Warhammer - Knight of the Realm

by Anthony Reynolds

  She placed her fingertips upon the young damsel's head. Morgiana felt the damsel shudder as she sent the vision of what might come to pass if the daemon-child lived into her mind. It w as over in a second, and the Enchantress pulled her hand back. It w as numb w ith cold, but she ignored the discomfort.

  'What w ould you have me do, mistress?' said the vision of the girl in the mirror. Her lover tensed and lifted his head, looking around for w ho it w as she talked to.

  'Bring the child to me, Anara,' the Enchantress w hispered. Her gaze flickered to the broad, strong features of the damsel's lover. 'Take Reolus with you. His sword will be needed.'

  'It shall be as you w ish, my mistress,' replied Anara.

  Then the vision in the mirror faded, and the Enchantress stared at her ow n reflection. There was a hint of sadness in her eyes.

  'I'm sorry, Anara,' she w hispered.

  THE GOBLET THAT the jarl had drained and hurled aw ay from him had rolled to the edge of the circle of blood-dust surrounding the intertwined couple. Smoke rose from w here the liquid seeped from the vessel, and Bjarki knelt down before it. His jarl and the w itch were in the throes of passion within the circle but Bjarki paid them no heed, concentrating on the goblet. Lifting it carefully, so as not to disturb the ritual circle, he raised it to his nose, sniffing. Frowning, he touched a finger to the small amount of liquid still contained within and licked it.

  All manner of herbs and roots could be tasted w ithin, as well as the essence of certain dream-inducing mushrooms that he was familiar with. But behind all that, there w as a bitter taste that he recognised, though he could not put his finger on w hat it w as. Bjarki furrowed his brow and stood, pushing through the circle of enthralled, drug-addled huskarls, trying to identify the substance in his mind.

  Bjarki stalked dow n to the bottom of the hill, the witch-consort's banshee screams of pleasure ringing out across the low lands. Muttering to himself, he entered his tent, w racking his mind for the source of the herb or root that he had tasted in the brew .

  Herbs, roots and the innards of animals and men hung from cords strung above his head, and he flicked through them, hoping that something would jog his memory.

  Finding nothing, he squatted on the floor and began to tear open his saddlebags, untying leather thongs and rolling out bundles of leather within w hich were hundreds of small pockets, each containing a neatly wrapped bundle of leather and fur, tied up w ith dried sinew and horsehair. Within each package w as a rare ingredient, either gathered by Bjarki or one of his predecessors or traded from the lands of the Kurgan, the Hung or the southlanders, or lands even further afield; the hot forests of the lizard-people many months' sail to the south-w est, the realm of the Dragon King in the east beyond the great w all, or from the lands of sand and dust-daemons to the south.

  Norse runes w ere burnt into the leather of these packages, telling him what was contained w ithin each - some he had never opened, having never had the need. He flicked through his precious collection with growing irritation, cursing.

  Bjarki finally gave up, angry and frustrated, and he threw himself down onto his furs.

  It came to him just as he started to drift off to sleep.

  'Whorlroot,' he said to himself. 'The devious bitch.'

  The w itch had dissolved a large amount of the deadly root in his jarl's draught, concealing its taste w ithin the hallucinogenic brew's potent flavour. In small doses, if taken regularly, Bjarki knew that the root w ould slowly kill a man, w asting his muscles and eating him aw ay from the inside. It was a cunning way to do aw ay w ith an enemy if obvious hostility needed to be avoided, so long as one could slip the root pow der into a draught regularly enough without causing suspicion, for its symptoms w ere akin to many w asting sicknesses, and only one particularly skilled in herb-lore w ould ever detect it. Taken in the quantity that the witch had slipped into Styrbjorn's draught, it w ould cause the victim to fall into a deep sleep from w hich he would not w ake - unless a draught to countermand its effects was imbibed. Thankfully, such an antidote w as relatively simple.

  Quickly, Bjarki began tearing open his pouches and grinding up roots, praying to the great gods of the Skaelings that he was not too late.

  HAEGTESSE OPENED HER eyes with a start as she felt a sharp kick from w ithin her belly. The cold light of dawn penetrated weakly through the low hanging cloud cover, and fresh snow blanketed the top of the hill, but w ith her naked body w rapped in the thick furs strew n within the ritual circle atop the hill, she felt the chill only on her cheeks.

