Warhammer - Knight of the Realm

by Anthony Reynolds

  The pews that had filled the abbey had been smashed apart and piled atop each other, and a fierce blaze now roared in the middle of the floor, the flames licking up tow ards the rafters high overhead. The stained glass images of the enemy goddess had been smashed out, and hundreds of corpses had been nailed into the stone w alls; their bodies stripped and their flesh used as parchments, the runic symbols of the Norse gods had been carved into their skin.

  The fires w ere being stoked with oil and wood, and severed heads were thrown into the searing heart of the blazing pyres. Hair frizzled and burst into flames, and skin and flesh melted from skulls like butter. Inside, brains and tongues bubbled and broiled under the intense heat, and lower jaws fell aw ay from the skulls as muscles and tendons w ere rendered to ash. Finally, all that w ould be left w ould be blackened, ash-covered skulls, and once the fires had died down they would be dragged from the embers and arranged into piles, in honour of Styrbjorn and great Kharnath, the skull-taker.

  'Why do w e linger here, manling?' snarled a voice like rocks grinding against each other, and Styrbjorn turned from staring into the flames to regard the craggy face of Zumarah.

  The dw arf stood no taller than a Norscan boy of ten years, though he w as almost as broad as he w as tall. His chest was immense, and his thick limbs w ere easily as strong as any Norscan's. The fire of hatred burnt in the dwarf's deep set eyes, and a double row of lumps protruded from beneath the flesh along the ridge of his brow .

  Styrbjorn did not know if those studded grow ths had been implanted beneath the flesh, or w hether they were gifts of the gods. The pair of tusks that rose from his low er jaw , however, were certainly evidence of the gods' touch. The dwarf's skin was tough and stony, the texture of rough granite and a deep, ruddy colour, and a thick beard, as black as coal and bound into a dozen tight, ringletted coils w ound with meteoric iron hung dow n past his waist.

  'We linger here because I w ish it, dwarf,' said Styrbjorn.

  'You promised me slaves, Norscan,' growled Zumarah, 'and I w ould have them. So far I have seen none.'

  'These ones were promised to the gods,' said Styrbjorn, gesturing to the impaled figures arrayed around the edge of the dais. Those still living cried out for death, but no one harkened to their pleas. 'And I would not seek to anger the gods by denying them, for you or any other mortal. Be patient, Zumarah - tonight w as just a skirmish; the real battle w ill come soon. You shall have what you w ere promised.'

  'My services do not come freely, Norscan,' snarled Zumarah, 'nor do they come cheaply. And Ereshkigal-Namtar hungers.'

  'Your... daemon-construct shall feed soon. I have given you my w ord, dwarf-kin, and the w ord of a Skaeling jarl is not given lightly. Your geld shall be honoured.'

  The dw arf snarled, setting his feet solidly and glaring up at the seated jarl. Hatred and vitriol oozed from the dw arf's every pore.

  'Do not think to cheat me out of my dues, manling,' growled Zumarah.

  The greed of the dark dw arfs was unlike anything Styrbjorn had ever experienced. It w as beyond passion, beyond desire. It was more akin to a burning need, a desperate compulsion for acquiring w ealth and slaves far beyond w hat they could ever need.

  Still, it mattered little. The daemon-construct that Zumarah had crafted and bound to his w ill was a w eapon of awesome power and destruction. He had first seen its pow er in action against the Aesgars, and it had levelled their fort in moments. The destruction it had w rought was w ondrous and terrible.

  'The rest of my fleet is tw o days behind us,' said Styrbjorn. 'We w ait here until their arrival before w e push onto the mainland.'

  'You have such little faith in the strength of your w arriors that you must w ait for reinforcements?' sneered Zumarah.

  Bjarki hissed, exposing his sharply filed teeth and rattled a bone-charm threateningly. The dwarf looked at the Skaeling seer with a look of derision and contempt.

  'You think I fear your curses, bane-spinner?' snarled the dwarf. 'Stay your tongue or I'll rip it out.'

  Bjarki leapt to his feet, his face flushing w ith anger, but Styrbjorn laid a hand of his shoulder, keeping him from lashing out.

