Hammer and Bolter 6

by Christian Dunn

  ‘Enough!’ snapped Bertelis. ‘I don’t want to hear it, brother.’

  ‘You were there in Mousillon, brother,’ said Calard, frowning as he remembered. ‘You were there, but you were not yourself. You were... You were–’

  ‘I was what, brother?’ said Bertelis, his voice hostile and cold.

  ‘Dead,’ said Calard, flatly.

  ‘Yes, dead,’ said Bertelis. ‘You killed me, remember?’

  He was suddenly standing close behind Calard, though he made no reflection in the mirror. The hair on the back of Calard’s neck stood on end. This wasn’t his brother at all, Calard realised.

  ‘You cast me aside, brother,’ said Bertelis. ‘You cast me aside to assuage your own guilt. You drove me to into Merovech’s arms. It was your fault. And then you killed me. Now it is your time to die.’

  Calard had a blade in his hands, and he spun around as the thing masquerading as his brother attacked.

  He saw a horrific snarling face that seemed to be carved from wood coming at him, and the scent of rotting leaves filled his nose. Blade-like talons lashed for his face, but he fended them off with the Sword of Garamont, which blazed with white light.

  He felt the blade bite deep into woody flesh, and the creature screeched. Claws raked across his face. He was knocked flying by the strength behind the blow and hit the ground hard. For a moment he thought he felt snow beneath his hands. Blood was running down his cheek, but he pushed himself back to his feet, bringing his blade around to defend himself.

  His attacker was gone, and a cold wind was blowing through the blackened ruins of Castle Garamont.

  ‘What in the name of the Lady?’ he whispered, turning around on the spot.

  He stood within his old bedchamber, but its walls had crumbled. The sky was dark overhead.

  A movement behind him made his spin. A figure came forward from the shadows, and Calard’s eyes widened in horror.

  ‘No,’ he said.

  The figure glided into the moonlight, looking up at him with pleading, sorrowful eyes.

  It was Elisabet, the young noblewoman whom he had given his heart to so long ago, and who had betrayed him. Her face was pale, and she was dressed in a flowing mortuary shroud that billowed around her. She reached for him, silently imploring for forgiveness.

  ‘You’re dead,’ said Calard, backing away.

  She nodded sadly, and blood began to flow down the side of her head, gushing from the wound in her temple, where her skull had cracked. He remembered the horrible sound as she hit the cold marble steps of Lyonesse. The blood began to soak her flowing gown, making it cling to her body. Tears ran down her face.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Calard as he backed away further, only stopping when he was pressed up against the fire-blackened wall.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said again as she drifted towards him. Her feet were hovering an inch above the ground. In trembling hands, he lifted the Sword of Garamont before him.

  ‘Her death is on your conscience,’ said a hollow, familiar voice.

  ‘Father?’ said Calard, looking around.

  His surroundings had shifted again, and he found himself standing within the crypt below his family castle. Garbed in the deathly robes, his father stood motionless, staring at him with cold, dead eyes. His skin was grey.

  ‘That poor, restless spirit wanders lost in the between worlds because of you,’ said the former castellan of Garamont, Calard’s father.

  ‘She was poisoning you, father,’ said Calard.

  ‘Not a bad likeness,’ said Lutheure, glancing down at the carved stone sarcophagus that held his own remains. The marble top had been crafted to look as Lutheure had in his prime, strong and proud, arms crossed upon his broad, armoured chest. ‘She did what she thought was the best thing for her, and for you. She didn’t deserve the cruelty that befell her.’

  ‘It was not my fault, father,’ said Calard.

  ‘You are no son of mine,’ said Lutheure. ‘Not anymore. I had but one son I could be proud of, and you destroyed him. Had I not been so weak, I would have strangled you at birth, you and that witch of a sister. I should have seen your mother burn in the cleansing flames. Her tainted bloodline has destroyed Garamont.’

  ‘No,’ said Calard.

  ‘If you had any courage yourself, you would have taken your own life,’ said Lutheure. ‘But in your craven cowardice, you could not even do that.’

  ‘Father, please,’ said Calard.

