t be there. His chapter’s been called to the front. The order came from high up. Very high up. Andreas will be going, though. And a new man. Bloch. I like him. He’s dangerous, but in the best way. Schwarzhelm sees something of himself in him, I reckon.”

“He sees something of himself in all of you.”

“In Grunwald, maybe. Not me. That’s why he trusts me. I’m Morrslieb to his Mannslieb.”

Julia chuckled at that. As she laughed, Verstohlen admired the rise and fall of the crumpled sheets around her.

“I’ll miss you, Pieter,” she said, wistfully.

“What do you mean? I’ll be back. I can’t keep away from you.”

“Don’t mock me. I mean it. You’re getting too old for whoring. You need a wife. And when you get one, that’s the last I’ll see of you. I know it. That damned sense of honour.”

Verstohlen felt the good humour suddenly drain out of him. How was he going to respond to that? Perhaps with the truth, that most elusive and valuable of prizes. But there were only so many ways you could tell the story without sounding bitter. And where would he stop? Just with the fact that he had been married? Or with the fact that Leonora was dead? Or with the way that she’d died, at the hands of those monsters? Or with the fact that he’d loved her so much, so painfully and so completely, that there would never be another woman in his life again, not even if an avatar of blessed Verena herself descended and begged him to take her in blissful matrimony?

The appetites of the flesh were one thing. He was a man, after all. But his soul belonged to another, and that would never change. He was no longer, as they said, the marrying kind.

“Don’t trust too much to honour,” was all he said. His voice was bleak. “It has a way of letting you down.”

Julia, with all the grace of her profession, sensed a nerve had been touched. Smoothly, expertly, she ran a finger down his cheek.

“So serious,” she whispered. “I could help with that. How long before you have to leave?”

Verstohlen rolled over, looking her in the eyes. He didn’t like to remember the past. Anything that helped him forget was welcome. And Julia certainly helped him forget.

“Long enough.”

“That’s good news,” said Julia, pulling him towards her.

Much later, Markus Bloch relaxed against the wooden bench, feeling good. He was full of ale. So full, it felt as if it would soon start running out of his eyes. It was Altdorf filth, not as good as he’d get back home in the sticks, but it did the trick. His vision was blurred, his gut overfull, his head heavy. He felt fantastic.

What made it better was sharing his fortune with his best friends. To be fair, they had only been his best friends for the past few hours. It was uncanny the way a man could strike up such close relationships after walking into a tavern with a purse full of schillings. If he was cynical, he might put it down to the generous rounds he’d been able to stump for. But that would be churlish. These men were the finest in the world. His kind of people. The salt of the earth.

Bloch let his gaze sweep across the interior of the inn. He couldn’t remember its name. Something like The Seagull, although that would be odd, since Altdorf was hundreds of miles from the sea. The bar was crowded and acrid clouds of pipesmoke hung heavy in the shadows. The smells were reassuringly familiar. Beer, straw, sweat, piss.

Most of the patrons were human, though there were dwarfs skulking in the shadows. Altdorf was a cosmopolitan place, and no eyebrows were raised at their presence. They drank from massive iron tankards carved with runes while the men knocked back their beer from rude pewter cups.

You had to hand it to the dwarfs, thought Bloch. They cared about their beer, and they knew how to put it away. He hadn’t seen one of them drunk under the table in all his many happy years in the inns of the Empire. He’d tried to achieve the feat himself. Twice. It hadn’t ended happily on either occasion. The first time he’d lost his dignity, the second his wallet. Still, it had been worth it. One day he’d do it. He just needed more practice.

With that thought in mind, he downed the last of his drink. The beer became unpleasantly silted at the base of his cup, but you had to drain it to the end if you wanted to get a fresh one. House rules, and damned good ones they were too.

“Renard!” he bellowed, feeling the liquid swill around his insides. “I’ll have the next one now.”

His Bretonnian companion, beer-bellied and greasy like the rest of the drinkers, grinned. The man had done well out of the evening so far and seemed happy to stand for another drink. Unlike most of his effeminate countrymen, he was content with proper man’s ale. That was what Bloch had always liked about him. Ever since he’d first met him. An hour ago.

“You can handle it, Bloch, I’ll give you that,” said the Bretonnian. He was smiling. Bloch smiled back. His benevolence knew no bounds. “Tell us more stories. They’re entertaining.”

Bloch looked around the table. All eyes were on him. There was Clovis, the travelling peddler from Bogenhafen. He looked shifty and sallow, and hadn’t bought a drink all night. Walland was a better man. Thick as a giant, but generous and ready with a dirty laugh. His eyes were drooping now. And then there was the builder’s mate Holderlin, and the halfling Tallowhand, and Bruno the hired muscle. All fine men. His kind of men. He felt like telling them he loved them.

“All right,” he slurred, watching his next drink arrive with approval. The serving wench had an appealing set of curves, but she moved too quickly for him to grab anything. Anyway, she was badly blurred. “I’ve saved the best till last. You’re going to love this.”

He took a long swig. Bilge water. All eyes were on him.

“I told you about the Turgitz campaign, when I killed the doombull,” he continued, wiping his mouth. “But that’s not the best of it. After I’d pulled the halberd out and cleaned it, I noticed the general was in trouble. That’s right lads, the general of the whole bloody army.”

Bloch noticed with satisfaction that they were hanging on his every word. Marvellous men, they were.

“Another man would’ve looked after himself. After all, I’d just killed the bull, and I was pretty bloody tired. But no, I thought. Damn it, the general’s a fine man. The finest of men. Just like you fellas. So I hoisted my blade and launched in. I was pretty fired up by then, and I tell you, you don’t want to get on the wrong side of me when I’m angry.”

He might have imagined it, but it looked like Renard shot a low glance at Clovis then. What was that about? Never mind. He was in full flow now.

“So I launched in, like I said. You don’t want to get on the wrong side of me when I’m angry. Like I said. One, two, and he’s done. I’ve stuck him. Right in the guts. Not the general, mind. He’s a fine man, the best of men. I’ve killed the gor. That bloody great gor that was giving him some trouble. And when it’s all over, he turns to me—the general, that is—and he says, ‘Bloch, that was the finest fighting I’ve seen in my fifty years in the Emperor’s armies. Forget your service with the Reikland halberdiers. Come and join my retinue.’ So I did. And that’s what’s brought me back here. I told you I was a halberdier captain. No bloody longer, mates. I’m the general’s man now. And he’s a fine man, I tell you.”

There it was again. Renard was definitely up to something. Clovis was looking shifty. But Holderlin was hanging on his every word, as was Bruno.

“Which general?” said Tallowhand, looking suspicious. Damned half-breeds. This was difficult. He knew he should keep names out of this. Ferren had told him to. But the story was running out of steam. Clovis looked bored. They needed something big. Something to impress them.

He took a long, gulping swig.

“You’re not going to believe it, mates,” he said, wiping his mouth. “But it’s the truth. I swear it on Sigmar’s holy mother, it’s the truth. I wouldn’t lie to you.”

He leaned forward, milking the moment for all it was worth. Holderlin was wide-eyed, and even Walland had woken up.

“He’s the foremost general in the Empire,” he said, his voice low. “The Emperor’s right-hand man.” He sat back, folded his arms, and waited for the gasps. “Helborg!” exclaimed Holderlin. Bloch nearly spilt his drink.

“Damn you!” he bellowed, all thought of secrecy forgotten. “Not that prancing pretty boy. Schwarzhelm. You know, the Champion.”

That silenced the room. Bloch felt a twinge of unease. Why were they so quiet?

“You shouldn’t have said that about Marshal Helborg,” said Walland in a low voice. His slow face looked surly. That annoyed Bloch. What did these peasants know about Helborg? They were idiots, the lot of them. He couldn’t recall what he’d ever seen in them.

“Oh yes?” Bloch said, a sinister note creeping into his voice. “And why’s that?”

Holderlin was nodding in support of Walland.

“He’s the hero of the Empire, that’s why,” he said. His voice was thin and annoying. Bloch felt his temper rising.

“He’s nothing compared to the big man. Gods, you weren’t there after he killed the doombull. He was like Sigmar reborn!”

“I thought you killed the doombull?” said Clovis, obsequiously.

Bloch got angrier. These people were scum. Real scum.

“Yeah, we both did, all right? And then we carved our way through the rest of those damned beasts. And where was your pretty boy Helborg? Riding around the Drakwald on his own, lost! He’s not half the man Schwarzhelm is, and I’ll fight anyone who says otherwise.”

That changed things. At the mention of the word “fight”, Tallowhand and Holderlin finished their drinks and quietly slipped away. Bruno was close behind, but Walland remained. His expression had lowered further, and he looked surly. Renard and Clovis stayed in their seats, watching.

“You don’t know nothing ’bout Helborg,” Walland growled. Bloch saw him reach down to his beltline. This was getting nasty.

“I know a damn sight more than you, fat man.”

Walland stood up. He had a knife in his hand and his flabby cheeks were flushed.

“No one calls me fat,” he said.

Bloch felt a surge of hot blood rush to his temples. He didn’t have a weapon, but he was more than capable of taking on a drunken provincial hick like Walland. He rose in turn, pushing the bench back. As he did so, the inn lurched uncomfortably and he had to grab the table for support. This ale was damned strong stuff. Perhaps more than he’d thought.

“Gentlemen,” interjected Renard, rising quickly. “You don’t want to be ruining a pleasant evening like this. We’re all friends here.”

He pressed something shiny into Walland’s palm and whispered something in the man’s ear. Walland grunted and retreated, glowering at Bloch all the while.

Though he wouldn’t have admitted it to anyone but himself, Bloch felt relief. He wasn’t that steady on his feet. The tavern interior was pitching alarmingly. They really ought to fix that.

Renard came to his side, supporting him. Somehow, Clovis ended up on his other arm. Bloch blinked furiously, trying to clear his vision.

“Another drink?” he suggested cheerfully.

“I think you’ve had enough,” said Clovis. The man wasn’t smiling. Bloch felt himself being manoeuvred towards the tavern entrance. That was a shame. The evening had just been getting started.

“So what are we up to now, boys?” Bloch asked, noticing how cloudy his eyesight was even as they left the tavern and staggered out into the street beyond.

Renard smiled again, but said nothing. The man was always smiling. Bloch didn’t like that. You couldn’t trust a man who smiled too much. That was one of the many great things about Schwarzhelm, Sigmar preserve his soul.

“Did I tell you about how I rescued Grunwald?” Bloch asked, hoping another story would rekindle the bonhomie between them. “He’s a damned pansy, if you ask me. Lost his position and ended up being chased by the beasts all the way to me. He’ll be my superior officer, more’s the pity, but he won’t have anything on me. What’s he going to do when I refuse to follow orders? I saved his life! That’s a pretty good position to be in, don’t you think? Lads?”

They didn’t reply.

“Lads?”

“You can stop talking now.” The voice was Clovis. He’d stopped even pretending to be civil. Bloch looked around him. Everything was in shadows. Where had they taken him? It looked like an alley of some sort. It was quiet. Very quiet. Damn.

“Forget it,” Bloch said, with as much bravado as he could muster. “I’ve handled worse than you before. If you step away now, we’ll call it…”

He felt the cool metal of the blade against his neck. It pressed in close. He felt a line of blood form on his skin. It trickled down the inside of his jacket.

“We’ve heard all about it,” said Renard from his shoulder. The man’s face was close, and Bloch could smell the cheese on the man’s breath. But not ale. Had he been the only one drinking? “You’re an entertaining fellow. I’d hate to end your stories for good. So why don’t you hand over those shiny schillings you’ve been so free with. We know you’ve got more. The Emperor’s Champion pays handsomely.”

Bloch felt his fists balling instinctively. Could he fight his way out of this? For a moment, he weighed up the options. Clovis had a blade too and looked anxious to use it. He didn’t share his companion’s friendly manner.

The knife pressed harder against his skin. Bloch felt the skin part. The pain cut through his drunken haze. There was no chance.

“Just stick him, Renard,” spat Clovis, looking eager to be gone.

“All right!” said Bloch, hurriedly rummaging through his pockets. The pouch with Schwarzhelm’s payment was still there. Still nearly full. He pulled it out and threw it to the ground. Clovis darted after it.

“Everything there?” asked Renard, still pressing the knife to Bloch’s neck.

There was a coarse laugh from the shadows.

“Oh yes. This’ll do nicely. Very nicely indeed.”

Renard twisted the blade into Bloch’s flesh.

“You’re a lucky man,” he said. “Taking money puts me in a good mood. And I never kill when I’m in a good mood. But if you weren’t lying about your new employer, you’d better wise up fast. You’re not as impressive as you think.”

The blade was removed. Bloch whirled around, trying to catch Renard, but the movement made him feel sick. Everything span, and he couldn’t see a thing. He stumbled forward, trying to catch at least one of them.

He saw the fist too late. With a crunch, it hit him square between the eyes. He fell heavily, feeling the last of his vision give out. From somewhere, Clovis’ laughter echoed up the narrow alleyway. With the metallic taste of blood in his mouth, Bloch tried to rise, failed, then passed out.

The vast corridor in the Imperial Palace was empty. Even the guards that had escorted Grunwald down the six levels from the South Gate had left. Their echoing footfalls had ebbed into nothing, and the shadows in the empty space hung heavily. That hadn’t improved Grunwald’s nerves. All around him were depictions of great military engagements of the past. Over the doorway he was facing there was a massive frieze of the relief of Praag. The artist had really made an effort with the daemonic hordes. That didn’t improve his mood.

Part of him didn’t understand why he was so nervous. He’d worked with the big man for years. As far as one ever got with Schwarzhelm, they were close. Grunwald had proved himself on the battlefield countless times. They were both common soldiers, both had risen through the ranks. And yet, there had never been a failure like Turgitz. Before, he’d always met the challenge, always found a way. Perhaps that had raised expectations.

There was no use delaying things. He’d been summoned, and the big man cared about punctuality. After a few heartbeats more, Grunwald swallowed and knocked on the door. The raps resounded down the vaulted passageway.

“Come.” Schwarzhelm’s voice was unmistakable. He didn’t sound angry. But it was the first time he’d been summoned since the failure at Turgitz. You could never tell with the big man.

Grunwald pushed the door open. Inside, Schwarzhelm sat at a huge desk. It was covered with parchment maps and documents of requisition. More charts hung on the walls. They covered all the provinces of the Empire. Some even went further afield. There was one ancient-looking sheet of vellum with a depiction of what looked like a massive, circular island hanging on the far architrave. Sigmar only knew where that was.

“Sit,” ordered Schwarzhelm. Grunwald did as he was told, taking a low chair opposite the desk. Was the Champion still in a bad mood? By the expression on his face, yes. The man’s face looked more lined than usual and there were grey bags under his eyes. The huge beard, normally a source of pride, looked unkempt. He had the look of a man who hadn’t been sleeping.

Grunwald didn’t ask why he’d been summoned. He knew better than that. He sat and waited.

“You’ll be leaving with a detachment of my personal forces tomorrow,” said Schwarzhelm at length. He pushed the chart he’d been studying aside and looked at Grunwald.

“Yes, my lord.” That was a relief. Grunwald had been wondering whether he’d be included in the Averland assignment at all.

“There’ve been more reports of greenskins massing in the east,” continued Schwarzhelm. “From Grenzstadt. And now close to Heideck. Too many for comfort. Averland’s got lazy without an elector. If we have to, we’ll do their work for them.”

“I understand.” He knew what the score was. The incursion would have to be kept away from Averheim while the legal process was expedited. That was all that mattered. “Do the Averlanders have forces of their own?”

Schwarzhelm made a dismissive noise.

“Plenty. But the two sides are keeping them back in case the selection turns ugly. I’ve already sent letters of requisition. We’ll see how far we get with them.” He shook his head. “They’re my countrymen, so I ought to understand them. But when they’ve got an incursion on their doorstep, you’d have thought—”

He broke off, looking disgusted.

“They’ve forgotten about Ironjaw already,” he concluded.

Grunwald stole a glance at the maps on the desk. Schwarzhelm had scrawled all over them. Supply lines, possible attack routes, staging posts, he’d got it all worked out. That was no surprise. He always had the alternatives mapped out. Grunwald would have to study them himself later.

“You’ll be taking Markus Bloch with you,” said Schwarzhelm. “He’ll be under your command.”

Grunwald let the ghost of a frown pass across his face before suppressing it.

“Bloch? The halberdier?”

“You have a problem with that?”

“No, my lord. Except… he’s not worked with us before.”

Schwarzhelm looked calm. He could be intolerant when his decisions were questioned.

“He’s proved his worth already. Or had you forgotten who guarded your retreat?”

Grunwald felt his ears go red, despite his long training. The shame of his failure still hung heavy on him.

“I know,” he mumbled. “And I should say… I mean, I’m sorry. We lost the ridge.”

Schwarzhelm didn’t respond with words of comfort. Nor did he add condemnation. He looked implacable.

“You did your best,” he said. “The day was won. But maybe we need some new blood. New ways of doing things. We can always learn.”

The criticism was implicit. Grunwald should have found a way to hold out longer.

“Yes, my lord,” he acknowledged, working hard to keep the resentment from his voice. No one knew how hard it had been on the ridge except him and Ackermann. And his deputy was dead, now to be replaced with a halberdier captain he hardly knew.

“I’ve completed the commission documentation,” continued Schwarzhelm, turning back to his piles of paper. “There’s money to pay the men and warrants of supply with agents in Averheim. When you get there, make sure to keep me informed. I’ll be no more than a few days behind you. There are things to arrange here, and I don’t want to arrive in the middle of a greenskin plague. I can trust you to handle this?”

Grunwald felt the flicker of resentment bloom into a flame. Why was he asking him this? When had he ever proved wanting, except at Turgitz?

“You can rely on me, my lord.”

Schwarzhelm nodded.

“I hope so. Now come and look at these deployment plans.”

Grunwald rose to study the annotated charts. As he did so, he was already thinking forward to the campaign ahead. This was his chance for vindication. The only one he’d get. He stood beside Schwarzhelm, and the commander began to reel off his orders and recommendations.

Silently, efficiently, Grunwald committed them all to memory. He wouldn’t fail again.

A day later, Bloch still had a headache. He sat uncomfortably in the saddle, watching Schwarzhelm’s army take shape. The grey morning light breaking over the wide parade ground made him wince. All across the space below him, regiments of men shuffled into position. He’d been able to conceal the wound at his neck well enough, but there was no escaping the black eye. Every time he passed a row of soldiers, he could feel the suppressed humour. When he was gone, they’d be laughing at him. He could understand that. As a halberdier in the ranks, he’d have done the same. As long as they thought he’d picked up the marks in some honest fight, he’d be fine.

He adjusted his position, trying to find the least discomforting position, and surveyed the scene before him. The muster yard, several miles south of the city, was full of men. Schwarzhelm’s army, the Fourth Reikland, had come together again, ready for the long march south. They’d been at Turgitz, though you’d hardly have known it to look at them. A few weeks’ rest, plenty of ale and a wallet stuffed with copper coins, and they’d recovered most of their energy for the fight. The gaps in the ranks had been filled quickly. There was never a shortage of men willing to fight under Schwarzhelm. They trusted him, which you couldn’t say about some Imperial commanders. They may not have liked him, but they knew his reputation. Better to fight under a grim bastard who never smiled than a flighty aristocrat who’d ride off at the first sign of trouble.

The bulk of the army were halberdiers, just like him. Four thousand of them. They’d been arranged in their marching detachments. Even as Bloch watched, the sergeants were making last minute adjustments to formations, bawling out any troops with defective equipment or misaligned livery. They were all in the Reikland colours of white and brown, and they’d scrubbed up pretty well.

Not so many years ago, Bloch would have been one of those men himself. His elevation had been quick. That was fine by him. He was a born fighter, and the men around him knew it. They were already responding well to his orders. If he could keep out of trouble in taverns, he’d have no problems.

He scanned the rest of the deployments. There was little artillery. A few light pieces and one middle-sized iron belcher. Since the war had broken out in the north, demand for the big guns had risen. If even Schwarzhelm couldn’t commandeer more, then that told its own story. There were no knights, nor pistoliers. This was an infantry force, a holding army. A few companies of handgunners gave them a little ranged support, and there were archers too. That was good, though not as many as he’d have liked. He’d faced orcs before, and they were tough opponents. He’d have preferred to have more heavy armour.

“Like what you see?” came a familiar voice. Bloch turned to see Grunwald coming towards him. The man looked rested. Bloch couldn’t help notice the finery of his garb, the close fit of his leather jerkin and mail. The man looked like a proper commander. He guessed that he cut a sorry figure in contrast. He really needed to cut down on the ale and meat. He was getting fat.

“They’re in good order, sir,” he said, hiding his misgivings.

“I agree. Are any units still to report ready?”

“No. All the sergeants’ papers are in.” Grunwald nodded with satisfaction. “Then you may give the order to march, Herr Bloch. They’ve been drilled here long enough. Averheim awaits.”

“Yes, sir.”

Bloch barked an order to a waiting messenger, who ran off to the signallers. A few moments later, trumpets blared out across the muster yard. Halberds were hoisted and the detachments smoothly moved into position. Regimental standards swung upwards and rippled in the breeze. With admirable efficiency, the regiments started to move from the yard and on to the road.

Grunwald and Bloch rode to the vanguard, where the remainder of the commanders waited on horseback. For a moment, Bloch felt like he had no place among them, that he should be back in the ranks with the company captains. He pushed such thoughts to the back of his mind. Schwarzhelm had picked him, and that was good enough for him. When the greenskins came for them, then he’d show his worth. He’d a damn sight more bottle than Grunwald, anyway. That had been proven already.

He kicked his horse onward, joining the vanguard as they made their way into position. The time for pondering, reflecting and drinking wages away was over. They were on the road again, back on campaign, lust the way he liked it.

“Have another glass. It’s good stuff,” said Verstohlen.

Orasmo Brecht was happy to take another. The man’s cheeks were rosy in the candlelight. It was the last of Verstohlen’s haul from the cellars of the heretic Alessandro Revanche. He was sorry to see it go, but this was in the cause of business. The exquisite vintage had a way of loosening guarded tongues. He didn’t even need to add any truthpowder. That was a good thing, as he was running low on that too.

Verstohlen poured himself a smaller glass of the same stuff and sat back in his seat. The two men were at dinner in Verstohlen’s small but elegant apartment. The dining room was decorated in the latest style. Fine wax candles burned slowly in silver candelabras. The food was served on china rather than metal, something hardly ever seen outside the homes of the very wealthy. Verstohlen wasn’t exactly wealthy, but he did know the right people. His stuff had come from a Cathayan junk via about a dozen intermediaries and handling agents. The path of the import documentation was obscure, but that didn’t matter. Verstohlen had contacts down in the harbourside. He had contacts everywhere. Like Orasmo Brecht.

“My wife won’t thank you for making me so fat,” said Brecht, dabbing at one of his many chins with a napkin. “If I eat here again, that might be the end of our marriage.”

Verstohlen smiled. The man was a glutton. He’d eaten twice the portions that Verstohlen had and hadn’t even noticed. No matter. What Brecht lacked in table manners he made up for in political knowledge, and he’d just come back from Averheim after two years there working for an importers’ cartel. Good timing.

“I hope not,” Verstohlen said. “I’d miss these little chats. It would be a shame to lose you to Averland for good.”

Brecht belched, and shook his head. “Worry not. I’ll not be going back. Never again.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely. Averheim leaves a nasty taste in the mouth. I prefer it here. Altdorf’s filthy, but at least it’s honest filth. And the food’s better.”

Verstohlen played with his fork absently. No one seemed to have a good word to say about Averheim. That was odd. It had a reputation as one of the Empire’s more civilised places.

“You’re not the first to tell me that,” he said. “I’m thinking of going there myself soon. I’d be interested to know what’s so bad about it.”

Brecht helped himself to another leg of duck before replying.

“D’you know, I can’t quite put my finger on it myself,” he said, chewing carefully. “I liked the place when I first got there. The people are decent enough, if a bit rural. And the city’s cleaner than Altdorf. I can’t tell you when it all began to change.”

Verstohlen stayed silent, letting the man drift into a monologue. When a contact was happy to talk, it was best to leave him to it. You never knew what would come out.

“If I had to pick something,” said Brecht, “it might be the joyroot. That’s certainly a part of it.”

This was new. And interesting.

“I’ve not heard that name. What is it? Some kind of narcotic?”

“So I believe. You never saw any of it a few years ago. Now it’s becoming a problem. They smoke it. You’ve seen what the poppy’ll do to people? Joyroot’s not as bad as that. They get listless. I’ve been told they don’t sleep so well. Nothing too dreadful. But I don’t like it. It makes business difficult. There are only two drugs a man should take: wine and women. And they’re dangerous enough.”

Brecht laughed at his own joke and his jowls wobbled. Verstohlen smiled politely.

“So the militia haven’t impeded the import of this… joyroot?” he asked. Brecht shrugged.

“Maybe they’re on top of it. I don’t know. It’s probably not that important to them. That’s what happens when you don’t have a good man at the top. The little things slip.”

Verstohlen nodded absently. Brecht was right. But maybe this wasn’t such a little thing. You could never tell.

“Then we must hope for a speedy resolution to the succession.” Brecht snorted disdainfully.

“You’ll never get that. The merchants’ guilds have no interest in it. Believe me, they run Averheim. Anyway, both the Leitdorf pup and this Grosslich have legal problems with their claims. Many make out Rufus is illegitimate. Whispers are that he’s the son of one of Marius’ housemaids, and that she’s been packed off to the family estate with a wad of gold and an armed guard. Grosslich’s no better. He’s got papers proving his noble birth, but no one thinks they’re real. He’s got scholars poring over them for him, trying to prove it. Leitdorfs people are doing the same, trying to discredit them. These arguments will run for months. Maybe years. It’ll take a war for Averland to sort it out.”

Verstohlen listened carefully, taking note of everything. None of this information was new to him, but it was useful confirmation. Much might turn on the validity of the genealogical records.

“They may get their war, if they’re not careful,” he said grimly.

Brecht laughed. He didn’t seem to think the prospect was that alarming.

“They’ll be all right,” he said, munching on the last of the duck. “The summer’s coming, and the weather’s good down there. They’ll be getting the harvest in soon, and they say it’ll be a good one. Whatever happens in the rest of the Empire, the Averlanders will look after themselves.” He paused.

“Maybe that’s why I don’t like it down there,” he mused. “They’re just a little… self-satisfied. Something’s not natural, anyway. Better to be here among honest thieves.”

He laughed again. This time Verstohlen couldn’t share the amusement. Too many people from Averland had used that phrase, “not natural”. He didn’t like that at all. The words had presaged trouble for him in the past. It was probably nothing more than the casual xenophobia of Reiklanders, but it still rankled. This joyroot was something else to worry about. Schwarzhelm would have to be told.

“Anyway, you’re very interested in all of this, Pieter,” said Brecht, washing down the duck with the last of his wine. “How long are you going away for?”

“Oh, not long,” Verstohlen said, reaching to top him up. “At least, I hope not. From what you say, I’m not sure I’d like it.”

Brecht shrugged, and looked around the table for more food. His eyes fell on a pig’s cheek in jelly and he reached for it eagerly with his fork.

“You’ll be fine,” he said. “They like their food down there. You’ll fit right in.”

He began to eat again and his fat face radiated happiness. Verstohlen sat back and nursed his wine. He knew he should eat some more. He and Schwarzhelm were due to leave in the morning, and the ride was a long one. But for some reason, his appetite had gone.

Schwarzhelm awoke. He was in Averheim. It was still night. The sickle moon, Mannslieb, rode in the deep sky. The stars were, familiar to him. The stars of his homeland. Even in Altdorf, they were different.

He felt sick. He’d not slept well. He reached for the table by his bed, where an iron goblet had been placed. Gratefully, he placed it against his lips and took a long draught.

Immediately, he spat it out. He tasted the blood before he saw it. He threw the goblet to one side, hands shaking. He looked down. The sheets were splattered with blood. He pulled the sheets aside. There was blood everywhere, hot and sticky. From outside his chamber, the sound of laughter rose into the night sky. He looked up at the moon. It was disfigured, changing. A face was forming. He felt terror grip his heart. He tried to cry out, but his mouth had stopped working. There were men in the room, laughing at him. How had he missed them? He didn’t recognise all of them. But there was Helborg, right in the middle of the crowd.

“You’ve failed,” he crowed, preening his moustache. “They should have sent for me! You’ve failed!”

Schwarzhelm awoke with a start, properly this time. His sheets were drenched with sweat. He was in his chamber in one of the palace towers. Moonlight, real moonlight, streamed through the window.

Breathing heavily, he swung his feet to the stone floor and padded over to the window. Naked, he stood before the open pane and looked across the city below. His heartbeat was returning to normal. Another nightmare. Where were they all coming from? He hadn’t had an unbroken night’s sleep for a fortnight. It wasn’t good for him. He could feel his tiredness growing during the daylight hours.

He took a deep breath and gazed out over the rooftops. It was the deep of the night. Altdorf slept, at least in patches. A few fires still burned here and there, and the towers of the Celestial College retained their habitual blue aura. The memory of the dream was fading. The cool night air was clearing his head. Amidst the foul odours of the street, there were new smells. Summer was gradually coming, and even in Altdorf that sweetened the air.

He turned from the window and looked grimly at his disarranged bed. He knew he’d get no sleep now. Not for the first time, he regretted living on his own. He’d had women in the past, of course. The last had been Katerina, the Amethyst wizard. Perhaps he’d been wrong to break it off with her. Perhaps he hadn’t. He’d never been good with women. That was another kind of warfare he was no use at. He never knew what they wanted from him and they never knew what he wanted from them.

Just then though, with his mind plagued by the memory of the nightmare, he couldn’t help but think it would have been good to have a warm body in the bed beside him. Someone to protect. And maybe, though it was harder to countenance, to protect him. That was what nearly every man in the Empire, no matter how mean and baseborn, had. Something to care about. Something to make the fighting worthwhile. Something to come home to.

He sat on the bed. In the corner of the room, the Rechtstahl had been hung. It was sheathed and the scabbard shone dully in the moonlight. The runes of its dwarfen makers were picked out in lines of silver. It was as impassive and uncaring as ever.

Schwarzhelm lay back on the sheets. He was due to ride in the morning. He needed some sleep. Verstohlen would want to ply him with the information he’d gathered, and his mind would have to be alert.

He let his great body relax, feeling the wooden frame of the bed creak under the weight. He closed his eyes, blotting out the moonlight, wrapping himself in darkness. He let his heart rate slow. Like any warrior, he was used to grabbing rest where he could. Normally, he’d be able to drift off in any situation. He tried all the tricks.

He knew it was useless. Even if he found sleep, his dreams would be vivid. He couldn’t relax, couldn’t let go.

Just like all the others, this would be a long night.

Chapter Six

The city of Averheim rose above the River Aver some three-hundred miles south-east of Altdorf. By the time a traveller had passed from the Reikland, through the free city-state of Nuln and into the province of Averland, the country had changed drastically. Gone were the powerful, ancient and gnarled forests that dominated the heart of the Empire. The south-eastern reaches of Karl Franz’s domain were formed of rolling hills and wide rivers. The earth was rich, the grass lustrous. In a fertile triangle between the Aver, the Upper Reik and the Worlds Edge Mountains, the people of Siggurd had carved out a prosperous way of life. Their cattle were the finest in the world and their horses not far behind. The province was studded with small, self-contained villages. Each of them sat amidst acres of productive land. So complacent had the populace become that many of the settlements had let their protective walls fall into ruin. Without an elector to coordinate the defence of the realm, the fractious militia were a tithe of their former strength.

Most Averlanders saw little reason to change this. Apart from mild irritations, such as the unfortunate rampage of a rogue ogre in the outlying regions the previous year, war came to the province only sporadically. The barons sent gold for the Emperor’s armies and made sure token forces of men-at-arms were maintained in their ancestral manor houses to keep down the irregular beastmen or greenskin raids. Otherwise, trade was good. Demand for iron and tin was high, and the mines in the east of the province provided more of that than anywhere else. More trade moved down the River Aver since the Stir and Talabec had become more dangerous. Some even whispered that Averland should consider going the way of Marienburg. Perhaps then, freed of the onerous Imperial levies, the Grand County would rise to become richer than Reikland itself.

Wiser heads knew such talk was ludicrous. If it were not for the vast armies of Talabecland and Middenheim, nothing would have stood between the rich, fat south and the gibbering hordes of Chaos. Though many barons resented the taxes imposed from Altdorf, and the highhanded manner of the officials that came with them, they knew the money paid for the shield they sheltered behind. And so they stayed loyal. At least, as loyal as any other province in the bickering realms of men.

There were few cities in the huge, open land. Averheim was four times as big as the nearest rival. It had been built on a wide curve of the river where the land rose up in a great steep-sided mound. More than two millennia ago, Sigmar himself had founded a fortress on the site. Or so the locals liked to claim. Even though that boast was possibly futile, no one disputed the settlement was old. Some of the stones at the base of the massive Averburg fortress on the east bank of the river were so large and so beautifully laid that many called them the work of dwarfs. Over the wearing years, the Averburg had been added to, amended, part-demolished, rebuilt and extended with the waxing and waning enthusiasm of successive counts. Despite everything the war-conscious Imperial architects had thrown at it to make it strong, it retained a certain elegance.

Though the Averburg, with its sheer-sided walls and heavy ramparts, dominated the centre of the city on the east bank, there were other notable features within the snaking walls. To the north, where frequent flooding had prevented large-scale building, huge cattle showgrounds had been constructed. Visitors from less fortunate parts of the Empire had been known to gape in awe during the height of the showing season. The massed collection of Averland herds was one of the wonders of the Old World. It was said that when the first hammer of the season fell, there were thirteen cows in Averheim for every person. Those kinds of statistics were liable to provoke suggestive rumours from outsiders, but in truth they were jealous. The animals were valuable and had made Averland extremely rich.

Those riches showed in Averheim’s mighty townhouses and guild-chambers. Most of these were many storeys high, constructed of warm brick and decorated heavily. On the richer east side of the river, elegant squares had been embellished with the bequests of rich men. Fountains gurgled even in the height of the hot summers, and there were fewer slums than in most Imperial cities. Though there was poverty, especially on the western fringes of the city where the migrant workers from Stirland and Tilea congregated, a careful visitor could ignore it. Such a thing was impossible in Altdorf.

Since leaving the city of Karl Franz, Schwarzhelm had made good progress. The journey had taken many days, first along the Reik to Kemperbad, then by land across the Stirhugel Massif in the Lower Stirland. Being away from Altdorf had had a cleansing effect on his mind. The fresh air was invigorating. As he travelled with his entourage, the weather grew steadily warmer. The dank, shadowy world of the Drakwald gave way to the flower meadows of the Lower Aver. Even a man of war such as himself was not immune to their restorative effects. It was some compensation for the rigours of the road.

Schwarzhelm reached the city on a typically fine morning. A cool breeze ran across the big man’s face as he crested the final rise before the Aver valley fell away in tumbled heaps of grassland. The river itself lay serene, glittering in the warm sun. In every direction, deep green fields stretched away. In the distance, the pinnacles of the Averburg rose high into the clear sky.

“Bringing back memories?” said Verstohlen, reining in his horse alongside.

“I’ve been here since I came to call Marius to heel,” said Schwarzhelm. “But yes, I am reminded of that.”

Verstohlen flicked the reins and his steed came to a standstill. Ahead of them, the armed escort fanned out down into the valley. They were arrayed in the colours of Karl Franz and bore his coat of arms. In the strong sun, their weapons sparkled.

“So much trouble, for such a pretty place,” mused Verstohlen, admiring the view.

Schwarzhelm grunted.

“A pretty face can hide a dark heart,” he said. “Don’t be deceived by appearances.”

He kicked his horse back into motion and the heavy charger began stepping down the descent into the valley. There’d be time to admire the view on the way back. Until then, he was impatient to arrive. As far as he was concerned, this assignment couldn’t be over quick enough.

“Welcome, my lord. Or, I should say, welcome back! Though it has been many years indeed since you were last among us as the ambassador of His Imperial Majesty. We are—the city is—extremely glad to have you among us again.”

Verstohlen worked hard to suppress a wry smile. He knew how much Schwarzhelm hated flattery. True to form, the man looked as grumpy as hell. The ride had been a long one, and court pleasantries were the last thing any of them wanted.

They were standing in the great hall of the Averburg. It was tall and narrow. The bare stone walls soared upwards to a hammerbeam roof into which bosses with the devices of past counts had been embedded. The place was crowded with nobles, knights and the richer sort of merchants. They’d done their best to make a good show of it. Bright coloured cloth from Ind and Tilea mixed with highly polished ceremonial armour. Banners hung from the roof with the emblems of the Grand County and its many guilds. Verstohlen felt like he’d stumbled into some kind of pageant. It was a bit garish for him, but one had to make allowances for rural tastes.

The speaker was the Steward of Averheim, Dagobert Matthias Rauch von Tochfel. He was an unassuming character with a balding pate and grey skin. He looked like the kind of man who hunched over papers by the light of candles, totting up expenditure and income balances into the small hours of the night. Verstohlen couldn’t have imagined a figure less likely to impress Ludwig Schwarzhelm, a man who had driven armies of thousands to victory by the sheer force of his will.

Predictably enough, Schwarzhelm gave him short shrift.

“That’s fine, Steward,” he muttered. “But we’ve had a long journey, and there’s work to do. When do we get started?”

Tochfel looked taken aback.

“Well, we had rather hoped that you would join us for a banquet in the hall this evening. The claimants are not yet in Averheim, and there are formalities to ob—”

“Damn your formalities,” snapped Schwarzhelm. “I’ll eat with you and your court, and then I’ll want to see your records of the legal process. You’ve kept the Emperor waiting for too long already. And send messages to the claimants to hasten their progress to the city. I won’t wait forever.”

Tochfel looked like he’d been slapped in the face.

“V-very well,” he stuttered.

Schwarzhelm ignored him and turned to the commander of his honour guard, a flint-faced veteran named Kraus.

“Take your men and examine our quarters. When you’re content they’re secure, place a man at the entrance and organise a watch.”

“My lord,” said Kraus, bowing. He and his men filed out of the audience chamber, roughly pushing aside any curious nobles who got in their way.

“When do we eat?” said Schwarzhelm to Tochfel, who now looked pale.

“Whenever you wish, my lord,” said the Steward. Verstohlen noted that the man was getting the hang of things.

“Good. How about now?”

Tochfel looked around the assembled throng nervously. No doubt they’d been promised some kind of access to the great man.

“Of course. I’ll have the high table laid.”

Schwarzhelm grunted something inaudible, then stalked off in the direction Kraus had taken. All around the hall, a low murmuring broke out. The Emperor’s Champion had not been quite what they were expecting.

“So that was Ludwig Schwarzhelm,” mused a man standing close to Verstohlen. A legal scholar by his look. He wore a charm with the figure of Verena over crimson robes. “Something of a disappointment. I’d expected more.”

Verstohlen gave him a contemptuous look. As the crowd started to disperse, he made his way to the dejected figure of the Steward.

“Herr von Tochfel? I’m Verstohlen, Lord Schwarzhelm’s counsellor. If you’d contacted me prior to this meeting, I could have warned you of the likely result. But never mind. Do you have somewhere private we can go? We need to discuss the itinerary.”

Tochfel looked at Verstohlen like he was some gift from the gods.

“Did I offend him somehow?”

“No more than usual,” reassured Verstohlen, taking the man’s arm and guiding him smoothly through the milling figures around them. “He doesn’t like ceremony. There’ll need to be some of that, of course, but we’ll have to manage that together. The important thing is to get Leitdorf and Grosslich here as soon as possible. Can you do that? Good. If you give me the names of your officials, I’ll ensure the messages get through. He wants to meet both of them in private before the legal arguments are heard. That’s not entirely usual, but it’s perfectly within his rights as the Emperor’s Judge. Again, if you can give me some names, I’ll get that done. And there’s the matter of security at the Averburg.”

Verstohlen spoke quickly but firmly. He guessed that Tochfel wouldn’t be used to presiding over more than cattle fairs. If the assignment was not to unravel before it had started, then work needed to be done.

As they neared one of the side doors to the hall, Tochfel hesitated. He looked like he was having trouble taking everything in.

“So who’s in charge here?” he said. “You, or him?”

Verstohlen stopped in his tracks, genuinely amazed. Were the deeds of the Emperor’s Champion really not known here? What kind of backwater was this?

“Don’t be a fool, man,” he snapped. “Lord Schwarzhelm is the Emperor’s right arm. I merely arrange. You’d do well to remember that, or this visit will be more painful for you than you can possibly imagine.”

With that, he half-guided, half-pulled Tochfel through the door and into the corridor outside. The door shut behind them, and the grumbling of the crowd beyond was silenced.

Schwarzhelm sat at the long table in one of the Averburg’s many gilded reception rooms. He felt weary and irritable. His sleep at night was still erratic. The air was getting too hot for comfort and flies plagued his room. He was aware he’d become irascible, even with his own men. They’d have to live with it. Two days waiting for the claimants to turn up was beyond insolent. He didn’t believe the excuses. They were lazy and arrogant, the pair of them. If he hadn’t been bound by the strictures of his office, he’d have ridden out to meet them himself. As it was, he was forced to wait. The delay was maddening.

Apart from the ever-present Verstohlen, calm as ever, the chamber was empty. Tochfel’s flunkies had departed and Kraus’ men guarded the doors. They wouldn’t be disturbed.

“Have we heard from Grunwald yet?” Schwarzhelm asked. The long wait with no news was preying on his mind.

“Nothing.”

“You’ve sent out fresh messengers?”

“As you commanded.”

That was troubling. There should have been something by now. He knew the army had arrived in Averheim two days before he had. Grunwald had then departed immediately for the east, following new intelligence on massed orc raids in the mining country beneath the Black Fire Pass. That was just as he’d been ordered to do, but the lack of communication since his departure was unusual. Grunwald was normally scrupulous about such things.

“How many men are garrisoned here?” asked Schwarzhelm. “If we don’t hear soon, I may have to do something myself.”

“Give him time,” said Verstohlen. “He’ll send tidings when he’s able. Worry not. He’s your finest commander.”

Schwarzhelm grunted. That might have been assent, or it might not.

“Which one of the bastards are we due to see now?” he asked wearily.

“Leitdorf arrived in the city this morning. He’s on his way now.”

“Marius’ brat. Anything more I should know about him?”

“He’s bringing his wife. They’re devoted to each other. The one never leaves the other’s side. That’s been a source of friction with those you’d expect to be loyal to him. We don’t know where she comes from, and neither do they.”

“That’s not like you, Pieter. Find out.”

“I’m working on it. If it’s any consolation, Tochfel’s as much in the dark as we are. That goes for his loremaster too, Achendorfer. Her presence makes them uneasy. It makes everyone uneasy. But Rufus has inherited his father’s pigheadedness. He can’t see that such things damage his cause. This is a conservative province.”

“That it is.”

From the far end of the chamber, beyond the closed doors, noises broke out. Someone had arrived.

“What’s her family name? Hiess? Does that mean anything to you?”

“Nothing. I’ve got people making enquiries.”

There was an exaggerated knocking at the far doors. Schwarzhelm stood and smoothed the juridical robes over his massive frame. His head was feeling heavy. He really needed some sleep soon. When this was over, he might ask Verstohlen for some sleepwort.

“I hope they’re good people.”

The doors opened. In the antechamber beyond he made out the figure of Tochfel, hovering in the background as ever. Kraus had prevented him from entering. Good man.

Only two came into the room. No doubt they’d come with a retinue, but those too had been detained by Schwarzhelm’s honour guard. That made things even.

The foremost was Rufus Leitdorf. He was dressed in a ludicrous burgundy-coloured outfit, replete with a floppy hunting hat and spurred boots. As he walked across the stone floor, the spurs clattered. He wore his hair long. Like his father’s, it was brown, fading to grey prematurely. He had the Leitdorf eyes with the famous hooked nose. Rufus had already run to fat, though, and had none of his father’s swordsman’s poise. He didn’t look like he could hold his own in a fight. Maybe Leopold had been given the fencing lessons, for all the good that had done him.

Despite this, Rufus carried himself with all the natural-born arrogance of the Empire’s coterie of noble families. His swagger told Schwarzhelm all he needed to know about the man. He regarded the Averburg as his personal possession, and all those who stood between him and his rightful prize were his enemies.

As he approached, their eyes met. Leitdorf stared at Schwarzhelm with disdain. The Emperor’s Champion was baseborn. All knew that. Schwarzhelm met the gaze and held it. For a few moments, Leitdorf managed to keep his head up. Then he looked away. Disappointing. Most could manage just a few moments longer.

“My lord Schwarzhelm,” Leitdorf said, extending a hand limply. His father’s ring was on the fourth finger of his glove. What did he want him to do? Kiss it?

Schwarzhelm grasped the man’s hand and gave it a shake that would have crushed wrought iron. It was important this dandy knew what he was dealing with. Schwarzhelm had made his father learn the fear of the law. His pup would be no different.

Leitdorf grimaced.

“Herr Leitdorf,” said Schwarzhelm coldly, letting the hand go. “I’m glad you could make it at last. We may speak freely here. My counsellor, Herr Verstohlen, is in my confidence.”

Verstohlen bowed. Leitdorf ignored him.

“As is my wife,” he said.

Schwarzhelm nodded his head towards her. So this was the famous Natassja. Reports of her beauty hadn’t been even close to the mark. She had the kind of cold, superior physical presence that he’d seen men go mad for. Linlike her husband, she was dressed impeccably in a nightshade blue gown. Her dark hair had been gathered up by a silver lattice and an elegant ithilmar pendant graced her neck. She moved with the simple economy that was taught in the best finishing schools of the Empire. A native of Altdorf, by her look and manner. Far too good to be languishing out here in the provinces.

Natassja inclined her head in response and they all took their seats.

“I won’t waste your precious time, Herr Leitdorf,” said Schwarzhelm. “But there are a few things you need to know. I have no view on the merit of your claim, nor that of your rival. But the arguments have gone on long enough. The Emperor has run out of patience. One way or another, before I leave here, the matter will be determined.”

Leitdorf was transparent. He couldn’t conceal the depth of his contempt for Schwarzhelm, or the legal process, or anyone but himself.

“The Emperor’s concern for the health of Averland is touching,” he said artlessly. “If he’d come himself, I might have been impressed. Sending his lackey will do nothing to advance this cause.” He gave Schwarzhelm a look of pure loathing. “Very soon I shall be elector of this province. You’d do well to remember that. In my current position I cannot punish insolence. That will not be the case forever.”

Schwarzhelm felt a deep sense of weariness sink into his bones. For his whole long, honourable career he’d had to deal with the sons of nobles. They were all the same. If they’d had any sort of upbringing at all, they’d have been horsewhipped to learn some respect for their betters. This fool had no idea of the power at his command, nor quite how far Karl Franz trusted him. If Schwarzhelm chose to crush the insolent dog’s skull then and there, the Emperor would find a way to forgive him. The image was a tempting one. He curled his fist up under the table, enjoying the sense of strength coiled within it. One day, maybe. But not now.

“That’s your prerogative,” Schwarzhelm said, keeping his voice low. Forceful, not outright threatening. “But for now, I am the fudge of the Succession. Under Imperial law, you are bound to answer my summons. You will come when I call you. You will leave when I dismiss you. You will abide by any ruling I arrive at. Failure to do so will render your claim void. You may not like that. But such is the law.”

Rufus’ cheeks filled with blood. He was used to lording it over terrified servants. He’d probably never been spoken to in such a manner in his life. Schwarzhelm was amused to see his podgy fingers open and close. He was angry. But also intimidated. Good. That was as it should be.

“You… dare talk to me like that,” he started. “By what authority—”

Schwarzhelm stood from the table, pushing his chair back. In a single fluid move, he drew the Rechtstahl. The blade was dull. It knew it would not be drinking blood, and it resented being used for show.

“By this,” hissed Schwarzhelm. “As long as I carry it, you’re under its shadow. You, and the man you’re competing with. Never forget it.”

Rufus shrank back into shock. He pushed his own chair backwards, the rush of blood fading from his cheeks.

“You wouldn’t dare!” he stammered.

Schwarzhelm felt like giving him a grim smile. But he didn’t. He never smiled. He looked at Natassja. She’d remained calm and was watching him from under her dark lashes.

“You’re under edict too, Frau.”

“You needn’t worry about me, my lord,” she said. Her voice was languid, poised, untroubled. Unlike her husband, she knew what she was doing. So this was the one to watch. Intriguing.

“I’m glad to hear it,” said Schwarzhelm, sheathing the blade and taking his seat. “Now we’ve established the rules, there are some more things to discuss.”

Verstohlen brought a sheaf of parchment from his bag and began to hand copies out. For the moment at least, Rums had been cowed. He took the documents meekly. Verstohlen began to explain what they were and where he needed to sign. As he did so, he let a significant glance slip towards Schwarzhelm. The purpose of the meeting had been achieved. One candidate had been tamed. Now they needed to do the same to Grosslich.

The thunder rolled in the distance. There was a heavy storm somewhere over the Worlds Edge Mountains. Even from many miles away, its force was evident.

Grunwald wiped his brow. The air was thick and heavy. He’d welcome a downpour. Though it was close to evening, the heat was still uncomfortable. It made the army fractious. On the march from Averheim he’d had to discipline three of the company captains for brawls in their commands. He felt the sweat running down the inside of his jerkin. It took some doing, keeping four thousand men marching in something like formation. When he’d first been made commander, over ten years ago, he’d taken a positive enjoyment from goading his forces into action. Now, after so much campaigning, it had become a chore. He wondered if he’d passed his prime. Perhaps Turgitz had been a sign. It was a commonplace, but still true enough: command was a lonely business.

Grunwald placed the spyglass to one eye and trained it on the distant peaks to the east. The land marched up towards them in a steadily rising patchwork of craggy rises. His gaze swept across broken foothills, twisting for miles, before the first of the huge granite cliffs soared into the air. Tough country. No movement. Perhaps the reports had been mistaken. They’d been trudging for miles with no sign of orcs. No sign of people, even. The land was empty. A wasteland.

He pondered his options. The last of the errand riders had gone. Despite sending regular reports to Averheim of his progress, nothing had been heard back. Grunwald could only assume that Schwarzhelm knew where he was and how the assignment was going. Until he received fresh orders and fresh horses, there was nothing for it but to keep heading east in the hope of engaging the enemy. Assuming, of course, that one even existed. He was beginning to wonder whether the stories they’d been told in Heideck had any truth to them at all.

Bloch came up beside him.

“See anything, sir?” he asked.

Grunwald shook his head and stowed the spyglass away.

“Nothing. Not a damn thing.”

Bloch looked up at the heavens uneasily.

“It’ll be dark soon. What do you want to do?”

Grunwald looked back over the army. The bulk of the detachments had been stood down. They were arranged across a long, shallow hillside in their regimental groups. Some were sitting on the grass, cradling their weapons. Others stood, leaning on the shafts of halberds or spears. The columns had lost their pristine shape since leaving Heideck. The men were tired, bored and frustrated. If there was one thing worse than stumbling across the enemy, it was not stumbling across them. Marching up into the foothills would be dangerous. If the quest continued to be fruitless, it would have to be done sooner or later.

“We’ll withdraw,” he said. “At dawn we’ll strike out for Grenzstadt and the passes. We’ve been sold stories. Something’s very strange here, and I want some answers.”

Bloch nodded.

“Aye, sir.”

Grunwald looked at him carefully. Bloch always spoke carefully around him, but he couldn’t shake the sense that the man didn’t give him the respect the subordinate officers did. It was a difficult situation. Bloch had saved his life at Turgitz. He might feel that gave him some kind of special licence. If he did, he’d have to disabuse himself of that quickly.

“Order the captains to break for the march. We’re being fed false information. When we’re in Grenzstadt, that’ll need to be addressed.”

Bloch hesitated before replying. “Yes, sir.”

“Was there something else?”

The lieutenant was looking up to the broken country stretching away to the east, dotted with twisted trees, scrub and gorse.

“If they’re anywhere, they’ll be in there.”

Grunwald gave a wintry smirk.

“Itching for a fight, Herr Bloch?”

Bloch glowered. The man disliked being talked down to.

“When it’s warranted, aye.”

“Good instincts. But be careful what you wish for. This is not the place.” Grunwald looked back over the way they’d come. “The light’s failing and we’re too close to that cover. We’ll fall back west to the last open ridge and make camp. The morning may bring new counsel.”

“Yes, sir,” said Bloch, but he looked distracted. He was still looking east.

Grunwald followed his gaze. For a moment, he saw nothing but gradually rising grassland, punctuated by dark conifers and rows of low gorse bushes. Beyond them the first of the low hills rose, jagged with tumbled rock. The dying sun threw golden light across the stone. It was a peaceful scene.

“You see something?”

Bloch narrowed his eyes. Absently, he took up his halberd.

“You’re right, sir,” he said. “We need to fall back. Now.”

Then Grunwald saw them too. Far off, creeping close to the ground, dark shapes. They were half-lost in the wasteland, but moving quickly. Just a few bodies visible, hunched low, before dropping behind cover. More emerged, then slipped away again. They didn’t move like humans. Only one breed of warrior moved that way.

Grunwald’s heart lurched.

“Get them moving,” he hissed.

Bloch ran back to the massed ranks behind them. Soon shouts rose into the air as the sergeants began to knock the regiments into defensive formations.

Grunwald stayed where he was for a moment longer, screwing his eyes up against the weak light. The shapes were still distant. It was hard to make out numbers. Maybe just a scattered band.

Or maybe not.

He turned and hurried back to the army, drawing his sword as he went. He wasn’t taking any chances. They’d fall back to the ridge. Only a madman would attack in the dark across such treacherous country.

As he made his way back to the heart of the army, Captain Schlosser, one of his more experienced commanders, approached him. His heavily moustachioed face was grim.

“More sightings to the north, sir,” he reported.

Grunwald stopped. “How many?”

“Not sure, sir. Lots.”

Grunwald felt a cold sensation enter his stomach. Had they been drawn on? Had the orcs kept to cover long enough to pull them between two arms of a greater army? It wasn’t like them. A greenskin would normally attack at the first opportunity. To use such stealth was strange. Very strange.

“Keep the companies together,” he snapped, not wanting to think he’d made another mistake. “We’ll make the ridge. Then we’ll see what we’re dealing with.”

Schlosser saluted and headed back to his regiment. All around him, the army was pulling itself back into some sort of order. Men were beginning to set off, locked in their company formations. Massed spear-tips glowed gold against the setting sun. Any expressions of boredom had been banished. They had the tight, expectant faces of men about enter battle.

Grunwald looked along the ranks, watching for any laggards. One figure stood out. Bloch. His voice was louder than the rest of the captains put together. His company had moved to the rear of the army. The position of greatest danger. Even as the other captains hastened their men to march, Bloch kept his in a defensive unit, waiting for the rest to leave before following on.

Grunwald smiled coldly. The man would get his fight. At least that was certain. After so long hunting shadows, the wait was over. They’d found the greenskins at last.

The countryside immediately north of Averheim was particularly beautiful. The river ran in wide curves, sparkling under the sun. On either bank, the turf was lush and verdant. In the distance, scattered herds of long-horn cattle grazed. The summer was hotter than anyone could remember. It made everyone languid.

Verstohlen pulled his hat down to shade his eyes. His steed shifted irritably under him. The beast was too hot. That went for all of them.

He looked across at Schwarzhelm. The big man looked tired. He’d complained of not sleeping. Verstohlen knew what he meant. The air was close and humid, even at night. There wasn’t much anyone could do about it. He found himself missing the cooler climes of Altdorf. Then again, it could get unpleasantly steamy there too. There was no escape from the elements.

Aside from the two of them, the hunting party was small. Just Kraus and half a dozen of the honour guard. They hadn’t caught anything yet. Then again, that wasn’t really the point of the exercise. The invitation to hunt had come from one of Grosslich’s supporters in the Alptraum family. These were Ferenc’s estates. Their real quarry was human.

Schwarzhelm’s steed looked restive. He calmed it with a word. Despite his bulk, there was no finer horseman in the Empire. He seemed to understand beasts more easily than he understood scholars.

“He’s late,” Schwarzhelm growled. Verstohlen could see the lines of sweat on his temples. “Is this an Averlander habit?”

Before he could reply, Verstohlen finally caught sight of the other party riding towards them. Six horses, all arrayed in magnificent gear. Even as they approached it was clear who the leader was. Heinz-Mark Grosslich was taller than those around him by several inches. Just as Schwarzhelm was. In fact, they looked somewhat similar. Though Grosslich was clean-shaven he was a bear of a man. His cheeks were ruddy and wind-bitten and his blond hair was been clipped short, just as a warrior’s should be. He handled his horse well.

At his side rode a shorter man with dark hair and a weasel face. That would be Ferenc. The others were retainers and guards. As the party drew near, the escorts fell back.

“My lord Schwarzhelm!” cried Grosslich, pulling his horse up. “You have my apologies. Had I know you were in Averheim so early, I’d have ridden sooner myself. We were told you were not due for another week.”

“Leitdorf’s doing,” muttered Ferenc.

Schwarzhelm was unmoved by the greeting. He was as impervious to friendliness as he was to intimidation.

“You should cultivate more reliable sources,” he said.

Grosslich nodded in agreement.

“Indeed. My adviser has been dismissed. I regret the delay extremely.”

Verstohlen watched the man carefully as he spoke. He had an easy manner and a commanding presence. There was none of Leitdorf’s evident arrogance, but still that palpable impression of self-belief. Grosslich looked like a man who could command an army. That wouldn’t sway the loremasters too much, but it would stand him in good stead with Schwarzhelm.

“We’ll say no more about it,” said Schwarzhelm. “You know why I wished to see you?”

Grosslich laughed.

“You wish to lay down the law,” he said, looking unconcerned by the prospect. “We’ve been taking too long making up our minds, and now the Emperor wants to see results.”

“You think the matter is something to smile about?”

Grosslich looked into Schwarzhelm’s unmoving face and his laughter quickly died.

“Forgive me. Though you must understand, the lengthy process has nothing to do with me.”

Ferenc nodded enthusiastically.

“That’s true, my lord,” he began. “It’s that Leit—”

Schwarzhelm fixed the noble with an acid stare.

“When I wish for your opinion, Herr Alptraum, I will most certainly ask for it.”

