Warhammer - Knight of the Realm

by Anthony Reynolds

  Pegasus knights suddenly descended from the low clouds. A lance sliced towards the dw arf that Calard w as frantically defending against, and the stunted creature sw atted the w eapon aside with a sw eep of his axe.

  Laudethaire himself swooped down low and struck the hellcannon with his ow n blade. It did little real harm, his sword merely ringing off its barrel w ith a hollow metallic ring, but it distracted the daemon engine, which swung at him, jaw snapping. That was all the opening that Reolus needed, and he leapt from his saddle, driving his sword down into the hellcannon like a dagger, using both hands to push it home.

  Again the metal hide of the beast parted like yielding flesh beneath his sword, tearing a gaping hole in its side. The grail knight leapt backw ards as lava and red fire spewed from the horrendous w ound. The runes binding the daemon hissed and disappeared, and the entire engine began to melt beneath the heat contained within it. Its metal-cogged w heels began to sag, and its brazen forelimbs dripped like syrup.

  Calard saw the surge of rage in the dw arf slavemaster's eyes, and he smiled.

  Then, there was a primal scream of victory as the daemons that had been bound w ithin the machine were released from their imprisonment. For a second Calard saw their true form, standing amidst the fiery destruction of their hellcannon prison. They w ere black-skinned creatures three times the height of a man, w ith shadowy bat-like w ings extending from their shoulders. Fire burnt in the cluster of eyes set into their foreheads, but their screams of victory turned to one of outrage and fury as their bodies began to turn to smoke. With a final bellow of pure hatred that echoed for a hundred miles in every direction, the daemons were sent roaring back to the infernal plane from w hence they had came as the material form that had bound them to the real w orld w as destroyed.

  A blast of superheated air exploded outw ards, knocking everyone w ithin fifty yards to the ground, and Calard closed his eyes against the furious light that surged into the heavens as the daemons w ere banished.

  It w as perhaps thirty seconds later when Calard's senses returned to him and he registered the shape of Reolus, once again in the saddle, looming over him.

  'Take my hand, Calard,' ordered the holy paladin.

  In aw e, Calard accepted the proffered hand, and he swung up behind the grail knight. Then, together with the last of the knights that had accompanied them, they turned back tow ards Castle Lyonesse.

  HIGH JARL EGIL Styrbjorn stood motionless, his face unreadable as he surveyed the carnage unleashed as Zumarah's hellcannon was destroyed. Bjarki paced back and forth like a caged animal, snarling, his hands clenching and unclenching.

  'Why is it that the enemy seer is able to part the sea, and yet you are not?' said Styrbjorn mildly, though there was a dangerous edge to his voice.

  Bjarki spat a curse in response, and continued his restless pacing.

  'Is her pow er so much greater than your ow n?' continued Styrbjorn.

  'I'll rip her heart from her chest before this siege is done,' snarled Bjarki.

  'You say the bitch goddess of this land is weak, so w hy is it that her seer continues to shame me?' said Styrbjorn. 'Is their goddess stronger than you say? Or is it my seer that is the w eak one?'

  'Insult me and you insult the gods themselves,' snarled Bjarki in a w arning tone.

  'The gods rew ard those who are strong and fearless, and punish those who are useless and w eak. I have long been in the gods' favour.'

  'Things change, mighty jarl,' said Bjarki, his tone mocking and derisive. 'The favour of the gods w axes and wanes like the green eye in the night sky.'

  The seer began pacing again.

  'Calm yourself, little bear,' said Styrbjorn in a steady voice. The unnatural fog blanketing the turbulent strait w as dissipating, blown clear by the icy gale, and he saw the ocean closing behind the enemy. He w atched as a handful of knights rode tow ards the distant gatehouse, and dimly heard the cheers that w elcomed their return.

  'That hellcannon was our best chance of breaching the cursed fortress,' said Bjarki.

  'It is a setback, nothing more,' said Styrbjorn. 'And the enemy has revealed something to us this day.'

  Bjarki looked to his jarl questioningly.

  'The w aters of this strait are not so deep,' said Styrbjorn. 'The roadway is perhaps thirty feet beneath the w aves at most.'

  'Thirty feet or three hundred feet, what difference does it make?' said Bjarki.

