Warhammer - Knight of the Realm

by Anthony Reynolds

  The baron began screaming and fighting, and Duke Adalhard turned away as Broussard w as manhandled tow ards the crenulations atop the keep. The man w as bustled over the edge, and his screams grew faint. A moment later they stopped altogether.

  The duke's manservant returned, bearing Adalhard's gleaming, golden helmet and w hite shield, with its red lion's head heraldry protruding in relief from its surface.

  'What of you, Carabas?' said the duke as he pulled his helmet onto his head. He looked tow ards the overweight noble.

  'I'm no w arrior,' said the marquis, 'but I w ould be honoured to stand at your side and do my part.'

  There was fire in his voice, and Adalhard believed him. As porcine and gluttonous as Carabas w as, he had alw ays known there was a certain strength in the man, and he felt admiration for him at his w ords. For a w arrior, his body and mind trained for w ar, it still took great courage to w alk onto the battlefield. To walk onto the field of w ar know ing that you w ere unskilled, unfit, and that the first enemy you met w ould most likely kill you took courage beyond w hat Adalhard believed he himself possessed.

  'The honour w ould be mine, Carabas,' he said, w ith feeling.

  'Can't say I ever liked that bastard,' said the fat marquis, gesturing over the ramparts w ith his thumb. 'About time, I'd say. But I fear I w ill make you w ait longer than the ten minutes you gave him. It w ill take me that long to get to the bottom of the stairs, let alone have my man stuff me into my armour.'

  Adalhard smiled.

  'I'll w ait,' he said.

  In the distance there came a horrible trumpeting sound that Adalhard had heard before, and the smile dropped from his face.

  'What in the Lady's name w as that?' said Carabas.

  THERE WAS LITTLE room inside the latrine chute, yet Bjarki climbed steadily and easily, using his back, knees and elbow s to w edge himself in the shaft and shimmy his w ay up. He slipped once or tw ice on the faeces-slick walls of the chimney, but did not panic, and caught himself each time before he had fallen more than a yard or tw o. A little light filtered down from the various latrines that joined the chute; just enough to see by.

  The progress of the Bretonnian captive below him, however, was painfully slow and halting, and Bjarki snarled in frustration as he looked down at the shadow of the man, w illing him to hurry up. The noise the man made as he climbed made him cringe, and with every passing moment he was certain that they w ould be discovered.

  The peasant's breathing was heavy and laboured, and he had wedged himself inside the shaft as he tried to catch his breath. Bjarki could just make out the w retch's arms and legs shaking with fatigue, and he cursed again.

  'You fall, and eternal torment awaits,' Bjarki said in a hoarse, low w hisper, his voice ghosting dow n to the Bretonnian's one good ear. He heard the man sw allow thickly, and start climbing again, and Bjarki smiled grimly in the darkness.

  It had been such a simple thing to trick the peasant into believing he had placed a curse on him. Curses w ere tricky things, requiring considerable preparation and not a small amount of risk - much more trouble than one ignorant w retch was w orth. He smirked again as he thought of the black mark of Drazh'la'gha upon the man's w rist; nothing more diabolical than powdered charcoal mixed with spit.

  Hearing the man coming up behind him, Bjarki recommenced climbing, shimmying easily up the chimney until he came to an angled pit that entered the shaft.

  Flickering candlelight could be seen betw een the cracks in the planks that sat on top of the latrine, and Bjarki manoeuvred himself so that he could push himself up tow ards it w ith his feet against the far w all.

  Praying that the Changer of Fates w as smiling upon him, Bjarki pushed the cover up an inch and hooked his fingers around the rim of the latrine. Then, hearing nothing in the room beyond, he pulled himself up, pushing the cover back w ith his head.

  The room w as small and square, w ith a slit window set in its back w all. Its door w as pulled closed, and seeing no one, Bjarki hauled himself fully out of the latrine chute.

  He had left his thick fur back at the camp, and his sinewy bare arms and tattooed torso w as smeared w ith stinking effluent. His dreadlocked hair had been pulled back into a ponytail and it too w as covered w ith the noisome filth.

  Turning, he could see that the Bretonnian was struggling. Reaching down, Bjarki grabbed the man by the scruff of his tunic, and hauled him up and into the room.

