I originally wrote this some years ago (2008, iirc). I have undertaken a couple of minor edits since I first posted it to address criticisms originally aired, to improve the reading of some sentences and to correct a couple of internal inconsistencies. However it remains substantially unchanged.
Please note this was written some time before the Swords of the Empire novels and any similarity is entirely coincidental. Also, if you like this, or would like to see something similar but in full novel-length, you should totally check those out; they're very good.
Also, since I wrote this, the release of the Reiksguard novel has revealed that Kurt Helborg was not in fact the Reiksmarshall at the time the story is set, although he was a high-ranking commander in the Reiksguard. I have chosen to leave the story as is rather than correct the "error", as references to it crop up throughout.
C&C welcomed as ever, although I'm posting this really for archival reasons and not planning on making any major adjustments! Still, it's good to know which passages work well, or badly, so that I can bear that in mind in future writing.
Ath
Black Fire and Brimstone
Einhardt Fuhrmann winced as he found himself riding straight into the sun. This far west, the mountains did little to shield those on the road from its glare, and a moment later the other riders in the column found themselves in the same situation, judging from the curses from behind. He slammed down his visor with his free hand and allowed a slight smirk to cross his lips. The fools had moaned like nothing else when he had ordered them to ride in full armour, but now they would at least be grateful of the shade. Not, he had to admit, that it was comfortable riding in this heat in plate, but appearances had to be kept up.
Not for the first time, he cursed the boatman who had dumped his charges fifteen miles downstream rather than continue to Averheim itself. The man had refunded their money, at least, but that wasn’t really the point. The Reiksguard weren’t just cargo to be abandoned. Fuhrmann had toyed with the idea of reporting the man to his masters when he returned back from Averland, but there seemed little point. He had simply been simply scared and unsettled, and he could scarcely be blamed for that.
The Emperor was dying. What would have been treason even to have muttered a month ago was now indisputable fact. The only question was whether he had weeks to live or days. For all Fuhrmann knew, he could be dead already. That was what made it all the more important to ride in the full panoply. He was not old enough to remember well the death of the last Emperor, but he remembered well enough the horror stories his father had told him of the riots and unrest that had accompanied it. Whatever he could do to prevent that, so much the better.
The village they were approaching was, with any luck, the last before Averheim. It stood off to the west of the road, so they would thankfully not have to pass through it. A small mob was lounging outside the gates, but they should present little enough problem. He had heard things were far worse elsewhere in the province. He watched the peasants notice the small column, and shuffle to their feet, before moving to block the road.
“Column,” he barked over his shoulder, and within moments the straggling line of men and horses had been transformed into an absolutely military formation- four ranks of five, knights in front, squires behind.
“A steady trot,” he said, more quietly. “Keep your swords sheathed, but unfurl the banner.”
The knights approached the peasants at a threateningly slow pace. No knight had so much as glanced in their direction, but it was abundantly clear that at any moment they could spring into a gallop, and no-one wanted to think about the carnage they could wreak if provoked. A young lad of perhaps fifteen, probably younger, hurled a small pebble, but his aim was so bad that it sailed harmlessly over the knights’ heads. They knew by now to ignore it; they’d had worse on the streets of Altdorf.
The last of the peasants stood aside as the knights approached, waiting until the standard passed him, then spitting forcefully on the ground just to the side of the knights. Fuhrmann gave him the briefest of glances, but the man seemed not to be intimidated by the faceless visage of his helmet. An instinct told him to wheel the knights about and crush the fool like an insect, but the more restrained part of him, the part that had carried him to this position, knew that it was more trouble than it was worth.
“Useless peasants,” Sir Karolus growled once they were safely out of earshot. “Don’t they have work to be doing?”
“You’re right- the sun is shining. They should be making hay, I believe,” Sir Julius said from the rear rank. Fuhrmann wasn’t sure if that was a jest or not; it was difficult to tell with Julius even when you could see his face.
“I’m sure they’ll be dealt with in due course,” Fuhrmann said stiffly. “Disperse,” he added, now that the danger had passed. On the horizon there was a sight to cheer the heart; the smoke from rising chimneys. Averheim within two hours, and then he could get this infernal armour off and maybe take a bath.
***
It was closer to three hours before they reached the city, and the better part of four by the time they reached the palace. The streets were clogged, with humans, with human filth. The city seemed balanced on a knife-edge; the slightest push and it could collapse into anarchy. The gaudy-clothed city guards seemed particularly wary, desperate not to provoke a confrontation. Fuhrmann and his knights, the weight of their horses counting in their favour, managed to push their way through the scrum in the winding streets until they finally reached the gates of the Averburg. The guards at the gates uncrossed their halberds and let them pass without question- either they were expected, or he had simply decided not to argue with a man wearing the Emperor’s livery.
