Warhammer - Knight of the Realm

by Anthony Reynolds

  'CHARGE!' ROARED MONTCADAS, kicking his spurs into his steed's flanks. As one the Bastonnians swiftly lowered their lances and their destriers leaped forwards to meet the foe head-on and at full pace.

  The knights of Bastonne and Lyonesse struck each other at full gallop, and the power of the tw o forces coming together was bone-shattering. Even muffled by his helmet the sound w as tremendous, w ith men shouting and bellowing, horses screaming, hooves pounding the ground like an avalanche. Lances cracked sharply like dry tinder as they broke upon shield and breastplate, and metal struck metal as horses and knights smashed into each other.

  Adjusting his bodyw eight for the strike, Calard expertly guided his lance-tip tow ards the chest of a knight w ith a snarling lion upon his helmet crest. Intent on his ow n strike, the knight was not prepared for the blow, and Calard rose in the saddle as he struck, putting the full w eight of his armoured body and the momentum of his horse behind the blow . The strike was nigh on perfect, and it struck the knight just below the heart, lifting him from the saddle even as Calard's lance shattered into splinters.

  The Lyonesse knight pitched backw ards to fall amidst the flailing hooves, and Calard w as rocked backw ards in the saddle by the force of the impact, which jarred up his arm and shoulder, numbing it. A lance speared towards him, and he turned his shield at the last moment as he reeled, forcing it to skid off the shield's surface w ithout breaking.

  Splinters of w ood spattered off his helmet as more lances were broken. As he thundered past the knight, he slammed the w eighted, counterbalanced end of his splintered lance into a knight's helmet. The man did not fall, but he slid sideways in the saddle as his balance w as thrown, and Calard saw Maloric's already broken lance smash him to the ground.

  Abruptly, there w as nothing in front of Calard but open ground, as the tw o w edges of knights rode clear of each other. Throwing his shattered lance to the ground, Calard turned in the saddle, smiling as he heard his brother Bertelis alongside him whoop w ith unashamed joy. Around six of his comrades had fallen in the exchange, but more than ten of the Lyonesse knights were down.

  The knights rode across the field to w here their opponents had begun the charge, w here hundreds of peasants w ere arrayed, holding out fresh lances. Others w ere racing across the field either on foot or upon the backs of thick-limbed draught horses, dodging betw een charging lance formations, to attend to fallen nobles and lords. Already dozens of knights were being stretchered off the field with broken arms and legs, and the screams of horribly injured horses were cut short as their throats w ere mercifully slashed.

  'Tassilo?' asked Calard, not seeing his cousin.

  Huebald lifted his visor and shook his head, rolling his eyes.

  'He practically threw himself onto a lance,' he said. 'I think he just w anted a lie dow n.'

  Calard laughed out loud, feeling the last hint of his hangover dissipate like fog under a rising sun.

  'Baron?' said Bertelis sharply, cutting through the jovial chatter.

  Montcadas w as slumped in the saddle, and Calard's smile dropped from his face. He sw ung from his horse and dropped to the ground, running to the baron's side, as the big man pitched sideward.

  Calard caught him, but the baron w as a huge man, and his armour easily doubled his w eight. Maloric was at his side a moment later, and together the two of them low ered the big man to the ground, the blood-feud betw een them momentarily forgotten.

  A shattered lance w as embedded in the baron's chest, having punched through his breastplate. It w as on the opposite side than his heart, thankfully, but blood w as bubbling up through the rent metal, staining the light-coloured timber of the lance a deep red. A tourney lance should not have been able to penetrate a breastplate, but it had been know n to happen on occasion, usually when the blunted tip of the lance had already been broken off.

  The baron w as roaring through gritted teeth like a w ounded bear.

  'Get a surgeon here, now!' bellowed someone.

  Calard w as staring at the w ound, realising that the lance tip had pierced one of the baron's lungs, and know ing that he would likely begin drowning in his own blood shortly if nothing was done. Nevertheless, the shock of seeing the injury had frozen him into inaction, and he stared numbly at the blood foam bubbling from the w ound.

  Unaffected by Calard's immobility, Maloric pulled the baron's helmet from his head.

