Huebald and Baldemund stepped protectively in front of Bertelis as the Norscan pulled the bloody sw ord from his flesh and hurled it aw ay from him. Blood was gushing from the mortal w ound, but the Norscan merely roared in fury and hurled himself at Calard's cousins.
Calard placed one foot upon the edge of the crenulations and heaved with all his might, and finally tore his sword free, severing the Norscan's fingers in the process.
The man dropped backw ards, still grinning, and was gone.
The young lord of Garamont sw ung around to see w hite-beard w ith his paw -like hands w rapped around Huebald's neck, throtding the life out of him even as Baldemund stabbed him repeatedly.
Calard bellow ed w ordlessly as he launched himself to the aid of his cousins, and the Norscan looked up at him, still howling, just a fraction of a second before the blade of Garamont carved into his skull. Blood and brain matter splattered over Calard's face and chest, and the Norscan finally fell.
'Breach!' shouted Tassilo, leaping past Calard as giant, black-armoured w arriors heaved themselves onto the battlements behind them. A knight fell, hacked from collarbone to sternum by a sickeningly powerful axe blow , and his companion butchered a pair of men-at-arms, black-bladed tw in swords flashing.
Tassilo barged into the first of them w ith his shield. The Norscan was a head taller than the young Bretonnian nobleman, but the icy stonew ork w as slippery underfoot, and he lost his balance. The Norscan barked a curse and dropped his axe, black-armoured fingers scrabbling for a handhold as he fell back over the battlements.
The second Chaos warrior took a step tow ards the w all's defenders, pale eyes burning w ith cold intensity within the shadowy depths of his helmet. Almost as an afterthought he lashed out w ith one of his swords, and Tassilo fell with a gasp of pain as the tainted w eapon carved through the plate armour encasing his forearm. Tassilo dropped to his knees, grasping his w ounded arm, and Calard saw his cousin's vambrace blacken and corrode.
The Chaos w arrior's broad shoulders w ere hung with wolf pelts, and he towered over Calard and his companions. Black smoke rose from the deadly, jagged blades of his w eapons, and Calard knew that this must have been one of the enemy chieftains.
More enemy w arriors leapt over the walls behind him, but Calard's gaze w as fixed on the giant w arrior closing tow ards him. This was a w orthy foe, he knew, and he relished the opportunity to prove himself before the Lady and his comrades - and to himself.
'This one's mine,' he said, though Baldemund and Huebald w ere already stepping aw ay, leaving him at the fore, alone and exposed, though Calard noticed not at all.
Tassilo managed to scramble back before the chieftain's advance, still clutching at his w ounded arm in obvious agony.
Calard gripped the hilt of the sword of Garamont tightly, and whispered a sw ift prayer to the Lady of the Lake as he stepped forw ard to meet this enemy champion.
A shadow fell over him and he ducked involuntarily as a w inged shape swooped low over his head.
The enemy champion took a step back, raising his swords up before him, but before he could w ard off the blow , a lance was driven into his chest, punching though his armour and impaling him on its length. The lance tip burst out through the back of his body, transfixing him, and then the pegasus mounted knight was past, banking sharply off to the right.
A cheer rose up from the defenders as Laudethaire flew over their heads, drawing his sw ord and brandishing it in salute. Calard realised that scores of men had seen the Parravonian strike dow n the enemy chieftain, and he had no doubt that all those who had not w ould know of it before the day w as out.
'Bastard,' said Calard. Once again Laudethaire had claimed the glory, and Calard and his ilk were left to clean up the remnants.
The Norscans came at them in a rush, and Calard only just managed to get his shield up in time to turn aside a sw inging axe. He was knocked to his knees by the force behind the blow , and he slashed desperately with his sword. The blade sank deep into his attacker's calf. The Norscan fell with a curse and w as finished off by a peasant, w ho hammered the spiked tip of his polearm dow n into the man's face.
As Calard rose back to his feet his shield was knocked aside by a heavy hammer, the blow designed to leave him unprotected. A boot struck him full in the chest, sending him crashing backw ards, his breastplate groaning under the force and the wind driven from his lungs.