  'Your eagerness for blood is clouding your mind, little bear,' said Styrbjorn. 'Think!'

  The seer's face tw isted in outrage, and his hand flashed for the dagger at his side. For a moment it looked as though he w ould draw it and stab his jarl, but the moment passed, and his expression changed to one of introspection.

  'Thirty feet,' he said, his hand rising from the hilt of his dagger to the braided goatee beard hanging from his chin, which he scratched at absently. In the distance, the heavy gates leading inside the enemy fortress slammed shut behind the handful of knights that had managed to escape the Skaelings' wrath, and the heavy portcullis crashed to the ground, sealing the entrance way.

  Realisation daw ned, and Bjarki flashed a smile at his jarl. Styrbjorn grinned savagely in return.

  'Thirty feet is not so deep,' said Bjarki.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  ELISABET'S ARMS AND legs were bound to the four corners of the bedposts and her mouth gagged. She fought against these restraints w ith possessed fury, muscles straining, and blood flowed from her wrists and ankles. Her flesh was lathered in sw eat and her long dark hair plastered against her skin. Her eyes w ere completely black, and she thrashed w ildly as Anara continued to speak the w ords of banishment, standing at the foot of the bed.

  Calard w atched on in horror as the thing inhabiting Elisabet's body struggled to maintain its hold. The air was chill in the room despite the roaring flames of the fireplace, and shadows danced at the edges of his vision.

  Elisabet's heavily pregnant body w ent into spasms, her back arching and lifting her off the bed as Anara's voice rose in intensity. The shadows all around seemed agitated, and Calard could hear a faint w hispering in his ears, and his hand closed around the hilt of his sword.

  Anara had assured him that the daemon-shades w ere unable to manifest within the room - she had sanctified and blessed it in the name of the Lady - but Calard w as still uneasy.

  With a shout, Anara completed her ritual, and Elisabet w ent into a final, shocking paroxysm, her eyes rolling back in her head and her limbs going rigid. Spasms w racked her frame, throwing her around on the bed, w hich shuddered under her exertions. Then, the girl was suddenly still.

  Calard moved to Elisabet's bedside. She w as breathing shallowly, for which he was grateful - he had thought for a moment that her heart might have given out altogether.

  Anara slumped backw ards into a padded chair. She was pale and drawn, with dark rings around her eyes as if she had not slept for a w eek. The exorcism had clearly drained her.

  The young castellan of Garamont w as exhausted as w ell, though his was a physical tiredness. It had been tw o days since the enemy daemon-engine had been destroyed, and the Norscans had been attacking the walls since then non-stop. Calard had managed to snatch a few hours of rest betw een attacks, but even then his sleep had been haunted by visions of the Green Knight, and he had aw oken feeling more tired than before. His armour w as dented and splattered with gore, and his once pristine blue and red tabard w as torn and smeared w ith blood and mud.

  'Well?' he said. 'Is Elisabet herself?'

  Anara opened her eyes and looked at him with exhausted eyes. The damsel nodded her head.

  'When w ill she w ake?' he said. 'Will she recover?'

  Anara merely shrugged in response. In the distance, Calard heard horns sound.

  Another assault w as about to commence. He sw ore, and gave Elisabet one final look.

  Her breathing seemed regular, if shallow. Anara curled her legs up beneath her like a little girl, and was instantly
fast asleep.

  More horns blared, and Calard turned and w alked wearily from the room. He closed the door softly behind him.

  Calard's cousins w ere waiting for him outside, but they did not immediately register that he had emerged from Elisabet's room.

  'You know w hat must be done, Tassilo!' Baldemund w as saying, his voice low and threatening.

  'I'm just not sure any more that this is the right path,' said Tassilo, shaking his head.

  'It is too late for second thoughts now, cousin,' said Huebald fiercely. 'We gave our oath to Folcard. He is relying upon us.'

  'Why are you arguing? Folcard is relying on you for w hat?' said Calard, frowning. His cousins froze, then turned slowly to face him. Tassilo dropped his eyes to the floor.

  'Nothing that need concern you, cousin,' said Baldemund. 'You have enough on your plate already.'

  Calard w anted to press the point, but found he simply did not have the strength. He w as so tired.

  'Is Elisabet...' said Huebald in concern. 'Is it done?'