“The problem does lie with Leitdorf,” continued Grosslich, letting an irritated glance slip towards his companion. “I have the support of the province by dint of my deeds, not my heritage. And yet that is still not enough. Leitdorf has the scholars in his debt, and they perpetuate his arguments. Give me an honest judge, or a sword, and I will settle it for them.”

Schwarzhelm continued to look darkly at Grosslich, but Verstohlen could tell he had some sympathy. All those who battled against the rigid hierarchy of the Empire had at least one thing in common.

“You have an honest judge now,” Schwarzhelm said. “And I warn you as I warned Leitdorf, any attempt to sway my verdict will result in your claim becoming void. I care nothing for your history with him, nor his with you. All that matters is the law.”

“That is what I wish for too,” said Grosslich. “But you must know how far he has perverted this place. His wife, that bitch Natassja, controls his every move. She is as corrupt as she is deceitful. I don’t doubt that you’ve met her. Be careful. She is the power behind his campaign.”

Schwarzhelm raised an eyebrow.

“You think I’d be swayed by a woman?”

“Many men have. She’s poison.”

Verstohlen noted the man’s vehemence. That hatred was not feigned. Schwarzhelm remained unmoved.

“Your warning has been noted. Was there anything else you wished to tell me? From dawn tomorrow the court of succession will be convened. Thereafter, we’ll have no chance to confer in private.”

Grosslich looked at Ferenc, but the Alptraum heir said nothing. The smaller man looked crestfallen.

“Only this,” said Grosslich, turning back to Schwarzhelm. “All looks well in Averland. The harvest has been good and gold is plentiful. The war is not much more than a rumour to us. Do not be fooled. There is a sickness here. No one knows where all the gold comes from. The law is laughed at and honest men suffer. I know your reputation, Lord Schwarzhelm. Perhaps you can bring an end to this. But beware. There are traps here for the unwary.”

Schwarzhelm maintained his implacable expression. Perhaps only Verstohlen saw it. The faintest flicker of uncertainty, swiftly extinguished.

He’d never seen that before, not from Schwarzhelm.

“Fear not,” the Emperor’s Champion said, pulling his steed’s head around and kicking it into a walk. “I do not waver, and the Emperor’s will shall be done. But there’s been enough talking. My limbs need stretching. We came here to hunt. Are you with me, counsellor?”

Verstohlen nudged his horse to follow Schwarzhelm, as did the rest of the party.

“Yes, my lord,” he said, though there was little enthusiasm in it. Chasing after boars in the deep forest was not his idea of a well-spent morning. And the longer he spent in Averland, the more he began to suspect that something darker was at work beneath the sunlit facade. Only time would tell.

Chapter Seven

“Form up!” roared Bloch.

On either side of him his men shifted into position. Just like the detachments strung out along the rest of the ridge, Bloch’s men had arranged themselves in the time-honoured Imperial defence formation. A rectangle of men, each of them armed with a halberd, four ranks deep. Bloch and the most experienced troops stood in the centre of the front rank. The rest of the soldiers clustered close by, shoulders grazing one another as they shuffled into their stations.

Bloch could smell their anticipation. After days out in the wild, they were filthy-looking. Their faces were streaked with dirt and sweat. Though night had fallen, the heat still rose from the earth in waves. Averland was like a furnace and the darkness brought little respite. He could feel the slickness of his palms against the rough wood of his halberd shaft. His heart was thumping. Not long now.

“Blades up!” he bellowed. “Hold your positions!”

All along the Imperial lines, steel flashed as halberds were hoisted. Bloch stole a look along the ridge. The moon was full and high, and the land around was bathed in silver. Not a cloud in the sky.

Grunwald had driven the army hard to reach the ridge. As they’d marched towards it, the truth had become slowly apparent. The orcs had been engaged in a sophisticated exercise, drawing them further and further east while never letting themselves be detected. That was astonishing. Bloch had never heard the like. Now the greenskins were closing. From all directions. They were at the centre of the storm. Grunwald had barely had time to arrange the regiments along the ridge before the first of them had been sighted. He’d done well to get them into formation, and the few artillery pieces they’d brought had been assembled and primed. It was a good position to occupy, and the Imperial army had the high ground. It’s what Bloch would have done.

Now it all came down to numbers. Just how many of the bastards were there?

He’d find out soon. The front ranks of greenskins were coming into view, charging up the slope towards them. The artillery cracked out, flaring across the battlefield.

“Pick your targets. Remember you’re men! No quarter for these Sigmar-damned filth!”

That brought a half-hearted cheer from his men, but they were busy watching the charging figures tearing towards them. In the moonlight, the orc skin looked sickly and pale. Like green-tinged ghosts, they surged up the incline. The gap closed.

Behind the front ranks, more and more orcs streamed into view. This was bad. There were more than he’d imagined. Where had they been hiding?

From the far side of the ridge, sounds of battle broke out. They were surrounded. Then the time for speculation ended. The first of the orcs hurled themselves forward, swinging their cudgels and cleavers. Bloch saw their red eyes burn as they raced towards him. They chopped the turf up under their heavy feet, now mere yards away.

“For Sigmar!” he roared, watching the eyes come for him.

Then the lines crunched together.

Bloch punched his halberd forward viciously. The orc before him staggered backwards. Those on either side of it crashed into the defenders. One man was sent hurtling back into his fellows by the force of the impact. Fresh men struggled to take his place. Halberds thrust up and out. The detachment buckled, but held. Bloch worked his own blade expertly, using the cover at his shoulder to maintain the wall of steel.

More greenskins joined the attack. Bigger warriors shoved their way to the front, panting heavily from the run up the slope. Their stench stained the air, their bellows filled it. The warriors hurled themselves forward, hammering away at the defences. Still the detachment held. When a man fell, another took his place. They knew their business.

Bloch worked hard, feeling the sweat pool at his back. It was heavy fighting. The orcs were at least as big as the gors he’d faced at Turgitz, but their armour was better than he’d ever seen greenskins wearing. It was close-fitting and heavy. Their blades were good, too. He’d seen orcs bearing rough axes and cleavers before, but these had broadswords and halberds. Sigmar only knew where they’d got them. They were as good as his own men’s.

The force of the assault began to waver. For all their ferocity, the orcs were still attacking up the slope and the determination of the defences had blunted the full force of the charge.

“No mercy!” Bloch roared, feeling the shift of momentum. He lowered his halberd and prepared to push back. To his satisfaction, the men around him immediately shifted their weapons to compensate. The orcs may have had savagery and strength, but the Empire troops had iron discipline. The long line of halberds, each trained on a target in the gloom, was a formidable obstacle.

“Hurl them down!” Bloch bellowed, and the line of men surged forward. The footing was treacherous on the churned-up grass, but the row of halberds stayed in formation. The orcs responded to the challenge in the only way they knew how, with a counter-thrust of their own. The larger greenskin warriors lumbered to meet the blades, smashing the metal aside and roaring their defiance.

The slaughter was immediate. Well-directed halberds lanced through the orcs’ defences, skewering their victims. Other blades glanced from the heavy plate armour, the staves shattering from the impact. Any defenders pulled from the lines were torn apart in an instant, their blood thrown high into the night air. The order of the assault was soon lost in a frenzy of hacking and slashing.

Bloch thrust his own weapon straight through the face of an oncoming monster. The orc dragged the halberd from his hands in its death throes, so he drew his shortsword. Another warrior came for him, its distorted mouth agape and eyes flaming red. He deftly stepped aside, blunting the force of the charge, then slashed with all his might. The aim was good, and he drew thick blood. Further enraged, the greenskin came at him again, its mighty axe whirling. Bloch parried the blow and nearly lost his sword to the force of it. He stumbled back, and the greenskin leapt after him. In its eagerness to crush his skull, it left a gap between those grasping arms. Bloch ducked sharply under them, switching his sword to his left hand. He plunged it upwards. He felt it bite deep, then blood cascaded all over him. The roaring orc slumped across his shoulders, its fire extinguished.

With difficulty, Bloch shrugged the heavy corpse off and it crashed into the ground. He stepped back, sword raised, looking for a fresh challenge.

It never came. The assault had been broken. In every direction, the orcs were falling back.

“After them!” came a voice from further down the line.

“Hold your ground!” panted Bloch. To charge off into the gathering gloom would be madness. The orcs had withdrawn, but had not been routed. That in itself was strange. It wasn’t their style.

From further up the hill, a lone trumpeter gave the order to maintain position. From his command position, Grunwald had obviously seen the danger too. Slowly, reluctantly, the defensive perimeter re-established itself. His breathing heavy, Bloch backed up the slope with his men. The detachment re-formed. The orcs passed into the shadows, their fury abated for the time being. They’d left behind a score of human dead, but hadn’t dented Grunwald’s defences. Yet.

Bloch took up a fresh halberd as he resumed his position in the front line. First blood had been drawn. But the greenskins would be back. This fight had just got started.

Schwarzhelm’s temples throbbed as he studied the parchment before him intently. It was the thirteenth document he’d been asked to read that morning. He’d been sitting at the same desk in the Averburg’s scriptorium for what seemed like hours. At least the place was cool. The chamber was buried deep within the lower levels of the keep, and only a weak light entered via narrow windows. The walls were lined with leather-bound tomes of law and the chronicles of the province. Some looked older than the stone behind them. Beyond the bookshelves, passages led to further repositories of scrolls and sealed cases of documents.

After a while, the narrow blackletter legal script had started to swim before his eyes. The depositions and statements were all written in the kind of dense language that seemed to defy sense and encourage obscurantism. Wading through this stuff was its own kind of torture.

He could see the loremaster waiting impatiently for him. He decided to let the man wait. Like Tochfel, Uriens Achendorfer was grey and insignificant. He looked marginally healthier than the Steward, but that was only due to his less advanced years. A few more winters locked in his cloisters scratching out contracts on parchment and his last bloom of health would disappear. Schwarzhelm loathed men like that. Officials. They were all mean creatures, the least of the Empire’s many servants. Give him an illiterate spearman who knew how to hold his ground in the face of an enemy any day.

He kept reading, trying to keep his irritation and fatigue under wraps. The text was something to do with the claim against Leitdorf’s legitimacy. Several witnesses’ reports had been collated by a Verenan arbiter who had visited the Leitdorf estate in eastern Averland some years ago. The accounts were contradictory and vague. Not for the first time, Schwarzhelm began to suspect deliberately so.

“I can’t admit this evidence,” he said at last, putting the script down on the desk in front of him.

Achendorfer cleared his throat nervously. He’d already been on the wrong end of some choice words that morning. “May I ask why, my lord? It is a warranted document and has been catalogued in the—”

“This testimony is years old,” said Schwarzhelm. “The arbiter is dead. It cannot be verified. The verdict is inconclusive.” He fixed Achendorfer with a withering look. “Everything is inconclusive. There’s not a single document you’ve given me with an unambiguous claim. No account is complete. The authority is always disputed. A more suspicious mind than mine would conclude that a deadlock has been allowed to develop here.”

Achendorfer looked genuinely offended, despite his fear. “We’ve done what we could within the boundaries of the law,” he complained. “We are required to conduct ourselves with an even hand. Much depends on the result of this appointment. The traditions of Averland require that all competing claims are heard in full.”

“The traditions of Averland be damned,” muttered Schwarzhelm. “Money has changed hands here for too long. How many more of these submissions are there for me?”

“There are twenty more depositions to cast judgement on. Then there are six cases of genealogical research carried out by the College of Heraldry. This sets out the case for the two candidates as clearly as we’ve been able to establish. Then there are the credentials for the Grand Jury to be cleared and some ceremonial documents that require your seal to ratify. To start with.”

Schwarzhelm looked at the wizened man carefully. Was he deliberately doing this to rile him? Or were all of his kind so in love with parchment? Achendorfer must have noticed the dark look cast in his direction and stammered an apology.

“You see, my lord, it is highly irregular for the Emperor’s representative to intervene in such matters. The Averland Estates would normally pronounce itself. To transfer the authority, protocol must be followed.”

Schwarzhelm was about to say exactly what he thought of Averland’s protocol when there was a knock at the door to the chamber. The sequence of beats was unusual. Verstohlen. And he had news he wished to keep private.

“Go,” snapped Schwarzhelm. “Deliver the scripts I’ve ratified to the Estates secretariat. I’ll do the rest later.”

Looking grateful for the excuse to escape, Achendorfer scuttled away. He passed Verstohlen as he slipped through the door, his arms full of parchment rolls. The counsellor took his place in the chamber, closing the door behind him firmly.

“Is this place secure?” he asked, sitting on Achendorfer’s chair and pulling it closer to the desk.

“As much as anywhere. What do you have for me?”

“I sent men to Heideck, as you commanded. I’ve had word back today. Grunwald passed through the town some days ago. He pressed on towards the mountains, where there are now many reports of orc attacks. No one can explain how they’re getting through the passes.”

“Why hasn’t he sent reports back?”

“He has. Messengers were sent from Heideck to Averheim. Perhaps more were dispatched later. There are witnesses who can attest to it. They never arrived here. Some of my own men are missing. Though I’m loathe to believe it, it may be that someone’s watching the roads.”

Schwarzhelm frowned. There were many dangerous roads in the Empire. Losing messengers was not unheard of. But in Averheim?

“What news of Grunwald after he left Heideck?”

“None. I’ll keep working on it, but we must accept that the countryside is a dangerous place for us now. At least until some other explanation can be found.”

Schwarzhelm felt his inner weariness begin to reassert itself. This was a complication he could do without.

“I don’t like it. Grunwald has a large force, but we know little of the orcs. This business here is killing me. I should ride out to aid him.”

“Perhaps,” said Verstohlen. “But consider the motives of those who wish to see no resolution. For such men, this is a very helpful incursion. They’d rather see you chasing greenskins across the countryside than forcing the Estates to come to a decision.”

For a moment, Schwarzhelm had a vision of himself riding across the wide fields of Averland, the wind in his hair, scattering the orcs before him and scouring the land of their foul presence. It was an appealing image. He could feel himself going stale, cooped up in the dungeons of the Leitdorfs.

“Maybe you’re reading too much into this.”

Verstohlen reached into his clothes and handed him a scrap of parchment. It had been part-burned, but a few words remained legible.

“I’ve been making enquiries in Averheim too. We’ve made some progress. Messages have been sent from the Averburg to Altdorf. It’s been going on for some time. The replies were burned before Kraus could track down their source. The man responsible took a draught of deathflower before I could get to him. We don’t know what was passed on. These scraps are all we have. But they’re getting help from outside.”

On the fragment, beside some illegible scrawls, was a single word. “Schwarzhelm”. He looked at it dispassionately.

“This proves little,” he said. “My visit here has hardly been secret.”

“Maybe. But if the communication was innocent, then a man’s died for no reason. These are all small things. Messengers may be waylaid. Correspondence on the Estates may be kept secret. There are even stories of youths disappearing from the streets. People are scared, my lord.”

Schwarzhelm pursed his lips, pondering the news. Verstohlen was usually reliable in these matters. “What do you recommend?”

“I do not think we have the forces we need. Grunwald should be sent reinforcements immediately. The road from here to the east should be guarded. We can’t do that without help. I’ve taken the liberty of making enquiries. There’s a garrison of Reiksguard at Nuln. Helborg is with them. We could—”

“Helborg?” The name was like a shard of ice. “What’s he doing there?”

“I’ve no idea.”

Schwarzhelm felt old suspicions suddenly stir. “So he’s waiting there. For what, I wonder? What if the messages weren’t going to Altdorf, but to Nuln? Can he really be so jealous?”

Verstohlen gave Schwarzhelm a startled look.

“I’m sure there’s a reason for his being there,” he said, carefully. “Whatever it is, it gives us an opportunity. Ask for his aid. A regiment of Reiksguard to secure the Averburg and the roads would release the troops we need to make contact with Grunwald. I’m sure he’d agree, given the situation.”

“No.” Schwarzhelm felt a surge of anger building up within him. He kept it down, but only barely. Helborg was unreliable. A glory-seeker. If he arrived now, fresh from his last-gasp charge at Turgitz, they would all say that Schwarzhelm couldn’t handle the Emperor’s bidding. That had to be avoided. At all costs, that had to be avoided.

Verstohlen made to protest, but Schwarzhelm cut him off.

“These are rumours. Fragments of information. I’ll not divert the Grand Marshal for such trivia. We have the men we need. Maintain your enquiries, but the decision on the succession will not be delayed any further.”

Verstohlen looked at him steadily before responding. He was one of the few men who dared to meet his gaze. Schwarzhelm could see the counsellor was unhappy.

“Very well,” Verstohlen said at last and rose from his chair. “I’ll do what I can.”

He turned to leave, then hesitated. “My lord,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically halting. “I mean no disrespect, but is all well with you? You do not seem… quite yourself.”

Schwarzhelm did his best to look equable. In truth, he felt terrible. His headache was now ever-present, and he’d grabbed only the barest snatches of sleep for the past three days. When he did drift off, his dreams were terrifying. The stress of the legal work also bore down heavily. He could feel himself starting to fray. It was another reason to bring this thing to a conclusion as soon as possible.

“I’m fine. I could do without this heat, but I’ve been in worse.”

“I have some sleepwort with me,” said Verstohlen. “Perhaps a tincture of that, now and again, would help? The nights are humid in the Averburg.”

It was a tempting offer. He’d considered it earlier. Verstohlen knew his poisons, as well as the cures.

“I’ll ask you if I need any,” Schwarzhelm said. “Now I need to finish reading these papers. Report back when you hear anything certain of Grunwald.”

Verstohlen bowed and left the chamber. With his departure, the scriptorium felt more like a prison cell than a reading room. The door closed with an echoing thud. Schwarzhelm looked around. The books looked down at him from their shelves. It was like being surrounded by enemies he couldn’t fight.

With a weary sigh, he pulled the parchment towards him, and starting reading all over again.

Dawn had broken. Grunwald looked around him in desperation. The orcs were everywhere. In the distance, he could see a fresh mob, mixed in composition and running steadily, making its way to his position. How had they coordinated so well? This was getting difficult. Very difficult.

The greenskins had attacked all through the night, throwing themselves at the increasingly exhausted defenders with the fearless abandon typical of their race. Until the dawn, he hadn’t been able to tell whether the waves of attackers were different tribes, or whether the same bands had been charging the rise again and again. With the rising of the sun, the truth became apparent. This was no isolated collection of warriors. It was a major incursion, and fresh reinforcements were arriving all the time. His forces on the ridge were already outnumbered. They would soon be heavily outnumbered.

He looked west, as if some help might come from that direction. There was nothing. Just the endless rolling fields, empty of anything but the beating sunlight.

Bloch came to his side. His armour was dented in several places. For a moment, Grunwald recalled Ackermann. He’d looked similar, back on the ridge. Everything was horribly similar.

“They’re preparing to charge again,” Bloch said grimly. “What are your orders?”

“We have no choice,” Grunwald replied. “We’re too far out. We’ll hold them here.”

Bloch looked exasperated.

“If we stay, we’ll soon be outnumbered two to one.” Grunwald noticed he’d stopped using “sir” automatically.

“What do you suggest, Herr Bloch? That we withdraw across the fields? They’re not going to let us walk out of this.”

“Then we’ll fight our way back to Heideck!” Bloch spat. “The men need some direction. Keep us here and we’ll all die on this hill.”

The man’s voice was raised. Troops nearby started to look around. There was a murmur of assent from the ranks further down the slope.

“We have the high ground,” insisted Grunwald, keeping his own voice low. “I’ll not see my men cut to pieces as they try to run for safety. I have my orders.”

“Damn the orders!” Bloch was now red-faced and angry. “We’ve been drawn out here by cock-and-bull stories. Even you can see that this has been planned.”

Grunwald hesitated.

“What do you mean?”

“Have you seen the weapons those orcs are using? Have we heard a thing from Averheim since we set off? We should have stayed at Heideck. We’re useless this far out.”

The man was beginning to ramble. It was probably the lack of sleep, or the heat. It was getting to them all. Even Grunwald could feel it begin to affect his judgement.

“Keep your voice down,” he growled. “I’ll not give you orders twice. We’ll hold the ridge. My instructions were to meet the incursion head on. I won’t run back at the first sign of trouble.”

Bloch gave a bitter laugh.

“So that’s it,” he said, shaking his head. “You’re trying to make up for Turgitz. Schwarzhelm’s ordered you to hold the ridge and you’re damn well going to hold it. Even if it kills us all.”

“Enough! Get back to the front, lieutenant. I’ll not tell you again.”

Bloch was still smiling, but there was no humour in his face. He looked as bitter as wormwood.

“Yes, sir,” he said sardonically. “I’ll do my duty. But don’t come running to me this time when you need bailing out.”

Grunwald’s hand leapt to his sword. That was too much. But then fresh shrieks of alarm rose up from the lower slopes of the hill. The orcs were back in the assault. With a final backward glance of despair, Bloch ran to his position amongst the halberdiers. He didn’t say another word. Grunwald called his personal guard to his side, drawing his sword as he did so.

“Watch for the breach,” he said, trying to push the dispute to the back of his mind. “On my mark, we’ll enter the melee.”

The artillery spat out again, spinning shot high over the ranks of the defenders and into the advancing orcs. It did little to halt the tide. On every side, greenskins surged towards the defensive lines. Grunwald watched them as they came, looking for a weak point to exploit. The orcs were unusually tightly-formed. He had a sick feeling in his stomach. There were so many. They looked well armed indeed. Perhaps Bloch was right.

He grasped the grip of his broadsword with both hands. There was no time to reconsider now. Battle had come again.

The long day waned over Averheim. It was still hot. Verstohlen looked up into the sky. There wasn’t a cloud in it. The sun remained strong. He’d never known a summer like it. Now he realised why southerners were so flaky. It was the heat that did for them.

He was standing on one of the seven bridges across the Aver. Long ago, Averheim had consisted solely of the Averburg and its attendant residences. As the Empire had grown, the city had sprawled out across the whole valley. As a rule, the richer dwellings were still on the southern shore. The poorer quarters,-some of them legally inside Stirland, were on the north-west bank. They were crammed close together, like all impoverished tenements in all cities of the Old World. There were none of the wide parks and elegant avenues the graced the Old City on the east side. That made it far less edifying to spend time in, but, for his purposes, much more interesting.

Verstohlen walked across the bridge and into the maze of streets beyond. The air was thick and unmoving. Out of the evening sun, beggars slumped in the shadows, their mouths open like dogs. Flies droned lazily in the open doors to shops and taverns. There was no sign of the militia that seemed to patrol the Old City’s streets incessantly. Verstohlen made sure his pistol was safely stowed under his jacket, ready to be withdrawn quickly. The atmosphere seemed reasonably benign, but it did no harm to be careful.

He pressed on, walking away from the river and further into the rows of mean houses. The more he walked, the less obviously cared-for the architecture became. The streets passed from having stone flags and proper gutters to being dirt tracks. Piles of refuse were deposited at the ends of streets. Rats openly scuttled across them. Everything looked slumped, weary. The heat didn’t help. The people dragged their feet as they walked, leaving trails behind them in the dust. They looked shabbier than he’d expected. There was an air of casual degradation about the place.

Verstohlen walked further into the suburb. He knew what he was after. After a long trail up a winding cobbled street, he turned into a narrow alley and found himself in an enclosed square. On the far three sides, old stone buildings lurched haphazardly into the air. They’d seen better days. Clothes hung from the windows, heavy in the listless heat. If they’d been laundered and left to dry then the washerwomen had done a poor job, and there were still stains all over them. Naked children squatted at an open sewer, playing some kind of game in the filmy water. Their parents were nowhere to be seen. The only visible adults were in a shadowy doorway on the far side of the square. One of them, a fat man wearing no shirt, stared at Verstohlen with little interest. He looked half-asleep.

Verstohlen walked up to the doorway. There was a strange aroma on the air, detectible even over the reek of the sewer and clumps of refuse. One didn’t need to be a bloodhound to be able to follow it.

“Greetings, friend,” said Verstohlen, taking off his hat. “Can a man can get a drink here?”

The man looked as if he didn’t understand Reikspiel. After a pause, he granted and motioned for Verstohlen to enter the house. They went in together. If the stench had been bad outside, it was worse inside. Used cooking pots had been discarded at the back of the room. Scraps of food, rags and other clutter littered the floor. A flight of wooden stairs led up to the next floor, and a doorway at the rear of the room indicated there were more chambers set further back.

As Verstohlen had guessed, this place served as an inn of sorts. It didn’t sell ale, but that wasn’t what the patrons were after. The strange aroma he’d detected outside permeated the place.

“You’re a stranger here,” said the man, bluntly. As he spoke, his jowls quivered. There were a few others in the room, mostly propped up against the walls. Their eyes were blank. One of them, an older man in reasonably expensive clothes, looked like he’d been there a long time. A glittering line of drool ran down his chin from his open mouth. Every so often, his fingers would twitch.

“I am,” said Verstohlen coolly. He’d need to keep his wits about him, though none of the residents of the den looked capable of sudden movements. “Just passing through. I’d heard about the fine ale you people sell. Perhaps I could try some of it?”

The man’s senses seemed to have been permanently damaged. He’d obviously forgotten the first rule of the peddler of contraband and had indulged himself. After a while, he realised what was being asked of him and ducked under the doorway. From the chamber beyond there was the sound of something heavy being dragged from its place. Verstohlen looked around him. The clientele were lost in another world. It was as if he wasn’t there at all. He squatted down and waved his hand in front of the old merchant’s face. Nothing. The man was still breathing, but he might as well have been dead.

The owner came back. He had a collection of objects in his hand. They looked like ginger roots, but were a darker brown. Even from a couple of yards away the aroma was pungent.

“How many?” he asked.

Verstohlen picked one up and rolled it between his fingers. The outer skin came off in his hands easily. It felt strangely caustic. Underneath, the flesh of the root was a pale pink colour.

“How much do I need?”

The fat man laughed, a strangled sound that had little mirth in it.

“First time? Half a root. You’ll be back. Three schillings.”

The price was low. That was a worry. If such dissolute characters could get hold of it, then it was more widespread than Brecht had believed.

Verstohlen gave him the money and took one of the roots. He slipped it into his pocket. The fat man laughed again.

“You’ll love it,” he gurgled. “You’ll love her.”

Verstohlen paused.

“Who?”

But the fat man couldn’t stop laughing. He shuffled back into the rear of the house, shaking his head at some joke. Verstohlen watched him go. He suddenly felt nauseous. The squalor around him was overwhelming.

He walked back out into the sun. Once in the courtyard, he drew in a mouthful of air. It wasn’t the purest in the world, but it was less noxious than it had been inside the house. The last of the sunlight still lay golden on the stone. The light was fading quickly. With more purpose than he’d shown on the way out, Verstohlen began to retrace his steps. He knew it would be unwise to be on the west bank when night fell.

His haste was not just a matter of prudence. This thing needed to be investigated. An uncomfortable thought had occurred to him. The words were still etched on his mind.

You’ll love her.

That could mean nothing. It could be innocuous. It could have been mistaken. It could be horrifying.

Schwarzhelm woke suddenly. His eyes flicked wide open. For a moment, he had no idea where he was. Then the real world clarified. He was in his bedchamber in the Averburg. As ever, he was plastered in sweat. As ever, the dream had been bad. The sheets were clammy, wrapped up around his powerful legs like bonds. He looked down at his hands. They were still shaking. He took a deep breath, forcing his heart to stop racing.

Schwarzhelm swung his feet on to the floor, shoving the flimsy silk coverlet from his body. He rubbed his eyes roughly. The last of the images, Bloch’s accusing face, steadily receded. He felt like he was losing his mind.

As he had done in Altdorf, he walked over to the window of his tower room. He stood at the open sill, waiting for his heart to stop thumping. He looked out and down, willing the images in his mind to recede. He could see all of the Old City laid out before him. The night had done little to cool it down, but the place slumbered. The streets were silent, and the river ran quietly under the moon.

When he’d been a boy, many years ago, Schwarzhelm had called this place his capital city. Growing up in rural Averland, the word Altdorf meant little. Though it was hard to recall now, he’d only had the vaguest idea what the Empire was or who ruled it. His life had been permeated by simple things. The rhythm of the harvest. The intense politics of village life. The need to learn a trade.

His father had wanted him to be a blacksmith. Even as a lad, he’d had the arms for it. If he’d taken that advice, he’d no doubt still be in the village. Wenenlich. He barely even remembered the name. When he’d first come back to Averland to rein in Marius, he’d not visited. That kind of sentiment had never been his style. For all he knew, the villagers might still boast of their famous son. They might have forgotten he ever came from there. Either was possible. It didn’t really matter.

He leaned further out on the sill, letting the warm breeze run across his skin. Since those days, he’d travelled the length of the Empire and beyond. He’d fought marauders on the far shore of the Sea of Claws, orcs in the Grey Mountains, rat-men in the sewers of Middenheim, traitors in Ostland, undead in Stirland, beastmen all over the Empire. Now nowhere was his home—and everywhere was. He’d become one of that select, strange band for whom the whole Empire was their concern. Few men ever achieved such a feat. Karl Franz, of course. Gelt, Volkmar, Huss. And, of course, Helborg.

The name reminded him of his recent sensitivity. It was unworthy. He’d allowed himself to get caught up in the game of prestige. Wasn’t that what Lassus had warned him against? The old man’s lesson was simple. He’d served his time. When it was over he’d allowed himself to leave the stage, honoured by all and hated by none. That was the way a man’s life should be. Getting drawn into these rivalries was foolish and dangerous.

Perhaps Schwarzhelm’s own time was drawing to a close. Maybe, after thirty years of constant service, he’d become trapped in that endless, fruitless struggle for mortal honour. All things came to an end, after all. Maybe that was what the Emperor was testing for. Whether the old dog had any life left in him.

The memory of the nightmare began to fade. Schwarzhelm felt his equilibrium gradually return. The still of the night brought a certain clarity to his thoughts.

Lack of sleep was getting to him. The nightmares were unnatural. He’d had them in Altdorf, but they’d been worse since getting to Averheim. He’d seen enough of the world to know that such things always had their causes. There were forces at work, hidden for the moment, determined to see him fail. Maybe they were already in the city. Maybe they would show themselves in the days to come. But, as surely as he’d known that Raghram would come to the Bastion, he knew his enemies would scuttle from their cover at the last. Until that moment, the torment would continue. His spirit knew what his mind could not. It sensed their presence.

“You will not break me,” he whispered. His words melted into the night. “You cannot break me.”

For a few moments more he remained at the window’s edge, watching the city sleep, reflecting on its fate. Then, finally, he felt the drag of weariness again. The dawn was still hours away.

Schwarzhelm walked back to the bed and lay on it. Eventually, slowly, his eyes closed. Hung in the corner of the chamber, the sheathed Rechtstahl looked coldly, silently on. Outside, high in the night sky, the full moon rode untroubled above Averheim.

Chapter Eight

Bloch roared his defiance. The men around him did the same. They were brave lads. They hadn’t given up. But the situation was getting hopeless. Hundreds of men now lay trampled into the turf. All around the beleaguered army swarmed a maelstrom of greenskin fury. The artillery rounds had given out, the last of their shot spent in a futile effort to stem the rising tide. Two nights of fighting stranded on the ridge and no let-up in sight. The rotations had become unbearable. Sleep had been nigh impossible amid the constant series of assault and counter-assault.

The second dawn, hot and humid, brought no comfort. Grunwald’s army, sent so proudly south from Altdorf, was facing ruin. The orcs came at them again. They scented victory.

“Hold your positions!” bellowed Bloch, though his voice was beginning to crack. His halberd felt heavy and blunt. “Pick your targets!”

His men were now using whatever weapons they could find. Some still had their halberds, others swords, others hunting knives. The defences held, but they were being run ragged. Bloch had ordered a withdrawal further up the slope just to avoid fighting knee-deep in their own dead. As the beating sun rose higher up into the sky, the pungent smell of the corpses began to strengthen.

That only seemed to spur the greenskins on. Their attacks were coordinated, but they were also feral. They’d lost none of their energy for the fight, despite the casualties they’d taken. As the balance of numbers had shifted they’d started picking off men in gangs. Bloch had seen single troopers born down by three or more greenskins, their bodies trampled into the mud until they were little more than slicks of blood.

He focussed on the charging orc lines. That wouldn’t be his fate. He lowered his halberd, gritted his teeth and braced for impact.

The orcs thundered into the human ranks again. There were too many gaps in the line of steel, and some broke through. Swordsmen immediately raced to engage them. The combat was close, murderous and heavy. There was barely room to swing a blade, let alone wield a halberd properly. This kind of intense melee suited the greenskins better. The defenders were being butchered.

Bloch traded vicious blows with his target, a brutal-looking warrior orc with three tusks protruding from its maw. It was far heavier than he was and carried a crude warhammer in both hands. As the hammer came down, Bloch’s broken halberd shaft shivered. The warrior advanced, swinging his weapon wildly. If it connected just once, the game was over. Bloch swayed out of reach, thrusting back with his halberd when he could. He was driven back. The men at his shoulder were pushed up the hill alongside him. They couldn’t hold the charge.

He heard the spearman beside him go down rather than saw it. A spray of hot blood splattered down his cheek. For a moment, the man’s scream drowned out the rest of the battle clamour. Then he was gone, and another defender took his place in the line. They were being thinned out.

The prospect of defeat maddened him. Bloch charged forward, no longer worried about becoming exposed. Something needed to be done to break the momentum.

His blade moved with speed, flashing in the sun. The warhammer-wielder was too slow. Bloch sliced through his defences, carving the green chest open and throwing up gouts of blood.

He could sense men following his lead. He wasn’t alone. In every direction, humans pushed back against the orc assault. The cries of pain told him they were being cut down. The defenders didn’t have the numbers to back an assault up. The orcs were stronger, fresher and better-armed. A strange, guttural sound rose up into the air. They were laughing.

“Sigmar!” yelled Bloch, trying to conjure something, anything up. He whirled his blade around, cutting down any orcs who strayed into its path. With hopelessness came savagery.

Then, from the summit of the hill, a lone trumpet rang out. Grunwald had ordered the retreat. At last.

Bloch stood his ground. He could hear the clatter of arms as men on the far side of the ridge broke through the thinnest point in the orc ranks and attempted to break the ring of iron around them. They should have done it hours ago. Even now, they risked being cut down as they fled.

“Hold your positions, you swine!” roared Bloch, wielding his halberd with renewed vigour. “Give them time to get away. We leave last!”

His words were wasted on some, those who had already turned tail. His was a diminished company that fought its way steadily back up the hill. They gave ground a yard at a time, never breaking, never losing shape. Bloch fought with a steady, controlled anger. He was damned if he could see a way out of this, but wasn’t going to run yet.

Then, all around him, fresh troops arrived. Grunwald’s personal guard, thrown into the melee to shield the retreating men behind. The commander was at the forefront, slicing through the orc ranks with his broadsword.

The strokes were expert. Deadly. Bloch had never witnessed that side of him. The man knew how to wield a blade.

Bloch fought his way to Grunwald’s side.

“How many can we get away?” he shouted, felling an orc warrior with a savage stab from the halberd even as he came alongside the commander.

“What’re you still doing here?” grunted Grunwald, grappling with a huge red-eyed monster. It took three of them to drop the orc. Behind its toppled corpse, more greenskin warriors rushed forward.

“Flee!” Grunwald snapped at Bloch, his eyes wild with desperation. “The men need leading!”

For a moment, Bloch didn’t understand.

“Are you not—”

Grunwald turned to face him for a brief instant. His face was grim. The man had been in heavy fighting, and his leg had been hastily bandaged. He wouldn’t get far.

“I’ll hold them here as long as I can. Rally the men. Head for Heideck. That’s an order, Herr Bloch.”

Then the orcs charged again. Grunwald raised his sword.

“Sigmar!” he roared, and his men echoed the battle cry. They were hopelessly outnumbered.

Bloch looked around, struck by indecision. All those who could were running, sprinting down the far side of the rise. They were strung out, no formation at all. They’d be picked off like flies.

He looked back over to Grunwald. Every fibre of his being wanted to stay. He’d never walked away from a fight in his life, not when he could look his opponent in the eye. He was caught in an agony of indecision. That was dangerous. He was still in the middle of the fighting.

A greenskin lumbered up to him, maybe seeing the torment in his eyes. Snapping back into focus, Bloch ran at it, swinging his halberd into the warrior’s flank with all the strength he could muster. The blade bit, lodging in the green flesh. He ducked under the counter-stroke and punched the orc square between the eyes. Once, twice, three times, each with an armoured gauntlet, quick and brutal. The orc slumped to the earth, its face a mess of broken bones. Bloch pulled a knife from his belt and finished the job.

He looked up. There were orcs everywhere. The shape of the battle had dissolved. Whole companies of men were streaming down the far side of the hill. A few yards away, the last knot of resistance on the ridge still held out. Grunwald’s men were tough, but it couldn’t last forever. An orc warrior got through, but Grunwald met the charging creature, parried two blows, but his back was unprotected. A fresh warrior leapt up to take advantage.

“Commander!” shouted Bloch, powerless to prevent it. The orc blade plunged deep. Somehow, Grunwald managed to finish off his opponent, but the blood was already beginning to gush. He fell to the ground, still grappling with the second warrior. Then his body passed from view, hidden by the press of men and orcs around. He was gone.

For the moment, the orcs were still consumed with the need to bring down Grunwald’s defensive formation. They were drawn to it like wasps to a honeypot. Bloch hesitated, aware of the danger, unwilling to leave.

It was hopeless. The field was lost. His duty was to the men that remained.

“Sigmar forgive me,” he spat, as he turned tail and headed down the hill, tearing after the fleeing column of men ahead. There were orcs swarming everywhere, and their attention was rapidly turning to the retreating human forces.

Bloch felt sick. He’d left behind the chance of an honourable death, but he might still meet a dishonourable one. The only thing that would make up for that was if he could rally the fragments of Grunwald’s command and get them away. He gripped the broken halberd tightly, looking for fresh targets. There’d be plenty more killing before the day was done.

Schwarzhelm lowered the gavel, and the noise echoed around the chamber. Immediately the crowd ceased their chatter. Those still standing took their seats. The first session of the Estates Tribunal was convened. At last, the process was underway.

The chamber was in the largest audience room in the Averburg citadel. It was one of the oldest parts of the ancient castle still in use, as indicated by the worn stone of the walls and the archaic narrow windows. The space was barely big enough for all those who were entitled to attend. The appointment of an elector was a major event in the province, and the hall was stuffed with every notable who believed they had a right to be there. Schwarzhelm suspected that Dagobert had been weak in his admissions policy, and many who sat on the long wooden pews were simply rich enough to be able to buy a seat. That irritated him. This was a serious procedure, not a bear-baiting spectacle.

Aside from the noble onlookers, there were dozens of loremasters, scholars and other legal experts in attendance. This was the kind of debate they lived for. Some of them were in the pay of Leitdorf, or Grosslich, or—if they were very clever—both. Others were simply there for the joy of witnessing a long and turgid academic debate on the finer points of law.

Schwarzhelm had in front of him a list of names Verstohlen had prepared. They indicated what each of them was likely to say and why. Not for the first time, he was glad to have the services of such an able man. There had been a time when the Temple of Sigmar might have taken him away. Verstohlen would have made a formidable witch hunter. Operating as the personal agent of the Emperor’s Champion seemed to suit his temperament better, which was something to be thankful for. He knew why that was, of course. He’d never forget why that was.

Schwarzhelm sat behind a heavy wooden desk on a raised dais. Below him, scribes were poised to record the events of the day. On the front row of pews before him, Leitdorf sat with Natassja. He looked bored. He wore a turban-like headdress and was draped in an ostentatious purple robe. It did nothing but display his rotund stomach. Clearly, the man had never lifted a sword in his life. If he hadn’t been so wealthy, and potentially so powerful, surely a capable woman like Natassja wouldn’t have had anything to do with him.

On the other side of the room, Grosslich’s delegation had gathered. Heinz-Mark sat apart from the others, dressed in ceremonial armour. Unlike his rival, he looked like a future elector. His supporters, including the weasel-faced Ferenc, were set some distance behind.

“My lords,” said Schwarzhelm, his rolling voice echoing around the room. The scribes below him immediately started scraping. “This Estates Tribunal is now in session.”

At a hidden signal from Tochfel, a priest of Sigmar stood up and delivered a lengthy benediction. After him, an Ulrican did the same. Schwarzhelm felt his spirits begin to sag. There was no prospect of this being either quick or easy. As far as he could tell from the legal papers, both candidates had equally flawed cases. Rufus was rumoured to be illegitimate and came from a family in which madness had been proven. Many powerful families had threatened to leave Averland if he were crowned. Grosslich, on the other hand, had dubious claims to being a member of the ruling elite at all. He’d bought his support amongst the Alptraums. If it were not for his extreme popularity with the lower classes, his candidacy would have foundered long ago. His was an intriguing story.

When the prayers had taken their long and dreary course, Schwarzhelm returned to the business of the day.

“According to the articles of the court, I will now hear the opening statements of the candidate’s advocates. As the son of the late Count Marius, I now give the floor to—”

“My lord!” came a cry from the floor. A lawyer stood up. Schwarzhelm thought he recognised the man from Leitdorf’s delegation. “I wish to lodge an objection. The business of determining an elector is for the authorities in Averland. The Emperor can have no say in the matter. According to the learned Jeroboam of Gruningwold, since the year 1345 the Procurators Legal have ruled that…”

The man droned on for some time, outlining the case for provincial self-determination. Schwarzhelm looked down at Leitdorf. The odious little man was smiling to himself as his lackey reeled out the arguments. There would be more such interruptions as the day went on. Too many people wanted the tribunal to fail. Too many had the money to sponsor interruptions.

Eventually, the lawyer finished his argument.

“Your objection is noted and overruled,” said Schwarzhelm. He worked hard to keep his voice level. He was already getting a headache. The objection had been anticipated, and he had the counter-arguments ready to hand. “My learned friend will be aware of the Drusus Precedent, dating to the time of Mandred. The summary of the principal is contained in the Volksfram Chronicles. Under the articles contained therein, I invoke the extraordinary right of the supreme governor of the Imperial executive. I am his representative, and the tribunal will continue.”

The lawyer sat down, looking pleased with himself. No doubt he’d earn himself a few crowns for the intervention.

“If we may continue?” said Schwarzhelm, sweeping his gaze across the packed chamber. It was early morning, but the room was already getting hot.

“My lord!” came a cry from further back. Another lawyer rose. You will of course be familiar with the prescriptions contained in the Averland Charter of Freedoms of 1266, under which the jurisdiction of the Imperial representative may be limited in the following cases.

Schwarzhelm sighed. There’d be a number of these to get through before the tribunal could get underway. Leitdorf had sat back in his pew, legs outstretched, and looked like he might be planning a snooze. Grosslich appeared frustrated and had turned to his own advisers. They’d no doubt start chipping in with points of their own.

Schwarzhelm fingered the pommel of the Rechtstahl as the lawyer droned on. It hung at his side, useless and decorative. He’d have given anything for an excuse to draw it. But for now he was a captive of the arcane mysteries of Imperial succession law.

He let the blade alone and tried to concentrate on what the man was saying. It was going to be a very, very long day.

Bloch felt as if his heart would burst. If not that, then his lungs would. He’d been running for longer than he’d ever done in his life. Just as at Turgitz, all those years of ale and offal-pies now felt like a very bad idea. He could feel the sweat running down the inside of his jerkin in rivulets. He’d long since cast off his helmet and the heavier items of plate armour, but he still felt bogged down.

“Enough!” he gasped, and came to a stop. All around him, men fell to their feet, panting like dogs. They were at the end of their strength, both from the retreat and from the hours of fighting that had taken place before it. Though they’d escaped the pursuing orcs for now, there wasn’t a triumphant expression among them. They knew the greenskins would be hard on their heels. It was only a matter of time before they’d have to turn and fight again.

Bloch could feel his vision begin to cloud at the edges. Fatigue was beginning to weigh him down. Not yet. He needed to keep going just a little longer.

He looked around. Somehow, against all likelihood, some of them had outrun the orcs and made it into the cover of woodland. They were barely a mile west of the site of the massacre. Under the scant cover of the trees, they at least had some chance of remaining undetected for a while. It wouldn’t last for long. Though Grunwald’s last stand had taken the brunt of the greenskin assault, the respite had only been brief. The pursuit would already be underway. They’d have to start running again soon.

More men arrived, crashing heavily through the undergrowth. Some carried their halberds, while others had discarded everything in their panic. The remnants of Grunwald’s army he’d managed to gather together from the rout were pitiful. Three hundred or so had made it to the woods. Perhaps others had found other ways to escape. If they still were out on the open country, they’d be easy pickings for the orcs.

For a moment, Bloch was utterly at a loss. He was exhausted, his men were exhausted, and there was nowhere to go. Heideck was miles away. They’d be lucky to get halfway there before being overtaken. There were no obvious choices.

“Sir?” came a voice. Bloch turned round. A young spearman was looking straight at him. He seemed in better physical shape than many of the rest and his cheeks weren’t hollow with fatigue. “The benefits of youth. What do we do now?”

Bloch stared back. He’d always prided himself on his ready answers, his quick tongue, his self-command. During his years as a company captain, he’d never been placed in a position where his best course of action seemed uncertain. There had always been the strategic picture handed down from above. He’d just had to look after tactics. After Grunwald’s death, things were different. There was no one left to give the orders but him. He remembered his disdain for Grunwald. It was the same casual contempt he’d always had for senior officers. If he’d known then what he knew now, maybe that quick tongue would have been sheathed more often.

He took a deep breath. Something needed to be done. If he didn’t act now, then they were all dead without so much as a fight being offered.

“Any officers make it out?” he said, addressing all the men around him. More soldiers were arriving every moment, staggering through the bracken. For the time being, there was no sign of the pursuing orcs. That was one small mercy.

“Schlosser was first away,” said one. “He drew a lot of orcs. I reckon they’ll have got him.”

“Rasmussen’s dead,” said another.

Not very encouraging. The men around him were state troopers. Some experienced hands, but none who could share the burden of command.

“So be it,” Bloch said, trying to sound more authoritative than he felt. “We can’t stay here. Anyone still with heavy armour, get rid of it. Take one weapon only, the lightest you have. We’ve still got a long way to go before we get out of this, and those monsters don’t tire quickly.”

All around him, men hurried to obey his orders. Bloch felt a degree of confidence return. He’d commanded soldiers for years. He knew what he was doing. If they stuck together, kept their discipline, there’d be a way out. Somehow.

“Any Averlanders among you?” Several men came forward. “I want guides who know the woodland. We’ll head for Heideck, but not by the straightest route. Between you, come up with a trail we can follow that keeps us under cover.”

The Averlanders began to confer animatedly.

“Do it quickly. We set off in moments,” said Bloch, growing in confidence. His spirit began to disseminate through the men, and they started to stand straighter. Like most soldiers, they could cope with almost anything if they understood the plan. It was when they didn’t know what was expected of them that morale collapsed.

Bloch started to plot possibilities in his mind. Perhaps he’d been too pessimistic about numbers. As he’d been speaking, more stragglers had found their way to their position. Maybe others had got away too. The orcs were still nowhere to be seen. If Grunwald’s men had held them up for longer than he thought, they might have a chance.

“Horseman!” came a cry from the edge of the ramshackle group. Bloch hefted his weapon instinctively. After a few moments, he saw it. A man, leading his steed through the trees. He looked nearly as exhausted as his own men. After a few moments, Bloch recognised the errand rider Grunwald had dispatched two days ago.

“What are you doing here?” he snapped, waiting for the man to come to him. “You should be halfway to Averheim.”

The rider shook his head.

“I had to turn back,” he said. “Commander Grunwald needs to know that his messengers haven’t been getting through. I found bodies. Two of them. They’d not bothered to hide them. The corpses were barely out of sight from the road, and the crows were still busy. So I came back to let him know. Only to find this—”

Bloch regarded him suspiciously.

“How did you find us?”

“Luck,” he said. “I nearly rode into the greenskins. I had to seek shelter somewhere. There are orcs roaming all over the fields to the east of you. Most are heading north, from what I could see. I think some other survivors have tried to make it to Grenzstadt, and they’re being pursued. You chose well to head this way.”

If that was true, it gave them some breathing space, though there was little comfort in achieving that at the expense of the remaining survivors. And if this messenger ended up drawing greenskins to their position, Bloch would kill him himself.

“I’ll need a fresh rider,” said Bloch, turning to the men around him. “Someone fast, and who knows the land between here and Averheim.”

After some discussion, the young spearman came forward. He looked nervous, but there was some steel in his gaze.

“What’s your name?”

“Herren. Joskar Herren.”

Bloch looked him directly in the eye.

“You’ve heard what this man said. The road is watched. I need you to find a way through. Averheim must be warned of what happened here. You need to ride fast, faster than you’ve ever ridden before. Can you do that?”

Herren nodded.

“Run this horse into the earth if you need to. Take a weapon. If you need a fresh steed, there are farms between here and the city. Use your wits and stay out of sight when you can. It’ll be dangerous. I’ll say it again. Can you do this?”

Herren held his gaze.

“Yes, sir.”

Bloch clapped him on the shoulder.

“Good lad. Go now, and Sigmar be with you.”

The young spearman mounted. He pulled the horse round expertly, and with a kick of hooves and a flurry of earth, he was gone. Bloch watched as the soldier galloped off under the trees. He’d be lucky to get through. Then again, they’d all be lucky to get through.

He turned back to his men. His expression was bleak. They looked back at him, waiting for instruction. That was good. They trusted him. Perhaps more than they had Grunwald. He’d have to work to ensure that trust wasn’t misplaced.

“This isn’t over yet,” he said, looking hard at each of those nearest in turn. “There are greenskins all over us. But we have one thing left to us. We’re men, and men of the Empire at that. They’ll have to work for our hides if they want them. They’ll have to earn them in blood.”

The survivors hung on his words. As he spoke, Bloch felt his confidence growing. They were his kind of men. And now he was responsible for them.

“Stay close together. We’ll go quickly but quietly. If we follow the valleys and stay under the trees, we’ll make it. Get to Heideck and everything changes. Schwarzhelm won’t leave us out here. We’ll regroup and come back fighting. And then we’ll pay the greenskins back double the pain they’ve caused us. It’ll be hard. Hard as nails. But keep your minds fixed on that. Vengeance. We’ll pay the bastards back.”

The men responded to that. The horror of the chase was fading. They knew what the odds were, but at least they had a plan, something they could work to.

Bloch turned to the Averlanders.

“Now show your worth,” he ordered. “Find me a route out of here.”

Verstohlen looked deep into the eyes of Artoldt Fromgar. The man was terrified. Verstohlen couldn’t blame him for that. If he’d been shackled to an interrogator’s chair in the dungeons of the Averburg and surrounded by men like Kraus, he’d be scared too. He almost felt pity for him. Whatever was going on in Averheim, Fromgar was nothing more than a small part of it. He probably had no idea what was going on beyond his petty activities. But if Verstohlen’s suspicions had any foundation to them, then he couldn’t allow pity, or any other emotion, to guide his actions.

“Do you want me to remain here, sir?” asked Kraus. He’d plucked Fromgar from the street with admirable efficiency. The captain of the honour guard was a capable man. Schwarzhelm knew how to pick his lieutenants.

“No, that will be all, captain. Place a man on the door and see that we’re not disturbed.”

Kraus bowed, withdrew, and the door slammed shut. There were no windows. Candles burned in lanterns around the narrow chamber. They threw flickering shadows across the dark stone walls. Verstohlen walked away from the man bound in the chair. He could smell his fear. That was good. The more afraid he was, the easier this would be. Verstohlen didn’t enjoy this work. It brought back too many memories of the past. The sooner it was over, the better.

He walked over to a chest of drawers and took a bundle of instruments from the top drawer.

“Do you know why you’re here, Herr Fromgar?” he asked coolly, masking his own nerves, unwrapping the tools.

The man could hardly get the words out of his mouth. “N-no, my lord,” he stammered. “No idea. No idea at all.”

He was beginning to babble. Verstohlen arranged the steel items on the desk, one by one. They made an echoing clink as they were placed. Some were sharp. Some were twisted. Some were crudely blunt. They all had their purpose.

“I’ve been asking around,” continued Verstohlen. “Your name came up more than anyone else’s. You’ve been doing well for yourself. How much have you sold in the past month? Enough to buy you those expensive clothes, I see.”

Fromgar began to whimper.

“It’s a lie,” he blurted. “I’ve got rivals in business. They’re not above slander. I’m a wine merchant. It’s all a lie!”

Verstohlen finished arranging the tools. He selected one. It was old, forged long before Karl Franz had taken up the throne. Such deadly finery wasn’t produced anymore. He would have appreciated the artistry if its purpose hadn’t been so black. Despite himself, he loathed it. With the instrument in hand, he walked back over to the chair. The candlelight reflected from the polished metal. When Fromgar’s eyes saw it, they went wide. A trickle of liquid collected at the legs of the chair. He was incontinent with fear.

“Are you absolutely sure about that, Herr Fromgar?” asked Verstohlen, coming up to him and trailing the tip of the device down his cheek. The man was sweating heavily. He already smelled bad. It would soon be a lot worse.

“I—ah—I…”

Verstohlen withdrew the slender shard of steel to give the man a better view. Fromgar’s pupils followed it all the while. “W-who are you? What are you going to do?”

That was a good question. Few people knew who Verstohlen was. It was kept secret for a reason. A reason hidden in the past, in deeds too terrible to bring to the surface.

Leonora.

Verstohlen winced and turned his mind back to his work.

“That depends on you, friend. You shouldn’t doubt my resolve. I want to know where you get the joyroot, how much you pay, and where it’s coming from.”

Fromgar swallowed nervously. The sweat was now shining all over his face. He looked like he might be sick soon.

“And if I tell you? Can I go?”

Verstohlen smiled grimly. The man was in no position to bargain.

“Tell me what you know and you’ll never see me again. I’m after answers, Herr Fromgar. That’s all. Answers.”

He brought the instrument back to bear, placing it carefully just under the man’s right earlobe.

“Enough!” Fromgar screamed, going rigid in the seat. Verstohlen withdrew the blade. “I don’t know where it comes from! That’s the truth. I’d tell you if I did. By Sigmar, on the souls of my daughters, I’d tell you if I did.”

Verstohlen stepped back and leaned on the edge of the desk. He kept the instruments in full view. The man was talking now. They’d served their purpose.

“I get my supply from a man called Lepp. He brings them down the river, from the east. We’ve got an arrangement. Exclusivity. There’s stuff that comes in from elsewhere, but it’s not as good.”

“Is this Lepp in the city now?”

“No. He comes and goes. He could be anywhere now.”

“How do you get in touch with him?”

“He sends a message to me when he’s in town. I collect the gold from my clients and pick up the stock.”

“Sounds like dangerous work. His cargo is valuable.”

Fromgar didn’t know what to do unless he had a direct question. He froze, eyes still staring.

“I guess. I’ve been careful, though. Not like some of the others.”

“Not careful enough,” mused Verstohlen, running his finger along the edge of the instrument. “Have you taken the root yourself?”

Fromgar shook his head.

“So you’re happy to let others pollute their bodies, but not your own?”

“It’s their choice,” he mumbled miserably. “I never forced it on anyone. No one. It’s them that comes back for more.”

Verstohlen felt a swell of disgust. A petty kind of evil, though destructive enough. He began to lose any residual sense of pity for Fromgar.

“I don’t doubt it,” he said. “If I’m right, this is powerfully addictive stuff. Perhaps more so than the poppy. What would it do to a man, the first time he took it?”

Fromgar was still scared, but something in Verstohlen’s manner seemed to have assured him that he wasn’t in immediate physical peril. He even managed a nervous smile.

“It makes them happy,” he said. “That’s all. Takes away the cares of the world for a while. Lifts their burden. It’s helpful.”

Verstohlen walked over the chest of drawers again. Fromgar stiffened in the chair.

“Would I be right in thinking that a novice user would experience a particularly powerful reaction?”

“I guess so. Maybe. I don’t know.”

Verstohlen retrieved another cloth-wrapped bundle, the size of a fist, and returned to the chair.

“I think you do,” he said, unwrapping the bundle. “I think you’ve forgotten your pledge to tell me everything you know.”

Fromgar lapsed back into a state of fear.

“Yes!” he cried, his voice rising. “It can have the effect, in the beginning. It depends on your strength of mind to start with. Some don’t take to it. Some do. That’s just how it is.”

Verstohlen paused. That was interesting.

“Strength of character?” he mused. “Did you mean to say that? Perhaps you’re referring to physical strength?”

Fromgar shook his head. His shirt was sodden with sweat.

“It’s their minds,” he said, looking warily at the bundle in Verstohlen’s palm. “It’s all in the mind. How virtuous, or not how virtuous. It makes a difference.”

Verstohlen nodded, filing the information away. That might prove useful.

“Very well. You’ve been most helpful.”

Fromgar’s eyes lit up.

“That’s it? Can I go?”

Verstohlen gave an ice-laced smile.-He felt his own heart begin to beat a little faster. Here came the real experiment. This was where his suspicions would be allayed or confirmed.

“Go? Oh no,” he said. “You see, I brought you here for another purpose. I’ve purchased some of this joyroot. It might have even come from your own stock. It’s very interesting. I’ve had it ground down. Now, though I’ve some alchemical knowledge, I’m no expert. I have a feeling I know what its powers are, but of course I’m not stupid enough to try it myself.”

Fromgar began to struggle against his bonds. He wasn’t entirely stupid either.

“You can’t!” he said. “Once you’re hooked—”

Verstohlen reached up to the man’s face and grasped his nose with his left hand, closing the nostrils. Being so close to the gutter-rat made him feel slightly nauseous. The stench was now acute.

“I’m aware of the effects,” he said coldly. “Just as you were aware when you peddled it.”

Fromgar struggled for breath. His head lashed one way, then the other, but Verstohlen kept the grip tight. Eventually, the man had to open his mouth. As he did so, Verstohlen slapped his other hand over it. Fromgar immediately coughed the powder back up, gagging on the plume of pink vapour.

Verstohlen withdrew, placing a silk handkerchief over his own mouth. The man had managed to splutter some of it out, but he’d taken in enough. Verstohlen sat back against the chest and waited.

For a moment, nothing much changed. Fromgar breathed heavily. He said nothing, though he continued to sweat profusely. His skin was an unhealthy pallor, but that could have been through fear as much as anything. The remains of the powder streaked his shirt, turning an ugly purple where it soaked up the moisture.

