At last trumpets sounded and the arena w as cleared, the hog-knights being herded off to the side by the jugglers. One of the pigs had to be physically picked up by a strongman, and carried squealing back to its enclosure.
'Round eighteen!' bellowed a fat crier, his voice carrying out across the expansive pavilion. 'Betwixt Sir Bertelis of Garamont, Bastonne,' he roared, gesturing tow ards the young knight, 'and Sir Merovech of Arlons!'
Calard and his companions bellowed their support, stamping their feet and thumping the balustrade.
Bertelis smiled and waved to the crow d, turning around on the spot, before pulling on his helmet. The yeomen clustered around him helped strap his shield onto his left arm and he strode out into the centre of the floor.
His opponent, Merovech, walked out to meet him. Bertelis was one of the tallest knights of Garamont, yet Merovech was taller still, and he walked forward with a languid, relaxed grace that spoke of immense self-confidence. He moved as if his armour w as a second skin.
That armour w as of an archaic, old fashioned style, fluted and with serrated barbs at its edges, and for a moment Calard w as reminded of the armour of the Green Knight, w ho continued to haunt his dreams. But no, this armour w as quite different, though he suspected they w ere fashioned in a similar, bygone age - or at least Merovech's armour had been crafted w ith such ancient designs in mind. Armour styles were constantly in flux across Bretonnia, w ith fashion changing as frequently as the seasons, and w hile most knights would look dow n upon one who could not afford to keep up w ith the latest trends, there was not a single derisive comment or disdainful look cast tow ards Merovech.
His armour w as of such dark steel that it w as almost black, and he w ore a spotless tabard of pure w hite over it. He carried no shield, but bore a pair of blades strapped at his side. He bore no heraldry other than a simple black fleur-de-lys, an ancient symbol that reflected purity and devotion.
That symbol w as carried by most nobles in some form or other, both knight and lady.
Whether it w as worn as a silver pendant around the neck, engraved on a knight's armour, or w oven into a maiden's undergarments as a symbol of her chastity, it w as a symbol of ancient and holy significance. It w as said to represent the lily, the sacred flow er of Bretonnia. In the old tales, hundreds of lilies reputedly burst into flower under the full silver moon w hen the Lady of the Lake first appeared to Gilles le Breton, in the age of heroes long past.
The first knight to be given the honour of bearing the fleur-de-lys as his personal heraldry had been Landuin - the finest of all of Gilles's Holy Companions. The fairest, most skilful and noble knight ever to have walked the Old World, Landuin hailed from the realm of Mousillon, w hich was at that time the envy of its neighbours.
Landuin's tale w as one of tragedy and betrayal, how ever, one from which his reputation, and that of his realm, w as never to recover. ' Those dwelling at the loftiest of heights have the furthest to fall' , w as an infamous line from The Death of Gilles le Breton, referring to Landuin's fall from grace.
Repressing a shudder at merely thinking of the cursed realm of Mousillon, Calard dragged himself back to the present.
Merovech's helmet w as crafted to resemble a snarling dragon, and the tall knight saluted Bertelis graciously as the crier and seconds cleared the arena. Bertelis returned the salute, and the tw o stepped away from each other, awaiting the signal for them to commence.
'For Garamont!' roared Calard, thumping his hands on the banister.
Brass horns hanging w ith pennants were raised to lips and they blew a resounding staccato.
Bertelis drew his sword and cut the air in front of him w ith a few practise swings.
Merovech drew the larger of the two blades scabbarded at his w aist, a sw ord of beautiful design. Most knights would have been forced to use the w eapon with two hands, such w as its size and weight.
The crier raised his hands into the air, silencing the horns.
'Commence!' he roared, going red in the face before trotting backw ards out of the w ay.
Calard leant forw ard, watching intently as the bout began.
The pair of knights stalked around each other.
Stepping forw ard with the speed of a striking serpent, Bertelis w as the first to make a move, w hipping his sword in towards his opponent's chest. His footwork was precise, his strike perfectly balanced. Merovech turned it aside with the minimum of effort, and feinted a riposte.
The tw o knights continued to stalk around each other, Bertelis launching the occasional testing strike, which Merovech would deflect with the barest turn of his w rist, but Calard could see that neither knight had revealed their full speed or power.
