Warhammer - Knight of the Realm

by Anthony Reynolds

  Laudethaire and Maloric hacked down another pair of the sentries, and as Calard kicked the Norscan off his blade, he saw Bertelis sunder the skull of another, his blade carving dow n through the man's head. Reolus spun through the melee, a living avatar of the Lady, killing and dismembering with every pass of his blade.

  All the guards w ere dead in seconds, and Calard ran to Elisabet's side. She had stood at the sound of battle, and he could see her eyes wide as she stared around her through the bars of her imprisoning headgear. He looked down at her distended, pregnant belly, his mind reeling. How was this possible? When last he had seen her, no more than three w eeks earlier, she had been as slim as ever, a petite girl.

  Calard looked helplessly at the chains that bound Elisabet, having no idea how to release her from their bondage, but Anara w as at his side suddenly. She placed her hands upon the seamless iron collar around Elisabet's neck. Speaking a single word, there w as a flash of light and then the collar fell aw ay.

  Now that the chains no longer held her upright, Elisabet slumped forw ards, and Calard caught her lightly in his arms.

  'There is powerful sorcery at w ork here,' said Reolus as he looked down upon the brank enclosing Elisabet's head.

  'Get it off her,' said Calard.

  'I shall try,' said Anara, and she placed her hands upon the cage of black iron, closing her eyes. Smoke began to rise from under her palms, and Calard gagged as the smell of burning flesh filled his nostrils. Elisabet, unable to speak because of the iron gag of the brank, moaned in distress, and Calard held her strangely unfamiliar body tightly against him.

  'Brother... Did you?' asked Bertelis, staring at Elisabet's pregnant form.

  Calard shook his head in response.

  The horrible runes engraved upon the iron bars of the brank blazed a deep red, and Calard saw beads of sw eat begin to run dow n Anara's face and her brow crease in pain. Smoke and the stink of burning flesh continued to rise from the damsel's hands, and the runes binding the ironwork burned ever brighter. At last there came a sound like the cracking of ice, and the ironwork broke, falling aw ay from Elisabet's head and dropping to the ground, the skin of Anara's palms still attached.

  Anara fell backw ards in a sw oon, her hands blistered and raw as if she had grasped a red-hot poker from the coals. Reolus low ered her gently to the ground, and Calard looked dow n into Elisabet's face.

  She w as looking up at him w ith a smile that made his blood run cold, and as he stared into her eyes, they turned as black as night, as if ink had been dropped into her irises and was spreading rapidly to cover the entire surface of her orbs.

  Calard released her, recoiling as if he had suddenly found himself embracing a cadaver.

  'You're not Elisabet...' he groaned.

  'No, I'm not,' said the thing that w ore Elisabet's body. Then it began to speak in a tongue that made Calard's stomach clench in horror, and maddening, horned shadow s rose up around him. He heard malignant whispering in his ears, and his sw ord dropped from numb fingers.

  Then he felt insubstantial talons pierce his flesh and he gasped in agony and fell to his knees.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  THE INTERIOR OF the despoiled chapel was filled with wood smoke and the smells of sw eat and cooking meat, and the sounds of drunken revelry rose to the rafters.

  Warriors shouted, clinked drinking horns and laughed as a young skald recounted the gore-soaked adventures of Knut the Bloody, a Skaeling berserker w ho had fought alongside the ever-chosen Asavar Kul.

  This revered hero had taken part in the sacking of the Kislevite city of Praag tw o hundred years earlier, before, glutted w ith blood, he ventured northward, journeying into the heart of the god-touched lands there where dreams and nightmares become reality. The Skaelings were enjoying the tale, roaring their approval as the skald re-enacted a battle fought betw een Knut and a mighty bloodthirster of Kharnath that ended w ith him breaking the back of the monster over his knee, and the powers that be granting him daemonhood and eternal life as a rew ard for his tenacity.

  In one corner of the chapel a fight was underway. More w arriors were sent sprawling and tables overflow ing with food and drink were sent smashing to the stone floor as a massive, bearded huskarl laid around him in a drunken fury. He had already sent one man crashing through a stained glass window, an axe buried in his back, and half a dozen others w ere strewn around him, bloody and broken. Another was felled, bellow ing as the huskarl shattered his forearm w ith a hammer-blow of his fist.

