With a tw ist of his arm, the Norscan disarmed Reolus, leaving the fiercely glowing blade Durendyal jutting from his arm, and w ith astonishing speed, the warlord backhanded his opponent, the hallowed sword plunging into Reolus's neck.
The grail knight staggered back a step, gasping in shock as blood sprayed from the fatal w ound. Using his body's momentum, the Norscan's axe w ailed through the air and hacked Reolus's head from his shoulders.
Calard reeled as he saw the grail knight's head sail into the air, blood spraying out in fountain as it spun. It hit the ground and bounced and rolled, finally coming to rest staring up at the keep, eyes w ide and staring and mouth fixed open in an expression of surprise. The fey white flames in Reolus's eyes spluttered and died.
His body w as on its knees, blood pumping from his neck like a geyser, then it fell forw ards into the snow, lifeless.
The Bretonnians had fallen into deathly silence, staring in disbelief and shock at the headless corpse of their defeated champion. Calard groaned in horror, shaking his head in denial, his eyes w ide w ith shock.
'Lady of grace, no,' breathed Bertelis.
'Styr-bjorn! Styr-bjorn! Styr-bjorn!' came the relentless pounding chant of the Norscans, the sound increasing in volume.
The Norscan warlord turned and struck the grail knight's corpse, leaving the blade embedded deep in his flesh in the manner of a w oodsman leaving his axe embedded in a log. Then the tow ering warrior limped over to Reolus's head, and bent to retrieve it. He hefted it into the air by its hair, and Calard groaned again as the w arlord raised it high for all to see. Throwing his head back, the Norscan roared his victory to the heavens.
As if in response, lightning crackled through the dark clouds overhead, lighting them from w ithin, followed a moment later by rolling thunder.
For a fraction of a second Calard saw a second image superimposed over the body of the Norscan, a black-fleshed daemon of incalculable power. It w as larger than the Norscan by a good four feet, cloven hoofed, and its eyes blazed w ith hellfire. Shadowy w ings were furled behind its back, and black smoke billowed from its fanged mouth.
Tw o pairs of horns curled from its head, and its pitch-black muscles rippled with pow er. Before the image flickered and disappeared, Calard saw that it had but one hand, and in its other it held a familiar, wolf-headed axe, its ruby eye burning red.
The image w as gone in an instant, and he blinked, unsure if he had truly seen it or not. Was it a glimpse of w hat the Norscan was becoming? Was it the Norscan's true form?
'Styr-bjorn! Styr-bjorn! Styr-bjorn!'
Calard sw ayed as the sound pounded against the keep, and he saw the enemy w arlord turn and bark an order, beckoning w ith his bloody stump of an arm.
The Norscan sorcerer strode forward, a grin on his savage face, and rammed a spear into the snow , its tip pointing towards the sky. Then the savage w arlord rammed Reolus's head onto the spear, and fresh roars erupted from the barbarian horde as thunder rolled ominously across the heavens.
The sorcerer slashed his hand and began to chant, and the warlord turned back tow ards the keep.
'Bring me my son,' he boomed, his voice stabbing into the mind of every man present.
'CALARD!' SAID ELISABET as the doors to her chambers w ere thrown open. Her haunted face lit up momentarily to see him, but the young lord of Garamont's face w as a grim mask and he avoided looking at her. The Duke of Lyonesse entered behind him, accompanied by the sw eating, fat Marquis of Carabas.
The young lady of Marlemont w as propped up in her bed, w ith her swaddled babe asleep in her arms. Her face was flushed, and the Damsel Anara sat in a high-backed plush chair nearby, her tiny frame dwarfed by the massive chair.
'He is dead, then,' said Anara flatly.
Calard nodded curtly in reply, and he saw tears in his sister's eyes before she dropped her head.
'I felt it w hen he passed over,' she said, 'but I hoped that I had been mistaken.'
'He fought bravely,' said Calard, his voice cracked. He still could not believe Reolus w as dead.
'You have come for the child, then,' said Anara, and Elisabet glanced sharply at the damsel.
'I do,' said Calard coldly, answering his sister.
'The babe w as promised to the Enchantress,' said Anara, rising to her feet.
'Of w hat do you speak?' Elisabet breathed, clutching her child protectively to her chest.