Bertelis launched another attack, an overhead strike. As Merovech's blade rose to deflect it, Bertelis rolled his wrist, flicking his sword tow ards his opponent's neck. It w as a blindingly fast shift of direction, one that had caught Calard out on more than one occasion, but Merovech avoided it easily.
Again and again it looked like Bertelis was going to score a hit upon the taller knight, only for Merovech's sword to turn the blow aside at the last moment, scant inches from striking home. Calard could see his brother getting increasingly frustrated, but w here in the past this might have led him to attack furiously, leaving himself open for counterattack, he now channelled his emotions, using his anger to add strength and focus to his blow s.
He launched a blinding series of strikes, attacking high and low. As Merovech sidestepped, Bertelis spun around on the spot, his blade slicing through the air tow ards his opponent's neck. It was a perfectly executed strike, and one that Bertelis had clearly set up. Merovech swayed backw ards at the last second and Bertelis's sword missed him by less than an inch.
Stepping back, Merovech saluted Bertelis for a move w ell performed, and drew his second blade, a short-sw ord that he w ielded in his left hand to complement the one held in his right. He twirled the blades before him, and stepped forward to engage Bertelis.
The tw in blades formed blurring arcs and the audience sat in silence, spellbound.
Bertelis backed aw ay steadily, desperately fending off the attacks coming at him from every angle. There w as no time for him to even consider launching a counterattack of his ow n, and it took all his skill and concentration merely to keep his enemy's blades from his neck.
Merovech sw atted Bertelis's blade to the side with his shortsword, and a spin of his other sw ord sent Bertelis's blade sailing into the air. It spun end over end and sank point first into the ground. The move had been so fast that Calard had barely seen w hat had happened, but he applauded as Merovech stepped back to allow Bertelis to retrieve his weapon in order to allow the bout to continue.
'He's good,' he said grudgingly.
Saluting each other, the knights came together again. The bout lasted only a few more heartbeats. Bertelis saw an opening, and lunged forward, the tip of his blade striking for his opponent's heart. Belatedly he realised that Merovech had lured him into the strike.
Bertelis's sw ord was battered to the side and Merovech's tw in blades crossed, slipping through the gap betw een Bertelis's helmet and breastplate, and as they touched the chainmail coif protecting his neck, they stopped. Had the blow been follow ed through, Calard had no doubt that his brother's head w ould now be lying on the ground, such w as the near perfect execution of the killing move.
Thunderous applause broke out across the pavilion, and Calard joined in, shaking his head at the skill of the unknown knight. The only knight he had ever seen to rival his skill was the revered grail knight, Reolus.
Merovech saluted Bertelis once more, before sheathing his swords and pulling the helmet from his head. His face was as w hite as virgin snow. His hair too w as devoid of colour and it fell halfway down his back, as straight as a blade.
Bertelis looked furious w ith himself, but Merovech leant in to him, speaking words unheard by any other.
Bertelis's heraldry was pulled down from the boards positi
oned at either end of the duelling grounds. The heraldry of eight more knights, including Merovech's, remained; these were the finalists, and they would duel to become the overall w inner and be aw arded the scarlet sash that w ould proclaim them as lord of the sword.
Calard had no doubt that Merovech w ould be w earing that w inner's sash come the end of the evening.
'How did he not w in the joust?' said Calard.
'He did not compete,' replied Tassilo. 'He only came into camp after dusk.'
Calard drained his goblet, his mind drifting back to his nagging responsibilities, know ing that the time to return to Garamont drew near. He lifted his empty goblet again, w aving it impatiently. As it was being filled, he cast a look along the length of the booth.
Lady Josephine was leaning forward in her seat, smiling and laughing with someone on the other side of the balustrade. Leaning forward to see w ho it was, Calard's expression darkened. His long time rival and foe, Maloric of Sangasse, was standing on the tier below the box, smiling and chatting.
Feeling eyes upon him, the rakishly handsome Sangasse nobleman glanced in Calard's direction, and though he maintained his smile, his eyes hardened. He said something to Josephine, and they both laughed lightly, and Calard's free hand clenched on his sword hilt.
