He banished them once all was done, and remained for a moment in his private rooms, donned for war.
From outside, he could hear the growing clamour of the city readying itself. Bells rang out from every temple tower, sounding the alarm and rousing the sick and the exhausted from their beds. Great arcs of lightning crackled across the rooftops as the magisters of the colleges readied their arcane war machines. Trumpets sounded in every garrison, calling the thousands of troops still in the employ of the Palace to their stations. Scaffolds cracked and groaned as huge cannons were winched into position and rolled forward on their parapet mounts.
Helborg smiled. They were the sounds he lived to hear. The troops were responding as he had drilled them to. They might have learned to curse him since he returned from the north, they might have spat his name with hatred when he had forced them into another exercise or commandeered another water-supply or made the engineers work through the night to keep the battlements intact and the foundations strong, but they were ready. The standards still flew from the turrets, and the cancer of fear had not undone them just yet.
He walked over to the door. As he did so, he caught sight of his reflection in a grimy window-pane, and paused.
He looked much the same as he had done in the past – the lean, aquiline face with its hook nose and flamboyant moustache. When he turned to one side, though, he saw the long rakes along his cheek, still flecked with scab-tissue. As if aware of the attention, the wounds flared again, hot as forge-irons.
‘Keep it up,’ Helborg snarled. ‘Keep the pain coming. It’ll only make me angrier.’
He swept out of the chamber and into the corridor outside. He walked swiftly, banishing the fatigue that had dogged him for so long. He still had not managed to sleep, but the adrenaline of the coming combat sustained him, flooding his muscles and making him itch to draw his blade.
As he went, commotion built around him. Palace officials ran to and fro, carrying orders and last-minute requisitions. Knights in full armour stomped from the armouries up to their stations, saluting smartly as they caught sight of the Reiksmarshal. Helborg saw the sigils of the Sable Chalice, the Hospitallers, the Knights Panther, the Order of the Golden Wolf, and there were no doubt more already stationed across the city.
And, of course, there were the surviving Reiksguard, restored to combat readiness following von Kleistervoll’s punishing regimen. Nine hundred were ready to deploy, counting those that had remained in Altdorf prior to Heffengen – a formidable force, and one that he would personally command when the time came.
He neared the high doors of his destination. When they saw him coming, the door-guards hurriedly pushed them open, bowing as he strode through.
On the far side, the circular Chamber of Ghal Maraz opened up in all its many-arched splendour. In times of peace, the priceless warhammer itself was hung on chains of gold from the domed roof, guarded by four warrior priests and ringed with wards from the Light College. Only the mightiest or the most faithful were ever permitted access to the chamber while the weapon hung suspended over its iron war-altar. That altar had been forged from the guns used in the defence of the city against the vampire lords of legend, and was as black and sullen as pitch.
Now the chains swung emptily, for Ghal Maraz, like so much else, was lost, borne by the boy-warrior Valten somewhere out in the wilds of the north. The city’s defenders still mustered before the altar nevertheless, as if some lingering aura of power still hung over the empty hooks.
They were all there: von Kleistervoll in his full preceptor’s regalia, Zintler looking very different in his ceremonial Reikscaptain’s war-plate, the grand masters of the Knightly Orders, the masters of the Colleges of Magic, the arch-lectors and the master engineers and the Imperial generals with their captains and lieutenants in tow. Von Liebwitz, Haupt-Anderssen and Gausser were present, all in their own ancestral battle-gear. They might have been quarrelsome, power-hungry schemers, but they each carried a runefang and had been tutored since infancy on how to use it.
The display of collected power was comforting. It would have looked better with Schwarzhelm there, or Huss, or Volkmar or Gelt, but it was still a daunting panoply. As the doors slammed closed behind Helborg, all head were lowered in deference.
‘So, the enemy has been sighted,’ said Helborg, standing before them and fixing each in turn with his gaze. ‘We know now that they are three: an army to the north that still marches; an army to the east that is almost upon us, and the largest host of all, fresh from the sack of Marienburg and within sight of the walls. They will wait until Morrslieb is full, or so the arch-lectors tell me.’
Fleischer bowed. The head of the Celestial College nodded in agreement – they all knew the power of the witching-night.
‘They outnumber us many times over,’ Helborg went on, his harsh voice echoing strangely in the huge chamber. ‘They bring foul creatures from the wilds on the edge of the world, and think to break us as easily as they broke Marienburg and – so we fear – Talabheim.’ He smiled wolfishly. ‘But they have not reckoned on the soul of this place. It is Sigmar’s city. It is our city.’
Gausser grunted approvingly. All the true fighters – the grand masters, the Reiksguard – appreciated words like this. They had spent their lives going into battle, often against horrific odds, and only needed to know that their liege was with them; that he suffered alongside them, and that, in the final test, he would stand in the mud and blood with blade in hand.
‘This is the heart of the Empire,’ growled Helborg, gesturing to the golden pilasters and columns surrounding the empty altar. ‘This is where the seat of power has always been, where the Emperors rule, where the Law was set down and where the source of our greatness was first delved. While Altdorf lives, the Empire lives. As fortune’s wheel turns, it is we who have been charged with the sacred task of keeping it secure for the next thousand years.’
As he spoke, Helborg could see doubt in the eyes of those he addressed. If even half the scouts’ reports were accurate, than the enemy was almost ludicrously vast – a host greater even than the swollen armies of Kul.
Let them doubt. What mattered was whether they stood up or fell to their knees, and there had never been a day of Helborg’s life when he had not faced his enemy on his feet.
‘Even as I speak, our troops are reaching their stations,’ he said. ‘They will remain firm so long as we remain firm. They will look to us, the masters of men, to lead the defence and show just what stuff the Empire is made of. They will not be afraid if we do not feel fear. They will not retreat if we hold fast, and they will not contemplate defeat if we do not let it enter our minds. So I say to you all this day: stand firm in Sigmar’s image! As night falls and the terror grows, stand firm in Sigmar’s image. As they bring fire from the firmament and summon horror from beyond the grave, stand firm in Sigmar’s image. He has not abandoned us, for He is a god of battle. Wish not for a world in which there is no strife or bloodshed, for that would be a pale reflection of the world of glory we have been given to dwell in.’
He grinned, feeling the seductive mania return, and his wounds broke open on his cheek. ‘And this will be the most glorious of days! Men will sing in after-ages of the heroes of Altdorf, and will curse their fortune not to have witnessed the deeds that will be done here. They will look up at the white towers of this city, standing prouder than they do today, and marvel at their eternal strength, just as they curse the darkness that thought to bring them low.’