Warhammer - Knight of the Realm

by Anthony Reynolds

  Turning in his saddle, Bertelis glared angrily down at the man, pulling his mink-lined cloak close around his neck with one sheepskin lined glove. His gaze roved across the men-at-arms and settled on the yeoman in charge of the regiment, a thick-jaw ed, brutish man sporting a livid scar across his left cheek. His lips were blue, and his teeth w ere chattering.

  'Discipline your man, yeoman,' Bertelis snapped. 'Had I not been w ary, that one might have injured my horse. See that he suffers twenty lashings at the end of the day's march. And I w ant your entire regiment on a double-w atch duty tonight in penitence for his failings.'

  The yeoman w arden bow ed his head, accepting the punishment without complaint.

  Any w ord of defiance would only have made things worse for him and his men, and w ith a nod, he ordered the man w ho had stumbled lifted back to his feet, and the march continued.

  'Lazy w retches,' said Bertelis as he turned away. Calard merely grunted in response.

  Another half an hour passed in silence, until a shout came from up ahead. Peering through the blinding white gale, Calard saw Laudethaire and one of his pegasus knights descending through the clouds, fighting against the buffeting winds. The Parravonians had been ranging out ahead of the army, scouring the land below.

  'Hope the bastard falls off,' remarked Bertelis as Laudethaire came swooping down to land.

  'I'd pay to see that,' said Calard.

  It w as from the pegasus knights that the army had learnt of the movements of Duke Adalhard and his warriors, and of the army of Couronne and L'Anguille moving south-w est to cut off the Norscans.

  'I'm going to ride forw ard to hear w hat news he brings,' said Calard. 'I could do w ith moving, just to try and w arm up a bit. I think my arse is frozen to the saddle. Coming w ith me?'

  Bertelis nodded his head in response.

  'Keep an eye on this lot,' said Calard to his cousins, nodding towards the men-at-arms stumbling alongside the road. 'Make sure they don't slacken off the pace.'

  Kicking their steeds forward, the brothers pulled off the roadway and cantered up past line upon line of knights. Men-at-arms, w retched peasant bow men and servants scurried out of their w ay like vermin fleeing before a lamp, but Calard paid them no mind - they may as w ell have been invisible to him. Towards the head of the column he rode, passing several hundred knights whom he had seen at the tourney, though he had been unable to spot the knight w ho had beaten Bertelis in the duel, Merovech of Arlons. He certainly would have been handy in the coming battle, for rarely had Calard seen a knight more skilful with the blade.

  Horns blew , and the entire column came slowly to a halt.

  Bertelis shook his head as many hundreds of peasants by the roadside slumped gratefully to the ground. Others quickly broke open w agons of food and drink, running lightly through the ranks of knights offering refreshments.

  'It'll take an age to get them moving again now ,' he said.

  Cantering forw ard, they came upon a circle of knights that had gathered around Laudethaire to hear his report. The blond-haired knight, clearly enjoying the attention, w as speaking to Orderic, the noble who had organised the tourney.

  Calard and Bertelis nudged their horses forward until they were positioned just outside the inner circle of knights, and they strained forward to hear Laudethaire's w ords.

  'They are riding ten miles ahead of us, my lord,' the Parravonian said, in answer to a question from Orderic.

  'Who's he talking about?' Calard said to a nearby knight.

  'Norse w ar party,' answ ered the man.

  'They are riding hard, in order to rejoin their main force. They have with them a noblew oman of Bretonnia,' said Laudethaire, his voice carrying over the wind, and his gaze passing over the gathered knights theatrically.

  Calard frow ned, and several other knights voiced their outrage.

  'A captive?' called one knight.

  'I w ould presume so,' answ ered Laudethaire. 'I w ould have launched a rescue attempt, of course, but the cross w inds would have made such an attack a foolish, suicidal endeavour. It is risk enough that my pegasus fly at all in these conditions.'

  'Of course,' said Bertelis under his breath.

  'She must be rescued,' announced Orderic. 'She is a noblewoman of Bretonnia. She cannot be allow ed to suffer whatever loathsome fate aw aits her at the hands of the savages. If w e sent riders ahead, now, do you think they would reach the war party before it rejoins the full Norse army?'