  Calard nodded, too w eary to speak.

  'Are you all right, cousin?' Baldemund asked him in a quiet voice.

  'Let us get back to the w alls,' said Calard, ignoring the question.

  HAEGTESSE JOLTED, FEELING a horrible sense of vertigo as her spirit slammed back into her aged, decrepit and cancer-ridden body.

  The w itch tried to scream in outrage and denial, but a leather gag ensured that nothing but a w eak, gargled cry passed her lips. Opening her eyes, she could see little. Once again she was practically blind, cataracts filling her milky orbs, and her heart fluttered w eakly within the fragile cage that w as her ribs. Her hands were tied tightly behind her back. Rats squeaked and rustled through the mouldy straw that littered the dank ground.

  In the deepest oubliette beneath Castle Garamont, w ith her hands bound and her mouth gagged, there w as nothing for the witch Haegtesse to do but w ait for death.

  CHLOD WAS RIPPED from his restless, haunted sleep as a heavy boot kicked him hard in the side. Horns were sounding from the towers all around, and he groaned.

  The enemy had been coming at them relentlessly for almost three days now. The defenders had repelled wave after wave of attacks.

  Everything hurt. His body w as a mass of bruises upon bruises, and his limbs ached.

  Breathing in deeply was painful, and he was certain that at least one of his ribs was broken. He'd tw isted his left leg badly the day before, and throbbing pain emanated from his knee. The little finger of his right hand had been severed by an enemy axe, and w hile he knew that he had been lucky - had he not slipped on a pool of blood and fallen on his arse, then the axe would have taken his head off - that thought did little to alleviate the pain.

  Chlod had thought he w ould have been able to slink aw ay from the front line at some point during the battle, or in the lapses between assaults, but so far he had been allow ed no such opportunity. The yeomen wardens were as w atchful as eagles, and they guarded all the stairw ays leading from off the walls. He had already seen them kill half a dozen would-be deserters, the screams of the dying men ringing out sharply as they w ere hurled over the battlements. He had considered leaping off, but his legs had begun to shake even just looking down tow ards the courtyard inside the curtain w all. It was perhaps thirty feet to the ground, and he was certain that he w ould break both his legs upon landing on the unforgiving stones below, if he survived the fall at all.

  So exhausted had he been after the last assault that he had just slumped dow n in a heap w here he had been fighting, huddling up against the battlements to escape the penetrating w inds. He had fallen into a dreamless, exhausted sleep almost immediately.

  It seemed as though he had only just closed his eyes, but already the next assault w as about to begin.

  'Get up, you dogs,' barked a grizzled man-at-arms, jabbing the butt of his halberd into peasants still lying on the ground. One of them didn't move, and Chlod realised the man had died in the interim betw een the last assault, having either frozen to death or succumbed to injury. He didn't look older than fifteen.

  'Get rid of him,' snarled the man-at-arms, and Chlod w as pushed roughly from behind. Together with two other peasants, he manhandled the already ice-cold corpse over the crenulations, pushing it over the edge to join the growing pile of bodies at the base of the w all.

  Snow w as falling once again, blanketing everything in an ever-deepening layer, and Chlod stamped his feet in an attempt to get some feeling back into them. He had cheered as he saw the holy paladin Reolus riding back into the castle, jumping up and dow n and hollering loudly, hoping that the grail knight w ould acknowledge him as one of his pilgrims. He had hoped that if Reolus saw him, he might be allow ed off the w alls in order to go to the grail knight, but if he w as heard, the knight gave no indication.

  Chlod had tried to convince the yeomen guarding the stairways that his master needed him, but they had laughed in his face. One of them pushed him backw ards hard w ith his polearm, and Chlod had fallen on his backside, staring up at the man hatefully.

  In truth, Chlod had felt considerable joy that Reolus still lived. Though he cared not a jot for the nobility, he found himself pleased that the grail knight was not yet numbered among the casualties. There was something special about him, that much w as obvious, and Chlod felt somehow that w hile the knight lived they still had hope.

  It mattered not that he w as just one man. While the grail knight lived, Chlod felt confident that the enemy w ould be repelled.

  He pulled off his helmet and scratched his head. A peasant nearby w as staring slack-mouthed at the shaved circle on the crown of his head.