The Averburg was a vast fortress within the centre of the town; the walls even higher than those of the city itself, looming over the town square ominously. Despite its formidable exterior, however, the interior was luxuriously appointed. The central avenue leading to the palace was bounded by buildings of various shapes and styles, ranging from barrack blocks to what looked like the provincial mint. The palace itself was one of the largest Fuhrmann had ever seen, and without a doubt the most garish, its yellow walls offset by the black classical decoration.
The streets of the Averburg were almost as busy as in the town outside, although this gave the impression of organised chaos rather than an unruly mob. Soldiers were more in evidence here, and most of the other pedestrians seemed to have a destination in mind rather than wandering apparently aimlessly. Fuhmrann steered his way through the crowd into the courtyard before the palace. A small, balding man was already running over to meet them.
“Preceptor Fuhrmann?” he asked, his slightly-too-high voice bubbling over even as the knight was clambering from his saddle. “I am Artur von Staller, Chamberlain to the Countess. You are most welcome.”
Fuhrmann dragged his helm from his head and extended a hand and a wan smile. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Herr von Staller. I trust everything is prepared for our arrival?”
“Of course, Preceptor. Your horses shall be stabled with the Countess’s own, and chambers have been prepared for you and the knights in the east wing of the palace, with quarters for your servants.”
“Thank you, Chamberlain. I do not wish to seem too churlish, but would it be possible for someone to direct me thereto posthaste? We have had rather a tiring journey and I have no wish to present myself to the Countess in the manner you here see me.” Fuhrmann found it difficult to tell, but he knew he must stink of sweat and horse. Probably not stenches unfamiliar to Averland, but one could never be too careful. Johann took the helm from his hand, and he nodded his thanks to the squire.
“Would that were possible, Preceptor. However, the Countess is holding a council of some urgency with the nobles and burghers, and is to begin within the hour. We were hoping you would be able to attend.” His face took on a conspiratorial aspect, and, in a lower voice, he added, “perhaps your travel-stained appearance will help to win over some of the more cloistered members of the council?”
Fuhrmann barked once with laughter, and nodded. “Very well, I shall be there. Please take care of the rest of my knights.” He paused for a second as a thought occurred. “Will the Reikland ambassador be at the council meeting? I wish to speak with him as soon as is practical.”
Von Staller frowned. “I am afraid we have had no contact with the Reikland ambassador for a few days. He seems unwilling to leave his residence while the streets are still so dangerous. It is for that reason that we arranged for you to be accommodated here rather than at the embassy. Nonetheless we had hoped he would be able to meet you here.”
“So had I. Never mind; I will seek him out tomorrow. Please show me to the council chamber, and arrange for the rest of my companions to be taken care of.”
“Of course, Preceptor. Please follow me.”
***
Von Staller showed Fuhrmann to the council chamber, a large hall that the rulers of Averland had evidently decided was no longer needed for dancing or feasting. There were rows of stepped benches on either side, where he understood the luminaries of the city took their places. Beyond these was a wooden railing which cut off the final quarter of the hall, and beyond that was a large table with a number of rather more plush chairs behind it. In the centre was the Countess’s own seat. A second door stood behind the railing, allowing the family entry and egress without having to fight their way through the notables before them.
The room was about half-full by the time that Fuhrmann arrived, and the low hum of chatter pervaded the room. Unable to hear anything but the vague tone of the muttered conversations, Fuhrmann knew that the councillors were worried. If the display he had seen on the way in was anything to go by, they had every reason to be.
“As a guest of the Countess, your seat will be third on the left behind the table, sir,” von Staller said, gesturing towards the far end of the hall. Fuhrmann was still taking in the room. Two thirds of the way up the room was a mezzanine floor, running along three of the walls.. Only the Countess’ table was not overshadowed, and the Reiksguard knight looked at it quizzically.
“There is an audience to council meetings?” he asked,.
“Of a sort, sir, of a sort.” Von Staller’s face was perfectly straight. Fuhrmann guessed he would discover what that was about later.
“Does the Countess not wish to see me before the meeting starts?”
Von Staller smiled. “The Countess is… no longer always able to receive visitors in person. These days her family handle most of her visitors on her behalf.”
“And you’d rather I didn’t meet them?”
“It’s not my place to say, sir.” Von Staller paused a moment. “But if I were truly honest, sir, I’d say that perhaps you would rather you didn’t meet them.”
