Hammer and Bolter 9

by Christian Dunn

  But what they lacked in organisation, they more than made up for in numbers. Only now they were one down, a squirming mewling goblin skewered on the end of his improvised weapon. Bracing a booted foot against the creature’s chest, Reynard twisted sharply, the action accompanied by a grisly sucking sound. The squealing goblin fell silent and stopped struggling as the peasant pulled the pitchfork free of its filthy carcass.

  The horde had fallen upon Layon just as locusts had fallen upon the wheat crop three years before. The village had only just recovered from that disaster and now there was a host of greenskins at their door. The rampaging horrors trampled the corn that had been less than a week from the sickle and scythe, slaughtering the livestock that had been intended to feed the villagers during the bitter months of winter.

  Reynard blinked in the face of the smoke drifting across the village, seeking the source of the echoing hoof beats.

  A shadow fell across the village as light bled from the sky.

  ‘Reynard!’

  The scream snapped his attention back to the immediacy of the battle. It was his wife, Fleur. She stood at the threshold of their home, frying pan in hand, as a scrawny creature – no taller than a child of eight – bounded towards her, naked except for a strip of rabbit fur tied at its waist with grassy twine. It carried a rough axe in its bony fist, what looked like a large tooth set within it to create a serrated cutting edge.

  As the greenskin lunged at his wife, Reynard sprang, thrusting the butt of his pitchfork forwards, using it as he would a quarterstaff. The hard wood connected with the base of the goblin’s skull, knocking the creature was sprawling to the ground. Reynard followed up with a second sharp blow to its skull, smiling grimly as he heard the sharp crack of bone fracturing.

  Things were at their darkest now – the firmament the colour of pewter, the coming storm casting its pall across the face of the sun – as the greenskins rallied in the face of the villagers’ desperate defence. Men and women, as well as the young, the elderly and infirm, had all been forced into the fight, using anything that came to hand to help them save their homes from the tumbling tumult of shrieking greenskins, whether it was an axe from the woodpile or an iron poker from the hearth.

  The goblins were everywhere now, or so it seemed, swarming along alleyways, over the churned mud of the village square and around the flower-bedecked roadside shrine to the Lady.

  A shrill whinny carried to Reynard’s ears over the tumult of battle – the shrieking of goblins, shouted oaths to the Lady and the clash of billhook on axe – as if it rode upon a wave of power that deadened all sound before it. He turned, and his heart lifted.

  On the ridge of the escarpment beyond the village, dark silhouettes against the beaten metal sky, was another ragtag band. Swords held aloft, they only numbered ten in all. But at their midst, sat astride a barded warhorse, was the unmistakable form of a noble paladin, the crest atop the warrior’s helm clear for all to see, even in the failing light that came before the storm.

  For this was not just any knight. Their saviour was a chosen champion of the Lady of the Lake, one upon whom the holiest of honours had been bestowed. A grail knight.

  The silent ranks of the knight’s entourage watched as the massacre continued unabated. Just as Reynard was expecting the knight to issue his challenge, the men dropped to their knees, bowing their heads in prayer. The knight’s tabard rippled in the breeze that heralded the oncoming storm.

  Reynard caught sight of a green blur from the corner of his eye and turned his attention from the silent men-at-arms back to the melee consuming Layon. He spun on his heel, sweeping the blunt end of his pitchfork before him, feeling the vibrations of the goblin’s bone-cleaver vibrating through his arms as the two weapons made contact.

  Knowing that a chosen champion of the Lady had come to their aid filled him with renewed strength. It felt as if the very life-blood of Bretonnia was flowing through his veins.

  Sliding the improvised weapon through his hands, grasping the shaft closer to the prongs, he swung the longer end round sharply. The goblin’s blade slipped from the smooth wood, the creature stumbling forwards on its spindly legs and into the path of the whirling tip. The end of the weapon caught the goblin in the throat, the force of the contact throwing it onto its back in the battle-churned mud of the village square.

