CHAPTER TWO

Back and forth, Helborg paced outside his tent in the center of the Imperial camp, each step a squelch in the thick mud churned up by the arrival of the army. At least what was left of it.

When they had made camp, he'd called all the heralds and officers that had survived the battle and remained with the army, and ordered them to make lists of how many men they had remaining, and how many men they had lost in the devastating battle.

The news was especially grim. Thousands had died in the battle and the rout from the field. More had become separated from the main army during the retreat. They had lost track of men, squads, sometimes entire companies and regiments during the headlong flight. Some had merely gotten lost. Some had departed to protect their provinces, which they now believed to be under threat, with the loss of the Bastion. Others had simply deserted en masse, breaking oaths and disobeying orders. Salt in the wounds of humiliation.

Of the men that still remained with them, less than three quarters were combat capable. The rest were wounded too seriously to fight.

The numbers told only half the story, though. Everyone had borne witness to or heard the tale of the Emperor's Fall. Morale was the lowest Helborg had seen in a long time, as men walked with heads down and weapons held loosely. They ceased scrubbing mud and dirt from their uniforms, polishing their armour and sharpening their weapons. Those who had access to wine or beer began to drink while on duty. And the officers had stopped correcting the men's infractions, stopped pulling them up for lax discipline.

Helborg kept pacing, squelching at the entrance to the tent, between the two Reiksguard knights in mud-splattered armour, who stood unhorsed as a guard of honour at the tent opening. At the top of their helms, small, mangled tufts of feather protruded from the metal circulate that once boasted towering red plumes that could mark a Reiksguard knight out from all the other orders. The feathers had been hacked off the day after the Battle at Castle Magnus. Despite Helborg's pleas and attempts to reason, the knights had carried out the modification without exception. They were even refusing to respond to the title 'Reiksguard'. They called themselves 'Emperor's Pallbearers' now. An expression of shame, above all else.

They were one of the reasons Helborg hadn't been out among the army, berating and growling at the officers to whip their men back to the standards of discipline. If his own men were refusing orders, rejecting their unit traditions, how could he reprimand the rest of the army's faults without looking like a hypocrite.

Aside from this, something else was weighing on his mind: what to do, and where to go.

The army had been whittled down so much by the battle and the retreat that any chance they had of resisting the Warhost of the Apocalypse in the open field was now infinitely worse. That left fleeing into a city, taking shelter behind walls of stone. But which city should that be? Altdorf was the logical answer, but Helborg's faith in the capability of walls and steel to resist the enemy was shaken. Maybe it would be better to disband the army, let them return to their homes to be with their families in the last days before the end of the world.

No. In a moment, his sense of duty and honour reasserted themselves, making him shake his head violently. It was his duty to defend the Empire, to protect all its citizens. Who else would? Who else now could?

"Sir!"

With a jolt, his hand went to his sword, ready to pull it from the scabbard. An involuntary twitch that had developed in the days after the battle. Every loud noise, every sudden noise, now sent his heart racing. Helborg looked up from his feet, and breathed a sigh of relief as he spied his personal squire, young Ekhart, hastening through the mud towards him. The boy was wearing armour many times his size, which shook and rattled all over his body.

"Sir! Lookouts report approaching horsemen!"

"Identity, lad?" Helborg asked. "Where do they hail from? Are they threats?"

"They're Hochlanders, sir!"

Helborg released his sword and let out his breath again as his heartbeat cooled. Before long, hoofbeats in the mud sounded, and a company of Outriders appeared down the informal road between the rows of tents. Compared to knights, each one wore nothing but a helm and a breastplate. Often recruited from among commoners, they received much derision from their lance-wielding social superiors. They had one advantage over their counterparts, though. Each Outrider carried a rifle across his back; these ones from Hochland carried the eponymous 'Long Rifle', a weapon with a quick rate of fire and exceptional range. As much as knights liked to scoff at Outriders, calling them cowards and cheaters who were too afraid to engage in melee, a couple of disciplined volleys from an Outrider company was enough to bring down even trolls.

A man with a thin face at the head of the unit slid off his horse into the mud, and strode over. He was dressed almost identically to the other soldiers that had accompanied him, except for the shield-shaped badge that pinned his cape to his shoulder, displaying the coat of arms synonymous with one of the smaller provinces. Helborg also knew the man by sight and name, if not personally. It was Aldebrand Ludenhorf, Elector Count of Hochland. A man that was looked down on by many for broodily lingering on his horse at the rear during battles, whispering orders to his aide-de-camps and sending them scuttling away to relay instructions to the officers who were actually in the fray, winning the battle. And Helborg agreed with this popular sentiment. A leader should lead from the front, should share in the risks and struggles of his men.

"Reiksmarshal," Ludenhorf greeted. "Thank Taal for this meeting."

"Your Lordship," Helborg responded, trying in vain to keep the displeased frown off his face. "I was not expecting you."

"When I heard of the disaster, I brought out all the reinforcements I could spare. Three companies of Outriders."

"Better than nothing," Helborg observed grimly, thinking of the other elector counts who had not even sent messages. "At this point, the Empire will need everything we can give to avoid falling apart."

"Are the rumours true then?"