  Styrbjorn reclined in his throne atop the stepped dais at the end of the chapel, only half listening to the ranting Chaos dwarf, Zumarah, who was speaking angrily, standing one step from the top of the dais, spitting his words out as he addressed the Skaeling jarl.

  '...promised me slaves, manling,' the dwarf w as saying. 'And here we sit on this Hashut-forsaken rock, doing nothing!'

  'Patience, Zumarah,' said Styrbjorn, w aving aw ay the words of the infuriated dwarf.

  'Once the w itch bears my son, then we shall take the fight back to the southlanders.'

  'You speak lies and poison, manling,' said Zumarah, placing a foot on the top of the dais. Styrbjorn's w arhounds were instantly on their feet, baring their teeth and snarling at the dw arf. Unfazed, the dwarf merely snarled back at them, though he did not move any closer to the Skaeling jarl. Styrbjorn barked a command, and his w arhounds dropped to their haunches, tails betw een their legs, though their unblinking eyes remained fixed on Zumarah.

  'Once the bitch spaw ns the child, you w ill be taking it back to Skaeling lands, mark my w ords,' said the dwarf. 'If you do not deliver on your promise to me, I shall take my slaves from amongst your ow n people, starting with your bitch daughters.'

  The shield-maidens Fraygerd and Hrefna, standing to either side of their father's throne, bristled. Hrefna half-drew her sword from her scabbard, her face tw isted in anger. The dwarf, standing only half the height of the tall, blonde warrior woman but easily three times her weight, snarled and reached for the double-headed axe strapped to his back.

  'Let me cut his heart from his chest and offer it to mighty Kharnath, father,' spoke Hrefna.

  Styrbjorn held up a hand to forestall any violence, and cast an amused glance at the dw arf.

  'It's a foolish individual w ho insults a Skaeling woman, Zumarah,' he said. 'Their fury is far deadlier than any man's.'

  'And it's a dead man w ho thinks he can swindle a Daw i, manling,' snarled the dwarf.

  Bjarki w as seated cross-legged at Styrbjorn's feet, head dow n as he listened to the conversations occurring around him, and he smiled to himself. In truth, he agreed w ith the dwarfs sentiment; Styrbjorn w as growing soft. He had believed that the Skaeling jarl w ould stay on in Bretonnia after the great victory at the crow fields, carving a sw athe of destruction across the length and breadth of his hated birth land, and he had longed to be a part of the slaughter of the people who had turned their back on him. Long had he dreamed of returning to his father's estate and killing everyone there. He had not expected the jarl to flee like a frightened child to this island sanctuary to see his son birthed in solace, stalling Bjarki's blood-dreams of vengeance.

  'Your son should be born surrounded by death!' Bjarki had argued w ith Styrbjorn the day after the victory. 'The first sounds he hears should be the din of battle; the screams of the dying, the roar of the victor, the clash of steel and the rending of flesh!'

  Styrbjorn had grabbed him around the throat, his face flushing in anger and his eyes glinting w ith the gods' favour.

  'Who is jarl here? Remember your place, little bear.'

  Styrbjorn had shoved him aw ay, and Bjarki's hand had leaped to the w elts around his throat. He w as not used to such treatment. As w iry and tautly muscled as he w as, he w as still slight of frame and puny next to the hulking Skaelings - and Styrbjorn w as larger even than any of his chosen huskarls - but few w ould dare incur the w rath of the gods by laying a hand upon one of their chosen representatives.


  Before he could snarl a curse, Styrbjorn had levelled one meaty finger at him.

  'Don't go against me in this, Bjarki,' the jarl had warned in a dangerous voice. 'You are like a son to me, but I w ill not risk my blood-son by staying here in this foreign land.'

  Bjarki knew that many of the Skaeling warriors were unhappy with the decision to leave the southlander's lands, and he had heard whispers of malcontent amongst the chieftains that had sw orn themselves to Styrbjorn. In truth, if he did announce that he w as sailing back to Norsca after the birth of the daemon-child, the seer would not be at all surprised if a leadership challenge arose, and that Styrbjorn w as forced to fight to maintain the dominance he had held these past decades.

  Bjarki came back to the present, his head snapping up as he felt the sundering of the rune-magic binding the witch, Haegtesse.

  'The w itch!' he snarled, leaping to his feet, interrupting the bickering betw een the dw arf and the Skaelings. 'She's free!'