  The Sangasse nobleman hissed, and Baldemund, standing behind them, swore under his breath. The baron w as still roaring in pain, his jaw gritted so tight that Calard feared he w ould shatter a tooth.

  A splinter of wood four inches long had pierced Montcadas's right eye - his sole remaining eye. Blood was streaming down his cheek and soaking his silver-flecked beard. Instantly, Calard understood what had happened. When the lance that had pierced Montcadas's chest had shattered, one of the long splinters of w ood had shot upw ards, slipping through the visor-slit of the baron's helmet and sunk into his eye.

  'Pull it out, Lady damn it,' roared Montcadas.

  'Don't touch it,' Huebald advised. 'Pulling it out might do more damage.'

  The baron reached for the sliver of wood and Calard was shaken out of his stupor, grabbing Montcadas's gauntleted hand before the older knight could rip the offending splinter from his eye. The baron roared in agony and rage, fighting against the hands holding him dow n, desperate to tear the shard of lance-w ood from his eye.

  'More damage?' Baldemund muttered under his breath. 'The man won't see again, mark my w ords.'

  Calard knew instinctively that his cousin spoke the truth. Montcadas was shaking his head from side to side in absolute agony. His eye w as a pool of blood, and Calard w inced just looking at the stiletto-sharp, red-soaked splinter protruding from the socket.

  'Where's that damn surgeon!' bellow ed Calard.

  A blast of horns sounded in the distance, echoed by dozens of others back and forth across the tournament field. It w as the signal to cease combat, and for a moment Calard thought that perhaps the competition was being called to a halt because of Montcadas's injury. He dismissed it straight aw ay - even deaths rarely halted a tourney.

  He heard men shouting in the distance, voices raised in concern and inquiry, but he paid them no mind.

  A surgeon arrived, slipping his way through the knights crowded around Montcadas, and Calard w as pushed aside. He stood up, feeling helpless and distraught.

  More raised voices intruded on him and horns blared nearby. He turned tow ards Bertelis, w ho had turned away from Montcadas and w as craning his head to see what w as going on. The men all around were calling out in confusion, speaking in hurried tones as w hispers spread like wildfire through the gathered knights.

  'What is it?' said Calard.

  'Yeoman outriders, w earing the colours of the Duke of Lyonesse,' said Bertelis.

  'Lyonesse is under attack!' shouted one of the yeomen from horseback. 'The duke requests your aid! The enemy is upon us!'

  'What enemy?' shouted Calard.

  'Norscans!' came the reply.

  CHAPTER SIX

  EVERY MOVEMENT WAS agony. Her joints throbbed w ith rheumatism and arthritis, and she became short of breath after hobbling no more than tw enty paces. Her vision w as hazy and indistinct, and the bright light hurt her eyes. She leant up against a barrel placed to the side of the muddy roadw ay through the hovel village to catch her breath.

  Elisabet had left the crone's cave before daw n, desperately trying to make her w ay back to her home. Surely, she thought desperately, someone would be able to help her.

  Elisabet w as still gasping like a fish stranded on land when the rock hit her. It struck her on the cheek, splitting her aged skin, and weak, thin blood ran dow n her face.

  She cried out and raised her feeble arms up to protect herself as more rocks, lumps of manure and rotten vegetables rained dow n upon her.

  'Witch! Witch! Witch!' shouted the voices of children, taunting her.

  Elisabet covered her fa
ce protectively. A rotten marrow exploded as it hit the barrel beside her, spreading stinking foulness and writhing maggots. Another rock struck her, this time hitting her between her withered breasts, and there was a dry, w ooden snap as a rib broke.

  Crying out, she staggered to her feet and hobbled as fast as she could, trying to escape the relentless children. She slipped in the mud and fell.

  'Witch! Witch! Witch!'

  The children closed in around her, and several of the larger children began hitting her w ith sticks. Scabby dogs darted around the filth-encrusted youngsters, yapping excitedly, and Elisabet cow ered, crying and wailing.

  'Get aw ay, you dirty little w retches!' bellowed a voice, and the old woman cried out in relief as the children scattered, shouting insults and laughing.

  She lay crying in the mud and the manure, trying desperately to catch her breath and slow her heart that w as fluttering like a bird's. Everything hurt. Vaguely she registered a group of men standing around her, but she didn't have the energy to lift herself up or to offer them thanks.