Fuhrmann nodded without thinking. He had done some research on Averland, in addition to the ambassador’s briefing, before he had made the journey; it would have been remiss of him not to. From what he understood- and he had enough of an education to know not to trust everything he read- Averland was these days almost entirely dominated by various members of the Countess’s family. He was of course prepared to reserve judgement on them until he met them, but rarely had he met what the Bretonnians would deem noblesse de la robe whom he had liked.
When the family did arrive, the initial impression did little to dissuade him from his prejudice. They resembled nothing so much as a particularly fat and spoiled pack of dogs, displaying almost to a man bulging waistlines and multiple chins no matter what their age. Ten of them made laborious progress through the rear door, and only the last of them dared to break the mould. He was young; perhaps even under twenty years old, and, unlike his relatives, had a relatively slim frame and a thick hatch of blond hair. Fuhrmann racked his brains for memories of the Alptraum family tree, and came upon the only name that matched: Otto von Alptraum, the Countess’s great-nephew.
The young man, ignoring the rest of his waddling cousins and uncles, strode over to where Fuhrmann stood, right hand extended.
“Sir Einhardt Fuhrmann, one presumes.” He had a serious look in his eyes, despite his youth.
“Quite so,” the knight replied, taking the man’s hand. “You must be Otto von Alptraum?”
“Well done.” The nobleman smiled. “I-”
He was cut off by a fanfare from at least one trumpet that took Fuhrmann entirely off guard. Had it not been for years of experience of loud noises at short notice, he would almost certainly have jumped out of his skin. His companion winced slightly, but removed his hand and nodded to the door.
The ancient and somewhat decrepit Grand Countess of Averland, Ludmilla von Alptraum, was making her entrance, supported by a rather sturdier man whom Fuhrmann guessed to be another nephew. The Countess’s age was a state secret, and always had been, but she was at least seventy-five and probably older still. Apparently she had once been a great beauty, but even were that once true, she now carried every single one of her advanced years in her face. Looking at her, Fuhrmann was forced to wonder who would expire first, Ludmilla or the Emperor.
Ludmilla was followed by a young woman, heavily made up, and a man who seemed, if anything, to be older still, carrying a large book. He was bent almost double, and Fuhmrann had to restrain himself from rushing over to help. His attention was, however, momentarily distracted by a military tread, and he glanced up to see halberdiers marching into the gallery, in Averland colours and full military regalia.
Ah. That sort of audience.
The Countess made slow progress to her chair, and almost equally slowly the old man made his way to a lectern off to the left, upon which he placed, and opened the book.
“Please be seated,” he croaked, in a voice rather more powerful than Fuhmrann had anticipated, but one that still would have sounded more appropriate from the mouth of a corpse. There was a brief hubbub as the handful of notaries still standing made their way to the benches. The hall was perhaps four-fifths full. Knowing how these things went, Fuhrmann guessed that was a good turnout.
“In the name of Her Imperial Excellency the Grand Countess of Averland, Elector Palatine, Warden of the River Aver, Guardian of the Grey Forest, Regent of the Moot, Baroness of Wuppertal and Grensztadt,…”
“Regent of the Moot?” Fuhrmann mouthed in disbelief, but the man was far from done.
“… Beloved of Ulric, Taal and Rhya and Sigmar, Protector of the Black Fire, Heiress of Siggurd, Ludmilla, Blessed Be-” the man paused to draw breath- “I declare this council session open.”
The room seemed to exhale as one, including the von Alptraums. The Countess blinked.
“Lord Chancellor Erstenhall has the floor.”
Erstenhall was a balding, harassed-looking man of middle years, who seemed to unfold from his seat at the front of the chamber, and brushed a hand nervously through his thin hair.
“It has come to the attention of the Council that the peace and security of Averland is under threat.”
“You can say that again!” a jeering voice echoed from one of the back benches. There was a round of sniggering, but Erstenhall did not appear to be rattled, staring at the perpetrator until the sound had subsided.
“A warband of greenskins,” he continued, an edge in his voice now, “of considerable size and fortitude, is gathering in the plains beyond the World’s Edge. Our scouts have informed us that this band has conquered a number of its near rivals and it seems only a matter of time before it makes a play at Black Fire Pass and the rich lands of our province beyond.
“It is also the case that the internal security of Averland has deteriorated in recent weeks. Unfavourable news about the health of the Emperor seems to have invigorated various unsavoury and revolutionary groups within the province.”
“And what do you propose to do about all of this?” a red-faced burgher cried, leaping to his feet opposite Erstenhall. “The peasants rise up around us, intending to murder us in our beds, and nothing is done!”
