03 - Sword of Vengeance (9 page)

“I have tried to manage the affairs of Averland by diplomacy.
That has failed. Whether or not Grosslich is a part of this, he cannot be
allowed to preside over treachery. It will be rooted out and destroyed.” The
Emperor crumpled the parchment in his fist and the knuckles went white. “You
will take my armies, Volkmar. Empty the Reikland if you have to. The gold in the
reserves is yours. Take warrior priests and the holiest devotees of Sigmar. Take
magisters from the colleges, war engines and artillery. Take veteran regiments
and a core of knights. This is no routine suppression of a minor rebellion. This
is a new war and needs a new army.”

The Emperor looked into Volkmar’s eyes, and his expression
was desolate.

“Find out what’s happening there,” he growled, his fists
still clenched. “Show the traitors no mercy. Crush them, burn them and grind
them into the ground. I would rather see Averland turned into a blasted waste
than see it harbour a second front against the enemy. You know what to do. You
know it more than anyone else. Can I trust you, Volkmar? Can you succeed where
both my generals have failed?”

Volkmar felt a surge of enthusiasm quicken within him,
tempered with the fear that had never quite left him. Not since the horrors of
Middenheim had he commanded men against the enemy. Now he was being asked to
ride again, to take up arms and show his devotion to Sigmar in the way the
warrior-god had always intended. He’d failed against Archaon. He’d failed
completely. He might do so again, just like the others.

“Yes, my liege,” he replied, his thoughts racing. “Yes, you
can.”

Deep in the heart of Averheim’s exclusive jewellery quarter,
the merchants had been quick to replenish their stocks. Averland was a province
blessed with mines on its borders and Averheim sat squarely on the trade routes
between Karak Angazhar and the heart of the Empire. There was money in the place
too, and every fat merchant who’d made his fortune shunting cattle from the
pasture to the slaughter-house had wives and daughters who needed draping in
lines of pearls or traceries of silver, so the jewellery business had prospered
with them.

Some of the craftsmen were Averland-bred, plucked from the
rural heartland and put to work at the forges or with the hammer. Over the
centuries, the fame of the jewellery quarter had grown and artisans from further
afield had settled there. Most came from Nuln, bringing new devices with them
and a penchant for mechanical innovation, but there were also dwarfs, drawn as
ever by the prospect of making money through the manipulation of the things they
loved: steel, iron, gold and gromril. The stunted folk kept themselves to
themselves, shunning the company of their human counterparts unless some deal
needed to be struck or supplies of stones were running low. So it was that they
formed a community within a community in Averheim, locked in their own arcane
world of contracts and grudges, tolerated by their hosts but seldom interfered
with.

Such isolation brought certain advantages. The dwarfs didn’t
involve themselves in human affairs, and were as happy serving under a Leitdorf
or an Alptraum as they would have been under a Raukov or a Todbringer. Happy,
that is, as long as they weren’t over-taxed and were given free rein to market
their creations.

That made the dwarf-smiths of Averland useful contacts for
men of a certain profession. If the gold flowed, then they would be more
discreet than a corpse. Of course, getting them to trust anyone but a member of
their own clan was hard. It took persistence, patience, a working knowledge of
the simpler forms of Khazalid, plenty of money and a formidable power of
persuasion. Not many humans could boast all of those. Pieter Verstohlen, on the
other hand, could.

So it was that the spy sat, knees up almost against his
chest, sitting on a three-legged stool in the forge of the master jewelsmith
Rossik Valgrind. Before him the fire glowed angrily, throwing red light across
the dark interior. Around the hearth hung metal objects of various kinds. Some
were familiar—tongs, clamps, bellows and fine-headed hammers. Others looked
like nothing Verstohlen had seen before, and their uses could only be guessed
at.

The owner of the forge himself worked at the back of the
chamber, ignoring Verstohlen and tapping away at a ring of gromril. His gnarled
hands worked with astonishing speed and precision, caressing and moulding the
metal as if it were a child’s forelock. His naked arms were like corded leather,
wound about with brass wire and latticed with tattoos. He smelled of scorched
flesh, hot metal and charred oil, and his beard was wiry and truncated from a
thousand singes.

