‘Nice colours,’ said Bloch.

  ‘Helpfully visible,’ agreed Kraus.

  ‘So what are we going to do about them?’

  Kraus pursed his cracked lips. The weeks in the wilderness had given him a ragged, almost canine look. Like all of them, he’d lost weight and gained muscle.

  ‘We can’t evade Grosslich’s forces forever. Perhaps now we’ll see what his intentions are.’

  Bloch pondered that.

  ‘Too many to fight,’ he said.

  ‘What d’you mean? It can’t be more than two to one. We’ll tear them apart.’

  Bloch grinned. ‘Don’t get cocky. I want to get back to Altdorf in one piece.’

  ‘You’re in the wrong trade, then.’

  Bloch motioned to one of his men, a sandy-haired halberdier. Like all the troops marching with him still, this one had fought under his command since the death of Grunwald. They were good men, these, the kind you’d trust with your life.

  ‘Bring the lads up here,’ he told him. ‘We’ll form up and march towards them with our heads held high. No reason for us to suspect they’ll be hostile.’

  But there was. Meuningen’s warning still echoed in his thoughts. Everything about Averland since his return had felt deeply, terribly wrong. The further west they went, the stranger it felt.

  The halberdier slipped off to muster the rest of the men.

  Kraus was satisfied. He’d never been happy with avoiding conflict, and looked eager for another fight. He drew his sword and looked carefully along the edge, searching for defects.

  ‘Keep that sheathed when we get up there,’ warned Bloch.

  ‘You really think they’ll let us pass?’

  Bloch shrugged.

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine. Since Schwarzhelm left, I’ve got no idea what’s been going on here.’

  ‘And if they don’t?’

  ‘Same as always,’ he said. His voice was flat. ‘We’ll kill ’em all.’

  Verstohlen shaded his eyes against the grey sky and shivered. Either autumn was approaching very fast or there was something decidedly strange about the weather. Each day dawned colder than the last and the rush of clouds from the mountains continued unabated. The scudding masses seemed to be drawn north-west like water rushing down a whirlpool. In the distance, where the column of fire was still just visible on the edge of sight, a vast maelstrom of circling storm-bringers had accumulated. Tongues of forked lightning flickered against the dark shadow of the rolling grassland.

  He flipped the collar of his Kartor-Bruessol coat up around his neck and stuffed his hands in his pockets. The attire he was so proud of was suffering badly out in the wilds. He knew that he was worse than useless in such an environment. The skills he prided himself on were suited to cities and stately houses, places where information was more deadly than swords. Since decoding Lassus’s missives, he’d not been able to contribute much more to Schwarzhelm’s quest than the occasional grumble. He was tired, dog-tired, and the pain of his wounds still throbbed in his back.

  Schwarzhelm himself strode on as powerfully as ever, thrusting aside bushes and clumps of overgrown gorse with unconscious ease. The trials of the past month had done little to dent his sheer physical presence. Even out of his customary plate armour he still exuded a raw, almost bestial menace. He’d been described as a force of nature, and such a description served him well. Verstohlen had known him for years, but only on this journey had he displayed more than the most fleeting of weaknesses. This journey had been remarkable in many ways, though, none of which Verstohlen wanted to see repeated.

  ‘Keep up, man,’ Schwarzhelm growled irritably, pushing through a briar patch and hauling himself on to a shallow ridge of crumbling clay soil.

  Verstohlen sighed, hoisted his bag over his shoulder once more and followed wearily. They’d been on the highlands for two days now and there was little enough sign of any habitation at all, let alone the hiding place of Kurt Helborg. The country had gone from open moor to a twisting landscape of defiles and narrow coombs, all thickly forested or choked with undergrowth. The going had got harder, and tempers had frayed.

  ‘I’m coming, damn you,’ muttered Verstohlen, crawling up the ridge with difficulty. When he crested it, Schwarzhelm was waiting for him with a face like thunder. Behind him, a wall of low, wind-blasted trees clustered darkly, cutting off the grey light of the sun.

  ‘Can you go no faster?’ he snapped, eyes glittering with impatience.