  'Tw o days, w e wait here,' said Styrbjorn. 'This is my decision, and there is to be no discussion. The gods caused the seas to rise in anger, and the ships bearing my tuskers have been delayed; I w ish to see how these Bretonnians fare against such beasts, and w ill not attack w ithout them.'

  The dw arf regarded the jarl defiantly, refusing to be cow ed by the big Norscan chieftain. The stony-faced creature's beard split into a grin.

  'We understand each other, you and I,' said the dw arf. 'This is good. Two days.'

  With that, Zumarah turned and strode aw ay from the jarl, his short legs and heavy build giving him an oddly rolling gait.

  'Why did you hold me back?' spat Bjarki. 'He deserves the blessings of the Pox Father's touch for the w ay he spoke to you, my jarl.'

  'Is it for my honour that you w ould call down Grandfather Nurgleth's attentions, or your ow n?' said Styrbjorn.

  Bjarki, still quivering with barely suppressed rage, flashed an angry glance tow ards him, w itch-light sparking.

  'It is alw ays for your honour, my jarl,' he said.

  'You feel that I need your help, or that of anyone else, to protect my honour, Bjarki?'

  said Styrbjorn, his voice low and dangerous.

  The seer licked his lips.

  'Of course not, my jarl,' said the seer finally.

  'Good,' said Styrbjorn, and his eyes took on a lustful, eager light. 'Now tell me, the w oman w ho shall bear my son - she is coming to us even now, you say?'

  'She is making her w ay tow ards the crow-fields,' confirmed Bjarki. 'There, the gods have decreed that you shall w in a proud victory over the weakling horsemen. Great w ill be the slaughter. Great w ill be the lamentation of their women. Your consort-bride w ill arrive on the eve of battle, and your son shall be conceived under the green moon, after victory has been w on.'

  Styrbjorn smiled. A son! He had w aited so long for one of his women to bear him a son to succeed him, but long had that eluded him. Thirteen daughters his wives and consorts had borne him, but no son. Indeed, tw o of them accompanied him now, sw ord-maidens of commensurate skill, easily the match for any of his warriors.

  'You hear that, daughters?' he said. 'Soon you w ill have a brother, and then you w ill be free to w ed!'

  Fraygerd and Hrefna w ere born of different mothers, but that they w ere sisters was obvious. Both shared their father's tall stature and noble countenance. Both had long, straight hair the colour of sand, though Fraygerd wore hers bound in tails while Hrefna's hung loose and w ild. A little more than a year separated the tw o - they w ere nineteen and seventeen respectively - and though Fraygerd w as the taller and stronger of the pair, Hrefna's fiery nature more than made up for that deficiency on the field of battle.

  'I've yet to meet the man w ho I w ould deem w orthy of marriage,' said Hrefna, and Styrbjorn smiled. He turned back tow ards his seer, who w as staring at the tw o girls w ith undisguised desire, for all that they stood more than a foot taller than him.

  'Tell me w here she is now.'

  The seer nodded, and knelt cross-legged on the floor. With one hand he drew his knife, and slashed it across his palm, which was crisscrossed with a mass of scars.

  Blood w elled and muttering an incantation under his breath the seer wiped his knife clean on the matted furs w rapped around his shoulders before sheathing the blade.

  Clenching his fist and holding it above him, he threw his head back and allowed the drips to fall onto his face, splashing onto his tattooed lips, his cheeks and falling upon both eyelids.

  Bjarki began to rock slightly, still muttering an incantation. The taut muscles of his arms and torso, covered in ritualised scars and ink, began to tw itch as his spirit soared. God-touched as he w as, Styrbjorn felt the vicious little shaman's spirit pull clear of its mortal flesh; it felt like a cold breath on his skin as t
he seer's soul-spirit brushed by him and w as gone.

  Moments later, he felt the shaman return, and Bjarki gave a shuddering breath as he slammed back into his body.

  'Well?'

  'She's five day's w alk south of the crow -fields.'

  'She has an armed guard?'

  'No,' said Bjarki, w iping away the blood that w as dripping from one of his nostrils.

  'She has a measure of pow er of her ow n.'

  'She is alone?' said Styrbjorn, concern in his voice.

  'A group of w retches accompany her. She is using them for her blood-magic. They are armed, but they are not w arriors. But she does not need them for protection, my jarl

  - as I said, she does not need protecting.'

