It got under the skin after a while, the lack of blue in the sky and freshness on the breeze. When the air tasted foul for day after day, and the nights were clammy and the days were humid, and the rain kept coming in a fine drizzle that made everything mouldy and turned the earth underfoot into a spore-infested mire, it crushed the spirit. Even if the tensions of the impending battle had not been there, the city’s people would have suffered badly under such unrelenting misery – their sleep would have been as fitful, and their nightmares just as vivid.
Reports were coming in of rioting in all quarters. Brawls started up over the most trivial of disputes, triggered by hunger, or despair, or the kind of futile anger that came simply from waiting for the axe to fall. Food shortages made the situation worse – unspoiled grain supplies were running low, despite the heavy guard placed on the remaining stores, and water was little better. Most of the populace avoided water in any case, preferring the strong beers brewed by the alemasters and the few dwarf refugees still lingering in the taverns. They said that beer warded against the Rot. Perhaps they were right.
Helborg had not had a decent drink in days, and it made his nerves brittle. The wounds across his face still had not healed, and the pain was getting worse. Whenever he found a scrap of sleep, the lacerations would flare up, waking him in sudden pain. His apothecaries could not do anything – their old remedies, never reliable, had long since ceased to work at all, and the best they could offer was to bandage the lacerations and apply a soothing salve.
Helborg refused. He would not walk around the Palace with linen strapped to his face, and nor would he seek to dampen the raw pain of the daemon’s wound with potions. The pain was a reminder to him of the price of weakness. Moreover, it kept him awake, which with his chronic lack of proper rest was becoming essential.
‘Make them do it again,’ he rasped, running his hands through days-old stubble and resisting the urge to scratch the itching weals.
Von Kleistervoll, standing by his side, barked out the orders, and together, he, Helborg and Zintler watched the drills unfold.
They were standing on a narrow balcony overlooking the parade ground. The sandy surface had begun to go black from rot, despite the incessant raking from the groundskeepers and near-endless prayers from the arch-lectors.
Down below, formations of men began to move. Sergeants yelled out the drill orders, and troopers formed up into squares and detachments. The orders kept coming, just in the same sequence as they had been for the past two hours, rehearsing the various defensive tactics set down in Robert de Guilliam’s great compendium of martial lore, the Codex Imperialis, that had provided the cornerstone of Imperial defence since the time of Mandred.
Helborg watched the detachments wheel around one another. He watched the halberdiers shuffle together, keeping tight in the first rank and holding their blades stiffly. He watched them perform the feints, the fall-backs, the rallies, all under the hoarse expletives of their taskmasters. Five hundred men moved across the parade ground, their every movement orchestrated like a masque in one of the old grand balls.
Except that there were no grand balls anymore, for the gowns had rotted away and the ladies’ rouge and face-paints had mouldered in their tins, and the glittering halls where they would once have been worn were carpeted with dust.
‘They are holding up,’ remarked von Kleistervoll, looking for the positives.
The Reiksguard preceptor had taken a personal interest in improving the readiness of the standard Altdorfer garrisons since the defeat at Heffengen. Cohesion was everything to an Empire army – in any conflict, an individual human trooper was likely to be weaker and less well equipped than his enemy, but coordination with the warriors on either side of him made up for this deficiency. A Chaos horde charged into battle in ragged bands of berserk ill-discipline, against which the only defence was tight-ordered rows of steel. If the enemy managed to breach Altdorf’s outer walls, as it surely would before the end, then such disciplined ranks would be needed to hold them up for as long as possible.
Zintler looked less sure. ‘They grow weary,’ he said, watching one squadron of pikemen fall out of step, and stumble as they tried to make it good.
‘We’re all weary,’ snapped Helborg, observing the proceedings with a critical eye. ‘Keep them at it.’
Then he turned away from the balcony’s edge and stalked back inside, followed by Zintler. Von Kleistervoll remained where he was, scrutinising his charges like a kestrel hovering over its prey.
Helborg strode down the long corridor leading away from the balcony and into the Palace interior, and Zintler hurried to keep pace.
‘How stands the gate repair?’ Helborg demanded.
‘The work was complete,’ said Zintler. ‘As soon as they finished, more defects were found. The engineers are working through the night. The West Gate will be complete by the end of this day; the others, a little longer.’
Helborg grunted. It was like trying to build with gravel – as soon as one wall was shored-up, another opened with cracks. ‘Did the Gold magisters answer the summons?’
‘They are working on the problem,’ said Zintler. ‘But in Gelt’s absence–’
‘Do not talk to me of Gelt. I do not want to hear his name.’
‘Understood. His deputy is Gerhard Mulleringen. I will speak to him again.’
Helborg felt light-headed as he walked. Chambers passed him by, one by one, their edges blurred and their doors gaping. He was vaguely aware of functionaries and knights bowing, and the muffled sound of orders echoing from other corridors, and the clatter of running feet. It might as well have been a dream – all that mattered was the army, the walls, the supplies and the defence plans. He had to remain focused.
Suddenly, he realised that one of the vague shadows flitting about him was not moving. He blinked, to see one of the Palace servants standing directly in his path. The man looked terrified, but remained where he was.
‘Your pardon, lord!’ he stammered, bowing low. ‘I was charged to deliver these as soon as I could, but you have been... hard to find.’
Helborg glared at him. The servant held two rolls of parchment, one in each hand. ‘What are they?’ he demanded, wondering whether he could face more ledgers and dockets to sign.
‘Letters, lord. One is marked with the seal of the Supreme Patriarch. The other was delivered from the Grey College.’
Helborg shot Zintler a dry look. ‘The shadow-mages. What have they laid hands on now?’ He grabbed both rolls, and broke Martak’s seal first. As he read, his reaction moved from curiosity, to disbelief, to fury.
‘He’s gone,’ Helborg said flatly.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Zintler.
‘He’s left the city. The damned traitor. I’ll have his eyes. I’ll rip his throat out and hang it from the Imperial standard. I’ll punch his–’
‘I can send a search party. We’ll bring him back.’
Helborg rolled his eyes. ‘He’s an Amber battle wizard, Zintler. Your men would limp back as green-eyed hares, if they came back at all. It’s too late – he broke into the Menagerie and worked some trickery on a war-griffon. They’re both long gone.’ He leaned heavily against the nearest wall, putting out a hand to support himself. Martak had been a pestilential fool, a peasant of the worst and most scabrous order, but he had been gifted, and his staff was needed. His loss was just one more blow amid a thousand other lesser cuts.
Zintler looked shocked, and for a moment did not say anything. When he did, his voice was weak. ‘Why?’