When a siege reached a point of stalemate betw een rival noble houses of Bretonnia, the outcome w as often decided by a duel. That w as often preferable to a long, protracted siege, w hich was costly both monetarily and in manpower.
This, however, was not a w ar being waged betw een honourable Bretonnian families.
Nor w as there a stalemate here; the enemy w as winning this war, swiftly and surely, and Calard w as still staggered that an ignorant savage, a bloodthirsty raider of the northern seas, had been able to take Lyonesse w here so many had failed before, and at a speed that w as almost unfathomable. And once the second portcullis was torn dow n, the keep had an hour, perhaps two, before it was overwhelmed.
From w ithin the keep, Calard heard the cry of a w oman in pain - Elisabet, in the midst of labour.
'This is no natural pregnancy,' Anara had told him that morning, stating the obvious.
'Of course not. A month from conception to birth? It is an abomination,' Calard had said, shaking his head in horror.
'There is no guarantee w hat the child will be,' Anara had said.
'What do you mean?'
'There is power in it,' Anara had said, ominously. 'It is no normal offspring of man and w oman.'
I truly am cursed, thought Calard bitterly. And perhaps my curse is such that it lays low all those that I care for.
Unbidden, a vision of the Green Knight flashed into his mind, staggering in its intensity.
'Face me!' the vision boomed, its voice hollow and full of potency. Once again Calard's terror overw helmed him. He fell back from the supernatural apparition that was bearing dow n on him, blade draw n. The Green Knight tow ered above him, eyes blazing w ith iridescent light.
'I cannot!' he w himpered.
'What?' said Bertelis, standing alongside him on the wall, and Calard snapped back into reality. His brother was looking at him in concern.
'Nothing,' he said with a forced smile.
ELISABET GROANED IN agony, her teeth tightly clenched. She was lying back upon the four-poster bed, her body lathered in sweat. Basins of water were nearby, blood-soaked cloths lying over their edges.
'The child is close,' said the Damsel Anara, her voice vague and distant even at such a time. Elisabet cried out, tears running down her red, sweat-streaked face.
'I can't do it,' she sobbed. 'I don't w ant it!'
Anara shrugged. 'The child will come whether you w ant it or not.'
Elisabet screamed in agony, exhaustion and anger.
BJARKI WAS STANDING alongside his jarl when the newborn's birth scream echoed out over the din of battle. The sheer, unfocused power contained in that scream made him stagger, intense pain stabbing into his mind. The sound was excruciating, tearing through both the real w orld and the insubstantial realm of Chaos, existing in both realms simultaneously.
Even as he w inced, a trickle of blood running from his left nostril, the Skaeling seer grinned fiercely; never in his life had he felt such pure, raw power as was present in that scream. The daemon-child was even more puissant than his divinations had foretold. Even those with no affinity for the winds of magic, blissfully unaw are of the ever-present and potent energies swirling around them, felt an uncomfortable w rench in the pit of their stomach as the daemon-child announced its arrival.
Warriors on both sides that had been battling furiously a moment before backed aw ay from each other, know ing that something momentous had happened but unsure as to w hat. The sound of swords clashing grew more sporadic, then stopped altogether. An unnatural silence descended over the entire castle.
'My son,' said Styrbjorn in aw e. 'My son!'
The jarl took a few steps tow ards the enemy held keep, pushing his black-armoured huskarls out of his w ay.
'Make them understand my w ords, seer,' ordered Styrbjorn over his shoulder.
'What?' said Bjarki, recovering himself and wiping the blood from his nose.
'Make them understand my w ords,' said Styrbjorn, flashing his seer a glare. 'Or is such a thing also beyond your pow er, little bear?'
Bjarki glow ered at his jarl.
'Fine,' he said at last, and centring himself, he began muttering an incantation.
Draw ing his knife, he cut a slash across the palm of one hand. With a flicking motion, splatters of blood struck the ground before him, and as he completed his rite, he nodded to Styrbjorn.
Waving his huskarls back, Styrbjorn strode forw ard into the open killing ground before the keep, w ith Bjarki at his heel. The strings of hundreds of bow s were draw n as he moved into range, but no arrow w as loosed. Fifty paces from the keep, Styrbjorn came to halt, staring dismissively at the defenders.