Then, it started working. Verstohlen watched intently, his body taut with expectation. Fromgar’s muscles began to relax. The grip of terror left his features. His fingers went limp in their bonds. His breathing slowed and a gentle sigh escaped from his lips.

“Feeling better?” asked Verstohlen.

Fromgar nodded listlessly.

“Heh,” he gurgled. “This really isn’t so bad.”

“Tell me what you’re seeing.”

Fromgar looked like he was having trouble concentrating. “Ah, well, I’m not really seeing anything. I’m just feeling a lot better. Sigmar, I’ve not felt this good since…”

He drifted off into unintelligible mumbling. A childlike smile spread across his face.

“Do you know where you are?”

Fromgar nodded. “In the Averburg.”

So he retained some sense of the real world. The root could just be a harmless relaxant. There was always that chance.

Verstohlen stood up again and went to the chest for a final time. There was one more item he needed to deploy. Of all of them, it was the most proscribed. It was why Kraus couldn’t stay in the room, and why the interrogation couldn’t be disturbed. If the witch hunters knew he had it, he ran the risk of facing interrogation himself. He retrieved it and went back to Fromgar.

“Can you hear me, Herr Fromgar?” he said, quietly but firmly. He clasped the object in his hidden hand carefully. The metal felt hot against his skin already.

Fromgar’s head was beginning to loll. With some effort, he looked up.

“I can see you,” he drawled.

“I am going to show you something. You must look into it. Do this last thing for me and I’ll leave you alone with your dreams. Do you understand? This is very important.”

Fromgar nodded. The joyroot seemed to make him both suggestible and benign. There was no resistance.

Verstohlen took a deep breath. There were dangers associated with this. He drew out the object. It was an amulet. On the silver surface the design of a serpent had been inscribed. On the reverse face a script had been engraved. There were none now who could read it. It belonged to a realm that had long since been scoured from the face of the world. But Verstohlen knew what it had been made for. And he knew what power was still bound within it.

He thrust the amulet before Fromgar’s eyes.

The change was immediate. The benign smile was replaced with a malignant leer. Fromgar’s tongue flickered across his exposed teeth. His body went rigid again, his fingers scrabbling at their bonds. Flecks of spittle flew from his mouth.

“Ach!” he cried, writhing against the rope that held him. “Herself! Ah, so beautiful!”

The convulsions began to accelerate. Verstohlen withdrew the amulet. Fromgar began to spasm. He looked wracked between some kind of ecstasy and crippling pain. The chair started to shuffle across the floor as his feet kicked out. That shouldn’t have been possible. It was solid oak, bound with iron.

Verstohlen watched carefully, reaching for his pistol. Pricks of sweat burst out across his palms. This had always been the danger. With such work, there was always this danger. He primed the weapon, his eyes fixed on Fromgar the whole time.

The foaming got worse. The man was drifting into a seizure. He began to shriek. His voice sounded strangely feminine, like an adolescent boy’s before it broke.

“She is coming!” Fromgar wailed, then his speech drifted back into gibberish. Verstohlen watched carefully, trying to make sense of the words. They were nonsense. Or some language he didn’t understand.

Suddenly, he realised what was going on. Fromgar’s eyes snapped open and the man stared at him. The pupils were gone. In their place, lurid pink spheres blazed out. Lines of blood ran down his cheeks. A deranged grin distorted his face. The language wasn’t nonsense. It was as ancient as the amulet.

“She is coming!” he said again in Reikspiel.

The chair began to rise from the floor.

The pistol rang out, twice. The first shot went through Fromgar’s heart, the second through his forehead. The chair fell back to earth with a clang. Fromgar slumped in his bonds, drool and blood running down his chin. His fingers clenched, then relaxed. The light went out from his eyes.

Verstohlen looked on for a moment, his heart still beating heavily. His hands shaking slightly, he reloaded the pistol, watching the corpse all the while. There was a knock on the door. The guard.

“Sir? Everything all right in there?” came the muffled enquiry.

“Yes. You may come in now,” said Verstohlen, putting the amulet away and doing his best to restore a facade of calmness.

Kraus’ man entered. He glanced at the body in the chair. The merest flicker of surprise crossed his solid features. No doubt he’d seen much worse.

“This man was a heretic,” said Verstohlen, putting his instruments carefully back in their wrapping. “I was obliged to silence his blasphemy. His body will have to be burned, as will his clothes and the perishable items in this room.”

The soldier nodded smartly.

“It will be done,” he said.

“Ensure a priest is present, and alert the Temple of Sigmar. They’ll want to make their own enquiries. Tell them what I told you, but do not delay burning the body. If they have any complaints, they can speak to me.”

The soldier bowed, then rushed away to make arrangements. When he was gone, Verstohlen looked back on Fromgar’s body. Despite all his training, the sight of it turned his stomach. His assessment hadn’t changed. The man had been a crooked fool, no more. He’d had no real idea of what he’d been mixed up in.

But Verstohlen did. And as he contemplated the possibilities, the thought of it chilled his blood.

Chapter Nine

Gerhard Muller gripped the cudgel tightly. It wasn’t as easy to do as it should have been. His vision was still clouded with drink. The men around him looked unsteady on their feet too. That was predictable, of course. If you gave a bunch of thugs a handful of coins and told them to prepare for trouble, they were bound to drink it away. That was what thugs did when you indulged them. Averheim was a much friendlier place for his kind than it used to be. And it was getting even better.

He looked at the boys around him. He knew most of them. Some had been dragged out of some hole by Drucker, others looked entirely unfamiliar. They might just have been coming along for the ride. As far as Muller was concerned, they were welcome to. The more, the bloodier.

The gang of men rounded the last corner before the square. The targets were right in front of them, celebrating in the evening sunlight outside the inn on the far side. They looked pretty well-lubricated. Muller surveyed the scene quickly. Leitdorf’s men numbered about fifty. Maybe a shade more. They were relaxed. He didn’t see any weapons. Some of them had already passed out. It was just as Alptraum had told him.

“Charge!” he bellowed, waving the cudgel wildly over his head. All around him, his mates did the same. They made a pretty terrifying spectacle. In a disorganised tide, Muller’s band of brothers swept across the square. With satisfaction, Muller saw Leitdorf’s mob scramble to their feet. They were completely unprepared. That was sloppy. Really sloppy.

Then they were among them. Muller swung the cudgel with abandon. Most of Leitdorf’s men were unarmed. He enjoyed the way the heavy wood crunched against bone. One particularly vicious swipe audibly caved a man’s skull in. Muller liked that. He made it an ambition to do it again. There was something gloriously satisfying in the sound, the squishy, liquid squelch of brains being redistributed.

A man swung a table leg in Muller’s direction. It was a pretty pathetic sight. Muller hammered the cudgel into the man’s midriff, knocking the wind out of him. He collapsed, and the table leg skittered across the stone. The cudgel rose and fell quickly. Two, three blows and the man was out cold. Muller stood over him, feeling the surge of victory in his blood. He took aim and plunged the cudgel down at the prone man’s skull. It cracked, caving in like a chicken’s egg.

“Yes!” he cried, looking around to see if anyone had noticed. This game was getting better and better.

Drucker swayed up to him. He looked drunk, both on violence and on ale. He had a trail of blood across his mouth. Even Muller didn’t really want to know how he’d got that.

“We should torch this place,” Drucker said, grinning. “That’s what we’re being paid for. Who’s got the flints?”

“Thought you did.”

Muller laughed. As much as he liked his ale, he couldn’t deny that getting plastered got in the way of proper planning.

“Damn it. What are we going to do now?”

That question was answered more quickly than he expected. From the other side of the square, more men had arrived. They were bearing weapons. Just like Muller’s men, they were pretty crude. Meat hooks, hammers, blacksmith’s tongs, even rocks. Leitdorfs people weren’t entirely unarmed after all.

“Excellent!” exclaimed Muller, licking his lips. “They’re up for a fight.”

Drucker grinned savagely.

“I’ll squeeze their eyes out,” he wheezed, fingering his meat chopper lasciviously. Muller looked at the man uncertainly. He liked a good scrap as much as anyone, but Drucker could be a little alarming.

There wasn’t time to dwell on it. Muller’s men left their looting and charged the newcomers. The two groups met in the middle of the square. They were evenly matched. Soon the blood was flowing again. Muller began to really enjoy himself. He took a deep cut from a flailing knife. That was fine by him. Credit to the man who managed to land a blow. It all made for a more entertaining evening. Especially once the lad in question, a meek-faced boy with freckles and a tuft of light brown hair, was lying on the floor with his jaw knocked clean from his head. He made an appealingly agonised yelping as he crawled along the ground, a slick of blood and saliva in his wake. Muller walked after him casually, swinging the cudgel. He lined it up with the boy’s head, and wondered if he was likely to make it three skull cracks in a row.

Then there was the sound of trumpets blaring. Muller looked up, a horrible sinking feeling in his stomach. This fun could soon be about to end. The square began to fill with mounted warriors. Knights. They were wearing the livery of the Averburg garrison, wearing armour and carrying longswords. That was completely unsporting. He looked around, trying to see if there were any escape routes. The way they’d come was still open. If he ran, he’d make it.

Leaving the lad to choke on his blood, Muller broke into a sprint. The ale still swilling round his head made the going difficult. Running in a straight line was far harder than it should have been. He stumbled at one point, tripping over a prone figure on the ground. It might even have been Drucker, but he couldn’t stop to check. He picked himself up and carried on running. He was going to make it. The horsemen were busy mopping up the laggards behind. The side street beckoned.

Then something very hard and very heavy hit him on the back of the head. That really caused him problems. He fell down again. Getting up was difficult. The world was swimming. Something hot and wet ran down his back.

Muller pushed himself to his feet, trying to keep his legs steady. He looked up. There was a horseman looming over him. He couldn’t focus on the figure well. The man looked massive. He was wearing heavy armour and had a grey beard. His blade was unsheathed and it blazed silver. The man’s face in the open helmet was contorted with anger. It looked oddly familiar, though he couldn’t think why.

Muller could feel his awareness slipping away. The scrap was over. He’d had his fun and spent his money. That was really all a man like him could expect out of life. With any luck, this militia captain would give him a break and he’d spend a day or two in the stocks. After all, brawling was something that happened all over the Empire.

“You’ve got me, sir,” he drawled, dropping the cudgel and holding his hands up shakily. “I’ll come quietly.”

The horseman leaned forward, pulling his blade back as he did so.

“No, you won’t.” The voice was humourless, as cold as iron.

Muller looked up, just in time to see the sword sweep towards him. His last thought was how magnificent it looked. There were runes on the steel. That must have cost a packet. Then it bit, and the game was over for good.

Schwarzhelm pushed open the door to his chamber and sat down heavily in his chair. His sword arm ached. It had been out of practice. Though he’d craved some action to offset the tedium of the tribunal hearings, there was no satisfaction in breaking up the mobs of Leitdorf’s and Grosslich’s supporters. Three more days had passed. The daylight hours were filled with legal arguments, the nights with suppressing the electors’ unleashed violence.

It was grim, depressing work. The gaols were full, and still the candidates found willing hands to do their sordid work. They were both as bad as each other, though each was careful to distance themselves from the trail of gold. It was getting worse. The city was drifting into lawlessness. The whole situation was listing out of hand.

Schwarzhelm poured himself a flagon of ale from the jug on his desk. He drank deep. He hadn’t slept for any of those three days. Even drink made no difference. It was making him fractious, paranoid. Something would have to change. Somehow, he’d have to turn things around. As it was, he felt like he was slowly going mad.

There was a gentle knock at the door. Verstohlen again. The man was like a bad schilling.

“Come!” he roared.

The agent entered. His face looked grave.

“I’ve not been able to contact you,” he said. Was there reproach in that voice? There’d better not have been.

“I’ve been busy,” Schwarzhelm growled.

“I heard about it. That’s the second night of disturbance in the Old City.”

“They’ve both got their hired boneheads out in force. I had to adjourn this afternoon’s hearing. These men are powerful, and they know what they’re doing. We can’t run the tribunal while the city burns.”

“You’re halting it?”

Schwarzhelm shook his head. “It’ll continue. We’re making progress. They’ll accept the Imperial decree. They’ll have to.”

“I’m glad they’re coming around. But the closer you get to a decision, the worse things will get on the streets.”

“You think I don’t know that?”

Verstohlen paused.

“There are other options.”

“I know what you’re going to—”

“You should give it some consideration.”

Schwarzhelm’s eyes blazed. His anger seemed to come so readily. He had to keep a lid on it. Verstohlen was only doing his job.

“You’re questioning my authority,” he said, warningly.

“I’m doing no such thing. I’m questioning your judgement.”

Only Verstohlen could have said that. Kraus or Grunwald would have died before such words could have passed their lips. That was the difference between soldiers and ordinary men. Soldiers knew when to shut up and take orders.

But Verstohlen wasn’t ordinary, in any sense.

“I won’t debate with you,” Schwarzhelm said bluntly. “I don’t want Helborg brought into this. You know my reasons.”

Verstohlen held his ground for a few more moments, looking like he was going to argue. Then he clearly thought better of it. “Heard from Grunwald yet?”

Schwarzhelm shook his head.

“Nothing.”

“And that doesn’t concern you?”

“He can look after himself. When things are more stable, I’ll send more men.”

Verstohlen didn’t look happy. He was a professional spy and could project any demeanour he wanted to. He didn’t bother hiding the way he felt with Schwarzhelm. That, at least, was a minor courtesy.

“I think things are more complicated here than may be apparent,” Verstohlen ventured, choosing his words carefully. “If this were just a matter of the electors-in-waiting fighting amongst themselves, maybe I’d agree with you. But I no longer think it is.”

Schwarzhelm found himself getting impatient. If his agent had a flaw, it was a tendency to see hidden schemes in everything. As a soldier, he took the world as it appeared. He listened, though, quelling his bubbling irritation.

“This joyroot,” continued Verstohlen. “The substance I told you about. I’ve been conducting some experiments. It’s tainted.”

“Poisonous?”

“No. Tainted.”

Schwarzhelm paused. “You’ve seen evidence of this?”

“As firm as it ever gets. The narcotic is relatively harmless on the surface, but I no longer believe its traffickers are interested in money alone. Its spread has been carefully planned. My estimate is that it’s been distributed here for a year or more. I don’t know its ultimate function, but you cannot have missed the sense of wrongness here. It’s undermining Averheim. No one has a good word to say about the place. The city is sick.”

Schwarzhelm nodded slowly. He found himself reluctant to follow the implications of Verstohlen’s report. There was no time to get bogged down in an investigation. But corruption was corruption. It couldn’t be ignored.

“What do you propose?”

“You know my counsel.”

“Witch hunters.”

Verstohlen looked surprised.

“How long have you known me? I despise them.” There was a shard of vehemence in the quiet man’s voice. “They’d blunder across the trail, destroying everything. No, I can get to the bottom of this.”

Schwarzhelm looked at him carefully. “Don’t let your past interfere with your judgement, Verstohlen. Sooner or later, they’ll have to be brought in. If you’re right about this, that is.”

Verstohlen looked back at him defiantly.

“They will. When I’ve traced this back to the source.” He seemed unwilling even to countenance their employment. Schwarzhelm didn’t feel like pressing the point. He knew why. “In the meantime, we should send for reinforcements from Nuln,” continued Verstohlen. “Recall Grunwald. The city must be secured. I can’t work through this anarchy.”

Helborg. For the first time, Schwarzhelm felt his will began to waver. There would be a price to pay if he sent for the Reiksguard. He’d never be allowed to forget it. What was worse, the suspicion that Helborg had stationed himself at Nuln for just such an eventuality still hadn’t left him. The man was clever enough. He was also ambitious.

Schwarzhelm looked at Verstohlen carefully, putting the tankard down beside him. Perhaps the man was right. The situation was becoming hard to contain. Perhaps it was time to summon help.

Suddenly, there was hammering at the door outside.

“My lord,” came a voice from the other side. “It was Kraus. Word from the east.”

Schwarzhelm leapt up from his seat and wrenched the door open. Kraus stood in the corridor beyond, looking even grimmer than usual.

“A messenger has arrived. He’s half-dead from riding, but we’ve got tidings out of him. Grunwald is dead, my lord. His army is broken. Herr Bloch has assumed command of what remains and is aiming for Heideck. Grenzstadt is cut off. What are your orders?”

For a moment, Schwarzhelm stood stunned. Grunwald slain. His army destroyed. The news felt like a series of hammer blows. He reached for the doorframe and leaned against it. The stone was cool under his fingers.

“My lord?” asked Kraus again.

Schwarzhelm felt his heart begin to race, just as it had been doing in the silent hours of the night. A sweat broke out on his brow. His policies were unravelling. Every decision he made seemed to be foundering. For the first time in his long and distinguished career, he didn’t know what to do. He was surrounded by men who wished to see him fail. He remembered Lassus’ words in Altdorf. There are other ways of harming a man. Subtle ways. They couldn’t best him in battle, so they were striking at those close to him.

Kraus said nothing, though Schwarzhelm could see the concern in his face. The captain had never seen indecision from his master before. The look in the man’s eyes struck at his heart.

“My lord?” This time, the voice was Verstohlen’s. “Are you all right? You look sick.”

That was it. He was sick. Something had been poisoning him. Eating away at his mind. Ever since Turgitz. What was it? Why couldn’t he fight it?

“Enough!” he roared, pushing himself away from the doorframe. He strode back into the chamber, looking for his sword. “Enough of this skulking in the shadows!”

He retrieved the Rechtstahl and buckled the scabbard to his belt. Kraus and Verstohlen looked on worriedly. Let them fuss. The time had passed for intrigue and plotting. Blood had been drawn, and it needed to be matched.

“Gather the men,” he said to Kraus. “We’ll muster the remainder of the garrison here and ride out tonight. Grunwald will be avenged.”

“Yes, my lord.” The man bowed and hurried away. Kraus looked reassured. All he wanted was leadership. That was all any of them wanted.

Except for one.

“Is this wise?” hissed Verstohlen. He followed Schwarzhelm out into the corridor. “You can’t leave the city like this. With you gone, there’ll be nothing—”

“Damn the city,” snapped Schwarzhelm, striding down the corridor towards the armoury. “They’ve brought it on themselves. I’ve stayed cooped up here too long.”

“They want you out of the city,” insisted Verstohlen. “These attacks aren’t random. Why do you think the roads are blocked? Who’s doing that?”

Schwarzhelm whirled around to face Verstohlen, his face a mask of anger. Grunwald’s death was sinking in. A deep, dark anger had been unleashed within him. Justice would have to wait. Vengeance demanded it.

“Silence!” Schwarzhelm snarled. Even the agent, used to his temper, shrank back. “Pursue your theories if you want to. Good men have died, and I should have been with them. Tochfel can handle the mobs. Keep an eye on him. And warn those warring fools: when this is over, I will return.”

For once, Verstohlen was speechless. In the face of Schwarzhelm’s cold ferocity, it was all he could do to nod weakly.

Schwarzhelm swung round and resumed his march to the armoury. A black mood consumed him. Deep down, part of him knew he was being drawn into this. Part of him knew that his judgement was impaired. He needed sleep. Part of him knew that he might be making a terrible mistake.

It didn’t matter. His blood pumped vigorously around his body. The Rechtstahl hung reassuringly at his side. Soon the fields of Averheim would feel the thunder of his wrath. If the enemies of the Empire had intended to provoke him, they’d succeeded. Now he would teach them the true meaning of fury.

Dagobert Tochfel looked from his window gloomily. Even from so high up in the spires of the Averburg, he could see the city burn. A hundred small fires sending their smoke rising into the warm night, lit by the mobs of the electoral candidates. They were running riot.

Though their energy was aimed at each other, it was the city they were destroying. The city he’d served for three years, ever since Ironjaw had slain the last count.

He’d put off a contest for as long as he could. He’d always known what it would bring. While Leopold remained alive, there had been the hope that a succession would pass off peacefully. But Rufus was a different proposition. The era of great men was over. Those who remained were like squabbling children. The days when the Empire could produce a Karl Franz, a Volkmar, a Todbringer, were gone. When the older generation passed on, there would be nothing left.

Tochfel watched the fires burn for a little longer. Then he closed the window and turned away. It sickened his soul.

His chamber was small and modestly proportioned. Pious icons of Sigmar and Verena hung over a simple desk. Candles burned in iron holders. A narrow bed, hard and unyielding, stood against the plain stone wall. Every inch a scholar’s room. Not much to show for a lifetime’s service, perhaps, but it reflected his character well enough. As things had gone, the very plainness seemed like an indictment. Averheim was drifting apart. Perhaps he should have devoted himself to a different cause. The law was no longer the protection the city needed.

There was a knock at the door. Tochfel sat down at his desk.

“Come.”

A man entered. Achendorfer. He looked tired too. He’d borne the brunt of organising the legal procedure for the tribunal. Neither Schwarzhelm nor the opposing counsels had given him much room to manoeuvre. His normally pallid skin looked as white as death.

“The papers you asked for, Steward.”

Achendorfer placed a sheaf of parchment documents on the desk. When he spoke, his voice wheezed slightly. This thing was taking its toll on all of them.

“Good,” Tochfel said. “The tribunal will start on time tomorrow?”

Achendorfer shrugged. “I’ve been told it will. We’ve much to do before then.”

Tochfel smiled, but there was little warmth in it.

“Try to get some rest. In the end, it will come down to Schwarzhelm’s word. Precedent will not decide anything.”

“In that case, there’s little point going through the motions.” His voice betrayed his irritation. He ran his hands through his thinning hair. “But that’s not why I’m here, Herr Tochfel. I’ve been approached by men from both camps. There’s more money floating around this than I’ve ever seen. I’ll not lie to you. I’ve been tempted. Others may have given in.”

Why was the man telling him this? Could he really believe Tochfel didn’t know it all? Was it to vouch for his own probity?

“I’m doing all I can, Uriens. I have my hands full with the riots. We need more militia. Even the Lord Schwarzhelm can’t quell it by himself.”

Achendorfer looked sidelong at him. “The mighty Lord Schwarzhelm,” he mused. “You’ve spoken to him much?”

Schwarzhelm spoke to no one much. When not locked away in the tribunals, he kept to his chambers in the tower. His movements were unannounced, his decisions arbitrary. Only the captain, Kraus and that enigmatic counsellor seemed included in his deliberations. It was like having an oddly powerful ghost controlling events in the city.

“He consults me on everything. Why?”

“There are whispers in the Averburg. There have been noises heard from his chamber at night. The man’s not well. You can see it yourself. We may have reached the point where—”

He broke off.

“Say what’s on your mind, Uriens.”

Achendorfer still hesitated. He was an official, not used to rocking the boat.

“Has he the confidence of the Grand County still, Steward? Can we trust the decision he comes to? I do not say this lightly, but…”

He trailed off again. That was as far as he dared go. Tochfel didn’t reprimand him. All who were close to the process were thinking the same thing.

“They do things differently in Altdorf,” was all he said. “He has the trust of the Emperor. That’s enough for me.”

Achendorfer was about to say something else, but there was a second knock at the door. As if the noise reminded him of his timid nature, the loremaster retreated into his robes.

“Very well, Steward,” he said. “Perhaps we’ll talk about this again soon.”

Tochfel stood and showed him to the door. Standing outside was Verstohlen, Schwarzhelm’s counsellor. Achendorfer bowed, and slipped away into the gloom of the corridor. Verstohlen barely seemed to notice him.

“Do you have a moment?” he asked. He looked distracted.

“It seems to be my night for visitors. Will you come in?”

“No. I can’t stay. But there are things you should know right away. The Lord Schwarzhelm has been called east on urgent business. The cavalry forces in the city garrison have been requisitioned. You’ll have to maintain security without them.”

Tochfel felt as if someone had knocked the floor from under his feet. Things were already bad. Now they would become impossible.

“How… could he?” he exclaimed, incredulous. He now regretted his even-handedness with Achendorfer. The appointment process was descending into a farce. “How will we keep the mobs apart?”

Verstohlen gave him a look that indicated he sympathised, but his hands were tied. “You have the rest of the militia, the city watch. They’ll have to suffice. I have my own business to attend to. The tribunal will have to be suspended. If you want my advice, you’ll try to persuade the two parties to withdraw from Averheim until it can be reconvened.”

Tochfel felt light-headed. Matters were spiralling beyond his ability to deal with them. Neither Leitdorf nor Grosslich were in a mood to respond to persuasion. Their blood was up, and he wasn’t sure whether they could rein in their supporters even if they wanted to. With Schwarzhelm gone, the two men might easily resort to more direct means of gaining power.

“This is madness, counsellor,” he said. There was an edge of bitterness in his voice. “We were promised Imperial aid to ensure a smooth transition. Is this the best you can do?”

“Feel free to take it up with Lord Schwarzhelm when he returns. In the meantime, you have some decisions to make.” He gave Tochfel a significant look. “There are options. Not all the Empire’s armies are away in the north. When trouble looms, a wise commander looks for help close to hand.”

Tochfel wasn’t reassured. Gnomic utterances were the last thing he needed.

“I’ll bear that in mind.”

Verstohlen bowed. “I’ll be in contact when I can.” Then he was gone, following Achendorfer into the cool depths of the Averburg.

Tochfel left the door open. He stayed standing where he was for a moment. The tidings were the worst he could imagine. The prospect of the city tearing itself apart suddenly looked real. He ran over the possibilities. None looked good.

He was not a proud man. The stewardship had always been an unwelcome burden. He wilted under the demands of power. Always had. That made him an uninspiring leader, but it prevented some of the worst vices of command. He knew when he was overmatched. This was one of those times.

Tochfel stirred and reached for a small bell hanging over his desk. Almost as soon as the echoes of its ringing had died away, a functionary appeared. The man looked nervous. The unrest in the city had threatened to spread even to the Averburg, and everyone was looking over their shoulder.

“Tell the stables to make an errand rider ready. Then return here to collect a message. I’ll inscribe it myself.”

The functionary hesitated. “Where will the message be sent, Steward? Some will refuse to ride east. They say the greenskins are roaming free.”

Tochfel barely noticed the rank insurrection implied in that. His mind was already working on the contents of the missive. It would have to be worded carefully.

“Tell them Nuln,” he said. “The Reiksguard garrison and Lord Helborg.”

Schwarzhelm kicked his horse into a gallop. It responded immediately. In the night sky, Mannslieb remained low on the eastern horizon. It was waxing to the full, but its light was uncertain. Clouds drifted across the sky, the first he’d seen for days. The harbingers of storms, perhaps, driven from the Worlds Edge Mountains.

Around him, the cavalry responded. Five hundred head of horse. The best that Averheim had to offer. Kraus and the honour guard were at the forefront. They’d accepted their orders without question. They always did. It had taken them mere moments to check their equipment and mount up. Even in the night shadow they looked magnificent, the moonlight glinting from their armour. They were as fine as Reiksguard. Maybe finer. Every man in the company had been picked by him. Their loyalty was unquestionable.

The Averlanders had been slower to organise. He’d had to storm into the stables himself to get them in a suitable shape to ride. There was no excuse for such slovenly behaviour. It was true that some of them had previously been pressed into controlling the mobs in Averheim, but such work was nothing compared to the rigours of campaign. The whole province seemed to have gone soft. This was what happened when scholars took over. The Empire had always been ruled by military men, men who knew how it felt to lead a cavalry charge into the heart of an enemy. When that order was subverted, it was no wonder that sickness took hold. Sigmar had been a chieftain, not a loremaster.

As the hooves hammered on the hard ground, the mounted troops left the Averburg stables behind. They tore through the streets of Averheim. Any men still out quickly ducked into the alleys as the company of knights thundered along the thoroughfares. As he went, Schwarzhelm saw how many fires still burned in the squares and crossroads. The elector candidates had eschewed the last of their restraint. That was too bad. Tochfel would have to deal with it until he got back.

For some reason, that made him think of Grunwald again. A shard of pure pain entered him. Andreas had been a good man. A brave commander. The last time the two of them had spoken, he’d given him nothing but harsh words. If the tidings were true, he hoped he’d died honourably. That would be at least some consolation.

Schwarzhelm shook his head, trying to clear it. His mind was forever dwelling on failures. That wasn’t like him. Why was his mind so troubled?

The gates were approaching rapidly. The horses didn’t slow. A trumpet blared from further back in the column. Frantically, the drawbridge was lowered and the mighty doors swung open. They were out, past the walls and into the Averland countryside. Kraus’ honour guard fanned out on either side of him. The men rode in unison, hooves beating on the road in a thudding rhythm. Further back, the Averlanders struggled to keep up.

Schwarzhelm gave them no quarter. The pace would be hard. They’d ride through the night and ride through the day until they made Heideck. Then onwards, into the countryside, hunting the greenskins. He’d known he should have attended to the incursion as soon as he’d arrived in Averland. Now was the chance to make amends. This kind of combat was what he was born to do.

He grasped the hilt of the Rechtstahl, feeling the weight of it as he crouched in the saddle. It was eager to be drawn. Schwarzhelm had felt the spirit of the weapon sicken, just as he had, imprisoned in the stultifying heat of the tribunal chamber. It would be wielded soon enough, just as its makers had intended, on the field of battle.

For the first time in days, Schwarzhelm began to feel invigorated. He urged his horse on. The hooves thundered. The countryside began to slip by faster. This was what he needed. The chance to revive his animal spirits, shake off whatever malady had been inflicting him.

He looked towards the eastern horizon, shrouded in darkness. The air was no longer still and humid. Storms were active in the far distance and lightning flickered against the serrated line of mountains. The clouds had cleared from the face of the moon and pale light streamed across the silent fields.

He looked over his shoulder. Averheim was already some distance behind. Thin towers of smoke still rose into the sky. It looked lost, forlorn, vulnerable. He remembered Verstohlen’s words. They want you out of the city.

He turned back, setting his face like flint. Averheim would have to look after itself. His duty drew him to Heideck, to Grenzstadt, to battle and vengeance. He kicked his horse again and the pace quickened once more.

Like a storm wind, the cavalry tore through the sleeping countryside. Even while Averheim burned, the Rechtstahl rode east.

Chapter Ten

Verstohlen crouched down. The trail had taken him close to the river on the east bank, down amongst the forlorn warehouses and goods yards. The alleyway he squatted in stank, and he covered his nostrils. The air was still warm, even in the deep of the night.

The two men he’d been following had stopped and were conferring with one another. They looked nervous. They had every right to be. Gangs of rogues were still roaming the streets. Whether or not the mobs were being actively controlled by Grosslich or Leitdorf was immaterial if you were caught by one of them. The two candidates had unleashed lawlessness on Averheim, and Verstohlen doubted if they knew the true effects of their actions.

He regretted Schwarzhelm’s decision to leave deeply. It was the worst possible decision. While the Emperor’s Champion was in the city, there was at least a chance that the situation could be brought under control. Rufus Leitdorf may have hated him, but he was easily scared. Grosslich was tougher, though Schwarzhelm was still more than capable of cowing the man. Schwarzhelm was capable of cowing anyone.

When he was himself, that was. Verstohlen had never seen him so ground down by an assignment before. For the first few days, he’d put it down to the heat. That explanation would no longer suffice. Maybe his best years were behind him. After so many years in the saddle, maybe the great old warrior had finally lost his nerve.

That wasn’t it either. Schwarzhelm was a great man. One of the greatest in the Empire. Verstohlen had reason to be grateful for that. For Leonora’s memory. Schwarzhelm hadn’t been able to save her, but he’d ensured that those responsible had died. For that alone, he deserved Verstohlen’s unwavering loyalty. He’d commanded it for ten years, and he’d have it for the rest of his life. There was little enough left to him to attach any allegiance to.

Verstohlen snapped back into focus. He was tired. His mind was wandering. The men began to move off. They walked with exaggerated casualness, the way a thief does when he has something to hide.

Leaving a few moments to let them get ahead of him, Verstohlen crept after them. Wrapping his dark coat about him, hugging the shadows, he maintained a safe distance. He wasn’t close enough to hear what they were saying, but some energetic conversation was clearly taking place. They were on edge. At least one of them wasn’t happy with the plan.

Then they seemed to relax. They’d reached the river’s edge. Dark water lapped quietly against the quays. No one was around. Moored boats gently bumped against the stone. The still air was only punctuated by the creak of ropes and the distant crackle of the fires. Verstohlen shrank back again, waiting. This was what he’d been expecting. Now he’d see if the information he’d worked so hard to get had any substance to it. There was only so much one could do with a single name.

The men hung around at the water’s edge for a few moments. Time passed. They began to get impatient. Verstohlen wasn’t. He settled back against the stone wall of a nearby storehouse and checked the knife at his belt. His pistol was with him, as ever, but for this he’d need stealthier tools.

Eventually, something changed. The men perked up. Verstohlen leaned forward. Even with the moonlight on the water, it was dark.

A boat drew up to the quay. It was a small one, a dinghy used by the river pilots. Somewhere, perhaps several miles upstream, a larger cargo barge would be moored, no doubt heavily guarded. There were several men on the dinghy, their faces masked. The two men on the quayside helped to moor the craft, where they were joined by the cloaked figures. There was a brief, low-voiced conversation and two packages changed hands.

Their business transacted, the two groups separated. The cloaked men climbed back into the dinghy, and the oars creaked. With a commendable lack of noise, the sail was hoisted and the vessel glided back off into the night. The men on the quayside, looking more relaxed than they’d been previously, started to walk away.

Verstohlen waited, keeping his body flat against the stone. They approached his position, oblivious to his presence. He let them pass. They got close enough for him to smell their breath. Then, as they walked off, he slipped out. The knife flashed, plunging deep into the back of the man on the left. Verstohlen pulled him round, twisting the knife as he did so.

His companion was slow to react. By the time he’d realised what was happening, he was pressed up against the wall, the blade at his neck. Verstohlen had the cargo in his hands, a carefully-wrapped oilskin package. He didn’t need to open it to know what was in it.

“Where are you taking this?” he hissed into the man’s ear. The smuggler froze. He was nearly paralysed with fear. At his feet, his accomplice was expiring in a frothy pool of blood. Just like Fromgar, they were hardly hardened criminals, just small-time vagabonds drawn into a network of powerful men who preferred their couriers expendable. “Your friend is dead. If you do not wish to join him, tell me where you’re taking this.”

“H-Hessler’s townhouse,” he stammered. “Old City. Below the tanner’s.”

Verstohlen listened carefully, judging whether he was being told the truth. The man was clearly afraid. He pressed the knife into his neck further, feeling the point penetrate the flesh. “Think carefully, friend. I’m coming with you. Give me the wrong information and I’ll make sure your death is unpleasant.”

“I’m telling the truth!” he spluttered. He was near tears. He was young, not much more than a boy. Clearly they hadn’t found a reliable replacement for Fromgar yet. “The barred door near the base of the loading platform.”

“What’s the password?”

“Wenenlich.”

“What’s that?”

“I don’t know.”

The knife pressed harder.

“I don’t know! Some place up the river, I think. It’s just a word. That’ll get you in.”

“That’ll get us both in. Take me there now. Try to escape and the blade will find a resting place between your ribs. Do what I say and you’ll live to do this again. If you can bear it.”

Verstohlen pushed the lad roughly forward. His feet dragging slightly, the smuggler kept walking. He was still scared. Verstohlen could feel the sweat on his neck, despite the cool night air. That was good. Every so often, he pressed the knife a little more firmly against his skin. It didn’t hurt to be reminded. Well, not very much.

Helpfully, the dark obscured their halting passage up from the quayside and back into the inhabited areas of the town. There was almost no one around. Houses were boarded up, thick shutters locked shut. Even the rival gangs seemed to have gone to ground. Anyone who was still creeping through the echoing streets would have no doubt seen them as two drunks, supporting each other after a long night out.

“Wenenlich,” whispered Verstohlen to himself. The name was familiar, though he couldn’t recall why. It sounded like a place, or possibly a name. Maybe nothing turned on it.

They continued their strange, limping journey. After a few minutes of shuffling down the dark, winding alleyways they reached their destination. The smuggler came to a halt before a nondescript door at the base of a silent townhouse. There was nothing to distinguish it from any of the others in the street. There were no lights, no sounds. The district was reasonably smart, but not too exclusive.

A good choice.

“What happens here?” he hissed.

The boy was getting scared again. This time, it wasn’t Verstohlen making him anxious. “Knock on the door six times. The grille will open. Say the password and he’ll open the door.”

Verstohlen grinned in the dark.

“Nice try. You’ll be doing the talking. Remember, the blade’ll be at your back. You know what you have to do.” The lad took a deep breath. His hands were shaking. He was trying hard to hold things together. He knew his life depended on it. That tended to concentrate the mind. “Off you go. I’ll be right behind you.”

The smuggler went forward nervously. Verstohlen stayed at his shoulder. The package was stowed under his coat. It felt heavy. The roots must have been tightly packed.

The boy knocked six times on the door. The sound was flat. Verstohlen suddenly realised the significance of the six. So that was the nature of the organisation here.

An iron grille in the centre of the door suddenly slid back. The grate of metal against metal made Verstohlen jump, and the point of the knife pricked into the boy’s back. That was sloppy. The tension was getting to him. Commendably, the boy didn’t move.

“Password,” came a rasping voice from the other side. It was thick and unnatural sounding, more like a dog than a man. His voice trembling, the lad gave the answer. The grille slammed shut.

“Stand back,” warned Verstohlen. A light had appeared in the cracks at the door’s edge. He wondered if the boy had done this before, or if he was simply acting on instructions. Either way, this was the risky part.

The door opened inwards. A sweet smell rushed out of the open portal and into the night air. It contrasted strangely with the dank stench of the street. The light within was dim and vaguely tinged with purple. A bulky figure emerged, his face still in shadow.

Verstohlen pushed the smuggler out of the way. The lad sprawled in the dirt and scampered off into the dark. Verstohlen ignored him and went for the doorkeeper. His knife flashed, aiming for the eyes. It connected with yielding flesh. He pressed forward, using his other hand to stifle a scream. His fingers closed on something clammy and tooth-filled. It felt like no human mouth.

Gurgling in agony, the doorkeeper slumped to the ground. Verstohlen withdrew the knife quickly and stabbed him in the neck and the heart. Each time, the blade plunged beneath the skin with almost no resistance. If the man had been wearing armour, that might have made things more interesting.

Verstohlen dragged the man inside and closed the door. He was in a narrow antechamber constructed of ordinary-looking stone. The light was coming from below. On the other side of the chamber, a stairwell led down steeply. There were no other openings. The place was silent. There was no sign of movement.

He pulled the body to the side of the door and leant it against the wall. The man’s face looked horribly distorted. His jowls were longer than any normal human’s, and long scars ran from the corner of his mouth up to his ears. They looked like they’d been made by sutures. One of the incisions had come open where Verstohlen’s knife had plunged in. The flesh underneath was pale and glistening, like roast pork.

Verstohlen shuddered and turned away, wiping his blade. Despite his long service, something about the house was beginning to have an effect. He felt the first beads of sweat on his palms. Nothing wholesome had a guard like that. Whatever the secret of the joyroot was, there was some part of it hidden here.

He pondered what to do with the package in his hands. It had served its purpose in getting him in, and carrying it with him further seemed pointless. There was nowhere to hide it, though, so he kept hold of it for the moment.

Verstohlen crept forward, making sure his soft leather boots made no noise on the stone. The stairs ran steeply down. Torches had been placed in the walls, the source of the unusual light. Some substance had been placed in them that gave the flames a lilac edge. The aroma came from them too. The smell was an elusive cross between cinnamon and jasmine. Just on the edge of sensation, there was something else too. It might have been putrefaction. Or maybe that was his imagination.

As the base of the stairs there was a corridor running from right to left, as well as a double doorway leading straight on. From beyond the doors, there were noises. They were too dim to make out clearly, but they might have been voices.

Verstohlen could feel his heart pumping heavily. He was alone, vulnerable. Perhaps he ought to withdraw. Now that he knew the location, he could commandeer help from Tochfel. A raid could be organised in the morning, when the sun was up and men’s hearts were stouter. Much as he loathed them, this was witch hunter work.

It was tempting, but it was the fear talking. He was after information, not to destroy the cartel. Blundering in now would undo all he’d worked to discover. He’d do as he always did, go silently and invisibly.

He made the sign of the scales over his chest. “Merciful Verena, ward all harm.” His voice shook as he breathed the words.

Then he went on. Ignoring the doors, he crept along the corridor leading to the right. After a while, it curved round. It looked like he was tracing a route around a central circular chamber, one into which the double doors must have opened. The light was still dim, but enough to see by. It was near-silent. He began to hear his own breathing echoing in his head.

Ninety degrees around the circle from his starting position, a narrow stair ran up the outer wall. Beyond it, the corridor continued onwards. The doorway at the top of the stair was open. The ascent to the next storey. Verstohlen paused, looking back. Nothing.

He climbed the stair carefully, keeping his blade loose in his hands. As he went, his eyes scoured the gloom. The chamber at the top was small and empty, but it was well lit. The light wasn’t coming from inside, but from an archway which opened up in the interior wall of the circle. Clearly this was some balcony above the central chamber. There were others of the same kind leading off in either direction. Like the boxes in a Tilean opera house, the antechambers overlooked whatever was in the centre of the building. That was where the murmuring voices came from. That was where the light came from. That was the heart of it all.

Verstohlen crouched down low, placing the package down carefully in a shadowed alcove and creeping to the edge of the antechamber. His heart had begun to hammer in his chest and he had to wipe the sweat from his knife-hand. Something was definitely happening. Beyond the railing of the antechamber, there were voices rising. The smell of jasmine was powerful. He looked over the edge.

The chamber was bathed in a lilac glow. It was circular, just as the external walls had suggested. Iron-framed braziers had been placed around the edges. They gave off light, heat and the strange, cloying aroma. Within the dark metal frames, flames writhed like snakes. The floor was a dark, polished stone. In the centre, a dais had been raised. The light reflected from the surface dully.

Verstohlen was barely twenty feet above the level of the chamber below. He kept as low as he could. For the first time, he could make an accurate assessment of the danger he was in.

In the centre of the chamber a throne had been constructed. It was made of the same stone as the dais. The artistry was astonishing. Verstohlen found his eyes drawn to it. Once there, it was almost impossible to pull them away again. There were figures carved into the high back, writhing in and out of one another. It looked as if a crowd of lissom youths had been fused into one tangled mass. Each member of the cluster was achingly beautiful, but their faces were contorted into expressions of exquisite agony. It was a warped mind that had created such a thing, though a gifted one. Despite himself Verstohlen’s aesthetic sense was drawn to it.

Then he noticed that slowly, almost imperceptibly, the bodies that made up the throne back were moving. This was no cunning sculpture. The limbs were real, as was the agony of their owners. His appreciation vanished. He chided himself silently for expecting anything else. He’d known what he’d find in the house. The nature of the enemy never changed.

Around the edges of the chamber, more youths were scattered. They moved scarcely more than those trapped in the throne. Most were dressed in diaphanous robes that concealed little. All of them, men and women alike, seemed strangely listless. Their movements were miniscule, and ended almost as soon as they’d begun. With a spasm of distaste, Verstohlen saw that in place of eyes they had blank metal plates. The surface of the plates were polished, making it look as if they had mirrors sewn into their faces. One young girl seemed to be trying to crawl to the doorway. Every tiny shift of her body got her just fractions of an inch closer. Then it became clear that she had no idea where the door was. She started to head away from it. She was blind, aimless as the rest.

The tortured youths weren’t the sole occupants of the chamber. The throne wasn’t empty. Perched elegantly on the seat was a woman Verstohlen recognised all too well. She wore a long, elegant gown, slit to the hip. Her pale skin seemed to glow in the lilac light. Even more so than she had been before, Natassja was flawless. Her beauty was so absorbing, so utterly captivating, that it couldn’t be anything other than unnatural. Nothing in the real world had a perfection of form like hers. Safe from the eyes of the world outside, here she was able to display herself in her full majesty.

Verstohlen narrowed his eyes. Prostrate before her was a man. He wore the robes of a loremaster.

Natassja regarded her devotee coolly.

“You may get up now,” she said at length. Her voice rolled around the chamber like a soothing balm. It was at once lustrous and spare, arch and disdainful. Despite his fear, Verstohlen felt the hairs in his neck rise. He clasped the knife more tightly. This was dangerous. He should leave.

He couldn’t leave.

The man was Achendorfer. He slowly clambered to his knees. Lines of blood ran down the front of his robes. He’d been lying on a bed of wickedly curved spikes.

“How do you feel?” asked Natassja, looking at the wounds with mild interest. Achendorfer was clearly in a lot of pain. His face was contorted with it, though somehow he managed to keep his voice reasonably steady.

“To suffer for you is ecstasy, my lady,” he said through clenched teeth. It didn’t look much like ecstasy from where Verstohlen was perched.

Natassja didn’t appear impressed. She swept her eyes around the chamber.

“Do you know what these young people are?” she asked. Achendorfer shook his head, still kneeling before her. “They’re my latest toys. Since Rufus has been so busy with the great project, I’ve had to amuse myself. They’re really coming on. I’m quite proud of these ones.”

As she spoke, Verstohlen could see a cruel delight play across her magnificent features.

“They’re from all over the place. Serving girls from Rufus’ estate. Street urchins. All beautiful of course, but poor enough not to be missed. Once we get them down here, we can get to work on them. Here’s the game. They know they have to escape. They hate it here, of course, as I’m so cruel to them. But you’ll notice we’ve taken their eyes away. So they’ve no idea where the way out is. And - this is the amusing part—their bones have been rearranged. Very carefully rearranged. You’ve no idea how hard that is to do without killing them. Every movement they make is agony. Excruciating agony. So they have to go very, very slowly. It might take them forever to get out. I can’t tell you how entertaining it is to watch them try.”

Achendorfer looked grimly at the slowly moving bodies. He had the look of a man who’d stumbled into a nightmare but couldn’t free himself of it. Verstohlen suddenly realised why his skin had always been so pallid.

“An ingenious entertainment, my lady,” he said, doing his best to sound enthused. “Have any of them made it yet?”

“Not yet. When they do, I’ll have to think of some other gift for them. Some kind of reward. I suspect I’ll have plenty of time to ponder what that will be.”

Achendorfer looked nauseous. “An excellent plan.”

Natassja gave him a contemptuous glare. “I hope you mean that, loremaster. If I detect a lessening of your enthusiasm again, you know what awaits.”

He glanced at the rack of spikes and a shudder visibly passed through his body.

“Yes, my lady,” he mumbled.

“Enough entertainment. Are you making progress?”

“Yes, my lady. He’s left the city. He’s at the end of his strength. Your influence is having its effect. He lasted longer than I’d expected, but it’s turning his mind. The dreams have driven out his sleep. And there’s the root. The air’s full of it. He’s finished.”

“Don’t be sure. He will resist until he cracks. Does he have the numbers to defeat the greenskins?”

Achendorfer gave a nervous laugh. “He could defeat them on his own. He’s got days of frustration locked in him. I’ve seen to that.”

Natassja didn’t smile. What amused her and what didn’t seemed arbitrary.

“Good. That gives us the opening we need. Go back to the Averburg. Continue your work. The time has come for my husband and I to make our move. I’ll send word to him and we’ll make the final preparations together. When the moment comes, you will perform the final rite. Do not fail.”

Achendorfer shuddered.

“No, my lady.”

Then Natassja suddenly paused. She cocked her head to one side, as if listening for something. Verstohlen tensed and drew back from the railing.

“Oh, how delightful,” Natassja mused. “I think my games have just got even better.”

Achendorfer looked around the chamber, confused. The youths still crept around in their agonised state. “I don’t understand.”

“There’s someone in the building,” she said, licking her lips. “A new companion for my pets, perhaps. We’ll see.”

Verstohlen felt his heart jump. He had to get out of the chamber. Suddenly, something kept him frozen in place. A heavy reluctance to leave came over him. He gripped the railing of the balcony, heart hammering.

“Free yourselves, children,” said Natassja indulgently, looking at the miserable wretches crawling on the floor around her. “Just for the moment, I’ll let you go. But you know what you have to do. You know the rules. Stand!”

As one, the mirror-eyed youths stood up. Their limbs seemed to snap into action, though the movements were strangely jerky. It was as if a puppet master had suddenly picked up the strings.

Their mirrors went dark. Then, one by one, a purple light kindled in them. The youths started to smile. Their lips pulled round in ugly, tooth-filled grins. It stretched their faces horribly. Verstohlen guessed it wasn’t really them smiling.

That sight helped break the spell. He pulled his hands from the railing and drew back from the edge. He left the package where it lay, going as quietly as he could. His fear was mounting. He had to keep under control. Every muscle in his body was screaming to run.

“Bring him to me!” cried Natassja. From below, her slaves started hissing, and there was the sound of doors slamming open.

Verstohlen felt panic overtake him. He gave up on stealth and turned to speed. He burst from the antechamber and careered down the stairs. The sound of the oncoming slaves echoed along the corridor. They were coming for him. The double doors had slammed open. His route back was blocked.

Hoping there was a way out somewhere at the rear of the townhouse, Verstohlen turned to his right, back into the depths of the building and broke into a sprint. From behind, he could hear the noise of his pursuers. They’d lost their immobility. They were able to move. Like spiders.

He gritted his teeth, tried to quell the panic within him. He tore down the curving corridor. As he went, he pulled the flintlock from its holster. His fingers felt clumsy. He cocked the hammer, feeling the cool metal respond instantly. Two shots, then he’d be back to knife-work. The blade in his favoured left hand, pistol in his right, he ploughed on.

The corridor ended in another set of double doors. Without pausing, Verstohlen barged into them. He could hear the rattling pursuit behind him, metal against stone.

The doors were unlocked, and slammed open. There was a large chamber beyond, lit by more of the jasmine torches. He had the vague impression of long tables, all covered with joyroot. Further back, giant vials boiled with liquid. They were refining it. There were six copper kettles. Naturally.

As he burst into the chamber, the figures within turned slowly to face him. They were clearly Natassja’s creations. They’d all been altered. Most had no mouths or nostrils left. How they breathed was a mystery, but it must have kept them from sampling the stock. They stared at him with hopeless, empty eyes. Those who had eyes left.

He ignored them, barging his way past the drying tables. The hissing was close behind. The pets were gaining. Despite having their bones rearranged, they were quick.

A drone worker lurched into his path. Using his knife-hand, Verstohlen punched him in what was left of his face and pushed him aside, barely breaking stride. Those poor wretches were scarcely alive and were no threat to him. The far end of the chamber loomed. There were two doors in the far wall, one on the left, one on the right. Both were open, gaping like mouths.

Which one?

Verstohlen felt the scales pendant dangling at his neck. “Ward all harm,” he whispered.

He chose left, pushing his way past three shambling, mouthless drones. From behind, he heard one of Natassja’s pets leap on to a table, scattering joyroot essence across the floor. The hissing was getting louder.

Then he was through the door, back into another corridor, back into the shadows. He ran as fast as he could, ignoring the fact he could barely see. His heartbeats echoed in his ears. His heavy breaths turned to ragged, frightened panting. The joyroot dust was in the air. It intensified the panic. This whole place was laced with insanity.

He burst into another chamber. It was narrow, high-ceilinged. Up above, windows let in natural moonlight from outside. An external wall. On the far side of the room, there was another door, heavy and lined with metal. Weapons had been stacked in the corner and the Leitdorf banner hung over them. Arms for Rufus’ men, ready to be deployed.

There were men in the room, lounging around a low table. Even as he ran in, Verstohlen could smell the sour beer, see the crude playing cards. This was a guardroom. Perhaps his last obstacle before outside.

One of the guards leapt up, reaching for a sword. Like the doorkeeper, his face had been stretched. Misshapen teeth stuck out at unnatural angles from his dog-jaw. The others, four of them, had been altered in the same way. They came at him.

Verstohlen didn’t miss a stride. The first shot rang out, slicing straight through the dog-warrior’s face, knocking him backwards. His knife finished a second, emptying his innards across the floor with a wicked swipe. Then he spun away, out of the reach of their crude blades, switching to the second barrel as he went.

They came after him. Verstohlen kept moving, leaping on to another low table, scattering flagons of ale. One nearly caught him. The knife flashed, and the guard lost his fingers. He howled in pain, before Verstohlen plunged the blade into his swollen eye socket.

The last of them withdrew warily. Verstohlen flicked his eyes to the card table. There were keys on it. From the corridor beyond, scuttling noises came. The pets. They were nearly there. He sheathed his blade. For this, he’d need a free hand.

He leapt towards the remaining dog-guard, kicking his boot out as he did so. The guard swung his blade clumsily to intercept, but the move was a feint. Verstohlen swerved away from the swipe easily and gained his real objective. The keys were heavy, strung on a loop of iron. He grabbed them and scrambled across to the door.

The pets burst in. Like insects, they swarmed across the floor. One, confused perhaps, leapt on to the dog-guard. The frail youth tore his throat out with his teeth, swinging his head from side to side like an animal. The others came after Verstohlen.

He slotted the key in the lock, then spun around. A pet reared up at him. A slim girl. Her robes bloomed out as she attacked, exposing the naked alabaster flesh beneath. Like all of Natassja’s victims, she’d been beautiful once. Now her eyes burned with lilac light, and her mouth extended wide for the feast. Her teeth were pointed, tipped with steel, and her tongue was forked.

Verstohlen fired, feeling the heavy recoil of the pistol. The horror was hurled back. Her lithe body bunched up, limbs curled round like a wounded insect. Then he was through the door, out into the warm night.

The door slammed shut behind him, but in his haste he’d left the keys stuck in the other side. He cursed his stupidity and kept running, kept facing forward, kept going. The fresh air cleared his head, but the panic was still with him. They’d followed him out. How many? Maybe three. Maybe more.

Verstohlen couldn’t look back. All he had was speed. No bullets left. He stowed the pistol and pulled the knife from its scabbard again. He wasn’t sure it would be much good against those horrors.

He risked a look over his shoulder. Purple eyes, swaying in the shadows. They were scuttling still, hissing for his blood. So Natassja was prepared to risk them being seen on the streets. That was bad.

Verstohlen turned back, legs pumping, trying to exhort more speed from his burning muscles. There was no one abroad at this hour. For all important purposes, he was alone and far from help. More so than at Turgitz, more so than at any point in his life, he was afraid.

He careered down the alleyway, breath ragged. A nightmarish sequence of streets and silent squares passed. There was no noise bar the hoarse rattle of his own breath and the distant hissing of the pets. He was lost. He had no time to stop, no time to gain his bearings. Around every corner, he expected to stumble into the arms of a grinning horror, sharpened teeth ready to tear out his throat.

Then he saw it. The spires of the Averburg, vast against the night sky. The citadel was still distant, but its silhouette rose reassuringly large. If he could get there, he’d make it. With a redoubled effort, he sprinted down the street towards it. With a shriek of frustration, the pets saw his purpose.

But they were far from the controlling will of their mistress. Verstohlen couldn’t risk another glance backwards, but the truth soon became apparent. They were falling behind. Whatever terrible perversions had been committed on their bodies had taken their toll. As Natassja’s power waned, so their altered bodies began to give out.

Verstohlen careered around a corner and into a wide square. The windows were all dark or shuttered. But he knew where he was. This was the Old City, and the Averburg was at hand. He ran into the open space.

Something had changed. In the midst of his terror, he was slow to spot it. But as he neared the far side of the square, he finally noticed it.

Silence.

The pursuit had been called off. As if they’d been nothing more than a nightmare, the pets had gone. There was a last, agonised shriek, and then nothing. No purple, glowing eyes. No billowing robes. No steel-tipped incisors.

Verstohlen felt his own strength give out. He stopped running and sank to his haunches. His heart still hammered, his lungs still burned. He looked around again, watching every shadow carefully. Part of him expected them to leap out at him.

Nothing. They’d been called back.

Verstohlen waited for his breathing to return to normal. He stood, hands still trembling, blade still drawn.

Then, from the far side of the square, the way he’d come, he saw a dark shape creeping across the floor. Slowly, awkwardly, a figure was dragging itself into the moonlight. Verstohlen tensed, gripping the knife tightly. He didn’t move. The creature came onwards. There was no hissing, just a pain-filled whimper.

Verstohlen waited. It was on its own. The others were nowhere to be seen. There was no purple light in its eyes. It came onward blindly. Whatever force Natassja had used to control it was gone. Just as it had been in the throne-room, the wretch was broken.

Cautiously, mindful of the obvious trap, Verstohlen walked towards it. The creature was a young man, not much older than the smuggler he’d dragged to the townhouse that night. The sapphire gauze robes were torn and dirty. His every move looked like agony. Bereft of his unnatural sight, he dragged himself aimlessly along the flagstones.

Verstohlen crouched down beside him. Sensing human warmth, the boy stopped moving. His ruined face gazed up blindly. Blood had pooled around the metal plates that stood in place of his eyes. Up close, Verstohlen could see the incisions all over his naked body. There were hundreds of them. This was an act of sadism beyond any he had ever witnessed. His fear began to be replaced with anger.

He wondered if the wretch could speak. Perhaps he could extract some information, take him back to the Averburg, learn something to his advantage. Even as the thought occurred to him, he dismissed it. Despite all he’d seen, pity had never been driven from him. He felt hot tears of rage form in his eyes. This boy had done nothing to deserve such a fate. Neither had Leonora, nor any of the others who’d suffered under the twisted whims of the great enemy. That was why they fought. If they wavered, if they ever gave in, the whole world would be like this.

The wretch opened his mouth, exposing the steel teeth. He was trying to speak. Tears of blood ran down his cheeks.

“K-kill m-me.”

That was the only thing left, the only decency remaining. Verstohlen brought his blade down. With a shuddering sigh, the ruined body went still.

Verstohlen rose. His hands still shook, but now with a cold rage. The sickness in Averheim had been uncovered. The proud line of Leitdorf was now a vessel for the will of Chaos. The decision had been made. At any cost, Rufus must be destroyed.

He began to walk back to the Averburg. It wasn’t clear what he should do. Schwarzhelm was gone. Grunwald was dead. Achendorfer was a traitor. For all he knew, so was Tochfel. Maybe even the Averburg was no longer safe. Not a promising situation.

But something would occur to him. It always did. With his mind working quickly, scouring possible avenues, looking for every chance, weighing up odds and calculating risk, Verstohlen passed quickly through the night. They’d played their hand well so far, but now the facts were out, the game had changed.