  Chlod flopped, stinking, onto the floor and Bjarki curled his lip in disgust.

  'Where are w e?' he said. The Bretonnian looked at him stupidly, and Bjarki tore the gag from the man's mouth.

  'Where are w e?' he repeated.

  'In the keep?' said the Bretonnian slowly.

  Bjarki sw ore in the Skaeling dialect, shaking his head at the man's staggering stupidity.

  'Where in the keep?' When no answer was forthcoming Bjarki narrowed his eyes.

  'You've never been in the keep, have you?'

  'Please don't kill me, lord,' wailed the man, throwing himself to the floor before Bjarki.

  'Quiet, fool!' hissed Bjarki, hearing footsteps outside the door, but there w as no placating the bubbling peasant. Bjarki drew his dagger, its blade undulating like a serpent's body, and he tensed himself as he heard the footsteps halt beyond the door.

  The door w as pushed inwards and Bjarki saw a man bedecked in a w hite and red tabard, his face framed by a chain coif. His eyes registered his surprise as Bjarki leapt forw ards and rammed his dagger up under his chin, the blade sinking to the hilt. Seeing another figure in the hallway stiffen in shock, Bjarki sidestepped the first man, dragging him inside the small room as he did so.

  Bjarki reached out tow ards the man that w as about to raise the alarm, his fingers stabbing forw ard like claws and he barked a single guttural w ord in the Dark Tongue.

  Sw irling ribbons of energy leaped from his fingertips and struck the Bretonnian in the head. Blood burst from his ears, nose and eyes and he fell to the ground without a sound.

  Moving to the body, Bjarki cast a quick glance along the corridor to ensure he was unseen. Thankfully, it seemed that the tw o soldiers had been alone. He grabbed the body by its shirtfront and dragged it out of the hallway.

  Eilif had emerged from the latrine, his face and hair smeared with foulness. He was crouching over the body of the first man that Bjarki had killed, blood pooling beneath him. The Bretonnian peasant was pressed back against the w all, shaking in fear and exhaustion from the climb. Bjarki retrieved his serpentine dagger and cleaned its blade upon the quaking peasant's shirt front before re-sheathing it at his waist.

  The Norscan seer stepped back out into the corridor, checking for guards. He gestured, and Eilif joined him, dragging the Bretonnian peasant along with him, and the other Skaelings began emerging from the latrine.

  When they w ere all out, Bjarki led them silently down the western corridor, judging that one w ay w as as good as another. They all moved quietly, hugging the shadows.

  He signalled that he, Eilif and the Bretonnian would take the lead, while the others w ere to keep some distance back.

  They moved forw ard warily. Bjarki cautiously tried the first few doors they came across, w hich opened into rooms filled with rich furnishings - tables, couches and sumptuous carpets. Moving on, they came to a staircase, and Bjarki led his companions dow n four flights, at last coming to the ground floor of the keep. Two other staircases also descended from the upper levels here, all three of them emptying into a broad hall lined with ancient suits of armour. Torches burnt in dozens of sconces, lighting up the cavernous expanse.

  Bjarki, Eilif and the Bretonnian peasant were cautiously descending the stairs w hen the sound of voices and marching feet reached their ears. Bjarki waved a w arning to those behind, who melted into the shadows without a sound. He and Eilif backed up, dragging the Bretonnian with them, and they dropped behind a thick stone balustrade.

  Peering around the corner, Bjarki saw a middle-aged man in go
lden armour appear, descending the grandest of the three staircases alongside a grossly overweight man w ho looked vaguely comical in his oversized armour. Twenty knights marched behind them.

  There were too many of them to be taken by force, and Bjarki and his comrades remained motionless, all but invisible in the gloom as the enemy knights marched across hall. A huge pair of doors w as thrown open, and the sound of battle beyond entered the hall. Then the enemy were gone, and the doors slammed shut behind them.

  Moving sw iftly, Bjarki moved tow ards those same doors, accompanied by the other Skaeling w arriors. Opening the doors, he peered outside, looking across the small inner courtyard of the keep, tow ards its gatehouse that led out into the castle proper.

  There were few soldiers outside - they w ere all defending the outer w alls. Pockets of archers patrolled the keep's walls but none of them w ere looking down into the courtyard - none of them expected an enemy from w ithin.

