It took a moment to remember w hat w as going on. He was not dead; not yet, at any rate. He w as inside a barrel in the storeroom at the bottom of the harbour gatehouse.
He'd spent almost an hour and half in the freezing waters feigning death, trying to appear as nothing more than another floating corpse, before an opportunity to escape had arisen. He had slunk out of the harbour like a half-drow ned rat, his limbs numb w ith cold, and had managed to evade detection as he crawled his way into the storeroom. Once there, he stowed himself inside a half-empty barrel, climbing in and pulling his legs up to his chest, sitting on top of a pile of rotting apples, before pulling the lid over its top.
He pushed up that lid now and peered out, his tongue sticking out the side of his crooked mouth. Seeing no one, and hearing nothing, he climbed w arily out, and stretched his aching back.
He moved to the entrance of the tow er, keeping to the shadows and ready to duck back into his hiding place at the slightest sign of trouble, and looked out across Lyonesse harbour. There was not an enemy in sight; even their longships were gone.
He saw figures moving through the streets, and ducked back until he realised they w ere men-at-arms, sorting through the dead.
The Norscans were gone. It was a miracle!
He w as alive!
Chlod looked dow n at the scrap of regal blue cloak still clutched his hands. He rubbed the inside of the scrap against his face, liking the sensation of the mink-fur against his skin. Placing it on his lips, he kissed it. Did it truly have protective pow ers? Had his prayer to Reolus truly been answ ered?
He pondered the notion for a moment, and came to the conclusion that Reolus must have protected him; there was no other explanation.
'I truly am his pilgrim,' he said in wonder.
It took him the better part of an hour to make his w ay up to the keep, and by the time he got there his stomach w as full of food looted from abandoned houses, and he w as dressed in clothes that w ere almost completely free of bloodstains that he had stripped from a corpse. He w ore a pouch bulging w ith coin, and upon his fat, sausage-like fingers he had pushed several copper and bronze rings, which he had hacked from the bloated fingers of the dead.
All in all, Chlod was feeling mightily pleased with himself, but that new found sense of w ell-being was shattered when he came upon the corpse of Reolus. The headless body of the grail knight lay atop a stone altar in the middle of the square before the keep, surrounded by flow ers and candles. Hundreds of mourning nobles were trailing past the body, paying their last respects, and Chlod wordlessly joined the peasant queue.
For six hours he waited, kept tw enty paces back by stern-faced w ardens, but at last the queue began to move. No low born w as allowed within a dozen yards of the holy paladin's body how ever, and Chlod stamped his foot in frustration - he had been hoping to garner a holy keepsake from the grail knight's corpse, just in case the protective magic of his scrap of Reolus's cape ran out. He had a knife in his hand, hidden in a deep pocket, ready and everything; he had thought to perhaps get himself a finger.
Chlod stuck his lip out in a pout as he stood on tiptoes to see the corpse. There were too many guards around for him to have any hope of sneaking past them to get his relic; he'd just have to w ait until the knight was interred. He'd been a grave robber before, and had no qualms about desecrating one of Morr's gardens again.
He w as about to turn aw ay w hen he heard a voice.
'Stop that peasant! Yes, that one!'
A hand grabbed Chlod by the scruff of his neck, and he was dragged backw ards, w incing.
'The w retch stole something from you, did he?' said the warden who had a hold of him, and Chlod squinted up to see a young knight w alking towards him.
He recognised him as the lord of Garamont, and he swore under his breath. He'd run into the man several times over the last year; he'd narrowly escaped a hanging after poaching on Garamont lands, and had even been employed to kill the knight once.
That had been a narrow escape. He tried to keep his head dow n, praying to Reolus that he w asn't recognised, else he would hang for sure.
'Release him,' ordered the knight, and the warden did so. The man-at-arms gave him a cuff over the head for good measure, and Chlod glared at him.
'I know you, don't I?' said the lord of Garamont, eyes narrow ed.
'I don't think so, my lord,' said Chlod, his eyes downcast.
'No, I do know you. You w ere one of Reolus's pilgrims, weren't you?'
'Um,' said Chlod, not sure the best w ay to answ er.
'Answ er the question, scum,' snapped the w arden, cuffing him hard over the head once again.
'Enough of that, w arden,' said the knight sharply, his tone icy.
'Sorry, my lord,' said the soldier, glaring at Chlod as if the rebuke w as somehow his fault.
'Were you or w ere you not one of Reolus's grail pilgrims?' asked the noble once again.
'Yes?' ventured Chlod finally.
'What w ill you do now ?' said the noble, and Chlod tensed.
This was a dangerous question, and he licked his lips as he tried to concoct an answ er that w ould not condemn him. All peasants within Bretonnia owed fealty to a lord or landow ner; they were bonded to them as serfs, and they could not as much as pass w ind without their say-so. Those engaged in holy pilgrimages were sometimes allow ed a modicum of freedom, but since Chlod's benefactor w as now nothing more than food for w orms, he had no right to claim being on a pilgrimage any longer. If it w as made know n that Chlod had run away from his lord's service he would be flogged, castrated and left to rot in a cage hanging from the castle walls.
'I, ah...' he said.
'I think he's an imbecile, my lord,' offered the w arden, but he promptly shut his mouth w hen the knight glared at him.
Before Chlod could fashion a plausible story, the noble spoke again.
'Can you cook?' he said. Chlod blinked, surprised by the question, and then nodded his head vigorously.
'Clean?'
Again he nodded his head.
'Good. If you are no longer bonded to any lord, I offer you employment,' said the lord of Garamont. 'Out of respect for your former, now deceased benefactor, may the Lady bless his soul, you w ill be my manservant. Is that agreeable?'