He hit the ground hard, flat on his back, and his head struck the stone. Had he not been w earing his helmet he might have been killed. As it w as he was merely stunned, though he w ould have a headache for a few days if he survived this latest assault.
Winded, he struggled to rise, though he saw that the Norse who had managed to storm onto the ramparts had been killed, their ladders pushed from the walls.
The Norse champion, impaled upon the length of Laudethaire's lance, w as still alive, though he w as clearly mortally wounded. The blood that dripped from his wound was black and hissed as it struck the stonework, melting shallow pits in the rock where it fell.
He stared up hatefully at Calard as he stepped forw ard to finish the warrior. Calard's blow shattered the Norscan's helmet and took half his head aw ay, but still he did not die. The shattered pieces of the w arrior's helmet fell aw ay from his face, exposing a mass of skinless flesh. Maggots w rithed through the fibrous muscles of the champion's face, and his lipless mouth w as studded with rotting fangs. A single large horn protruded from the Norscan's forehead. Calard had thought that horn but part of the brutal ornamentation of the Norscan's helmet, but he saw now that it w as part of the champion's ow n flesh and bone.
The chieftain spat a gobbet of phlegm up at Calard, w hich splattered against his helmet, just below his eye-slit. He could hear the foul acidic sputum eating through metal, and he ripped his helmet off his head, dropping it at his feet.
The enemy chieftain chuckled, his ice-white eyes filled with dark humour, and Calard struck him again, this time hacking his putrid head from his shoulders. A rancid stink rose from the corpse, and Calard gagged.
Several men-at-arms w ere w ith Tassilo, helping remove the armour from his arm, and Calard saw that the w ound w as already festering with poison. Calard barked an order, demanding that the champion's fell, black-bladed sw ords be w rapped in blankets and hurled from the w alls. He ordered the rancid corpse of the Norscan throw n over the battlements, and half a dozen men lost the contents of their stomach at the repulsive stink of the rapidly decomposing body.
Bow men stepped lightly through the knights and men-at-arms at a shout from a yeoman w arden, and they began firing betw een the crenulations once again; another enemy assault w as about to hit home.
Bone tired, Calard leant against the wall, his back to the battlements and closed his eyes, breathing hard.
It seemed like only moments passed before he heard ladders slam up against the w alls as the next enemy assault struck. Weary beyond w ords, he opened his eyes and pushed aw ay from the battlements, turning to w ait for the enemy to appear.
AS WEARY AS he w as, Chlod was starting to enjoy the level of respect and deference he w as receiving from the soldiers fighting around him. In truth, he had begun to believe his own rhetoric; he had started to believe that he was the prophet of Reolus's glory, and that in his exalted position he was afforded a certain amount of holy protection.
So it came as a considerable shock when a hulking Norscan berserker, his red hair and beard a tangle of braids and dreadlocks, tore through his fanatical devotees like a maelstrom of death and grabbed him by the shirtfront. Chlod's eyes bulged and he scrabbled to free himself from the man's grip.
A mailed fist smashed into his face. Then he was lifted off his feet and tossed over the battlements. He w as unconscious before he hit the ground.
ELISABET AWOKE TO sharp pain, gasping. It took her a moment to realise that she could see clearly and that she w as no longer curled upon the rotting pallet in the dank dungeon cell. She was lying in a soft bed,
and she stared up at the rich velvet draped above the four-poster bed, not know ing if she was dreaming, or if this was reality and being trapped in the body of the old crone had been the delusion. The sheets under w hich she lay were drenched in sweat and she doubled over in agony, groaning, as shooting pain again lanced through her.
Her hands clutched at her belly, and horror rose within her as she felt the swelling there. She threw off the covers and stared in incomprehension at her heavily pregnant young body.
Had she escaped one horrific nightmare only to find herself in another?
'Your contractions are close,' said a voice from nearby, and she turned her head to see a slight, waifish young w oman with a distant expression on her face. She recognised her as Calard's sister Anara, and she gaped at her in horror as she digested the damsel's w ords.
'Contractions?' she breathed.
'The child is ready to enter the world,' confirmed Anara.
'Tell me this is a nightmare,' said Elisabet in desperation. 'Tell me this is not real!'
