As the words left his mouth, the clouds were pierced by a dozen winged horses, swooping earthwards with the poise and grace of swans in flight. Their outstretched pinions gleamed like pristine ivory, and their proud heads tossed and bucked. More pegasi emerged in their wake, flying in formation. They wheeled around in a wide arc, galloping through the high airs just as their earthbound cousins did on the charge.
Jhared whooped with joy, as all Bretonnians did at the sight of such rare and prized steeds. ‘Never so many!’ he exclaimed, eyes shining. ‘In the name of the Lady, how did you achieve this?’
Leoncoeur could not stifle a laugh himself. It felt good, after so many months of brooding. The sky-host circled above them, four-score of the semi-wild pegasi of the mountains, each of them answering the call he had sent out, trusting to the Lady’s influence that the summons would be answered. ‘I was lord of this realm, once,’ he said, watching them soar. ‘That still counts for something.’
Jhared looked at him wonderingly. ‘So it does. But how did you give them the summons? These are wild creatures.’
Leoncoeur smiled. ‘I have one loyal servant who never lost faith.’
As the last of the pegasi emerged from the cloudbanks, they were followed by a far huger creature, a bizarre amalgam of raptor and horse, with a greater wingspan and a bulkier, more powerful body. Where the pegasi soared across the skies with an acrobat’s grace, this creature plunged through the air like a galleon crashing through breakers. It dropped rapidly, folding its huge wings as it extended four huge clawed legs beneath it.
Leoncoeur’s mount reared up, panicked by the plummet of the monstrous beast. ‘Fear not!’ Leoncoeur commanded, yanking hard on the reins. ‘This is your cousin, and it would no more eat horseflesh than I would.’
The huge hippogryph landed heavily before them, flexing its shaggy limbs and cawing harshly. Leoncoeur dismounted and raced over to it. The beast lowered its beaked head and nuzzled against its master’s embrace. Leoncoeur breathed in the familiar aroma again, and it instantly reminded him of past wars and past victories.
‘Beaquis,’ he murmured, feeling the plumage brush past. ‘Now I am complete.’
Then he turned to the assembled knights, and laughed again. It was a pure laugh, a warrior’s laugh, free of the care that had trammelled it for so long.
‘Can any doubt the favour of the Lady now?’ he cried. ‘With weapons such as these, what enemy will dare stand against us?’
The knights roared back their approval, hammering on their shields with the hilts of their blades. At the head of the column, Jhared saluted his liege.
‘Smartly done, my lord,’ he said, bowing as the pegasi circled above them all protectively.
Leoncoeur gave Beaquis a final affectionate thump on the thickly muscled neck, then strode back to his stamping, wide-eyed mount. ‘They will fly before us over the mountains. They will take saddle and halter when Altdorf is in sight, and not before. I will not have them wearied before time.’
Then he mounted once more, and kicked his horse back into motion. ‘Until then, the march continues. Ride on.’
The sun slanted weakly through the high windows of the Imperial Chamber of War, striking the veined marble floor in thin grey streaks. Columns soared up around the chamber’s circular perimeter, enclosing a vast auditorium of concentric seats. The hall’s capacity was considerable, for it had been designed to hold representatives from every elector’s staff, every senior ranking magister from the Colleges, the Grand Theogonist and representatives of the sanctioned Imperial Cults, the Engineering Colleges, the Knightly Orders and the standing regiments of the Empire, plus trading guild observers and members of the various diplomatic corps from all over the known world.
Looking up from his throne at the very centre of the chamber, Helborg noted how sparsely it was filled. Fewer than two hundred seats were occupied, and most of those by deputies and functionaries. The three resident elector counts sat in the inner circle, along with their official staff and some minor Imperial courtiers. The Colleges of Magic had sent four delegates, including the peasant-stock charlatan Gregor Martak, whose presence in the Imperial Palace continued to baffle Helborg. Zintler was there, as well as von Kleistervoll and a few dozen high-ranking generals. The Knightly Orders were headed by the brute figure of Gerhard von Sleivor, Grand Master of the Knights Panther, who sat brooding with eight of his peers in full plate armour. Several other delegates were unknown to Helborg, which in itself was an eloquent statement of how far the defenders’ numbers had been thinned.
‘Very well,’ he said thickly, feeling the weight of his eyelids as he looked down the long agenda. ‘What is next?’
‘The forest draws close to the walls,’ said Magister Anne-Louisa Trinckel of the Jade College, her grey hair falling messily around a droopy face. ‘It must be culled, for the growths are not natural.’
‘It is scheduled to be done, Herrin Magister,’ said Helborg, wondering how on earth such a woman came to be the head of her Order. ‘We are short of men, and the rebuilding of the outer walls takes priority.’
‘That is a mistake,’ said Trinckel, looking around her for support. ‘The enemy will use the trees. There is power in the trees. We have long counselled that the felling of the forest has been neglected – now the consequences have come to haunt us.’
Helborg shot a dark glance at Zintler. ‘Do we have any work details that can be spared?’
Zintler raised an eyebrow. ‘Spared?’
Helborg nodded, understanding his frustration. Every able-bodied man and woman in the entire city was being worked to exhaustion just to keep on top of the landslide of tasks. The state troopers were being drilled relentlessly, the engineers spent hours atop rickety scaffolds working on the fortifications, the gunnery crews ceaselessly practised running out the great cannons and re-arming the mortar launchers.
‘I am sorry, magister,’ Helborg said, remembering the courtesies with some difficulty. ‘At this time, we just do not have the hands for the task.’
Trinckel was about to protest, when she was overruled by Arek Fleischer, the acting Arch-Lector of the Church of Sigmar. ‘Forget the trees!’ he blurted impatiently. ‘The temples are falling into ruin. We are nothing without faith. My priests have been pressed into the service of the army, even those who do not carry the warhammer. This is unacceptable – they are not trained for war.’
Von Sleivor slammed his armoured fist on the table before him. ‘Where is Volkmar?’ he hissed. ‘He would have had you drawn and quartered for less – priests must do their part.’
‘The temples will be restored, arch-lector,’ explained Helborg, as patiently as he could. ‘Now, though, is not the time. All must take their turn on the walls. Surely you can see our weakness is in numbers?’ Fleischer did not look convinced. Helborg attempted to smile, knowing that it was more likely to emerge as a grimace. The arts of persuasion, rather than brute force, did not come easily. ‘I myself fought with Luthor Huss, your brother-in-arms. There is no finer warrior in the Empire. Surely he is the example we should be following here.’
At the mention of Huss, Fleischer’s face reddened, and he started to shout something unintelligible about heresies even in the bosom of Sigmar’s congregation. This was angrily contested by Magister Willibald de Champney, the ludicrously coiffured magister of the Celestial College, appointed following the departure to war of his superior Raphael Julevno. His fellow wizards soon piled in on his behalf, following by Haupt-Anderssen’s chief of staff and the Grand Master of the Knights of the Sable Chalice.