  Styrbjorn w as unconvinced.

  'I w ant you to go to her, Bjarki. I w ill not risk anything befalling her before the consummation. Kveldulf,' he ordered, gesturing tow ards one his warriors nearby, a bow -legged, broad-shoulder Skaeling with a nose that had clearly been broken a dozen times. The warrior stepped forward and dropped to one knee. 'You and your horsemen w ill accompany Bjarki to the mainland.'

  'As you w ish it, my jarl,' said Kveldulf.

  'Find her, and protect her, Bjarki,' ordered Styrbjorn. 'Bring her to me. I'll see you at the crow fields - that is w here the battle is to take place, yes?'

  'That is w hat I have read in the entrails, my jarl,' said Bjarki, bow ing his head.

  Standing he nodded to Kveldulf. 'Ready your horsemen, w arrior. We sail w ithin the hour.'

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CALARD'S HEAD WASN'T pounding yet; that w ould come later. Cursing himself for having agreed to take part in the day's event, he grimaced as he accepted a lance handed to him.

  The sun could not pierce the thick banks of cloud overhead, for w hich Calard w as thankful - he didn't think he could have dealt with direct sunlight stabbing into his eyes. Drinking deeply from a w aterskin, he swished the cooling liquid around his mouth. Bertelis w as riding alongside him and though he said nothing Calard could feel his brother's silent rebuke.

  'Keep tight, and don't break formation,' said Montcadas, ahead of them.

  The baron, being the most senior of the contingent from Bastonne, had assumed command, and w ould be leading the charge of their formation. It had been the baron's decision that all the knights of Bastonne would fight as one single lance formation, much to Calard's chagrin, for it meant that Maloric and his Sangasse lapdogs w ould be fighting at his side. He had hoped to face his rival from opposite ends of the field, but the baron had scuppered any such ideas the night before.

  Indeed, had it not been for that proclamation, Calard w ould certainly not have drunk quite so much as he had - at least that w as w hat he told himself at any rate.

  'Think you can manage to stay in the saddle until the start w ithout throw ing up, Garamont?' sneered Maloric.

  'If I'm sick, I'll make sure it's in your direction,' muttered Calard.

  'Can w e stop this line of conversation, please?' groaned Tassilo. The young knight w as positively green in the face from overindulgence.

  'And for the love of the Lady stay dow nwind,' snapped Maloric. 'I can smell the wine on you from here.'

  'Don't disgrace me today,' snarled Bertelis under his breath to Calard, leaning in close, and he bit his tongue not to snap back an angry retort.

  'Let's show these uptight bastards how the knights of Bastonne fight!' roared Montcadas, and the nobles around Calard and Tassilo lifted their lances high with a cheer.

  'Does he need to be so loud?' groaned Tassilo.

  'You'll feel better to be up and moving about soon,' said Calard, though there w as little conviction in his voice.

  Abruptly, Tassilo lost his battle w ith his insides, and he leant over in the saddle and vomited loudly. Maloric turned aw ay in disgust, while Huebald and Baldemund chuckled and instantly began ribbing the young knight for his lack of drinking constitution. Bertelis said nothing and merely stared straight ahead, the muscles in his jaw tw itching. Calard himself was breathing deeply.

  A scabby peasant dog dodged betw een the legs of the horses and began to lap at Tassilo's vomit, and Calard felt his stomach heave. A sharp horn echoed across the field and Calard w illed himself not to be ill, holding onto his lance tightly.

  The knights began to move, w alking forwards to the cheers of the crowd in the stands. Heralds hollered the names of the knights in turn as they moved forward, accompanied by further cheers and shouts, amid much banner-w aving and fanfare.

  Horns blared, and drums beat out regular tattoos as the knights moved into position opposite each other across the open field.

  The field had been well chosen, for it was broad and flat. It slid off to the south-w est, w here it became marshy and boggy, but w as otherw ise well drained, and though its grass w ould still doubtless be completely churned up by mid-afternoon, it would not become the muddy quagmire that had been the fields of several tournaments he had taken part in. One such tournament the previous spring, at Glaston, had been an utter debacle. By its conclusion, it had been impossible to discern who was ally and w ho w as opponent, for everyone was caked head to toe in clinging black mud that obscured their heraldry and colours. The event had been called off after more than tw o dozen deaths, most suffered w hen destriers had broken limbs in the sinking mud and throw n their riders.