Maloric placed a lingering kiss upon Josephine's hand before he moved off. He nodded his head respectfully to Montcadas as he passed, and his eyes glinted with sardonic amusement as he glanced up at Calard.
'I see that your brother lost, Garamont,' he said, his voice thick with derision. 'What a surprise. Doing Bastonne proud.'
'Keep w alking, Sangasse,' snapped Tassilo.
'Tighten your dog's leash, Garamont,' said Maloric, managing somehow to look dow n his nose at Calard and his companions, even though he was positioned on a low er tier. 'Its yapping is w earisome.'
'Piss off, Sangasse,' growled Calard, his face an angry red.
Maloric leant in, peering at Calard's face, and he chuckled.
'Drunk again, I see. It's becoming rather frequent, from w hat I hear. I also hear that the new lord of Garamont is unfit to rule his own household, let alone his realm, and that his elderly chamberlain is forced to run it for him. Such a sad state of affairs,' he said, shaking his head in mock remorse.
'Go to hell, Sangasse,' said Calard, 'or I'll call you out here and now . You have no sw ordsman to hide behind this time.'
'And you no old man,' replied Maloric. 'But I w ould take no pleasure in killing a drunkard, even one with a bloodline as cursed as yours. Come for me w hen you're sober, perhaps.'
'Is there a problem, Sangasse?' boomed Montcadas.
'No problem,' replied Maloric. 'Though, methinks Lord Garamont here has had enough w ine for one evening.'
The Sangasse noble turned on his heel to leave, and the glass in Calard's hand shattered.
Maloric looked back over his shoulder, laughing.
'Are you all right, cousin?' said Tassilo, concern in his voice.
'Fine,' snapped Calard.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE WOODEN CUP slipped from Rolan's hand, falling to the stone floor and spilling its contents. He came aw ake w ith a start at the sudden noise, his entire body jerking violently. He w as still dressed, and seated in the sole rickety w ooden chair before the fireplace, and he blinked dimly as he heard the cup rolling across the uneven floor.
It w as deathly cold in his small hovel, and dark, and he scowled into his fireplace, pulling his lice-ridden blanket further around his shoulders. An icy wind clawed through the cracks in the walls, and his breath fogged the air in front of his face.
Clutching his blanket around him like a cloak, he knelt dow n in front of the hearth, his knees cracking alarmingly. He picked up the rusted scythe-head leaning against the w all and poked at the lump of peat in the centre of the fireplace. Smoke w as still rising from w ithin the fibrous hunk of bog mud, and embers glow ed and crackled as he poked at it.
Leaning close, he blew steadily until tongues of flame licked up its sides.
Rolan stood up w ith a groan, stretching his back out. His joints ached; winter w as fast approaching, and he was not looking forward to it. He had lived on the island of Landri his whole life, and recognised the signs that the approaching season would be long and harsh. There were literally thousands of islets that made up the archipelago off the north-w est coast of Bretonnia, though the vast majority of them w ere uninhabited and barren. Landri was one of the furthest from the mainland, and was large enough to maintain a steady, if small, population.
Outside, the w ind had picked up, and he heard his sheep bleating frantically.
'Bloody foxes,' said Rolan. Throwing off his blanket, he stood up and moved to the door.
'Come, dog,' he said.
Hauling the door open w ith both hands - its leather hinges were long rotted and useless - he braced himself against the icy wind that swirled in around him.
'Dog!' he said. 'Come!'
On her belly, the sheepdog backed aw ay further under the table, its tail betw een its legs and its head betw een its paw s, whimpering.
'Stay there and let your master catch his death out here alone then,' muttered Rolan.
Rolan stepped out into the night and hauled the door closed behind him. As an afterthought he grabbed the rusted pitchfork leaning against the wall of his hovel.
Mannslieb w as full overhead, but the silver moon was obscured behind a thick bank of clouds, making the night darker than it ought to have been.
His hovel w as located on the northern point of Landri, positioned high on the grassy headland and staring out into the dark w asteland that was the ocean. All was darkness across the w ater, and the roar of the sw ell was loud. Immense sheer cliffs dropped dow n onto sharp rocks jutting like knife-points from the turbulent w aters.