  Her hands ventured dow n over her stomach, which had been firm and flat only hours earlier, marvelling at the considerable bump there now . Her flesh w as taut and stretched, bulging with new life. She felt the daemon-child within her kick again, more forcefully this time, and she gasped. She could hear the child's as yet unformed thoughts flow ing through her mind like an incoherent whisper, confused and jumbled yet pulsing w ith staggering intensity. Such power!

  The gods of Chaos had clearly blessed the union, and she judged that she would come to term w ithin the month. She felt a flicker of unease as she considered how pow erful the boy w ould be by the time she gave birth. He w as already so strong, though his pow er was as yet unfocused and vague. Once he gained mastery over it, he w ould be horrifyingly potent. He w ould - if he lived - command pow er that she could not hope to comprehend.

  She sat up w ith some aw kwardness, unused to the w eight of the child within her.

  She clutched the furs around her and glanced down at the figure of the Skaeling jarl.

  He had rolled aw ay from her, and was wrapped in furs, so that she could not see his face. She did not hear his breathing. She was almost sorry to have killed him; he had been a fine lover.

  Nevertheless, his death had been necessary - he w ould never have stood by and allow ed her to do w hat it w as she intended. She would leave this stinking Norscan camp concealed in the shadow of Dark Magic and birth the child in the wilderness, alone. It w ould be a simple matter to befuddle the minds of any sentries, and yet she didn't even think that w ould be necessary; the Skaeling warriors had celebrated their victory long into the night, and few w arriors would be yet aw ake.

  Again the child kicked within her, and she gasped.

  By the time the daemon-child reached five years of age he w ould be capable of things that had taken her half a dozen lifetimes to master, and she doubted that she w ould be able to overcome him. But as a new born? He might have power, but he w ould not yet know how to control it, nor have the self-awareness necessary to protect himself from her. And he would be dead long before he mastered his gods-blessed power.

  She stroked her belly lovingly.

  'A month's time, and the gods w ill hear your birth screams,' she whispered. 'And then you w ill die - by my knife - and I shall live forever.'

  'I don't think so,' said a voice in her ear.

  She started in alarm and spun around to see Jarl Styrbjorn staring at her, his eyes as cold as ice. How could this be? He had drained enough of the draught to kill one of his immense tuskers!

  She began to mouth an incantation that w ould summon her guardian daemon-shades to her and rip Styrbjorn's soul to shreds, but the jarl backhanded her hard across the side of the face and she fell with a cry. She hadn't even seen the blow coming, and the pain was intense. Stars flashed before her eyes and she could already feel the bruise rising.

  'Kurgan bitch,' grow led Styrbjorn. 'You think I'd let you harm my son? You think you could kill me?'

  Haegtesse couldn't talk, still dazed by the sledgehammer blow that the Skaeling jarl had struck her. She tried to get aw ay from him, scrabbling frantically on hands and knees, but he grabbed her by the hair and hauled her head back, exposing her throat. She w as pow erless against his strength, and for a second she thought he was going to kill her.

  As Styrbjorn held her immobile, a horrific device of black iron was lowered over her head by another set of hands. The Skaeling seer, she realise
d dimly. Of course he must have been the one to realise w hat it w as Styrbjorn had drunk, and concocted its antidote. Damn him!

  The device the seer carried was a helmet-like cage, and it stank of blood as it w as low ered over her head. She saw that runes of the Dark Tongue were engraved upon its bands, and she struggled violently, screeching like an animal as she tried to avoid having it locked in place.

  Styrbjorn struck her again then, a blow that rattled her brain and left her almost insensible. The brank w as fastened around her head. Inward facing spikes carved deep gouges in her flesh, and she winced. The front of the headpiece was hinged, and as its door w as pushed closed and locked, a spiked metal tongue depressor was forced into her mouth. It pierced the flesh of her cheeks and tongue and bit deep into the roof of her mouth. She almost choked on her ow n blood as it filled her throat.

  Her arms w ere w renched painfully behind her back and bound tightly w ith cord. The Skaeling seer, Bjarki, squatted in front of her, grinning, and her eyes flashed with hatred. Yet w ithout the pow er of speech and with her hands bound, she was as helpless as a newborn.

