03 - Sword of Vengeance Read Online Free PDF Page A

target.
    In any case, it didn’t matter now. His mind was made up. He
would leave for Averheim as soon as his work in Altdorf was done. There were
only three things he needed to do first.
    He rose from the table, taking the key and the letter with
him and placing them in his jerkin pocket. He took a dark cloak from the hook in
the wall beside him and wrapped himself up in it. At his side he felt the cool
presence of the Rechtstahl. He hadn’t drawn it since returning from Averland,
and he dreaded seeing the rune-carved steel again. The spirit of the weapon was
sullen and accusatory. Like all dwarf-forged master swords, it cared about the
nature of the blood it spilt.
    Schwarzhelm turned to leave the room. Three simple tasks. To
leave the letter where the Emperor would find it. To enter Lassus’ private
archives in the Palace vaults. To retrieve the Sword of Vengeance, ready to
return it to its master if he still lived.
    Simple to list, difficult to do. With a final look around his
study, Schwarzhelm blew out the candles and left to break in to the most heavily
guarded fortress in the Empire.
     
    Grosslich reached the bottom of the staircase. The echoing
screams had now become a gorgeous cacophony, rising from the depths of the crypt
and snaking through the many passages and antechambers of the whole foundation
layer. For a moment, Grosslich paused to take in the sound. He could almost
smell it. That wonderful mix of fear, desperation and utter hopelessness. They
had no idea how lucky they were to be shown such exquisite varieties of
sensation. Their minds were being expanded. Involuntarily, it was true, but
expanded nonetheless. Sometimes literally.
    At the bottom of the stairs, a long gallery ran ahead for two
hundred yards. Far below the surface of the city, Natassja had been able to
indulge her peerless sense of design. The floor was glassy and smooth. A gentle
lilac light rose from it, picking out the detail of the baroque walls, each
carved with the same care and intricacy as the doors above. The themes were the
ones she loved—lissom youths of both sexes, locked in what looked like a
ballet of agony. The artistry was such that the iron figures could almost have
passed for real bodies, locked into eternal stasis and bound into the
foundations of the Tower.
    At regular intervals along the gallery, archways had been cut
into the walls. Each of these was decorated in the same fashion, with sigils
dedicated to Pleasure engraved over the keystone. The noises came from beyond
these arches. Grosslich hadn’t had time to explore all the rooms in person, but
he knew they were where Natassja carried out her works of artistry. On the rare
occasions when he’d felt able to peer within their confines, he’d found the
experience difficult. He knew that a part of him was still mired in human
weaknesses. Even now, after so much transformation, to see some of those… scenes made his flesh shiver. He’d have to work on that. The weakness in
him, small as it was, was the last remaining impediment to glory.
    At the far end of the gallery a large octagonal chamber had
been hewn from the earth. When the Tower was completed, the chamber would sit
directly beneath the centre of the mighty shaft. For now, all that stood above
it was an iron cat’s cradle.
    Grosslich walked across the glass floor, enjoying the echoing
click of his boots. The sound produced a pleasing counterpoint to the sobbing
whimpers coming from door number four. As he passed it, he was pleased to see
Natassja already waiting for him in the octagon.
    “My love,” he said, marvelling as he always did at her
splendour.
    Natassja sat on an obsidian throne at the centre of the
chamber. Her skin, once ivory, was now a shimmering pale blue. Her eyes had lost
their pupils and become pure black jewels in her flawless face. Her teeth still
shone as white as they’d ever done, even if the incisors looked a little longer.
She wore a sheer