The sea crashed relentlessly against the base of these cliffs, battering the headland w ith primal force, day in, day out.
Rolan's closest neighbour w as more than a mile aw ay, and it was a good three miles to Landri village and the abbey around w hich the mainstay population of the island w as clustered.
Rolan could see his flock only dimly in the gloom, pale shapes clustered in a tight conglomeration in the corner of their stone-walled enclosure that backed up against his hovel. The shaggy-coated animals were pushing and shoving at each other, desperate not to be on the edge of the flock, and several were scrabbling frantically to leap the low w alls.
Clucking his tongue reassuringly, Rolan swung the gate into the enclosure open, and stepped into the muddy, churned up yard. These sheep were his life, literally; if harm w as to come to them, it w as he that w ould suffer for it. His lord was not a forgiving man.
He stomped through the mud, using his pitchfork as a w alking stick, and started to count his livestock. As far as he could tell, they were all accounted for, and they seemed to calm a little in his presence.
The w ind changed abruptly, and a smell carried to Rolan's nostrils. It was a w et, bestial odour, like rancid meat, sw eat and urine; the stink of a predator.
His flock w ent berserk, bleating madly, fighting each other to escape their enclosure, trying futilely to clamber over the dry-stone wall. Rolan spun around, bringing his pitchfork up before him, eyes wide.
At first he thought it w as an animal, massive and shaggy and horned. It clambered over the w all on the opposite side of the enclosure, dislodging several stones that w ould have taken tw o men to lift. Then he saw the long handled axe held in its hand, and he realised it was a man, albeit one of immense stature, w ho w as wearing the pelt of some great beast across his shoulders and a horned helmet on his head.
Rolan w as not a tall man, and long years of w ork, solitude and malnutrition had further shrunk his shoulders and stooped his back. The stranger tow ered over him, seeming to grow w ith every quiet step he took tow ards him, and Rolan suspected that even his lord would have been dwarfed by him. Nevertheless, Rolan was no coward.
'
Back w ith you, devil,' Rolan said, jabbing the air w ith his pitchfork.
The interloper laughed then, a barking, harsh sound. The clouds parted briefly, and Rolan saw the stranger more clearly, and a cold fear gripped his heart. Norscan...
Prayers to Manann w ere made daily, and weighted effigies of sacrifice w ere thrown into his ocean depths by the peasants on holy days each year, in the hope that the god of the sea w ould protect the island's fishermen, and smash the ships of any Norscan raiders. It seemed that these devotions had not been enough to abate Manann this year.
There were scores of watchtowers and keeps scattered through the archipelago, each equipped w ith a pyre that needed just a spark to ignite it. Those beacons, once lit, could be seen for miles all around, giving advance warning of the approach of any enemies. Why had none of them been lit?
Rolan saw more of the raiders now. They were circling around the sides of his hovel, dark and be-horned shadow s moving with silent, deadly intent, like hunting pack animals, like wolves closing in on the kill. Rolan turned and ran.
He rounded his hovel only to see another of the immense, fur-cloaked Norscans slam a heavy, iron-shod boot into the door, smashing it to splinters.
Spinning, Rolan made to run to the south, over the w ind-swept moorlands towards the village, but he froze as he saw the glow of fire in the distance. The village was burning.
There came a tortured yelp from inside his hovel as the raiders found Rolan's loyal sheepdog. His limbs w ere quivering now, and he backed aw ay tow ards the cliff edge as the Norscan closed in around him. He felt the open expanse behind him, and he glanced dow n tow ards the crashing breakers far below .
In the bay that sw ung around to the w est of the headland on which he stood, a score of ships could be seen. These were not the fishing boats used by the Bretonnian fishermen, nor even the multi-tiered greatships of the fleets of Couronne and Bordeleaux that he had glimpsed on occasion in the distance. No, these w ere Norscan longships, equipped with square sails and banks of oars that propelled them at formidable speed through the oceans. A brazen idol projected forth from the prow of each of these vessels, twisted representations of gods and daemons, and immense spiked rams sliced beneath the water-line. Black shark fins cut through the waves in the w ake of the longships.
Warhammer - Knight of the Realm Page 6