He didn’t speak, and the only sound to escape his bearded
lips was the occasional grunt of satisfaction as the jewellery gradually took
shape under his hammers. The deal he’d made with Verstohlen had been for a place
to meet only. There’d been no payment for conversation, so he didn’t provide
any.

There was a tap on the door leading out from the forge and
onto the street. Valgrind kept working, ignoring everything but his art.
Verstohlen clambered up from the low stool and reached for the latch. Outside,
wrapped in a long cloak, stood Tochfel. Verstohlen beckoned him in and closed
the door behind him. The afternoon light stung his eyes after the occlusion of
the forge.

“Glad you could make it, Steward,” said Verstohlen, pulling
up a stool. The two of them sat before the hearth. In the background, Valgrind
worked away as if nothing had happened.

“Safe to talk?” whispered Tochfel, casting anxious looks in
the dwarf’s direction.

“Absolutely,” said Verstohlen, speaking normally. “Maybe the
safest place to talk in the city.”

Tochfel nodded. “Good. I’m glad my message got to you.”

“Your concerns and mine may be similar.”

“Maybe. How are things with the elector?”

Verstohlen shrugged.

“I see less of him every day. I suspect my services are no
longer of much use.”

“But how does he seem to you?”

“His mood changes. Some days, I see the qualities I saw in
him when Schwarzhelm and I first arrived. On others, things are less… clear
cut.”

Tochfel nodded. “That’s right. That’s what others say. It’s
harder to get to him. I’ve not spoken with him for days. He’s becoming erratic.”

Verstohlen felt a qualm of recognition. That’s what they’d
said about Schwarzhelm. Was there something corrupting about the city? He
immediately thought of Natassja. The witch had still not been found.

“So what are you saying to me, Steward?” asked Verstohlen. “I
can’t believe you’ve come here to moan about your master’s moods.”

Tochfel’s hands fidgeted on his knees. By the glow of the
hearth, his face looked distorted.

“Something’s wrong here, Herr Verstohlen,” he said, his voice
audibly shaking. “I tried to warn you of it before Grosslich’s coronation. No
one’s seen Ferenc Alptraum since the battle for the city. No one’s seen
Achendorfer. There are other disappearances.”

“Such things are normal when power shifts,” said Verstohlen,
watching Tochfel carefully, looking for the signs of dishonesty. The Steward was
not a master player of the game, but he could still have been subverted.

Tochfel looked hurt. “I may not have your skill in such
matters,” he said, “but I’m not entirely naive. Do you know how many men have
been burned at the stake?
Two hundred.
They’re not all done in public.
I’ve seen the lists. That’s beyond reason.”

“Are there trials?”

“Supposedly.” Tochfel snorted. “The witch hunter Heidegger
has his talons into everything. He even wants my own aides dragged to the stake.
None of us are safe.”

At the mention of witch hunters, Verstohlen had to work to
suppress a grunt of contempt. The cult members who’d taken Leonora had been
Templars of Sigmar. He regarded even the uncorrupted ones as little better than
butchers and sadists, and the fact he was frequently mistaken for one of them
was a considerable irritation.

Tochfel leaned forwards, his fingers twitching with
agitation. “Can’t you
see
it?” he implored. “We’ve picked the wrong man.”

Verstohlen shook his head. “Impossible. I saw Leitdorf’s
corruption for myself.”

“Now who’s being naive, counsellor? So much has turned on
that, and yet you always say that the great enemy is ever more cunning than it
seems. Could you not have been
allowed
to see what you did?”

Verstohlen froze.

“Natassja’s still not been found,” he said. “She may be in
the city. Her powers are formidable, and while she lives none of us should feel
safe.”

Tochfel let slip a bitter laugh. “You’re obsessed with
Natassja. Can’t you see that
Grosslich
is the enemy? He’s duped us all.
You’ve seen that monstrosity he’s building in the poor quarter. What sane man
builds a tower of iron?”

Verstohlen didn’t reply. The more Tochfel spoke, the more
anxiety started to crowd around him. He’d been so
sure.
He’d convinced
everyone of Leitdorf’s guilt. Even Schwarzhelm.