  'Ware yourself, w arden,' said one of them. 'That's the crone Haegtesse, that is.'

  'Bollocks,' scoffed the warden.

  'That's her all right,' said another. 'Old w itch put a curse on my cousin, she did. I ain't touchin' her. She's got the evil eye.'

  A shadow leant over her, and she cowered before it.

  'That right, you old hag?' said a brutish voice.

  She shook her head painfully, moaning.

  'I asked you a question, w itch,' said the warden, jabbing her w ith the butt of his halberd.

  'No,' she managed.

  'You callin' my man a liar? This good upstanding pillar of the community, here?' he said, jabbing her in the chest again with his halberd.

  'No,' she w himpered. She crawled on hands and knees towards the man, scrabbling for him w ith claw-like hands. He stepped away from her reach.

  Trying to reclaim some dignity, Elisabet climbed to her feet, straightened her back and lifted her chin to look upon the yeoman ruffians.

  'Don't look 'er in the eye!' w arned one of them, and they all took a w ary step backw ards.

  Affecting an imperious tone, she addressed them.

  'I am the Lady Elisabet of Marlemont, and I demand that you escort me to my father's estate immediately.'

  For a second there w as silence, and then the yeomen burst into laughter. The sound struck Elisabet like the stones that had been hurled against her moments earlier, battering her w ith equal force and she felt herself wither beneath the onslaught.

  A name floated up from the back of her mind, and she realised that she recognised the voice of the w arden. He was one of the peasant w arriors that had accompanied her beloved Calard to the east six months previous, to fight the greenskins menacing Bordeleaux. Before he had left, he had done her a kindness, she remembered. What w as his name? Perdi? Perlo?

  'Perdo,' she said, pointing a finger towards him as she remembered. 'Warden Perdo.'

  The w arden stepped back from her w ith a sharp intake of breath.

  'How do you know my name, hag?' the peasant yeoman demanded, his men shuffling nervously.

  'You did me a kindness once. I was riding with Calard, returning from the w estern fields. A dog barked, startling my mare and she shied. I lost my balance for a moment, and dropped a scarf to the ground. You picked it up for me,' said Elisabet, the vision as clear in her mind as if it had been yesterday. 'I tried to stop him, but Calard's brother, Bertelis, cuffed you over the head for it. Said I'd never get the stink of your touch out of the silk. I am sorry for that. It w as a noble gesture, and I never thanked you for it.' Silence greeted her claim.

  'Told you, Perdo. She's a w itch,' muttered one of the men.

  Elisabet made to speak again, but the w arden stepped forwards and slapped her across the face w ith flat of his mailed hand. The blow stung her, loosening several rotten teeth and sent her sprawling back dow n into the mud.

  'There w eren't nobody there but myself, the lady, and the tw o young lords,' he snapped. 'Only way you could know that is if you really are a w itch. Bind her! And gag her, so she don't bew itch us.'

  Elisabet w as shoved face-first into the mud, and her hands were trussed up painfully behind her back. She w inced, trying to beg them to stop, to listen to her, but her head w as reefed backw ards and a tw isted strip of stinking cloth was jammed into her bloody mouth, then tied around the back of her head. Her ankles were bound w ith biting cord, and she w as lifted up roughly, like a prize pig being led to the blooding.

  'Take 'er to the dungeons,' ordered the warden. 'She can rot dow n there until the chamberlain decides what to do w ith her.'

  CHLOD LICKED HIS lips as he glanced fearfully towards the noblewoman seated before the glow ing embers. Her arms w ere covered in blood up to her elbow s, and her hair w as matted and tangled. Her once fair dress was muddied and torn around its hems, and her face w as streaked with grime and dirt.

  The corpse of one of the pilgrims was spread-eagled out before the w itch, chest ripped open and ribs splayed. She paw ed through the innards, muttering under her breath, and lifted several organs to her nose. Some she merely sniffed, others she licked or nibbled. Chlod's stomach churned. Her hands dipped again into the viscera, hauling intestines out and slapping them dow n onto the flat of a rock, and she began poking through the mass of stinking guts.