  Again, his surroundings shifted. He stood outside the ruin of Castle Garamont, only now the shades of a hundred knights and peasants stood amongst the devastation, staring at him forlornly. They were as insubstantial as mist, and their eyes were filled with accusation.

  ‘They all died because of you,’ came his father’s voice. ‘If you had been here, doing your duty, they would yet live.’

  ‘I was embarked upon the quest,’ said Calard weakly.

  ‘You swore an oath to protect them. Your place was here.’

  Two figures pressed through the crowd of restless spirits, and Calard felt his heart wrench.

  A slender adolescent, little more than a boy, led a barrel-chested bear of a man towards him. The youngster had wavy, shoulder-length hair and was garbed in the rich clothes of a nobleman. His face was honest and open, and he had a smattering of freckles across his nose and cheeks. The older man had a thick beard that was running to grey, and wore a scarf tied over his eyes.

  The boy was Calard’s heir, his nephew Orlando, whom he had named castelan of Garamont when he had set aside his duties to take up the quest. He had been a child when last he had seen him. The older figure was Baron Montcadas, who had pledged to look after Orlando while Calard was away. Both had been slain in one bloody night, a night that had seen Castle Garamont razed to the ground.

  ‘You never came back,’ said Orlando. His voice was empty, as if all his youthful joy and mirth had been sucked out of him. ‘You should have been here.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Calard. ‘I never meant for any of this to happen.’

  ‘Your empty platitudes don’t count for anything here, lad,’ said Montcadas in his rumbling voice. ‘This boy was an innocent. His blood stains your hands.’

  Calard clenched his eyes shut, despairing, feeling the weight of guilt pressing down upon him. When he opened his eyes, his surroundings were once again altered.

  He stood within a chirurgeon’s tent, surrounded by the dead and dying. Laid out upon a table before him was the corpse of a grey-haired knight. His armour was rent in dozens of places, and tattered chainmail hung where it had been sundered. Broken spear-tips protruded from his body, and an axe was still embedded deep in the flesh above his hip.

  ‘Gunthar,’ said Calard, staring down at the body of his old weapon master and friend.

  Gunthar had been more of a father to him than Lutheure ever had. The guilt of Gunthar’s death still plagued him.

  Foolishly, Calard had become embroiled in a challenge with Maloric of Sangasse when he had been just a young knight errant. Maloric had appointed a champion, as was his right – Ganelon, a murderous knight that had never been bested. Calard knew that he could never win, but Gunthar had stepped in as his own champion, and though he had slain Ganelon, he had been fatally wounded in the process.

  Gunthar’s lifeless head rolled to the side and his eyes flickered open.

  ‘I died that you might live, Calard,’ he said, ‘but you have brought nothing but dishonour upon your household.’

  Tears of shame rose to Calard’s eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

  He stood on an island, surrounded by fog. He could hear the roar of the ocean, crashing against the rocks just off the coast. The pebbled beach was strewn with corpses of knights and savage Norscans.

  Amidst the devastation walked a single figure; a knight, tall and proud, striding towards Calard. A regal blue cloaked whipped behind him, and his blue tabard was edged in silver. His armour was ornate, and he wore a tall un
icorn-crested helm, surrounded by candles. None of them were lit.

  ‘Reolus,’ he said.

  ‘He was the best of men, the most chivalrous and noble of paladins,’ said a voice behind him. He didn’t need to turn to see who it was that was speaking; he recognised his sister Anara’s voice. ‘He was my lover and companion, and he died needlessly.’

  ‘He died an honourable death,’ said Calard, eyes locked on the silent figure of the grail knight making his steady progress towards him.

  ‘There is nothing honourable about death,’ said Anara. ‘We are born alone and we die alone. Death cares not whether we are good and noble and just in our brief time upon this world, nor if we are murdering savages. We are all just dirt in the ground in the end. You say he died a noble death. It means nothing. He is still dead, and the world is the poorer for it. His death was meaningless. It changed nothing.’

  ‘He did not believe that.’

  Reolus came to a halt before Calard, who dropped to one knee, bowing his head.

  The ocean boomed, and sea birds screamed.

