03 - Sword of Vengeance (18 page)

The Steward started to whimper, unable to bear looking at the
horrific scene before him but prevented from looking away. His smoothness of
manner had been torn away. The lesson was having its effect.

“I can see it!” he cried, desperately trying to avert his
eyes. “I understand!”

Grosslich kept him locked in place. The memory of this would
keep him loyal, and now more than ever he needed men around him he could trust.

“I hope you do,” said Grosslich, enjoying the power flowing
from his fingertips. It was at times like this he didn’t regret the choices he’d
made. “Forget it, and you’ll end up in an agony chamber. And that’s
really
not something you want to happen. Isn’t that right, Ferenc?”

The man in the chamber couldn’t respond. There was only
misery left for him, only sensation, only terror.

In such circumstances, Grosslich could allow his doubts to
subside, and to glory in his future power. Averheim was already being moulded to
his will. By the time the Empire armies arrived, it would be his own domain, the
home of whole legions of terror troops. He would be at the forefront of them,
drenched in the gifts of the Dark Prince, ready to meet the weary response of
Karl Franz. It would be
his
realm, the mightiest between the mountains
and the sea.

He tightened his grip on the nimbus, enjoying Eschenbach’s
choked crying. The prospect made all the compromises worthwhile. By whatever
means, through whatever sacrifice, he would have what he’d been put on the earth
for.

Dominion.

The net was closing in on Verstohlen. The harder he tried to
get out of the city, the closer his pursuers got to him. Things were getting
difficult.

Grosslich’s army had swelled to ridiculous proportions, and
there were soldiers everywhere. Lines of men waited outside dingy offices in the
basement of the old Alptraum residence, desperate to sign up to Grosslich’s
expanding ranks in return for their pile of cheap coins and promise of glory.
The amount of money changing hands was phenomenal. Every hour, another hundred
or so infantrymen swaggered out of the burgeoning drafting houses, each dressed
in a crimson tunic and carrying a curved scimitar. Soon there would be more
soldiers in Averheim than ordinary citizens.

That wasn’t the worst of it. There were witch hunters among
them, though they weren’t like witch hunters Verstohlen had seen anywhere else.
They seized people seemingly at random, dragging them off to the Averburg over
the screams of their family. Fear had gripped the city again. No one would say
it out loud, but it was slowly becoming apparent what kind of a man Grosslich
was. Some still welcomed the firm hand of authority, judging it preferable to
have a strong elector than none at all. Others kept their mouths shut, eyes
sliding from side to side, waiting for the knock at the door to come for them
and watching the streets empty with the coming of the dark.

All gates to the city were now watched. Verstohlen had
visited every portal, hugging the shadows and assessing the chances of slipping
out. Passes were now required, issued only by captains in the elector’s direct
employ. Only the soldiers seemed to be let in and out at will, plus the
carefully scrutinised train of merchants bringing in building materials and
weaponry. Some of the traders had strange looks on their faces, and Verstohlen
doubted any were Averlanders. Some looked barely human at all.

So it was that he’d been forced to lay low in Averheim for a
second day, observing the degeneration around him, seeing all he’d worked to
prevent coming to pass. He felt disgusted at himself. Maybe he’d become
arrogant, too pleased with his own skills. Whatever the reason, he’d failed.
They’d all failed.

As night fell, he made his way back to the richer parts of
the city, close to the Averburg and the old cathedral. Some of the richer
merchants still had a measure of independence, and the streets were slightly
freer of soldiers.

Verstohlen wrapped his coat around him, keeping one hand on
his concealed pistol. Ahead of him a broad street ran south, flanked by
three-storied townhouses. The buildings were decorated across their gables with
scenes of bucolic contentment, all etched in wood by master carpenters, a sign
of the wealth of the owners. In the past the windows might have glowed with
firelight; now they’d all been shut fast, the doors bolted with many locks.

Verstohlen hesitated. He didn’t know what to do. The
hostelries were dangerous for him now. He’d not been able to get anywhere near
Tochfel. Perhaps the Steward had been taken. If so, it would be another mark of
guilt to set against his complacency.

Ahead of him, one of the lanterns flickered and went out. The
street slid into darkness. A few still burned further ahead, but they gave off
an uncertain light. Mannslieb rode high in a tortured sky, broken by fast-moving
clouds from the east.

Verstohlen leaned against the wall of one of the houses,
trying to think. He couldn’t stay outside all night. Perhaps he could go back to
Valgrind’s forge, though if Tochfel had been taken that would be as unsafe as
anywhere else. His fear was clouding his judgement. Two days without sleep were
taking their toll.

Once again, he remembered Schwarzhelm.
There are many ways
of attacking a man, subtle ways.
Had he said that? It was hard to remember.

He crept out from under the shadow of the house, determined
to keep moving. There might be a safer tavern open in the poor quarter. He
needed something to eat and drink, even if it carried a risk with it.

Another lantern flickered out. That was strange. Verstohlen
looked back over his shoulder. The street behind was empty and sunk into
darkness. He turned back, flicking his collar up against the chill.

Then he saw the figure, hunched and cloaked, standing in the
middle of the road, no more than a hundred yards away and coming closer. As it
came on, the lantern above it guttered and died. They were all being put out.

“Verstohlen,”
the shape hissed, and steam curled from
its mouth.

Verstohlen felt a cold fist of terror close over his heart.
His mind raced back to Natassja’s pets, creeping around in their world of blind
misery.

The cloaked figure limped towards him. From under its cowl,
something clawed and curved emerged.

Verstohlen withdrew his pistol and fired. The crack of the
report echoed down the empty streets. The creature staggered, bending low.
Verstohlen fired again, and the cloaked shape crouched over, rocking on its
feet.