And they’d made one mistake. Up until now he’d been doing his job dispassionately. Now that had changed. They’d drawn something out of him that his countless victims, perhaps misled by his generally phlegmatic demeanour, had discovered was the very worst thing they could do.

They’d made him angry.

Chapter Eleven

Schwarzhelm brought his steed to a standstill on the ridge. The stallion pulled up reluctantly, stamping and rolling its eyes. The beast was exhausted, its flanks shivering and wet. The ride through the night had been punishing and the day had barely dawned. Dew still hung heavy on the lush grass. In the valleys, pale mist rose lazily from the rivers. As ever in Averland, the scene was one of peaceful beauty.

Behind him, he could hear the vanguard come to a halt. Further back, the detachments of Averheim cavalry were still riding to catch up.

Kraus pulled alongside him. He was as impassive as ever.

“Heideck,” said Schwarzhelm bluntly, gesturing ahead.

Averland’s second city lay in the valley below, surrounded by its low, thick walls. Like most of the substantial settlements in the province, it had been made rich from trade. The Old Dwarf Road from Averheim to the mountain passes, the great artery of commerce in the southern Empire, ran right through it. Heideck had grown fat on the passing traffic. Its agents were known even outside Averland for being quick to spot the potential for a percentage. Despite being surrounded by lush pasture, few of the richest men in the city were farmers.

In normal times, the thoroughfares would have been laden with the wains and caravans of the trading guilds. The greenskins, even the rumour of them, had finished all that. As the dawn waxed into early morning, the last of the watch fires smouldered on Heideck’s ramparts. There was no sign of fighting. The road ran down the slope before them, looping over broken ground and the ancient stone bridge crossing the River Pegnitz. It looked calm, prosperous, neat. The red tiled roofs of the merchant houses glowed in the early morning sun.

“So the greenskins haven’t got this far west,” Schwarzhelm muttered. “If those bastards kept their swords to themselves while Grunwald protected them, I’ll—”

He didn’t finish and kicked his horse back into motion instead. The animal whinnied in protest, but complied grudgingly. The column started moving again. The stragglers at the back would have no rest at all. Served them right.

The cavalry picked up pace, travelling swiftly from the high ground down into the Pegnitz Valley. As they neared the city, Schwarzhelm sent a pair of buglers on ahead. The drowsy gatekeepers would no doubt need some warning of his presence. He didn’t plan on knocking on the door.

Schwarzhelm felt tired but alert. His mind had cleared a little since leaving Averheim. Verstohlen was almost certainly right. He should have stayed in the city. But it was too late for second thoughts. He’d made his decision, and that was an end to it. The greenskins were his only concern now.

As they rode, Kraus said nothing. The honour guard captain never gave anything away. He never questioned orders, never looked askance. Perhaps that was a failing. Schwarzhelm’s reputation made it hard to disagree with him. Grunwald had never done so. Nor had Gruppen. That was a weakness. His decisions had not been tested enough, and that left the door open to mistakes. He’d become intransigent. Intolerant, even. It was not a quality he liked seeing in himself. It wasn’t one he’d been born with.

Verstohlen was the only one who ever stood up to him. It was one of the many reasons he valued the spy’s service. The man would have made a good witch hunter, if he hadn’t despised them so much. Too much independence of mind was never a good thing in a Templar of Sigmar. The young Pieter would have probably ended up in their employ anyway if Schwarzhelm hadn’t seen his potential. Verstohlen hated Chaos enough to be a witch hunter. He probably hated Chaos more than any man Schwarzhelm knew. For Schwarzhelm, the great enemy was one among many foes of mankind, each as foul as the next. But Verstohlen reserved a special loathing for the traitor, the heretic and mutant.

Schwarzhelm knew why, of course. He’d seen Leonora’s body himself after she’d been retrieved from the pits. Back then he hadn’t known who she was. Just another victim of the insanity of a cult, another innocent soul sacrificed on the altar of misguided fervour. The memory of the corpse still made him shudder. She hadn’t given in to them, even at the last, even after all they’d done to her. That level of bravery had been astonishing in one so young. Verstohlen had been destroyed. A young man on the cusp of a scholar’s career. All his learning had been impotent in the face of the raw sadism of the cults. And what was worse, they’d been Templars of Sigmar. The very men charged with hunting down corruption. The watchdogs had turned on those they’d been employed to protect.

After the cabal had been exposed, Schwarzhelm had hunted the men down personally. All of them. It hadn’t been much consolation, but Verstohlen had been grateful. Grateful enough to devote the rest of his life to Schwarzhelm’s service. The spy had since paid back any debt a thousand times over. Money was no motivation to him, neither was prestige. Schwarzhelm reckoned that nothing much drove him anymore except that one, burning quest. He wouldn’t stop until every last den of heresy was extinguished, every corrupted cabal purged.

A futile quest, of course. Even Volkmar didn’t believe that the great enemy would ever be truly defeated. All they had was resistance, the endless struggle against an infinite foe. Perhaps Verstohlen knew all that, deep down. If he did, he never admitted it. Every man needed a purpose, a way to keep the nightmares from taking over. That was his.

The gates of the city drew nearer. The buglers had done their work, and the archway was open. Beyond the gatehouse, Schwarzhelm could see frantic activity. They were unprepared. Any watchmen they had on duty must have been asleep. That summed up the entire province. Drowsy, lazy and disorganised, even in the face of turmoil in Averheim and greenskins in the east.

Schwarzhelm picked up the pace, driving the cavalry column into a gallop. By the time the column reached the gates, they were travelling fast. The hooves thundered on the old road, throwing dust high into the air. He didn’t pause at the gatehouse, but continued straight on up the main thoroughfare. The streets were half-empty. The few townspeople out and about rushed to get out of the way,, pressing themselves up against their neatly whitewashed houses. They looked fat. Slow. Lazy. This place had sheltered behind the protection of better men for too long.

Flanked by Kraus and the honour guard, Schwarzhelm swept through the town and towards the main square. He didn’t need directions. The place had barely changed since he’d last visited it.

The centre of Heideck was dominated by its merchant guild-funded Halzmann Platz. The wide space was framed on all sides by towering buildings, each decorated with guild symbols and intricate stonework. All the fraternities were represented. Tanners, miners, importers, landowners, money-changers. Each had their own brotherhood, sucking in money from the healthy flows of trade. All of them had spent vast sums on their ornate frontages, and the crests of the wealthy and powerful were all over them. Schwarzhelm recognised the Alptraum coats of arms in more than one place. So they were still powerful here, despite Leitdorfs best efforts. That boded well for Grosslich.

Once in the centre of the Platz, he called a halt and dismounted. Around him, his guard did the same, their armour clattering against the stone. From the guildhouses, men were beginning to emerge. Some were rubbing their eyes, seemingly uncaring of how ridiculous that made them look. It was too early for them to be at their desks. They must have lived in the huge mansions too.

From the largest building, a huge baroque edifice of fluted stone with rare coloured glass in its windows, a delegation of sorts filed out to meet him. Its members were dressed in the robes of town officials. At least most of them seemed awake. Schwarzhelm felt distaste stir in his frame. Officials. They were the same across the Empire. Tochfel, Achendorfer, Ferren. The names changed, but their characters never altered.

The leader of the delegation came up to him and bowed low.

“My lord Schwarzhelm. You honour us. If we’d known—”

“Be silent. There are orcs on your doorstep. Where are your men?”

The man’s face went grey. Next to Schwarzhelm, standing tall in his heavy armour, he looked little more than a child.

“We have maintained a garrison here, just as we are required to do.”

Schwarzhelm gave him a disdainful look. He felt like grabbing him by the neck and shaking him.

“My commander passed through here days ago. What help did you render him?”

“He asked for none. He was not here long. He headed east.”

“I know that. What forces did you give him?”

The official looked confused.

“None. There were no orders. I don’t—”

Then Schwarzhelm snapped. His temper always seemed to be on the edge of breaking in recent days. Something about the petty man’s manner, combined with the dull ache of Grunwald’s death, pushed him over. He struck the man viciously with the back of his armoured hand. The official tumbled to the ground, squealing with pain and fright.

His companions started. Some made to intervene, then crept back, daunted by Schwarzhelm’s presence. Kraus said nothing. Schwarzhelm leaned over the miserable figure of the official. Worm-like, he looked like he was trying to squirm away.

“You filth,” Schwarzhelm hissed, his face iron-hard. “My commander is dead. He rode out to protect you. If you weren’t so feckless you’d have done the job yourself. No doubt your troops are well fed and watered here while better men died to keep you safe from harm.”

The man looked up at him, clearly terrified. Schwarzhelm took no enjoyment in his humiliation. The official was nothing. A parasite. Like so many of those in positions of power across the Empire.

“You’ll release your men into my command immediately. You don’t need papers. You don’t need orders. Anything my men need, you’ll provide. You’ll show Captain Kraus the keys to your treasury chamber. I’ll need gold and supplies. You’ll provide it all. You’ll do it quickly. And you’ll think yourself supremely fortunate you caught me in a good mood this day.”

The official’s face was fixed in a kind of half-comical terror. Not many men could stand up to Schwarzhelm in full flow. This man wasn’t one of the few that could.

“Y-yes, my lord,” he stammered. “You’ll get everything you need.”

Schwarzhelm turned away in disgust. His point had been made. Just looking at the man made him feel nauseous.

“What next, sir?” asked Kraus.

“Rouse the garrison. I want them ready to march within the hour. Find fresh horses and re-form the cavalry. Whip those Averlander dogs if you need to. Just get them ready to leave. We don’t have much time.”

Kraus bowed smartly and set to work. Across the square, orders rang out. Schwarzhelm watched it impassively. Somewhere out there, in all the empty land to the east, the orcs were waiting. If Sigmar willed it, Bloch would be there too, still on his feet. Schwarzhelm knew he needed more men, knew he needed to give the horses water, but all of this would take time. The frustration burned at him. He felt his fingers creep towards the hilt of the Rechtstahl. The spirit of the weapon was eager to be drawn.

“Soon,” breathed Schwarzhelm, anticipating the slaughter ahead with a grim relish. “Very soon.”

Ferenc Alptraum gazed out across Averheim. He was high up in his chambers. The ancestral castle, owned by the Alptraums for as long as anyone could remember, was second only to the Averburg in size. It offered him a commanding view. From the curve of the Aver up to the dominating bulk of the Old City, the landscape was studded with fires. The fruit of the power struggle he’d helped to create.

That wasn’t what he’d wanted. It had never been what he’d wanted. If Rufus hadn’t been so hell-bent on violence, it could all have been avoided. His own men had died. Most were hired scum, but some were not. Members of his family entourage, dragged into the city from Heideck. This wasn’t their fight. The loss of a single one of them grieved him.

He stepped away from the window. The destruction was depressing. For all that, he couldn’t withdraw. Not now. He’d committed himself to Grosslich. If he let things slip, showed even the slightest sign of weakness, it would be over. Averheim would be ruled by a mad elector again, and the Leitdorf grip on power would be resumed. It could not be allowed to happen.

In the past, of course, an Alptraum had wielded the runefang. His grandmother, the formidable Ludmila, had governed the Grand County with a silken glove over a fist of iron. Perhaps she’d been too intransigent, too belligerent, trodden on too many people. Even the guilds had no desire to see an Alptraum back in the Averburg. That sad fact had become clear years ago, back when Ferenc had still had designs on the throne himself.

But he was nothing if not resourceful. When Grosslich emerged, seemingly from nowhere, Ferenc was astute enough to spot a winning horse. Power was a fluid thing. If he could not be the figurehead himself, then he would have to be the next best thing. Grosslich was no man’s fool, but he was a provincial and could be moulded. He needed Alptraum money and Alptraum manpower. Ferenc had provided both.

He thought of it as a business investment, the kind his family had made for centuries. For all he was supporting Grosslich now, the time would come when the debts would have to be repaid. The fact that the Alptraum name was on the gilt-edged bills would ensure the proceeds flowed directly to him.

It would be worth it. Anything would be worth it to prevent another mad Leitdorf ruling from the Averburg. Rufus and his damned wife both. Natassja was clever, but she had the looks and morals of a courtesan. There had been rumours about her for months. Where had she come from? What hold did she have over Rufus? The marriage was an embarrassment. The woman dominated him despite her dubious lineage. Though Marius had never been an ideal count, he’d at least married into nobility and not brought his ancient line into complete ridicule. With Natassja, Rufus had made his final mistake. For every addled noble who’d been seduced by her, there were two more who’d do anything to see her banished from the province. Why Rufus couldn’t see that was something only he could answer.

There was a knock on the door. Ferenc glanced at the elaborate clock mechanism on the wall, one of his proudest possessions. It was early. He wasn’t expecting Heinz-Mark until later. Instinctively, he made sure his dagger was in easy reach. You could never be too careful.

“Come.”

The door opened and a manservant appeared.

“You have a visitor, highness. Schwarzhelm’s counsellor. He craves an audience.”

That was odd. Ferenc had had almost nothing to do with the elusive Pieter Verstohlen since the selection process had started. Grosslich seemed to think he was nothing more than a functionary. Maybe not.

“Show him in.”

The servant withdrew. A moment later, the counsellor appeared. He looked terrible, like a man who hadn’t slept for several days. When Ferenc had last seen him, the man had seemed well groomed, urbane. Now he appeared more like his master, hollow-eyed and dishevelled.

“Counsellor,” said Ferenc, showing him to a chair. “This is unexpected.”

Verstohlen said nothing but sat heavily in one of Ferenc’s expertly carved chairs. There was a decanter of wine on the table to hand, and he poured himself a goblet. He took a long draft, then refilled it.

“I hope you don’t mind,” he said, wiping his mouth.

“Not at all.” Ferenc sat opposite him. “Have as much as you like.”

“A Heissmuller, I see. Very nice,” said Verstohlen. He was referring to the chair. Not many men would have known the marque. Despite his appearance, the man had refined tastes.

“That it is. 1400s. It’s older than the castle.”

Verstohlen nodded appreciatively. The wine seemed to have restored his equilibrium, though Ferenc noticed that his hands shook slightly as he replaced the decanter stopper.

“What can I do for you, counsellor?”

“I’ll come to that. First I must enter into confidence with you. Is this place secure? Can we be overheard?”

“This is my family house. You may speak freely.”

Verstohlen looked only partly satisfied. His eyes continued to flicker, as if hunting for unseen pursuers. He took another draught of wine.

“I am a member of Schwarzhelm’s inner circle,” he said. “I use the title counsellor, but my true functions are somewhat more specialised. A man like Schwarzhelm is recognised across the Empire. There are times when he needs information a public figure could never openly obtain. That’s the service I perform for him. Among other things.”

A spy, then. That in itself was unremarkable. All powerful men had agents working on their behalf. But it was rare for one to voluntarily declare themselves. Verstohlen didn’t look stupid or indiscreet, so there must have been a reason. Ferenc listened carefully.

“My master is out of the city at present. I suspect he has been drawn there deliberately by those who wish to see the succession battle continue indefinitely. Until recently, I might have suspected you of such motives. Maybe you still have them. As things transpire, it matters not.”

Ferenc paid close attention, giving nothing away. Verstohlen was speaking frankly. A lesser man might have been offended by the suggestion that the succession had been deliberately prolonged, but Ferenc wasn’t put out in the slightest. They were both men of the world. In any case, it was perfectly true.

“As part of my work here, I’ve made certain enquiries. They began with rumours concerning joyroot. This led to other things. I’m now certain that my earlier suspicions were correct. There are forces at work that wish to see the Emperor’s Champion removed from the city. They also wish him harm. Their general purpose is clear. The succession will be subverted.”

Ferenc poured himself a glass and crossed his legs. Everything the spy said hinted at more. Despite his candour, Verstohlen was still being careful. Something had scared him, and for all his polished manners he couldn’t conceal that entirely.

“Interesting,” said Ferenc, keeping his voice controlled. “I hope you’re not casting your gaze in our direction. For our part, there has never been anything but full cooperation with the Estates and with Lord Schwarzhelm.”

Verstohlen looked briefly amused, and his worried features lifted.

“Naturally. You needn’t worry, Herr Alptraum. If I thought you were behind the attempt to divert my master, I’d be having this conversation with your opponents. As it turns out, however, that would be impossible. I’ll not waste your time with evasion. The Leitdorfs have turned to the great enemy. They’re traitors, and their claim to the electorship is now void. Were Schwarzhelm here, he would declare the contest over and enlist your help in destroying them. In his absence, that task is left to me. So I have come to you, through no small peril, to deliver the verdict. Grosslich will be the new Elector of Averland. If he is not, then the province will be given over to damnation.”

Ferenc felt his heartbeat quicken. He had to work to control it. The spy spoke calmly and with authority. He felt his fingers loosen on his goblet and grasped it more tightly. This was news indeed. If true, it would change everything. The battle would be over. Grosslich would gain the Averburg, and his own long plans would come to fruition at last.

Ferenc took a deep breath. He’d need to play this carefully The game of power was a subtle one. Verstohlen might be lying. He might be mistaken. He might be a dozen other things, none of them helpful.

“Why come to me?” As Ferenc spoke, his mind raced ahead, considering the possibilities. All things being equal, having the Emperor’s Champion onboard was a priceless opportunity. But in politics, things were rarely equal.

“You’re the gatekeeper to Grosslich, just as I am to Schwarzhelm. I could no more gain an audience with him than you could with the Emperor. If I judge things right, then you’re the real power behind his campaign. The Alptraum coffers are still full, and you’ve always known how to use them.”

Ferenc smiled. The flattery didn’t deceive, even if the man was right.

“Your insinuation that Grosslich is anything less than the leader of our campaign distresses me. But you’re right to come to me in the first instance. He listens to my counsel. If he’s to take me seriously, though, I’ll need more from you than a rumour. These are serious allegations. I’m loathe to believe them without some form of proof.”

In actual fact, the more Ferenc thought about it, the more sense Verstohlen’s story made to him. Natassja was surely at the heart of it. She had the look of a witch. Rufus was no doubt the dupe in all this. He couldn’t bring himself to feel sorry for him. The spoiled brat had it coming.

“I can give you none,” said Verstohlen. “My own testimony is all I have, and I’ve seen the corruption with my own eyes. But consider this. You’ve nothing to lose by answering my call for aid. In Lord Schwarzhelm’s absence, I speak with the authority of the Imperial warrant. The city is in peril. Help me save it, and Karl Franz won’t forget it.”

They were convincing words. Inwardly, Ferenc found himself persuaded. Grosslich could be brought around. Heinz-Mark would need little argument to mount further attacks on Leitdorf’s forces. As things stood, the turn of events was welcome. Very welcome.

“You’ve given me much to think about,” Ferenc said, masking his growing enthusiasm. “In the interim, I’ll send word to Heinz-Mark. I can’t speak for him, but, between us, I think you needn’t worry. We all have a duty to protect against corruption.”

Verstohlen nodded.

“Good. But time is short. Leitdorf knows his secret has been discovered. Even now, he’ll be mobilising. I don’t know how deep the rot runs. He may have allies. For our own part, we’re in great danger the longer we hesitate. I urged the Steward to summon aid from Nuln before Schwarzhelm left. Even if he’s done so, we’ll need more help. We must summon Schwarzhelm back.”

“It will be done.”

“Send a heavily-armed party. The roads are no longer safe.”

“Worry not. My family’s estates are in the east. I have messengers who know the hidden routes to Heideck and beyond, and there are no faster messengers in Averland. Your message will get through.”

Verstohlen took another swig of wine. The lines of worry across his brow seemed to be receding somewhat.

“I’ll stay here for the time being, if I may,” he said, looking slightly sheepish. “The Leitdorfs have a renewed interest in tracking me down, and the Averburg will offer no protection. If Grosslich has any sense, he’ll arm his men quickly and secure this place. We’re on a precipice here.”

Ferenc sat back in his chair, exuding confidence. The news was dramatic, to be sure, but it boded nothing but good for his prospects. A few cultists could be snuffed out with ease. Grosslich was a formidable commander, for all his political naivety. What was really valuable was the seal of Imperial approval. He, Ferenc Alptraum, could do great things with that.

“Never fear,” Ferenc said. “You did the right thing to come to me. We’ve restrained our forces until now out of respect for the law. But all that’s changed. We’ve arms, and men, and funds to pay them. Trust me, we’ll have that traitor Leitdorf run out of the city before the week is ended.”

Verstohlen looked straight back at him. His eyes still bore the signs of some great fear.

“I hope so, Herr Alptraum,” he said, his voice shaking with vehemence. “By holy Verena, I hope so.”

The forest was about as cool as anywhere out in the baking eastern countryside. Even under the leaves of the trees, the air was heavy with heat. Flies circled lazily in the ambient warmth.

Bloch leaned on his halberd, welcoming the shade. He’d got used to the never-ending sun, but he was tired to his bones. The harrying of the orcs, day and night, had strained his nerves and his sinews. He’d lost count of the days. Three? Four? They’d had some luck, it was true. The bulk of the greenskins had indeed turned back to Grenzstadt, just as the messenger had said. But the last of Grunwald’s forces in that direction must have been long since destroyed. Now bands of orcs roamed the whole eastern marches of Averland, pillaging as they went. The damage they wrought was terrible.

Bloch looked over the ragtag army he’d managed to salvage from the ruins of Grunwald’s campaign. They were snatching a few moments’ rest under the shade of the trees. Over the past couple of days his forces had grown. More men had got away from the orcs than he’d first thought, and they’d been able to rescue further scattered groups as they’d headed west towards Heideck. There were maybe five hundred of them now, arranged into makeshift companies of a few dozen each, headed by the most experienced soldiers among them. Not much, maybe, but better than nothing. As the orc bands had splintered into smaller packs, they’d even been able to extract some measure of revenge.

Their bravery was beginning to cost them, though. The orcs weren’t stupid. Despite his best efforts, Bloch couldn’t hide his forces from them forever. Word had got out that a kernel of resistance still existed, and the hunt was on. He didn’t have enough men to stand against them in the open. The only chance was to keep going to Heideck, to consolidate there with whatever forces remained in that garrison and then strike back.

It wasn’t something he put all his faith in. The men of Heideck, from memory, were soft-bellied fools. But it was all he had.

“What are your orders, sir?” came a voice from beside him.

Bloch shook himself out of his introspection. Lars Fischer, his hastily promoted lieutenant, looked at him with weary eyes. The man was an Averlander and had proved invaluable so far. If they ever got to safety, it would be down to the local knowledge that had guided them down hidden paths in the woods and gorges.

“How far d’you reckon we are from Heideck?” Bloch asked, running his hands through his hair. He felt exhausted. No doubt they all did.

Fischer shrugged.

“Another day’s march. No more than two. But the country’s open there. Nowhere to hide. If there are orcs, we’ll have to fight them.”

“There’ll be orcs. They’re on our trail now. Maybe it’s better to come out and fight them. I’m fed up of this sneaking around.”

Bloch took another look across his men. They didn’t look ready for a fight. The constant running and skirmishing had muted the brief flame of defiance they may have felt at the beginning of the trek. Many of them slumped over their weapons, half-asleep in the middle of the day. The heat, the dust, the lack of sleep. It all took its toll.

“We’ll give them a few moments,” said Bloch. “They’ve already been driven too hard. But then we need to move.”

Fischer was about to reply when there was a crashing sound from deeper into the woods. Arrows whined across the clearing, thudding into tree trunks. The greenskins were back.

“Form up!” cried Bloch, springing into action immediately. He grabbed his halberd. His men rushed to form into defensive detachments.

The crashing became louder. From the shadows of the trees, the orcs burst into view. Bloch saw their leader before he saw the rest. Huge, bunched muscles, raging eyes and dripping tusks. There were dozens behind him, all heavily armoured like the ones they’d faced on the ridge.

He lowered his halberd. How many this time?

“Keep to your companies!” he roared. All around him, the men were falling into their detachments. The movements were expert, skilful. But they needed to move quicker.

The orcs closed, and the space under the trees filled with their battle roars. Bloch felt his fellows cluster around him. Even now they stuck to the defensive square. The familiarity was reassuring. As if by instinct, the leader of the greenskins made straight for Bloch. Its broad legs churned up the leaf matter on the forest floor, throwing it in all directions as it ploughed onward. Bloch adjusted his stance, legs apart, braced for the impact.

“Steady, lads,” he warned. “Blades up!” The lines came together, and the world descended once more into a storm of desperate combat. Bloch was knocked backwards by the force of the charge, but those on either side of him held the line. He recovered, hacking powerfully with his halberd. The greenskin screamed at him, covering his face with stinking trails of saliva.

Bloch grimaced, recovering his balance and pushed forward. His arms ached. His hands were calloused and bleeding. Like the others, he fought on. Any sign of weakness now and it would be over. They looked to him. He needed to stay strong, give them something to believe in.

With a mighty heave, he swung his halberd upwards, aiming to catch the greenskin in the face. The blade connected, slicing through the thick hide, spraying black blood into the canopy above. The monster staggered back, blundering into those around him. Even in the midst of their efforts, the men at Bloch’s shoulders broke into a coarse cheer.

“Enough of that,” roared Bloch, readying himself for the next thrust. “Keep your discipline!”

The orcs came again. There were dozens of them. Perhaps more. The leader was gathering himself for a fresh assault, its face streaming with blood.

Bloch made eye contact with it. He held it. This fight wouldn’t be over quickly.

“Come and get me then, you green bastard,” he snarled, his halberd running with gore. The invitation was accepted.

Tochfel hurried through the corridors of the Averburg. The feeling of unease he’d endured for days was getting worse. With Schwarzhelm and Verstohlen both gone, any semblance of order to the proceedings had vanished. He’d had to deal with frantic messages from both Leitdorf and Grosslich, each demanding to know when the next session would be. In Achendorfer’s absence, he had no idea. In fact, he had no idea where Achendorfer even was. The grey-faced loremaster wasn’t much of a companion in times of need, but at least he had an idea of the protocol for such things. Tochfel didn’t.

The Steward burst into his chamber, half expecting to see the man waiting for him. Instead, he was confronted with the toppling pile of parchment documents he’d left from the previous day. All of them required answers, but only Sigmar knew what they might be.

Tochfel sat down at his desk. He could feel his whole body tensing. The city was on the brink of anarchy, and there was nothing he could do about it. The few troops he’d had left at his disposal had been requisitioned by Schwarzhelm. He ran his hands through his hair. As he released the fingers, he saw loose strands of it twirl to the floor. He was getting old, tired and fractious.

There was a sharp rap on the door.

“Come!” Tochfel’s voice sounded reedy and quavering. He hoped it would be Achendorfer. Instead, it was Morven.

“Steward, I bring a message from Lord Grosslich,” the aide de camp announced. His expression gave away the fact this was going to be bad news.

“I’m not going to like this, am I?”

“I’m charged to inform you that the Grosslich candidacy for the Estates has been withdrawn. His lordship accuses the Lord Leitdorf of turning traitor to the Empire and has declared himself elector in order to preserve the integrity of the Grand County. He wishes to inform you that his forces have been mustered and that they have begun their assault upon the city. None of the citizens therein will be harmed unless they have declared for Leitdorf and bear arms in his cause. However, any person resisting his just crusade will not be spared. The Lord Grosslich will not cease until the traitors have been destroyed and the city returned to the rule of the electors.”

Tochfel listened with growing despondency. So that was it. The mastery of the city had been taken from him at last. The passage of the law, so dear to his heart, had been utterly subverted. Whichever man eventually took up the runefang, Leitdorf or Grosslich, it would be as a result of might, not legal procedure. Such was the way of the wilderness, not the greatest realm of men in the Old World.

“What grounds has he for these claims?” asked Tochfel, trying to maintain an outwardly calm demeanour.

“I don’t know, Steward. I only report.”

“Where is the Lord Leitdorf? Still in the city?”

“He cannot be reached. But there are reports of fresh fighting in the Old City. Grosslich’s men are moving. It may not be safe here. We should consider abandoning the Averburg.”

That wasn’t worth contemplating. The citadel hadn’t been given up to an enemy in two thousand years. Even Ironjaw hadn’t penetrated the outer walls.

“What about Schwarzhelm? Or his counsellor?”

“Still missing. Though I have reason to believe Herr Verstohlen has lent his support to Lord Grosslich. It may be a sign that the allegations against Leitdorf have foundation.”

Tochfel shook his head.

“Allegations? They’re nothing more than rumours. Grosslich has used Schwarzhelm’s absence to seize his chance. They’re vagabonds, the pair of them, whatever noble blood they claim to have.”

As he spoke, Tochfel began to feel a strange sensation well up within him. The constant slights, the endless struggle to maintain authority, had all begun to take their toll. For once, he found that resignation wasn’t what he felt. It was anger.

“This farrago has gone on long enough,” he said, balling his fists on his desk. “All of them, Schwarzhelm, Grosslich, Leitdorf, have treated this place like their private fiefdom. No more. The rot stops here.”

Morven looked shocked, but said nothing. He was no doubt unused to being addressed by Tochfel in such a manner.

“We will not surrender the Averburg,” continued Tochfel, feeling more assertive the more he spoke, “to either faction. Until I hear from the Emperor’s representative himself, I remain the lawful keeper of this city. We will arm the men with what weapons we have. The gates will be barred. Grosslich and Leitdorf can hammer on them all they like. These walls were built to keep out worse foes than them.”

“We’re not soldiers, Steward,” protested Morven, looking appalled. “The garrison has been—”

“Don’t tell me what has happened to the garrison!” snapped Tochfel, his eyes blazing. “I know exactly what happened to it. But we still have men at our command and weapons in the armoury. Distribute them. See the gates are guarded. Go now, and report back to me within the hour.”

Still looking startled, Morven bowed hurriedly and scuttled out. Tochfel, his blood still hot, slammed the door behind him and strode over to the window. He looked over the city, just as he did every evening. The fires still burned. They were growing in number. He even fancied he could hear the noise of Grosslich’s forces marching through the distant streets.

As he watched, his sudden anger was steadily replaced with a grim, implacable resolve. The city was descending into war. The Averburg, home for most of his adult life, would soon be an island in the midst of the fighting. In times past, Tochfel might have found the prospect terrifying. Now, he took a strange kind of comfort from it.

At last, the pretence of the legal process had been removed. The succession in Averland would be determined through strength of arms and force of will. Perhaps that was the purer way. In any case, at least his task was clear.

The Averburg must be preserved. That, and that alone, was his concern now.

* * *

Kurt Helborg, master of the Reiksguard, bowed low. He felt his forehead touch the cold marble floor. He stayed in position for a few moments, prostrate. The position was one of penitence, of humility. Before such a judge, there was no other attitude to adopt. Heartbeats passed in the silence.

Then, his observance done, Helborg rose to his knees once more. The altar of Sigmar soared above him. He made the sign of the comet on his chest and clambered to his feet.

The Chapel of the Lord Sigmar Martial was one of the oldest and grandest in the Empire. The citizens of Nuln were justly proud of it. The floor was chequered with patterns of black and white marble imported from Sartosa, the very best gold could buy. The columns that sprung up to hold the distant ceiling had been carved into a host of intricate shapes. Some resembled tree trunks, complete with branches and leaves. Others had been shaped into dizzyingly complex geometrical figures, a fitting compliment to the mathematical heritage of the city. Aside from the light given by the massed racks of candles, the massive nave was clad in darkness. Hulking statues to various ancient warriors and dignitaries brooded in the gloom. The Imperial religion was not one of light and beauty. It celebrated steadfastness, gravity and bitter resolve.

Helborg liked that. He liked the whole place. Its evident riches, its seriousness of purpose, its ancient foundations. This was what a chapel should be. This was what the Empire should be.

With a final bow, he turned from the towering altar of Sigmar. The brass cherubs surrounding his effigy, each bearing a mechanical crossbow or repeater handgun, gazed back blankly.

He walked from the transept into the long nave of the chapel. The place was nearly deserted. A few priests shuffled in the shadows, tending to the candles and the votary incense burners. No ordinary people would ever come here. It was reserved for the mighty of the Empire. Despite himself, Helborg enjoyed that feeling too. Hierarchy was everything. Control was everything. Discipline was everything. As long as they were maintained, mankind would continue to dominate the ancient lands of Sigmar. If they were forgotten, the end would come swiftly.

As he neared the exit, he caught sight of a lone figure waiting for him just inside the porch. The shape was unmistakable. Years of fighting alongside a man made his armoured profile almost as familiar as one’s own. Leofric von Skarr, Preceptor of the Ninth Company of the Reiksguard. One of his most trusted men. Honest, capable, utterly brutal. Just as he preferred his officers.

“My lord Helborg,” Skarr said, keeping his voice deferentially low. Even in whispers, the words echoed eerily in the vaults of the chapel. “My apologies for disturbing your prayers.”

“It’s fine. Come outside.”

Skarr opened the gigantic brassbound doors of the chapel for the Marshal, and warm sunlight flooded into the shadowy nave. The two men stepped through it.

They were high up on the north side of the city. The courtyard before the east front of the chapel offered a sweeping panorama. Around them, the greater mass of Nuln spread out in all its confused, tumbled majesty. The sound of the forges, ever-present even during the night hours, filled the air. Huge columns of black smoke rose into the summer sky from several quarters. The buildings were stained with soot. Below their vantage point, the River Reik ran dark and polluted. It would take miles before the filth of the forges was washed from its water again.

Such things mattered not. Nuln had not been built for beauty. The hammers of the blacksmiths fashioned weapons for the defence of the Empire. That was the city’s function. The greatest foundry and workshop of war west of the Worlds Edge Mountains. Helborg loved it.

“So what is it, Skarr?” he asked, retrieving the sheathed Klingerach from the chapel warden and donning the ancient runefang.

“A messenger, my lord,” said the grizzled preceptor. His face was heavily scarred, as befitted his name. He’d lost an eye at the siege of Urkh five years ago, and the leather patch made him look half-feral. He had an angular face and his long hair hung dark and lank about it. There wasn’t an inch of fat on his severe features. Everything was taut, muscular, spare. “From Averheim.”

“Ah,” said Helborg, the ghost of a smile on his lips. “Ludwig’s little project. How goes it for my unsmiling brother?”

“Not well, I fear. The Steward has requested aid. The factions for the electorship have resorted to arms. He doesn’t have enough men to keep order.”

Helborg frowned. “How many men does he need? He has Schwarzhelm. That ought to be enough.”

“Lord Schwarzhelm isn’t in the city.”

“Not in the city? Where is he then?”

“In the east. The message says no more than that.”

Helborg felt a sudden qualm of unease. That sounded wrong. Schwarzhelm was a stickler for the law. When given orders, he stuck to them until the bitter end. Such unbending devotion was what made him so formidable. It was also what made him such a pain in the arse. The fact that he’d left his duty for some other purpose was out of character, and that alone was a cause for worry.

“Are the Reiksguard in readiness to march?”

“Always, my lord.”

“Then I’ll study this message myself. I don’t like the implication in it.”

“Yes, my lord. The message bearer is still lodged at the garrison. I’ll summon him to your chambers.”

“Do it.” Helborg’s voice was as it always was when dealing with subordinates. Clipped, gruff, solid. But his mood of contentment had been punctured. Something was wrong in Averheim. Deep within, like a fleck of rust amidst the smooth workings of a cannon bearing, the germ of suspicion had lodged. Schwarzhelm had been behaving oddly recently. Maybe the man’s judgment was failing.

As Skarr departed, Helborg looked out over the city again. The sun was high in the sky. Its warmth bathed the spires of Nuln generously. The manufactories were working at full tilt, hammering blades and gun-workings for the war in the north. He could have spent weeks in the city, ordering the production to best effect. The need for arms had never been greater.

Helborg shook his head. Whatever the messenger reported, his instinct told him his services would be called on. His work in Nuln would be cut short. His devotions would have to wait. As it ever did, duty called for the Reiksguard.

Chapter Twelve

Schwarzhelm and the Averheim garrison had reached the wide pasturelands east of Heideck. In the far distance, the Worlds Edge Mountains were just visible, jagged and low against the horizon. For miles around them, the undulating countryside ran unimpeded, lush and green under the ever-present sun. In the distance, warmth shimmered from the deep grass. The light was blinding from the honour guard’s polished armour.

The army had broken into a gallop. Schwarzhelm tensed in the saddle. He made a minute adjustment to his posture, eking out a fractional increase in speed from his charger. The knights on either side of him worked to keep up. He looked over his shoulder quickly. They were still in close formation. Kraus and his men in the front rank, the Averlanders behind. Some distance in their wake, hundreds of footsoldiers from Heideck streamed across the fields. All had weapons drawn. In combination with the elite guard at his disposal, he now had the tools he needed. More importantly, he had the will to use them.

He turned back to the chase. Prey had been sighted. Like the predators of the wild, his army had responded to the quarry. Clods of turf flew from the horses’ hooves as they accelerated into a fully-fledged gallop. Lances were lowered. As they charged, the warriors looked like they were wreathed in a halo of light.

The heat was crippling. Schwarzhelm felt the sweat pool under his breastplate. He didn’t care. For the first time in weeks, he felt fantastic. This was what he was born to do. His face was twisted into a cry of pure, unbridled aggression. As he roared his fury, his knights bellowed their defiance alongside him. The crescendo of noise thrilled his heart.

The orcs were running, loping like animals across the grass. It was a large mob, but no match for his forces. The sun flashed from their armour as they went. They looked better equipped than usual. He thought he could make out straight swords and halberds amongst their ranks. That was more than rare.

On either side of him, the knights moved expertly into formation. The honour guard were flawless, controlling their mighty warhorses with almost unconscious ease. The Averlanders, good horsemen all, kept close behind. Lances extended, the cavalry formed a single sweeping row of steel.

Now only yards remained. The greenskins had been taken by surprise. Their polluting stench rose over the pristine fields, wafted over the charging knights by the warm breeze. Some larger warriors turned and stood their ground. Silently, one by one, they were singled out by the knights. Near the centre of the mob, a larger monster prepared to meet the assault. He had a near-black hide and his bodyguard were clad in what looked like plates of armour. Clearly the leader.

“That one’s mine!” roared Schwarzhelm.

Hooves churned. The distance shrunk further. Details came into focus. The final few yards vanished in a blur of speed. Schwarzhelm grasped his lance tightly and took aim. With a crash of metal, bone, hoof and muscle, the knights crashed into the orc lines.

The defence broke. Any pretence at formation was swept away with the first charge. Schwarzhelm’s lance plunged into the breast of the foremost orc, lifting the massive warrior clean from the ground before the shaft snapped. Blood sprayed into the air, sparkling like rubies in the sun. All along the line, the knights scythed their way through the greenskin ranks, driving great wedges into them and throwing them into confusion.

Schwarzhelm let the broken lance fall and pulled the Rechtstahl from its scabbard. As the metal withdrew it seemed to shimmer with light. It knew it would taste blood. He pulled his stallion around, searching for the leader. A lumbering greenskin half-heartedly attempted to engage him. Schwarzhelm rode straight at it, his blade whirling. The warrior crumpled to the blood-soaked earth, spine severed. There were more behind him. Dozens of them. Fodder for his holy blade.

“For Sigmar!” Schwarzhelm roared, feeling the coppery taste of blood in the air. “For Grunwald!” After weeks cooped up in the cesspit of Averheim, the Sword of Justice had been unleashed at last.

And it felt good.

Verstohlen ran along the streets of Averheim’s Old City, maintaining an easy pace. The hunt for Leitdorf had begun in earnest. All around him, Grosslich’s men kept their formation. There were two dozen in the warband, and they’d been well trained. Some were dogs of war, paid handsomely for their services, others were taken from the Alptraum estates. None of them had the stench of joyroot about them. That, more than anything else, reassured him.

“Was this the way?” asked the captain, holding the pace steady pace as he spoke.

“We’re nearly there, Herr Euler. This is the district.”

All across the city, similar bands of Grosslich’s supporters were fanning out. Up until now, the fighting had been sporadic. Now all the cells across Averheim had been mobilised. The battles had been notched up a level. Alptraum had offered Verstohlen a place beside him with the forces attacking the Averburg. Verstohlen had refused. He had business of his own to deal with.

The warband rounded the final corner. There were men ahead. A few of Leitdorf’s hired thugs. They didn’t stay to fight. They ran off into the sidestreets, and a couple of Euler’s soldiers made to go after them.

“Leave them,” snapped Verstohlen. He looked down the street they’d cleared of men. At the far end of it, a narrow alleyway stood. He knew what lay down there. Part of him dreaded going back, but the contagion had to be cut off at the source.

“Follow me,” he said grimly, drawing his pistol from its holster. Euler and his men fell into close formation around him. Without saying another word, the warband advanced towards the unassuming-looking townhouse at the end of the alley.

Out on the fields of Averland, Schwarzhelm drew his horse up, feeling the beast shiver from fatigue. He’d ridden it hard. His hands were streaked with the dark blood of the orcs. All around him, the butchery was in full flow. He shaded his eyes from the sun, trying to get an overview of the fighting.

The orc warband leader was close at hand, hurling threats in its obscene tongue. The initial charge of the knights had carved through the disarranged ranks of greenskins like a dagger through flesh. There would be no respite. They would press on until every last one of them was dead or driven back over the mountains. Grunwald’s memory would be honoured.

Schwarzhelm turned back to face the enemy. They were massing for a counter-attack. Scattered bands of orcs nearby had somehow got wind of the battle and were streaming across the fields to reinforce their kin. That was all good. There was no point picking off the fringes of the contagion. The heart of it had to be cut out.

“To me!” Schwarzhelm bellowed to his honour guard, raising the Rechtstahl aloft. Kraus was at his side instantly, along with a dozen of the honour guard.

Averlanders followed in their wake looking hollow-eyed and murderous. Any pretence at holding detachments had long gone. This was melee fighting, close and packed-tight. That was fine. They had the numbers, and they had the leadership. Schwarzhelm’s fury had been roused, and there wasn’t a warrior on earth, greenskin or not, who could stand against him.

With a kick of his spurs, Schwarzhelm swung his charger around to renew the charge. Kraus fell in alongside him. Fresh lances were brought up, and the assault was marshalled anew.

The orc leader saw the danger. Like of all its cursed race, it showed no fear. With a low growl, it stamped on the earth, rousing its followers into a frenzy of defiance.

Schwarzhelm rode straight for it. He lowered his lance, watching the steel tip swing into position over the approaching orc’s eyes. He could sense Kraus riding hard at his shoulder, feel the momentum of the charge all around him. The orcs could see it too. Despite their bravado, despite their dogged willingness to stay and face the onslaught, their roars of defiance were less pronounced than usual. They feared the cavalry.

The gap closed in seconds, and then they were among them. The orc leader, a head bigger than its nearest rival, swung a spiked club in a wide circle, aiming to take out the horse’s legs as it thundered towards him. Schwarzhelm pulled the reins and the beast swerved comfortably to avoid the swipe. Then he was on top of it, hooves kicking out. The orc leapt to the ground, rolling across the grass before springing up with surprising agility. Schwarzhelm’s lance missed it by inches. His steed careered onwards before he could pull it round for the return run.

The evidence of the charge’s devastation was all around him. Kraus and the other knights had carved straight through the heart of the orc horde, and the surviving warriors were in disarray In the gap opened up by their assault, Averlander footsoldiers were hurrying to catch up and consolidate the won ground.

But the monster, the guiding force behind the orc’s movements, still lived. Schwarzhelm kicked his horse back towards the huge figure of the greenskin commander, watching carefully as the creature prepared itself for the next pass.

In a split second, he determined his tactics. He was too close for another full charge. At such a range the lance would be more of a hindrance than a weapon. As the powerful horse lurched forward, he let the long shaft fall to the ground and drew the Sword of Justice. The orc saw the change of strategy and braced itself, hurling insults at the oncoming Schwarzhelm in its dark and obscene tongue.

They came together again. The orc reared, scything its spiked weapon, once again aiming at the horse. This had been expected. The warhorse had been trained for combat, and was more than just a mere mount. As it closed on the orc, Schwarzhelm pulled sharply up on the reins. The charger reared, kicking its front hooves out viciously before they fell back down to earth. One of them connected with the orc’s face, knocking one of its tusks out and cracking bone. The warband leader staggered back, roaring in pain.

Then Schwarzhelm was on it. He brought the Rechtstahl down in a sudden plunge, burying the tip of the steel deep into the orc’s hide. The warrior howled, twisting to escape the agony of the blade. Like all of its kind, it was strong, nearly wresting the sword from Schwarzhelm’s hands.

But Schwarzhelm was too expert a swordsman for that. He withdrew the blade while pulling the horse round, keeping it close to the stricken creature below. The orc tried to match the move, turning on its squat legs clumsily and raising its club more in defence than attack.

Schwarzhelm ignored the threat, watching for the opening. It came soon enough. He spun the sword rapidly in his grip, switching so the blade pointed down from his clenched right fist. As it whirled into position, the sunlight blazed from the holy steel.

Mustering all the power in his arm, Schwarzhelm stabbed the Rechtstahl down. The tip of the sword punctured the orc’s flesh between shoulder and neck, and kept going.

The greenskin screamed, an unearthly sound that echoed over the whole field of battle. With a fury born of desperation, it tried to tear itself away from the pain, lashing out blindly with its club. The blows were ill-aimed, and Schwarzhelm evaded them easily, keeping the blade in position, turning it and pushing it down, aiming for the heart. For a moment they struggled together thus, their strength pitted against one another.

Eventually, the blood loss was too much. The mighty creature sunk to its knees, the fire in its eyes extinguished. Schwarzhelm withdrew his sword. The orc’s gore flew into the air as he reverted to his usual grip. With a rattling sigh, the greenskin keeled over on to the pristine turf.

Schwarzhelm looked around him. In every direction the honour guard were slicing apart the orc defences. In their wake the Averlanders were rushing to make good the gains made. The assault was progressing well.

But the greenskins were numerous. Some signal must have been given, as more were running to reinforce them from all across the plains. Schwarzhelm’s forces were taking losses as they advanced, and even as he watched one of the knights was dragged from his steed by the press of orcs around him. They still needed discipline, still needed formation. If this thing slipped into a shapeless scrap, then all their advantages would be gone:

“To me!” he cried, his powerful voice echoing across the battlefield. The horsemen began to fight their way back to his position. They would need to re-form the wedge, set up another massed charge, punch the orcs into submission. They would have to do it over and over again. More than most, Schwarzhelm knew how stubborn an opponent the orcs were.

They would have to be. Now his fury was roused, there was no place for them to hide.

Euler’s party ran down the narrow alleyway towards the townhouse. Verstohlen reached the door first. It was just as he remembered it. In the daylight it looked, if anything, even more innocuous. There was no handle, no decoration.

“Break this door down,” he ordered.

Euler gestured to his men, and two of his larger soldiers came forward. They slammed their bodies against the wood. Once, twice, three times, then the frame buckled. A fourth heave and the planks splintered. Euler hacked the broken wood aside and reached in to unlock the door. It swung open. The familiar aroma of jasmine wafted from the chamber within.

“Keep together,” warned Verstohlen. “Do not be deceived by appearances. Kill anyone inside you see, fair-seeming or foul.”

Some of the men were looking uncertain. Their stock in trade was street fighting and campaigns against rival magnates. Even they could sense that there was something very wrong about the townhouse.

Verstohlen didn’t have time to pity them. If Rufus’ allies were allowed to take root, there’d be plenty more such establishments in Averheim to give them nightmares.

“Let’s go.”

He went inside, pistol drawn. There was no one in the antechamber. The stone was bare and the lanterns had been extinguished. The body of the grotesque dog-warrior had been removed. Where his corpse had been slumped, Verstohlen thought he could see a faint brown stain against the plaster.

He went on, down the stairs and towards the central chamber. Euler followed close behind. The men had trouble squeezing into the narrow way, and their weapons clanged against the stone. Fighting in such close quarters would be difficult.

Verstohlen reached the bottom of the stairs. The corridor was empty and silent. To his right was the route he’d taken last time. Ahead of him were the double doors leading straight into the chamber.

Euler stood beside him, breathing heavily from the earlier exertions.

“Which way?” he asked.

Verstohlen nodded in the direction of the doors.

“Straight to the heart of it,” he said.

With a faint tremble that he couldn’t suppress, Verstohlen reached for the handle. He pushed firmly, and the doors to Natassja’s throne room swung apart.

Bloch lowered his blade and grinned. After days of fighting, he knew they must be close to Heideck. The fact that they’d run into yet another splinter band of orcs wouldn’t stop them achieving their goal. The days of endless combat had begun to blur into one long procession of fighting, but he’d somehow managed to keep it together. His forces were intact, morale was as good as could be expected, and they were nearing their destination. They’d turned from mindless running from the enemy and started to engage them at will. Something had got the greenskins worried, and the feeling was infectious. From every direction he could hear his men laying into the enemy, hurling themselves into combat with a commendable ferocity. He was happy to join them. He’d even started enjoying himself.

The orc before Bloch looked drunk with fatigue. Its slab-muscled shoulders slumped, and its chest heaved. The end would not be long now.

“Is that the best you’ve got?” he taunted, swinging his blade and advancing towards his enemy. The orc stared back at him stupidly. The fire in its red eyes was nearly out. Blood as thick and dark as oil ran from a dozen wounds. Like a bull in the rings of the Estalians, it had been ground into the dirt.

Bloch laughed and swung his halberd directly at the monster’s head. The orc parried, lifting its spike-studded cudgel to block the path of the blade. Bloch pulled back and swung again, probing for the weak spot. The orc, its breathing heavy and uncertain, matched the strokes. Bloch began to hammer his weapon down more quickly, using the shaft of the halberd as much as a club as a blade. The orc staggered backwards, desperately fending off the blows.

Bloch didn’t relent. He felt a surge of exhilaration course through him. The greenskins had killed too many. They’d had it their own way for too long. This was their chance to even the score a little.

With a final, limb-jarring thud, his halberd found a way through the greenskin’s defences. It bit deep, slicing into the thick flesh of the orc’s neck. The stricken creature bellowed a final time and sank to its knees. Bloch withdrew the blade and hacked downward again. And a third time. The creature collapsed on to the ground, limbs twitching. Bloch raised his weapon in triumph, angling the point over the orc’s prone heart. With a savage cry, he brought it down with all his might. The tip pierced the greenskin’s heart, ending its rampaging forever. Bloch twisted the metal, watching the blood bubble from the wound like spring water. It wasn’t much to celebrate, but it gave him some satisfaction.

At last, he pulled the halberd from the still twitching body of the orc. He stepped back and looked about him. The enemy were routed. His men still stood their ground. They’d run the orcs out of the forests and into the open country. For the first time since Grunwald’s last stand, they had the initiative.

“What’s got into them?” came a voice from behind him. Fischer. The lad had taken a nasty wound to his forearm and carried his weapon in his left hand. He looked pale but defiant.

Bloch shaded his eyes against the violent sun and tried to make out where the fleeing greenskins were heading. The countryside was open. They were all loping in the same direction, as if called by a signal beyond his hearing. They didn’t look like they were running mindlessly or in a panic. Something had summoned them away.

“Sigmar only knows. They’ve been all over us for days, and now…” He trailed off. He strained against the haze, trying to make out what was happening.

“What do you want to do?” asked Fischer. “We’re out of cover here.”

“Wait a minute,” said Bloch. He peered into the distance. The heat made the ground shimmer. On the horizon, everything was indistinct. It looked, though, as if there were another orc warband in the distance, kicking up dust from the parched earth. A big one, by the cloud they threw up. As big, perhaps, as the one that had defeated them in the foothills. And, unless his eyes deceived him, it was already fighting.

He turned to Fischer. This was getting interesting.

“They’re not running from us,” he said. “They’re mustering to face a greater threat. That’s why they’re falling back. Something bigger has got them worried.”

Fischer looked blank.

“From Heideck?”

Bloch snorted derisively. “Those milk-fed weaklings? No. You’d have to have balls of gromril to take that mob on.”

He hefted his halberd, ready for another long trek across the fields. This time, however, the objective was more than just survival.

“Ready the men,” he ordered. “We’ll form up again and follow that pack. Carefully, mind. Nothing reckless. But I’ve a feeling we’re all headed towards the same place. And I’ve a feeling I know who’s there too.”

Fischer still looked clueless. Bloch grinned at him. “Trust me. We’re not done fighting yet.”

The doors of the townhouse’s central chamber swung open. Their motion was noiseless. For a moment, Verstohlen thought he saw movement within. He swung his pistol round swiftly.

Nothing. The chamber was empty.

He walked in, keeping the weapon raised. Euler and his men followed, fanning out across the wide circle.

“Send men up to the next level,” said Verstohlen. His voice sounded very loud against the echoing silence. “They may be hiding. No man is to enter any room alone.”

While Euler relayed the orders, Verstohlen took a good look around. There was no throne, no dais, no iron braziers. The place had been stripped bare. The floor was wooden, the stone unadorned. If it were not for the lingering smell of jasmine, he might have begun to doubt his own recollection.

He crouched down and examined the floor. There were no scraps of cloth, no remnants of Natassja’s spiked toys. They’d done a good job. As good as he would have done.

“See anything, counsellor?”

Verstohlen stood up.

“No, Herr Euler. Not a thing. That may be a cause for satisfaction. They are not yet so bold as to leave traces of their presence behind. But we must not be complacent. Let us explore further.”

Euler nodded, but Verstohlen could see the doubt in the man’s eyes. None of his band wanted to believe that there were cultists in Averheim. Without tangible proof, they were always likely to distrust the word of a stranger. For the time being, though, they were not ready to question his orders.

From up above, Verstohlen could hear men going through the antechambers on the next level. There was the noise of crates being shifted and doors slamming. No fighting, though. No unnatural hissing, or warped barking. That was something to be thankful for.

“Come,” he said, turning round and heading back to the corridor outside. He led them out of the circular chamber and along the way he’d fled before. The smell of jasmine grew stronger as they went. Months of processing joyroot couldn’t be erased overnight.

Verstohlen entered the hall with the drying tables. As before, everything had gone. The refining kettles, the stacks of raw root, nothing remained.

“Have your men search this place closely,” said Verstohlen, letting his eyes roam across the scrubbed surfaces. “They may have left something behind.”

He pressed on further, studying every bare floorboard, every blank stone wall. Behind him he could hear Euler’s men clumping around, pulling apart anything they could prise from its fastenings. They were too clumsy for this work. With a twinge of regret, Verstohlen realised that they were as likely to destroy any evidence as discover it. The mission had been fruitless. Natassja and her horrific court were long gone.

He turned back, ready to order Euler to stand down. Just as he did so, something caught his eye. Once he’d seen them, he wondered how he’d missed them. Hung on the wall, two of them. Verstohlen walked over to them and took one down.

Euler came to his side.

“What are these?”

Verstohlen picked up the second and held the two together. They were masks. The faces had been artfully carved. In every respect, they resembled their real-life counterparts. The fidelity was remarkable. He found himself looking at the simulated flesh, marvelling at the detail and precision. The face in his left hand was his own. The one in his right was Schwarzhelm’s. In the low light, he could almost have been staring into the big man’s features. Only the eyes betrayed the origin of the masks. They were caked with blood and had been crudely rammed into the sockets. No doubt retrieved from Natassja’s long-suffering pets. Sigmar only knew what had happened to them.

“They are a warning, Herr Euler,” said Verstohlen, standing up. He let the ceramics fall to the floor. “Frau Leitdorf has a fondness for surgery. No doubt she wishes us to know the fate of those who stand against her husband.”

Euler looked down at the masks warily. They gazed back blankly from their unseeing eyes. Verstohlen stamped down heavily, shattering the fragile artistry.

“Ignore them,” he said, turning away from the scattered shards. “There’s nothing more to see here. It was a mistake to think there would be. Gather the men and prepare to leave. Grosslich will need our support.”

With that, he turned on his heel and walked towards the exit. He hoped he projected an aura of casual disregard. Deep down, though, he knew he didn’t.

Out on the fields of Averland, the orcs continued to cluster. More and more had streamed into combat, drawn from miles around. Schwarzhelm and the Averlanders had pushed them steadily east, wearing them down with a series of heavy cavalry charges followed up by ranks of footsoldiers advancing across the trampled turf.

As ever, Schwarzhelm was at the heart of it. All around him, ranks of orcs and men struggled for mastery. Readying his steed once more, he charged straight at the cluster of heavily-armed greenskins before him. With a sickening clatter, he smashed into their midst. The Rechtstahl swung down, slicing the hands of the nearest grasping warrior clean from its wrists. His horse whinnied frantically, clutched at from all sides by the orcs. Schwarzhelm kicked out against them, trying to turn the steed round. He could hear the cries of the honour guard as they fought their way to his position. For the moment, he was isolated, cut off by a sea of slavering orcs. There were too many. As the orcs hacked and dragged his steed down, he felt the noble beast give out a final shudder. He twisted free of the stirrups and leapt from the saddle as the horse was pulled to the earth.

Then they came for him. Finding his feet, Schwarzhelm whirled around. The warriors here were massive, clad in heavy iron plates and wielding cleavers and crude halberds. They surrounded him, clamouring to get close. One jumped right in front of him, swinging a long sword in a wide arc. Schwarzhelm ducked under the swipe, feeling the soft earth give under his heavy armour. They were all around him, slavering with bloodlust. They knew who he was. More than anything, they wanted to take down the Emperor’s Champion.

He almost felt like smiling. Almost. Many orcs had vied for that honour. The result had always been the same.

Schwarzhelm clenched his gauntlet and punched the nearest adversary in the face. The metal bit deep, slashing even the tough orc hide open. Schwarzhelm kept moving, shifting balance, parrying blows and counter-striking with his own blade. More cudgels and blades swung in his direction. The Rechtstahl flashed. Howls of agony showed it had found its mark.

One brute, four foot wide and weighed down with burnished plate armour, charged straight at him. Schwarzhelm waited for the impact, then turned aside at the last moment. The orc brought down its cleaver in a heavy arc. Schwarzhelm swung the Rechtstahl back to meet it. When the metal met, a resounding clang rang out.

He pushed back, heaving against the bulk of the greenskin with all the strength that remained in him. The monster staggered back. A look of amazement passed across its grotesque features. It couldn’t have been often that a human had held such a monster up.

Schwarzhelm ignored it, turning quickly to meet the attacks coming at him from all directions. His sword moved ever more quickly, sparkling radiantly in the powerful sunlight. Even in his full armour, he could move faster than the orcs around him. Years of endless combat, honed and polished in the best training grounds in the Empire, had left their mark. Though his frame was battered and his body scarred, he was still more than a match for these lumbering foes. Steel clashed against iron, and the greenskin blood flowed freely.