  ‘He died because of you, my brother,’ said Anara.

  ‘No,’ said Calard, shaking his head.

  ‘Think of it, brother. There would have been no war with the Norscans had you died in place of Gunthar, on the fields of Bordeleaux, as things should have played out. It should have been you who fell beneath Ganelon’s blade. Elisabet would have ceased poisoning our father – he would have lived to see grandsons taught under Gunthar’s tutorage. Action and consequence.’

  ‘Grandsons?’ said Calard.

  ‘Bertelis’s children,’ said Anara. ‘They would have grown up to be strong and proud, with none of our mother’s taint in their blood.’

  ‘You could not know any of this would come to pass,’ said Calard.

  ‘I am a prophetess of the Lady, my brother. I speak the truth. Had you died in Gunthar’s place, Garamont would have flourished. The Lady Elisabet would have had no reason to seek out the witch-crone Haegtesse. She would have mourned your death, but lived a happy, fulfilled life. She would have grown old gracefully and passed away peacefully in her sleep, without regrets. Without her, the Norscan warlord Styrbjorn would never have come to our shores. He and his kinsmen would have perished in a meaningless feud with a neighbouring tribe, and his name would have been forgotten.’

  ‘Stop,’ said Calard. ‘Please stop.’

  Anara ignored him, stepping in close to continue her tirade.

  ‘No daemon-child would have been spawned in Elisabet’s womb. There would have been no war fought in Lyonesse to save her. Tens of thousands of lives would have been spared. That unborn child meant everything to the Norscan warlord – when you stole Elisabet from him, he would have torn the world apart to get her back. And in a noble attempt to save further bloodshed, my Reolus accepted the Skaeling’s challenge – and paid the ultimate price.’

  Calard was shaking his head, trying to blot out his sister’s voice.

  ‘Action and consequence, my brother,’ said Anara. ‘He died because of you. They all died because of you.’

  Calard found himself upon a windswept plain beneath a featureless heaven, utterly devoid of colour. The dead stood in serried ranks as far as the eye could see, motionless. They were all there: his father, Elisabet, Gunthar, Reolus, Orlando, Montcadas, and tens of thousands of others. They stood in silence, staring, and the weight of accusation crushed down upon him. Bertelis stood nearest of all. Calard could not look him in the eye.

  ‘It should have been you,’ they said as one.

  Without knowing how, Calard found himself holding the Sword of Garamont reversed in his hands, its point touching his throat. Tears were running freely down his cheeks. All he had to do was press forward, and all this pain, all this misery would end. A moment of pain, and then... nothing. All his guilt would be washed away, like a leaf on a stream...

  ‘Do it, my brother,’ urged Bertelis.

  ‘Prove that you are indeed my son,’ said Lutheure. ‘Finish it now!’

  ‘Do it!’ brayed a thousand deafening voices.

  Calard tensed, closing his eyes as he prepared to end his own life.

  ‘Lady of mercy, forgive me,’ he breathed. ‘I have failed you.’

  An unpleasant, cloying scent gave him pause. An earthy smell of rotting woodwork and leaf-mulch filled his nostrils, confusing him for a moment.

  ‘Do it!’ screamed the army of the dead, but Calard ignored them as his memories flooded back and the illusions woven by the branchwraith Drycha began to unravel around him.

  He remembered that it was the Lady that had led him to the Forest of Loren, and that is was by her divine will that he was here at this place, at this moment in time.

  Calard’s eyes flicked open and he surged to his feet. The Sword of Garamont burst into white flame, and he heard Drycha scream in frustration.

  The illusion of the endless plain of the underworld shattered like crystal beneath a hammer, and the frozen heart of the Oak of Ages was revealed.

  It was unlike anything Calard could have imagined. He stood within a vast, subterranean hall, a magical, frozen realm that stretched in all directions. Spheres of light bobbed gently through the air, radiating a diffuse glow akin to predawn. The earthen roof curved far overhead, and the vast roots of the Oak of Ages hung down low, entwined together to form pillars that came down to the ground. Other roots wove down the sloping, distant walls, forming archways leading off into other halls, deep beneath the forest.