  ‘Faster?’ gasped Verstohlen, breathing heavily. His head felt light from the exertions he’d already made. ‘Verena’s scales, we’d need wings to get across here in less than a week. This is a fool’s errand, my lord. We should turn back.’

  Schwarzhelm glowered at him. Though the man would never admit it, the fatigue was playing on him too.

  ‘Remember who you’re talking to,’ he rasped, moving a hand instinctively to the hilt of the Rechtstahl. ‘You have your orders.’

  Verstohlen’s eyes widened. ‘What’re you going to do? Draw that on me?’

  Schwarzhelm took a step towards him, his expression one of gathering fury.

  ‘Don’t tempt me. I’ve marched with Tileans with stronger stomachs than–’

  He broke off, suddenly tensing. From the tree line, a twig snapped.

  Schwarzhelm whirled around, both swords drawn. Verstohlen was at his shoulder in an instant, dagger in hand. They were being watched.

  Men broke from the cover of the branches, clad in leather jerkins and open-faced helmets. Their swords were naked and they were ready for a fight. There were six of them, all with the grizzled faces of professional soldiers. With a sudden lurch of remembrance, Verstohlen realised what they were.

  Reiksguard.

  ‘Lower your blades!’ cried their captain, pointing his sword-tip at Schwarzhelm and advancing menacingly.

  Schwarzhelm stood still, slowly letting the Swords of Vengeance and Justice down until the points grazed the ground. He knew what they were as well as Verstohlen did, but for the moment at least the knights didn’t recognise him. They’d probably never seen him out of armour before.

  ‘Perhaps you don’t remember me,’ he said.

  As soon as he spoke, a ripple of amazement passed across the faces of the knights.

  ‘Schwarzhelm!’ one of them gasped aloud. Another advanced with purpose, looking like he wanted to run his blade through the big man’s chest. Schwarzhelm remained motionless, keeping both his swords out of position. Verstohlen clutched his dagger tight, ready to act. This was dangerous.

  ‘Wait!’ snapped the leader, holding his fist up. His stubble-lined face was grimy and studded with scabs. He’d been in the wilderness for a long time. He kept his blade raised, watching both of them intently. Schwarzhelm’s reputation preceded him, and the knight seemed lost in a mix of awe and hatred.

  ‘Are you alone?’ he asked.

  Schwarzhelm nodded.

  ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘I seek the Lord Helborg, if he still lives.’

  One of the Reiksguard snorted with derision. ‘If he lives!’

  ‘Silence!’ ordered the captain. ‘He’s alive, though no thanks to you. Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you now myself, traitor?’

  Schwarzhelm looked directly at the knight. His gaze was blunt, hard to read. There was defiance there, belligerence too, but also shame.

  ‘Do you really think you could harm me, Reiksguard, if I chose to prevent you?’ His voice came in a deep growl. ‘I have two swords in my hands, both as ancient as the bones of the earth. You’re walking a dangerous path.’

  Verstohlen thought he was going to strike then, and sweat broke out across his forehead. He clutched his dagger more tightly. The Reiksguard held their ground. The merest spark would light this fire.

  Then Schwarzhelm’s massive shoulders slumped.

  ‘I did not come here to spill fresh blood,’ he muttered. Sorrow weighed heavily on each word, and the threat drained from his speech. ‘Take me to the Lord Helborg, and he shall be the judge of things. There are tidings he must hear.’

  The Reiksguard captain made no move.

  ‘Surrender your swords, then,’ he said.

  ‘Not to you.’

  ‘How can I take you to him when you will not disarm?’

  Schwarzhelm grunted with disdain.

  ‘You forget yourself, Reiksguard. I am the Emperor’s Champion. I will come as I am.’

  Still the tension remained. The knights looked to their captain. If he ordered it, they would charge. The man frowned, wrestling with the decision. Verstohlen could see the frustration in his eyes, but the Reiksguard’s respect for the sanctity of rank was near-absolute.

  ‘I will take you to him,’ he said at last, nearly spitting the words out. ‘There is an army on these moors, Schwarzhelm, an army raised to right the wrongs you have caused. Think on that, should you choose to wield your swords in anger. Your reputation goes before you, but if you raise them again, you will die before the blade leaves the scabbard. This I swear, as do all the Reiksguard that remain in Averland.’