Slowly, painfully, their bestial will began to break. Single-handedly, Schwarzhelm began to hammer them back. Some wavered, loath to concede the field to a lone human warrior. They were the first to fall. The Rechtstahl cut through their armour as if it were made of mere scraps of parchment. Like a master blacksmith pounding at a forge, Schwarzhelm waded into the throng, fearless and resolute.

Then Kraus and the honour guard broke through. The whole company of knights fought in the same style as their master. Swift, precise, controlled. Their blades like a wall of whirling steel, they slammed into the ragged orc ranks.

That was the final blow. Faced with Schwarzhelm and his retinue working in concert, the greenskins fell back, then broke. As the knights pursued them remorselessly, Schwarzhelm finally relented. His guard drove the orcs back, creating a window of calm amid the fury of the battlefield.

Breathing heavily, Schwarzhelm lent on his sword. His arms ached. His body ached. Sigmar had been his protector, as He always was.

“You were cut off, sir,” said Kraus, coming to stand beside him. There was a touch of reproach in his voice.

“An orc respects only one thing,” replied Schwarzhelm, ignoring the tone. “Bravery. If they see you’re willing to take the fight to them, and do it in a way they recognise as their own, they’ll know doubt. That’s the way to crush the greenskin.”

Kraus looked doubtful, but said nothing. Schwarzhelm was tempted to smile at his concern. He didn’t, though. He never smiled.

“Anything else to report?” he said, wiping his blade clean and looking around. The knights had cleared a space around him, but it wouldn’t last long.

“We’re holding our own. They’ve mustered in numbers, but we can match them. I’d like to have tougher men under my command than Averlanders, but there’s nothing I can do about that.”

Schwarzhelm shaded his eyes against the glare and tried to make sense of the fighting. His army had initially formed up in lines along the high ground to the west. The detachments were still intact and were now steadily advancing across the undulating grassland. The orc horde had become more ramshackle in its defence. Frequent charges by the cavalry had punctured the greenskin ranks, pushing them back further. The orcs were all footsoldiers, and they had no answer to the heavy cavalry assault. The greenskins had decent wargear, and fought with all the savagery of their race, but they were losing ground. The footsoldiers now scurried to follow the breakthrough up, labouring under the hot sun to keep the assault moving and secure the ground won.

Schwarzhelm looked back at the greenskin army, squinting against the morning sun. The nearest ranks of orcs, separated from him only by the swords of the honour guard, were still howling in a mass of incoherent rage. But beyond them, something else was happening. Incredibly, hidden by the press of bodies, there was the sound of more fighting.

So that was why the orcs were in trouble. There was a second front to the east. They were being attacked from two directions.

“Find me a fresh horse,” he said, suddenly filled with an unexpected hope. “Then re-form the cavalry detachment.”

“We’re consolidating?”

“Mother of Sigmar, no. Can’t you see it? We’re not the only men at work here. We’ll cut our way through to them, right through the heart of the horde. They’ll be gutted like a fish. We’ll take a detachment of the heavy cavalry. Fast and deadly. I want those men relieved.”

Kraus looked out across the heaving rows of bodies uncertainly. Striking out again risked breaking their formation, leaving the mass of halberdiers and spearmen behind them unprotected. Schwarzhelm knew the manoeuvre was dangerous. But everything worthwhile was.

“Who do you think it is?”

Schwarzhelm hefted the Rechtstahl once more, relishing as always the solid weight of steel.

“Only one man it could be,” he said. “And we’re not leaving him to fight alone.”

Bloch reeled backwards, knocked almost from his feet by the blow. The orc warrior before him roared in triumph, pressing home the advantage. Bloch desperately tried to parry, but his halberd was ripped from his hand. On either side of him, his men were being pushed back. Perhaps the decision to charge after the orcs hadn’t been such a good idea after all. The horde was still massive. He’d always been guilty of taking too much on.

He staggered backwards, weaponless, as the orc charged him again. With a sudden sense of despair, he realised he stood no chance. He had nowhere to go, no way of warding off the killing blow.

Balling his fists, he acted in the only way he knew how in such situations. He let fly with a torrent of filthy invective, every obscenity he’d collected over a long career in the Emperor’s forces and hostelries and prepared to fight with his bare hands. It was pointless, and he’d be dead in seconds. But at least he’d go down scrapping.

Then the orc shuddered, stumbled and keeled over to one side. With a crash, the heavily armoured warrior slumped to the earth.

Bloch stood nonplussed. That hadn’t been expected.

“I should swear more often,” he mused.

Fischer emerged from the shadow of the fallen greenskin. His spear was in two pieces. One end remained in his hands. The other protruded from the orc’s back, still shivering as the massive creature died. The spearman threw Bloch a sword. For a young man in the thick of the fighting, he looked remarkably assured.

“That’s one I owe you,” Bloch cried.

“I’ll hold you to that.” Fischer looked like he was enjoying himself.

“Come on, boys!” bellowed Bloch, his vigour restored. “One last push!”

All around him, his men cheered, but the cries were muted. They were fighting hard, going toe to toe with the rearguard of the orc horde. The fighting was bloody and confused. It was hard to retain tight formations in the close press, and the attack was at risk of turning into a disorganised melee. That handed all the advantages to the heavier, stronger orcs. If this wasn’t to end in disaster, he needed to act.

“To me!” he roared, waving his new sword around his head and trying to pull his men around him. “Shoulder to shoulder. Don’t get drawn out!”

Being overheard above the din of the battlefield was hard, and not all his troops heeded the command. But those closest to him did, and they began to draw together. Soon they were formed up in something like proper Imperial ranks. Bloch himself kept in the thick of it. Ignoring his wounds, he led from the front. On either side of him, his men were kept busy, hacking and thrusting against the stubborn orc resistance.

Bloch was no different, stabbing with his sword against the greenskins. He didn’t enjoy using the blade. A halberd was his weapon, the one he’d been trained to use since he was a boy. The sword was for noblemen and princes. It cut through greenskin flesh all the same though, and the blades working in tandem on either side of him gave him some protection.

“No mercy, lads!” he roared. “No respite! Keep at them!”

They were holding their own. They were maintaining their formation. But it couldn’t last forever. This warband was far bigger than the ones they’d been pursued by over the past few days. Either he was right, and a relieving army was fighting on its western flank, or he’d made a terrible mistake.

From the heart of the greenskin mass, a series of roars rose into the air. They were gearing themselves up for a final push. Something had got them angry. Bloch hoped to Sigmar that was what he thought it was.

But then his vision was blocked by yet another greenskin warrior, tusks lowered and eyes raging. They weren’t giving up. They’d keep fighting until the last one of them fell to the ground. Bloch respected that. He felt the same way.

With a feral look in his eyes, he raised his sword and got stuck in.

Euler’s band had returned from the Old City. Going quickly through the backstreets, they’d reached the bridges over the Aver at last. Verstohlen had kept tight-lipped since leaving the townhouse, letting Grosslich’s captain make the decisions. He was eager to find the core of the fighting. That was as it should be, but still not reassuring. Chaos was always stronger than it appeared. Weakness was always fleeting. Even as Grosslich’s men drove the traitors from the Old City on to the western bank, his mind was unquiet. Far too easy.

Captain Euler brought the warband to a halt. The men looked like they needed a break. Though late in the afternoon, the sun was still strong. Truly, Verstohlen had never known a summer like it. The whole province was baking.

“This is the place?” asked Verstohlen.

“It is, and the hour. He should be here soon.”

Verstohlen looked around. They were on a wide boulevard that ran along the eastern bank of the river. The street was cobbled and warehouses rose up behind it.

The smell of the water was rank. Under the blistering sun, the water looked green and sickly. With no wind to drive the smells away, the air was heavy with the stench of gutted fish and refuse. The few boats moored nearby sat low in the water, their sails and ropes slack.

Further ahead, Verstohlen could see the bulk of the Averburg rise up against the empty sky. He couldn’t tell whether it was still manned. The standard of Averland hung from the flagpole at the summit, but that meant little. Surely Tochfel had surrendered it to one of the warring parties by now. The question was, which one?

Verstohlen put his knife away. In the daylight, with the enemy flying before them and the Old City nearly locked down, it was hard not to become complacent. He knew that would be a mistake. Verstohlen was no coward, but he was no fool either. Deep down, he was still afraid. Mortally afraid. The consequences of what he’d seen were terrible enough.

“He approaches now,” said Euler, breaking Verstohlen’s concentration. He looked along the quayside.

Heinz-Mark Grosslich in armour looked even more the picture of a commander than he had done in civilian robes. The sun shone from his exposed blond hair. He appeared calm, confident and in command. The self-appointed elector was surrounded by greatswords from the Alptraum estate. Their notched armour betrayed the fighting they’d been in, but they bore no resemblance to the scruffy mercenaries who formed the bulk of the fighting men on both sides. Ferenc had given him the best to work with..

As Grosslich came up to him, Verstohlen bowed politely.

“Did you find anything, counsellor?” the count asked.

Verstohlen shook his head.

“As I feared, they’d long flown the nest. They’d worked hard to cover their tracks, too.”

“Any sign at all? Any signal?” Verstohlen thought of the masks.

“No, my lord.”

Grosslich nodded grimly. “Then we’ll keep hunting.” He motioned for his bodyguard to stand down. “Walk with me,” he said to Verstohlen and moved towards the water’s edge. Verstohlen fell in beside him. Euler and his men, grateful of the respite, put their weapons down and began to talk amongst themselves.

“I’ll confess that Ferenc’s news came as a surprise,” said Grosslich, keeping his voice low. “I’ve never hidden my dislike for Rufus and his slut, but if I’d known about the—”

“It is in the nature of corruption to be hidden,” interrupted Verstohlen, wanting no mention of the details. “Do not trouble yourself.

“The joyroot is at the heart of it. This I suspected for many months. Leitdorf is not as wealthy as his lineage suggests, and it is I who have the support of the guilds. Only through this trade could he have armed his men. I won’t let those in my employ touch it.”

Verstohlen wondered if that was true. Joyroot use seemed to be endemic across the city.

“Very wise.”

Grosslich paused before speaking again. He seemed to be weighing something up.

“Ferenc tells me you’re an agent of the Lord Schwarzhelm,” he said. “I assumed—forgive me—that you were merely an official.”

“It’s an impression I work hard to cultivate.”

“Then you’ll be an astute judge of politics. You’ll know, for example, that Herr Alptraum wishes to use me as a figurehead. He cannot succeed to the electorship himself, so he uses me as his proxy.”

Verstohlen had to admire the man’s judgement.

“Then why maintain your alliance?”

“I need him. His money, his connections, his arms. I have none of these. The only thing I have linking me to the electorship is a long forgotten blood-tie to an ancient count, and even that is contested. If there were better candidates than Alptraum and Leitdorf, I’d never had stood a chance.”

“You make it sound as if you do not wish to succeed.”

Grosslich stopped walking and looked at him seriously. “I wish for nothing else. This province has wallowed in indolence for too long. Sigmar willing, I will restore it to glory. We must no longer be the rich weakling amongst the Empire’s realms.”

“Ferenc Alptraum is an old hand at this game,” said Verstohlen. “Be wary of taking him on.”

“That is why I needed to speak to you. My victory here is almost at hand. Rufus’ men have been driven from the Old City and on to the western bank. We will hunt them down, and then I shall be crowned. But then the real battle begins. Alptraum cannot be allowed to rule through me. If that were to happen, nothing would change. We’d have swapped one tyrant for another. I need your help, counsellor. You have the skills for this work, whereas I am but a soldier.”

Verstohlen raised an eyebrow.

“Are you offering me a job, Lord Grosslich?”

Grosslich looked uncharacteristically uneasy.

“Not exactly. Some kind of advisory role, perhaps. I’m not a proud man, counsellor. I need help. You could provide me with it.”

Verstohlen smiled sadly.

“I appreciate your predicament. Be assured that while the taint of Chaos remains in Averheim, I will help you root it out. But after that, I’m Schwarzhelm’s servant. That, I’m afraid, is not something I can change. Not even for the Emperor himself.”

“Your devotion commends you,” said Grosslich, keeping his expression level. If he was disappointed, he hid it well. “Let me speak candidly, though. There are many here who wonder if the Lord Schwarzhelm deserves the services of one such as you. He is a son of Averland, but—”

Verstohlen raised his hand.

“Say no more. I will not hear this. If it were not for Schwarzhelm, Marius would have driven your province to ruin twenty years ago. Even now he fights to prevent it falling apart. He has been targeted by those we fight against, and a lesser man would have cracked long ago. Whatever you think, he is the greatest hope for your cause.”

Grosslich inclined his head in apology, withdrawing the criticism gracefully.

“Forgive me. I should perhaps have more faith.” He looked back along the river. In the distance, the great bridge over the Aver had begun to burn. The fighting had evidently reached the crossings, and the fires spread with it. “I wish I could discuss this at greater leisure, but I should go back to my men. You are to be commended, Hen Verstohlen. Your tidings given to Alptraum have set this in motion, and victory is at hand.”

“Does Leitdorf lead his forces?”

“He’s not been seen, but it’s not his way. He’ll be skulking in some cellar, letting his peasants lose their lives for him.”

“That concerns me. We’re driving them back too easily.”

Grosslich grinned. He looked supremely unworried.

“Worry not, counsellor. In an honest fight, there is only one winner. Whatever dabbling Leitdorf has been doing in spells and potions, it won’t make up for his poor judgement. Even his own men hate him. The city will be ours before nightfall tomorrow.”

Verstohlen looked at the burning bridge darkly. Something was wrong here. Though he couldn’t put his finger on it, every instinct he possessed warned him that they were winning too quickly. The ways of Chaos were subtle, and uprooting the contagion was never as simple a matter as this.

“I will come with you,” he said. “You could use a good shot, and I want to see Leitdorf’s forces with my own eyes. Something has eluded me here, I am sure of it.”

Grosslich smiled confidently. “It’ll be an honour. We’ll drive them out together.”

Chapter Thirteen

Bloch felt his resolve begin to flag at last. The sun was failing. The fighting had been fierce and unrelenting for too long. His men were surrounded on all sides. They’d taken heavy losses. Of the several hundred he’d led in the orc rearguard, perhaps two thirds remained on their feet. They’d driven hard into the orc lines, but the greenskins had swallowed them up. This was beginning to look more and more like a mistake.

Even his arms, hardened by years of incessant combat, were near the end of their strength. Wielding the sword was hard. He’d already sustained several wounds due to the unfamiliar weapon. A halberd was more difficult to use in a confined space, but it served as both attack and defence. Without the long stave to use, Bloch found the hooked weapons of the orcs getting through his guard too often. He’d taken a flesh wound to his leg and only narrowly avoided being skewered by an unusually nimble greenskin warrior.

Too many of his men hadn’t been so lucky. Fischer was gone, dragged down by the combined attack of several orcs working in tandem. Bloch had reached him too late. After so many days on the run, his men were flagging. The battle with the orcs had ebbed and flowed, but it seemed as if they’d finally run out of the fortune that had preserved them since Grunwald’s demise.

“To me, lads!” he shouted, desperately trying to rally the men that remained. His voice cracked as he urged them on. The halberdiers and spearmen around him kept their heads down, desperately trying to stem the assault of the orcs. The formation still held, but only just. With every backward step, every orc assault, Bloch’s detachment was beaten back. They were surrounded, cut off from help.

Bloch raised his sword a final time. The men on either side of him looked drained. The orcs hung back for a moment, taking the chance to jeer at them before they charged. They swung their crude weapons wildly, relishing the impending victory. Bloch couldn’t make out what they were saying, but the gist was obvious enough.

Gritting his teeth, he prepared for the onslaught. He’d had a good run. He couldn’t complain. If d been worth the gamble.

Then, before his astonished eyes, the orc ranks were torn apart.

From nowhere, crashing through the press of greenskins, armoured knights charged straight through the mocking warriors. Heavy plate armour flashed in the sun as a wedge of horsemen tore through the orc resistance. No more than two dozen of them, an arrowhead of steel amid a sea of foes. But they were superb horsemen. Bloch saw one sweep a greenskin warrior from its feet on the charge, drop the lance, take up a sword and swing it round to decapitate another. All at speed, all in a heartbeat.

At their head was a figure he knew all too well. Schwarzhelm was like a force of nature. His armour was battered and dented all over, but his momentum on the charge was irresistible. He roared his defiance in that familiar resounding voice, hacking left and right with the Sword of Justice as he came on. In that moment, with the sun glinting from his armour like a halo, he looked like one of the heroes of old, the companions of Holy Sigmar who cleansed the Empire of the orc menace when the world was young and purer. With every mighty stroke, every hammer blow, the will of the greenskins to resist was thrown down.

In an instant, the situation was reversed. The orcs were smashed to one side. Bloch could see more knights galloping to join the assault. They had the colours of Averheim. Bloch was transfixed for a moment, hardly daring to believe what he was seeing. The orcs scattered, ridden down by the knights. Suddenly relieved of the pressure of constant defence, his own men began to break out of the stricture. The greenskins, caught between two forces, broke under the assault.

Not all of them ran. Some of the larger warriors stood their ground, bellowing in frustration at the denial of their prize. A huge orc lurched up to Bloch, eyes blazing, axe swinging low against the ground. A halberdier charged straight at it, but was swatted away with a casual swipe of the monster’s vast claw-like hand. The creature fixed its pig-like eyes on Bloch. Somewhere deep within its violence-addled mind, it singled him out. With a guttural roar, it charged. Bloch tensed, waiting for the impact.

It never came. A knight rode between the two of them, cutting off the orc’s attack. There was a blaze of sunlight as the rider’s sword plunged downwards. The greenskin crashed to the ground, decapitated, its severed neck pumping blood. The ruined corpse rolled several times before coming to a halt, its claws still twitching. The knight tore onward, hardly pausing to regain his balance. Ahead of him, the rest of the orcs were being driven away. The horde had been smashed. In the wake of the knights, Averlanders poured into the breach. They rushed over to Bloch’s beleaguered men, sweeping the orcs from their hard-pressed lines and pursuing them as they broke and ran.

Finally, the relief had arrived.

Bloch felt his sword arm go weak at last. He’d been fighting with barely a break for days. It had taken its toll. He felt his vision begin to cloud, and he felt suddenly light-headed.

Then a shadow fell across him. Shading his eyes against the sun, he looked up. Schwarzhelm towered above him. His charger’s flanks were glossy with sweat. The man’s massive armoured form must have taken some carrying. Schwarzhelm’s presence was like the return of a welcome dream. There was the familiar armour, the laurel-wreathed helmet, the massive breastplate with the Ghal Maraz pendant swinging from it.

“My lord!” cried Bloch.

Schwarzhelm pulled his horse around and dismounted in a single movement. The blood of the orcs sluiced down the Sword of Justice. He walked up to Bloch. The Emperor’s Champion was as grim-faced as ever, but there was an icy satisfaction in the man’s eyes.

“You survived,” said Schwarzhelm. “I knew you would. I am not too late.”

He clasped Bloch on the shoulder. The grip was as heavy as any blow he’d received on the battlefield, and he had to work not to stagger under it.

“It’s becoming a habit, sir,” said Bloch, his worn face breaking into an expression of pure relief.

“What is?”

“Riding to the rescue. Just like in the legends.”

More Averlander troops were arriving every moment, striding across the battlefield. In the face of the reinforcements, the remaining orcs were driven back further. All around them, Bloch’s men were falling to the earth in exhaustion. Their places were taken by fresh footsoldiers, backed up by the ever-present knights.

“Can you still wield a blade?” asked Schwarzhelm, clearly itching to be after the remaining greenskins.

Bloch grinned. His energy returned in an instant. Even after everything, the prospect of fighting alongside the great man was something he relished. There were men who would have given their own families into slavery to have the honour of marching beside Schwarzhelm.

“Give me a proper weapon to wield and I’ll fight with you till the End Times come and we’re all damned together.”

Schwarzhelm nodded with approval.

“Get this man a halberd!” he roared. “Then we finish this thing.”

Kurt Helborg drew his horse to a standstill. The armoured bridle clinked as the beast shook its head impatiently. On either side of him, Reiksguard knights took up position. One hundred of them, all in full battle array despite the stultifying heat. The Reiksguard livery of red and white looked pristine in the sharp, clear light, and their weapons glistened with menace. It was a formidable contingent. If the reports coming out of Averland were true, they would be needed.

Skarr pulled up beside him. The man’s lank hair was slick with sweat. Flies buzzed around the muzzle of his horse. Everything was dank, warm and humid.

“What do you think?”

“Looks peaceful enough.”

They looked from their vantage point into the valley beyond. The road ran on for a few hundred yards before dipping sharply to follow the contours of the land. Perhaps a mile or two in the distance lay the town of Streissen, roughly halfway between the industrial might of Nuln and the rural backwater of Averland’s interior. As befitted a town on the border, it reflected a mix of regional styles. The walls were high and crenulated. They’d been whitewashed in imitation of Altdorf’s naturally white stone, though the long years had stained the surface a dirty grey. There were high watchtowers at regular intervals along the protective barrier.

The River Aver looped around the southern edge of the town before running west, and there were landing stages all along the bank. They didn’t look busy. The water was still and sluggish under the sun. There was very little traffic on the road. The place looked half-asleep.

“This heat,” complained Skarr, wiping his face with a rag. The cloth was already sodden.

“Do you sense anything?” asked Helborg, looking at the town before them intently.

“What do you mean?”

If he was honest, Helborg couldn’t quite place what he meant. There was an air of something about the countryside around them. Perhaps the heat was part of it. Perhaps it was just the effects of the long ride from Nuln. But something put him on edge. It felt wrong. Just on the edge of sensation, he thought he could smell jasmine, though they were far too far north for the flowers to bloom.

“I don’t know. Ignore it. Have we heard anything from Averheim?”

Skarr shook his head. Messengers had been sent on ahead to the capital, but they hadn’t returned. There were any number of explanations for that. The Empire was a dangerous place.

It was still strange.

“Let’s press on,” said Helborg, nudging his horse back into motion. “This place isn’t worth bothering with. We’ll carry on to Averheim.”

Tochfel hurried along the ramparts of the Averburg. The situation couldn’t last much longer. Any sense of defiance he’d felt over the past two days had melted in the face of the sustained assault on the city. Just as he’d feared, the citadel was now an isolated spot of sanity amid a swirling torrent of violence. He had no idea who was winning the war for the streets. From his vantage point, the destruction was senseless, whoever was causing it.

He turned a corner rapidly, only to bump into Morven. The man was carrying a stack of arrows. They scattered across the stone. He was about to burst into a furious string of expletives when he saw who’d caused the accident.

“M-my apologies, Steward,” he stammered, reaching for the arrows. “I didn’t know it was—”

“What are you doing, carrying these?” asked Tochfel, helping him retrieve them. “Aren’t there others for this kind of work?”

Morven gave him a look of despair.

“They’re all on the walls, Steward,” he complained. “We barely have enough to give even the pretence of resistance. If they want to storm the walls, they can do so whenever they please.”

Tochfel rose to his feet. He walked up to the parapet and risked a look down between the battlements. Far below, men clustered around the gates. They were well armoured and arrayed for an assault. He guessed several hundred were stationed along the ramp leading to the gatehouse, and more looked to be arriving from the Old City all the time. All they required was a ram for the doors and the attack would surely begin.

“Which one of them is it?”

“Ferenc Alptraum.”

Tochfel rolled his eyes. Of course. His family had once ruled from the Averburg. No wonder he wanted it back. He stole another look over the edge. There were seasoned troops down there. If the Averburg had been manned they’d have posed no threat at all, but the hastily arrayed guards of the citadel were mostly scribes and junior lore-masters. There were mere dozens of them on the walls and scarcely more waiting on the inside of the great doors to repel intruders. The charade wouldn’t fool anyone for long.

“Keep them out for as long as you can,” said Tochfel, handing the chief of staff his bundle of arrows and turning back the way he’d come.

“Where are you going?” came the querulous voice of Morven.

Tochfel ignored him. He descended into the castle swiftly, following routes he’d known since childhood. Once inside the cool stone, he began to think more clearly. The end would come soon. Alptraum must surely have realised how meagre their defences were, and he’d waste little time taking over once he was inside. That could not be prevented, but there was one service he could render before he lost control of the citadel.

The records. The precious records of the succession battle. They must not fall into either Grosslich’s or Leitdorfs hands. Though it would probably prove futile, Tochfel knew that he had to preserve them. One day the law would be restored and the chronicle of these times would be required again.

He went down the narrow spiral staircase that led to the archives. The repository of Averland’s history was in the oldest part of the ancient citadel, locked behind walls many yards thick. He was as familiar with it as he was with his own chambers. Over his life, he’d probably spent as much time in there.

He reached his destination. He was far below ground level, and the only light came from torches clamped to the stone walls. Some of them had gone out, and the shadows hung heavy on the stone flags.

The thick oak door to the library was open. That was unusual. It should have been locked. Only two men had the keys to the archives. He was one of them. Achendorfer was the other. He felt a sudden sense of wariness take him over. From far above he could hear muffled sounds. Perhaps the attackers had broken in at last. Time was running out.

Tochfel crept forward, looking around him carefully. The library looked deserted. The stone ceiling was low, built in the style of a crypt. Passages and antechambers led off in all directions, dark under narrow arches. Cracked leather tomes lined every wall. Their spines were inscribed in formal Reikspiel, but in the flickering light most were unreadable. It was cold. Even in the height of such a summer, the warmth of the sun never penetrated this far down.

The archive had many departments, and even Tochfel didn’t know them all. The one he wanted was straight on, down into the bowels of the scriptorium. He went quietly, his soft leather shoes making no noise against the stone. As the light from the torches ran out, he took the last one from the wall and held it as a brand. Its glow was warm and comforting, but it didn’t extend far. He didn’t like the way the flickering shadows reared up on the walls. They danced at the edge of his vision in an unnerving fashion.

He was getting closer. He passed more bookshelves, groaning under the weight of their heavy loads of parchment, vellum and leather. The noises from the corridor outside had died away. It was as if he’d entered a dark sanctum of calm, buried deep within the eye of the storm raging outside.

Then he saw it. Another light. In the chamber ahead, no more then twenty yards away. His heart stopped. Perhaps one of the loremasters had had the same idea. In these troubled times, one could never tell. He wished he’d brought a knife, a rod, anything to defend himself with. Suddenly, his brand felt flimsy in his grip. Not much of a weapon.

Tochfel swallowed.

“Achendorfer?” The words echoed mockingly through the empty vaults beyond. There was the sound of a book being slammed shut and the light guttered. Tochfel rushed forward, holding the brand aloft, trying to throw more light across the chamber.

There were more sounds, as if someone was hurriedly pushing something to one side. Then a face lurched up out of the shadows of the arch.

“Achendorfer!” cried Tochfel, feeling relief well up inside him. His heart still thumped heavily. “Mother of Sigmar, you scared me.”

The loremaster looked terrible. His ashen grey face was distorted by fear, and his forehead was shiny with sweat. Tochfel noticed the man’s hand shaking as he tried to relight his own brand.

“Sorry, Steward,” he mumbled, striking the flint clumsily. His voice sounded thick and strained, as if he had a heavy cold.

“What are you doing down here?” asked Tochfel, holding his own light up high, trying to illuminate some more of the cramped chamber. The volumes in here were obscure ones. Tochfel couldn’t remember if he’d ever ventured into this part of the library himself. The air was dank and unwholesome.

Achendorfer looked evasive. He was breathing with difficulty. He finally got his brand re-lit, and the orange light of the flames bathed him with a lurid glow.

“I could ask you the same thing.”

Tochfel looked at him carefully. There was something strange about his eyes. The man looked like he’d been taking something. Surely not the joyroot. That was only used by the gutter filth. He felt his fear return. Why was Achendorfer staring at him like that? Almost without thinking, he took a step back.

“Uriens?” he asked, feeling more unsure of himself with every moment. “Are you all right?”

Achendorfer came after him, his eyes shining in the torchlight. He seemed like he was trying to come to some kind of a decision, like a boy caught with his fingers in the honeypot and looking for an excuse. Tochfel clutched his brand more tightly. If he had to, he’d use it.

Achendorfer stared at him. His expression was tortured.

“I’m sorry, Dagobert,” he said. “For everything.”

Then there was a sudden crash behind them. Fresh light bloomed down from the main body of the library. Achendorfer looked panicked and scuttled back, away from the intrusion. Tochfel, grateful for any interruption, whirled around to face it.

Men were piling into the chamber. They were all bearing torches. The place was soon filled with firelight. Tochfel watched them fan out across the archive with alarm. It would only take one spark.

“Be careful!” he cried out, knowing how pathetic he sounded. The instinct of the official in him was strong, even in such terrible times.

“Don’t worry, Steward,” came a familiar voice. One of the men walked into the pool of light cast by Tochfel’s brand. He was dressed in armour, but it looked more ceremonial than anything else. The Alptraum crest was embossed on the breastplate, a rampant lion flanked by laurels.

The speaker took his helmet off, revealing the thin face of Ferenc Alptraum.

“No doubt you’re here to secure the safety of the succession documents,” he said, smiling widely. In the distorted light, it looked more like a grimace. “I’m glad I arrived when I did. Now my men can help you.”

Tochfel didn’t know whether to feel relieved or terrified. Where had Achendorfer crept off to? And what had come over him? What was he sorry for?

“Am I a prisoner, then?” said Tochfel, trying to strike as dignified a pose as he could.

“Only if you want to be. It was foolish of you to try and hold the Averburg against us, but I don’t keep grudges. There’s been little blood spilled. Be thankful it was us that reached you rather than Leitdorf. There are things about him you should know.”

Tochfel felt his spirits sink. The propaganda of the victor. No doubt Grosslich’s faction had discovered some “dark secret” about their opponents. Tochfel wouldn’t believe a word of it. He was too old for such games.

“You can save your speeches, Herr Alptraum. As far as I’m concerned, you’re a usurper and a traitor to Averland. When the law is restored, I shall testify to that effect.”

Alptraum laughed, and the sound echoed from vault to vault.

“How noble. I’ll bear that in mind. But now you need to come with me. There are things to discuss, whether you wish to hear them or not.”

As Alptraum spoke, two of his men moved quietly to Tochfel’s side. Aside from their brands, they also carried naked swords. Tochfel finally saw the danger he was in. His bravado melted away.

“There are laws in Averheim still,” he said, but his voice sounded shaky and terrified. “You may not assail me. I am still the Steward.”

Alptraum came towards him, still smiling. There was cunning in his expression, but little malice.

“Oh, we’ll respect the laws, Steward. You need not fear for your own skin. This is a peaceful transition of power. I’ll need you at my side to ensure an orderly succession.” He looked around him with interest. “But I’m sure you know that some erroneous documents have found their way down here over the past few months. This collection is long overdue a little selective culling. We’ll be careful. Very careful.”

Tochfel felt the bitter taste of his failure. He’d been too late. If he’d retrieved the documents just an hour earlier, he might have been able to salvage something. Now it was over. The Grosslich version of events would be preserved, everything else destroyed.

“So you say,” he muttered.

“Now you’ll go with my men,” said Alptraum. “You’ll show them your private papers, while I shall also study. Then you’ll resume your duties, working under me. If you’re sensible, nothing need change for you, Herr Tochfel. The parchment will keep on coming across your desk. All will be well with the world.”

Tochfel glared at him for a moment, wondering whether to believe him. It didn’t matter very much if he did or didn’t. He had no power to resist. The vainglorious attempt to hold the Averburg had ended pathetically.

“It shall be as you command,” he said. With a deep sense of despondency, Tochfel allowed himself to be led off by Alptraum’s men. Ferenc himself took a final look around the archives before withdrawing and leaving a couple of guards on the door.

In the absence of the soldiers’ torches, the vaults sunk back into complete darkness. Heavy footfalls echoed along the spiral stairwells as they ascended and then dwindled to nothing. Everything was silent.

Except, hidden in the shadows, there was a faint, barely audible wheezing. Alone, forgotten, Achendorfer still crouched.

When the others had all left, he rose and made his way back to where he’d been hiding. He retrieved something from the antechamber, then hurried off into the darkness, following routes into the bowels of the citadel that only he knew.

Morning broke over the rolling grassland of eastern Averland. Bloch awoke suddenly. For a moment, he had no idea where he was. He couldn’t even remember falling asleep. Then it came rushing back. Some of it, at least.

The orcs had been destroyed. It had taken the entire day to finish them off, and they’d fought until dusk. But they had no answer to Schwarzhelm. He’d carved through them, giving them no respite or mercy. Every attempt by the greenskins to rally had been destroyed by him, every retreat pursued ruthlessly. Only with the coming of the dark had the army at last been able to sink into an exhausted rest. The rank and file halberdiers, spearmen and irregulars were clustered on the east-facing slopes of the hill they’d fought over so hard into the night. With the eventual destruction of the orc horde, that was where they’d spent the night, clustered together in a state of half-watchfulness, half-exhaustion.

Bloch still couldn’t remember how the battle had ended for him. At some point he must have given out, fallen to the earth with fatigue like those around him. It was all so hazy.

He rolled over, still in his full armour, and staggered to his feet. Immediately he felt the stabbing pain of the wound in his leg. He looked down. It had been bandaged. Had he done that? He didn’t remember doing it. He didn’t remember anyone else doing it either.

It wasn’t just his leg that ached. Every muscle in his body protested as he moved. He could barely walk. There was a low, hammering headache behind his eyes. He needed something to drink. How long had it been since he’d eaten properly? Sigmar only knew.

All around him, the rest of the army looked in the same kind of shape. Schwarzhelm had pushed the Averlanders hard, and many of them were slumped in exhaustion in the grass, their eyes hollow and staring. The survivors of Grunwald’s command were in even worse condition. Some were still on their feet, but many had collapsed during the final stages of the battle. Even after the orcs had been routed and the field won there had been no celebration.

The heat didn’t help. Bloch fumbled at his collar, trying to release his jerkin. He felt grimy, caked in old sweat that had never truly dried. The sunlight, still low in the east, hurt his eyes. This whole province was too damnably bright. Not like the wholesome grey skies of the Reikland or the brooding forests of the north. No wonder Averlanders were so strange. Their country was fit for cattle, not honest humans.

As his senses gradually returned, he saw that the army around him had been put in some kind of order. The footsoldiers were arranged in companies and there were watchmen on the edges of a makeshift camp. Wains had caught up with them, full of provisions from Heideck. There were tents, which must have gone up during the night. There were even fires, their thin pillars of smoke curling into the blue sky. From such a scene of desolation just the day before, the place was starting to look something like a proper camp. “Herr Bloch.”

The voice came from further up the slope. Bloch turned to face it. It was Kraus. The honour guard captain looked almost unscathed, though his gait betrayed his weariness. It had been a testing campaign for all of them.

“Lord Schwarzhelm is back from orc hunting. He asked me to find you. Can you walk?”

Bloch grimaced. Every time he moved, a sharp pain shot up his thigh. He was damned if Schwarzhelm would know about it.

“I’m fine. Show me to him.”

Kraus walked up the slope. As Bloch limped alongside him, he took a look at the faces of the men around them. Some of the men must have got some sleep in the night. Others still slumbered, prostrate on the grass where they’d fallen after dragging themselves back from the fighting. They were still perhaps a day’s march out from Heideck and further still from Grenzstadt. That was a long way from anywhere, given the condition of the men. For the time being, they’d have to make this place their own.

At the summit of the hill the Imperial Standard had been planted. It had rarely flown over such a hastily concocted and dishevelled army, thrown together in haste and with no proper planning for its deployment. But, held together by little more than Schwarzhelm’s will, it had succeeded in its task. The horde had been destroyed and its remnants scattered. Heideck was no longer threatened, and the way was clear to rid the rest of the province of the greenskin menace. Not a bad result. To the extent he’d played a part in it, Bloch felt proud. It could have gone very differently.

Only one man stood beside the standard. His massive bulk against the horizon was familiar. His plate armour still glinted, though it had been ravaged by blows. The longsword still hung from his belt, decorated with the comet motif and engraved with runes of warding. As Bloch approached Schwarzhelm, Kraus tactfully withdrew. The general looked up from a sheet of parchment he’d been studying. His face was lined with concern. When he saw the halberdier captain, his expression lightened a little. Only a little.

“Herr Bloch,” he said, rolling the parchment up and putting it away. “I trust you slept well? The bedding was to your liking?”

Bloch didn’t know quite how to respond to that. Was that what Schwarzhelm called a joke? It was impossible to read the expression on that vast, scarred, bearded face. He decided it was probably meant to be amusing.

“Not bad. Could have done with a few more feathers in the bolster.”

Schwarzhelm grunted. He didn’t look amused.

“In any case, you deserved some rest. It was heroic, to last so long out here. I’ve served with men who’d have given in long before I found you.”

Again, Bloch hardly knew what to say. He’d still not learned how to cope with compliments. They were strange things, alien to his whole way of being.

“Forgive me,” he stammered. “I don’t exactly recall—”

“You don’t remember the final hours? It was an honour to have you alongside me. When I finally ordered you to retire, you could hardly see. By then, the worst was over.” Schwarzhelm gazed down on the ranks of men below, most of them lying on the grass as Bloch had been doing, utterly drained. “This is still a formidable army. The men need rest, but they’ll recover. We lost many, but the orcs lost more. The tide has turned.”

Bloch followed his gaze, trying to gauge how many men they had left. Still more than two thousand capable of bearing arms, he estimated. A serious contingent. He didn’t like to estimate how many were from his own command. It would be too few. They’d suffered badly in that last assault.

“Tell me,” said Schwarzhelm, his tone a little less confident, “how did Grunwald die?”

In a flash, Bloch saw it in his mind’s eye. The commander, borne down by a whole pack of orcs, shouting at him to flee. He winced. That vision would haunt him.

“Well, sir. He held the line while we withdrew.”

Schwarzhelm looked at Bloch intently. Those eyes, set deep into the lined face, were penetrating. Bloch felt an overwhelming urge to look away. With effort, he held Schwarzhelm’s gaze. It was always a mistake to look away.

“A good commander,” was all Schwarzhelm said, though there was an edge of bitterness in his words.

“He was, sir.”

“You know that his requests for reinforcements never reached Averheim?”

“I’m told the road was blocked.”

“It was. Greenskins, maybe, though it seems unlikely. Perhaps men allied to one of the candidates.”

“Whoever it was, they knew what they were doing. We heard nothing from you either. Grunwald wasn’t even sure you’d made it to Averland.”

“It’s something to be investigated. If I had the time and the men, I’d scour the highways now. Rest assured, when I find those responsible…”

He trailed off. Bloch waited. Schwarzhelm seemed more troubled than he’d ever been. After witnessing him at the crushing victory at Turgitz, the change was remarkable. He was still dominating, but he looked tired. Huge bags hung under his eyes and his pupils were dull. How much rest had he had in the last few weeks?

“As it happens, I have neither the time nor the men for what needs to be done,” Schwarzhelm said at last. “We’ve achieved a great deal here, but the task is not finished. But I’ve had word from Averheim. An armoured party from Ferenc Alptraum, of all people, has caught up with us. My counsellor has been speaking to him, it would seem. They’re calling me back.”

Bloch didn’t know what to say to that. He’d not been party to any of the events in the city. Saying anything risked exposing his ignorance.

“How goes the succession?” he asked, hoping that wasn’t a stupid question.

Schwarzhelm snorted his disdain. “They’re fighting openly now. But it’s worse than that. The Leitdorf candidate’s a traitor. Verstohlen’s message found me just this morning.” He looked west and his lungs filled with a huge, weary sigh. “I’ll have to return. If he’s right, this can’t be ignored.”

Bloch looked back down at the army uncertainly. The orcs had been defeated, but there would be splinter bands still at large. To turn back now would risk all that had been achieved.

“Does Verstohlen say how serious a threat Leitdorf is?” asked Bloch. “We still have—”

“I know. You want to finish the task at hand. There are greenskins left alive.” Schwarzhelm pursed his lips in thought. “We are being stretched. Do you not think it odd that, just when my presence is needed in Averheim, an incursion of orcs comes through the most heavily guarded pass in the Empire to cause havoc? And that when I have been drawn out here to snuff out that threat, then it’s Averheim that dissolves into civil war? We are being played with, Herr Bloch. Verstohlen warned me we were being manipulated. They’re assaulting us on all fronts.”

Bloch felt the truth of that. The more he learned about the situation, the less he liked it. They needed more men, more time, more supplies. For all its beauty, Averland was turning into a swamp. He couldn’t see a solution. To ignore the situation in the city was impossible. To ignore the orcs was irresponsible.

“We have a choice,” said Schwarzhelm. “West to Averheim, or east to Grenzstadt and the passes? Which of them appeals to you, Herr Bloch? Which would you choose?”

Was he being tested? Bloch couldn’t believe that Schwarzhelm didn’t already know what he wanted to do. Bloch’s mind worked quickly, assessing the options, the manpower, the distances.

“Do we have to choose? We still have many men here. The orcs are mostly routed. If you need to return to Averheim with half the troops, I can lead the men who remain.”

Schwarzhelm looked at him shrewdly.

“That had occurred to me,” he said. “But we’ll be stretching ourselves thin. Maybe too thin.”

“But if the orcs have been scattered…”

“They’re still dangerous. We don’t how many remain.”

“A damn sight fewer than there were.”

And then, it almost happened. For a split second, Schwarzhelm’s face twitched. His eyes glittered mischievously. Some men might have called that a smile. Bloch wouldn’t have dared, but it was certainly something damn close to one.

“That there are, Herr Bloch,” Schwarzhelm said, a kernel of savage satisfaction in his voice. “That there are.”

He looked west again, as if by peering in the direction of Averheim he’d get some kind of confirmation of his decision.

“I’ll be honest with you,” he said at last. “Since arriving in Averland I’ve not felt myself. It’s been as if some force has turned against me, weighing down on my mind. The city is at the heart of it. If Verstohlen’s right, then it may be that Averheim is perilous for me. It’s only out here, doing the honest work of a soldier, that I’ve come even close to remembering who I am. I can think clearly here.”

Bloch said nothing. Schwarzhelm was speaking candidly. Amazingly candidly. It was as if the big man needed someone to confide it. In the absence of Verstohlen, it seemed to fall to Bloch to fulfil that role.

“Your offer of leading the men east to seal the passes while I respond to Verstohlen’s missive scares me.” Schwarzhelm turned back to Bloch. “Does that surprise you? That a man like me would be scared of anything?”

Bloch began to feel very uncomfortable. Before Turgitz, Schwarzhelm had been like a name from the time of legends, a figure of such transcendent power that the very idea of him having emotions or anxieties as a mortal man did would have been laughable. And yet here he was, laying them out as plain as day.

“You shouldn’t be,” Schwarzhelm continued. “Only a fool claims to fear nothing. I’ve heard the Emperor himself confess fears. It makes us stronger, to acknowledge the fear within us. The question, Herr Bloch, is what one does with that knowledge. Does fear become the master, propelling us forward like puppets, or do we test ourselves against it? Do we embrace our fear, or run from it?”

“I can’t imagine you running from anything, sir,” said Bloch. As soon as the words left his mouth, he wished he could reel them back in. He sounded clumsy and obsequious. He was not built for such talk.

“I did not say run. It’s a question of choice.”

Schwarzhelm fell silent. Bloch, worried about saying something equally stupid, kept his mouth shut. For a few terrible moments, Schwarzhelm remained unmoving, lost in thought. The wind around them lifted the grass gently. Below them, Bloch could hear the men of the army stir themselves. As the sun climbed higher, the need to move on would grow. They needed direction. As he had done in the woods after Grunwald’s death, Bloch felt the burden of command keenly. He had an inkling that Schwarzhelm felt it too. For some reason, he knew the decision he was wrestling with was vitally important. It was more than tactics, more than strategy. If Schwarzhelm went back to Averheim, then something was going to happen. He was the key to all of this. All of them, friend and foe alike, wanted him there for some reason.

“I will go,” Schwarzhelm announced at last. His voice had assumed its habitual tone of clipped command. “Verstohlen has never been wrong about these matters before. We’ll divide the army. I’ll ride back to Averheim with an escort, and the infantry will follow when they can. You will take the remainder of the men to Grenzstadt. Your orders are to head to Black Fire Pass. There is a garrison there that should have stopped this incursion before it reached the interior. Find out what happened, and above all else make sure the gap is sealed. Only when that’s done do I want to see you in the city. Do not disappoint me.”

“Yes, sir,” said Bloch.

“You will take the bulk of the footsoldiers and some of the Averlander cavalry. That’s over a thousand men, and you can resupply at Grenzstadt and take on reinforcements. I’ll send Kraus with you, and warrant documents. The rest of the men will come with me to Averheim. I’ll ride ahead with an advance guard; the remainder can follow on foot when they’re rested.”

Bloch felt relieved. Listening to Schwarzhelm agonise over the options had not been easy. Being given a task to perform, no matter how difficult or dangerous, was far preferable to having to second-guess an outcome.

“Who’ll command the forces sent east?”

Schwarzhelm gave Bloch a shrewd look.

“That, at least, is something I am clear about. I took a risk bringing you, Bloch, and it’s been rewarded. You’ll take them up to the passes. I’ll speak to the captains and to Kraus. You should be proud. I’m giving this army to you, Bloch. Use it well. You’re in command.”

Chapter Fourteen

Verstohlen was standing on the west side of the river with Grosslich’s men amidst a cluster of low buildings. He checked to see that his pistol was loaded and primed to fire. The campaign was going well. All the major bridges were now in Grosslich’s hands, and they’d made inroads into the poorer parts of the western bank. It seemed that wherever they chose to assault, they had the victory. Leitdorf’s men were demoralised and divided. By contrast, Grosslich’s were disciplined and effective. Verstohlen’s regard for the man as a commander had only grown.

“Keep it quiet,” whispered Euler. “Let’s make this quick and easy. One den at a time.”

The fighting here was house-to-house. No one knew where Leitdorf was holed up. The race to find him was intense. Grosslich had promised a hundred gold crowns for his head, which had encouraged a good deal of enthusiasm for finding him. Following a vague lead, Euler’s band had ended up in one of the smelliest alleys in the poor quarter. The walls were tall and narrow. As they crept down it, even the dominating Averburg was lost to view, as were the baking rays of the sun. That would have been a comfort had it not been for the refuse piled knee-high at alleyway’s base. In some sections it felt like they were wading through slurry.

The men went watchfully. Their numbers had swelled since the start of the campaign, and there were now thirty of them in the company. Euler crept up to the door at the end of the foetid alleyway. Rubbish was piled up against it and the wooden frame looked half-rotten. A terrible place for a hideout, but Leitdorf was no doubt running out of boltholes. Plenty of terrified citizens of the poor quarter had pointed them in this direction. For the most part they didn’t care which of the warring factions won control of the city. They just wanted the fighting to end.

Euler listened at the door for a few moments. Stepping carefully, regretting the mess the grime had made of his expensive Zellenhof boots, Verstohlen joined him. He placed his ear against the pitted surface of the wood. There was some noise from within, but too faint to make out. Movement, perhaps.

“You’re sure about this?” said Verstohlen, his voice low.

Euler shrugged. “It’s a lead. Got any better targets?”

“None. Let’s get it over with, then.”

The two men stepped back from the door. Euler placed his foot over the flimsy lock and kicked savagely. The door swung open on rusty hinges and they charged in.

There was a dingy chamber beyond, lit by dirt-streaked windows on one wall and a series of tallow candles on another. The smell was overpowering. Several men sat around a table in the centre. They were armed, if poorly, and jumped up as soon as Euler and Verstohlen burst in. In such an irregular war it was impossible to tell at first glance who was fighting for whom, but they had the look of Leitdorf’s men, holed up away from the fiercest fighting.

Verstohlen stepped to one side, took careful aim and sent a bullet spiralling in the face of the nearest man. The man spun backwards, his cries of surprise cut cruelly short. Euler flew at the next nearest, knocking him back with a furious swipe of his sword. Then the rest of the men were in the chamber, tearing at the inhabitants.

Blades flashed in the semi-darkness, and blood splattered on the filth-strewn floor.

There was no way out, no rear exit. The fighting was mercifully brief. Leitdorf’s men put up a token struggle, but they were outnumbered and taken unawares. Verstohlen took little part in it and put his pistol in its holster.

“Do not kill them all!” he cried.

By then there was one survivor, cowering in the corner. He had no weapon and seemed older than the others. Euler held up his hand, and the assault stopped. Six men lay dead on the floor, five of them Leitdorfs.

Euler went over to the man in the corner. He was skinny, almost emaciated, with lank hair that hung to his shoulder. His skin was a pale grey, almost blue in the folds of flesh under his eyes. He looked utterly wretched. As Euler stood over him, the man scrabbled to get even further back into the corner, like a trapped animal in a cage.

“Leave this to me,” said Verstohlen, walking over to the corner.

Euler shrugged. “As you wish. We’ll have a look around.”

Verstohlen squatted down facing the trembling figure. The man smelled as bad as everything else. The heat had turned half of Averheim into a cesspit.

“What’s your name?” asked Verstohlen, keeping his voice calm.

The man stared back at him, wide-eyed, and said nothing. He seemed to be having trouble focussing. Verstohlen leaned forward and sniffed. Somewhere, buried beneath the layers of body odour, halitosis and excrement, there was an element of jasmine.

A joyroot user. Verstohlen had begun to wonder whether Leitdorf had stamped the trade out amongst his followers.

“Where do you get your supply?”

The man shook his head, still trembling. It was as if his mouth had been glued together. Verstohlen couldn’t decide whether the man was terrified of him, or just generally terrified. The narcotic was certainly capable of inducing paranoia.

“There’s nothing more for us here,” said Euler, coming to stand at his shoulder. “You think it’s worth questioning this one?”

“I do. Will you wait outside for me?”

Euler nodded. “Don’t be too long. There are more leads to follow. I could use those gold pieces.”

The men filed out of the chamber and back into the alley. The last one to leave pulled the door closed behind him. Verstohlen and the man were alone.

“I think you understand why I’m asking you these things,” said Verstohlen, fixing the ruined figure with a hard stare. “If you choose to give me answers, it will go better for you.”

The man shook his head, keeping his mouth clamped closed. Then, as if as an afterthought, he spat in Verstohlen’s face. He shrank back after that, looking even more scared than before.

“So be it.” The spy reached into his coat. As ever, when he retrieved the amulet, the metal was hot. It knew when it was near corruption. Indeed, the device was part of that corruption, just a shard of the horror that still existed at the roof of the world. It was a dangerous thing to use. Dangerous, but invaluable.

As Verstohlen withdrew the amulet, the man looked at him sidelong. He could obviously sense something, but didn’t seem to know what it was.

“Look at this,” ordered Verstohlen and thrust it before the wretch’s eyes.

Just as had happened with Fromgar, the change was instantaneous. The blurred eyes became sharply focussed. The bluish lines around them seemed to pulse with a lurid light, as if thick veins had suddenly generated around the lids. The man tried to get up, scrabbling at the stone. His breath started to come in thick wheezes.

Verstohlen stood and withdrew a few paces. He pulled the pistol from its holster and aimed it at the man’s face.

“Speak to me,” he commanded.

The red-rimmed eyes blazed.

“You cannot command me!” the man cried, and spittle flew from his mouth. The voice was strange and twisted, like a cross between a man’s and a woman’s.

“I have the power to kill you. You’d do well to speak to me.”

The man laughed, and his skeletal chest shuddered with the effort.

“And what? You’ll spare my life?” He nearly choked on his laughter and broke into a racking cough. “I don’t think so. You have no idea about life and death anyway. You’re ignorant, human. As ignorant as the rest.”

“Maybe so. Why not enlighten me?”

“What do you wish to know? How the six dimensions of pleasure are interwoven? How the nexus of desire derives from the kernel of a nightmare? How the world will end? I can tell you all of this, human. All of this and more.”

Verstohlen ignored the ravings. All cultists thought they had privileged access to arcane secrets. That was what made them so pathetic. To acquire genuine knowledge was a long and difficult process. Expecting it to be handed over on a silver platter in exchange for performing a few rites over a pentangle was tedious in the extreme.

“Nothing so grand. Tell me about Natassja. Where’s she from?”

The man grinned widely, and his tongue ran around his cracked lips. For the first time, Verstohlen noticed how long it was. It looked forked.

“Ah, the queen. Have you not guessed it? She’s a rare one.”

He seemed to be passing into some kind of rapture. He ran his bony fingers over his body as he spoke. It looked like a grotesque parody of a lover’s caress.

“Why do you call her the queen?”

“You’ll see. You’ll see!”

“Where is she? Where is Rufus?”

“Nearby. And they have their pets with them! You’ve seen them already, haven’t you?”

Verstohlen felt a twinge of anxiety. That was what he feared. There were still horrors being held in reserve. Grosslich’s men were pushing on too quickly. They didn’t know what they faced.

“Tell me where Rufus is.”

A wicked look passed over the man’s face.

“I don’t know where he is. But I can tell you where someone else is. Someone you haven’t seen for a long time.”

“I’m listening.”

The cultist reared up like a snake, his hands stretched out in a twisted motion. He looked suddenly delighted, as if a new game had occurred to him. His tongue flickered out. As he rose, his rags fell from his body. Verstohlen saw with disgust how diseased his filthy flesh had become. The joyroot had become everything to him, more important even than food. He kept the pistol trained carefully. He should have tied him up before applying the amulet.

“She is in torment at the feet of the master of pain!” he cried, his voice increasingly shrill. “Her soul writhes in delicious agony under the weight of his glorious debauchery!”

Verstohlen primed the weapon to fire: There was an unholy gleam in the cultist’s rheumy eyes.

“Cease this nonsense. Where is Leitdorf?”

“I’ve seen her in my dreams, Pieter Verstohlen. Your lovely wife, shriven before the altar of his infinite lust!”

“Do not speak of her.”

“She’s damned, Pieter Verstohlen!”

“Be silent!”

“Damned to an eternity of torment! And there’s more. Do you know the worst part?”

Verstohlen stepped forward, his hand shaking. He felt sick.

“I will fire. Cease this now!”

“She has been corrupted! They corrupted your Leonora! She enjoys it! She—”

The pistol rang out. The cultist was instantly silenced, flung back against the dirt-caked wall. He slumped to the ground. From his forehead, thick blood pumped from a neat round hole. It was nearly purple.

Verstohlen stood motionless for a moment, the gun still in position. His hands were trembling.

Slowly, with difficulty, he brought his emotions under control. The cultist lay at his feet like a crushed spider, his tortured limbs bent in every direction. Verstohlen replaced the gun in the holster and carefully backed away.

That had been a mistake. It was foolish to think he could bring an end to this through such means. It had all been a mistake.

He withdrew, opened the door and stepped outside. Euler was waiting. His men had moved to the far end of the alleyway.

“Are you all right?” asked the captain, looking at him with concern. “I’m fine.”

“You look like—”

“I’m fine.”

Euler gave him a doubtful stare, then let it drop.

“Find out anything useful?”

“No. He was mad. We need to keep moving.”

Euler shook his head resignedly.

“Very well. There’s another lead we can follow.”

He began to walk off down the alley. Verstohlen followed close behind, his breathing gradually returning to normal. The cultist had been raving. It was nonsense. They said whatever came into their diseased head. They wanted to unsettle you. That was their mission, their miserable purpose. Best to ignore.

As he went, though, one thought remained lodged in his mind. It wouldn’t leave, even when he emerged once more into the sunlight of the open street.

It knew my wife’s name.

Even before Helborg had ridden into the outskirts of Averheim, he’d been able to smell the burning. He brought his steed to a halt. Around him, his men did likewise. The ranks of Reiksguard controlled their mounts perfectly. They stood for a moment, looking at the city before them. The thin columns of smoke hung over Averheim, staining the clear sky. It looked like the place was under siege, yet there was no army camped around the walls.

“Mother of Sigmar,” Helborg spat, looking over at Skarr. “We should have ridden harder.”

Skarr gave him an expression that indicated he didn’t think it was possible to have ridden faster, Reiksguard or not.

“The west gate is nearest,” was all he said. “We’ll have to ride through the poor quarter.”

Helborg nodded. He knew Averheim. He’d visited as little as possible in recent years. All the Empire knew of his enmity with the late Marius. As far as Helborg was concerned, the elector had been an arrogant, raving fool. He’d brought his own death about through foolishness and lack of foresight. If Schwarzhelm hadn’t curbed his worse excesses twenty years ago, there would surely have been a coup against his authority then. Perhaps that would have been better. In Helborg’s experience, it was generally better to cut out an infection at source than let it grow. Now, twenty years on, they were still dealing with the legacy of the mad count, and it looked like even Schwarzhelm had failed to grapple with it.

Then again, Schwarzhelm himself was another problem. The man was becoming irascible and difficult, even by his own standards. His behaviour at Turgitz had been embarrassing. If it had been another man, Helborg might have run him through for such impertinence. He could admire the man for his martial prowess, and there was no more steadfast ally to have on the field of battle, but Schwarzhelm didn’t understand politics. He made enemies too easily, was too quick to spot a slight or suspect a campaign against him. That was a serious flaw. One had to understand that military might was always subordinate to the demands of politics. There would always be intrigue, always be conspiracy. The trick was to understand it, get inside it, cultivate the right allies. Schwarzhelm never did. He was as clumsy with diplomacy as he was with women.

Between them, Helborg and Schwarzhelm were the two mightiest warriors of the Empire, unmatched by any other. And yet they so often worked alone, driven apart both by the endless demands of the Emperor and by the differences in their essential character. It was foolish, wasteful, unnecessary. Maybe that would have to be rectified. The low-level feud was becoming damaging. When this was over, a summit would have to be convened. Schwarzhelm, Helborg and the Emperor would have to meet, thrash out some kind of accommodation. The bad blood could be drained from their triumvirate with a little imagination. The stakes were too high to let it continue festering.

“Let’s go,” Helborg said, taking up the reins. There would be plenty of time for reflection when the two men met again. For now, the Reiksguard were clearly needed. Averheim had the look of a city that had drifted into anarchy. That could not be allowed to continue.

The day was waning to dusk. In the west, clouds barred the setting sun. Averheim was still distant.

As he rode, Schwarzhelm felt the effects of a long day in the saddle begin to wear on his battle-ravaged body. The landscape around him looked eerily familiar. He knew he’d travelled along the same road just days before at the head of a conquering army. Now he was riding back with an escort of less than a dozen riders, consumed with a mix of alien emotions. The certainties he’d enjoyed while pursuing the orcs had receded again. The further west he went, the more his mood began to return to one of darkness. The city was a curse for him, the home of the sickness that had blighted his sleep and impaired his judgement. And he was going back.