  With a cry of ‘For the Lady!’ the fighting unit lined up along the spur of high ground moved as one, pelting down the steep slope of the escarpment. Swords raised, shields hanging loosely at their sides, they hurled themselves pell-mell towards the battle while the grail knight watched from his position at the crest of the hill.

  Finally, with a harsh neigh from his steed, the paladin charged down the slope, a morning star swinging from the end of his outstretched arm.

  Reynard turned from the charging battle line, feeling hope and pride swell within him. There was fire in his heart, in every fibre of his being. The end of the pitchfork sticky with goblin blood, the retired man-at-arms headed back into the fray, a cry of ‘For Layon and the Lady!’ on his lips.

  The bellowed entreaty to the Lady, that she might bestow her blessings upon the faithful, became an incoherent roar in the throat of the battle pilgrim known simply as Arnaud. With his blessed blade raised high, he had been the first to break from his position on the ridge. It was he who led the charge, a battle-cry of zealous fury on his lips.

  The blade he held so tightly in his right hand, knuckles white around the worn leather bound about its grip, was scarred and pitted with the patina of age. Its edge was no longer as keen as it might have been had it enjoyed the kiss of the whetstone a little more often. The man’s tunic was torn and patched, the rough fabric still bearing burn marks in places. The hair on his head was an unruly mess, his balding scalp forming a natural tonsure, such as those favoured by the faithful, while thick greying stubble coated his jowly cheeks like a rash. The end of his nose was swollen and purple with broken blood vessels.

  But for all he lacked in attractiveness he was thickset and still strong. Every drunken brawl that had left him with a broken nose, or missing another tooth, had also honed his skills, teaching him to fight dirty. And there was no doubting his faith in the Lady, or the high regard in which he held his master, the thrice-blessed Sir Dagobert.

  No individual among their number was greater than any other else, for all commoners were equal in the sight of the Lady. They were simple folk who had given up their former lives, turning their backs on the lot that accident of birth had handed them, that they might have the honour of serving the noble paladin who had been chosen by the Lady, whose personal crusade it was to rid Her fair land of the greenskin, the rat-kin and the beast-spawn. There was no one among their number who held dominion over any other, for all were as maggots compared to the shining example set by the grail knight.

  But there was one among their number, nonetheless, to whom the others looked for guidance and approval, whose strength of heart and absolute conviction in his faith in the knight and the Lady was an example to them all. That one was Arnaud.

  Battle-cry still on his lips, the brawny pilgrim crashed into the goblin throng like a ship’s keel ploughing through foaming waves. His notched blade descended as he brought the pommel down on the head of a greenskin. Still running, he levelled his sword and thrust forwards, putting all his weight and momentum behind it.

  The weapon’s tip pierced the spine of a stringy creature which died with a squeal as Arnaud barrelled into it, its skull crushed beneath his heavy hobnail boots. Then he was piling into the next, hacking at its legs, his weapon breaking the creature’s kneecaps and then stopping, its dull edge failing to sever the bone and gristle completely.

  The rest of Arnaud’s brethren had joined the fray now with bludgeoning swipes of axe and mace, their weapons relics of other campaigns the grail knight had prosecuted against all that was unholy and an affront to the sanctity of fair Bretonnia.

  ‘Praise be to the Lady!’ a rangy, gaunt-
faced pilgrim cried with evangelical glee, his eyes rolling into his head as the rapture took him, sinking what a woodsman’s axe, hung with pewter charms, into the head of another of the goblins. The man had to put both hands on its haft to pull it out again. ‘Praise be!’ he cried again, tears running down his grime-smeared cheeks as the axe came free at last.

  The press of goblins and desperate villagers soon brought the pilgrims’ eager charge to a halt. Surrounded by capering greenskins, Arnaud set about himself with renewed zeal. Every kick, every punch, every bludgeoning swipe he made with his shield, every head-butt, every barrelling body blow, every hack and slash of his blade was accompanied by an angry grunt or a bellow of pious rage.

  He lashed out with his sword wildly, the flat of the blade smacking another of the greenskins on the head. He followed this up with a punch to the beast’s face on the return stroke, the weapon’s cross guard gouging out an eye.