  Styrbjorn rose instantly from his throne, snatching up the tw in axes, Garmr and Gormr.

  'With me!' he roared deafeningly, his god-touched voice booming through the chapel.

  All activity ceased instantly, the young skald freezing mid-sentence, and giving pause to the bearded huskarl, w ho was holding another man by the scruff of the neck, fist poised to cave in his face.

  Then the jarl was racing through the chapel, smashing men out of his w ay in his hurry, w arhounds at his heels, and he angled towards a side-door leading out to the rear. Bjarki darted forw ard in the wake of his jarl, flanked by Styrbjorn's daughters, and every w arrior present followed a second later, swords and axes bared.

  IT FELT LIKE blades of ice were being driven into his flesh, and Calard gasped in agony as they pushed tow ards his heart. He'd never felt such pain in his life, and his eyes w ere w ide as he tried to focus on the face of the shadow-creature before him.

  It w as no more solid than a firelight shadow, and he could see straight through it, though the impression of a blank, featureless face could be vaguely discerned. It turned its head on the side and leant in close to him, staring intently at him as if intrigued by the pain it w as inflicting. He groaned in excruciating torment as the shadow 's talons encircled his heart. He knew that it could kill him at any moment; all it had to do w as clench its hand and his heart would burst like an overripe melon under a hammer.

  The nightmarish shade seemed to be savouring his torture; he saw its outline shudder as if in the throes of pleasure as it fed upon his pain, and heard its w hispering hisses increase in excitement. He stared in horror as it lifted its other hand tow ards his face, needle-like talons of black smoke poised to ram into his brain.

  He could do nothing against it, paralysed in agony and terror.

  The creature's hissing stopped abruptly and it sw ung its strangely ovoid, blank face aw ay from Calard, as if it had heard a sound. Reolus's blade, gleaming like quicksilver, sliced through its insubstantial cranium, and it emitted a horrible, w ailing screech as its head came apart.

  Calard gasped and fell forw ard as the shade pulled its talons from his flesh, its long limbs contorting as it reeled in agony. Its shadowy head was in two halves, each hanging loose from its shoulders, and for a second Calard thought he was going insane, for a second image flickered before his eyes, superimposed upon the outline of the shade.

  It w as a skinless, horrific thing and it w rithed in agony as a substance like oily smoke rose from its split head. It had no eyes or nose, just a lipless mouth filled with tiny, serrated teeth. The daemon emitted a chattering wail that might have been pain, and thrashed around as if in the midst of a fit. Calard saw the image for only a fraction of a second before the daemon w as once more as insubstantial as a shadow , but he knew that he had glimpsed the creature's true form.

  Then it was gone, dissipating into smoke, leaving behind it a stench akin to rotting, foetid meat. Dimly, Calard heard the frantic cries of his fellow knights, and Bertelis gasped in pain.

  Calard's chest w as numb w here the daemon's talons had pushed through his flesh but feeling had returned to his fingers and he swept up his fallen sword as he leaped to his feet. Shadows danced all around, and he saw one of them rising up betw een him and Bertelis, who was trying to keep it at bay w ith sweeps of his sword as he backed aw ay. Calard, looking through the shadowy daemon, could see his brother's face contorted in horror.

  The daemon glided forwards and he saw Bertelis's sword pass clear through its body.

  It had no visible effect on the shade, which loomed over him w ith taloned arms raised high, ready to plunge them down into his body. Calard cried out and threw himself forw ard, and he slashed the blade of Garamont through the insubstantial creature's body.

  Its w hispers turned into wails and it swung towards him, oily smoke coiling from its w ound. It lashed out w ith one long, taloned arm, and again Calard saw it as it truly w as for a fraction of second. The exposed muscles of its skinless arm glistened wetly, and sharp, curving bone protruded six inches from the bloody flesh of its fingertips.

  Calard leapt back from its strike and struck w ith his blade, which was gleaming with silver light. He severed the daemon's arm at the elbow and it w ailed again. He cleaved his sw ord through its neck with his return strike. It felt like he struck nothing more solid than air, but the daemon dissipated into the night, leaving a rancid stink behind it.