  The strange realm was like a small version of the world above. The crust of snow crunched beneath Calard’s boots as he turned, gazing around in wonder. Gently sloping hills rose to meet the walls on every side, forming a natural valley in the centre of the otherworldy hall. A wide, frozen lake spread out in this depression, its surface mirror-like and gleaming, and in its centre rose a small island.

  Calard found himself drawn towards the lake. Sheathing the Sword of Garamont, he began to walk, trudging through the powdery snow. His eyes were locked on the island. It was lightly wooded, its trees leafless and barren, and a winding path led to a low rocky headland jutting out from the ice.

  The snow was knee-deep, but Calard picked up his pace, urged on by some ethereal impulse. He hurried down the powdery slope, passing through icy woods. The land levelled out as he came to the lake’s edge, and without delay he stepped out upon its frozen surface.

  The air was cold and crisp and still as he reached the island. He climbed a twisting path through ice-shawled trees, and passed through a stone archway carved with ivy and spiralling runes. He walked slowly out onto the low rocky headland, the highest point on the little island.

  A circular dais was situated there, and it was to this that Calard was drawn. He hardly dared breathe as he approached. An elegantly designed stone plinth was carved into the dais, and lying upon it was a goddess.

  Tall and slender, and so coldly beautiful that it made Calard’s heart ache, the elven goddess slumbered. She might have been carved from marble, so perfect was her countenance and so porcelain-pale was her skin. Her hair was the deep blue-black of a midnight sky, matching her dress that spilt down the sides of the altar on which she lay and spread out over the dais. Frozen leaves encircled her slender waist and brow, and tendrils of ivy wound around her flawless, alabaster arms. Frost glittered upon her cheeks, and ice-crystals had formed upon her eye-lashes.

  She was a vision of ethereal perfection, a frozen deity locked in the deathly sleep of winter.

  Calard felt the presence of Drycha before he saw her. She ghosted up behind him, materialising like vapour. He tensed, grip tightening around the Sword of Garamont, and turned to face her.

  He saw her talons hastily retract, and she came towards him wearing her most appealing form. Her emerald eyes were unblinking. She passed through the archway, moving with unhurried, feline grace, slender fingers trailing across the carved stone.

  She was naked. All that protected her modesty was the serpe
ntine flow of her hair, wrapping around her willowy form. Filled with twigs and ivy, her hair was like a living mass, caressing her body. Her feet were bare yet she walked through the snow as if untouched by the cold.

  Calard felt no lust or desire stir within him as he watched the otherworldy creature approach. She was physical perfection beyond any earthly being, but nevertheless, he remained unaffected. He knew what vileness lurked beneath her veneer of beauty and grace.

  ‘You should not be here, mortal,’ said Drycha. Her voice was throaty and seductive. ‘This is a sacred place.’

  ‘You are the source of this unnatural winter,’ said Calard. ‘Can you keep spring at bay forever? Will your goddess not be displeased with you for having imprisoned her so?’

  ‘She is no goddess. And with the compact sundered, she will be no faerie queen, either. You are not of the forest, and have no understanding of what you speak,’ said Drycha, stalking closer, eyes glittering. Her hair began to writhe.

  ‘I know enough to know that your heart is rotten,’ said Calard.

  ‘I walked this earth long before the birth of your short-lived race,’ snarled Drycha, her full lips curling. ‘And I shall walk it still when you and all your wretched kind are but a forgotten memory.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Calard.

  ‘I remember the arrival of the elves, long before they became the Asrai,’ continued Drycha. ‘I watched as they first ventured into the green. They were so full of fear. I laughed as their blood was spilt upon the forest floor. I screamed my fury when our fate became entwined with theirs. It was a mistake, but their time among us has come to an end.’

  Drycha paced back and forth before Calard, and her voice grew bitter. Her fingers elongated into thorny claws, and her hair whipped around her.

  ‘It was foolishness to have ever granted them the aegis of the forest. It was wrong to have put such faith in them. What could they offer us? We did not need their protection; they needed ours. We did not fear the bearded mountainfolk and their axes, nor the savage greenskins and their fire – it was the elves who needed us.’