  Feeling teeth puncture the flesh of his calf he gave a cry of pain and annoyance. Dropping his shield, he grabbed hold of the wriggling green thing responsible, lifting it clear of the ground, kicking and snarling, before running it through with his blade. The blade came out again with a wet sucking sound, smeared with gore and what passed for blood among the greenskins. Dropping the limp body he met the charge of another of the vile creatures with a kick to the stomach that left it doubled up and in prime position to receive the kick to the face that followed.

  As the goblin dropped to the ground gasping for breath, Arnaud recovered his shield from the quagmire at his feet and brought its tip down across the back of the creature’s scrawny neck, almost slicing its head clean off.

  Shield in place upon his arm once more, his blade ready to meet the next ill-considered charge, Arnaud braced himself, catching his breath for a moment, surveying the pockets of fighting that filled the village.

  ‘For Sir Dagobert and for the Lady!’ he shouted as he barged his way past startled combatants, making for the centre of the village where the fighting was at its most desperate and most savage.

  The sickle Reynard had snatched from where it hung on a peg in the cowshed slipped from his hand as the goblin toppled backwards, the curved blade having carved through the creature’s shoulder and into its neck. Returning his pitchfork to a two-handed grip, Reynard stepped out of the barn, leaving the distressed cattle anxiously lowing behind him, readying himself to meet the next charge. But none came.

  Reynard looked across the village at greenskins faltering before the pilgrims’ relentless retribution, those that could still walk turning tail and running for the sheltering shadows of the forest once more. His heart rose. The greenskins were in retreat. The goblins had been routed. ‘Thank the Lady,’ he gasped, the adulation escaping his lips as barely more than a whisper.

  He could hear other cries of joy, supplications to the Lady and even cheers rising from the beleaguered defenders. The battle-hardened pilgrims, who had come to their aid when everything seemed at its blackest, dealt with the last of the greenskins that hadn’t had the sense to flee while flight was still an option.

  A few of the grizzled pilgrims looked ready to pursue the fleeing goblins until one of their number – a brawny, barrel-chested brute of a man, his nose broken in several places and purple from too much ale – shouted for them to hold.

  Reynard looked at the man. Who was he to command his fellow pilgrims before the Lady’s champion had even spoken? But then Reynard had not heard the knight issue one command since arriving at Layon. In fact, he could not even be certain that any battle-cry had issued from the noble paladin during the battle.

  Head bowed low, keeping his eyes firmly on the ground, Reynard approached the pilgrim throng. The other villagers held back, happy to let Reynard take the lead. As a retired man-at-arms and former aide to the seneschal of the lord of Ombreux himself, Reynard had seen far more of the world than many of the inhabitants of Layon, the majority of whom had never travelled beyond the perimeter of the valley. He also had a better understanding of how to speak to nobility.

  Nonetheless his heart was racing now, and not just from the exertions of battle. To speak out of turn to a knight was to risk the paladin’s ire at best. At worst, it could result in him having his head cleaved from his shoulders by the Lady’s champion.

  ‘My lord,’ he stumbled, anxiety getting the better of him as he neared the pack of panting men, catching a glimpse of the fire that had yet to leave their battle-ready bodies. Taking a deep breath in an attempt to quell his nerves he tried again. ‘Most honoured lord, a thousand thanks. If you hadn’t happened by, it’s likely the greenskins would have done for us all. If there’s anything we can do for you–’

  ‘Sir Dagobert needs nothing you could offer him.’

  Reynard started. He was sure it was the brawny battle pilgrim who had spoken out of turn again. Other gasps of shock came from those villagers assembled behind him. He was not the only one to have noticed the affront, and yet none of the pilgrim’s fellows saw fit to comment.

  ‘Sir Dagobert seeks only to serve the Lady.’

  How could the knight allow this disgrace to continue?

  Unable to help himself now, a melange of anger, fear and disbelief welling up inside him, Reynard slowly raised his head. And, for the first time since he had been aware of the knight’s presence, he saw things as they really were.