The hooves of the horse thudded on the hard dirt of the track. The incessant rhythm began to have a soporific effect. Schwarzhelm shook his head, trying to clear the strands of sleep from his eyes. There were many miles of riding ahead. Neither he nor his bodyguard would rest more than they needed to. They all knew time was of the essence.

Even as the light weakened, the rolling hills passed by. The uplands beyond Heideck were now far behind them. All around, the cattle-country extended. The grass was still deep green despite weeks of beating sun. This country was blessed indeed. The folk of the Drakwald, huddled around their meagre fires and living amongst their skinny animals, would have given anything to live in such rich plenty.

But there was always a flaw, always an imperfection. Amid all the majesty of the Empire, there was corruption. Averland was no different. He’d felt it every night of the mission. How many days had he gone without proper sleep? Too many to keep a count of. A man could only go so long before he started to lose his mind.

Perhaps he was losing his mind. Others thought it. He’d heard the whispered rumours, seen the sidelong glances in his direction. Half of Averheim probably doubted his state of equilibrium.

There was a shout from further ahead. One of the outriders, mounted on a sleek mount of Araby picked for speed, was riding back along to the road to meet them.

Schwarzhelm called a halt. Freed from the tyranny of the whip, the horses stood shivering in the balmy air, flanks shiny with sweat.

The rider came amongst them. As the man approached, Schwarzhelm noticed the gentle hiss of the grass around them. The fronds moved in the warm breeze like waves on the sea. The tips were tinged with the golden light of the sun, though the roots were hidden in darkness. All around them, as far as the eye could make out, they were surrounded by an ocean of grassland. It was like a scene from one of his dreams. Everything was moving, everything was quiet.

“My lord,” cried the rider. His voice sounded suddenly harsh against the soft backdrop of the scene. “I’ve found something.”

“It’d better be good,” Schwarzhelm growled. His voice sounded thick and sullen, even to him. The scout, experienced by the look of him and from the Averheim garrison, swallowed nervously. “All the same, my lord. I think you should see this.”

Schwarzhelm looked into the west. The sun was still above the horizon. There would be perhaps half an hour of light. Just enough.

“Lead on,” he ordered, kicking his horse into motion once more.

The scout turned, and the party followed him further along the road for some distance. No one spoke. The only sound was the faint noise of the grass in the breeze. In the east, far behind them and over the distant line of the Worlds Edge Mountains, the first of the stars became visible. Night was drawing on fast.

Schwarzhelm knew where they were headed long before he could make out exactly what the scout wanted to show them. A few hundred yards from the road, a narrow track curved away and off into the fields. The earth was rutted and uneven, and the grass on either verge had been flattened recently. Without needing to ask for directions, Schwarzhelm nudged his steed to follow the branching path. He soon saw why the scout had turned from the road to follow the path. Carrion crows. Dozens of them. They looked as large and ragged as vultures against the darkling sky. Some wheeled around, black in the dusk, moving in lazy circles. Others perched on the branches of the trees, looking at them intently with their glossy eyes.

None of the birds uttered so much as a caw. They had the air of sentries, silent watchers of the night. Crows were as common as the pox all across the Empire, but these had an unsavoury look. Perhaps it was the unnatural heat in the air, or the silence, or their size. Whatever it was, the effect was unnerving.

, “I saw them from the road, my lord,” said the scout. He kept his voice low, eyes watchful. “There it is.”

A ramshackle shed, isolated in the dark grassland. The fading sunlight leaked through the gaps in the wood. It had only half a roof and one of the walls had slumped into ruin. Perhaps it had been an old barn.

Schwarzhelm halted. He felt as if an icy fist had clenched around his heart. He could feel his pulse quicken.

“Are you all right, sir?”

“We’ll dismount,” he said gruffly. “From here, we go on foot.”

The men did as they were ordered. They swung stiffly from their saddles, legs sore from hours of riding. Schwarzhelm felt his own frame creaking as he landed heavily on the earth. The ground was baked hard. He could feel the waves of heat rising from it. Even as the sun edged towards the horizon, Averland still sweltered.

The men waited for him to move. Schwarzhelm could sense their fear. He stalked towards the ruined barn. Above him, the crows circled. Their loops seemed to compress. They were inquisitive. He ignored them, but kept his hand on the sword.

On the northern wall of the barn, a wide opening gaped. It was hard to see much of what lay beyond the stone doorframe. The shadows were now long. A sickly sweet smell wafted across the air. For a moment, Schwarzhelm couldn’t place it. Was that jasmine? He went closer. The aroma was more familiar than that. It was the mark of battlefields across the Old World. The reek of death, of bodies rotting in the mud. That was what the crows were there for.

Schwarzhelm looked up at them grimly. He’d deprived them of their meal. That, at least, was something.

“You’ve been inside?” he asked the scout.

The man shook his head, looking ashamed.

“I… it seemed…” he began, then trailed off.

For once Schwarzhelm couldn’t bring himself to reprimand him. A cold vice of dread was wrapped hard around his own breast. Nothing, not the last golden rays of the sun nor the warming balm of the dusk air, could shift it. He merely nodded in response.

“Be on your guard, then,” he said, drawing his sword. It gave a metallic rasp as it left the scabbard. “Stay watchful.”

Turning back to the barn, he took a deep breath and ducked under the lintel. Inside, the stench was thick and cloying. Schwarzhelm felt his gorge rise and clasped his hand over his mouth. For a moment, he couldn’t see anything at all. Then his eyes adjusted to the gloom. Gaps in the ruined roof and the part-collapsed walls let in enough of the evening light to begin to make some sense of the interior.

He couldn’t see how many corpses there were. Perhaps a dozen, maybe more. All men. Soldiers, by the look of them. Some of their armour still remained on them. Grunwald’s men, some Averheim troops. Here and there a sword-edge glinted. There was little flesh visible. One cadaver, strewn across the rough earth floor on his back, lay in the middle of a pool of weak light. His skin was grey. His eyes had long been pecked out by the crows and there were holes in his cheeks and neck. His expression was fixed in agony. His death had been painful. Possibly prolonged. Not all his injuries looked like the work of carrion fowl.

Schwarzhelm felt his heart begin to beat harder. He consciously quelled it. He’d seen hundreds of bodies in his time, many in more terrible places. This was no different. Outside the barn, the grass continued to hiss in the breeze. It was as if the place was surrounded by a host of whispering ghosts.

He looked away, down at the floor for a moment, trying to collect himself. He could feel his composure fraying. The days without sleep were getting to him. Something about this whole scene was getting to him. He turned back to his men. A couple of them had followed him in and were gazing at the piled bodies with ill-disguised nausea. Others held back, unwilling to enter the stinking interior.

“Come,” said Schwarzhelm, feeling sick at heart. “There’s nothing more to see here.”

Once outside again, he took a deep draught of pure air. It did little to lift the sense of corruption he felt about him. His bodyguard looked at him expectantly.

“Was it as I feared?” asked the scout, looking nervous. “They were Commander Grunwald’s troops?”

Schwarzhelm nodded. He knew exactly what they’d been. The riders sent back along the Old Dwarf Road to request reinforcements. Each of them had been waylaid, killed, their bodies dumped in a forgotten bam a mile from the trade route. Schwarzhelm himself must have ridden past the place on his journey east, oblivious to the secret contained within. Stumbling across it now was a rare chance. Perhaps more than that.

“Anything else?” he asked.

“Men have camped nearby. They’re long gone.”

“We’ll take a look.”

The scout led them further from the road. Several yards down the track, there was a collection of trees, isolated in the endless miles of rolling pasture. They rose tall and dark against the sky. At the base of the trunks, there were signs of fire. Schwarzhelm bent down and placed his hand over the ashes. Cold. He looked around him.

“Whose lands are these?” he asked.

One of the Averlanders answered. “We’re close to Leitdorfs estates. This is his family’s country.”

Schwarzhelm looked over the deserted campsite. There were more blackened circles of old fires around the edge of the trees. The grass was heavily trampled. At one stage, many men had come and gone here. The exercise had been well planned. Perhaps other bands had been active too. In his mind’s eye, Schwarzhelm saw Leitdorfs fat face, running with arrogance and scorn. He remembered his bitter words. In my current position I cannot punish insolence. That will not be the case forever. Perhaps even then his forces had been mobilising.

He shuffled further into the camp, studying, watching. There was little left. No weapons, no discarded clothing. He turned to leave.

“Sir, this one’s still warm.”

One of the Averlanders had walked off towards the edge of the field. At his feet lay another charred circle. Schwarzhelm came up to it. It was different. It was further from the camp, hidden by the whispering grass. They’d dug a hole in the parched earth and stuffed it with refuse. This hadn’t been a fire for food.

Schwarzhelm bent over it. The ashes were barely warmer than the air around him. The faintest impression of heat lingered over them. It looked like a sack had been flung into the fire-pit. Scraps of fabric, black and curling, lay amidst the spent fuel. He thrust his hands into the ashes, scattering them, combing through the white flakes. Here and there, fragments of parchment. Nothing large enough to make out. Orders, perhaps, sent by courier from Averheim. They’d been thorough when they left. Nothing could be made out on them.

Then he saw it. Mere inches from the fire, a scrap of dry parchment, no more than two inches long. Eagerly, he grasped it. The light was poor, and there was nothing much on it. It looked like a strip torn from a page. There were five words visible on it, scribbled hastily. Part of something larger.

…forces to RL from Nuln…

That was the name he needed, not that he’d been in any doubt. But it was the final word that chilled his blood. He remembered Verstohlen’s words, days ago. They’re getting help from outside. He’d assumed it was Altdorf, someone at court, an Averlander exile with a stake in one of the contenders. But Nuln. That was much closer.

It was probably nothing. Probably part of routine orders.

But the ice around his heart had returned. He knew who was at Nuln.

“Let’s go,” Schwarzhelm said gruffly, standing up again and walking back to the horses.

His men hurried to comply. The last of the light was failing, and there would be hard riding ahead before they could rest. They walked back past the ruined barn, through the fields and on to the road. As they went, Schwarzhelm said nothing. He didn’t look back. His mind was working, running through the possibilities. He felt the return of that great pressure, the presaging of the nightmares that he knew would come as they approached Averheim.

He took a deep breath and mounted his horse. The others did likewise, and soon they were heading west once more.

Behind them, lost in the night, the barn stood alone. Lazily, the crows descended to the rafters. Their meal had been interrupted, but it could now commence again.

Chapter Fifteen

Holed up in his temporary command post deep in the poor quarter of Averheim, Rufus Leitdorf raged. He could feel the spittle form at the corners of his mouth. The room was malodorous and squalid. Ancient plaster hung from the walls of the second storey chamber, curling with mould. The heat and filth were everywhere. He hurled the pile of maps to the corner of the room, watching the parchment curl up and slide across the floor. His captains, what was left of them, cowered.

“You pack of useless dogs,” Rufus spat, running his accusatory eyes across them in turn. “We knew Grosslich would move against us. Where are your tactics? Where is the counter-attack?”

One of the captains, a thick-set, swarthy man named Werner Klopfer, was brave enough to respond.

“It happened sooner than we anticipated, highness. Schwarzhelm has given Grosslich his blessing. It’s drawn more support to his side.”

“Schwarzhelm isn’t here! He’s been taken away. That’s the whole point. We should have had this place to ourselves. Now it’s all gone to ruin. The trade’s in tatters, we’ve lost control of the Old City, and we’ve barely got the money left to pay our miserable fighters another day.”

Rufus could feel his anger begin to get the better of him. He had to calm down. He knew he couldn’t lose it entirely in front of the men. They all knew the reputation of his father, and it hung heavily over him. The Mad Count of Averland. Rufus wouldn’t go down that road. That’s why he’d made the choices he had. Difficult choices. Not many would have made them. But he needed the power. He had to have the power. Without Averland, his life was nothing. Nothing at all.

“Where’s my wife?” he asked, his voice sullen.

There was a series of blank looks from the assembled captains. Natassja hadn’t been seen for days. That alone was enough to drive him mad. He needed her. She’d planned all of this. It had all been her idea, even from the very beginning. Now, just when their plans were beginning to unravel, she was nowhere to be found.

“Damn her,” he hissed, banging his fist on the table before him.

“Grosslich has moved quickly across the river,” ventured another one of the officers. “She may have become cut off in one of the root houses. There’s still fighting in the Old City, whatever they say on the streets.”

“What good is she to me from there? Don’t tell me about things I have no control over.”

One of the officers shot another of his companions a weary glance. That made Rufus even angrier, but he pushed the fury down. They were despairing of him. His rages, his tantrums, his impossible demands. He knew they were losing faith. His instinct was to have them all dismissed, to lead the rest of the men himself, to sweep all resistance before him into the Aver.

He knew that was a fantasy. He was alone. His allies had deserted him. The Alptraums hated his whole family, and they were still powerful. The only sure support he had was Natassja, and now she too was missing. He could only hope that she was working on some means of recovering their position. She was resourceful, that one. Devious. Intelligent. Beautiful. Even a day without her was torture. He needed her back.

“Very well,” he said wearily, trying to keep his voice under control. “We need to decide what to do.”

“Leave the city, highness,” urged Klopfer. “Grosslich controls all but a fragment of it. We cannot fight him here.”

Rufus looked at him disdainfully.

“Flee? Is that your only advice?”

“We can regroup at your family estates. Restore the trade along the river. Hire more men. If we stay here, we’ll be discovered. Sooner or later, our positions will fall to them.”

There was a nod from one of the other captains. Rufus failed to control a sneer. They were weak. None of them had the slightest idea what was at stake, what had been sacrificed for the goal of power. If they’d been privy to his and Natassja’s full plans, then they wouldn’t have dared to roll their eyes in his presence or doubt his commands. He was playing for higher stakes than they could possibly imagine.

“Do you understand nothing? The succession is being decided now. Grosslich has declared himself elector. Once he has control over the city, the Emperor will crown him. As things stand, we remain in contention. If we leave now, it will all go to dust. To dust!”

He looked Klopfer in the eye. Did the man have an ulterior motive? Why was he so keen to concede defeat? Perhaps he’d better see about removing him. Not that there were many left to replace him.

“And there’s Natassja,” he added, his voice fervent. “I’ll not leave her. We’ll fight until she’s found and that bastard Grosslich driven back into the Old City.”

For a moment there was silence. None of the captains wished to assent. None of them wished to pick a fresh fight. They looked dejected, half-beaten already. Rufus felt his scorn for them grow. Natassja was worth a hundred of them. Where was she?

Then there was a commotion in the hall outside the chamber. A soldier burst in, panting from exertion. One of his own men, bearing the Leitdorf colours. More trustworthy than the mercenary scum he’d been driven to using.

“Your pardon, highness,” he blurted. “Speak quickly.”

“We’ve been discovered. Grosslich has sent an advance detachment here. The rest of his army follows. They’ll be here soon.”

Rufus shot a glance at Klopfer. The man had a smug look of vindication on his face.

“This is it, then,” Rufus said. “We’ll meet them.”

Klopfer met his gaze. Still defiant.

“With respect, that is madness, highness,” said Klopfer. Bold words. When this was over, the man might live to regret such candour. “We no longer have the numbers to take on Grosslich’s men openly.”

On another occasion, Rufus might have raged at him, thrown objects at him, ordered him to fall on his sword. Not this time. The knowledge that the net was closing in on him brought a strange sense of resignation. There would be no retreat. The Leitdorfs might have been many things. Mad, unpredictable, feckless. But they weren’t cowards. Not when it really mattered.

“We’ve spent months buying this army,” he said. His voice was strangely quiet, unusually firm. “They’ve failed us so far. It’s only fair to give them a chance to redeem themselves.”

He turned to Lars Neumann, the one lieutenant he still felt some degree of confidence in.

“Get the word out. Muster everyone we still have. Promise them double the gold. We’ll meet them in the Vormeisterplatz. The retreat stops here.”

Neumann hesitated for a moment, then bowed and hurried from the room. Rufus ran his gaze across the remaining captains. None of them looked convinced.

“If any of you are thinking of getting out of this, I warn you there will be no forgiveness from me. There are forces at work here that you have no idea about. Once I’m elector, I’ll remember any treachery.”

He drew his sword. His father’s old blade, the Leitdorf Wolfsklinge. It was an ancient weapon, studded with the symbols of his house. Not as prestigious as the runefang lying in the Averburg, but still potent. There were old runes on the steel, just as on the weapons of the electors.

“Gather your men,” he said, gazing at the blade with fondness. “This isn’t over yet.”

Schwarzhelm and his escort reached the Aver valley. All about them the countryside stretched away in serene curves of pasture. The river at the base of the incline was as wide and turgid as before, green with blooms of algae. The city itself lay ahead at the end of the road, sweltering under the midday sun. The fires were still visible, staining the open sky with lines of smoke. It looked like more of them than when he’d left. Even the noise of the fighting was faintly audible. So Averheim had truly descended into anarchy.

This was what he had been appointed to prevent. Schwarzhelm let his fingers clench around the hilt of the Rechtstahl. It wasn’t too late.

“What standards are those?” he asked, pointing to the flags hanging from the distant Averburg, just on the edge of sight.

One of his bodyguards, a young man with keen eyes called Adselm, came forward.

“Hard to make out, my lord. The standard of Averland no longer flies. Maybe Grosslich’s devices.”

Schwarzhelm grunted. That was good. If Verstohlen was right, then Grosslich was now their only chance. It would be some time before the rest of Schwarzhelm’s army could make its way back to Averheim from Heideck. In the interim they’d need Heinz-Mark’s men to keep order.

“Let’s move,” he said, taking up the reins.

The riders around him did likewise, but their movements were sluggish. They were exhausted after the punishing ride. For a moment, Schwarzhelm felt their weariness infect him. He felt like he’d been in the saddle for weeks, hurtling back and forth, trying to keep order as Averland gradually pulled itself apart.

He knew he was tired. He knew his judgement was impaired. But there was no time. There was never any time.

“Follow me,” he said, and kicked his horse into movement once more. As he did so, he had a low sense of foreboding. Things were drawing together. There was a canker at the heart of Averheim, something rotten and concealed. It had been eating away at him for weeks. One way or another, it would be uncovered soon.

Helborg and the Reiksguard rode up to the west gate of the city. It was open. The guards had long gone. The courtyard beyond, normally bustling with traders and cattle merchants, was deserted. The handsome buildings flanking the open space stood empty, their rich owners having fled the fighting soon after it had got out of control. The elegant glass windows had been smashed and the interiors looted. It was a scene of desolation.

As the Marshal rode under the parapet, a few scavengers looked up, eyes wide with fright. They darted into the shadows like rats, their rags fluttering behind them.

Helborg stopped. On either side of him, the front rank of the knights formed up. Their visors were down and their swords were drawn. There were few more formidable sights in the Empire than a whole company of Reiksguard in full battle-gear. They looked grim and deadly. The noonday sun flashed from their polished armour and naked blades. The horses stamped in the heat, impatient to move on.

Still Helborg paused. Skarr drew alongside him.

“Where now?”

Helborg inclined his head, listening. “There’s fighting. I can hear it. This thing must be ended quickly. We’ll make an example of them.”

“As you command.”

“Tell the men to kill on sight. I don’t care which faction they belong to.”

“What of Lord Schwarzhelm?”

“If he makes an appearance, then we’ll worry about him. Until then, assume we’re the Imperial authority here.”

With that, he drew his sword. The Klingerach glittered in the sunlight. The runes on its surface blazed as if lit from within. Once again, the Solland runefang had been called on. For a blade that had cleaved the armour of Chaos warlords and vampire counts apart, it felt almost churlish to draw it in such circumstances. But Averheim needed to be cowed. If insurrection was tolerated anywhere, it would soon spread like a cancer across the whole Empire. Whatever Schwarzhelm had tried in order to stem it, he had failed. Helborg would not repeat those mistakes.

“Reiksguard,” he roared, pointing the sword straight ahead, “to battle!”

After a resounding shout of acclimation, the knights kicked their steeds into action. With a thunder of hooves on stone, the company rode from the courtyard and into the interior of the city.

Grosslich’s scattered warbands were being drawn together on the east bank of the river. Hundreds of men had been assembled and more were arriving at every moment. Above them all, the vast bulk of the Averburg towered over the preparations.

Leitdorf had been found. Everything else could be forgotten. Once they had the renegade in their hands, dead or alive, then it would be over.

Verstohlen pushed his way through the throng towards Grosslich. When he found him, the man already looked flushed with the prospect of impending victory.

“You’re joining us?” asked Grosslich, buckling the last of his armour with the help of his squire and preparing to mount his horse.

“Perhaps. I’m worried about this.”

Grosslich gave him a weary look.

“Counsellor, your advice has been invaluable, but do you not think your fears have been allayed now? Leitdorf is finished. Even his own men no longer obey him.”

“You know what I fear. The great enemy always looks weaker than it is.”

“We’ve caught them too soon,” insisted Grosslich, donning his open-faced helmet and smiling confidently. “They haven’t had time to respond. That’s your doing, Pieter. You should be proud.”

Verstohlen wasn’t consoled. Ever since the encounter with the cultist, he’d been feeling like he’d missed something. How had he known his name? What dark purpose was being enacted here?

“Is Natassja with him?”

As the mention of her name, Grosslich couldn’t prevent his face twisting into a sneer of disgust.

“The witch? They never leave one another’s side. If we kill one Leitdorf, we’ll kill them both.”

“I hope that’s so. She has powers of her own. I’ve seen her servants. They are deadly.”

“Then I’ll hunt her down myself. We need to ride. Euler has already gone ahead with the vanguard to pin them down.”

“Very well. I’ll join you when I can. Be careful, Heinz-Mark. The enemy has subtle powers. Verena be with you.”

“And Sigmar with you, counsellor.”

With that, Grosslich dug his spurs into his steed’s flanks and the horse sprung forward. Behind him, the mounted troops followed suit. The mounted column clattered off towards the poor quarter, blades drawn and standards unfurled. For all their mixed livery, they were an impressive sight. In the wake of the cavalry, Grosslich’s infantry companies struggled to keep up. They ran down the streets, their boots thudding on the stone. They looked eager, keen to be involved in the final struggle.

Verstohlen watched them go. He was torn over whether to join them. It had been days since his message had been sent to Schwarzhelm. Had he received it? If he had, would he answer the request for aid? For all Verstohlen knew, the greenskins still controlled the east of the province. Battle was unpredictable, and the roads remained dangerous.

“They cannot handle this on their own,” he breathed, talking to himself in his agitation. “They haven’t seen the horror in their midst. They need the Emperor’s Champion.”

He drew in a deep breath. Mumbling like a madman would do nothing to bring Schwarzhelm back.

Still plagued by doubts, Verstohlen took a horse from one of Grosslich’s stablehands. He mounted quickly and drew his pistol from its holster. The time for running skirmishes in the streets was over. The forces had come together at last. Now in earnest, the battle for Averheim had begun.

Captain Tuler charged into the Vormeisterplatz. He was on foot, as were all his men. In his hand he carried a broadsword. Those around him had an assortment of weapons: halberds, cudgels, spears, halberds, even kitchen knives and skewers. Grosslich had worked hard to equip his men properly, but this was still a semi-irregular war. For every trooper kitted out in full Imperial regalia there were many dogs of war, wearing and wielding whatever they could get their hands on.

It didn’t matter much. If they knew how to use their weapon and follow orders they were helpful. Euler had been put in charge of the entire vanguard. That comprised several hundred men, all champing at the bit for a first look at the hated Leitdorf. It was nothing personal, but the promise of a hundred gold crowns had a way of inflaming the passions.

Once in the wide square, Euler had little time to take in the surroundings. The Vormeisterplatz was huge, nearly the same size as the famed Plenzerplatz in the Old City. It had been constructed for similar reasons, to allow the huge trade caravans within the city walls for the great seasonal shows. In more peaceful times, the great squares would have been full of covered wagons proffering delicacies from all corners of the Grand County. Averlanders liked their food and drink, and the ale-fuelled fayres would last long into the night.

No more. The Vormeisterplatz was a rubbish-strewn mess. Two huge piles of refuse at either side of the massive courtyard burned steadily, casting an angry red light across the flagstones. The afternoon sun was beginning to weaken, and its amber rays blended with the flames. It looked like the hearth of some monstrous kitchen.

Towering buildings rose up on all four sides of the square. Most were trader’s warehouses, bleak and utilitarian. All had their windows smashed or doors broken in. Other buildings, merchant’s houses and official institutions, had fared similarly badly. It hadn’t taken long for the citizens of Averland’s capital to take advantage of the anarchy in the streets.

On the far side of the square, Leitdorfs men had arranged themselves. There were more than Euler had expected. They were arranged in rough-looking detachments. Some of them looked pretty well-equipped. He guessed they were Leitdorfs own family regiments, drafted in from his estates further east. They would have had feudal obligations to the count and would fight for him even when his gold ran out. No one else would.

The mercenaries were another matter. They looked even more ramshackle than the very worst of Grosslich’s men. Some had no armour at all, not even a helmet. Their mixture of weapons was just as eclectic as Euler’s own troops. Leitdorf had placed them on the flanks of the army where they belonged. Only in the core did he have any number of regular soldiers.

“This is it, lads!” Euler shouted as he ran, willing his men onward. His forces were outnumbered by Leitdorf’s men, but that mattered not. He had faith in his soldiers, and Grosslich would not be far behind them. Then the game would truly be up. “Keep in formation. A hundred crowns for the head of Leitdorf!”

That brought a cheer. It always did. They streamed across the open space, leaping over broken flagstones and running through the patches of refuse.

But Leitdorf’s men were not there just to cower in the shadows. With a shout of aggression nearly as loud, they surged forward in their turn. None were left in reserve. There were no elaborate tactics or manoeuvres. Just as it had been for the last few days, this was the fighting of the gutter, hard and vicious.

The gap narrowed quickly. Euler could see the eyes of his opposite numbers as they charged towards him. They looked mad with rage. They weren’t going to back off this time. He began to swing his blade, building up momentum for the crash.

“The protection of Sigmar,” he whispered, making the sign of the comet with his free hand.

Then the two forces slammed into one another. The lines broke into a confused mess of stabbing, hacking, punching and hammering. The voices of captains rose above the fray, trying to impose some kind of order on the murderous encounter.

It was futile. The melee soon descended into a vicious series of lethal struggles. In the thick of it, Euler worked his broadsword skilfully. He and his men punched their way toward the heart of the enemy. It might have been terrible tactics, but there was method in their recklessness.

Euler respected Grosslich and wanted him to prevail. But more than that, he wanted the money. A man could do a lot with a hundred gold pieces.

“For Grosslich!” he bellowed, and hacked his way into the centre of the fighting.

* * *

Helborg heard the fighting before he saw it. Even over the thudding of the horses’ hooves, the tumult was audible from several streets away. There was no sound quite like it, a mix of frenzied shouting, the clash of steel against steel, screams of agony. It didn’t sound like an isolated skirmish. They were heading into a major engagement.

He crouched in the saddle, riding his horse expertly across the hard surface of the street. The windowless buildings and burned-out warehouses passed by in a blur. Ahead, the street looked like it opened on to a wide expanse beyond. That was where the noise was coming from.

“Keep it tight,” he cried to Skarr, who was on his left flank. “Sounds like a lot of them.” Skarr grinned.

“They picked a bad day for a fight.”

“That they did. We’ll divide the company. I’ll take the Leitdorf pup, you try to find his rival. If we can get them out of this, we’ll break it up quickly.”

“Yes, sir.”

Then they were out of the streets and into the Vormeisterplatz. The space was huge. Across the far side, two forces, each several hundred strong, were locked in what looked like a mass brawl. There was little sign of formation or tactics. It wasn’t even clear from the liveries who was whom. This would be tricky to unpick. The battle was framed by two enormous fires, and the smoke drifted in rolling gouts across the flags.

Helborg kept up the pace, trying to sort out the confusion as he went. Near the centre of the fighting he caught sight of a tight knot of men standing in clear ranks, four deep. They were wearing Leitdorf’s own colours, blue and burgundy, rather than the standard yellow and black garb of Averland. Once the personal livery of Marius’ house had been something men had looked to with pride and envy, but since the old count’s descent into madness, it had become a laughing stock. Still, it was distinctive enough, and that was all that Helborg cared about.

“I’ll take that detachment!” he shouted at Skarr, who was still close at hand. “You wheel around for the others.”

The Preceptor nodded and his men, half the company, peeled off to the left. They were closing, but the mass of Averlanders still hadn’t seen the Reiksguard at their backs. Only a few caught sight of their peril and tried to scuttle away. Helborg smiled coldly. It was pointless to run. If he’d truly cared about such small fry, he could pick them off at ease.

Then he was into the bulk of the struggling armies. He crashed into the seething pack of warriors. His steed, trained for war, ploughed straight through the rival groups of men, hardly breaking stride. Some laggards were dragged under its hooves, others cut down by his sword. Their screams were added to the general cacophony.

Once in their midst, Helborg began to slice his way towards the Leitdorf mob at the centre. Any soldiers in his way were slammed aside or carved down with the Klingerach. The noble blade was wasted on such scum, but it bit through their flesh just the same.

His men stayed at his shoulder, arranged into a tight wedge. Such a charge from the Reiksguard had been known to crush whole regiments of heavily-armed Chaos warriors. Smashing aside these mere dogs of war was, by comparison, hardly worth breaking a sweat over.

One of Leitdorf’s sergeants, a bulky man wearing the blue and burgundy of the bloodline, tried to organise some kind of resistance. A row of spearmen began to form in the midst of the melee, clearly intended to frustrate the cavalry charge. They didn’t realise who they were up against. Helborg rode straight at him. That was just insolent.

As he neared, a couple of spear-tips were lowered in his direction. He evaded them with ease and caught up with the portly captain. A single thrust of the Klingerach was all it took, and the man slid to the ground, his neck severed. That seemed to dim the enthusiasm of the rest, and they dropped their spears and ran. Leitdorfs defences had been torn apart. Helborg allowed himself a grunt of satisfaction. His prey was in sight.

Schwarzhelm was back in Averheim, his steed’s hooves clattering on the stone. Behind him, his bodyguard struggled to keep up with him and began to fall back. They didn’t matter. His escort was little more than a formality in any case. He needed no protection. Since seeing the city again, he was in no mood to let them catch up.

As soon as he’d passed the eastern gate and entered the Old City, he could feel the sense of oppression settle in his bones again. He hated the place. He hated its lore-masters and their obsession with procedure, he hated the sleepless nights in the sweltering heat, but most of all he hated the arrogant electoral candidates with their lust for power. Both could have learned something from Lassus, a man who had achieved everything but coveted nothing. There were none like him left in the Empire. They lived in a debased generation.

Schwarzhelm pressed the horse hard, urging it harshly onward through the empty streets. Signs of destruction were everywhere. The citizens had either been pressed into the armies of one of the rival counts, or cowered in their homes, or had left the city entirely. It lent Averheim an eerie, semi-populated feel.

He passed beneath the Averburg swiftly, not bothering to detain himself there. It was obvious where the fighting was. Huge columns of smoke rose into the air from the western end of the city, across the river and into the poorer areas. That was where he’d be needed.

As he rode, he drew the Rechtstahl from its scabbard. It was late afternoon, and the warm sun reflected in its surface like flame. Schwarzhelm gazed along its unsullied length. The blade had already tasted much blood since his arrival in Averland. It would do so again. The greenskins had suffered under its keen edge. Now its wrath would be reserved for the great enemy, the bane of mankind.

Ignoring the increasingly ragged breathing of the horse, he kicked his steed on faster. Though ground down by days of fighting, his spirit sapped by sleepless night and visions of terror before dawn, he was still the wielder of the Sword of justice. In the mood he was in, there were few who could stand before him. Perhaps only one other in the entire Empire.

Schwarzhelm knew the decision to leave had probably been a mistake. He knew he’d endangered the city. But that was behind him now. He was back, and he could finally put his anger to good use. There would be no more debates, no more tedious discussions of the law. The time of the loremasters was over. Now the matter at hand would be decided by the warriors, just as in the days of Sigmar.

Helborg smiled and brought his steed to a halt. Around him, the Reiksguard did the same. They were in the heart of the fighting, but none dared approach them. Ahead of them, Rufus Leitdorf was still surrounded by his bodyguard. They had the best of the armour he was able to afford. The man himself looked terrified, but there was nowhere for him to go. Frantically, he pushed his protectors forward, urging them to form a barrier.

That was fairly pointless. A footsoldier in their position stood little chance against a fully-armoured knight. And Helborg was no ordinary knight. He pondered spurring his charger straight through them, scattering them and riding down their master. It was an attractive thought.

No. Leitdorf deserved more than that. For all his youthful arrogance, the man had noble blood in him. That counted for much with Helborg. When the Empire lost its respect for rank, for the discipline of social standing, then all would be lost. If there was one thing he couldn’t stand, it was the rabble and their pathetic aspirations. Even a mad count was better than a sane peasant.

With a flamboyant swing he dismounted, landing easily and bringing his horse to a standstill. Around him, the rest of the Reiksguard did the same. Leitdorf’s men made no attempt to engage them. Most stood open-mouthed, staring at the knights as if Sigmar himself had come to visit. Several of them fled, preferring their odds against Grosslich’s rabble.

Rufus Leitdorf was less visibly cowed by Helborg’s arrival. To his credit, he didn’t back away but strode up to Helborg, sword in hand. As he did so, he pulled his helmet from his head, revealing his sweat-streaked face. He looked furious. In another man it might have been impressive. In the face of Kurt Helborg it merely looked petulant.

“What is this?” he spat, jabbing his finger at the Marshal. “What are the Reiksguard doing here?”

Helborg took off his helmet, making a concealed gesture as he did so. His troops fanned out around him, forming a cordon within the centre of Leitdorf’s makeshift army. For the moment at least, the count had been taken out of the fighting.

“Perhaps you don’t know who I am,” said Helborg, fixing him with a cold stare.

Leitdorf, against his best interests, didn’t seem deterred in the slightest.

“I know exactly who you are, Grand Marshal. And I ask you again, by what right do you intervene in this affair?”

Helborg checked the progress of the fighting all around them before replying. Behind the steel shield of the Reiksguard the struggle between the opposing groups still went on.

“Word reached me in Nuln that the succession here had descended into anarchy. I’ve seen it for myself. You should thank me, Herr Leitdorf. It doesn’t look like things are going your way.”

Rufus looked to be working hard to control his anger.

“So this is how the just and fair Imperial authorities conduct themselves,” he spat. “Is it not enough that the madman Schwarzhelm sides with my rival, in defiance of all law? Must I contend with the both of you? Are there not wars in the north to fight, Marshal?”

Helborg stopped in his tracks. That didn’t sound like Schwarzhelm. He was scrupulously fair. Annoyingly so.

“The Lord Schwarzhelm does not take sides. He is the Emperor’s representative.”

Leitdorf gave him a contemptuous look.

“Is that so? Then tell me why his adviser has been offering them his exclusive counsel. Tell me also why he’s been spreading lies about my loyalty to the Empire and why he went to Ferenc Alptraum to incite him to this violence. Believe me, general, I wanted none of this. Why would I provoke a war with Grosslich when he has such men working for him? It would be madness. It is madness.”

Helborg turned to the knight on his left, a tall Nordlander with a shock of blond hair. “Can you make out Skarr? Grosslich?”

“No, my lord. Not yet.”

Helborg turned back to Leitdorf. His expression was dark. He didn’t like feeling as if he’d been dragged into something under false pretences. Whatever Schwarzhelm had done here, he’d better have a damned good explanation for it. The whole thing was a shambles.

“Herr Leitdorf, I am taking you into my protective custody,” said Helborg, motioning for the Reiksguard to assume the place of the man’s own bodyguard. “I don’t know the rights and wrongs of this, but I won’t stand by and let you butcher each other on the strength of rumours. This thing ends now.”

Leitdorf laughed, though the sound was bitter and shrill.

“So you say. But you might have more on your hands than you think. Here comes my rival. I don’t think he likes what your men have done to his army. Will you fight him too, or is this all just for show?”

Helborg whirled round. On the east side of the Vormeisterplatz, trumpets had been sounded. Over the heads of the men around him, Helborg could see fresh cavalry charging into the fray. At their head was a tall man in full battle-armour. Beside him was a squadron of armoured riders. In the front rank was a man wearing a leather coat and a wide-brimmed hat. He looked far too familiar for comfort.

Schwarzhelm’s man, the counsellor. Could Leitdorf have been telling the truth?

“Damn them all,” he muttered, before turning back to the Nordlander. “This is getting ridiculous. Find a horse for the elector. He comes with us.”

“We’re withdrawing?”

Helborg gave him a shocked look. “Are you mad? Skarr needs reinforcing. We’ve taken the head from one army. It’s time we did the same for the other.”

With that, he pulled himself back into the saddle. All around him, his guard did the same. Leitdorfs troops looked on helplessly as their leader was plucked from their midst. They seemed unsure whether to keep fighting at all. Unfortunately, their choice was being made up for them. Grosslich’s men were pressing home the advantage. The brawl was becoming a massacre.

“Follow my lead,” growled Helborg, lowering the Sword of Vengeance and pointing out Grosslich amid the advancing cavalry. “Kill those around him if you have to, but we take the leader alive.”

The Reiksguard swung their horses round as one. With a single command, the phalanx moved off, smashing aside any foolish enough to get in their way.

As he rode through the sea of men, all struggling against each other in an increasingly pointless battle, Helborg felt his mind racing. The whole situation had descended into farce. Dark farce.

“Damn you Schwarzhelm,” he muttered, keeping his eyes fixed on the approaching front rank of Grosslich’s troops. “What have you done here?”

Verstohlen caught up with Grosslich just as the cavalry vanguard thundered into the Vormeisterplatz. As he rode alongside the elector, Heinz-Mark flashed him a wide grin. “You catch up fast!” he cried.

Verstohlen said nothing in reply. His pistol felt reassuringly heavy in his hand, but his heart still misgave him. Grosslich’s forces looked impressive, but they’d be no match for the servants of Chaos. At each turn, at every corner, he still expected to see Natassja’s honors burst into view. He earnestly hoped he was wrong.

“There they are!” cried Grosslich as they careered around the final bend and galloped into the square. Behind them, trumpets sounded. The cavalry vanguard streamed into the Vormeisterplatz. Three hundred horsemen, all armed with the best weapons Alptraum money could buy, all eager for the hundred crown bounty. When they sighted Leitdorf’s beleaguered army, a cry of scorn and mockery broke out across their ranks.

“Euler’s done well,” shouted Verstohlen, his eyes scanning the battle before them. Leitdorf’s troops were pinned back, locked behind ranks of Grosslich’s men. The fighting was already fierce. It would be mere moments before they were plunged into the thick of it.

“That he has. We’ll finish this today!”

Grosslich looked carried away by his battle-rage. As he rode, he swung his heavy broadsword around him. His eyes glittered with the strange joy that some men took in killing. Unlike Leitdorf, this man was every inch the warrior.

“What are those riders?” asked Verstohlen. They were closing fast. Amid the press of infantry, mounted knights were heading in their direction. “Mother of Sigmar, they’re Reiksguard!”

He looked across at Grosslich in alarm. How did Leitdorf come to have Reiksguard fighting for him? The gap between the riders closed further. They were less than a hundred yards away.

“Grosslich, those are the Emperor’s troops! Pull back!”

Grosslich shot him an impatient look. The light of battle was in his eyes. With a terrible certainty, Verstohlen suddenly realised he wasn’t going to stop.

“I don’t care who they are,” he roared. “If they’re protecting Leitdorf then I’ll kill them too! This is my province, and my war!”

With that, he kicked his horse savagely and thundered towards the approaching knights. Helpless to prevent him, Verstohlen followed in his wake. His finger slipped from the trigger. He suddenly remembered his advice to Tochfel, and began to realise what was happening. This wasn’t what he wanted at all. If Grosslich took on the Reiksguard, there could be only one result.

He spurred his horse on, tearing across the remaining ground. With teeth gritted, unsure what he’d do when he arrived, Verstohlen charged into the heart of the combat.

Schwarzhelm finally felt his strength begin to flag. Perhaps he’d pushed himself too far. Even with the sun dipping in the sky, the heat dragged at him. This was the end of the long trek. He was in the heart of the city, less that a mile from his destination. Whatever had transpired in his absence he’d soon find out. Something told him he wouldn’t like what he found.

His bodyguard still followed, but they were lagging. If things hadn’t been so pressing he’d have stopped to give them some respite, but there was no chance of that. Averheim was aflame, and there was no time to attend to the weakness of the body. They would have to catch up when they could.

Schwarzhelm passed quickly over the bridges and into the poor quarter of the city. The streets were narrower there and clogged with the effects of the rioting. Some buildings had been half-ruined, their broken walls tumbling into the street. Refuse was everywhere, some of it smouldering where the gangs had set it alight, all of it stinking.

He knew exactly where he was going. Two huge palls of smoke hung heavily over the west of the city. The sound of men clashing echoed down the narrow alleyways. Whatever Leitdorf had unleashed had been cornered in that place. The sooner he arrived there to snuff out his heresy, the better.

As he neared his destination, the sounds of battle grew louder. The air was thick with the acrid smoke of the fires. He passed men running down the streets, some towards the fighting, some away. He ignored them. They themselves seemed to have very little idea what was going on. As was ever the case, when men of the Empire fought amongst themselves, allegiances were quickly confused. There was no honour in such fighting, just the petty satisfaction of the few noblemen who benefited. It sickened his heart.

He was nearly there. Just a few more streets, passing in a flash, and he emerged into a wide square. He took the scene in. Two forces, each numbering many hundreds, were fighting at close quarters on the far side of the space. He recognised the livery of both Leitdorf and Grosslich, though he could see neither of the rivals. The combat looked vicious and disorganised. The mass of infantry was locked together in a bloody melee. It was unclear which side had the mastery. To his relief, Schwarzhelm neither saw nor detected any sign of Chaos. These were mortal men struggling, the kind that had been fighting sporadically in the city ever since he’d arrived.

He pressed on. Every lurch of the horse carried him nearer. Faces began to come into focus, formations began to clarify. He needed to find Verstohlen. The spy would be at the thick of it, no doubt with Grosslich. Schwarzhelm stood up in the saddle, craning to make out what was going on. Everything was fluid, everything was in motion. Some men ran up to him, trying to waylay him before he could join the fray. The Rechtstahl cut them down with almost contemptuous ease. He whipped the horse faster, bearing down on the core of the fighting.

He saw Leitdorf first. The flamboyant armour was hard to miss. The man still wore a cape of blue and burgundy, just as his father had done. He didn’t ride alone. He was surrounded by a bodyguard of knights. They looked terrifyingly efficient, carving their way through Grosslich’s troops with a cold precision that reminded him of…

Reiksguard. Schwarzhelm felt his heart nearly stop. He pulled his horse to a standstill. The beast skidded to a halt, whinnying in protest. Even in the midst of the conflict, with men fighting and falling on either side of him, Schwarzhelm stood as still as a graven image. A terrible feeling had come over him, as if the nightmares of his past had suddenly caught up and become real before his eyes.

Helborg was there. Fighting with the traitor. His mind flashed back to the eyeless corpses in the barn. There are plenty in Altdorf who would like to wield the Rechtstahl in your place.

It couldn’t be. He wouldn’t believe it.

He nudged the horse into a walk, still unsure, still hesitant. The battle around him passed into a blur. All he could see was his great rival, master of the Reiksguard, laying into Grosslich’s men with his familiar gusto. And at his side was Rufus Leitdorf, the architect of Averheim’s ruin, grinning stupidly, surrounded by an honour guard he scarcely deserved.

Anger welled within him. Schwarzhelm kicked the horse into a canter. The slaughter was sickening to watch. He remembered Turgitz. The endless slights, the sneering, the manoeuvres at court. The man was jealous of him, insanely jealous. But this?

Schwarzhelm picked up the pace. The Rechtstahl blazed red in his hands, reflecting the light of the fires. He was alone, caught between the two armies. The dull rage began to flare.

Helborg would have to be a saint beyond reproach not to wish to see you stumble, just a little. And from what I hear, he’s no saint.

Still Schwarzhelm pulled back. The Rechtstahl thirsted for blood, but he resisted it. The two of them were brothers, the twin pillars on which the Imperial armies depended. It was impossible.

Messages have been sent from the castle to Altdorf. It’s been going on for some time.

Still he hesitated. Still his hand was stayed.

Then Grosslich appeared, charging from the midst of his army, heading straight for Helborg. Schwarzhelm felt like calling out a warning, but the look on the count’s face told him it wouldn’t be heeded. It was suicide. No one took on Helborg in single combat. No one.

The two men converged. Both were committed. That broke the spell.

Schwarzhelm sprung into action. Grosslich could not be allowed to die. Grand Marshal or not, Helborg would not be permitted to subvert the outcome of the succession. Schwarzhelm hefted the Rechtstahl, feeling the taut metal hum with anticipation. The spirit of the blade remained near the surface, goading him onward. It sensed blood. Rivers of blood.

And then, from nowhere, careering from behind Grosslich’s outriders, came a figure Schwarzhelm knew all too well. The wide-brimmed hat, the long learner coat. Verstohlen was there, right beside Grosslich, knife in hand.

In a second, Schwarzhelm saw what he was trying to do. He was attempting to get between them, to prevent Grosslich from engaging.

“Pieter!” cried Schwarzhelm. He was still too far away. Verstohlen was a deadly swordsman, but no match for Helborg.

The spy achieved his goal, heading Grosslich off and forcing his steed from the engagement. But his flank was exposed. Helborg was on him in a second. Schwarzhelm saw the Klingerach, the Grudgebearer of legend, flash in the firelight.

Then it fell. Verstohlen tumbled from his horse, hitting the ground hard. Schwarzhelm felt the tide of his rage break. “Helborg!” he roared.

Even above the sound of the battle, the rush of the flames, the cries of the dying, Schwarzhelm’s mighty voice echoed around the square. Men in the thick of the fighting halted in their slaughter and turned to see what was going on, shaken by the resounding cry. Kurt Helborg himself, blood running down his sword, paused. He looked up at Schwarzhelm, and their eyes met. Across the tangled, confused press of fighting men, the ruin of Averheim, the twin titans of the Empire saw one another for the first time since Altdorf.

A heartbeat passed. The sounds of battle seemed to recede into distant echoes. Even the cries of agony were muffled, indistinct.

Then Schwarzhelm snapped. His rage, building up for weeks, fuelled by nightmare, driven by fatigue, became his master. Nothing, not even all the armies of the Emperor, would have been capable of stopping him then.

He raised the Sword of Justice, blood-red in the failing light, and charged.

Chapter Sixteen

Helborg felt the thrill of the chase. Leitdorf had been dealt with. Now it fell to him to do what Schwarzhelm had been unable to. He sped towards Grosslich. The Averlander rode towards him at a similar speed, sword drawn.

That was brave. Not many men chose to take him on in the knowledge of who he was. He liked that. It would be a shame to kill such a warrior, but he wouldn’t shirk from his duty. Averheim had been brought low by these feuding noblemen, and if they forced his hand he’d have no qualms about passing down the ultimate sentence.

He brought the Klingerach up into position. He could hear the thunder of Reiksguard hooves behind him. They were keeping pace, dragging the unwilling Leitdorf with them. Where was Skarr? There was no sign of the preceptor.

Grosslich neared. The fool kept his blade raised. Helborg felt the ghost of a smile flickering across his lips. Just a few more strides…

Then came a new figure, hurtling in from the side and riding between them. Helborg pulled on the reins, immediately adjusting his trajectory. He recognised the distinctive coat and hat again—Schwarzhelm’s spy. With phenomenal horsemanship, the man headed Grosslich off, pushing his steed away and shoving it off into the wrong direction. An impressive manoeuvre. It had saved the man’s life. So Schwarzhelm was in league with Grosslich after all. Leitdorf had been right. The damned fool.

The spy’s horse was now careering towards him in place of Grosslich’s. Pushed off-balance by his last manoeuvre, the man was headed right into his path. Helborg could see him struggling with the reins. One traitor for another, then. The result would be the same.

Helborg brought the Klingerach round in a decapitating blow. The man saw it at the last minute. He was quick. A long dagger rose to meet it, and the blades clashed.

But the spy was still reeling from his centre of gravity. The power of Helborg’s stroke knocked him back from the horse and on to the stone below. He rolled over, head in his hands, desperately warding it from the stamping hooves around him.

Helborg wheeled his horse round to finish the job. As he looked at the cowering figure on the ground below him, he felt nothing but contempt. The man had forgotten his duty. He’d been drawn into the feud rather than protecting against it. There was no pity for that breed of weakness. He raised his blade.

“Helborg!”

The shout resounded across the square. Men stopped what they were doing. Even the Reiksguard, inured to all but the most powerful presences on the battlefield, looked up from their rampage.

Helborg sought out the source of the sound. The voice was one he knew intimately. He’d fought alongside the owner of it for years.

Schwarzhelm was charging straight for him. The man looked terrible. His beard was matted with blood. His armour was dented and streaked with the evidence of fierce fighting. Even under the shadow of his helmet, the madness and rage in his eyes was evident. He looked like a man who’d been dragged out of the Chaos Wastes and let loose on the realms of mortal men. His horse seemed half-crazed with fatigue. Foam streamed along its muzzle. The blade, the famed Sword of Justice, swung wildly as he approached. As the metal carved through the air, blood flew from the shaft like a shower of rain.

There was no time to react. No time to protest. A lesser man than Helborg would have been smashed from his saddle by the impact, driven into the ground and trampled under the hooves of Schwarzhelm’s crazed beast. As it was, it was all he could do to bring the Klingerach up to parry the sweep of the Rechtstahl.

With an explosion of sparks, the two holy blades, each forged at the birth of the Empire, clashed together. The resounding clang swept across the courtyard, drowning out all other sounds. A blaze of light burst from the crossed swords, as if some powerful force within them had been unleashed after centuries of slumber.

Helborg felt the massive power of Schwarzhelm’s blow shudder down his arm. He gritted his teeth, using all his strength to hold his ground. He held it. Just.

The horses spun away from one another, pushed apart by the force of the impact. Schwarzhelm’s steed staggered. Its legs began to give way underneath it. With a strangled cry of distress, the overworked beast sank to the ground, its flanks heaving.

Schwarzhelm leapt from the stricken animal and strode towards Helborg. He pointed his sword straight at him. There was a fire in his eyes Helborg had never seen before, even in the many sparring contests they’d had as young men. This was different. Schwarzhelm wanted to kill him.

“What are you doing, man?” Helborg cried, keeping his own mount under control with difficulty. Despite its training, the beast shied away from the armoured figure walking towards it. Schwarzhelm was projecting a terrifying aura of hatred.

“Come down and face me,” growled Schwarzhelm. His voice was thick and snarling. As he spoke, Helborg could see his features twitching. He looked exhausted. Still he came on, inviting the contest between them.

Helborg looked around. The Reiksguard were fully occupied and badly outnumbered. Grosslich’s riders had engaged them and more of his footsoldiers were arriving all the time. He caught a glimpse of Skarr with his company before they plunged into battle. Leitdorf still looked contained, but Grosslich’s men were clawing at his guards. The fighting was everywhere. They were in the heart of the storm.

The two masters of the Emperor’s armies squared off against one another. Helborg couldn’t see where Grosslich had been driven to. It didn’t matter. Only one battle mattered now.

“What have you done here, Schwarzhelm?” asked Helborg, keeping his voice level.

“My duty, as always.”

“You’ve forgotten your duty. This city is burning.”

“I’ll not bandy words with a traitor. Come down and face me.”

Traitor. The words stung. Something terrible had happened to Schwarzhelm. He bore the look of a man who’d suffered some kind of prolonged torture.

“Do not use that word in my presence.” Helborg felt his own anger rising. There was an aura of violence in the air. He’d need to be stopped. Somehow, Schwarzhelm would have to be brought down. But how, without killing him?

Then Schwarzhelm smiled.

Of all the things that had happened in Averheim since Helborg’s arrival, that spoke most clearly of some terrible twisting of the great man’s mind. Schwarzhelm never smiled. Now his mighty face, the scourge of the Emperor’s enemies across the endless expanse of the Old World, distorted into a mocking, sarcastic leer of savage intent. His eyes flickered with a baleful gleam. The blade rose again, glittering coldly. The afternoon sunlight was failing, to be replaced by the angry heat of the huge fires. In their crimson glow, Schwarzhelm looked half-daemonic.

“Come down and face me,” he repeated, looking eager for the fight. “I know you, Kurt. Refuse me now and all will know you for the traitor you are. Face me!”

Helborg let his eyes flick around him again. His men had their hands full keeping Grosslich’s men at bay. None of them could match Schwarzhelm. Reiksguard or not, they’d be dead in seconds if they as much as moved towards him.

Only one man alive had the power to contest him in combat. It felt as if fate had brought him to Averheim for this purpose alone. Wearily, feeling a sickness enter his heart, Helborg prepared for the duel that only he could undertake. Schwarzhelm had been driven to the edge of ruin and had to be stopped.

“So be it,” he said, dismounting heavily. “If this is how you want it. Your mind has been poisoned, Ludwig. I warn you, if I have to, I will cut you down.”

Schwarzhelm snarled. The strange half-smile still twisted his face.

“That’s what you’ve always wanted, Kurt. At least now the truth of that is out.”

Then he charged, the Sword of Justice held high. Helborg raised his own blade, focused on the weapon before him and waited for the impact.

The duel had begun.

Verstohlen came to his senses. He’d hit his head hard on the stone. There was a black corona around his vision and the world about him was blurred and indistinct.

With difficulty, he dragged himself up on to his knees. Everything was in motion. His horse was long gone. In all directions, men struggled against one another. He saw one burly trooper drag another to the ground, tearing at the man’s eyes. Another throttled his opponent, rolling with him in the filth as each strove to finish the other off. There were scraps of skin on the ground about him, tufts of hair and knocked-loose teeth.

What was going on? Even for such debased kinds of combat, the very air seemed heavy with a deranged, fervid stench. There was no shape to any of the fighting. This was a mass outpouring of rage; a messy, maniac brawling.

Verstohlen clambered to his feet. For a moment, the world swung around him. Then, slowly, it clarified. The evening was waning fast. In the east, stars had appeared. The sunlight seemed to have bled from the sky surprisingly fast.

Then he saw it. Morrslieb. Just a sliver of the Chaos moon was visible, jutting out from behind the dark towers of the distant Averburg. Its sickly light was barely visible in the glittering of the swords. How long had that accursed moon been in the sky? It explained some of the madness around him. When the dark moon was abroad, men’s minds were altered. Perhaps this whole city had cradled its sickness for too long. Maybe it had affected him too. Maybe it had affected all of them.

Verstohlen shook his head, trying to clear his mind of the rambling thoughts. He retrieved his knife shakily. All around him, the fighting continued unabated. How had he been wounded? He couldn’t remember. He had to find Grosslich.

Verstohlen began to stumble through the milling bodies around him. One of Leitdorf’s thugs staggered into his path. The brute lunged at him. Verstohlen dodged the blow casually, feeling sluggish and nauseous. His knife felt unbalanced in his hand. He returned the attack, letting the blade guide him. It plunged deep into the man’s stomach. Verstohlen pulled it sharply to the right. Hot blood and viscera streamed over his wrist. The gobbets of flesh, glistening in the firelight, slipped over his hand and fell, plopping and slapping, to the ground. The soldier, face fixed into a frozen scream of agony, crumpled to the stone.

Verstohlen withdrew his knife, watching the man enter his gasping death throes. For a moment, a savage joy filled his heart. He looked around him. The knife was hot in his fingers, glowing like a brand. The shapes of the men around him flickered and shuddered, like a candle flame caught in a sudden gust. A curious musk was mingling with the stench of blood and sweat. He recognised it immediately. Welcomed it. It was sweet, as sweet as death. Like jasmine.

He raised his hands to his face, uncaring of the flow of carnage around him. His hands were steeped in gore. Dark trickles ran down his arm, staining the leather of his coat. He felt an overwhelming urge to lean forward, press the still-hot viscera against his face…

Verstohlen jerked his hand back. What was happening to him? What was happening to all of them? He drew in a deep breath. The air was hot. It wasn’t the sun. The fires were burning higher. Their flames danced into the dusk. They writhed like snakes. Against the red tongues of flame, a faint lilac flickered.

Joyroot. Tons of it. Leitdorf had chosen his battleground well. At last, the dark sorcery at the heart of his campaign had become manifest.

Verstohlen wiped his sleeve in disgust. Even now, he could sense the beckoning lure of madness. Weaker minds had little defence. Where was Grosslich? He needed to be warned.

He started to stumble through the press around him. There was a knot of knights a few yards away. They seemed to be protecting something. For a moment, he thought he saw Leitdorfs livery hidden amongst them. The man was smiling smugly, arms crossed over his flabby chest. Why were they protecting him? A surge of hatred ran through Verstohlen’s body, and he lurched unsteadily forward towards him.

Then another warrior blundered into his path. Verstohlen couldn’t tell what his allegiance was, but the man looked ready to take on anyone. His eyes were wild and starting. A bloody weal ran across his neck. Seeing Verstohlen in turn, he launched himself forward, sword waving wildly.

Verstohlen met the attack, parrying with his knife and pushing the lurching soldier back. He worked quickly, trying to recover his balance. The nausea and confusion were beginning to wear off. Deep down, though, he was worried. More worried than he’d been since arriving in the accursed city. What was driving the attacks? Where was Grosslich?

He dispatched the clumsy attacker with a double-back swipe of his knife. Behind him, more men were approaching. For some reason, they seemed to have latched onto him.

Verstohlen stayed low and gritted his teeth. He didn’t have time for this. The stench of Chaos was everywhere. He had to get to those knights. The soldiers came for him, stumbling and tripping as if in a drunken stupor.

Verstohlen hefted his knife lightly, whispered a prayer to Verena the Protector, then charged into their midst.

The two swords danced around one another, flickering like flames in the dusk. Each blade moved with breathtaking precision. As he worked, Schwarzhelm felt the fatigue fall from his arms. His concentration was absolute, his movement perfectly controlled. Just as Lassus had taught him, he let the sword become an extension of his being. He was a plain man, but it was in such moments that he got as close as he ever came to the sublime. The Rechtstahl responded. The heavy shaft of steel swung through the air as if made of a weightless shard of ithilmar. The metal shimmered, glorying in its impeccable balance and poise.