"Yes. The Emperor–" Helborg had to pause to clear the emotion from his throat. "The Emperor is dead."

A mournful silence descended. The count dropped his gaze to the ground. "He was one of the best of us."

"And the Everchosen still lives."

Ludenhorf raised a greying eyebrow. "Stragglers we met on the road told us you had slain him in single combat."

"It was a decoy," Helborg growled, the residue anger still burning bright. "One of his lieutenants."

It seemed Ludenhorf had no desire to press the issue, nor to make some snide comment implying incompetence. For all that the elector count said nothing, Helborg felt he might as well have called him out. But what else could be expected from a man who avoided combat like the plague.

"My scouts brought me news of the enemy's movements. If we could discuss them . . ."

"Yes. Time is short." Helborg turned to face Ekhart. "Lad, fetch the map."

Within the tent, lengths of sackcloth had been laid out on the ground in an effort to make it somewhat presentable. A table stood in the middle, right under the peak of the fabric roof. Ekhart produced a long tube of parchment and unrolled it on the table, the fraying edges draping over the sides. The vast expanse of the Empire was depicted there in strokes of ink. The two leaders of men looked down at it.

"We are camped here," Helborg stated, pointing at a location just south of the River Talabec. "I need to know where the army should head next."

"The enemy has gathered near the border of Ostland, somewhere here." Ludenhorf's finger circled an area at the north-eastern corner, where the ordered drawings gave way to an expanse of nothingness. "They have separated contingents to place both Kislev City and Erengrad under siege, but the main army seems stationary, for now. I cannot explain this inactivity, beyond them wanting to rebuild strength."

Helborg frowned. "Perhaps they are more invested in the sieges than your scouts report."

The count's nostrils twitched, and his eyes became flinty hard. "My scouts are elite men. They know what to look for. They would not make such a simple error."

"As you say," he responded sharply. "Which city do you think the Everchosen will make for once he is finished in the north?"

A grim smile revealed itself at the edge of Ludenhorf's mouth as he looked up from the map. "I am not your enemy, Reiksmarshal. I am here for the good of the Empire. Can the same be said for you?"

"Some would call you calculating, your Lordship."

"And some would call you reckless. People say what they will say."

"There are rumours that the Everchosen has spies. Spies who can disguise themselves perfectly as anyone, no matter their importance or station."

Ludenhorf crossed his arms, his strangely amused gaze fixed toward the left side of Helborg's waist. "You could kill me right now. But what will that solve?"

Becoming aware of it for the first time, Helborg slowly released the death grip upon his sword. The deluge of shame flooded all within him, and he took a step back.

"Boy, fetch some wine." If Ekhart was shocked by the defeat that crept into his master's voice, he gave no sign. "And bring a flagon for our guest, too."

The count lifted a hand up. "None for me. I don't drink unless it's ceremony."

Without a sound beyond his rattling armour, the squire vanished out the entrance of the tent. An uncomfortable silence fell.

"I do not blame your suspicions," Ludenhorf said as he stepped around to the far side of the table. "Suspicion has kept civilisations alive. But it has sometimes killed them."

Helborg sighed, long yet softly. "How can we trust anything in these times? The Emperor is dead. Our nation is weak, divided, exposed. Our allies destroyed or abandoning us."

"The Empire has suffered before, yet it has risen from the brink of destruction each time. And for all that faith, steel, and gunpowder helped, they weren't what carried the day time and again. It was heroes. Men who rose to the challenge when confronted." His smile, although strained, was genuine for the first time. "I suppose the question remains; what will we chose to do."

A lifetime's moment passed. When it was gone, Helborg felt iron in his spine again. He straightened up. "We shall go to Altdorf, then. Perhaps with strong hands on the reigns, we can hold out."

Ludenhorf nodded. "I can think of none stronger than yours. Until the war is over and a new Emperor can be elected."

"You should. I'm a warrior, not a politician."

"And I am an elector count. Do you want Todbringer or one of the others to accuse us of serving our own interests?"

Helborg found his memory transported back two decades to the Imperial elections. The two main contestants for the seat of Emperor. The ultimate triumph of Karl Franz, the great fury of the Middenland Elector Count, Boris Todbringer. "Do you think he will make a play for the throne? Now?"

"It's possible," Ludenhorf said with a slight shrug. "The fact is, you are the only one they are all going to accept, however begrudgingly."

Helborg felt a sigh building up. "They'll accept me, but they'll be forever looking over my shoulder and scrutinising everything I do. I don't need extra pressure while preparing defences."

"As you wish." A sideways glance pierced the Reiksmarshal. "There are many long miles between here and Altdorf. We shall see if things change when we reach the capital."

They won't, a dour, steady voice responded inside Helborg's mind. But now it felt weakened, no longer assured of his place in the world and the future. Even deeper, he realised that Ludenhorf's words were true.

But it was as the elector count had said. Many miles remained before Altdorf, and the possibility of change cut both ways. Perhaps none of this was necessary. Perhaps the scheming politicians could set aside their differences in the face of a greater threat. Perhaps Todbringer was more level headed than his reputation suggested.

And while he was wishing, perhaps the Warhost of the Apocalypse would just nicely pack up and return home.