  He took in the chainmail shirt and faded tabard hanging loose about the knight’s frame, and the morning star hanging limply from the knight’s still outstretched arm. He saw the sheared-off lance gripped forever in his other hand. He saw the horse’s battered barding, rusting at the rivet-joints, and the yellow gleam of bone beneath. He saw the votive trinkets draped across the knight’s shield and became aware of the four men who acted as the knight’s pall-bearers. And finally his eyes met the empty gaze of the skull locked within the knight’s helm.

  Reynard felt disappointment pour into him, filling the aching void that the aftermath of the battle had left. Their saviour was dead and had been so for a very long time.

  ‘Sir Dagobert does not require anything of you,’ the burly pilgrim said, a cruel sneer making him appear even uglier. ‘But we do.’

  ‘More ale,’ the pilgrim’s leader shouted from his place at the makeshift table – two apple barrels, a barn door and a couple of benches from the village shrine – upending the empty flagon clenched in his callused fist as if to emphasise the point.

  Reynard motioned for Melisande to hurry up with the two earthenware jugs she was filling from the barrel at the back of the house. She nodded, wiping away the tears she shed for her younger brother – fallen during the initial greenskin assault – with the corner of her beer-stained apron, before hurrying to obey as quickly as she could, encumbered as she was by two heavy pitchers.

  It seemed that half of those villagers who had made it through the goblin attack were now preoccupied with tending to the pilgrims’ needs. And those needs were surprisingly considerable for men who had supposedly given up all worldly cares when they had chosen to follow the grail knight in service to the Lady.

  The holy reliquae the pilgrims carried into battle, that acted as both standard and inspiration to the rabble, had been set down before the village shrine and a number of the village children were preparing garlands of meadow flowers with which to adorn it.

  Curiously, with the routing of the goblins and the arrival of Sir Dagobert’s entourage, the wind had changed and the coming storm had passed them by.

  Reynard stared at the reliquae. It was effectively a portable altar. Had the passing of the storm been a coincidence, or was there more to it than that?

  Before the girl could reach the pilgrims’ table, Reynard intercepted her, taking the foaming jugs and dismissing her with a nod. Melisande gave him a grateful smile before running home, the tears for her dead brother coming anew.

  ‘So, brother,’ Reynard said as he began to refill the pilgrims’ cups, ‘to what do we owe the good fortune of your arriv
al? What brings you to Layon?’

  ‘Not us, peasant, but Sir Dagobert, the thrice-blessed,’ the pilgrim’s leader corrected him. ‘His quest takes him where the Lady of the Lake wills. We merely follow.’

  Reynard glanced at the relics resting before the shrine. He could see quite clearly now that the saint’s bones had been mounted on a scarecrow frame of bound sticks, as had the bleached bones of his former steed. The numerous votive medallions had been tied on with ribbons, along with entreaties to the Lady scrawled on strips of parchment.

  ‘So what was it that brought Sir Dagobert–’

  ‘The thrice-blessed,’ the pilgrim added helpfully, the ugly, gap-toothed grin back on his face.

  ‘The thrice-blessed,’ Reynard echoed. ‘What was it that brought him here, at the hour of our need?’

  ‘I have already answered your question.’ The pilgrim fixed him with beady black eyes. ‘The Lady guides him. It was the Lady that sent him here now, when Sir Dagobert was most needed. Just as it was the Lady that sent him to join Duke Theobald’s campaign to purge the lands north of here of the greenskin menace.

  ‘But now we eat, for killing greenskins builds up an appetite like nothing else. And then maybe some women, that we might quench the fires of our ardour in their embraces.’

  The succulent smells of the suckling pig that was being roasted in honour of their guests carried to Reynard on the breeze, making his mouth water and his stomach grumble, realising how hungry he was after his own exertions to repel the goblins. He nodded to the armoured skeleton atop its hobby horse steed. ‘And will Sir Dagobert be joining the feast?’

  The knight’s spokesman could not hold back his guffaw of derisive laughter at that, and it was soon taken up by several of his fellows seated at the table. ‘Don’t be foolish, peasant!’ he snorted. ‘Sir Dagobert is fasting.’