  Schwarzhelm said nothing, but nodded wearily. He sheathed the Rechtstahl and the Klingerach in a single movement. The captain gave a signal to his men and they fanned around the two of them, blades in hand.

  Then they started walking. There was no conversation, and the atmosphere was frigid. As they went, the wind howled across the gorse like mocking laughter.

  ‘Merciful Verena,’ muttered Verstohlen to himself as he stumbled along behind the implacable form of his master. ‘This just gets better.’

  Bloch strode casually at the head of his column, Kraus by his side. Behind him, his men marched in formation, six abreast, a compact column of fighting men. After so long on campaign they looked more than a little shabby, but their manner of quiet, efficient confidence was unfeigned. They were the remnants of an army that had driven the greenskins over the mountains, and they had every reason to walk tall.

  As they drew closer to the camp, shouts went up from the sentries and the guards took up their places. By the time Bloch approached the perimeter the detachment commander was waiting at the camp entrance. He was flanked by several dozen men, all heavily armed. More clustered within, protected by the spiked embankment. They were wearing crimson tunics over plate breastplates. Their swords were strangely curved, and some had barbs forged into them. Not very Imperial. Half the troops looked like Averlanders, but the rest had the darker colouring of Tileans, Estalians or even soldiers of Araby. Grosslich must have paid out handsomely to get mercenaries from so far.

  Behind the camp commander the earthworks rose up several feet, surmounted by a row of stakes. The deployment looked well organised. Kraus was right; this was a part of an army at war.

  ‘Halt,’ ordered the camp commander. ‘State your name and business.’

  Bloch took a good look at his opposite number. The man had the air of a seasoned warrior. His armour was more elaborate than that of his men, and a golden boar’s head had been sewn into the breast of his tunic. He wore a crimson cloak that fell to the ground behind him. Like the rest of his men he wore a close-fitting, open-faced helm. As with all else, it didn’t look Imperial. Everything was too bright, too clean. Too beautiful.

  ‘I answer to the Lord Schwarzhelm,’ Bloch responded, keeping his voice carefully neutral. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Captain Erasmus Euler of the First Averheim Reavers, and Schwarzhelm has no authority here. You’ve overstayed your welcome in Averland, Commander Bloch.’

  Bloch was instantly irritated by the man’s manner. If he’d known who he was, why ask for a name?

  ‘I was warned there was a shortage of gratitude in Averheim,’ he replied coolly. ‘I can live with that. Let us pass, and we’ll be on our way.’

  ‘Your men may pass. You’re wanted by the elector.’

  ‘Is that right?’ Bloch let his free hand creep an inch closer towards his halberd stave. ‘Sadly, that won’t be possible. Your elector has no jurisdiction over me. Like I said, I answer to Schwarzhelm.’

  Euler withdrew a step and grasped his sword-hilt. His men did likewise.

  ‘Don’t push your luck, commander. You’re outnumbered two to one.’

  Kraus let slip a low, growling laugh. ‘I knew it,’ he muttered. ‘We’ll tear ’em apart.’

  That settled it.

  ‘As far as I’m concerned, you can bring it on, captain,’ said Bloch, sweeping up his halberd in both hands and swinging the blade into position. ‘We’ve been fighting greenskins for weeks. If you reckon you’re a match for them, be my guest to prove it.’

  Behind him, Bloch’s men instantly snapped into position, halberds gripped for the charge, faces set like flint.

  For a moment, a ghost of doubt crossed Euler’s face. The two forces stood facing one another, both bristling for combat.

  Then, from behind the camp, there came sudden cries of alarm. There were horses galloping and metal clashing against metal. A trumpet blared out in warning. A long, strangled scream was followed by a massed roar of aggression. Something was attacking the camp’s defences from the far side, and whatever it was had hit it hard.

  Euler stared round in confusion, backing away from Bloch’s column, clearly unsure how to react.

  ‘Reiksguard!’ came a cry from within the encampment. At that, some of Euler’s guards started to run back through the entrance, swords drawn. Others stayed with their captain, confusion and apprehension marked on their faces.