  Tw o of Laudethaire's Parravonians were down, twitching and writhing, and Calard saw a third slump to the ground as one of the shadow daemons plunged its talons into his head. He saw the man tw itching horribly, blood running from his nose and his tongue lolling from the side of his mouth. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he w ent into violent convulsions, arms and legs rigid and his back arching unnaturally.

  Horrifyingly, the dying man seemed to attract the interest of the daemons, which bent over him, their heads lowered so that they were only an inch from the faces of the convulsing man, as if utterly fascinated by the spectacle, forgetting everything else that w as going on around them. Several of the daemons crowded around each dying man, completely absorbed as they thrashed out their last moments of life.

  Laudethaire slashed furiously with his own blade, and two of the shadows disappeared into coiling smoke. Calard saw Maloric backing away from another pair of the daemons that materialised out of now here, his face pale as his sword passed harmlessly through them. Bertelis swore as he slashed his own blade through the head of another creature, to no effect.

  'Stay w ith me,' said Calard, keeping the creatures at bay w ith the ancestral sword of Garamont, w hich w as said to have been blessed by the Lady of the Lake. He had alw ays thought that w as just a story, but now he believed it. The shadow-wraiths w ere w ary of the glittering blade, and they kept their distance now, chattering and w hispering.

  Now w ith some space around him, Calard cast his gaze around the circle.

  Anara w as picking herself up from the ground, leaning upon her w hite staff, her eyes locked onto the... thing resembling Elisabet. Calard cried out as a trio of shadow s darted tow ards his sister, but he needn't have bothered. As they descended on her, ethereal claw s raised, the damsel whispered a w ord and slammed the butt of her staff into the ground. A sphere of light flashed into existence, completely enclosing her, blinding and crackling with power. Two of the daemons were caught in the blast, and they w ere instantly rendered to smoke. The third recoiled away, only to be cut in half by a flick of Reolus's gleaming sword, which he was wielding in two hands with consummate skill.

  The grail knight, his eyes blazing with fey power, was closing on the witch, who was cackling maniacally. From over her shoulders and under her outstretched arms dozens of shadow -w raiths were flying forwards at the holy paladin, hurling themselves into his path as the witch backed aw ay tow ards the cliff edge.

  Reolus hacked his blade around him in a blinding dance as he stepped forwards, his body angled as if he w as battling against a gale. Scores of shado
w daemons flew against him, intangible clawed hands reaching to impale him but he carved through them, in constant motion, slicing his way tow ards the witch.

  Calard gasped as he felt frozen knife talons plunge into his leg, and the entire limb w ent numb. Bertelis cried out, but there w as nothing he could do against the revenants, and Calard knew that he would have died then and there had it not been for Laudethaire, w ho sliced his own gleaming blade through the back of the shade looming up before him. It screamed in torment as its body dissipated into the air.

  With a nod of thanks, Calard spun around, his blade leaving a trailing arc of light through the air as he forced another shade back. He saw Maloric surrounded, and the Sangasse nobleman lifted his shield before him as one of the phantoms struck at him. It w as a futile gesture, for its taloned arm merely passed through it, and Maloric cried out.

  For a moment, Calard's rival looked straight at him, looking through his attacker, and Calard saw the desperation in the knight's eyes. Calard knew that Maloric was too proud to cry for help from the likes of him, and as a silent communication passed betw een the tw o rivals, he saw the flare of hatred in the Sangasse noble's eyes.

  He doesn't expect me to go to his aid, Calard realised, and again he felt a contradiction of emotions: mild satisfaction in knowing that Maloric was about to die; a tw inge of dishonour that the Sangasse expected him to do nothing.

  Another revenant rose up behind Maloric. The Sangasse earl did not register this new threat, and he w as unprepared as the shade readied to plunge its knife-like claws into his head.

  Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion. Dimly, he heard Norse w ar cries and realised that they had been discovered. They would be overrun in moments, but that didn't seem to matter at this instant. Calard's entire world shrunk; all he saw w as his mortal enemy about to be cut dow n.

  Then everything w as moving quickly again.

  Calard roared a cry of w arning and leapt forwards. His blade struck one of the daemons standing in his path, which dispersed into amorphous, stinking smoke, its true form flashing before his eyes momentarily. Maloric, perhaps thinking that Calard w as going to strike him dow n next, lifted his shield protectively and drew his sw ord back, ready to plunge it into Calard's neck, unaw are of the danger behind him.