Styrbjorn's eyes, as pale as the frozen pack ice that ringed his homeland in the w inter months, searched the faces of the keep's defenders. He picked out the one bedecked in gold that he had judged to be the jarl of this stone fort, but his eyes continued scanning the ramparts.
At last he found the one he sought: the swordsman in white and blue; the one that he had hoped to cross blades w ith upon the castle walls. That one w as perhaps the only w orthy opponent amongst the enemy, and he could not understand why he was not the jarl of this stone fort, for he w as clearly more deadly than the one armoured in gold.
'I am Egil Styrbjorn, High Jarl of the Skaelings, slayer of souls and butcher of immortals,' roared Styrbjorn, his booming voice infused with the power of the gods.
'Hear my w ords!'
CALARD JOLTED WITH shock as, a fraction of a second after hearing the warlord's indecipherable challenge, a second voice whispered in his mind, translating his w ords. That voice spoke Breton with a thick, Norse accent, but it w as understandable.
The knights around him glanced around them in shock, muttering, shuffling their feet, and invoking the protection of the Lady, and Calard knew that they too heard this unholy voice. His eyes drifted towards the smaller figure at the w arlord's side, and he realised that the w hispering was issuing from his lips and being projected through some diabolic sorcerous means into the minds of all the defenders.
'THE BLOOD OF ten-thousand slaughtered enemies stain my blades,' roared Styrbjorn, hefting his twin axes, Garmr and Gormr, into the air. 'I have bested nameless horrors in the northern wastes and walked free to speak the tale. Alone, I speared a great w yrm of the undersea, battling it for a day and a night before dragging it ashore and cutting its head from its neck. I have walked the smoking paths of the nightshades and emerged unharmed. I have strangled ice trolls with my bare hands. I have run w ith the ulfwerener, hunted with the ymgir and feasted with the bloodbeast. I have stood upon the Knife Peaks as the gods threw jagged bolts of lightning down upon me, and defeated one of the great dragon-kin wakened by the storm, cutting its still beating heart from its chest. This and more have I done, I, Egil Styrbjorn of the Skaelings! Never have I asked for quarter from an enemy, and never have I offered it. Until now.'
Bjarki's voice faltered as he completed the translation, and his jaw dropped. What madness w as this? Muttering rippled through the Skaeling war horde.
'My jarl?' Bjarki questioned.
'They have my son, little bear,' said Styrbjorn.
'The keep w ill be ours w ithin the hour!' said Bjarki. 'We do not need to debase ourselves by seeking terms w ith these weaklings!'
'They have my son!' hissed Styrbjorn. 'Who is to say they w ill not smother him before the fort falls? That they will not hurl him from the ramparts as soon as w e take it by force? It is w hat I w ould do in their position.'
'If they w ere intending to kill the child, they would have done so by now ,' reasoned Bjarki, his voice angry.
'This is my son!' bellow ed Styrbjorn, and Bjarki took an involuntary step back from his jarl's rage. The power of the gods radiated from Styrbjorn as his fury rose to the surface, making Bjarki's skin tingle. 'I have w aited this long for one to carry my name; I w ill not risk losing him now!'
'Honourless dog! Lickspittle! Cow ard!' bellowed a voice that sounded l
ike rocks grinding against each other and Styrbjorn sw ung tow ards his own lines, eyes blazing w ith fury.
The Chaos dw arf, Zumarah, stepped forward, pushing Norscans out of his w ay.
'Oathbreaker!' roared Zumarah, his tusks quivering in rage.
Bjarki could feel the Chaos dw arfs words resonate with the Skaeling horde, and he saw many of the Norscan w arriors shifting uneasily. They had come this far, and had lost many of their sw ord-brothers in taking this castle. Not a one of them w ould be content to w alk aw ay now, with the destruction of the enemy w ithin their grasp, and the fiery w ords of the dwarf were striking a chord w ith them.
Styrbjorn pointed one of his axes at the bristling dwarf.
'You dare insult me, Zumarah?' he roared in outrage.
'I do and I do so again. I call you cow ard and oathbreaker, Styrbjorn. I w ill not be cheated of my dues!'
'You mouth is still flapping, stunted wretch,' Styrbjorn bellow ed back. 'Quiet your yapping, or I'll beat you like the dog you are.'