  'Eilif and I w ill make for the harbour as planned. We raise that gate and this siege is as good as over,' snarled Bjarki. 'We'll take the Bretonnian with us - he may prove useful.'

  Bjarki's gaze passed over the gathered w arriors.

  'Raising the portcullis is all that matters,' he said. 'Once the enemy sees us, it is your role to draw the attention aw ay from us.'

  Each of the w arriors understood what it w as he was asking, and their chests puffed out in pride.

  'We go,' Bjarki said 'Now !'

  The Norscans slipped out into the courtyard and made a dash for the keep's gatehouse, Bjarki in the lead. Eilif was a step behind him, half dragging the Bretonnian along with him, and the other warriors moved swiftly behind them. There w ere no cries of alarm, and they managed to move into the cover of the gatehouse unseen. Silently, they padded beneath a hanging portcullis as they proceeded through the tunnel-like corridor tow ards the other side of the gatehouse.

  Murderholes and arrow slits glared at them, and Bjarki knew that taking this gate by force w ould have been costly indeed. He was thankful it w as open. They passed beneath another portcullis, and then they were out into the square beyond the keep.

  Enemy soldiers ran to and fro, reinforcements streaming towards breaches in the w alls. At first, no one seemed to register that the enemy were amongst them, and Bjarki darted tow ards a side-alley.

  The Norscans were halfway across the square w hen there was a shout, and Bjarki saw a shaven-headed Bretonnian pointing in their direction. A group of w arriors began running towards them.

  'Take them!' the seer shouted, and the Skaeling warriors, bellowing war cries at the top of their lungs, threw themselves into the path of the enemy. Bjarki darted tow ards a side-alley, Eilif and the Bretonnian peasant at his heels.

  They ducked into the shadows of the alley, and Bjarki paused, looking back to see if they w ere being pursued.

  It appeared that they w ere not. The Skaeling warriors that had accompanied him w ere carving into the enemy, axes and swords hacking into flesh, but already they w ere being surrounded.

  'Die w ell, warriors of Norsca,' said Bjarki, and he turned away, continuing south tow ards the island fortress's harbour.

  It took them the better part of five minutes to w ind their way down to the harbour unseen, and a further five to pick their way around its edge to the immense gatehouse that spanned the harbour entrance.

  The only entrance they found was locked and barred.

  'Might I try, my lord?' ventured the peasant. Bjarki raised an eyebrow , and gestured for him to go ahead.

  The Bretonnian peasant stepped forward and rapped on the heavy door. Bjarki stepped to the side, and pulled Eilif with him. He heard a w ooden panel slide aside a moment later.

  'What?' demanded a voice.

  'Rations,' said the peasant. 'Bread and w ine.'

  'We've already got ours,' said the voice, w ith a hint of suspicion and w ariness.

  'I'm just follow in' orders. But if you don't w ant 'em...'

  'I didn't say I don't w ant 'em. Hold on a minute,' said the voice, and Bjarki heard the sound of bars being removed, then a heavy key turning in a lock. Eilif readied his knife.

  The door w as thrown wide.

  'Where are these rations then?' said the voice. Eilif stepped around the corner and plunged his knife into the speaker's throat.

  They bustled inside, and Eilif finished off the warden with half a dozen stabs to the chest, before low ering him in a corner and covering him with empty sacks. Then they began to climb the stairs of the gatehouse.

  Moving as quickly as possible, they climbed a steep staircase that spiralled up and up, and at last came upon a landing. A heavy, locked door barred their progress. The peasant grinned at Bjarki and lifted his eyebrows questioningly, but the seer doubted the charade w ould w ork a second time, and he knew that his time was drawing short.

  Bjarki gathered himself, closing his eyes and sucking in a deep breath. He gestured sharply, and the door w as smashed inwards as if struck by a battering ram.

  Eilif was through in an instant, and by the time Bjarki had entered the room, tw o of its occupants w ere already dead. Eilif tackled the last to the ground and slit his throat.

  The room w as large, with arrow slits in the southern wall looking out to sea and large arched stained glass windows in the north wall looking down over the harbour and across the castle itself. They were located directly above the harbour entrance itself, Bjarki realised.