  'No,' said Laudethaire. 'But there is more. The enemy, it seems, has grown w eary of running. They have set camp, and aw ait us no more than half a day's ride to the north. It seems that a stage has been set for us to face the Norse in battle at last!'

  A cheer rose from that pronouncement.

  'And w hat of the army of Duke Adalhard?' said Calard, raising his voice so that he w as heard. 'And of the forces of Couronne, and L'Anguille?'

  Laudethaire looked through the crowd at Calard, assessing who it w as that addressed him. His eyes flickered condescendingly over Calard's heraldry and bearing a look of distaste on his handsome face. Clearly unimpressed, he turned away.

  'The army of Lyonesse is making camp five miles from the Norscans' position,' he said finally. 'If you ride hard, you should make it there before daybreak.'

  'And the knights of Couronne and L'Anguille?' said Calard, an irritated edge to his voice.

  'They are a day and half aw ay,' said Laudethaire, casting another condescending glance in his direction. 'Have I answered enough of your questions now, Bastonne?'

  Calard felt his face redden as several knight chuckled, and he saw Bertelis reach for his sw ord. Calard reached out a hand to halt his brother.

  'For now , yes, oh Beloved of Parravon,' said Calard in a mocking tone that raised more chuckles.

  'Enjoy riding through the snow and the mud,' snapped Laudethaire, and with that, he spun his pegasus around, w hich snorted and stamped its hooves. It broke into a gallop, w ings unfurling and beating hard as it soared up into the air.

  'He w ill be sipping wine in the duke's camp w ithin the hour, I'll wager,' said Bertelis, as he and Calard sw ung aw ay from the disbanding gathering.

  'Bastard.'

  * * *

  AS NIGHT DESCENDED over northern Lyonesse like a shroud the Skaeling horsemen thundered into the Norscan encampment, Bjarki and Haegtesse riding at the fore. The shaggy coated Norscan ponies' flanks were lathered in sweat. Hounds snarled, and bondsmen and warriors moved out of the w ay respectfully, eyeing the w itch desirously.

  Haegtesse rode w ith her head held high, enjoying the stares. She had made herself more presentable for the lord of the Skaelings, braiding her hair into plaits and w ashing the blood and grime from her pale skin. A blood bear's pelt hung across her shoulders, the fur spiked and thick, and her totem-dolls hung from her delicate silver belt. To the Skaelings Haegtesse looked like some foreign princess, and they felt pride that this w as to be the one w ho would bear their jarl a son. Pale, youthful, cold and beautiful, she drew many openly lustful looks and enthusiastic w hoops from these men w ho had not had a w oman in weeks, though those nearest to her lowered their eyes and backed aw ay, feeling in their bones and their guts that she w as powerfully god-touched.

  Night w as drawing in quickly, and the sky overhead w as dark with movement. Tens of thousands of ravens and crow s accompanied the Skaelings, hanging overhead like an impenetrable thundercloud, hungry and impatient for the slaughter to begin.

  These dense flocks of carrion eaters had accompanied the Norscans from their homeland, a black amorphous cloud of feathers and malicious will that had shadow ed their longships, knowing that a feast of soft flesh w ould soon be theirs.

  Less mundane beasts circled overhead, shadowy hissing creatures w ith leathery w ings that snapped like canvas sails.

  In the distance there was a trumpeting roar, and the ground shook as some beast of immense w eight and power thrashed against its restraints. Laughter and the sounds of feas
ting w arriors mingled with the sound of weapons being sharpened, of seers invoking the blessings of the Dark Gods. Those Norscans with more than a little beast in them, the ones known as the ulfwerener, howled up at the rising green moon, the eye of the gods, and the bestial sound w as joined by the roars, grow ls and how ls of many hundreds of the immense hounds that prow led the outskirts of the camp, seeking easy meat.

  While her outw ards appearance was one of youth and health, Haegtesse could already feel the malignant black cancers growing inside her, corrupting her newfound body from w ithin. Already they were working their way insidiously through her liver and stomach, and their loathsome black touch w as reaching towards her lungs. It w as happening quicker now than she had experienced before - each new body that she claimed decayed quicker than the last, and it seemed that the process was speeding up exponentially. She doubted that this body, young and strong as it w as, w ould last her longer than a handful of years, a decade at a push, before it w as a little more than a rotting cadaver, toothless and haggard, having aged a dozen years w ith each passing season.