'You're w elcome to try, oathbreaker,' snarled Zumarah, unshouldering his obsidian greataxe. 'I'll carve your flesh and grind your bones.'
Bjarki licked his lips. Styrbjorn had no choice but to face this challenge or risk losing face in front of the entire horde.
Styrbjorn brandished his twin axes, and began marching towards the dwarf, his face a mask of fury. Zumarah leered at him and set his feet wide, hefting his double-bladed axe. The Skaeling jarl broke into a loping run, and w ith one quick glance up at the Bretonnians, w ondering what they must be thinking, Bjarki turned to w atch the outcome of the challenge.
Ensorcelled obsidian met hellforged steel, and the two warriors traded a score of blow s w ithin the space of a few heartbeats. Nearly seven feet tall, the Norscan tow ered over Zumarah, but the dw arf w as like a rock, unyielding and immovable.
Zumarah fought w ith a rabid fury, spitting and growling like a beast as he hacked and chopped.
Zumarah turned his shoulder into a sw inging axe blade, taking the force of the blow w ithout flinching, and met a strike from the Norscan's other blade head-on w ith one of his ow n. The Norscan hammered the flat of his foot into Zumarah's chest, but it w as like striking a mountain and the dw arf remained unmoved.
Zumarah sw atted aside a blow that arced tow ards his thick, bull-like neck, and hammered his greataxe into Styrbjorn's side.
The blade tore through the Skaeling's black armour and bit deep into his flesh, breaking ribs. Grow ling in pain, Styrbjorn dropped his axes and grabbed the haft of the dw arf's w eapon, locking it in place. The blazing red wolf eyes of Styrbjorn's axes faded to darkness now that they w ere separated from their master's touch.
Zumarah hissed and spat as he tried to free his greataxe from the grasp of the Skaeling. Keeping hold of the axe shaft with his left hand, Styrbjorn slammed his gauntleted right fist into the dwarfs face.
The black armour that encased his fist was spiked and barbed, and the Skaeling struck w ith enough force to crack stone. Indeed it was like striking stone, but Zumarah merely laughed maniacally even as blood began to stream dow n his broad face.
Again and again Styrbjorn pounded his fist into the Chaos dwarfs face. One of Zumarah's tusks snapped under the onslaught, but the dw arf did not weaken, and continued to fight to free his w eapon. Styrbjorn struck the dw arf another half dozen blow s around the head, each more pow erful than the last, but they seemed to be having little effect other than breaking the skin. The dwarf's skull was like iron.
Perhaps it w as iron, thought Bjarki.
With a surge, Zumarah threw Styrbjorn off, w ho spun and stumbled to one knee, facing aw ay from the Chaos dw arf. Zumarah grimaced in victory and stepped forward to finish the jarl. The Skaeling war horde stood immobile and silent, the only sound the w hip of banners and the howling of the wind.
One of Styrbjorn's axes, Garmr, w as lying in the snow before him and Styrbjorn launched himself at it even as Zumarah came at him, sw inging his greataxe back for the killing blow. Styrbjorn's fingers closed around the haft of his axe and its blood-ruby eye flared into life.
Rolling onto his back and w ith a grunt of effort, Styrbjorn hurled his hellforged axe at the Chaos dw arf. It spun end over end and took the dw arf square in the face.
Zumarah's charge faltered, and the dwarf stood there for a moment, the axe buried deep in his skull, before he fell to the ground, dead.
The blood ceased streaming from Styrbjorn's w ounded side as his god-touched body began to heal, and he rose to his feet. Growing stronger with every passing heartbeat, the Skaeling jarl retrieved his weapons and swung towards his warriors, his face angry. Behind him, a host of crow s and ravens descended on the dwarf, almost completely obscuring him.
'Is there anyone else?' he roared, his voice infused with the power of the gods, echoing painfully loudly around the castle. 'Is there anyone else that would dispute my w ill?'
There was no movement and no sound from the Skaeling war host, and Styrbjorn continued to stare challengingly across their ranks for long moments. Satisfied at last, he turned back tow ards the Bretonnian keep.
The figure in gold was standing atop the ramparts, his cloak flying behind him.