  The pilgrims huddled together in a miserable clump, their faces long and their eyes haunted. Some of them, like Chlod, were watching the woman's grisly work, while others had their eyes tightly closed, their heads turned resolutely aw ay. Some cried softly to themselves, and one was muttering a prayer to Reolus, begging him to deliver them from this evil creature.

  'Quiet,' snapped the w itch, casting a hateful glance in their direction, and the pilgrims shrunk under her gaze.

  Turning back tow ards her grisly work, the witch peered intently into the human entrails, poking at them w ith her long fingernails and delving amongst the glistening, ropey tract w ith her blood-slick, slender hands.

  From w ithin a big bag covered in matted fur, the w oman pulled a vile doll, its body made from a tw isted burl of w ood and strands of dark hair stitched into its head. Its face w as horrific, something from a nightmare, w ith the skin of some creature pulled taut across it and held in place w ith nails. Sharp animal teeth, perhaps from a w olf or a badger, protruded from its gash of a mouth, and its eyes w ere staring buttons on bone. What looked like tattoos had been painted onto the thing's lips. It was a hideous thing, and the witch stroked a bloody hand across its hair, smoothing it dow n in a horrible mimicry of child-like affection.

  The w itch nestled the doll amidst the entrails of the pilgrim, standing it upright so that it looked back at her from w ithin its gory throne, and she began to chant, rocking back and forth and holding her bloody hands out before her.

  The pilgrims murmured in fear, hugging each other tighter. There were only a handful of them left now. This was the second victim that the witch had taken for her vile practices. At least it w as one less mouth to feed, Chlod thought.

  He didn't have any idea w hat the witch's destination was, but she seemed to know w here she was heading. She pushed them on relentlessly, heading in a steady northw esterly direction. She seemed to have a sixth-sense for avoiding trouble, and guided them around patrols of knights and men-at-arms, avoiding chattels, castles and peasant villages as if she could see the lay of the land from high above, like it was a map laid out before her.

  Chlod felt a chill run down his spine. Frost began to form before his eyes, coating the low -hanging branches near the w itch, making them droop low from the weight, and he saw a thin coating of ice appearing on the doll, crackling across its face like a creeping sickness.

  The w itch looked up into the empty space above the coals of her fire pit and smiled.

  Chlod w ondered if she were demented, for there was nothing there, but she began to converse w ith the empty space as i
f it w ere a living and breathing person. He w ondered if there w as something there, something that he did not have the ability to perceive.

  She w as talking in a language that he did not understand, one that sounded harsh and guttural to his ears used to the soft and florid language of the Bretonnians. He had heard men of the Empire speaking their ow n tongue, and this language w as something akin to that, though subtly different and perhaps not quite as hard on the ear as that loathsome tongue.

  The one-sided exchange lasted for several minutes, until an accord seemed to be met, and the conversation ended. The icy chill departed, and Chlod began rubbing his hands together, trying to restore the circulation in his fat, sausage-like digits.

  One by one, the pilgrims drifted into a restless sleep. Chlod remained awake the longest, w atching the witch as she continued to poke through the grisly remains of his erstw hile comrade until his eyes started to droop. He hadn't slept in several days, and w hen oblivion finally came upon him, sneaking up like a phantom in the dark, he slept like a dead man, neither moving, nor dreaming.

  THE SEVERED HEADS hanging from the saddle and traces of Bjarki's pony bounced up and dow n as he galloped across the dark landscape. For three nights he had been back in the lands of his birth. They had ridden hard through the nights, moving w ithout pause from dusk till daw n. The Skaeling ponies were hardy beasts, and though Bretonnian warhorses would easily outpace them over short distances, they w ere capable of maintaining their pace for hours on end without rest. After three nights of ceaseless travel, Bjarki and the band of riders moving with him had covered hundreds of miles, but their steeds showed no sign of tiring. They lay low during the daylight hours.

  A dark, insatiable hunger gnawed within Bjarki. For long years he had waited for his chance to avenge himself against the society that had turned its back upon him, and now that his time for vengeance had come he found himself drunk w ith the desire for bloodshed.

  Being back in Bretonnia brought all his old memories resurfacing. With the return of this know ledge, his fury and hatred increased tenfold.