Anara held a w et cloth to Elisabet's forehead as fresh pain made her double up in agony. She called for w ater and towels over her shoulder, and as she shook her head in the negative, Elisabet cried, wailing in fear, incomprehension and pain.
'How ?' she managed. Then another thought struck her, and she leant towards Anara, clutching at her in desperation. 'Who is the father?'
'The enemy,' said Anara.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHLOD AWOKE TO darkness. He could hear shouts and screams in the distance, but they w ere muffled and faint. I am dead, he thought, and I am hearing the echoes of the living seeping down into Morr's underworld.
He realised dimly that the reason he could not see was because he w as lying under something. Another thought struck him then; maybe he w as not dead, but rather w as buried alive.
The thought w as horrifying and with a strangled cry he fought to w riggle and squirm to the surface. His eyes registered firelight, and he saw that he was half buried beneath a pile of corpses. He panicked. In desperation and terror he struggled to escape the morass of dead bodies, fighting to free himself. The stink of death, a vile mixture of blood and excrement from loosed bow els, was heavy in his nostrils.
His head spinning, Chlod crawled out from under the bodies beneath w hich he was pinned, stumbling over the uneven mound of corpses as he pushed himself to his feet. He tried not to look at their blood-smeared faces or their hideous w ounds. His eyes w ere w ild and slightly unfocused, and he could feel that the left half of his face w as slick with blood. His helmet w as gone, and his body w as aching all over.
A body slammed dow n next to Chlod, and he stared at it in mute incomprehension.
The man w as a pow erfully built Norscan and he wasn't dead yet, though blood w as pumping from a horrible throat w ound. The bodies had cushioned his fall, as they had doubtless done for him. He w as trying to scream, but all that came from his mouth w as a gargle of blood. The Norscan reached a hand towards Chlod, though he could not tell if it w as a silent appeal for aid or a threatening gesture.
Chlod lifted his gaze, following the direction from where the man had come, and only then did he register that he was at the base of immense castle w alls. He was confused for a moment and he stared up stupidly. Wasn't he meant to be up there?
Had he fallen?
Sound came crashing in on him suddenly, as if stoppers had just been removed from his ears, and he staggered under the aural assault.
Men w ere roaring in pain, anger and challenge, and the sounds of w eapons clashing rang out sharply. He heard the unmistakeable sound of steel hacking into flesh and bone, and heard the snap of timber and leather as trebuchets fired. Arrows sliced dow nwards, loosed from the ramparts as w ell as from slits in the walls and tow ers, and one of them grazed his w rist, eliciting a gasp of pain and shock from his lips.
Ladders crashed against parapets, and w ar cries were belted out at the top of w arriors' lungs. Feral drums echoed across the battlefield, bouncing back off the castle w alls, and horns rang out.
Chlod pressed his hands to his ears and stumbled backw ards, his eyes wild as he saw the carnage and mayhem unfolding all around him. There was movement everyw here, and hundreds of enemy w arriors were pushing and shoving as they climbed the ladders nearby or hauled themselves up thick ropes. No one seemed to register his presence, though there were hundreds of Norscans only yards aw ay.
Then war horns were sounding the retreat, and the enemy began streaming back tow ards the longships half hidden in the blinding gale of wind and snow.
A Norscan leaped off the ladder he was climbing, landing heavily in front of Chlod. He staggered back aw ay from the blood-smeared w arrior. The man snarled at him and lunged forw ards, grabbing him by the front of his tunic. He raised his axe for the killing blow , and Chlod cringed, whimpering like a babe as he w aited for death.
Another Norscan barked something in their crude language, and Chlod saw his w ould-be killer scowl and lower his axe. He was shoved backw ards, and he tripped over a headless corpse. The Norscan gestured angrily with his axe, shouting at Chlod.
He stared up at the brutal w arrior, not understanding his meaning, and received a boot to the head that sent him spraw ling backwards.
Spitting out a couple of teeth, Chlod pushed himself to his feet as the Norscan shouted again, gesturing tow ards the ocean with his axe. Chlod turned his head to look w here the warrior was pointing. He could see Norscans pushing longships back into the ocean. The Norscan stepped forward to strike him again, and like a dutiful dog, Chlod began scurrying tow ards the ocean.