  'Whorlroot,' said Bjarki, still grinning. 'Clever. It was a close thing - another half an hour and the father of your unborn child would have been worm-food.'

  Jarl Styrbjorn stood up, stretched his arms, and shouted for his armour.

  'Bring her,' he said, gesturing to the clearly pregnant, bound figure of Haegtesse. 'We make for the coast.'

  'TELL US ANOTHER story?' begged one of the peasants, a plea which was echoed by a dozen others crow ding around inside the hovel, hot w ith sweat and the heat of the open fire.

  Chlod, stuffing his mouth w ith hard bread dunked in stew, grinned, wiping hot gravy from his chin. He waved a hand, and one of the peasants that made up his audience handed him a clay jug of cheap w ine, which he swigged from.

  The peasants w ere looking at Chlod expectantly, and he was relishing being the centre of attention as he spoke of the holy feats of the grail knight, Reolus.

  Chlod had arrived at Lyonesse, upon the rocky northeast coast, some tw o days earlier, borne upon the back of a w agon laden with produce, and had been enjoying its hospitality ever since. To his audience, he was a dashing adventurer, a heroic pilgrim seeking his master, and they happily fed and watered him in exchange for his tales.

  'One more story, then,' he said, smacking his lips.

  It didn't get much better than this, he thought, with a smile. He should be able to w ork this charade here for at least another few weeks. He shoved half a biscuit dow n his shirtfront for his rat, and then, with his audience hanging on his every word, he began another fanciful tale about how he, a lowly peasant pilgrim, saved the life of the holy paladin Reolus.

  CHAPTER TEN

  THE WAVES POUNDED relentlessly against the white stone of the castle w alls, the crashing of the surf sending deep, sonorous booms echoing through its halls. Sprays of foam and icy w ater exploded up the sheer sides of the fortress, reaching for the battlements. Snow w as falling from dark clouds overhead and w hile it was only early afternoon, it w as as dark as tw ilight.

  Calard stood upon the north-w est wall, braving the elements as he stared darkly out tow ards the horizon. He could taste the salt spray upon his lips, and snow gusted through the crenulations, billowing around him and chilling his flesh.

  It had been three w eeks since the catastrophic defeat of the army of Lyonesse, three w eeks since he had been forced to flee like a peasant from the w rath of the Norscan w horesons. He had felt the Lady's displeasure as he and the other knights of Bastonne had fled the field, pursued by the how ling hordes of Chaos.

  The slaughter had been terrible, and above it all the Norscan chieftain had watched from atop his throne upon the back of the immense tusker, laughing as the monstrous beast smashed men and horses out of its path w ith every swing of its heavy head.

  He shuddered as he thought again of the violent trumpeting of the monsters as they rampaged through the ranks of the proud knights, stomping and slaughtering everything in their path. They seemed inured to pain, ignoring scores of lances imbedded in their tree-trunk legs, and barely seeming to register the flashing swords that hacked at them. Calard felt his despair grow. What could a man do to fight such beasts? What could an army do to fight them?

  Calard clenched his hand into a fist and struck the cold stone of the battlements, compacting the snow settling there.

  He thought of the Lady Elisabet, the lady w hom he had given his heart only to be cruelly betrayed. She had been the last person he had expected to see in the midst of that chaotic battle, a prisoner sat at the Norscan w arlord's feet upon the back of the mighty beast.

  Again he saw Elisabet's large tearful eyes as she tried to get close to him, just after he had learnt of her murderous plot to kill his father, the castellan of Garamont. He saw again the hurt, the pain, and the desperation - the love - in her expression, and it felt like a cold claw clutched at his heart. He had believed that he would wed Elisabet w ithin a year of his return home from Bordeleaux, and had even gone so far as to meticulously plan how he was going to ask for her hand.

  He hated her. She had shattered his dreams. She had poisoned his father, turning him into a w ithered skeleton, old before his time. And he hated himself for the fact that there w as a part of him that loved her still.

  She w as out there, he thought, staring off into the distance, a captive of the brutal Norscan w arlord. His anger rose just imagining what horrors she was being subjected to by the Norse chieftain, by his men. No matter w hat she had done, she didn't deserve that.

