Free 03 - Sword of Vengeance by Chris Wraight - (ebook by Undead)

fighting, no siege engines and little
artillery. There had been no news from Averheim since Schwarzhelm’s departure
for the city, and his supply lines were extended and precarious. A cautious
commander might have withdrawn, pulled back to Grenzstadt until the situation in
the province had become clear and reinforcements were received. Grunwald’s
failure weighed heavily on Bloch’s mind. There was no sense in fighting a battle
that couldn’t be won.
    “We have a few hours until dawn,” he said. He looked at the
officers one by one, gauging from their response how ready they were for the
fight. They all met his gaze. “We’ll stay awake until we’ve hammered out a plan
to get the Keep back and the pass secure.”
    His eyes rested on Drassler, who stared back at him
defiantly. Despite everything, the mountain guard were keen to avenge their
defeat.
    “I want ideas,” he growled, feeling impatient for action
again. “We need to get them out of the Keep. One way or another, when the sun
goes down tomorrow we’ll have paid those bastards back twice what they handed
out to us. I don’t care how we do it, but the passes will be back in our
hands, and the last of those scum choking on their traitor’s gold.”
     
    The Grand Theogonist Volkmar was an imposing sight even when
bereft of his immense battle-armour. His skin was thick and leathery, tanned
tight by a lifetime on the battlefield. Dark, direct eyes peered out from under
feathered eyebrows. Like Schwarzhelm, he was not known for his humour. His mouth
rarely smiled beneath its drooping Kislevite moustache, and his burly arms
remained crossed across his chest when not kept busy swinging a warhammer. His
shaven head and forearm tattoos completed the savage picture. He looked properly
terrifying, as if he struggled himself to contain raging forces of anarchy
within him. Even when at rest, he inspired trepidation. When unleashed on to the
battlefield, that trepidation turned to awe.
    Those who knew him well had even more reason to be fearful.
This was a man who had come back from the dead, who’d passed beyond the barrier
between the mortal world and that of Chaos. The pain of it still marked his
every word, scored his every movement. No one knew the terror of the great enemy
quite as intimately as Volkmar, and the experience had marked him out even more
than he had been before. With each gesture, each glance, he gave it away. Under
the skein of savage piety, a cold furnace of frenzy forever lurked, waiting for
the kindling. Once he had been a warrior. Now he was a weapon.
    The head of the Cult of Sigmar bowed to few men, but he did
towards the figure before him. His ochre robes fell across his broad shoulders
as he stooped, his right hand nearly touching the floor.
    “Enough of that,” came a familiar voice. “Sit. We need to
talk.”
    The Emperor Karl Franz sat in the same chair he’d used when
commissioning Schwarzhelm for the Averland mission. Then, he’d looked at ease
with the world, confident and self-assured. Now his skin had taken on a pale
sheen and his eyes were ringed with grey. His hair, normally glossy, looked
dull. The most powerful mortal man in the Old World was troubled, and he hadn’t
laboured to hide the fact.
    Volkmar rose to his full height, grunting as he did so. The
wounds that had ravaged his body during his escape from the daemon Be’lakor had
been slow to close.
    He sat beside the Emperor, saying nothing. The two men were
alone. The fine furniture around them looked heavy and lumpen. Outside, a fine
rain still spat against the glass windows, and the morning light was grey and
filthy. In the corner of the room, the old engineer’s clock ticked methodically.
    Karl Franz looked down at some sheets of parchment in his
lap. They looked like they’d been read many times.
    “Why didn’t he come here himself?” the Emperor mused.
    “My liege?” asked Volkmar.
    “Schwarzhelm. He could have spoken to me.