Then, slowly, terribly, it rose again. Under the cowl, two
points of lilac flared into life. Metal flashed in the night. It was smiling,
and its teeth were made of steel.

“Verstohlen,”
it hissed again, as if by way of
confirmation. It had a scraping, rattling voice that was only barely human, but
nonetheless horribly familiar.

Verstohlen felt his breath quicken. Terror gripped him, held
him tight in place. Then the creature came for him, exposing long talons, curved
and gleaming in the moonlight. It loped towards him in a broken, stumbling run.

“Holy Verena…”

Verstohlen fled. Drawing his dagger as he went, he turned on
his heels and sped down the streets. Behind him, he heard the horror set off
after him. It was faster than the other ones, and something told him it wouldn’t
need Natassja nearby to maintain its strength.

Buildings sped by in the night, blurring like dreams. He felt
his foot skid on a patch of slime, and nearly went down. Behind him, close on
his shoulder, he could hear the clicking, the scuttle of bone against stone.

It was getting nearer. He couldn’t turn to check. He couldn’t
fight it. He couldn’t escape. With the prescience of those about to die,
Verstohlen saw everything clearly. He would be overtaken. The horror would catch
him. In every patch of shadow, he saw the masks leering at him, laughing at his
failure. The signs had been there. He should have known. Only his pride had let
him think he’d defeated them. Now it was over.

His heart hammering, his lungs bursting, Pieter Verstohlen
ran for his life.

The candle burned low and its light began to fail. Leitdorf
reached for another, lit it and held it over the flame until the wax softened,
then pressed it into the brass holder. A warm, golden light flooded back across
the desk. It was late. The journey had been long and he was tired. He knew he
should go to bed. Something, perhaps the sense of familiarity, kept him up.

They’d arrived at the Drakenmoor castle in the late
afternoon. The old stone walls had towered over the bleak land, just as he’d
remembered them doing. It wasn’t a true castle, more a fortified manor house in
the heart of the moors. The crumbling battlements were mostly for show, and the
walls wouldn’t have withstood a determined attack with any kind of artillery.
The sheer-sided roofs were missing a few tiles, and broken panes of glass hadn’t
been repaired. Still, that was hardly the point. It was secret, and it was far
from Averheim. The few resident staff had welcomed him back like the forgotten
son he was to them. Gerta, the old nursemaid, nearly blind and bent double with
age, had kissed him on the forehead and clamped her arms around him for so long
it had become embarrassing. Even Skarr had broken into a laugh at that.

Now the old house was quiet again and the hastily lit fires
were burning low in the grates. Helborg had been given the old count’s master
bedroom. The Marshal had been able to hobble up to it unaided, but only just.
Even so, it was clear the man’s strength was returning.

Skarr had organised a watch. Through the night Reiksguard
would patrol the countryside around them. For the first time in days, a
semblance of safety had returned. It was possibly illusory, and certainly
transitory, but at least it was something.

Leitdorf had taken his father’s private study to sleep in.
Alongside the huge desk, still stacked with parchment that the servants had been
too timid to remove, there was a narrow bed set against the wall. The old man
had often slept there after working late, too exhausted to drag himself along
the creaking landing to the opulent master suite. Unlike most of Marius’
private rooms, the study was sparsely furnished and decorated. Icons of Sigmar
and Siggurd hung on the dark green walls, flaking with age.

Unwilling to sleep, Leitdorf had started to leaf through the
old papers. It was a sobering business. Most of them were routine orders and
reports detailing the dreary minutiae of state. A dispute over land on the
Stirland border, a revision of the tax thresholds for smaller farms, a visiting
delegation from Wissenland to discuss levies on wine imports. His father’s bold
hand was on all of them, making notes or issuing orders to his secretary. The
signature, written in a heavy, flowing script, was everywhere.

Rufus remembered seeing him work when he’d still been a
child. He’d managed to evade his nannies and had stolen down the winding
interior of the Averburg, darting from shadow to shadow. At that age he’d
imagined his father sitting on a golden throne, dictating matters of war and
alliance to a waiting army of knights and battle wizards. Instead, when the
young Rufus had found him, Marius had been bent over a desk much like the one he
sat at now, scribbling on parchment, hunched over a flickering candle flame.

Rufus remembered the smile creasing the man’s weary face,
beckoning him over.

“This isn’t for you, young one,” he’d said, looking over the
piles of parchment with forbearance. “Be thankful for it. Leopold will inherit
this.”

Of course, Rufus hadn’t been thankful then. He’d grown
resentful, spoiled and fat as the years passed. Getting his father’s attention
had been difficult. Rufus had tried to get noticed in other ways, throwing wild
parties and balls, bedding eligible women and then casting them aside, gorging
on food and wine while the peasants in the fields laboured to produce it. Even
after Natassja he’d continued to indulge his rampant, clumsy lusts, riding out
to isolated villages on his estates and picking a girl for his enjoyment over
the protests of the serfs. The last one, a few months ago, had proved hardest to
tame. She’d given him a brace of scratches to remember her by. He could still
recall the look of defiant hatred in her eyes, glistening with hot, furious
tears.

Pathetic. He’d become a laughing stock, a figure of casual
hatred, only loved by those so steeped in the Leitdorf blood, like Gerta, that
they were blind to the extent of his follies. And in the end, of course,
Marius’ mind had begun to turn, and it was too late. Everything was then about
plots, and war, and screaming in the night. When Ironjaw had taken the old man
at last, perhaps it had been a mercy.

Leitdorf pushed the papers to one side. Such was his family’s
legacy, and such was his inheritance.