  Staring intently at the horizon, seeing the storm clouds rolling in from the north and the flash of lightning in the distance, he swore. He felt so helpless. She was probably in Norsca by now ; if she was still alive at all.

  The battle had ended in butchery, and the scale of it filled him with loathing and disgust; the enemy w ere nothing more than bestial savages. He had seen knights hacked limb from limb by frenzied Norsemen long after there had been any honour left in the fight. He had seen blond-haired marauders tear out the throats of knights w ith their bare teeth. He saw hulking, black-armoured barbarians bedecked in furs matted w ith congealed blood slaughtering the injured, beheading them w ith mighty sw eeps of their broad-bladed axes. None were given mercy or clemency. Even the steeds of unhorsed knights were hacked apart by axe and sw ord, giant mutated hounds savaging them and tearing great chunks of meat from their flanks.

  The Duke of Lyonesse had been carried clear of the slaughter, though the famed banner of Lyonesse w as lost, trampled into the mud. Miraculously, the duke was still alive; he'd merely been knocked unconscious by a blow to his head. The Lady had clearly intervened on his behalf, protecting him from w orse hurt. He was hastily borne aw ay from the battlefield, his closest coterie of knights escorting him swiftly for Castle Lyonesse in the west, upon the walls of which Calard now stood.

  After their victory, the Norse army had struck for the coast, driving hard. For a w eek Calard and those surviving knights that had not accompanied the duke had dogged the progress of the barbarians, but there w ere less than fifteen hundred survivors of the ten thousand knights that had fought in the battle, and they could do little to threaten them.

  They had engaged in running battles w ith the outriders of the Norscans but these w ere nothing more than skirmishes for they had not the numbers to force the Norscans into a decisive battle. They had not even the strength of numbers to stop the Norscans from sacking a dozen villages and small hamlets as they rampaged back tow ards the coast, and the mood of the Bretonnian camp had been grim.

  By the time the knights of Couronne had caught up w ith the remnants of the shattered Lyonessian army, half of the Norscan army had already put to sea. The relief force had been pitifully small, however, for the majority of the knights despatched had turned back as soon as it w as clear that the Norscans were not seeking to penetrate deeper into Bretonnia. Only the younger knights errant, those despe
rate to prove their w orth, had continued their ride from Couronne.

  He had been surprised to see a familiar face amongst the knights, however; none other than the foreigner Dieter Weschler, a nobleman of the Empire that Calard had fought alongside six months earlier. The man's appearance w as, if anything, even more fastidious and outlandish to those attuned to Bretonnian sensibilities than Calard remembered; all puffy sleeves, tights, ostentatious plumes and lacquered black steel.

  Dieter w as, it turned out, now the Empire's ambassador to Bretonnia, though he confided in Calard that he w as growing tired of the king's court, with all its intrigue and back-stabbing. He had leapt at the opportunity to ride forth and do battle, and he saw that doing so w as an opportunity to further strengthen the relations betw een Bretonnia and the Empire.

  How ever, as pleased as Calard w as to see his old comrade in arms, he was furious to learn that the entire relief force that had set out from L'Anguille had turned back once it had established that the enemy no longer threatened their own border.

  Nevertheless, fighting alongside Dieter, Calard and the remaining knights had made a good account for themselves in a daring attack against the last of the Norscans boarding their longships, yet the battle had little relevance; the enemy warlord - and Elisabet - had already departed Bretonnian shores.

  In impotent rage Calard had stood upon the snow -covered beach, surrounded by dead and dying Bretonnians and Norscans, and watched as the last longships pulled aw ay into the distance. It had been a grim journey from there to Castle Lyonesse, a day to the south, and Calard and the other Bastonnian knights had ridden in silence, escorting the injured. For tw o nights they had been the guests of the Duke of Lyonesse w ithin his island fortress - one of the most impressive and defensible casties in Bretonnia.

  It w as located just off the north-w est coast of Lyonesse, some four hundred yards from the mainland.

  Calard heard someone climb to the top of the stairs behind him, but did not bother to turn to greet them. In silence Bertelis moved to his side and leant against the battlements, gazing out to sea.