'It is nothing but a Norscan bastard,' snapped Calard, looking at Elisabet for the first time since entering the room. She recoiled from his anger and hurt, tears coming unbidden to her eyes. The baby w as w oken by Calard's sharp tone, and it began to cry.
Calard sw ore, and his gaze quickly shifted, moving back tow ards his sister. Anara had a determined look upon her face, chin jutting forward. He remembered her w earing the exact same stubborn expression as a child. His expression hardened.
'We have to give them the child,' he said coldly.
'You cannot take him,' said Elisabet. Calard saw that her face was unnaturally pale and draw n, and there was a feverish light in her eyes. She was rocking back and forth, her son baw ling in her arms. 'He speaks to me, speaks right into my head. He doesn't w ant to go w ith you. You cannot have him.'
'She is not in her right mind,' said Anara. 'She has been through much.'
Calard stared at Elisabet in horror and pity.
'Will she recover?' he said.
'Perhaps,' said Anara. 'Given time.'
'Reolus gave his w ord,' Calard said in a low voice. 'I have to take that child.'
'It w as already promised to the Enchantress,' replied Anara.
'It w ould besmirch Reolus's honour if w e did not give it to the Norscans,' hissed Calard, not taking his eyes off Elisabet, who was still rocking back and forth, muttering to herself.
Calard realised that if his sister decided to put her foot dow n and refuse to hand the child over to the Norse, there was nothing that he, or the duke for that matter, w ould be able to do to contradict her. As all damsels, Anara operated outside of the structured, hierarchy of order in Bretonnia, having the power to overrule knights and dukes alike, though they rarely chose to enact that pow er in practice. Only the king held more sw ay than they, and even he could be overruled by the Enchantress.
'The young castellan of Garamont speaks the truth, Lady Anara,' said Duke Adalhard. 'As much as it pains me, w e must. It w ould make a mockery of Reolus's memory if w e did otherwise.'
Anara continued to stare at Calard, and he could see that she w as divided. Her eyes filled with tears once again, and she dropped her gaze.
'Why did you leave me?' she w hispered. 'Foolish man.'
She blinked aw ay her tears and lifted her head.
'The consequences of this act will lie upon you tw o, and you tw o alone,' she said finally, staring first at Calard, then at the Duke of Lyonesse. 'Whatever evil befalls Bretonnia as a consequence of this child living - and evil will befall Bretonnia because of this child - you w ill be the blame and cause of it.'
'Agreed,' said Calard.
'Agreed,' said Duke Adalhard after a moment of thought.
Anara stepped aside, shaking her head, and Calard hardened his heart as he w alked to Elisabet's bedside.
'He doesn't w ant to go w ith you,' said Elisabet. She screwed her eyes shut tightly, and began shaking her head from side to side. 'He's hurting me! He says he will stop hurting me if you all go aw ay! Go aw ay! Don't take him from me. He needs me!'
Elisabet w as in obvious pain, and she clutched her wailing child tightly to her body.
'Give me the child,' he said in a low voice.
Elisabet continued to cry, shaking her head.
'Elisabet,' said Calard, his voice cracking as he reached for the swaddled babe.
'Elisabet, you have to give him to me.'
She w ailed, crying out in denial and pain as her child was taken from her. Calard turned his back on her, head bow ed, holding the child in his arms. Elisabet screamed and so
bbed, claw ing at him as he w alked aw ay.
Calard looked dow n into the baw ling child's face. He looked like any other babe, w ith nothing to hint at any inherent evil lurking within. A tuft of pale hair topped his head, and his eyes were a startling silver-grey. He w as a big baby, strong and healthy, and his cries came from pow erful lungs. Calard tried to shut out Elisabet's frantic cries as he walked from the room.
Bertelis and Maloric stood outside, and the passageway was lined with knights, their faces uniformly sombre.
Dow n the grand marble staircase he descended, the only sound his own footsteps echoing sharply, the cries of the child in his arms and the ever more frantic screams of Elisabet, echoing through the passages behind him.
Reaching the bottom of the stairs, he began to cross the broad chamber tow ards the keep's inner courtyard, flanked by Duke Adalhard and the Marquis of Carabas.
Scores of knights w ere gathered as w itness in the great hall, as silent and respectful as if they w ere attending a funeral procession. The Empire ambassador, Dieter Weschler, bow ed curtly as they passed.