'I am Duke Adalhard of Lyonesse,' he shouted, his voice echoing out over the silent Norscan hordes. 'Speak your terms, Norscan.'
SILENCE GREETED THE Norscan's demand.
Duke Adalhard turned to look along the ramparts, and his eyes met those of Reolus.
The grail knight nodded his head almost imperceptibly, and the duke turned back tow ards the enemy.
'It shall be so,' hollered Duke Adalhard. 'One hour's time.'
REOLUS WAS KNEELING in silent communion within the duke's private grail shrine w hen the door slammed open. The grail knight recognised the distinctive perfume of the Damsel Anara; a mixture of rose petals, lilies and pine needles.
'What do you think you are doing?' Anara said, coldly.
Reolus finished his prayer and opened his eyes. The pristine features of the Lady gazed dow n upon him, the statue's eyes full of love and sympathy. Kissing the golden chalice icon he held in his hands, he rose to his feet and turned to face his lover.
'My duty,' he replied in a soft voice.
'The child is not yours to barter,' said Anara, her eyes full of anger. 'And yet you offer it to the Norscan butcher?'
'The Norscan challenged me,' said Reolus. 'I was honour bound to accept.'
'You did not need to accept his terms,' said Anara.
'You w ould have preferred to see Lyonesse reduced to a smoking ruin?' said Reolus, more sharply than he intended. 'For every man here to be offered to the Dark Gods as sacrifice? The duke, your brother, the Lady Elisabet? Yourself? Me? Everyone would have been butchered. You know that as w ell as I.'
'The child is important,' said Anara.
'And the enemy w ill take it only if I fall beneath the Norscan's axe. I do not intend to do so,' retorted Reolus.
'The child is not yours to use as a bargaining tool like some prized sow,' said Anara.
'The child is a Norscan half-breed!' said Reolus, his voice rising in pitch.
'That child is promised to the Enchantress!' shot back Anara. Reolus stared at her in silence, his anger fading.
'Of w hat do you speak, my love?' he said, his voice soft.
'The reason I am here. The reason we are here. I am to deliver the child to the Enchantress. She sensed the pow er in it as soon as it w as conceived. It cannot be allow ed to remain in the world. The Enchantress shall take it into the realm of the fey, w here its power can be controlled.'
Reolus's shoulders slumped, a haunted look appearing in his eyes as he contemplated this new information. He fell to his knees before Anara, his head hung low .
He knew that he had w anted to test himself against the Norscan warlord. He wanted the glory of defeating him. Had he allowed his pride to blind him? Had he angered the goddess by his actions?
'I did not know ,' he said final
ly. Anara regarded him coldly.
'You did not need to know ,' she replied. The only sound was the howling wind outside, w hich beat upon the small shuttered window high in the shrine's back w all.
Hundreds of candles flickered as a slight breeze managed to creep through the cracks in the w indow.
'It is foolish to think that the enemy w ill depart after you kill the Norscan. They have no honour,' said Anara.
'But I do,' said Reolus. 'It w ould have been beneath me to refuse the challenge just because I believe they w ill not honour their promise.'
The damsel sighed, her cold mask slipping. She embraced him, pulling his head to her bosom.
'You are a fool, Reolus,' she said.
'I cannot go back on my w ord, Anara,' said the grail knight.
'I know ,' she said, and a single tear ran down her cheek.
THE COUSINS, BALDEMUND and Huebald, stood at Tassilo's bedside, their faces grim. The injured knight's sickness w as worsening. Wounded by the tainted blade of the corrupt enemy champion, Tassilo's body w as lathered in sweat, and he was shivering violently. The flesh around the w ound had turned black and stank like rotten meat, and all the ministrations of the duke's overw orked surgeons had been for naught; the sickness continued to spread.
'We must do it tonight,' said Baldemund fiercely. 'Before the duel. While his guard is dow n.'
'I had hoped that he w ould fall in battle,' said Tassilo weakly. 'At least then he would have had an honourable death. And our hands w ould not be stained w ith blood.'
'But he did not,' said Baldemund. 'And this war is all but over. What w e do is for the good of the Garamont line. Remember that.'
'We w ould be betraying Garamont if w e did not act,' said Huebald.
Warhammer - Knight of the Realm Page 30