  In the centre of the room there w as an immense circular wheel embedded in the floor, w ith a number of w ooden spokes protruding from its sides. A pair of mules were hitched to these spokes, and the stone under their hooves was covered in sand and hay. They stood immobile, disinterested in the killing that had occurred around them.

  Bjarki studied the w heel for a moment. It w as not dissimilar to a millwheel, and he guessed that it w as connected to gears and turning mechanisms underneath the floor. He reached out and pulled dow n a lever, and nodded in satisfaction as he heard disengaged gears clamp together beneath the floor.

  'Bar the doors,' he ordered. The Bretonnian backed aw ay into a far corner, out of the w ay, and Bjarki ordered him to stay put. Eilif positioned himself atop the staircase that they had just climbed, w eapon in hand.

  Bjarki moved to one of the arrow slits looking southward. He could not see the longships lurking out there in the gloom and the snow, but he knew they were there, w aiting for his signal. With a muttered incantation his left hand erupted into blue fire. He saw a single torch flare briefly in response out there in the darkness, eight hundred yards out.

  Bjarki w atched closely, biting his lip as he waited for the ships to appear. The minutes dragged by, but then he saw them, a score of dragonships ploughing swiftly through the ocean sw ell on a direct course for the gatehouse. Judging by the shouts he heard from atop the gatehouse, he guessed that the enemy too had sighted them, and he could hear grinding as the giant trebuchets above w ere levered around into position to target them.

  Gauging the distance and speed of the dragonships, Bjarki left it another thirty seconds before running back from the w indow and slapping the rump of one of the mules. It dutifully began trudging around in a circle, as did its companion, and the sound of grinding gears could be heard. A rumbling could be discerned underneath the floor, and the sound of chains tightening around pulleys. Then those pulleys began to turn, and the chains began to be reeled in, locking around the teeth of immense cogs concealed within the walls, and the dual portcullis began to open; one latticew ork descending into a slot carved into the rocks twenty feet beneath the w ater, and the other lifting up into the gatehouse itself. From the outside, it must have looked like the mouth of some giant beast opening.

  The mules continued to trudge around in their monotonous circle, and the grinding of gears and chains echoed loudly, making the whole gatehouse shudder.

  There were shouts of alarm and shock from outside, and there came a pounding at the doors. A moment later, heavy w eights began
slamming into those doors, making the w ooden braces barring them groan.

  Moving back to the south-facing w all, Bjarki looked out to see the dragonships no more than fifty yards out. This was going to w ork, he thought, with a grin. Then one of the doors gave w ay, its timbers splintering inwards, and enemy soldiers bundled inside.

  Still grinning, Bjarki turned tow ards them, the power of the gods flaring in his eyes.

  Blue flames sprang up over both hands as he called upon great Tchar. With a roar, he thrust his hands towards the enemy, and they w ere instantly consumed in a roaring conflagration. The faces of daemons could be seen in that billowing blue fire, and those caught w ithin the inferno screamed in torment as their bodies were twisted out of shape, remoulded into a form more pleasing to the Great Changer.

  Fifty feet below , a score of Skaeling dragonships ploughed beneath the open portcullis and into the harbour. Each of the ships was packed with blood-hungry berserkers, the most rabid, unhinged warriors in the entire Skaeling war host.

  In the distance to the east came the sound of deafening trumpeting.

  CALARD WAS STARING in mute horror tow ards the south as he saw the enemy ships slipping into the harbour inside the curtain walls.

  'How ?' he breathed, feeling all hope fade.

  The flagging spirits of the defenders had lifted as the Duke of Lyonesse joined the fray. The lord of Lyonesse had moved along the walls, speaking to the knights, offering words of praise and encouragement, and to have him amongst the fighting had made morale soar.

  Much to Calard's surprise, the duke had even spared a few w ords for the peasants defending his walls, praising their efforts and promising them a feast w orthy of the king himself once the enemy had been seen off. Calard saw the effect such a simple gesture had on the defenders, knight and peasant alike. He saw shoulders that had been slumped in defeat and despair straighten, and chests puff out as the duke rekindled their sense of pride. These were the actions of a true leader, Calard recognised, and as lord of Garamont, he pledged to remember these lessons. Whether he lived long enough to put them into practice was another thing completely however