Hundreds of enemy w arriors were running down the beach and throwing their weight against the ships, pushing them into the furious ocean. Chlod staggered down the sand in their midst, being shoved along by his Norscan captor.
Arrow s cut dow n dozens of men as shafts struck them in the back and in the legs.
Bodies w ere floating face down in the ocean, being tossed to and fro by the surf and banging up against the sides of the longship. Their comrades ignored those that fell, or w ho w ere already dead. Breathing hard, Chlod was pushed tow ards one of the longships, which was already putting to sea.
Chlod splashed into the ocean. The water was freezing, instantly numbing his feet.
He sucked in a breath and stepped back sharply as he saw black fins cutting through the w ater only ten yards out. A boot in the small of his back shoved him forward, and he fell to his knees in the icy waters. A breaker crashed over him, and he came up spluttering.
Arrow s sliced into the water around him, striking several Norscans wading out to the departing longships. He saw a shark lurch out of now here and clamp its jaw s around the leg of one w arrior as he hauled himself over the side one of the ships, taking it off at the hip. Screaming and with blood pumping from the stump, he was kicked into the sea by his comrades, w ho clearly had no mercy or time for a w arrior unable to stand.
A spinning hunk of masonry hurled by a trebuchet came crashing dow n through the hull of another longship a dozen yards out into the strait, instantly killing several men. The others were forced into the shark-infested waters as the ship was split in tw o, and the ocean turned red and turbulent as the voracious carnivores feasted.
Chlod floundered in the whitewash as a w ave hit him. He jerked as the frantic rat hidden inside his shirt front bit his chest in its fear. He swung around, desperate to put as much distance betw een himself and the cold-blooded killers circling nearby, but w as met w ith a solid fist to the jaw . The blow laid him out cold. He didn't feel a thing as his lifeless body w as hefted onto the Norscan's shoulder, nor when he was throw n over the side of the longship like a sack of w heat and kicked into the iron cage, alongside a score of other prisoners.
He came aw ake instantly as strange, pungent herbs were shoved under his nose. A savage tattooed face framed by matted dreadlocks and braids w as just inches from his ow n. The figure squatting over him grinned down at
him, exposing teeth that had been filed to points, and a hand slapped him hard across the side of the head. Chlod found that his hands w ere bound behind his back, and he w as dragged to his feet by a pair of unseen figures. Then the flat of a blade smacked across the back of his knees, forcing him to kneel.
Chlod's eyes flickered around him, taking in his surroundings. He was in the middle of w hat he guessed w as the Norscans' encampment. Two pyramids of severed heads, each easily tw enty feet high, were behind the barbarian holding Chlod immobile.
Crow s and ravens hopped over the grisly shrines, pecking at eyeballs and tearing tongues from mouths, and as he looked upon them, he began to shake uncontrollably.
'It is good you are aw ake,' said the barbaric figure, and it took Chlod a moment to realise that the man w as speaking Breton, though it w as with a brutal accent. The man clamped a hand around Chlod's jaw , holding his head steady. 'Gods hear you scream w hen you aw ake.'
He registered the w ooden block that w as before him. He saw the marks w here an axe had bitten into the w ood repeatedly, and he saw blood - some fresh, some dry and old
- that had stained the chopping block almost black. He started blubbering like a teething babe, tears and snot running down his bloody, dirt-smeared face.
'No, please, no, no,' he said, closing his eyes tightly against the foul image.
Chlod w as grabbed by the hair from behind, and forced forward. His arms w ere reefed up behind his back painfully, and the side of his face slammed into the wood of the chopping block. He could taste fresh blood on his lips.
'You w ill not die just yet. I'm going to cut you first,' said the Norscan seer, whispering in Chlod's ear. 'Just enough to make you scream. Your cries w ill get the attention of the gods - only then will your death come.'
Chlod w as crying like a bairn, his eyes clamped tightly shut. He felt the cold touch of a blade upon the back of his ear and he screamed. Hands held him immobile, pressing his head hard into the chopping block.
Warhammer - Knight of the Realm Page 25