For that matter, where
was
Schwarzhelm? Why hadn’t
there been any word from Altdorf? Why hadn’t there been word of anything from
outside the province?

“I won’t deny there’s something wrong here,” he said, “but
Natassja is the witch, and she’s Leitdorf’s woman. We need to find her, and her
whelp of a husband.”

“What can I do to prove it to you?” asked Tochfel, sounding
miserable. “You won’t accept the evidence of your eyes. No one will. I feel like
I’m the only man left who can see it.”

“I’ll speak to Grosslich,” said Verstohlen, placing a
reassuring hand on the Steward’s shoulder. “There are things I’d like cleared up
myself. Trust me—if the man has been tainted by anything here, I’ll be able to
tell. I’m not proud, Herr Tochfel. If I’m wrong, then I’ll be the first to come
to you to admit it. Then we’ll decide what to do next.”

Tochfel didn’t look reassured. “He’ll get stronger, the
longer we leave it.”

“And what could we do, even if you were right?” asked
Verstohlen. “Could the two of us overthrow an elector? We need information. The
Empire will not leave Averheim alone for long. This thing requires subtlety, and
outside help.”

For a moment, Tochfel looked as if he’d protest further, but
the words never came. He looked slumped and fearful.

“Take heart, Steward,” said Verstohlen, trying to improve
both their moods. “We have already saved Averheim from certain damnation. What
corruption remains will be uncovered in time.”

Tochfel gave him a piteous look.

“If you really think that, counsellor,” he said, “then I do
not understand your reputation for wisdom.”

Black Fire Keep dominated the land around it, just as its
architects had intended. The pass was under a mile wide at the point where it
had been constructed. It had been raised on a hill of granite in the centre of
the otherwise flat and featureless rock around it. The pinnacle of the fortress
commanded long views both east and west, and in normal times the standards of
the Emperor and of Averland rustled proudly from twenty-foot-high flagpoles.

The bare rock stretching away from the Keep on all sides was
not there by accident of nature. After the second battle of Black Fire Pass, an
army of men and dwarfs had worked for months to clear the land. Piles of stone
were levelled in back-breaking labour, and the few clumps of foliage capable of
surviving the blinding snows of winter were cut down and burned. Approaching the
Keep undetected was now all but impossible, and bitter experience had taught the
defenders to remain vigilant at all times.

The massive walls rose a hundred feet into the clear sky and
were as thick as a man’s height. Their stone was black from the many sieges
levelled against them, and the signs of historical devastation were impossible
to remove. For all the blood shed over the wind-scoured stone, it would never be
left undefended as long as the Empire stood. Black Fire Pass was more than a
trading route, more than a strategic foothold in the mountains. It was the place
where the Empire had been born. There was never a shortage of volunteers willing
to man the ramparts of the way-forts and Keep, despite the appalling casualties
and near-certainty of attack. Indeed, the mountain guard commanders had to pick
their men carefully, rooting out the genuine soldiers from the fanatic and
deranged.

The cycle of fighting never ended here. Incursions would be
followed by a bitter fightback, which would be followed by fresh incursions. The
humans would never rid the world of the greenskin scourge, and the orcs would
never be allowed to hold the passes. As Bloch looked up at the distant walls,
now daubed with the blood of their last human defenders, he knew he was just the
latest to contest the site. Whatever the result of his actions, the game would
be played out for centuries after he was gone.

He found the thought reassuring. All he’d ever known was war.
The idea of a world where it didn’t exist felt as wrong as being bought a drink
by a dwarf. Both were feasibly possible, but he didn’t expect to see either in
his lifetime.

He stood with his troops half a mile west of the fortress, in
view of the ramparts but far enough away to be untroubled by them. At his side,
as ever, were Drassler and Kraus. Behind him, the army stood silently. They were
arrayed for battle, divided into companies and standing in well-ordered ranks.
They’d held together well. Averlander companies still carried their standards
proudly, both those which Schwarzhelm had raised in Averheim and the men of
Grenzstadt and Heideck who’d been drafted into action. Amongst them were the
Reikland detachments that had marched from Altdorf. They were tougher men,
hardened by years of ceaseless combat, proudly wearing the white and grey of the
richest Imperial province. The tall staves of the halberds glinted in the severe
light.