Before him, Helborg kept pace perfectly. He was a master swordsman. The best in the Empire, they all said. His technique had always been just a fraction ahead of Schwarzhelm’s. When they’d sparred in front of the Emperor in their youth, he’d won all their contests. Only by a shade, only by a fraction. There had been so little at stake then. Now things were different.

Schwarzhelm took a big step forward, swiping heavily with the Rechtstahl to draw the defensive push, switching direction at the last moment.

Helborg was alive to it, and parried watchfully. For a moment, they came together. The blades locked.

“Why are you doing this, Ludwig?”

Schwarzhelm didn’t reply. He broke away, back into the duelling posture. As he moved, he thrust the Rechtstahl upwards jerkily, nearly twisting the runefang from Helborg’s hands.

He could hardly bear to look at his old rival. Of all the men to turn to the great enemy, this was the most bitter blow. He’d always known Helborg had secretly envied his closeness to the Emperor. Whatever men said, being master of the Reiksguard didn’t compare to the honour of carrying the Imperial Standard into battle. Now his mask had slipped. The man’s treachery had been revealed.

He spun round, scything the Sword of Justice through the fire-flecked air. Helborg gave ground. His face was intent, careful. He wasn’t pressing forward. He was trying to contain Schwarzhelm’s attack.

That was a mistake. A master swordsman always attacked. Schwarzhelm pressed home the advantage, hammering away at Helborg’s defences with growing speed and assurance.

Dimly, he was aware of the men around him. He could hear the continued sounds of fighting as the darkness gathered. There was a mood of savagery in the air. The entire space seemed to have been given over to the settling of petty feuds. Somewhere close by he knew that Leitdorf was amongst the Reiksguard. Maybe Grosslich too. Perhaps they watched. Perhaps they fought amongst themselves.

No matter. Such paltry squabbles were no longer his affair. The greater battle lay before him. The architect of his misery was in his hands at last. He remembered the corpses by the road, the death of Grunwald, the sense of powerlessness.

Schwarzhelm shifted his grip, letting his left hand take the greater weight of the sword. He fell back, opening up a small gap between him and his adversary. Helborg filled it quickly, his runefang whirling with deceptive speed. It was the orthodox response. The one he’d expected. Helborg wasn’t fighting at his full potential. For some reason, the man held back.

Too bad.

Schwarzhelm drew the attacking thrust, then countered with his left-handed grip bringing the Rechtstahl in lower. Helborg was slow to close it down. The blade shot under his defence, taking only a glancing parry from the Marshal’s sword. Schwarzhelm felt the edge bite deep into Helborg’s thigh before he pulled it away again.

Schwarzhelm stepped back out of range, easily fending off the resultant flurry of blows. Helborg still moved quickly, still kept his guard up. But now blood trailed down his left leg. It looked black in the twilight. As a traitor’s blood should be.

“Your heart’s not in this, Kurt,” he growled. “Guilty conscience?”

It was Helborg’s turn to stay silent. The Marshal stepped up his swordplay. The runefang spun into the attack again, glimmering darkly. But Schwarzhelm could see he was troubled. For the first time in his long and illustrious career, the Marshal knew he was being matched. The Swords of Justice and Vengeance met again, and sparks showered the stone as if from a blacksmith’s forge.

It was then that Schwarzhelm knew he would win. Helborg’s guilt slowed him down. The traitor was always weakened by his crimes. Schwarzhelm alone fought for the Empire now, he alone guarded the flame of faith. He shifted his weight into an attacking posture, feeling strength coursing through his sinews, and launched into the assault again.

Leofric von Skarr tried to fight his way back to Helborg. He was surrounded by riders. Even as he attempted to turn his own horse, two more engaged him. He swung his sword in the face of one of them, forcing a swerve. Then the Reiksguard around him pushed forward, driving Grosslich’s men away a few yards.

Skarr looked around him, trying to make sense of what was going on. The whole square was crawling with men. The cavalry were all Grosslich’s troops. Between them and Leitdorf’s mob, the Reiksguard were heavily outnumbered. Despite their superior skills, they couldn’t hold against a melee of hundreds forever. This was not going according to plan.

He tried to spot Helborg and Schwarzhelm, but they were lost in the flickering light. Until the tide of battle had pushed him away, he’d seen their ruinous duel start up. He hadn’t expected to witness such a scene in his worst nightmares. Skarr had had a long career in the Reiksguard and had seen many things he’d rather not have done, but watching Helborg and Schwarzhelm batter one another into submission was horrifying. His horse shifted uneasily under him. Even the beast could sense the sickness in what it saw.

He looked over to where his men guarded Rufus Leitdorf. The knights held their formation, holding out against ferocious attacks from Grosslich’s troops. The man himself was raving about something, waving his arms from the saddle and trying to break their grip. He stood no chance. The man was a typical effete nobleman, and the troops around him were as tough as any in the Empire.

Grosslich was of more concern. After the first clash, the rival elector had been driven off, perhaps to rally what remained of his entourage. Despite Leitdorf being taken into custody by Helborg, his own men still fought with an unexpected savagery. Something in the very air around them seemed to be goading them on. Holding both sets of combatants off was beginning to become difficult. Though they were Reiksguard, the finest soldiers in the Empire, they were but one company. If the anger of the masses were to be turned on them, he wasn’t sure how long he could hold them back.

Skarr hefted his broadsword. His knights were becoming strung out, drawn into the undisciplined brawl around them.

“Reiksguard!” he roared. “To me!”

Some of the knights were able to cut their way to his position. Others remained isolated, trapped in a sea of enemies. It didn’t matter whether the massed brawlers fought for Leitdorf or Grosslich, they seemed equally intent on bringing as many knights down as they could.

“Sir, it’s getting hard to hold them back.”

The voice at his shoulder was that of a young knight, Dietmar von Eissen. He was a good soldier, already tested in the fires of battle, but his eyes betrayed uncertainty.

“Remember your training,” Skarr hissed. “You are Reiksguard. Hold the line.”

Even as he finished speaking, a gang of Leitdorf’s men piled towards him. They looked drunk with bloodlust. Three of the closest Reiksguard moved to intercept. Two of them felled their men, but the third was born from his saddle by the frenzied charge. More hurried up behind them, a whole mob of them. There were too many. The fighting had become a quagmire.

Skarr kicked his horse into action. He reached the first of the attackers, pulling his sword back and letting it swing back. The blade took the head clean off the nearest combatant. The bloody mass span off into the night, spraying gore across the struggling bodies beneath it. A second thrust eviscerated the soldier’s companion. That cowed Leitdorfs men, but still they held their ground.

On either side of Skarr the knights were beginning to form up. At last, they were carving some kind of formation out of the mess. They’d been driven into disorder by Grosslich’s intervention, but that was slowly changing.

“Charge them!” he bellowed, pointing his sword directly at what looked like the ringleader.

The line of horses sprang forward, hooves ringing out against the stone. The Reiksguard moved as a unit, bearing down any infantry in their way. Faced with a concerted wall of steel, Leitdorfs motley collection of fighters broke and fled. Those too slow to turn were dispatched, either by the blades of the knights or under the churning legs of their steeds.

“Halt. Re-form the line!”

Already Grosslich’s riders had seen the danger and were massing to attack them. If it wasn’t one, it was the other. What had got into these people?

Skarr looked across the fragile line of knights. His men were still being drawn into the melee around them. This couldn’t last forever. At least Grosslich appeared to have been taken out of the fighting for the moment. Despite his best efforts, Skarr could see no sign of him. Nor could he catch a glimpse of where Schwarzhelm and Helborg were. Somewhere, hidden by the sea of men around him, they still fought. He had to get to them.

“What are your orders?” asked Eissen, pulling his mount up beside him. The man’s sword was running with blood.

“Find the Marshal,” said Skarr, looking at the approaching horsemen grimly. “We’ll cut these fools down, then we sweep back.”

He turned back to face the approaching riders. Around him, those knights that could had formed a defensive line. The footsoldiers kept coming at them. The world had gone mad. This was wasting precious time. He needed to get back to the Marshal. He didn’t know what madness had come over Schwarzhelm, but Helborg couldn’t be left to face it alone.

“Raise your blades,” Skarr shouted, seeing the knights around him take up their swords. The metal gleamed. “Kill them all.”

Helborg felt the Sword of Vengeance become heavy in his practised hands. Every move he made with it seemed to come a little too late. Schwarzhelm was fighting like a man possessed.

He drove the image from his mind. That possibility was too grim even to entertain.

Helborg let the sword curve round to meet the latest flurry of blows from Schwarzhelm. Each impact felt like a hammer blow. As the shocks ran through his body, he was forced back. Schwarzhelm had always been strong. Now he was quick. Breathtakingly quick.

Helborg leapt back, making half a yard of space. He whirled the sword around, shifting the balance to his right side. Schwarzhelm advanced, his own blade darting after him. The light was failing. It was hard to keep up with the flickering path of the steel.

The blades clashed again, and fresh sparks sprung into the air. For a moment, Schwarzhelm’s face was lit up in savage relief. His eyes were wide and staring, like a wild cat’s. This was not about pride or prestige, or even the debacle in Averheim. Schwarzhelm wanted him dead.

Helborg dropped down to his left, letting the guard down, inviting the stroke. Schwarzhelm was too sharp for that. He brought the Rechtstahl tearing down against his protected right flank, trusting the force of the blow to deliver the result.

Helborg spun against it, using the Klingerach as a shield. The Rechtstahl bit deep, tearing a notch from the runefang. The splinter spiralled from the blade. Too late, Helborg ducked out of the way. The shard lodged in his cheek, searing like a snakebite. He staggered backwards, teeth clenched, frantically warding off the cascade of blows from Schwarzhelm.

The pain was agonising. He kept his eyes fixed on the swipes and feints of the Sword of Justice as it angled to penetrate his defences. Helborg kept it out, but only barely. His arms began to wilt as the blades clashed again and again. The rest of the battle around him drifted out of focus. There was only one thing in the world, only one thing that mattered. He slipped into that strange place that swordmasters occupied in the heat of combat, the realm where all reality was composed of the movement of blades, the shimmering play of metal against metal.

Eventually, even Schwarzhelm tired of the attack. He withdrew, panting heavily. Helborg kept his sword held high. The assault had been horrifying. He’d never had to endure such a sustained period of brilliance, even from Schwarzhelm.

. “Your blade is notched,” said Schwarzhelm.

Helborg stole a quick glance at the surface of the Klingerach. The runefang hadn’t been so much as scratched in all the days he’d worn it at his side. It was one of the twelve forged by Alaric, one of the dozen mightiest talismans of mankind, bound by runes of warding, infused with spells of ruin and destruction. Nothing could break a runefang. Only its wearer could be harmed.

And yet, the sword was notched. Even now, he could feel the shard buried in the flesh of his cheek. The pain was like a brand of fire. The trail of blood ran hot down his neck. Schwarzhelm, of all men, had been the one to break the symmetry of the Klingerach. After more than two millennia, the sacred blade had been marred at last, not by a Chaos warlord or beast of darkness, but by the Emperor’s Champion himself.

Maybe only Schwarzhelm, alone in the entire Old World, carried a sword capable of doing such a thing.

Turning away from the desecrated shaft, Helborg felt the last of his restraint leave him. He’d been unwilling to let himself go until that moment. Schwarzhelm was clearly under some kind of madness or paranoia, the knowledge of which had stayed his hand. But now the final bonds had been broken.

With a roar of anger, Helborg swung the Klingerach into position once more. Ignoring the pain of the wounds across his body, he tore into Schwarzhelm, wielding his blade with all the ferocity his years of training had embedded in every sinew. The Klingerach whirled in a tight arc, perfectly balanced, perfectly aimed. As the last of the natural light faded, all that was left to illuminate the clash of the two men were the flames rising higher on either side.

With Morrslieb riding high and the Vormeisterplatz echoing with the sound of slaughter, Kurt Helborg launched his assault on Ludwig Schwarzhelm. It had the air of a final push. One way or another, only one of them would walk free of it.

Verstohlen punched the soldier in the stomach, putting every scrap of energy he had into the blow. The man reeled backwards but stayed on his feet. He looked like one of Leitdorf’s irregulars, and wore an archaic leather jerkin and iron skullcap for a helmet. Most of his teeth had been knocked from his jaw and his nose was broken. As Verstohlen hung back he grinned, exposing the holes in his mouth. This kind of vicious struggle was the thing such scum lived for. He’d probably have joined in even if he wasn’t being paid for it.

Verstohlen gripped his knife tightly. The pointless combat was draining. He needed to get out of it, clear his head, come up with some kind of a plan.

The mercenary charged, brandishing a heavily notched short sword. Wearily, Verstohlen prepared to meet the assault.

It never came. Before he could close on Verstohlen, the man was knocked violently to one side. He swung into the air, his arms flailing. He staggered for moment, looking confused and angry, before he saw the spider of crimson spreading across his chest. He fell to his knees, coughing phlegm and blood, before finally toppling on to his front.

Verstohlen looked up, waiting for the next challenger to fend off. Instead, Grosslich was there, mounted, surrounded by horsemen of his household. Amidst all the confusion, his company was a rare island of order.

“I’ve found you, counsellor,” he said, motioning for his men to fan around them. A spare horse was brought forward. Recovering himself, Verstohlen mounted quickly.

“About time,” he said. “Where’ve you been?”

“Since you diverted me into Leitdorfs men? Fighting my way back to you. I could have you run through for that treachery.” He smiled. “Glad you’re still on your feet.”

Suddenly, the memory came rushing back. Helborg. That was why he’d spurred his horse into the path of Grosslich’s, to prevent the clash that would have undoubtedly killed him.

“Leitdorf has the Reiksguard fighting for him,” said Verstohlen, feeling his earlier fear and confusion return. The joyroot in the air was addling his mind. He couldn’t think straight. He knew he was missing something.

“That he does,” said Grosslich grimly, wheeling his horse around and preparing to carve his way back into the melee. “What devilry has passed between them is anyone’s guess. But Leitdorf still lives. Helborg is distracted. We have a chance to strike.”

Verstohlen kicked his horse into a canter, keeping up with Grosslich and his horsemen as they began to cut their way through the ranks of fighting men.

“Helborg distracted? With what?”

“You’ll see, counsellor. Ride with me. All will become clear.”

Verstohlen held the reins tightly, willing his tired body to stay in the saddle. He reached into his coat and withdrew the pistol. He still had one bullet left. Not much, but better than nothing. Ahead, the press of Reiksguard knights waited. They’d seen the threat, and were moving to meet it. In their midst, the pathetic figure of Leitdorf cowered. He knew it was over.

Verstohlen kept the gun cradled at his side. He’d wait. If nothing else, it would suffice for Rufus.

The sun had set. Over the Vormeisterplatz there was only the red light of the fires and the ivory sheen of Morrslieb. Leitdorf’s forces, bereft of their leader, had finally begun to buckle. Many of the mercenaries had started to flee where they could, streaming out of the square and into the dark alleys. Grosslich’s men pursued them hard, and the sounds of bloodshed soon filtered into the winding passages of the poor quarter. Under the baleful light of the Chaos moon, the death and pain was spreading throughout the city. Soon nowhere would be free of it.

Schwarzhelm ran his finger along the edge of the Sword of Justice. Even with the lightest of touches the blade drew blood. It was the perfect sword, a flawless instrument of death.

He looked up at Helborg. The Marshal stood in a defensive posture a few paces away. He was ashen-faced. With satisfaction, Schwarzhelm glimpsed at the shard of the Klingerach lodged in the man’s cheek. It was a badge of shame, the mark of treachery. The scar would be with him forever.

“So what price did he buy you with?” Schwarzhelm asked bitterly, letting Helborg recover himself for his next assault. “Or was the prospect of seeing me fail here enough reward for you?”

Helborg was breathing heavily.

“You’re really that insecure? Look around you, Ludwig. This is your doing.”

As Helborg spoke, a sliver of doubt entered Schwarzhelm’s mind. Somewhere, deep within, he could hear a small voice of warning. Like glimpsing the sun through a gap in the clouds, the Marshal suddenly seemed to him the way he always had. Upright, stern-faced, the embodiment of Imperial martial pride. They were brothers, the two of them. They’d always been brothers.

And yet.

The stench of Chaos was everywhere. Leitdorf was stained with it. Verstohlen had seen the evidence of it. From the first hours he’d spent in Averheim, Schwarzhelm had been aware of it. The visions in the night, the terrors and portents. They’d been trying to break him. They’d all been trying to break him. They’d failed.

He lifted the Rechtstahl a final time. Overhead, lost in the gathering darkness, there was a distant rumble of thunder. The weather, so unbearably hot for so long, was breaking at last. A storm was coming.

“No more words.”

He lunged forward. He kept the Rechtstahl high, holding it two-handed, unmindful of his defence. Helborg met him, swinging the Klingerach heavily to meet the incoming downward plunge. The blades met again. Again, they were forced apart.

Schwarzhelm pressed home the attack. He could feel raw power coursing through his sinews. His wrath was what propelled him now. After so many days of frustration, of fatigue, of whispering against him, of weasel-worded legal arguments, the canker at the heart of Averheim had been unveiled.

He kept the sword moving, adjusting his body minutely to compensate for its every stroke. They said the elven Sword Masters felt like this, lost in the perfect symmetry of stroke and counter-stroke. He and the weapon were fused together, each an extension of the other.

The time had come to finish it. Schwarzhelm went for the kill. His blade whirled, blood-red in the firelight. Helborg fought back, meeting the heavy blows expertly, warding what he could. But the Marshal was weakened. He’d lost blood from his thigh. He wasn’t fighting with his full commitment. Something was holding him back. Something weighed him down. This wasn’t the Helborg who’d bested him a dozen times on the training grounds of Altdorf.

The opening came. Helborg brought his sword up in another defensive move. As he drew back, his foot turned on the stone. He stumbled and the blade dropped out of the position.

A whip of lightning scored across the heavens. For a split second, Helborg’s body was illuminated in stark relief. The chance was there, beckoning him.

Schwarzhelm pounced. Summoning all the energy that remained to him, he plunged the Sword of Justice downwards. As if drawn by the prospect of blood, the blade nearly flew from his hands.

It bit deep, carving through armour and into the flesh beyond. The metal sheered between spaulder and breastplate, unerringly finding the weak spot in the Marshal’s exquisite armour.

Helborg roared with pain. His whole body tensed. Blood spurted high into the air. Schwarzhelm felt it splatter against his face. The liquid seared him as if it had been boiling oil. He withdrew the blade and staggered back, wiping his eyes.

Helborg slumped to the ground, clutching his shoulder. His sword clattered to the stone harmlessly. The Marshal shot Schwarzhelm a final glance, one of mingled anger, pain and betrayal. Then he collapsed face down on to the stone, his blood spreading across the flags.

A peal of thunder boomed across the city. It felt like the arch of the sky was cracking. Schwarzhelm suddenly felt his store of violent energy drain from him. He stood like a graven image, staring at his stricken brother.

The man was broken. And he had done it.

The world around seemed suddenly insubstantial and shifting. Rage was replaced by guilt, violence with grief. It was as if a mask of madness had fallen from him. He started forward; hands outstretched towards his old rival, his sparring partner, his friend.

His victim.

“Marshal!” The voice belonged to one of the Reiksguard. They’d seen their master cut down too.

Schwarzhelm whirled around. There were knights backing up towards him. They were being attacked in their turn. He could make out horsemen wearing Grosslich’s colours bearing down on the steel lines. They would break. They were breaking.

Schwarzhelm felt the indecision paralyse him. He didn’t know what to do. There was movement all around him. His certainty had vanished, his will had snapped. He stood immobile.

I have killed him, he thought. The mantra repeated over and over in his head, paralysing him. Sigmar forgive me. I have killed him.

Then the Reiksguard lines broke. Grosslich was breaking through, and the Imperial knights fell before the onslaught. They ignored Schwarzhelm. Several galloped over to the stricken Helborg. With peerless horsemanship, they swept him up into the saddle. The Klingerach stayed on the stone, forgotten.

Schwarzhelm watched it all take place impotently. Horses veered past him on either side. His fingers felt loose around the hilt of the Rechtstahl. The events before him unfolded as if in one of his nightmares. He was just a spectator.

Grosslich’s men streamed across the square, pursuing the fleeing Reiksguard. Leitdorf rode along with the Imperial knights, surrounded by stern-faced protectors. He cast a fleeting look at Schwarzhelm as he was carried away. His expression was one of terror, like a child caught up in games it doesn’t understand.

Then they were gone, riding into the night and towards the flames. Grosslich’s men thundered after them, Heinz-Mark at their head. So many.

Schwarzhelm remained unmoving. His face dripped with blood. Helborg’s blood. Amid all the tumult, still no one approached him. As if warned away by some unnatural force, the swordsmen stayed away.

All except one. Verstohlen dismounted. The spy walked up to him, concern etched on his face.

“You answered my call,” he said.

Schwarzhelm didn’t reply. He couldn’t take his eyes off the Klingerach, lying discarded on the stone. He walked over to the sword and picked it up. He held the blades together for a moment, comparing the lengths of steel. They were so alike. Only the notch in the Sword of Vengeance marked it out. Otherwise, they were sister weapons.

Verstohlen came to his side.

“You were right to stop him, my lord. Even the mightiest can turn to darkness.”

Schwarzhelm turned to face him. All around them, men streamed from the square. The remainder of Leitdorf’s forces were being hunted down. What-fighting remained was brutal and self-contained. The murderous chase had begun through the streets and alleys of Averheim.

“Darkness has been at work here,” said Schwarzhelm thickly. The words left his throat with effort. “Your words bring me no comfort.”

“They should. Leitdorf would have turned this place into a slaughterhouse. You can feel it in the air.”

Schwarzhelm looked off into the distance. His eyes swept the square, now littered with bodies.

“He was the mightiest of us all, Pieter. Never have I regretted a kill to this day. And now…”

He felt his voice begin to break, and tailed off. If this was victory, it left a bitter taste. He lingered for a moment longer, staring at the spot where Helborg had fallen. Then he finally turned, allowing himself to be led from the scene by Verstohlen. Slowly, haltingly, the two men walked from the battlefield. Behind them, the last of the fighting in the square limped to its bloody conclusion. None hindered their passing.

Through war and treachery, the succession of Averland had been decided. Heinz-Mark Grosslich would take up the runefang, and Leitdorf would be cast into damnation.

Chapter Seventeen

Hundreds of miles away at the other end of the province, Bloch looked up at the looming peaks of the Worlds Edge Mountains, darkening quickly as the sun went down. Though his army was still in the pasture country of Averland’s eastern marches, the land was now rising steeply. Soon they’d be in the foothills, the treacherous, uneven landscape they’d surveyed before encountering the orcs. Then their path would take them higher, far up the winding gullies and coombs towards Black Fire Pass.

He felt a shiver pass through him. After so many days of unremitting heat, the weather had begun to turn at last. With the sunset, the air had chilled appreciably. He pulled his cloak around him. Perhaps the summer was finally coming to an end.

“Cold, commander?”

Kraus had a look of mild amusement on his weather-beaten face. The man didn’t say much, but Bloch was still glad to have him at his shoulder. Schwarzhelm had been generous to lend the honour guard captain to him for the remainder of the campaign. Either that, or he didn’t quite trust Bloch enough to lead an army on his own.

“Not as cold as I’m going to be,” he muttered.

He looked back over the column behind him. Over two thousand men, all well rested and resupplied, followed him and Kraus along the Old Dwarf Road. The men had proper weapons and armour again. They looked in good spirits. A baggage train, stocked with food and barrels of ale, trundled along in their wake. The folk of Grenzstadt had been grateful for the relief from the orc attacks. To provision the army that had saved them was the least they could have done, but the stocks were still appreciated. After all those days living hand-to-mouth in the wilderness, it certainly made a change.

Beyond the toiling figures of the troops, the wide landscape of Averland yawned away towards the horizon. Even in the failing light, Bloch could see for miles. The road ran like a ribbon across the gently rolling hills, heading west towards Grenzstadt. The town itself lay in the distance, looking peaceful and prosperous. Unlike Heideck, the place had defended itself well from the remnants of the orc raiders and the task of relieving it had been straightforward. Now the few greenskin stragglers had been driven up into the hills and the campaign had entered its final stages.

After Grenzstadt the plains gradually disappeared into the haze of the gathering sunset. Far on the western horizon, it looked like rain clouds were gathering. A storm, even. That would be welcome for those who’d endured the oppressive heat for so long. Maybe things were changing at last. Out here, Schwarzhelm’s pessimism seemed strangely misplaced.

“Have you traversed the pass before, Herr Kraus?” Bloch asked, turning from the view.

“Many times. But not always to fight. It is a holy place, after all.”

Bloch knew what he meant. For all the cathedrals to Sigmar across the Empire, the high pass through the Worlds Edge Mountains was still the place where children learned of the deeds of their God-Emperor. It was in the narrow defiles, lost in the wearing years, where the race of men had teetered on the edge of oblivion and had been pulled back by the actions of a single man.

“Aye, that it is.” For once, Bloch couldn’t think of a wry comment. There were some things a loyal Empire soldier didn’t joke about.

He turned back to the march. They had a long haul to get past before the first of the many massive granite crags that reared above them, flecked with white and scored with a thousand cracks and gullies. Beyond that, the way would get harder. These roads weren’t travelled lightly, even in summer. He felt the shiver return, and worked to quell it. It wouldn’t do to look weak before the men, many of whom had fought as hard as he had to get there alive.

But there was one nagging feeling in the back of his mind that wouldn’t leave him. The Black Fire Pass was heavily guarded. As the only route into Averland from outside the Empire, a whole garrison of seasoned soldiers was stationed at the mouth of the pass in order to seal the narrow passage. They should have been able to hold the greenskins back. That was what they were there for. Either there was some explanation for the incursion, or the keep in the mountains would be full of bodies. Neither of those choices filled Bloch with enthusiasm for the climb ahead.

He put his head down and kept walking. There was nothing for it but to keep going. Schwarzhelm had charged him with discovering what had happened at Black Fire Pass, and he wouldn’t return before he’d uncovered the mystery.

Pieter Verstohlen awoke late. He shifted and immediately felt the stabbing pains in his muscles. For a moment, he didn’t register where he was. Then the events of the previous night came rushing back. He could still taste the ash from the fires on his lips. He lay still for a moment, remembering. They were not pleasant memories.

After a while, he pushed the covers back with stiff hands. It was nearly midday, but his chamber was still dark, shuttered against the bright sun. His chest was clammy from the heat. Even after the thunderstorm during the night, Averheim was still warm.

Gingerly, he swung his legs from the sheets and limped over to the window. He pulled the shutters open and sunlight flooded in. His chamber was high up in the western front of the Averburg. He had a commanding view over the entire city. The Aver lay far below, glittering in the sun. It looked somehow cleaner. The last of the fires had burned themselves out. The palls of smoke that had hung over the city had cleared. The storm had done some good in dousing them.

There was a pitcher of clear water by the sill. Verstohlen took a long swig. He felt the cool liquid run down his throat, soothing his parched flesh. He reached up and carefully felt for the bloody lump on the side of his head. His hair was matted with dry scabs and the flesh beneath was tender. That had been a hard fall. Not a very distinguished way to receive a battlefield wound, even from so mighty a hand.

There was a quiet knock on the door. Verstohlen reached for a robe and wrapped himself in it.

“Come.”

Tochfel entered. The man looked tired. How long had it been since Verstohlen had last seen him? Many days ago. The last hurried conversation they’d snatched seemed like an age away.

“I’ve tried to see you twice already,” the Steward said. “I wondered if you’d sleep all day.”

Verstohlen smiled politely. If the old fool had been in the midst of the fighting himself, he might have been less snide.

“Take a seat, Steward. How have you been?”

Tochfel pulled a chair from by the wall. Verstohlen sat on the side of bed. As the straw mattress yielded, he found himself wishing he could crawl back under the sheets. The rest had been too short.

“There’ve been some… adjustments to make here.” Tochfel looked rueful. “Ferenc Alptraum runs this place now. He’s retained my services in the meantime. That’s something, I suppose.”

“There’ve been many hasty decisions made recently,” said Verstohlen. “Some of them may have to be rescinded. Where is the Lord Schwarzhelm?”

“He sleeps still. Since you both returned, none have dared to rouse him. Perhaps you’d noticed that beforehand he’d not seemed to be sleeping too well. We can hope, perhaps, that the rest will make him less… unpredictable.”

“He’s always been unpredictable. And there have been forces working against him that would have killed a lesser man. Against all of us. Verena willing, we’ve ended that now.”

Tochfel nodded. “I think that is becoming apparent, even to those who doubted him.”

“And where’s Grosslich?”

“The Elector Designate still rides. Leitdorf has not been found. But the city is being purged of his followers. The witch hunters have been summoned.” At that, Tochfel gave Verstohlen a look of reproach. “Perhaps they should have been summoned days ago, when some of you first had suspicions.”

Verstohlen raised an eyebrow. “A criticism, Herr Tochfel?”

The Steward quickly averted his eyes. “I’m sure you acted as you thought best. In any case, Lord Alptraum has commissioned Odo Heidegger, an experienced hand in such matters. Our own Temple in Averheim seems to have been… disturbed by the recent events, and there are no witch hunters to be found in the city.” Tochfel gave Verstohlen a significant look, as if to suggest that fact was hardly coincidental. “Heidegger is master of the Temples on the Alptraum ancestral lands. He’ll be in Averheim soon. Then the rooting out of heresy will begin in earnest.”

Verstohlen felt his heart sink at the prospect. It could hardly be opposed, given what had happened, though the thought of more savagery being unleashed depressed him.

“Ferenc’s moved quickly. Until Grosslich receives the runefang, Schwarzhelm is still the authority here.”

“What would you have him do? It is the great enemy we’re dealing with here.”

Again, the tone was accusatory.

“You seem to have come around to his mastery with some speed, Herr Tochfel,” said Verstohlen, looking at the steward carefully. “Grosslich will replace you as ruler of this city. Do you not mind that?”

Tochfel smiled sadly.

“Such is life. The right choice has been made.”

“And what of Alptraum?”

“As I say, he commands the Averburg. He was marshalling the defences here while Lord Grosslich was fighting last night. I gather that decision did not go down well. Alptraum thought it important to ensure that certain records in our archives were… looked after. His family has a long history in this place. Perhaps there are facts he would rather weren’t widely available.”

“Understandable.” Verstohlen began to cast his mind forward. The worst of the fighting was over but there was still much to do before Averheim could return to normal. Grosslich would have to be invested. The witch hunters, regrettably enough, were best qualified to root out the last of Leitdorfs heresy. A court of inquiry would no doubt be set up. And of course there were still mysteries to uncover about the Reiksguard.

“You say Leitdorf is still at large. Where is his wife?”

“Nothing has been seen of her. Troops are moving through the city as we speak, hunting her down.”

“I should be with them,” said Verstohlen, rising from the bed.

Tochfel raised his hand warningly.

“There will be time for that, counsellor. If you place weight on anything I say, I’d counsel you to rest a little longer. The coming days will be hard on all of us. Enjoy some respite while you can.”

Verstohlen hesitated. The man spoke sense, though it was not in his nature to rest while others laboured.

“Very well,” he said, relaxing. “I’ll dress and be with you shortly.”

Tochfel rose awkwardly. It looked like he’d aged years over the past few weeks. No doubt such excitement was not what he’d hoped for out of life.

“Perhaps we can talk again later,” he said, moving to the door. “There are some things about this affair I still don’t understand.”

Verstohlen knew what he meant.

“That would be good, Steward,” he said, trying to keep his voice untroubled. “No doubt we shall have much to discuss.”

Schwarzhelm sank further into the deep, deep pool of sleep. He felt like he was floating in a vast, warm abyss. The layers of water pressed down on him, enveloping him, imprisoning him, protecting him. The outside world was a lifetime away. Its cares, its terrors, were all hidden. As long as he languished in the deep places, they couldn’t reach him. He was alone, forgotten, safe.

He dived down further, pushing against the languid water, feeling it slide past his battered body. There was nothing around him. No fish, no drifting plants. This was the isolation he had always craved, the sense of being alone he hadn’t enjoyed since being a child.

Then he saw it, far below. A shape, tumbling down into the infinite darkness. It spun lazily in the current, twisting and falling. Schwarzhelm kicked his legs and plunged towards it. His powerful limbs pushed him through the water. Long before he reached the tumbling form below, he knew what it was. He tried to stop then, but his momentum carried him down and down. The water grew darker and colder. Suddenly he became aware how far he’d come. He might not be able to return, even if he wanted to.

Then the body rolled over. Its motion was sluggish. Helborg’s limbs dragged in the water like trailing weeds. The flesh was pale, reflecting the last of the sunlight filtering from the surface. The mouth was open, fixed in a stare of outrage and accusation.

Schwarzhelm flailed, trying to swim back up, away from the corpse. He was dragged down, faster and faster. The current had him now. The water became icy.

Helborg’s empty eyes stared at him. They’d been pecked out, just like the soldiers’ eyes in the barn. His flesh was bone-white. Parts of it had begun to flake away, drifting off into the abyss like fragments of china.

Schwarzhelm felt the horror well up within him, choking him. He could no longer hold his breath. He felt his lungs begin to ache. Whatever he did, he couldn’t push himself up.

Helborg’s shoulder rotated into view. The wound was still there, still pumping blood into the water. It would never heal, never be made right.

Schwarzhelm felt the ache turn to a sharp pain. He couldn’t take a breath. He was drowning. He rolled over, desperate to look away from the cadaver below. Far up above, he could see the play of sunlight on the surface. He’d never reach it. It was too far. He was too tired. Too weak. His guilt weighed him down like lead. It dragged him down.

His lungs gave out. He opened his mouth. The water rushed in.

Schwarzhelm lurched awake. With a warrior’s instinct he sat bolt upright, hands searching for his weapon. His bedclothes were tangled across him. Some had been thrown to the floor. His palms were dripping with sweat. He breathed heavily, drawing in the air with relief.

He was safe. He was in the Averburg. He wasn’t alone.

Opposite him, sitting on a low stool at the foot of bed, a man was waiting for him.

“Bad dreams?” he said.

Schwarzhelm still felt disorientated. The dream still hadn’t quite left him. For a moment, he didn’t recognise who was speaking.

Then Verstohlen’s face crystallised. Schwarzhelm felt his memory return. For the first time in weeks, he’d slept through the night. Though his dreams had remained vivid, they hadn’t shaken him awake. Something had changed. The mental oppression that had plagued him for so long had lifted. The air felt purer. He took a deep breath, feeling it fill his mighty chest.

“What are you doing here?”

“Forgive the intrusion. I was worried about you.”

“That’s not your job.”

“It’s always been my job.”

Schwarzhelm scowled. He didn’t like the protective tone in Verstohlen’s voice. He pushed himself from the bed. There was a robe hanging nearby, and he donned it. Despite the heavy slumber, he felt strangely alert. His body was still filthy. As he moved, he could feel the crack of the dried blood across his skin. His beard felt heavy and matted. How had he let himself get into such a state?

“How long have I been asleep?”

“The day is nearly past. I’d say you needed the rest.”

Schwarzhelm grunted. He walked over to a pitcher of water and doused his face. The liquid dripped back red. He scrubbed at his eyes and old blood streamed back into the water below. None of it was his.

“How stands the city?”

“Grosslich’s still hunting Leitdorf’s men down. They’ve rounded up some of his captains who were too slow to get out. There’s a witch hunter court of enquiry being set up.”

Schwarzhelm’s face creased with disapproval. Like his counsellor, he hated witch hunters. Every right-thinking man hated witch hunters.

“Things seem to be in hand, then.”

Verstohlen gave him a significant look.

“Yet you still look troubled.”

Schwarzhelm gave him an irritated look. Verstohlen could be like an old woman at times.

“Grosslich had better remember who put him in this position,” he growled. “I want no further actions taken until I’ve given the orders for them.”

“He’ll be back in the citadel tonight.”

“Good. We’ll talk then.”

“And is there anything else you wish to discuss, my lord?”

Schwarzhelm paused. Verstohlen was his counsellor, not his confessor. “Helborg.”

There was a long silence. The Swords of Vengeance and Justice hung next to one another by the bed. One had a scabbard, the other was naked. Schwarzhelm felt the grief rush back, as if it had been unlocked by saying the name.

“He was riding with Leitdorf,” said Verstohlen, quietly. “A proven traitor.”

“I only have your word for that, Pieter. In the heat of battle—”

“You didn’t see what I did.”

“Exactly.”

Verstohlen looked agitated then. That was strange. The man was normally so calm.

“We did the right thing, my lord. The Leitdorfs were damned! Whatever Helborg was doing supporting them is his affair. The enemy has corrupted greater men.”

As Verstohlen spoke, Schwarzhelm remembered the scraps of parchment by the road. They had planted the seed of doubt in his mind, the suspicion that had come to such dreadful fruition in the Vormeisterplatz. Strange to have stumbled across the proof of treachery so far out into the wilds. Perhaps it had been Sigmar guiding him. Or maybe some other force.

He didn’t want to discuss it any further. The pain was too raw. He needed to think, to reflect.

“I feel like I’ve not been myself these past few days,” he muttered.

“And how do you feel now?”

Schwarzhelm paused.

“Better.”

“Then there is your proof. We have broken the hold of that witch over Averheim. Do you not sense it in the air? There had been corruption here for far too long. Subtle corruption. There are things a sorcerer can do, ways of influencing the mood of a place. They have been attacking you, my lord, maybe even before you arrived. You know the truth of this.” Verstohlen looked at him earnestly as he spoke. “He was as fervent as ever in his denunciation of Chaos.”

“We have beaten them. The court of enquiry will vindicate us. Leitdorf and his bitch will be found. Then the truth will emerge. Take comfort in this. We have beaten them.”

Schwarzhelm began to reply, but then changed his mind. Verstohlen was right. Something did seem to have changed. And yet, deep within, like a worm coiled around the core of a ripe apple, the seed of doubt had been laid. If he’d been wrong about Helborg, if it had been his pent-up jealousy that had truly wielded the Sword of Justice, then he would never forgive himself.

“I trust you’re right, counsellor,” was all he said.

Skarr called the knights to a halt. Night was falling and they needed somewhere to lay low for the night. It had been a hard ride to escape Grosslich’s men, and the horses shivered with exhaustion.

The young knight Eissen rode up to him. He looked ready for fresh fighting. Like all Reiksguard he hated flying before the enemy, though he’d understood the need to withdraw. In the aftermath of the fighting at Averheim, Grosslich had been able to send hundreds of troops after them. In the battle to get out of the city many of the Reiksguard had been cut down. Skarr’s company now numbered less than fifty, half the number Helborg had led into combat.

More importantly, they couldn’t fight while the Marshal remained so close to death. As long as Helborg remained unconscious, they would act to preserve him. That was the only task left for them. Averland politics, and vengeance, could wait.

“How is he?” asked Skarr.

Eissen shrugged.

“The same, preceptor. The wound is deep.”

Skarr looked over to Helborg’s horse. The Marshal had been strapped to the saddle, propped up by a knight riding behind him. His face was white, his eyes closed. The bandages he’d hastily tied over the wound were soaked with blood again.

“We can’t ride further tonight,” said Skarr. He looked over to an isolated copse in the field beyond. It wasn’t much, but at least it was cover. “We’ll set up camp there. Bring the Marshal down carefully.”

What remained of the Reiksguard Company rode across the field and dismounted under the eaves of the trees. Helborg was borne from his saddle with all the reverence given to the remains of an Imperial saint and placed carefully on the dry earth.

Skarr knelt over him with fresh bandages. There were not many left. Working quickly, he untied the blood-soaked cloth. Though hardened by years of battle injuries, the wound in Helborg’s shoulder was still a shock. Schwarzhelm’s sword had pierced deep, lifting up the flesh and boring beneath the shoulder plate. It was bleeding profusely, though thankfully not as strongly as it had done when he’d first tended to it. Many men would have perished from a blow as severe. Even Helborg looked near death, his breathing shallow. He had drifted into a fever. His pale forehead was clammy.

“Make a fire,” ordered Skarr, tearing fresh strips of bandage. “I don’t care if we’re seen. I need hot water.”

He set to work, cleaning the wound and picking out the old scraps of cloth around the angry weal. Thankfully no metal had broken off in the flesh. The Sword of Justice had bitten true and the laceration was clean.

As Skarr worked, Helborg began to wince. The pain seemed to half-revive him. His eyes flickered open. He tried to speak, but no words came from his parched throat.

“Give him water,” ordered Skarr. A knight came forward bearing a gourd. The man managed to tip a few drops into Helborg’s mouth. The Marshal swallowed a few before breaking into an anguished coughing. “Enough. Tell me when you have boiling water.”

The brushwood on the copse floor was dry after weeks of heavy sun, and the fire crackled into life quickly. A helmet was filled with some of the scarce drinking water and placed over the flames. After a few minutes it reached boiling point and was brought over.

Skarr took a needle, gut thread and a pouch of dried herbs from the saddlebag of his mount. He emptied the contents of the pouch into the boiling water. Immediately a caustic aroma sprang up, making his eyes water. In its fresh state, healwort was an effective ward against contagion setting in. It was less efficacious when dried and stored, but still better then nothing. Skarr cleaned the wound with the infused water, sluicing the last remnants of foreign matter from the blood-red flesh. Then he threaded the iron needle and placed it against the edge of the broken skin. Helborg looked like he’d drifted back into unconsciousness. Skarr began to sew, pulling the flaps of skin tightly. He was accustomed to such work, having acted as a makeshift apothecary for years. All Reiksguard knew how to stitch up a blade wound.

With the laceration closed, he began to wind fresh sheets of bandage across it. He finished with a layer of leather strapping before replacing the jerkin on top. Even before he was finished he saw the spider-like tendrils of crimson begin to appear again.

Skarr stood up, putting the needle and thread away. He felt no confidence in his work. Helborg needed the services of a real apothecary. The longer they stayed out in the wilds, the worse his condition would get.

“What are we going to do about him?” Eissen had come to his shoulder. He gestured towards the sullen figure of Leitdorf. The deposed count huddled far from the fire, watched over carefully by his guards. Skarr felt a sudden flush of anger. This was all because of that wretched, figure.

“Douse the fire,” he ordered. “Organise a watch party. I’ll speak to him.”

He strode over to Rufus, his expression dark. As he approached, Leitdorf shrank back even further, looking like he’d seen a wraith.

“Now then, my lord,” said Skarr, lacing his words with heavy irony. “I think it’s time you explained what in Morr’s name happened back there.” He crouched down opposite the shaking figure and looked him directly in the eye.

“Tell me everything.”

Bloch shaded his eyes. The cold had grown steadily. Ahead of him, the Worlds Edge Mountains reared their lofty peaks towards the sky. The flint-grey cliffs soared ever higher, flecked with frost and lingering snow at the summits. The walls of rock were massive, far higher than those of the Drakwald or the Mittebergen. Truly, Bloch saw how the range had earned its name. As he gazed at the mist-shrouded peaks in the distance, piled atop one another in an endless series of stone faces, gullies and terraces, it seemed indeed that they marked the limits of the realm of mortals. Whatever lay beyond such vast pinnacles must have been shut out for a reason. This was where the jurisdiction of the Emperor ran out. The lands on the far side could surely be nothing but blasted wastes.

The army had already climbed far. As they’d travelled, storms had passed over them, moving swiftly westward. As if to compensate for the weeks of unbroken sun, now the world threw heaps of storm cloud at the lush pastures of Averland. The wind was biting. Bloch found himself missing the hammering heat of the lowlands. He’d cursed it when he’d been marching through it, but even that sweltering weather was better than the endless swirling gusts of ice-wind in the high peaks.

He looked up. Even so high up, the road was wide and well ordered. The engineers who had carved the way had been artisans of the highest order. That didn’t prevent some perilous passages as the path twisted up into the heights. Ahead of him, the route passed under a cliff edge on the right-hand side. To his left, the stone fell away sharply. A deep ravine had been carved into the living rock and the sound of running water echoed between the buttresses of stone. Beyond that the landscape dissolved into a tumble of windblasted outcrops and crags on either side of the path.

Kraus came to stand at his shoulder.

“We loop around that cairn?” Bloch asked, pointing to a conical pile of rocks at the summit of a typically fractured rise. On either side of it, the going looked tough. Scree littered every exposed surface.

Kraus squinted up at the rising stone. The sunlight reflected harshly from the cold rock, and his old face wrinkled as he studied the way ahead.

“Aye. There’ll be a way-fort soon. But we’re still far from the passes.”

“How far?”

“A day. Maybe two.”

Bloch felt his heart sink. They’d already spent more time than he’d have liked hauling themselves up into the mountains. The sooner they reached the fortress at the head of the pass, the better.

“You’re not filling me with confidence.”

“Two days, then. I’d bet on it.”

“How much?”

“A schilling.”

“You’re a tight bastard, Kraus, and you’re still not filling me with confidence.”

Kraus laughed. It was a tough, grating sound. The man looked almost as battered as the stone around him.

Then Bloch saw the shadow against the rock. He tensed immediately.

“See that?” he hissed, grabbing his halberd.

Kraus was ahead of him. He dropped into a half crouch, pulling the sword from its scabbard with a swift movement.

“Aye,” he whispered. His eyes narrowed.

Bloch turned and frantically signalled to the men toiling up the ridge behind him. They halted, and the order passed down the ranks quickly. The only sound was the serried drawing of weapons. They’d already encountered the last fragments of the orc army in the foothills. Bloch had assumed they’d finished off the last of them. Perhaps not.

He looked back up. The wind moaned against the granite. Everything looked empty.

“What d’you think?” he whispered, peering up at the cliffs.

Kraus shrugged. “Maybe noth—”

He never finished his sentence. From the cliff above them, dark forms fell. Bloch tried to get his halberd in position, but he was far too slow. Before he knew what had happened, Kraus and he were surrounded by nearly a dozen men. They were dressed in Imperial garb modified for the cold. Most had fur-lined jerkins, cloaks and heavy leather boots. The colours suited the mountains around them; grey, pale, drab. From a distance, one would never have known they were there.

Bloch froze. He found himself staring down the bronze barrel of a long gun. At the other end of it, carefully shielding the cord, a man with a grey moustache and thin lips was staring at him. He didn’t look friendly.

“State your business,” he growled. His voice sounded almost as harsh as Kraus’. At the edge of his vision, Bloch could see the other intruders move to disarm the guard captain. Three of them had guns. The rest carried crossbows, all loaded with bolts.

“Who’s asking?” said Bloch, working hard to maintain his dignity. He didn’t like having a gun pointed in his face. He also didn’t like people being rude to him.

The man smiled coldly.

“You’re not in a position to be asking questions, master halberdier.”

“Oh yes? You might want to take that up with the men behind me.”

“They’ll not attack while we hold you.”

“Don’t be so sure. I’m a tyrant. They might be pleased to see me dead.”

The gunner smiled again. He let the gun drop.

“Something tells me you’re not like the others.”

Bloch relaxed his shoulders. His fingers had been clenched tight around the halberd, ready to swing it up in a sudden movement. He let them loosen. All around him, the other gunners lowered their barrels. But they kept the guns to hand.

“What others?”

“First tell me who you are. This is my country.”

“Fair enough. I am Commander Markus Bloch, charged by the Lord Schwarzhelm to drive the greenskins from Averland and reinforce the passes. This is Captain Kraus of the general’s honour guard. You’d better introduce yourself now. Some of my men have itchy trigger fingers of their own. I’d hate you to take a stray bullet now we’ve become such good friends.”

“Schwarzhelm, eh?” said the man, looking impressed. “I’d heard he was headed for Averland.” He gestured to his men, and they stood down. He extended a gnarled hand to Bloch. “Captain Helmut Drassler, bergsjaeger of the passes.”

Bloch looked blank.

“The what?”

“Mountain guard. Since the greenskins came through, we’ve been stretched. There aren’t many of us left up here.”

“You saw them come through? Then you can explain how they got past the defences.”

Drassler gave him a bleak look. “Aye, that I can. The news can wait, though. We’re not far from shelter. I’ll guide you there and your men can rest. Then I’ll tell you what you need to know. But I warn you, you’re not going to like it.”.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” muttered Bloch.

“You wish to know everything?”

Skarr studied Leitdorfs face carefully. The man’s expression was a mixture of contempt, confusion and fear. He seemed to oscillate between the emotions quite freely, as if he couldn’t quite believe his aspirations had entirely been taken from him.

“That’s what I asked for.”

“Give me a reason why I should speak to you, Reiksguard. You deprived me of my moment of triumph.”

Skarr rolled his eyes. This was going to test his patience.

“Perhaps I should set out the facts as I see them. We were summoned to Averheim to reinforce the forces of the Steward. He claimed, rightly as it turned out, that the city was descending into civil war. This is the war we rode into. The war you instigated.”

“That’s a lie.”

“You can give your excuses later. All I know is that I saw you fighting at the head of your troops. It didn’t look much like legal debate to me. The troubling question is this. Why was Schwarzhelm fighting with your enemy? What had you done to provoke his anger?”

Leitdorf let slip a sly smile.

“You really expect me to answer for him? The man is mad. You saw that yourself. If he wasn’t, your Marshal would still be walking on his own two feet.”

“There was madness in the air that night, I’ll grant you. But I’ve fought alongside the Emperor’s Champion before. There’s something you’re not telling me.”

Leitdorf snorted derisively.

“Must I know the contents of every man’s mind?” He leaned forward. A strange, rather frantic light was in his eyes. “If you’d been in Averheim these past few weeks, you’d have seen what your precious Emperor’s Champion was like. He’d become a laughing stock. Averland has always had a weakness for mad governors. Schwarzhelm was no exception. I heard tales of screaming from his chambers. Screaming. Even his own men couldn’t control him. He was like a man possessed.”

Skarr remembered how Schwarzhelm had looked in the Vormeisterplatz. The image was uncomfortably close.

“I don’t know what Grosslich did to subvert him,” continued Leitdorf. “Really, I don’t. If I knew, I might have tried it myself. But don’t be taken in by my rival’s good looks and charm. He has no claim to the electorship at all. He’s a front, a screen for the ambitions of the Alptraum family. His blood is as common as a milkmaid’s. In fact, his mother probably was a milkmaid.”

Skarr began to feel troubled. He was used to receiving the testimony of captives, and Leitdorf didn’t have the look of a man lying to save his skin. The man was arrogant, cowardly and prickly to be sure, but the words had an uncomfortable air of truth about them.

“Listen to me, preceptor,” Leitdorf went on, moderating his tone somewhat. “I’ll not try to deceive you. I’m no saint of Shallya. My wife and I have been involved in the importation of some slightly illicit substances. Since Leopold died it’s been the only way to raise the funds we needed. And I won’t try to pretend we didn’t hire men of dubious origin to help defend our people. But Grosslich was no different. That’s how politics has always been done here. The fact of the matter is that it was he who started this war, backed up by Schwarzhelm and his entourage.” Leitdorf looked suddenly reflective. “Perhaps I hadn’t appreciated quite how much certain people didn’t want to see a Leitdorf back in power. That might be something to think about.”

Skarr looked across at the prone body of Helborg, lying between the roots of a great oak. His breathing looked painfully shallow.

“Grosslich hunts you still,” said Skarr grimly. “Though I can scarcely believe it myself, they want Lord Helborg dead too. We’ve been drawn into this madness. If there’s been deception, then we’re now a party to it. We must return to Nuln before the Marshal’s condition worsens. Wiser heads than mine must decide what to do about Schwarzhelm.”

Leitdorf looked scornful.

“Is this Reiksguard tactical thinking? No wonder the war goes badly. Listen, you’re deep into Averland. We’ve been driven east. The routes to the river are crawling with Grosslich’s men. Even fifty Reiksguard can’t take on a whole army. If you try, your man will surely die.”

“I take it you have an alternative suggestion.”

“Of course. My estates are closer than Nuln. Far closer. I have men there I can trust. We can remain hidden there until the Marshal has recovered. I can build up my strength. Trust me, this affair is not over yet. Whatever the Estates decide, I am the rightful heir of my father. I intend to claim the runefang for my own.”

“Grosslich will move against you soon. He’ll know where your loyal subjects are.”

“He can’t do everything at once. Averheim will take time to pacify. He’ll expect us to flee for Nuln. That’s what I’d do, in his place.”

Skarr paused. The man was probably right. There was no way they could fight against Grosslich’s men with Helborg in such a condition. If they tried to force their way north, he would surely die.

“Do you have healers?”

“Petrus Clock is the finest physician east of Altdorf. He’ll be there. If he can’t restore your Marshal to health, then no one will.”

“How far?”

Leitdorf shrugged.

“With a fast horse, two days. But more if we need to stay hidden and keep the Marshal alive. That’s still half the distance to Nuln though, and it’s my family’s country. We’ll be amongst friends.”

Skarr looked down at his hands. The choice was unappealing. Leitdorf was flighty and erratic, but he could hardly deny that the situation was desperate. For all he knew, Schwarzhelm himself led the search for them. If that was true, then trying to fight their way west would be worse than folly.

“I’ll make my decision in the morning,” he said, standing once more. “This requires thought. In the meantime, keep your head down. I’ve been given the order to protect you, but if you give away our position or try to escape, don’t expect any mercy from me.”

Leitdorf nodded. He looked chastened.

“Of course. And I’ll remember this when I come to be elector. I never forget a kindness, preceptor.”

Skarr looked at him in disbelief.

“You still think, after all of this, you’ll end up with the runefang?”

Leitdorf smiled broadly. There was a pale gleam in his eyes.

“Fear not,” he said. “There are forces at work the likes of Schwarzhelm have no idea about. One in particular. She’s still in Averheim. They haven’t found her yet. They won’t catch her. I’d know if they had.”

Skarr almost asked him what he was talking about, but then decided against it. Night was falling fast, and there were things to organise. Leitdorf had the look of an obsessed man, drifting into raving. He’d listened to enough of those in his time.

“So you say, Herr Leitdorf,” he said, walking back to his men. “So you say.”

Chapter Eighteen

Schwarzhelm stood in one of the Averburg’s many audience chambers. The walls were panelled with an austere dark wood and candles burned in ornate brass fittings. Tapestries marking the province’s military history had been hung from the hammerbeam roof. There were imaginative renderings of past orc incursions among them.

Schwarzhelm suppressed a wry snort of disdain when he saw those. Perhaps in ages past the Averlanders had been more capable of defending their own soil.

Verstohlen leaned over towards him. There were just the two of them in the chamber.

“He’s coming.”

Schwarzhelm nodded. A moment later, the twin doors at the far end of the chamber swung apart. Grosslich walked in. He was flanked by four of his commanders. They were dressed in full battle armour, some of it scarred from use. They were all wearing colours Schwarzhelm hadn’t seen before. Red lined with gold. An ostentatious choice for the new dynasty.

“I asked Herr Alptraum to join us,” said Schwarzhelm.

“He is indisposed at present,” said Grosslich, coming to stand squarely in front of the Emperor’s Champion.

“That may be. He’s still been summoned.”

“I’ll remind him of the importance of following orders when I next see him,” said Grosslich. He placed a particular emphasis on following orders. Schwarzhelm saw Verstohlen raise an eyebrow.

“Do that. Have your men discovered Leitdorf?”

“His forces in the city have been utterly destroyed. We uncovered six safe houses in the poor quarter from where the joyroot trade was administered. They have all been burned and their contents destroyed. The supply lines—”

“That’s all very interesting, Herr Grosslich. It’s not what I asked you.”

Grosslich appeared to flush. He had a straightforward manner about him. That was good for a soldier, less good for an elector.

“Not yet. The Reiksguard took him with them. All the roads to the north-west are watched. I have horsemen sweeping the countryside.”

“He has estates to the east, is that not so?”

“He does, my lord, but—”

“He will head there. You’re wasting your time guarding the river.”

“Your pardon, but there are at least two dozen Reiksguard with him. We can’t watch every possible route. It seemed best to me to prevent his flight from the province.”

“You’ve given him time to regroup. Send your men east at once. If you don’t destroy the nest, the viper will return.”

Grosslich looked chastened. Schwarzhelm gave him no respite. The man had assumed that taking on the mantle of elector would be straightforward. He had to be disabused of that.

“Are the witch hunters in the city yet?”

“They are, my lord. The courts of enquiry have been placed in session.”

Schwarzhelm felt a tremor of distaste. He knew what that meant. The instruments of agony. Still, such were their methods. The great enemy could not be defeated with pleasant words and gentle persuasion.

“You will instruct them to meet me this evening. You’re not elector yet, Herr Grosslich. Until you have my word on it, I still carry the Imperial authority here.”

“Of course. I didn’t presume—”

“What are your plans for securing the city? There can be no coronation until the traitors have been rooted out.”

Grosslich looked on firmer ground then. Tactics were something he understood. They both did. As the simplest level, the two of them were soldiers and nothing more.

“Those who served closest to Leitdorf have been disarmed. The captains have been surrendered to the witch hunters for examination. The ordinary troops, including those with feudal ties to my rival, have been released. I will have no bloody reprisals here. The city has suffered enough.”

“You’re confident you can maintain order?”

“I have a thousand men-at-arms already in the city. More are on their way. Herr Alptraum has been most generous with his family’s wealth. As long as they’ve not served in Leitdorf’s inner circle, I will turn no willing recruit away. Averland’s army needs rebuilding.”

Schwarzhelm grunted with approval. That was certainly true.

“You will send me documents concerning your revenue and deployment plans. Only when I’m satisfied that the city is secure will I set the investiture in motion. I want regular reports on progress. And while Leitdorf is at large, the eyes of the Emperor will be closely watching you here.”

Grosslich bowed.

“I understand.”

“Have you found Natassja?” interjected Verstohlen. Always Natassja. The man seemed obsessed with her.

“She remains free, I regret to say, but I have as many men searching for her as I do for her husband. We’ve taken your warnings seriously, counsellor.”

“I’m glad of it. She is at the heart of the whole thing. Perhaps even Leitdorf doesn’t know what her full plans are. There’s no doubt she remains dangerous. Do not be complacent. The great enemy is ever stronger and more enduring than it first appears.”

Grosslich couldn’t resist a smile. The man was flush with victory, and such warnings must have seemed pointless.