Halfw ay across the hall, Calard heard a strangled cry and turned to see Elisabet, dressed in her nightclothes, struggling to chase after him. She was being held back by Bertelis at the top of the stairs, and Anara hovered in the shadows behind her.
'Please, Calard, don't!' Elisabet w ailed. 'He is scared, my love, and he is hurting me!
He doesn't mean to. Give him back to me and the pain w ill stop. He needs me!'
Elisabet struggled against Bertelis, and her nails dug into the younger Garamont noble's face. He cursed, and released her. Bertelis pushed her away from him, positioning himself to block her progress.
'Calard, please!' begged Lady Elisabet.
'Quiet, w oman!' barked Bertelis. 'Poisoner! Deceitful slattern! Murderess! All of this is your fault! Every knight that died here is on your head! Every one! Reolus died because of you!'
Lady Elisabet slapped Bertelis across the face, the sharp sound echoing throughout the hall.
Blood w as seeping from the corner of his mouth, and Bertelis's eyes blazed in anger.
He slapped Elisabet back, striking her w ith the back of his hand, perhaps harder than he had intended. The young Bastonnian noblewoman reeled back from the blow , losing her balance as her bare feet slipped on the smooth marble surface at the top of the stairs.
Calard sucked in a breath as he saw Elisabet fall. Bertelis reached for her in desperation, trying to grab her, but he w as too slow , and Elisabet tumbled backw ards dow n the staircase. Her head cracked sharply on the corner of one of the steps, and she came to rest half w ay dow n, broken, lifeless.
Bertelis took a few steps dow n towards her, his eyes w ide in horror. Anara pushed by Bertelis and descended swiftly, kneeling besides the fallen girl. She felt for a pulse, and looked Calard in the eyes. She shook her head.
Calard halted, a w racking sob making his body shake. The child in his arms continued to baw l, his cries echoing through the expanse of the hall. Bertelis looked dow n at his brother, his eyes filled w ith despair and horror.
'I... I...' said Bertelis, shaking his head in denial.
'Come, lad,' said Duke Adalhard, placing a hand upon Calard's shoulder. Calard stared at his brother for a second, then turned and strode from the hall.
He exited the great doors and w alked down the steps into the small courtyard beyond. Snow crunched underfoot, and the sky above w as filled with the ugly cries of carrion birds. Calard w alked across the courtyard, his expression hardening with every step.
As he w alked towards it, the great doors of the keep's gatehouse w ere swung wide, and the one remaining portcullis lifted with the clanking of chains. Only half an hour earlier, Reolus himself had walked out through those same gates.
The duke w as a reassuring presence at his shoulder, and he kept his head held high as he w alked through the devastation of the killing ground. Untold hundreds of bodies w ere strewn within the passage passing through the gatehouse, killed by arrow and scalding hot oil. They lay, contorted in their twisted death throes, many of them w ith their skin blistered and peeling from their bodies. The stench was repulsive.
Calard's eyes fixed onto the figure waiting beyond the gatehouse; the enemy sorcerer.
The w iry man grinned like a fox, peering hungrily towards the child held in his arms, and Calard felt his hatred swell within him.
The immense figure of the enemy w arlord stood tw enty paces back from the keep, arms folded across his broad chest. He looked even larger than Calard had remembered, and he clenched his jaw together tightly, wanting nothing more than to see the Norscan dead. A young w oman stood at his side, garbed for w ar in the manner of a man, and the resemblance betw een her and the warlord was so strong that there could be no doubting that she w as his daughter.
A black-armoured Norscan w as dragging Reolus's body through the snow by one foot, and he dumped the holy knight unceremoniously before the gatehouse.
The Norscan warlord bellowed something in his indecipherable tongue, the words sounding harsh and mocking to Calard's ears.
The sorcerer translated, speaking Breton with a heavy accent.
'The High Jarl of the Skaelings says that you may keep the body,' said the sorcerer, grinning, exposing teeth that had been filed to points. 'The head he will keep, so that his enemy's pow er will be his, now and forever.'
Calard bristled but bit his lip to keep quiet.
'Take the child and be gone, Norscan filth,' said Duke Adalhard.
'Yes, the child,' said the sorcerer, eyes lighting up covetously. 'Give it to me.'