  Much of her strength w as currently being utilised to protect her womb from the malignant sickness spreading through her body, shielding it so as to ensure that she did not fall barren. Such a thing could not be allow ed to come to pass - the daemon-child that she would bear the Skaeling jarl w as the key to her immortality.

  The Norscans had set their camp at the northern end of a sw eeping valley ridged by steep sided hills. At the far end of the valley rose a hill that was not unlike an ancient burial mound, though of a scale that w ould only have been built for a king of great w ealth and influence. No one knew how these mounds, or mottes as they w ere known locally to the Lyonessians who lived in their shadow, had come into existence. They seemed too regular in shape to have been naturally formed, so it w as surmised that they had been built of human endeavour, but for w hat purpose remained unclear.

  Perhaps they were burial mounds, of the first Bretons tribesmen that had come to these lands, or perhaps they had been raised as defensive structures, with wooden hilltop forts constructed on top of them by even more ancient peoples long forgotten.

  Whatever the case, the mottes dotted the landscape of northern Lyonesse. Most of them had castles built atop them, for they occupied pow erful positions in the landscape, but this particular motte w as said to be cursed, and no one had ever dared to raise a foundation upon it.

  'Make w ay!' snarled Bjarki.

  Passing by tens of hundreds of Skaeling warriors, all readying themselves for battle, the horsemen w ended their way tow ards the motte at the far end of the valley.

  Haegtesse's eyes shone is she stared up at the tow ering hillock. That was the place w here the child must be conceived. She had read the portent in the eyes of the sacrifices she had lured into her woodland cave, seen it in the entrails of a dozen slaughtered sw ine and w itnessed it in a score of prophetic dreams. Under the full moon, on the turn of the tide, the child must be conceived - not an hour later, nor an hour earlier. And while predicting the waxing and waning of the Chaos moon of Morrslieb w as an impossibility, she knew with absolute certainty that the auspicious night w as close. Two nights perhaps, maybe three, and the green moon would wax gibbous, passing as close to the surface of the w orld as it had for a decade and exerting its power upon those beneath its baleful gaze.

  It w as on such nights that the dead rose from the earth, when once sane family men brayed at the moon and slaughtered their sleeping families with hands that had turned to talons, and w hen the veil that separated the material world from the realms of Chaos w as at its thinnest. Even those w ithout the sight were able to perceive daemonic things straining to tear through the ethereal boundary that bound them, screaming into reality to rend and feed.

  And it w as under such a moon that the daemon-child would be conceived.

  At the foot of the tow ering hillock they reined their steeds in. Simple tents of fur and crossed logs had been erected here, and totems hanging with skulls, severed heads and burnished icons of the Norscan gods had been hammered into the ground. The Skaeling jarl's huskarls lounged here, massive intimidating god-touched warriors bedecked in heavy armour and fur.

  'Where is he?' demanded Bjarki. Before the huskarls could answer, skin tent flaps w ere thrown aside and Styrbjorn emerged from his hastily erected residence to greet his bride. A pair of sw ord-maidens emerged behind him, and from the similarity they bore to the Skaeling lord, Haegtesse surmised these to be the jarl's daughters.

  The Skaeling too had prepared himself for the meeting, and he looked every inch a w arrior king.

  He stood a head taller than any of his huskarls, and his broad shoulders were encased in thick plates of dark metal fashioned into the likeness of snarling, tusked w olf heads. His broad chest w as protected by a breastplate of ensorcelled dark iron, w ith the azure, unblinking eye of Tchar in its centre. Chainmail hung from his eight-pointed belt-buckle, and his legs were encased in spiked armour.

  His thickly muscled arms w ere bare and covered with tattoos, and gold and bronze tores w ere coiled around them. He was not wearing his war helmet, and his long, grey-streaked hair hung dow n his back. Over his shoulders he wore the shaggy pale fur of an ymgir, one of the snow yetis that stalked the mountains of Norsca.

  The jarl's eyes, as pale as the eye of Tchar on his chest, settled hungrily on Haegtesse.

  The w itch smiled as she saw the Skaeling jarl, and slid languorously from the saddle.