“So you’ve been telling me ever since this affair began,” he said. He looked amused, but there was no malice in his voice. “Trust me. I’ve been fighting against these people for two years. Their powers have already proved weaker than they hoped for. She will be found.”

Verstohlen didn’t look reassured.

“Make sure of it,” he said. “She may be in the city still.”

Schwarzhelm turned back to Grosslich.

“That is all for now,” he said. “You may return to your men.”

Grosslich made to leave, then hesitated. “My lord,” he said, looking uncertainly at Schwarzhelm. “I haven’t thanked you yet.” Schwarzhelm scowled. This was unnecessary. “Herr Grosslich—”

“Please. Hear me out. Perhaps I didn’t give you the credit you deserved when you first arrived. It’s clear to me now that not all was as it appeared. I wouldn’t have believed that a man like Helborg could turn, not if I hadn’t seen it myself. We couldn’t have stood against him. In my arrogance I thought to challenge him myself. Now that my blood has cooled I realise it would have been my death to do so. Had you not arrived when you did—”

“Enough,” snapped Schwarzhelm. He knew the man meant well, but to even think of it caused him pain. “We will not speak of it. Is there anything else?”

Grosslich hesitated, then shook his head. “I understand,” he said. “Then return to your duties.”

Grosslich and his captains turned and headed from the chamber. As they left, the heavy doors closed behind them with a clang. Schwarzhelm and Verstohlen were alone again. For some moments, neither of them spoke.

“Have we done the right thing here, Pieter?” asked Schwarzhelm. He made no effort to hide the concern in his voice.

“I have no doubt of it. You’re letting your friendship cloud your mind. Do not dwell on it.”

“Friendship? It’s not been that for years.” Schwarzhelm frowned. “He was a great man. It will break the Emperor’s heart.”

“None of us are immune.”

“That is the truth,” said Schwarzhelm. “Though I wish with all my heart it were otherwise.”

The great hall of the Averburg was dark. Even though the sun blazed outside, drapes had been hung over the tall windows. Each of them bore the symbol of the comet embroidered in scarlet thread. Braziers had been set up at intervals along the nave. They gave off an acrid smell and sent plumes of black smoke curling up into the rafters. The place had been turned into something more fitted to the tastes of its temporary occupants.

It had been less than a day since the witch hunters had arrived, and they’d wasted no time in setting up their tribunal. Grosslich’s men worked hard to supply them with a steady stream of suspects, all dragged from the poor quarter, all members of Leitdorf’s inner circle. The investigation had been typically thorough. Where the taint of Chaos was even suspected, the questioning was always rigorous and applied without mercy. The methods were ancient, honed by the master interrogators of the Temple of Sigmar over generations. Some were subtle, preying on the weaknesses of men’s minds. Others were brutal, playing on the frailty of men’s bodies. Both had their place. Both had been employed in Averheim.

Witch hunter Odo Heidegger looked down at his latest subject with a mix of pity and scorn. He knew what other men thought about his profession. That they were sadists, butchers who enjoyed their work, fanatics and zealots. No doubt some of his colleagues were. He’d met many others of his kind, particularly in the remoter reaches of the Empire, who had depressed him. There was nothing more saddening than seeing a man charged with the most holy offices of the Imperial hierarchy turn to brutishness. Heidegger prayed to Sigmar nightly that such a fate would not befall him.

He was, after all, a cultured man. He enjoyed lyric poetry, so long as the subject matter was suitably reverent. He had no time for tavern singing, but revelled in the soaring music of the Imperial Chapel in Wittenburg, justly famous for its choral tradition. In another life, perhaps he would have become a musician himself. He’d always wondered what it would be like to play the lute, to dance across the strings with his delicate fingers, producing the kind of gentle, strumming sound that pleased even the hardest of hearts. He had the sensibility for it. He also had the delicacy of touch, honed over years of dedicated practice.

He tried not to think too closely about the screams, of course. They clouded out the images of harmony running through his mind. It was important to concentrate on this kind of work. He didn’t take any pleasure in the pain he caused. That was just a means to an end. But he did take pleasure in the skill. Sigmar would forgive him that sin of pride. It was pursued, after all, for His ends.

Thankfully, Werner Klopfer had stopped screaming. He was now engaged in a kind of frenzied panting. The man was naked, strapped to a table in the centre of the great hall. His right arm had been turned into a cacophony of gore. The muscle was visible in patches, shining in the candlelight. Aside from a diligent scribe and a couple of deaf-mute guards standing watch at the doors, they were alone together. It was a pleasing, intimate scene.

Klopfer’s breathing became more ragged. The poor man was panicking. Heidegger took a damp cloth from the bench beside him and pressed it to his subject’s brow. Klopfer shivered under the touch. His skin glistened with sweat. His whole body stank with it. Like most of the subjects brought before him that day, he had lost control of his bowels with terror. That was certainly unfortunate, but one couldn’t blame the wretches for that. It was an arduous business, this uncovering of the truth.

“Now then,” said Heidegger in his soft, almost feminine, voice. He put the cloth to one side. “Do not concern yourself with the physical pain you feel, my son. This is just the necessary prelude, the means by which your soul may be cleansed. Pain will pass, even if in death.”

He reached for another bowl, this time filled with clear water, and washed his hands. Everything he needed had been laid out on the bench, just as he liked it. There was his battered old prayer book, the leaves flaky and ancient, his vials of holy water, the icons of Sigmar and Magnus the Pious, the litanies of exorcism. And of course, the instruments of enquiry. The clamps, barbs, scalpels, gouges, pins and all the rest. All lovingly catalogued and labelled, ready for use. Most of them shone brightly in the firelight, polished to a high sheen and resting on soft cloth. The others, the ones that had already seen action, were covered in a second skin of crimson. He would look forward to cleaning them again in the evening.

“W-what do you want to hear?” sobbed Klopfer. “I’ll tell you anything. Anything!”

Heidegger folded his arms and tutted.

“That will not do. Have you not been listening to anything I’ve been saying? I want the truth from you. The whole truth. Tell me what you know, and your soul may be spared.”

“I worked for Leitdorf!” Klopfer cried. His anguished voice echoed from the high rafters. As he spoke, the scribe diligently transcribed his words. Alrich was a good servant. He never lost his place, never asked for a repetition. Whenever a session was over, he would present his sheaves of parchment, all neatly inscribed with the black letter Reikspiel record of the conversation. Heidegger was really very fond of him. So many scribes lost their minds as the long years wore on that it was a relief to find a true professional.

Klopfer’s voice began to quicken. “I was one of his captains. We knew that Grosslich was arming his men, so we did the same. Some of our troops came from his estates. They were carried in by river, under cover of night. Others we bought.”

“How did you acquire the funds for this work?”

“We had many sources. Leitdorf had money from his inheritance. His wife was rich too. Then there was the root. We imported it. Leitdorf’s men had control over the cartels. There were rival gangs in Averheim, but he controlled them all in the end. The money was good. They couldn’t stop buying it. I don’t know where the rest came from.”

“I’ve heard about the joyroot from others. Was it part of your corruption?”

“Corruption? I don’t—”

Heidegger reached for another instrument.

“Yes! Yes, it was! Please no more!”

Heidegger took up a fresh tool. It was a piece of real artistry, as elegant and refined as an elven maid’s ankle. He didn’t really want to use it. There was always the chance of snagging on a tendon and interfering with the mechanism. Perhaps later, if the conversation was beginning to flag.

“So the joyroot was part of your corruption. That is indeed the consensus I’ve picked up from others. Did you take it yourself?”

“No! Never. It was only ever given to those outside the organisation. Some of the mercenaries took it. Leitdorf gave us strict instructions never to touch it.”

“And why was that?”

“We saw what it did to the others. It made them lazy. He wanted us ready to fight.”

“Did you not question these orders when you realised that the joyroot was a tool of the great enemy?”

Klopfer looked at Heidegger with new terror. Tears started in his eyes. He was clearly struggling to know what to say. Admitting guilt was always difficult.

“You can confess all to me, my son,” said Heidegger kindly. “Though I know it doesn’t seem that way at present, I am here to help you.”

Klopfer began to break down into bitter sobs. That was disappointing. They so often did that when he offered them the benefit of his spiritual wisdom. Why were so many men deaf to the insights of the Temple, to the potential for salvation? Mortification of the flesh was only temporal. Damnation, on the other hand, was eternal.

Heidegger gave Klopfer a moment to recover himself.

“Speak to me, my son,” he said at last. He let a firm edge enter his voice then. Heidegger was a patient man, but his benevolence only stretched so far.

Klopfer brought his sobs half under control. He had a resigned, broken look about him. That was good. The penitent spirit would enter Sigmar’s halls.

“I knew there was something about it. Something wrong. I thought it was her doing.”

“Leitdorf’s wife?”

“Yes. We were all scared of her.”

“Fear is no excuse.”

“I know! I know now. Believe me, I regret everything.”

Heidegger felt a warm glow of satisfaction bloom within him. This was what made his vocation such a blessed one.

“This ordeal is nearly over for you now. There is just one last thing.”

Klopfer looked up at him. There was a sudden, desperate hope in his tear-stained face.

“What is it?”

“I have been asked to enquire about the role of the Grand Marshal of the Reiksguard, Kurt Helborg. He is a powerful man. Of all the troubling aspects of this case, that is the most grave. The truth must be ascertained.”

As he spoke, Heidegger brought the instrument, his favourite, down gently against Klopfer’s face. The man stiffened and began to shake violently. Thankfully, he had been shackled expertly. His head could only move a fraction of an inch. With the tender touch of a lover, Heidegger rested the tip of the device on the skin below the man’s left eye.

“You will tell me the truth of this, will you not, my son? Was Helborg involved in this affair? Was he directing it from Altdorf, and then Nuln? Was he, along with Rufus Leitdorf and Natassja Hiess-Leitdorf, the true architect of this shameful episode?”

For a moment, Klopfer looked so stricken with terror that he could hardly speak. He tried to look at the device resting on his face but it was too close. He could feel it, though. And he could guess what it did.

“Speak quickly.”

Klopfer looked up into Heidegger’s eyes. There was a pleading there. An agonised pleading. He would say anything. Anything to avoid the pain. They always did, sooner or later. That was the genius of the exercise. They would come to the truth in the end. Whether it was the truth as they saw it, or the truth as he wanted it to be, it didn’t matter. Everything was relative, after all. All ways led to glory, to the greater praise of Sigmar, the origin of all beneficence.

“H-he was, my lord,” stammered Klopfer. As he spoke, fresh tears ran down his cheek. They glinted from the surface of the metal as they splashed over it. “Helborg was one of them. I saw the letters that passed between them. They were all traitors. Leitdorf, his wife, the Reiksguard Marshal.”

Heidegger sighed gently. Another confession. How quickly they came, once all the work had been done. Another soul had been saved. Another piece of information had been collated. His work was done. He withdrew the instrument. As he did so, Klopfer broke down again, slack against his bonds.

“There, now,” said Heidegger soothingly. “Does that not feel better? Confessing one’s sins is a cleansing process. Your soul is now free of the taint you have carried for so long. You should be proud.”

He placed the instrument back on the cloth. It clinked against its fellows gently as he rolled the covering up.

“That’s it?” asked Klopfer. The desperate hope had returned. “I’m free to go?”

Heidegger nodded. This was the part of the process he really didn’t like. It always seemed such a shame after all they’d been through together.

“There is no more. The ordeal is over. You are free to go.”

He picked up a cloth and dabbed his hands. They needed a wash. He’d been working too hard. Perhaps he needed a break.

“You have done well, my son,” said Heidegger, placing the cloth back on the table. “The information you have provided will root out this heresy.”

Klopfer didn’t seem to be listening. He was lost in some kind of reverie. That was ungrateful. This was for his benefit, after all. Heidegger felt deflated. He always did when the process was over. It was at this stage that his faith was weakest. In the darkest moments, he sometimes wondered whether he wouldn’t have been better employed in the Chapel at Wittenburg after all. Perhaps then his sleep wouldn’t have been as troubled as it was. Maybe then he wouldn’t find himself weeping for no reason at all, wracked by the inexplicable terrors that came to him when he was alone.

Enough. These periods of depression were a test. Everything was a test. He walked away from the table, turning to the scribe as he went.

“Did you get it all?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Including the testimony on Lord Helborg?”

“Yes, my lord.”

Of course he had. Alrich never missed a thing. Heidegger sighed. He was a diligent servant. They were both diligent servants.

He kept walking, snapping his fingers to attract the attention of the guards. Using the hand signals they understood, he gave them the only order he ever gave them.

Kill him. Then bring in the next one.

Verstohlen stood on the terrace above the lower levels of the Averburg. The wind had picked up again. It made the city feel healthier. Since Leitdorf had been driven from the place, the air had changed. The lingering sweetness, the hint of rottenness, had gone. Grosslich had brought order to the place quickly. Of course, he’d been aided by Schwarzhelm. The man seemed back to his old self, if a little more withdrawn than was usual. He went about his business with the grim-faced efficiency for which he was known.

That alone convinced Verstohlen that their actions had been justified. The Leitdorfs might have succeeded for a time in driving Schwarzhelm from the city, in tying him up with legal paperwork, in using the subtle poisons of the mind to cloud his judgement, but all that was over now. Had their plans not been discovered when they were, they might have succeeded. Verstohlen was in no doubt they’d used the greenskins somehow. The precise mechanism was still hidden from him, but it would emerge. With the witch hunters given full rein to investigate, few secrets would remain hidden for long.

He looked out over the city. It seemed as peaceful as it had done when they’d arrived. There was little obvious sign of the scarring which had taken place since then. The merchants had come back. The streets had been tidied up. People were sick of the fighting. Even those who had previously sided with Rufus seemed resigned to the accession of Heinz-Mark. Anything was better than the gathering anarchy which had plagued them over the past few weeks.

There was a sound behind him. He whirled round in an instant, blade at the ready.

Tochfel stood before him, arms raised in surrender.

“Apologies, counsellor,” he said, looking at the knife nervously.

“Forgive me,” said Verstohlen, putting the dagger back in its sheath. “It’s been a difficult time.”

Tochfel came to stand next to him on the terrace.

“Think nothing of it. We must hope things have changed for the better.”

“You don’t sound convinced they will be.”

“I am cautious by nature.”

“I’d noticed.”

Tochfel smiled ruefully The two men stood for a while in silence, watching the city breathe below them. Some life had already returned to the river. Where there had been nothing but stagnant water, a few barges now plied their trade. It would take time for the bustle to return, but it was a start.

“I feel some measure of guilt for what happened, of course,” said Tochfel. Verstohlen raised an eyebrow. “It was I who summoned Helborg from Nuln.”

“At my suggestion, as I recall.”

“Even so.”

Verstohlen made a noncommittal gesture. All of Averheim seemed to be lost in introspection.

“You could not have known his role in this. None of us did. Only Schwarzhelm suspected his motives. At the time, I put it down to… professional rivalry. Perhaps he saw further than any of us. Of course, even he doubts himself now.”

Tochfel looked down at the stone balustrade. Like most of the architecture of the Averburg it had survived the fighting unscathed. Men had died, but the city remained intact.

“The witch hunters have concluded their investigations. The traitors all name Helborg in their confessions. Schwarzhelm need have no doubts.”

“Good,” said Verstohlen. “I’m sure the Templars have been very thorough. This paves the way for the coronation.”

“It does. Preparations have been made.”

“You don’t sound entirely happy with that either.”

Tochfel shrugged. “It’s not how I wanted it to happen. But what’s done is done. A tragedy has been avoided. I think I can work with Grosslich.”

“Good,” said Verstohlen. “There’s not a drop of noble blood in him, whatever he says, but he’s clawed his way to the top.” Verstohlen smiled to himself. “He rode straight at Helborg. By Verena, that’s bravery. He’s still not forgiven me for heading him off, even though it saved his life.”

Tochfel didn’t smile in return.

“I hope we can move beyond such things now. Averland is reeling. We need a leader who can govern, not a warlord.”

“He has the advice of Ferenc Alptraum and others like him. That’s a powerful alliance.”

“Have you seen Alptraum recently?”

Verstohlen paused. Now that Tochfel mentioned it, he hadn’t. In fact, he hadn’t seen Alptraum since leaving for the battle at the Vormeisterplatz.

“Has he left the city?”

“I don’t know. Nobody knows. Just as nobody knows where Achendorfer, my loremaster, has gone.”

“When did you last see him?”

“Just before Alptraum took control of the citadel. He was acting… strangely.”

Verstohlen looked at Tochfel carefully. Was he trying to insinuate something? The man didn’t look like he had an agenda of his own.

“What are you telling me, Steward? Should I be worried about this?”

Tochfel shrugged. “Perhaps there’s been enough intrigue. I don’t wish to reopen wounds. But I thought you should know.”

“Thank you. I’ll make enquiries.”

As the words left his mouth, Verstohlen realised how empty they were. His cover had been blown. All the players left in Averheim knew who he was, what he did and who he worked for. He had no function any longer beyond Schwarzhelm’s errand runner. If there were secrets to uncover still, then someone else would have to find them.

“I should go,” said Tochfel. “Coronation preparation.” Verstohlen nodded. “I don’t envy you.”

The steward withdrew, leaving Verstohlen alone again. He remained silent. His hair lifted in the breeze. Below him, the Aver glittered in the sun. All was as it should be. The mission was concluding and a decision on the succession had been made. When they left Averheim, it would be safe in the hands of a new elector.

He should have been content. Happy, even. But then he’d never been very good at being content. Not since Leonora’s death. Even in periods of victory, his mind still worked apace, seeking out the potential for danger, fearing the potential for loss. It was not a quality he liked in himself, but he could no more change it than change his past.

After the coronation Schwarzhelm would leave. The big man wanted to give the news of Helborg’s treachery to the Emperor in person. Verstohlen had been ordered to stay to oversee the remaining work of pacification. There was much to do. Bloch’s army had to be contacted with the news. Leitdorf and Natassja had to be tracked down. The roads had to be made safe again. It was interesting work. Demanding work. Normally, he’d have jumped at the chance to ensure it was done well.

But not this time. After all that had happened, Verstohlen was sick of Averheim. Though his sense of duty would never let him admit it, he had come to loathe the place. The sooner he could leave and return to Altdorf, the better.

He continued to look over the cityscape for a few moments longer. Then he turned and headed back into the citadel. The terrace was empty once more, buffeted by the cold wind from the east. There was no corruption in it, but no comfort either.

Just as it had been for Schwarzhelm’s arrival, the great hall of the citadel was lined with people. The finery was not quite what it was, but given all that had taken place, the noble citizens did as well as they could. If some of the silk had been hastily patched up, and some of the jewellery hanging round the necks of the court ladies seemed slightly tarnished, then people were prepared to look the other way. There was a general sense of relief in the crowds of nobles. Many had only just been able to return to their opulent townhouses after retreating to their country estates. Now they were back, they were eager to see no repeat of the anarchy that had driven them away.

The great hall had been decorated with banners holding the symbols of Averland. Most were in the black and yellow of the province, decorated with a stylised sun image derived from the lost realm of Solland. There were the devices of the noble families too, as well as the ubiquitous comets and Imperial eagles, griffons and lions. The symbol of the Alptraums was prominent among them, though Verstohlen could see no sign of Ferenc in the crowds.

The new addition to the rows of standards was the newly embroidered battle-flag of the Grosslich line. It was a gaudy affair. A black boar’s head, surrounded by gold laurel leaves set on a blood-red field. The new elector clearly hadn’t been chosen for his aesthetic sensibility. Still, if that’s what he wanted, that’s what he’d get. No elector had ever been deposed for having a silly flag.

As the time dragged on, the crowd began to get restive. With the paraphernalia of the witch hunters having been cleared away, the great hall had been restored to its habitual sunlit state. The strong sun lanced through the high mullioned windows. With so many people gathered, the temperature soon started to rise. Verstohlen felt a certain dampness under his collar and eased it open. Grosslich was keeping them waiting. He’d learned a few tricks of the trade, then. Arrive late, leave early.

Verstohlen turned to glance at the double doors. They were heavily guarded. Grosslich’s personal troops, decked out in the same outlandish livery, stood three-deep at the exit. Leitdorf had still not been found, and no one was in the mood to take any chances. Verstohlen knew that hundreds of Grosslich’s men were prowling the corridors of the Averburg even as the ceremony was due to take place.

He looked back at the high dais. The members of the Electoral Council had taken their seats. Some of them were old hands. He recognised Tochfel, looking uncomfortable in his new crimson garb. Most of the rest seemed to be members of Grosslich’s inner council. Euler was there. That was to be expected. He’d have been foolish not to put those closest to him in positions of power. A good elector knew how to cover his back.

The crowd grew more restive, and the smattering of gossip began to rise in volume. It was then that the trumpets finally blared out. The brazen notes echoed uncomfortably in the enclosed space, and Verstohlen found himself wincing.

Then the doors slammed open. A procession of citadel guards strode down the central aisle. As they came, the standing crowds shuffled to make room for them. The soldiers took up their places and turned to face the throng. They placed their spears on the stone in unison.

Then Schwarzhelm arrived. Verstohlen couldn’t suppress a smile of amusement when he saw him. He knew how much the great man hated ceremonial occasions. He was wearing his full suit of armour, freshly cleaned for the coronation. The metal which had been dented, scarred and covered in gore so recently now shone like starlight. He carried the Rechtstahl in its ancient scabbard and the pendant of Ghal Maraz swung from his neck as he walked.

Knowing his reputation for irascibility, the nobles crept even further back as he strode towards the dais. Schwarzhelm didn’t make eye contact with any of them. He had the look of a man who would have given money to be anywhere else.

He took his place at the head of the hall and turned back to face the crowd. There was an expectant hush. For a moment, the only sound was the faint echo of soldiers’ boots as they patrolled the corridors outside.

Then he arrived. Grosslich emerged in a robe of red lined with gold. That was clearly his favourite combination, though not an obvious choice for a soldier. He wore a loremaster’s cloth cap. Chains of office hung around his neck. Perhaps he was sending a subtle signal here. The time for war had passed, and he was as at home in the garb of a scholar as he was in the armour of a warrior. If that was so, then it boded well for Averland.

He strode confidently down the aisle. As he went, there was a general murmur of acclimation. Verstohlen might have imagined it, but there were semi-audible sighs from some of the younger women in the chamber. Grosslich was unmarried, and they all knew it. The situation was unlikely to remain the case for long.

Grosslich approached the dais. Schwarzhelm waited for him like some brooding idol in the jungles of Lustria. Grosslich knelt down. He was showing the proper degree of humility. That was wise.

“People of Averland,” announced Schwarzhelm. His heavy voice rolled round the chamber. For the first time, Verstohlen noticed the faint Averland accent to it. Strange that he hadn’t before. Perhaps the big man had returned to his roots after all. “By the authority vested in me by the Emperor, and according to the Imperial Law of Succession, I hereby crown Count Heinz-Mark Grosslich the new Elector of Averland. May his reign be long and prosperous. May he be blessed by Sigmar in battle, uphold the law, protect his people and smite the enemies of mankind.”

With that he took up the gold crown of the Electors of Averland. Grosslich removed his scholar’s hat, and Schwarzhelm placed the jewel-encrusted circlet on his head. The elector remained kneeling. The crown was unimportant. That was just a symbol. The artefact he really wanted was still to come.

From the rear of the dais, Tochfel shuffled forward carrying a heavy item draped in gold cloth. It was nearly as tall as he was and he looked weighed down with the burden.

Schwarzhelm took it from him in one hand and swung it around lightly.

“Behold,” he announced, sweeping the cloth from the blade beneath. “The runefang of Averland, the Sword of Ruin, the holy blade of the people of Siggurd.”

He brandished the blade. Like all the runefangs, the sword was a work of peerless craftsmanship. The steel glinted in the sunlight, exposing the intricate runes engraved on to the metal. As the runefang was revealed, a sigh of satisfaction passed across the crowd. That was what they had longed to see for so long. The runefang of Averland would be wielded once more.

With reverence, Schwarzhelm handed the sword to Grosslich. The count stood to receive it, taking it in both hands. For a moment he remained motionless, staring at the sacred sword. Schwarzhelm stepped back, letting him savour the moment.

Then Grosslich rose and turned to face the crowd. The sunlight from the sword reflected onto his face. He looked the very image of an elector count. He held the runefang aloft in both hands.

“For Sigmar!” he roared. His eyes were alive with jubilation. “For the Empire!”

“For the Empire!” cried the crowd before him, before bursting into rounds of cheers. Verstohlen kept apart from the excitement, watching carefully as was his habit. He couldn’t blame them. After years of enduring the mad count, then the painful experience of hiatus, they deserved something to cheer about.

Verstohlen looked up at Schwarzhelm. Though he wasn’t smiling—which was to be expected—he did have an expression of grim satisfaction on his battered features. That was good. The big man had suffered more than the rest of them. He deserved his triumph. When he returned to Altdorf, he would no doubt receive the full credit for all that had happened here, and Verstohlen knew how much that meant to him.

Letting his habitual reserve slip for just a short while, Verstohlen joined in the cheers of the crowd. It would have been churlish not to. This was a great day.

The party had taken a while to die down. After the crowning ceremony, there had been a series of legal procedures to endure. Then the crowd had retired to the grand ballroom in Alptraum’s mansion for a feast of epic proportions. The wine had slopped from crystal buckets all night.

As he recalled the evening, Elector Count Heinz-Mark Grosslich couldn’t prevent a smile from creasing his broad face. He had done it. After all those months warring against the bastard Rufus, he had done it.

He trod heavily back to his private chambers, feeling the weight of the runefang against his thigh as he climbed the spiral stairs. He could get used to that. The sword was palpably ancient. He could sense the latent power within the blade. It felt like it was eager to be drawn.

He arrived at his chambers. Two guards stood to attention as he approached.

“You can go now, lads,” he said to them.

They looked back at him blankly.

“We were ordered to remain here all night, sire,” said one of them.

Grosslich looked at him benevolently. On another occasion he might have berated them for not following his orders instantly. But he was in a good mood. All had come to fruition. A bright future lay ahead.

“I don’t think we need worry about my safety tonight,” he said, looking significantly at the sword hanging from his belt. “There’s wine left over in the ballroom. Enjoy yourselves. We’ve all earned it.”

The two men looked at each other, then grinned.

“Thank you very much, sire,” one of them blurted, then they were gone, hurrying down the stairs before the rest of the banquet was consumed.

Grosslich pushed the door open. He smirked a little as he remembered the number of propositions he’d had that night. It wasn’t as if he’d had trouble attracting women before, but it was amazing what an Imperial title did for one’s amorous prospects. He’d almost been tempted to take one of them up on it.

Almost, but not quite. There was only one woman for him.

“You’re back late,” said Natassja, drawing the bed curtains aside and rising from the bed.

Grosslich locked the door and turned to face her. He drew the runefang with a flourish.

“Look at it, my love,” he said, gazing at the sword with undisguised relish. “Finally.”

Natassja smiled tolerantly. She was clad in a black nightdress. It clung to her in all the right places. Suddenly, Grosslich couldn’t decide which of the two prizes he was more interested in.

“Very nice. Now come here.”

Grosslich put the sword down and approached her. They embraced. As they did so, the candles in the room flickered and went out. A lilac glow replaced the natural flame, throwing lurid patterns across the massive four-poster bed. That was more like it. He began to feel at home again.

“It’s been too long,” he said, gazing into her dark eyes. “Have you found Leitdorf yet?”

Grosslich felt a little wounded. Was she going to talk business now? This was his hour of triumph. She could show a little appreciation.

“Not yet, my love. It’s only a matter of time. I’ve hundreds of men searching for him.”

“Perhaps I can help.”

“Not until Schwarzhelm’s left.”

“Indeed. But you’ll like my latest experiments. They may prove useful.”

Grosslich shivered with anticipation. Natassja’s imagination was terrifying.

“How did you stand being with that fool for so long?”

Natassja smiled coldly.

“He was easy to deceive. Most men are.” She looked into his eyes. Her pupils were mirrored like a cat’s. “Most men. Not all.”

From somewhere, the aroma of jasmine filtered into the room. The musk was thick and heady.

“We should be thankful for that. All of this has traded on deception.”

“There were unexpected factors. I didn’t foresee Helborg. That nearly ruined us.”

Grosslich laughed then. He couldn’t help it.

“Of all the ironies. It was Schwarzhelm who cut him down.”

“You sound surprised. Don’t forget the long hours I spent walking in his mind. I have never been so tested. I couldn’t break him. Not after using spells that would have destroyed a normal man. All I could do was plant the suggestion. Do not be too eager to celebrate. Just as it was with Marius, I couldn’t break him.”

Grosslich pulled her closer to him. He could feel her body under the nightdress. The anticipation almost made him sick.

“Enough talking. I am eager to celebrate.”

Natassja gave him a savage look. With surprising ease, she flung him on to the bed, pinning him down. As her face lowered over his, her feline eyes were filled with a lilac flame. The glow in the room darkened and became more intense.

“And so you shall. Just remember who’s in charge here.” Grosslich grinned.

“As you wish, my love,” he sighed. “Everything shall be just as you wish.”

Chapter Nineteen

Schwarzhelm waited. That wasn’t something he was used to doing. The mirrored corridor ran for over a hundred yards, and he was the only one in it. Not even the Reiksguard came down here to disturb the peace. The Emperor knew he was there. And still he waited.

He ran his mind over the past few days. At times there were gaps in his memory. Half the time it had felt as thought he’d been fighting against his own nightmares. The moments he remembered vividly were the deaths. Grunwald. Helborg. Although maybe he wasn’t dead yet. The body hadn’t been recovered. He didn’t know what to hope for.

After the trails of the past few weeks, the journey back from Averheim had been easy. As Schwarzhelm had ridden north, the weather had turned. The open skies had been replaced with slate-grey cloud. Altdorf was sodden with rain. The gutters were overflowing, the roofs dripping, the river turgid and filthy. It felt just as the Empire should feel. Averland was a strange and unsettling place in comparison. He was glad to be away from it.

“Come!”

The voice echoed down the mirrored hallway. As he answered the summons, the Sword of Justice clanked on his belt. He carried the Sword of Vengeance in his hands. Helborg still had the scabbard, for all he knew. The bare metal was almost flawless in his hands. He’d washed the blood, his own blood, from it carefully. The only blemish was the notch. The one he’d caused.

Schwarzhelm walked to the gold-lined doors at the end of the corridor. The Imperial seal had been inscribed on them in ithilmar. They must have been fabulously expensive. He pushed against them and they swung open smoothly.

The chamber beyond was completely different. It was vast, dark and old. Rows of bare stone columns marched along its flanks. The windows were tall and narrow, like those of a fortress. The grey sky outside only let a meagre light bleed into the shadowy space. At the far end of the chamber, hidden by the gloom, a massive altar of Sigmar had been carved. Unlike the gilt images in most Imperial chapels, it was simple. The stonework was crude. Schwarzhelm could just make out the brooding face of the God-King looming above him. The long-dead sculptor had chosen to accentuate the unforgiving aspect of the Imperial deity. He brooded over the mournful space like a wronged patriarch.

The Emperor sat on a simple chair in the centre of the nave. There was no other furniture in the room. His robes were dark and simple. Like the image of Sigmar above him, he did not smile.

Schwarzhelm approached the chair and bowed. The Emperor said nothing.

“There is an elector in Averland, sire,” said Schwarzhelm. His voice echoed around the vaulted chamber. “The task has been accomplished.”

Karl Franz nodded. Still he said nothing.

“There is other news.” Schwarzhelm offered him the runefang. The Emperor took it and placed it on his lap. He stared down at the dark blade. In the poor light it looked dull, as if carved from obsidian.

“I know why you bring me this,” said the Emperor. His voice sounded hollow. All the easy diplomatic charm of their last meeting had gone. He looked like a bereaved father.

Schwarzhelm should have known better than to hope he could break the news. Karl Franz had ways of gathering information that were unknown to all but himself.

“I had no choi—”

“There is always a choice.” The Emperor’s face shook with grief and anger. He locked eyes with Schwarzhelm. In them was grief. Bottomless grief. “Are you absolutely sure? Is there any room for doubt?”

For a heartbeat, Schwarzhelm paused. Of course there was doubt. Every waking moment since the Vormeisterplatz there had been doubt.

“He was fighting for Leitdorf, whose corruption has been verified by those close to him.” As he spoke, the words sounded cold and officious. “The witch hunters have confirmed what we feared. I am sorry. He was working against us.”

The Emperor stood up. The sword in his lap clanged to the floor, and the echoes ran into the dark recesses of the chamber. He’d never have treated the sacred blade thus had its wearer been present. Besides the loss of Helborg, clearly nothing else mattered.

He walked up to Schwarzhelm. Though his body remained still, his eyes blazed with a cold fire.

“I don’t care what the witch hunters say,” he said, his voice low and fervent. “I’ve fought with him. You’ve fought with him. He led my armies. If there is any doubt at all, even the slightest possibility you’re wrong—”

Then it was Schwarzhelm’s turn to feel the anger boil over within him. He towered over the Emperor. He could understand his grief. They all grieved. He hadn’t been there. He hadn’t seen the sickness.

“What do you want me to say?” Schwarzhelm cried, balling his fists impotently. He felt like he wanted to strike out at something. “I carry out every task you ask of me! Averheim was a den of Chaos. We have rooted it out. The greenskins have been destroyed. A new elector sits on the throne. What more could I have done?”

Karl Franz withdrew half a pace. His eyes betrayed his surprise. No one spoke to him like that.

Schwarzhelm felt his iron-hard voice crack with emotion.

“He was my brother. Do you think, if I didn’t believe it…”

Then there was nothing else to say. He saw Helborg’s final look again in his mind’s eye. Why are you doing this Ludwig? The betrayal.

The Emperor didn’t reply. He turned slowly, bent down and retrieved the sword. He looked like an old man then, bereft of his habitual assurance. The years had not been kind.

Schwarzhelm stood stiffly, as cold and solid as the columns on either side of him. The silence filled the chamber.

“You’re not sure he’s dead,” said the Emperor at last.

Schwarzhelm shook his head. “The Reiksguard took him. The ones he rode with.”

“My Reiksguard. That is something.” The Emperor sat in the chair once more. His expression remained dark. “If he still lives, he must be taken back alive. I want him brought here. I will examine him. None but I shall examine him. Leitdorf doesn’t matter. But Helborg…”

Schwarzhelm felt the old shame return. Like a boy, he’d always been competing with Helborg for his master’s attention. Even now, with his rival declared a traitor and struck down, he was still competing.

“You want me to go back?” Schwarzhelm couldn’t conceal his hatred of that idea. The Emperor shook his head.

“I think you’ve done enough, don’t you?”

That cut deep. The Emperor seemed to regret it as soon as he said it. He drew in a deep sigh, and looked at the dark blade again.

“You think I’m being harsh on you, Ludwig,” he said softly. “I do not mean to be. But he was like a son to me. You both were. Even his death in battle would be preferable to this… corruption. While there’s the slightest shard of doubt, I’ll not let it rest.”

Schwarzhelm hung his head. He wondered how many interrogations had been performed here. The Emperor chose no audience chamber lightly.

“Maybe I have erred,” said the Emperor. “Your rivalry was useful to me. I liked the fact you competed. It kept you both strong. I should have realised the potential for harm.” He ran a finger down the cold length of the runefang. It paused at the notch in the blade. “Perhaps he delved too deep for a way to best you. If so, then I am to blame.”

The Emperor looked up at Schwarzhelm. Some of the rage had left his expression, but the grief remained, scored across his face.

“I trust your judgement, Ludwig. I always have. You’ve done as I asked you. None could have done more. I want you to take some time to yourself now. The war continues in the north. You’ll be needed there soon. But do not leave straightaway. I have kept you too busy. You need some rest.”

Schwarzhelm began to protest. Rest was the last thing he needed. The Emperor held a warning hand up.

“Enough. I will not debate this with you. Return to your lodgings in Altdorf. I’ll see to the remaining business in Averland. Perhaps I should pay a visit to this Grosslich. Or maybe summon him here.”

He looked directly into Schwarzhelm’s eyes. The gaze was not without sympathy, but it was iron-hard.

“I’ll call for you when you’re recovered. In the meantime, do not leave the city. That is an order.”

Schwarzhelm thought about protesting. There were things he could do, services he could render. He thought of Turgitz, of the greenskins. Without his expertise, the armies of the Empire would be weakened. They’d already lost Helborg.

It was no use. He’d seen similar expressions on the Emperor’s face before. As he’d always known, there were some kinds of warfare he would never win at.

“Yes, my liege,” he said, forcing himself to keep his voice level.

There would be no victory parade this time.

Skarr looked down at Helborg’s face. The stricken Marshal lay amid piles of the finest goosedown linen. His old bandages, stiff with dried blood, had been taken from him and replaced with fresh ones, expertly wound. Fragrant herbs and salves had been crushed into the wound. Prayers had been said by the priest and passages of holy scripture recited over him.

For the time being at least, it had done no good. Helborg was barely alive. But at least he was off his horse and out of the wilds. It had taken them two days to ride to the first of Leitdorfs safe houses. Then they’d moved on, heading further east after every rumour of Grosslich’s pursuit. Now, deep in the countryside, far from the well-travelled roads, they were hidden. For now. The Leitdorfs had more than one great house in Averland, but Grosslich would find them all in the end.

No colour had returned to the Marshal’s cheeks. The wounded man looked like one of the undead. Skarr pressed his finger against the carotid, feeling carefully. There was a faint pulse. So faint, it was easy to miss. He was on the border between life and death. Skarr withdrew his hand. Helborg’s eyes remained closed. His breathing was thin and ragged.

Skarr stood up from the bed.

The wound on Helborg’s cheek had closed at last. After the apothecary had finished, Skarr had taken the shard of the Klingerach and kept it. Probably a useless gesture, but the runefang was sacred. He could sense the ancient metal against his skin as it hung from the chain around his neck.

Skarr withdrew from the bedside. A fire blazed in the hearth even though the sun still shone warmly outside. The apothecary had advised them to keep the room heated. He reached for a log and threw it into the flames. The wood crackled as it settled, spitting sparks.

“What do you think?” asked Leitdorf. The man sat in an extravagantly upholstered chair in the corner of the room. This whole place was extravagant. His father had clearly had money to waste on it, even though it was just one of many country houses kept in his name. Marius’ portrait hung from nearly every wall in the mansion.

“He’s strong. But I don’t know.” Skarr sat down opposite Rufus. “How long before Grosslich’s men come after you here?”

Leitdorf shrugged.

“There are other places, even more remote. When he can travel, we can move again. None of my people will talk.”

Skarr smiled humourlessly. “They will, if Grosslich sends interrogators worth anything.”

“We have some time yet. Word has already got out. There are many who’ll bear arms for me in this part of the world.”

Skarr suppressed a snort of derision. He placed more faith in his own Reiksguard than in whatever forces Leitdorf could still muster. Still, the safe houses were essential.

“What are you going to do now?” asked Leitdorf.

Skarr paused. He’d given it a great deal of thought as they’d ridden east, away from the harrying of Grosslich’s troops. If he’d learned one thing, it was that they were still in mortal danger. For whatever warped reason, the entire province had been raised against them. Schwarzhelm must have been a part of it. That was terrifying enough. If even the Emperor’s Champion could turn traitor, then something was horribly awry. He could still see the blood-streaked face, the staring eyes.

“We’ll give the Marshal time to heal. I don’t know what’s happened here to make us fugitives, but I’ll not risk harming his recovery.”

“And if he doesn’t recover?”

Skarr looked at him darkly.

“If that comes to pass,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “then I will hunt down the one who has done this. I will hunt him across the Empire, and I will hunt him across the length of the Old World if I have to. And then, Sigmar and the fates willing, I will do to him what he has done to my master.”

Skarr looked at Leitdorf, not bothering to hide the murderous feelings stirring within him.

“Vengeance will come. You may count on it.”

Schwarzhelm knocked on the door. Lassus’ house was just as he remembered it. Neat, orderly, unassuming. The rest of the General’s Quarter was similarly unprepossessing. The weather had turned cold and blustery, and the topiary in the generals’ gardens looked more fragile than ever.

After a few moments, there was a heavy click as the door was unlocked. Then it swung open, revealing Schwarzhelm’s master. Heinrich Lassus looked, if such a thing were possible, a little older. His face was more lined, his skin drier. Only the eyes still gave away his essential vitality. They still glittered with the acute edge that had made him such a feared general in his day.

“So. You’re back.”

Schwarzhelm ducked under the lintel.

“I said I’d call.”

“You’re always welcome.”

Lassus led him through into one of his private rooms. Leather-bound books lined the uneven walls. A fire burned in the grate. The wooden floor was hidden with a series of fine rugs. Over the mantelpiece hung some mementos of Lassus’ time marching under the Emperor’s banner. A ceremonial dagger. A fine Boccherino pistol. A beast’s skull, lovingly cleaned and hung.

“You were successful, then?” asked Lassus, lowering himself carefully into a low chair. Schwarzhelm sat opposite him. The warmth from the fire was welcome. After so long in the heat of Averland, the damp of Altdorf took some adjusting to.

“Grosslich was appointed. What else have you heard?”

Lassus shrugged. “Some news came my way. I know there was trouble.”

Schwarzhelm wondered why he’d come. He didn’t need a confessor. Or perhaps he did. The enforced inactivity was driving him to distraction.

“Something like that. Have you heard the news of Helborg?”

“Nothing reliable. He’s not been seen here for weeks. I was told he was in Nuln.”

“Then you’ve not heard. He was implicated in it all. With Leitdorf. There’s testimony from the witch hunters.”

Lassus paused.

“What are you saying?”

“That he was a traitor, master. That’s what I’m saying.”

A flurry of emotions passed across the old man’s face in rapid sequence. Amazement. Disbelief. Anger. Confusion. Schwarzhelm had been there ahead of him. He’d expected nothing less. Helborg had been the golden boy. It would take time for people to get used to the idea.

“You must be mistaken.” The tone was a familiar one. It had been used when Schwarzhelm had made a mistake on the training ground. Or not tried hard enough. Or lied.

“He tried to kill my counsellor. He rode against us in battle. If I’d not been there, he’d have killed Grosslich too.” Schwarzhelm felt suddenly weary. This had been a mistake. He’d not come here to rehearse the arguments again.

He’d been running them through his head for days already. “We fought. The two of us.”

Lassus was looking at him with a kind of horrified, rapt attention.

“And?”

“I’m still here.”

The old man shrunk back in on himself, looking horrified.

“Blessed Sigmar!” he whispered, shaking his head. “By all the saints.”

“Chaos was at work in Averheim. Leitdorf and his witch were behind it. I don’t know how Helborg was dragged in, but it matters little now. They are all destroyed.”

“And Grosslich?”

“He is safe. My agent is still with him. Bloch, my commander, remains in Averland. I’d hoped to join him, to organise the rebuilding. That won’t be possible now.”

“Why not?”

“I am forbidden to return. The Emperor wishes me to have nothing more to do with the affair.”

It was only then that Lassus seemed to notice the anguish on his face. Schwarzhelm knew he hid it badly. The trust of the Emperor had been everything to him. The knowledge that it had gone was a bitter taste to take. As bitter as gall.

“I had no idea.”

“Of course not. We spoke in private. I should not be talking to you about any of this.”

“I’m glad you did, Ludwig. Did I not warn you there would be treachery in Averland? But you have prevailed. Can you not take some pleasure in that? You have done what was asked of you.”

Those were the words that were hard to take. Not the scorn, not the criticism. Sympathy was the most painful gift of all.

“But at what price?” Schwarzhelm felt as if he was back on the training fields, holding a sword for the first time.

He was sick of the doubt, sick of the uncertainty. It was as if a part of him had been wounded in Averheim and had never truly recovered.

Lassus rose from his chair with difficulty. His hands shook slightly. He limped over to a cabinet on the far side of the room and poured himself a goblet of wine.

“Will you have one?”

Schwarzhelm shook his head. Lassus took a swig, then refilled the goblet. As he retook his seat, the shaking had reduced somewhat.

“I’d not expected this news,” he muttered. “Helborg gone. Could things be worse?”

“They could. He might not have been discovered. He might be in Averheim with Leitdorf now. With the Emperor’s armies occupied in the north, what would there be to stop him? It could have been much worse.”

Lassus nodded and took another sip of wine. “Of course. You’re right. This is much to take in, though. Very much to take in.”

He looked up at Schwarzhelm.

“I’m sure you did the right thing, Ludwig. You’ve been vindicated by Grosslich’s election. You were there. You saw his actions. You saw the message on the parchment. The evidence was before you.”

Schwarzhelm took some comfort from that.

“Indeed,” he said. “Those were the things that I—”

He stopped.

“What parchment?”

“You said it yourself. On the road to Averheim.”

“I said no such thing.” Lassus frowned.

“I’m sure you mentioned it. That was the thing that finally confirmed your suspicions, was it not? That’s what you told me.”

Schwarzhelm felt a sudden chill strike at his heart. He didn’t want to believe it. He couldn’t believe it.

“I’ve not told you of it,” he said, feeling a mounting wave of dread within him. He felt like being sick. “I’ve not told anyone of it. Even Verstohlen.”

Lassus seemed suddenly nervous. He let out a weak laugh. “Well perhaps I did hear from somewhere else. I’m not as young as I used to be. Sometimes I forget.”

Schwarzhelm rose from his seat. His hand crept down to the hilt of the Rechtstahl.

“How could you know that, master?”

Lassus looked scared.

“Sit down, Ludwig,” he snapped. “Don’t tower over me like that in my own house. What are you doing?”

“How could you possibly know that?” He suddenly remembered Verstohlen’s discovery of the letters. Weeks ago. Messages have been sent from the castle to Altdorf. It’s been going on for some time. Lassus tried to rise in turn, but his hands were now shaking uncontrollably.

“I think you’d better leave.”

Schwarzhelm felt his confusion begin to crystallise into anger. “It was you. Of all the horrors. By Sigmar, it was you.”

Then Lassus’ face stretched into a snarl. “Don’t be stupid, Ludwig. I’ve known you since you were a boy! Sit down!”

Schwarzhelm drew the Rechtstahl. The blade slipped from the scabbard easily. As the sword flew out, the steel hummed. The spirit of the weapon was roused. It thirsted.

Lassus staggered back, knocking over his wine. At the sight of the sword his eyes went wide with fear.

“What are you going to do? Kill me? Have you lost your mind?”

Schwarzhelm felt a dark clarity come over him. Though the man made him sick to the pit of his stomach, killing Lassus would solve nothing. There were mysteries here still. The secrets had not been uncovered.

“Kill you?” he said, his voice like scraped steel. “No. You’ll come with me. You know what’s been happening here. Your secrets will be wrung from you. Every last one of them. I will find out what happened in Averheim.”

At that, Lassus seemed to lose control of himself. His fingers flew to his neck, scraping at his windpipe. He let out a shriek of horror. The dry skin began to crack at the edges of his mouth. He tried to clamber past the chair, out in the hallway beyond.

He was too slow. Schwarzhelm grabbed his cloak with his left hand. It felt like his fingers had closed on a sack of bones.

“Don’t do this,” begged Lassus. There were tears of fear in his eyes. “Kill me if you must, but do not make me talk!”

Schwarzhelm loomed over him, digging his fingers into the frail old man’s shoulder. “Why not?” he hissed. He was angry enough to kill him. It would be better than he deserved, but the truth was more valuable even than vengeance.

For a moment, Lassus stared back at him, lips trembling. His whole body had started shaking. He was in mortal terror.

“She won’t let me talk! She won’t permit it!”

Schwarzhelm let the wretched figure drop to the floor.

“What do you mean? Who are you talking about?”

But the truth was already becoming apparent. Under Lassus’ loose robes, a transformation was taking place. Whatever information he possessed, his dark patron wasn’t about to let him divulge it.

Schwarzhelm backed away. He’d seen this happen before. He brought his sword up, ready to strike.

Too late. With a shudder, Lassus’ cloak shrunk back on itself. The fabric sucked inwards, like water running down a drain.

Then it exploded. Fragments of cloth spun out in all directions, ripped apart by the detonation at their core.

Beneath the shredded fabric, Lassus had disappeared. In his place, an obscene ball of pulsing flesh had appeared. With breathtaking speed, the orb began to change. Growths shot out in different directions, latching on to objects and sucking them into the growing mass. Jaws opened, lined with mucus, then snapped shut and sank beneath the fleshy folds around them. Limbs burst out, wrapping themselves around furniture before snapping off and wriggling blindly back to their origin.

The spawn began to grow. A vast maw, ringed with pin-sharp teeth, opened up in its midriff. Eyes popped out all around it, hundreds of them. They glowed purple. The flesh around them was as white as teeth and ink-dark veins throbbed under the surface.

Lassus had gone. His mistake had been a costly one.

Schwarzhelm pulled the Rechtstahl back, preparing the strike. It was hard to know what to aim for.

“Do not cut me!” cried the spawn. The voice was like Lassus’. It sounded as if he was still there, buried deep within the flexing glands.

Schwarzhelm ignored the pleas. There was nothing he could have done to save him even if he’d wanted to. And he didn’t want to.

The Sword of Justice arced downwards. As it bit into the mutating flesh, a foul stench burst from the bulging sacs. Sharp musk spurted into the air, splattering against the walls.

The spawn screamed. Tentacles, each laced with purple barbs, shot out from the heart of the maw. They latched on to Schwarzhelm’s clothes, clutching and binding. He swung round, tearing them free, slicing the hooks from his leather jerkin and cloak.

“You killed Helborg!” screamed the spawn from mouths that rapidly formed and then closed again. “You killed him, Schwarzhelm!”

Schwarzhelm ploughed towards the heart of the tentacle swarm, hacking each one down as it snaked towards him. For every barb that was cut down, two more shot out, aiming for his eyes, his throat, his fingers.

Schwarzhelm held his ground, letting the sword find its path through the flailing lengths of extended flesh. He had to keep calm. The thoughts rushing through his head weren’t helping. This was no longer the Lassus he knew. Perhaps that man had died long ago. All that lay before him was a twisted amalgam of dark magic and ruined matter.

The contest continued for some time, but then the swarm abated. One by one, the tendrils fell to the ground, either severed or withdrawn. The orb of flesh remained, shivering and weeping. The maw was there too, surrounded by eyes. As it drooled, the pupils popped in and out.

“Very good,” mocked the voice. It sounded scraped and warped, as if the vocal cords within were undergoing radical rearrangement. “You’ve been taught well.”

Schwarzhelm ignored the taunts.

“Why?” he said, keeping the blade high, watching the remaining tentacles as they slithered across the floor.

“Who are you asking? Heinrich Lassus? He’s in here. But not much of him. His soul has been taken to another place.”

“But you know why he did it.”

“Of course. I know many things.”

“Who are you?”

The maw expanded rapidly, and a choking sound slopped out of it. The flesh flapped and fresh eyes burst out across the moving skein. That might have been something like a laugh.

“You know who I am. I’ve been in your dreams for weeks. Your mind is an interesting one, Schwarzhelm. So full of anger. If you knew the damage those emotions caused, I doubt you would think so highly of yourself.”

Schwarzhelm began to advance once again. He knew not to listen to the ravings of a spawn. Perhaps the speaker was a fracture of Lassus’ consciousness. Or maybe something worse. Whatever it was, only a fool listened to the blandishments of Chaos.

“I will discover the truth behind this,” he said, choosing his moment to attack with care. The spawn, seeing the blade come nearer, withdrew in on itself again.

“Be careful what you wish for. The truth can help you, or it can drive you mad. Which do you want?”

“Neither. I wish to uphold the law.”

“As you did in Averheim, then! I look forward to mocking your failure. Just as you have done already. Helborg is dead, and his soul is in torment. You have ruined Averland, Emperor’s Champion. Soon daemons will roost in the eaves of the Averburg and the streets will be lined with screams. This is all your doing. You were our instrument. You were our tool! Hail, herald of Chaos! The Lord of Pleasure salutes you!”

That was enough. Schwarzhelm let rip at last, swinging the Rechtstahl with ferocious abandon. Ignoring the fresh tentacles sent darting in his direction, he hacked and thrashed at the disgusting bag of slime and sinew. The blade rose and fell with astonishing speed and power. There was no pretence at precision, no semblance of control. Like a farmer with the grain flails, he surged through the spawn’s defences, cutting down everything that reached for him.

As the blade carved through the gelatinous surface of the orb, the maw split in several pieces. One mouth let out an unearthly screaming. The others grew spine-like fangs and snapped at him.

Schwarzhelm went straight for the mouths, plunging the sword into each one in turn. Blood the colour of sapphires and garnets spurted out, drenching his hands and chest. Where it touched naked skin it burned like hot wax. He ignored it.

The spawn began to weaken. Its vital essence sluiced across the floor, splashing up against the walls. What little coherence it possessed began to dissipate. Schwarzhelm didn’t relent. He whirled the sword in tighter circles, cutting through the trembling miasma. He was soaked in foul-smelling fluid. The tentacle barbs had lefts welts on his hands and neck. His exposed flesh was scored with pinpricks from where the teeth had bitten.

All were superficial wounds. None of them mattered. Soon the spawn could no longer muster even token attacks. Its flesh slopped from the edge of the Rechtstahl like slurry. The eyes went dark, hard and rolled across the floor like marbles. The screaming subsided to a whimper.

In the end, all that remained amid the pools of liquid was a quivering pile of semi-transparent muscles and sinew. Twisted blood vessels curved around a mockery of a heart. There were a few tufts of human hair and what might once have been a voicebox. All of it was distorted and perverted. Even as Schwarzhelm watched, the pathetic creature tried to mutate further, to shape itself into some kind of viable form. It looked like it was trying to speak again. The voicebox trembled, and new sinews formed on its outer reaches. Something like a fluted mouth began to emerge.

Schwarzhelm raised the Sword of Justice a final time. The edge glinted. He plunged the tip down. It pierced the heart. The remainder of what had been the spawn burst open. In the centre of the pools of plasma and fluid lay a single object. Lassus’ Star of Sigmar. The small iron token lay amid the filth like a mockery.

Ignoring the stench, Schwarzhelm picked it up and cleaned the slime from its surface. He looked down at the reeking mire contemptuously.

“For the Lassus I knew,” he said.

There was no time for either anger or mourning. Schwarzhelm’s mind worked quickly. A clarity had descended over him. There were things he had to do.

He retrieved the decanter of wine from where it lay, still intact and half-full. He poured the contents over the jellied remains of the spawn. He didn’t think of Helborg. To do so now would be fatal. The time for remorse would come later. He left the room, heading for the chamber on the next floor.

Schwarzhelm swept through the narrow house, uprooting chests, emptying boxes, lifting up floorboards. As he did so, the remains of the spawn gurgled in isolation. The fluids ran between the cracks in the floor, seeping into the rugs, pooling in the dark places under the finery.

Eventually, after much searching, Schwarzhelm took only one item from its place. An old iron key, found in a rosewood box under Lassus’ austere single bed. Perhaps it meant nothing. Perhaps it didn’t. There was nothing else of any note.

With that done, he returned to the lower chamber. Everything was as he’d left it. The spawn continued to gurgle. Slowly, unbelievably, some of the liquids were beginning to coalesce again. Schwarzhelm took a flint and struck a spark on to the oily pool of wine and plasma. The mixture kindled immediately, throwing off a strong scent of jasmine.

Schwarzhelm didn’t wait to see the results. Making sure he had the Star of Sigmar and the key with him, he turned on his heel and walked from the room. Behind him the flames caught quickly. On the edge of hearing, he thought he could hear the ghost of screams, an old man crying out in agony.

He kept walking. As he left the house, smoke began to curl from the upper window.

Schwarzhelm passed from the General’s Quarter and headed for the river. A kind of cold resignation had seized him. The guilt was finally rushing back. He saw Helborg’s face. Why are you doing this, Ludwig?

Because of the deception. Because the great enemy clouded all things.

Because they’d known how to exploit the jealousy that lay there already, untouched, ready to be used.

He reached the river. The water was thick, grey and fast moving. Rain whipped at the surface, mottling the surface scum into foam. Far out, industrial barges plied their heavy trade. On the other side, half-lost in the haze of rain and smoke, factories rose into the air. Their brown smoke rose into the polluted air, adding to the stain of the elements. Everything was tainted, old, tired.

His emotions surged through him, as fluid as the spawn’s flesh. It had been Lassus, not Helborg. Lassus.

Schwarzhelm stared into the water for a long time. The brown water stared back. The torrent was heavy, bolstered by the storms upriver. He wouldn’t last long. Not even he, the Emperor’s Champion, defender of the Empire, mightiest general of the Old World. His heavy jerkin would drag him down. The silt would clog his lungs.

He carried on staring. The quayside was deserted. A chill wind, laced with rain, gusted at his coat.

Then his hands slipped to the pommel of the Sword of Justice. His fingers closed around the hilt. He drew it. The metal glinted grey in the filthy light. The insignia of the comet glistened along the long blade.

It was ancient. It had been wielded long before he’d been born. It would be carried on to the field of battle long after he’d gone. His only task was to be a good steward, to carry it faithfully in the time allotted to him.

Schwarzhelm drew the steel surface closer to him. He could see his reflection looking back at him. His expression was savage. The lines of loss were still vivid. All those he’d been close to had gone. He’d been wrong. He had failed. He was alone.

So be it.

He sheathed the sword once more. With a final, parting shot at the mighty Reik, he turned away from the torrent. Any man could fall into error. The test was what he did to rectify it.

As he strode, Schwarzhelm felt some sense of purpose return. His limbs regained some vigour. His mighty heart began to beat again with strength.

He would use the key. He would find a way to contact Verstohlen. He would return to Averheim somehow. He would seek out Helborg, if he still lived. There was atonement to be made. Restitution. Forgiveness.

He had to go back. Schwarzhelm now knew he’d been wrong about many things, but one above all. He’d thought the battle for the soul of Averheim had been averted, that the corruption had been cut off at source. That was what he’d tried to achieve.

It was not so. His master’s house was burning. People rushed out to see the blaze, gawping and gesturing like puppets. He ignored them. As he strode past the smouldering wreckage and back to the centre of the Imperial capital, he knew the truth of it at last.

The war for Averland had only just begun.

The story will continue in the sequel, Sword of Vengeance.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Chris Wraight is a freelance writer based in the south-west of England. He has written a number of books and short stories for Black Library set in the Warhammer Fantasy universe, starting with Masters of Magic in 2008. His most recent title is Iron Company.

For more information please visit
www.chriswraight.wordpress.com

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