  Gunthar had alw ays taught him that the location of a battle w as as important for victory as any other factor, often more so even than the quality of the combatants. He had told Calard stories of castles held by half a dozen peasants against endless hordes of greenskins, and of entire armies of knights being slaughtered by low born archers because of a poorly chosen battlefield, situated with a sinking marsh across its centre.

  This was a prime location for an even contest that favoured neither side, and as he cantered his destrier into position he looked across the field. The sides had been evenly split, with roughly six hundred knights gathered on each end of the tournament field. Double that number of peasants w ere gathered behind their masters, though they w ould take no direct part in the event. They were there as support for their lords, to attend to the fallen, to supply fresh lances and water on each turn.

  This was not a florid, theatrical joust. This was a true test, the closest that one could come to true w arfare during times of peace. The dukes and even the king himself w ere known to compete in these events on occasion, often in disguise so as not to receive any particular quarter from their opponents, and more than one knight had been honoured for having proved a w orthy opponent to these luminaries.

  In essence, this was a battle as any other battle, mortal or otherw ise. The knights, ranked up in tight formation, would charge across the field at each other in an attempt to strike their opponents from the saddle. Those unwilling or unable to continue retired, aided or carried from the field by their retainers if necessary, and so the tournament continued. Having made a pass, the knights would wheel around and their formations w ould regroup for another charge. So it w ould continue until one side w as declared the winner. More often than not, the battle w ould rage through the morning, and horns would blare, announcing a cease to the event, and the combatants w ould eat and drink and have any injuries tended. Then, another horn w ould sound, and the battle w ould recommence. Usually a victor w as declared before mid-afternoon, but it w as not unheard of for battles to rage long into the afternoon and into dusk if no clear w inner could be seen.

  Serious injuries w ere commonplace, and death was an accepted part of every tourney. Even those w ith the smallest turnout w ould be lucky not to have at least one death during the day's event, but this w as but a part of w hat made the tournaments w hat they w ere. If there was no risk, then the tourney w ould be a poor training ground for the rigours of real battle.

  'The enemy have refused to quit the field!' bellowed a crier, yelling the traditional phrase at the top of his lungs. 'In the Lady's name, our honour demands that w e clear the
field of their presence!'

  A great cheer rose from the gathered knights, and Calard heard Tassilo groan. He smiled. He w as still not feeling great, but the fresh air and light mist of rain that had begun to fall w as making him feel eminently better than he had w hen he had first risen. He might even make it through without losing the contents of his stomach, he thought.

  'For Bastonne!' roared Montcadas.

  The knights began to edge forw ards, nudging their steeds into a w alk, and Calard slammed dow n the visor on his helmet. That walk turned into a trot, and the knightly formations began angling tow ards each other across the field. Several smaller detachments of knights errant kicked their steeds forward on the flanks, galloping out to take up flanking positions against their opponents while their comrades advanced more slow ly.

  The first strike was betw een two of these smaller detachments of young knights errant, w ho, eager to get to grips w ith the ''enemy' had charged headlong across the field tow ards each other from outset.

  Cheers rose as a dozen knights w ere struck from the saddle, falling hard onto the earth.

  Montcadas, riding at the tip of the w edge of Bastonnian knights, urged his steed into a canter, and the others did likewise, keeping their formation tight. Lances were held in the vertical position, and for a moment it seemed strange to Calard that the baron had a lance in his hand too, rather than his usual spiked morning star. Still, such a w eapon w ould have been inappropriately deadly for a tourney. As it was, tourney lances w ere not nearly as lethal as w ar lances, blunted and crafted to break more easily w ith far less likelihood of skewering the victim. They were capable of delivering a pow erful blow , easily enough to break bones and send a knight pitching from the saddle, but usually not enough to penetrate armour or impale.

  Calard felt the familiar thrill as the speed of the knights picked up, and the ground began to thunder beneath the pounding of hooves. Great sods of earth w ere torn up as tw elve hundred knights drew towards each other, gauging the moment to low er lances and kick their horses into the gallop.