Calard's jaw tw itched, and he looked to the duke. Adalhard nodded, somewhat reluctantly, and Calard stepped w arily tow ards the sorcerer.
As he drew near, he realised he could smell the man. It w as the smell of a predator's den - a mixture of rotting meat, w et fur and sw eat - though there w as something else there as w ell, an oddly metallic tang that made his skin crawl.
Every instinct screamed to draw his sword and run this foul creature through, but Calard pushed the urge back. His eyes flashing with the desire to do violence, he held out the w ailing boy-child to the enemy.
The sorcerer snatched the babe from him, sneering at Calard victoriously. Then the sorcerer spat, and Calard felt the Norscan's hot saliva strike him in the face. He snarled and reached for his sword, taking an aggressive step towards the sorcerer, but Duke Adalhard w as at his side in an instant, a hand on his arm. Cursing under his breath, Calard slid the half-drawn sword of Garamont back into its scabbard.
The enemy sorcerer snorted derisively and barked something in the Norscan tongue that w as clearly an insult, then turned his back on Calard, striding towards the tow ering warlord.
The barbarian lord took his child in his arms, and its crying ceased instantly. The brutal Norscan, his face still painted a terrifying, daemonic red tone, smiled down at his son and the babe gurgled and smiled back.
Then the Norscan lifted the child in one hand, and turned to face his army. He roared tw o w ords at the top of his lungs, words that could only have been ''my son'', and the Norscan army roared.
'WE HAVE THE child,' gloated Bjarki. 'Let us finish the horsemen bastards off. Great Kharnath w ill rejoice as their blood flows and his throne is garnered with their skulls.'
'I agree,' snarled Hrefna. 'Let us bleed them all for the death of my sister.'
Styrbjorn's elder daughter, Fraygerd, had died beneath the blade of the gold-armoured enemy jarl, and Hrefna w as still feeling the loss keenly.
'No,' said Styrbjorn, smiling down at the gleeful face of his son.
'No?' said Bjarki. 'Why in the name of the true gods not?'
'I defeated a w orthy foe this day,' replied Styrbjorn, 'a mighty champion the equal of any that I have ever battled. I gave my w ord that if I defeated him I would leave these shores once my son w as delivered to me. I w ould honour his memory by holding to my w ord.'
'Honour his
memory?' spat Bjarki. 'He w as a soft, southern w horeson! He deserves no such honour!'
'I said no, Bjarki. For now .'
Styrbjorn turned tow ards the gatehouse of the enemy stone fort, seeing the enemy jarl, armoured in gold. Another man stood at his side. This one had dark hair, and w ore a tabard of blue and red over his armour. A silver dragon was emblazoned on his chest. A good symbol that, he thought. To the Norse it represented power, martial strength and passion. That w arrior was young, he saw, and bristled with hatred. That w as an emotion Styrbjorn understood, and knew that had this angry young knight been born of a Skaeling w oman he w ould have been blessed by great Kharnath and become a mighty w arrior indeed.
'Translate for me,' he ordered, and began to speak.
'I shall honour your dead champion, and hold to my promise. I leave these shores, but I shall return. On that day my son w ill stand at my side. Together we shall lay w aste to your lands. We shall kill every man, woman and child that w e find, and shatter every last one of your stone forts to rubble. There shall be no quarter given then. There shall be no bargaining for your lives.'
The young, angry knight dressed in red and blue snapped something in reply as Bjarki completed his translation.
'What did he say?' he asked.
'He said ''I w ill be w aiting' , my lord,' replied Bjarki. Styrbjorn smiled, nodding his head tow ards the young knight.
'I believe that he w ill,' he said. Then he turned and walked away, barking orders.
Within two hours the Norscans w ere gone, dragonships heading back out to sea, turning northward once at the horizon. They left their dead where they lay, thousands upon thousands of corpses left to rot, and the shores of Lyonesse were littered w ith shattered ships. 'I w ill be w aiting,' repeated Calard.
CHLOD WOKE WITH a start as his rat bit him hard on his one remaining ear. He cried out, feeling constricted, unable to see, and shivering uncontrollably. He w as soaked to the skin and half frozen, and bizarrely, the smell of apples was strong in his nostrils.
Warhammer - Knight of the Realm Page 33