  Without speaking a w ord, the jarl swept her into a crushing embrace, pulling her hard up against him and draw ing her into a pow erful kiss. Haegtesse allowed herself to melt into his body, feeling his taut muscles and the invigorating touch of the gods on his tongue. She felt her desire for him strongly as her body responded to the tow ering Norscan, and was pleasantly surprised by the strength of her passion. It had been many decades since anyone had stirred her like this.

  Breaking from the passionate kiss, the Skaeling hooked a pow erful arm around her back and began to guide her forcefully tow ards his tent. It was obvious that he intended to have her there and then, to rut w ith her like an animal and slake his desire, but Haegtesse stopped him w ith a hand upon the chest.

  'Not yet,' she said in the Skaeling dialect.

  Standing up tall she came barely to the Norscan's chest, and her body w as weak and fragile compared to the brutal pow er in his massive frame, and yet Styrbjorn froze beneath her touch. She could feel his lust raging within him, and she knew that he longed to drag her into his tent, screaming and fighting if needs be, but she realised that he could feel her power, and was respectful of it.

  Such respect w as a w elcome thing after dwelling w ithin Bretonnia this last century, w here she was feared and despised. It was good to be back amongst those w ho understood her place in things. They were not Kurgans, but at least they paid homage to the true gods, even if they knew them by different names.

  'What is w rong, woman?' said the Skaeling, his eyes flashing dangerously.

  'Patience, jarl of the Skaelings,' Haegtesse said, playfully running a fingertip down the front of Styrbjorn's breastplate. 'The gods themselves have ordained this conception, but it must take place under strict ritual. Trust me and the son I bear you w ill be the greatest w arrior your tribe has ever seen.'

  The Norscan flicked a glance towards Bjarki, who nodded almost imperceptibly, and the jarl released Haegtesse.

  'Fine,' he said.

  'It must take place at the top of carrion hill,' said Haegtesse, gesturing up at the hill looming behind them, 'under the gaze of the gods. I w ill need eight of your strongest men for sacrifice.'

  'They are yours,' said Styrbjorn w ithout hesitation.

  'Good,' said Haegtesse. 'I w ill take my leave, and prepare the site.'

  When she had gone, the jarl slapped a meaty hand on Bjarki's shoulder, rocking the slighter man.

  'She's the one,' enthused Styrbjorn, his eyes filled with passion and excitement
. 'After all this time! A son!'

  'Indeed, my jarl,' agreed Bjarki.

  'And all this ritual is necessary?'

  'It is, my jarl.'

  Styrbjorn looked dow n at the seer curiously.

  'What is it that bothers you, little bear? Are you not pleased that at last I shall father a son? Your position w ithin the clan will not change, you know that.'

  'I know , my lord. That is not w hat troubles me.'

  'No? Then what? Speak, man.'

  'I don't trust her, my jarl,' said Bjarki. 'What does she get out of this?'

  'She w ill be the mother of the greatest Skaeling warrior ever to w alk the earth. Is that not enough?'

  'I don't know . Maybe.'

  'She's a beauty as w ell, isn't she? And powerful. Just touching her made my flesh tingle.'

  'She is a pow erful blood-w itch, it is true. But it w ould be w ise for us to be w ary of any trickery on her part. I'd suggest killing her as soon as the child is born.'

  'After she bears me my son, you may do to her anything you like, little bear,' said Styrbjorn.

  'Tomorrow , w e will rout these southlander horsemen,' said the jarl, changing topic and gazing out along the valley. 'We will slaughter them all, and laugh as they beg for mercy. It w ill be a good day, little bear.'

  'I have no doubt of that, my lord.'

  'They are arrogant, these southlanders. They think we are nothing but mindless barbarians, like the slant-eyed Hung. They will underestimate us, expecting us to simply charge at them across the open ground.'

  'There is honour to be had in such tactics,' said Bjarki. 'The blood god favours such a direct approach.'

  'The skull-taker cares not w hose blood it is that runs,' said Styrbjorn. 'Personally, I w ould rather it w as their blood and not mine.'

  'True enough,' said Bjarki.

  Bjarki had lived alongside his jarl for long enough to know that the grizzled old w arrior had devised a battle plan days earlier. He would have been labouring over the best w ay to defeat the southlander horsemen ever since he had announced the invasion, constantly refining and discarding plans as he concocted new and better w ays of claiming victory.