  ‘Reiksguard?’ asked Kraus, incredulous. ‘What in the nine hells are they doing here?’

  ‘Morr knows,’ said Bloch, picking out Euler with his blade and preparing to charge. ‘And I don’t care. We’ve had the luck of Ranald here, so let’s use it.’

  At that, with the tight-knit, lung-bursting roar they’d perfected out on the grasslands, Bloch’s halberdiers surged forwards, blades lowered and murder in their eyes.

  Grosslich sat on his throne of obsidian in the pinnacle, watching the clouds churn above him. Lightning streaked down, licking against the Iron Tower and screaming down to the courtyard far below. The aethyric fire still coursed through the air, staining everything a deep, throbbing red. Even the daylight failed to penetrate it. The maelstrom gathering above the Tower made the waking hours almost as dark as night.

  The daemons still swam in the shifting winds, endlessly circling the Tower, forever screeching their delight at being embodied in the world of mortals. Every so often they would swoop down to ground level and bring up some unfortunate to be torn to pieces for their pleasure. Not that the denizens of Averheim seemed capable of horror any longer. They’d been transformed into shambling automata, driven by the will of the Stone and blind to all else.

  The Stone controlled the slaves, and Natassja controlled the Stone. Now that there was no longer any attempt to hide what they were doing from the Empire, Grosslich’s position had become more perilous than ever. He was no fool. He’d known it when Alptraum had tried to manipulate him, and he recognised the signs again. He’d never be as powerful as Natassja in terms of sorcery, and there were few other cards left to play.

  As Grosslich brooded on the throne, chin resting on his fist, a daemon slipped through the iron walls of the pinnacle chamber and pirouetted in front of him. He’d tried to place wards to prevent them from doing that, but the whole city was so drenched in Dark magic that it had proved impossible. They were deeply irritating, these capricious horrors, and they enjoyed provoking him.

  The daemon stopped spinning and blew a kiss towards him. She was impossibly lithe, as they all were, shimmering like a mirage, her flesh taut and rich and tantalisingly exposed. For some reason the fact that her hands were crab-like claws and her feet ended in talons failed to detract from the powerful allure. Even as steeped as he’d become in the arts of magic, it was hard not to rush towards her, arms extended, ready to be lost in the delicious pain of oblivion.

  ‘What d’you want?’ Grosslich drawled, at once aroused and put out by her presence.

  ‘To watch you, mortal,’ she replied. The voice was like a choir of children, all slightly out of sync with one another. ‘It amuses me. Your desire is palpable. Why not give in to me? I might not even kill you afterwards.’

  Grosslich sneered. ‘And I might not kill you.’

  ‘Kill me? Impossible.’

  ‘Maybe. I’m learning new things every day.’

  The daemon laughed, revealing her pointed incisors and a long, flickering tongue like a lizard’s.

  ‘What a good boy,’ she said. ‘That’ll keep her happy.’

  Grosslich scowled. The inane chatter was supremely annoying. Eschenbach would be here soon, and there were important matters to discuss. The Steward was one of the few humans left in the city with a mind of his own. Whatever she’d said about it, Natassja had destroyed his ambitions in that damned rite of hers. He had no wish to rule over a city of psychotic imbeciles.

  ‘I could help you, you know,’ said the daemon, sliding up to the throne and draping herself across one of the arms. Her fragrance was powerful, as intoxicating as the root.

  ‘I doubt that,’ said Grosslich, ignoring her and hoping she’d go away.

  ‘Don’t be so sure. You have no idea what she’s going to do.’

  ‘And you do.’

  ‘Of course. I know everything.’

  The daemon came close. Her eyes were as yellow as a cat’s, blank and pupil-less. Grosslich looked away too late. The orbs were mirrored. He caught himself in them, faint and rippling as if seen from underwater. There were other things in there too, fragments of other men’s dreams and nightmares. Terrible things. The stuff of which daemons were made.

  ‘Just what do you think her ambition is in all this?’ the daemon murmured. Her choir of voices became ever more seductive, curling around the syllables like the caress of a lover. ‘Do you think she’ll rest content turning this city into a playground for the likes of us?’

 

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