“What about Streissen?” another cried, also standing. “The town is practically in open revolt!”
The floodgates appeared to have opened, and soon virtually every man in the chamber was standing, haranguing the high table, and those around him, with whatever grievances were uppermost in his mind. Erstenhall shook his head, a slight sneer on his face, and sat down.
“The province is in uproar and subversives are in control, and yet the Emperor does nothing!”
“An example should be set! Send the army into Streissen!”
“How are we to defend against the orcs and the rebels at the same time?! We must request immediate aid!”
“Silence.”
The word was not spoken loudly, but firmly, and the uproar gradually subsided as it became clear who had spoken. Immediately opposite Erstenhall a man had stood up. He was tall and thin, with dark hair that reached almost to his shoulders. He was also, Fuhrmann noted, impeccably dressed, in the latest Altdorf fashions. He remained standing as the chamber stilled itself and gradually the notaries returned to their seats.
“The council will hear Feldsmarschall Marius Leitdorf,” croaked the ancient Speaker. Leitdorf nodded.
“Gentlemen,” he began, “where are our manners? We have amongst us a guest; First Knight Sir Einhardt Fuhrmann of the Reiksguard, who has arrived today on an urgent mission from the Emperor to render us assistance, and yet there are those in this chamber today who would stand there and claim the Emperor has paid no attention to our plight! Shame on you, I say, shame on you.
“Herr Erstenhall, to whom you gave such a rude reception, has outlined the issues facing the council, and now, in answer to your bawled demands, I shall give tell you what action I shall take.”
Leitdorf’s tone was admonishing, but not condemnatory, as if he were a kind but fair father laying down the law to an unruly child. Fuhrmann could tell that his credit amongst the delegates was high from the way they had responded to his call for silence, and the way most of them now hung on his every word. He risked a glance along the table to the Countess and saw her observing the scene with her usual stone-faced impassivity. She must be torn between regarding Leitdorf as an invaluable tool or a deadly threat.
“The most serious threat, as things stand,” Leitdorf continued, “is the orcish warband gathering to the east. In order to meet this threat, I have arranged to double the guard on Black Fire Pass. The necessary troops are assembled, and with the Countess’s permission, I shall lead them out tomorrow at dawn to reinforce our position there.”
“What of the unrest?” a burgher called, but in an altogether more respectful tone than they had addressed Erstenhall.
“Gentlemen,” Leitdorf smiled, “what you so dramatically describe as ‘unrest’ is little more than summer high spirits on the part of the Countess’s subjects. It is common knowledge that within a matter of months, perhaps weeks, there will be a new Emperor. Perhaps the Countess’s loyal subjects favour her to take the crown?” There was a small round of almost sycophantic laughter.
“The facts, gentlemen, are these. Last autumn saw an exceptionally poor harvest and so food supplies in Averheim and the major towns are running low. This has naturally caused a degree of unhappiness and uncertainty amongst that section of the populace who cannot afford to dine every night on stuffed goose prepared by their halfling chefs. This, coupled with the political climate, has driven a number of the Countess’ subjects into a state of unusual excitement. This will pass.
“You gentlemen talk of unrest, but there has been not one reported casualty, not one reported theft, not one case of arson, nor even assault upon the Countess’ soldiers. In the mean time, a deal has been negotiated exchanging two hundred of our finest Averland horses for sixteen barges of Reikland grain, which even now are on their way upriver. It is anticipated they will arrive within the week and enable us to establish a grain dole in the more needy towns until such time as our own grain can be harvested.
“I promise you, gentlemen, if you are prepared to wait and allow this phenomenon to run its course, you will see it evaporate like summer mist. I would also suggest that, as soon as the barges have arrived, regular guard patrols by the Countess’s soldiers be re-established. We need to reassure the people, not to crush them. It is a time for kid gloves, not an iron fist.”
Leitdorf returned to his seat to a round of cautious applause from the gathered dignitaries. The Speaker again cleared his throat.
“Has anyone anything further to say on the matter?” He paused for a moment, glancing behind him to the table where the von Alptraums and Fuhrmann sat. One of the nobles shook his head almost imperceptibly, and the Speaker turned back to the room.
“Then I hereby open the council session to petition.”
Petition? Fuhrmann leaned across to Otto.
“If this is an emergency meeting, why is the council hearing petitions?”
Otto shrugged as if to indicate he was equally bemused. “Protocol.”