  'What are you staring at, gimp?' said Chlod.

  'Are you really his pilgrim?' asked the man. He w as a solidly built simpleton with one shoulder hanging half a foot low er than the other.

  'Yeah,' he said.

  'You an abbot or something?' said the man.

  'That's right,' said Chlod, puffing out his chest. He looked around him as if checking to see if anyone else was within earshot, then beckoned the big man tow ards him.

  'Tell you w hat,' said Chlod. 'You guard my back in the next attack, and if we are both livin' at the end of it, I'll make you my novice.'

  'Would you?' said the man, his eyes widening. Chlod nodded gravely.

  'What's your name?' he asked.

  'Otho, father abbot.'

  'Brother Otho. It sounds good, dunnit?' said Chlod. The big man nodded his head.

  Chlod produced a small bone from his tunic pocket w ith a flourish, and held it out to the man, w ho took it in his hands reverendy.

  'What is it?' he said breathlessly, staring at it as if it w ere made of solid gold. 'The finger of a saint?'

  'Better,' said Chlod in a hushed voice. 'It's a chicken bone.'

  'A chicken bone,' said Otho with reverence in his voice.

  'A chicken bone gnawed on by none other than Reolus the... the Oh So Mighty and Grand,' said Chlod, affecting a dramatic voice that elicited an exhalation of wonder from the big peasant. 'It w ill protect you. But only - only - if you make sure that I, his holy abbot, am kept from harm. If even one heathen lays a hand upon me, the bearer of that sacred bone w ill be struck dow n. You understand?'

  The big man nodded his head solemnly.

  Other horns blared, and w arning shouts announced that the enemy longships were draw ing near. Trebuchets began firing, and Chlod pulled the broken sword from the loop of leather around his w aist, feeling quietly smug at having tricked the big peasant into protecting his back. Perhaps he would survive a little longer than he expected.

  Otho dropped to his knees before Chlod, bow ing his head. After a moment of staring at the man in incomprehension, Chlod chuckled to himself and stepped tow ards him.

  What matter did it do to push the charade a little further?

  He made a w arding sign in the air, imitating a benediction that he had once seen a priest make, and placed his hand on the ma
n's head.

  'Bless me too, father abbot!' shouted another peasant, dropping to his knees.

  Other men pressed in, reaching for Chlod with outstretched hands. Others pushed themselves to the ground before him, heads bow ed to receive his benediction. They w ere not just peasant archers and men like he, drafted hastily into service, either; a number of men-at-arms w earing the duke's w hite and red tabards w ere among their number. Chlod shook his head at the absurdity of the situation.

  His pet rat squirmed under his shirt, and he patted it absently, a gormless smile on his face.

  'Here they come again!' came a shout.

  'Bless you all, sons of Reolus!' shouted Chlod.

  The peasants gathered around him roared their approval, and hefted their weapons in their hands as the first arrows began to fire upon the enemy storming up the beach.

  CALARD PLUNGED HIS sword into the neck of another Norscan as he tried to clamber over the battlements. Blood spluttered from the barbarian's lips, yet the dying w arrior gripped Calard's blade w ith one hand, trapping it.

  As Calard struggled to free his w eapon, a man-at-arms to his right fell backw ards, a spear jutting from his chest, and a w hite-bearded, heavily muscled Norscan leapt over the w all, howling like a blood-maddened w olf. The veteran enemy warrior swung to his left, slamming his axe into a knight's neck, shearing through metal. As the knight fell, the Norscan ripped his axe free and swung tow ards Calard, who was still struggling frantically to free his trapped sword. Seeing Calard's predicament, the w arrior w ho had a hold of his sword grinned, blood dribbling from his mouth.

  Calard grow led in frustration, using all his strength trying to rip his sword loose, but to no avail. Still, he had no intention of releasing his grip on the Garamont heirloom, for he knew that as soon as he let go the Norscan would fall backwards to his death, taking the sw ord with him.

  Bertelis slammed into the white-bearded Norscan from the side, driving him into the battlements. Losing his grip on his axe, the old warrior hammered his elbow into Bertelis's helmet, snapping his head backw ards. Bertelis reeled, and Calard saw his brother's blade embedded to the hilt in the Norscan's gut.