After nearly two hours of petitioners, most of them dealing with trivial and petty concerns, Fuhrmann was bored almost to tears. He had sat through several tedious council sessions at the Castle Reikguard, but at least there procedures had never been held up for ten minutes because a commoner was wearing the wrong coloured hat. Every minor detail seemed to merit several pages’ worth of regulation. For those who had grown up with it, it was probably frustrating, but for those who had no idea what was going on, it was maddening.
Nevertheless, he thought he was beginning to get an idea of how the Averland political bureaucracy worked. At some point many years ago, some Count or other had been too lazy or busy to run the tax collections, and had created the post of Provost Marshal. Another had realised the impracticalities of commanding all the armies in person, and so created the position of Feldsmarschall. Gradually the responsibilities of the Count had been parcelled off, until the present situation was reached where the Feldsmarschall and the Chancellor ran the Province, and the Countess was free to enjoy herself.
Of course, there would be squabbles and disagreements among the ministers, but so long as they were fighting for position, and so long as the Count stayed out of such disputes, they only served to secure his throne. Fuhrmann guessed that in any case, the Feldsmarschall, having a smaller brain than his opponents but a correspondingly larger army, would tend to emerge the victor from such quarrels.
When the end came he was astonished by the lack of ceremony. The Countess stood, and the rest of the notables scrambled to their feet. Fuhrmann was unsure if this was part of the script, or if the Countess was simply as bored as he was. In any case he had not been paying attention.
The Speaker did not look overly surprised, but then his face was so ravaged by age that Fuhrmann doubted any emotions could be reliably discerned from it.
“Session is ended,” he rasped, as the Countess and her escorts made their way from the room.
“Thank Ulric for that,” Otto breathed. He smiled weakly at Fuhrmann. “Not quite the reception you were hoping for, I’d wager.”
“You could put it like that. Is the council always so, er, formal?”
“Usually more so. There were more people here than usual today, so some of the regulations were relaxed. I suppose you could say-”
“Sir Einhardt!” Marius Leitdorf appeared at Fuhrmann’s left shoulder, cutting Otto off in mid-sentence. “I’m dreadfully sorry you had to sit through that, old man. Come and have a drink and let’s catch up.” he placed an arm around Fuhrmann’s shoulders and steered him away. Otto nodded curtly, his face dark.
“How was your journey? Terrible, I don’t doubt. Sigmar’s eyes, but those dignitaries prattle on…” Leitdorf raised a finger to catch the attention of a passing boy with drinks, and casually lifted two glasses of wine before passing one to Fuhrmann.
“Now,” he continued, “this is your first visit to Averland, isn’t it? Is there anything I can do for you?”
“If I’d asked the Reiksmarshall before I left,” Fuhmrann said dryly, “I daresay he’d have said not to trust you.”
“Ah yes, dear old Kurt.” A slight bitterness crept into Leitdorf’s voice for a moment.
“How long does the Emperor have? Really?”
“Officially, he’s in the rudest of health, as you know. Unofficially, he might already be dead. Weeks, not months.”
“As I thought. And Karl-Franz is the favourite for the crown next time round, needless to say…”
“He will doubtless stand as the Reikland candidate; I can say no more than that. Where does Averland stand?”
“Averland, or the Countess?” Leitdorf scowled, and Fuhrmann noted for the first time the amulet of the twin-tailed comet hanging from the Feldmarschall’s neck. Leitdorf tossed his head, as if dismissing the issue.
“I’m afraid I shan’t be seeing too much more of you, since I’m leaving in the morning, but if there’s anything you need, ask me and I’ll fix it for you.”
“That’s kind of you, thank you.”
“Don’t mention it. We’re Sigmarites at the Averburg; we need all the friends we can get.” Leitdorf stepped back, bowed, then turned and departed. There was a gleam of something in his eye as he turned, but Fuhrmann could not see it for long enough to pass proper judgement.
He turned to look for Otto, but the young nobleman had disappeared. Most of the dignitaries had left, save for a small knot standing in the corner of the hall. Two men of relatively advanced years were haranguing what looked like one of the Alptraums, while Erstenhall and another man stood by, watching. There was an unpleasant look on the nobleman’s face which Fuhrmann did not entirely like, and as he watched he shook his head with a smirk and turned on his heel. One of the dignitaries grasped his shoulder and pleaded with him, but the nobleman shook his head again and waddled off. As he passed, he realised it was the same man the Speaker had looked to for guidance earlier.
The silent man whom Fuhrmann had not recognised turned and saw him observing the scene. Not wishing to intrude, nor to appear to be eavesdropping, the knight nodded politely before leaving to see to his bath.
The man watched him leave, and as the knight departed, the four remaining men were once again deep in conversation.