Chlod nodded his head enthusiastically once again. He clutched the scrap of Reolus's cloak tightly in his hand. Once again, the grail knight had smiled upon him. Things w ere looking up.
'CALARD,' SAID BERTELIS, pushing through the crowd to reach his brother's side.
The younger son of Garamont's eyes w ere red-rimmed, and his lip w as trembling.
'I... I'm so sorry,' he said, unable to look Calard in the eyes. 'It w as an accident. I didn't mean...'
Calard stared at him coldly.
'You killed her,' he said, accusingly.
'Brother, please...' breathed Bertelis, a pained expression on his face. Calard's voice, devoid of emotion, interrupted him.
'From this day forth I have no brother,' said Calard. He turned his back on Bertelis, and w alked aw ay, a hunchbacked peasant loping along behind him.
EPILOGUE
CALARD STARED GRIMLY at the tw o bodies hanging from the walls of Castle Garamont; a traitor and a w itch.
After the death of Reolus back in Lyonesse, three months earlier, he had gone to his cousin Tassilo's side. He had been horrified and disappointed to learn that the dying knight had been a party to the plot against him, and the young noble begged for forgiveness. With his dying breath he had confessed to Calard from w hom the order had originated.
He stared coldly at the corpse of the old chamberlain, Folcard, as it swung in the breeze.
In truth, he had been surprised that the plot had originated from Folcard, for he had suspected that the Lady Calisse, Bertelis's mother, had been responsible. Calard felt a momentary tw inge of guilt for how he had treated Bertelis, but hardened his heart against it. Since he returned to Garamont, the Lady Calisse had confined herself to
her quarters, w hich suited Calard just fine.
Even if she was no murderess, she was a still a viperous serpent and he had no w ish to look upon her.
The w itch had been a surprise. Left to rot in the deepest oubliette of Castle Garamont's dungeon, she had been dragged out on Calard's order, and w ith a shock he realised that he recognised her. Not her physical appearance - he was certain that he had never clapped eyes on the hideous crone before - no, it w as by her hate-filled eyes that he had recognised her.
He had ordered her tongue cut from her mouth on the spot, and had not felt happy until he had seen her last tw itch of life as she w as hung.
'Cut the hag dow n,' Calard ordered. 'Have the body burnt.'
The hunchbacked manservant nodded his head.
'The other one?' the peasant said.
'It can serve as a w arning to all traitors,' said Calard. 'Leave it where it is.'
With a bow , the hunchback limped off and Calard, castellan of Garamont turned on his heel and strode through his castle. Servants and bondsmen curtsied and bow ed as he passed them by. He climbed a staircase, his footfalls ringing out sharply, and marched dow n corridors lined with portraits of previous lords of Garamont.
He stepped out onto an east-facing balcony. The early morning sunshine was bright, and there w as not a cloud in the sky.
A table w as set for breakfast here in the sun, and his guests sat there, dining.
Baron Montcadas, a strip of folded silk covering his empty eye sockets, was snorting into his food at some jest made, no doubt, by Calard's young cousin, Orlando.
Opposite the boy sat Montcadas's niece, Lady Josephine. She smiled warmly at Calard as he approached the table.
Montcadas turned his head in Calard's direction, hearing his approach.
'That you, boy?' boomed the baron, and Calard shook his head slightly, a ghost of a smile on his lips.
'I'm no more a boy than you are the Fay Enchantress,' replied Calard.
'Bah,' said Montcadas, w aving a hand dismissively. 'When you get to my age, everyone is young. Will you join us for breakfast?'
'No,' said Calard, and he saw the disappointment on Josephine's face. He felt a certain amount of regret; he had come to truly care for the girl, and he believed that had his heart not been so damaged, he w ould have come to love her. She w ould have made a fine w ife, but his path w as set.
'You intend to go through w ith this, then?' said the baron, all levity gone from his voice.
'I do,' said Calard.
The castellan of Garamont turned tow ards his young cousin, who w as sulking. The boy didn't w ant him to go, he realised.
Calard placed the scabbarded sw ord of Garamont upon the table before the seven year-old Orlando.
'Until the day comes that I should return, victorious, you are now the castellan of Garamont, young master knight,' Calard said.
No one said anything, and with nothing more to be said, Calard bow ed and w alked aw ay.
Calard's heart felt lighter than it had done for what seemed like an age, he realised. It w as as if a burden had been lifted from his shoulders. He knew that he left his realm in good hands. Baron Montcadas had promised to stay w ith the boy, to govern in his stead until such a time came as Calard returned to claim his position, or Orlando came of age - w hichever came first.
He had a spring in his step as he strode through Castle Garamont, the home that he w as about to leave behind for the Lady knew how long. It w as highly likely that he w ould never live to see its halls again, but even that thought did not dampen his spirit.
Quickening his pace, Calard hurried to the small shrine to the Lady on the ground floor of his castle. Outside its entrance was his lance, and he took it his hands, bearing it before him as he entered his family's humble chapel, where countless Garamont lords before him had prayed.
Once inside, he placed the lance reverently upon the altar. Hundreds of candles lit the chapel, lending the space a serene glow. Kneeling Calard bow ed his head.
'Lady of grace and beauty,' he began, speaking the ritualistic vow in a hushed, reverential tone, 'I set dow n my lance, symbol of duty, upon your shrine. I spurn those w hom I love. I relinquish all, and take up the tools of my journey. No obstacle w ill stand before me. No plea for help shall find me w anting. No moon w ill look upon me tw ice lest I be judged idle. I give my body, heart and soul to you, oh Lady, and I shall seek w herever thou might be found. This is my questing vow, and I swear it before you, mistress of mercy, and beg that you shall strike me dow n should I falter.'
He felt the spirit of the Lady infuse him, warming him from w ithin, and he knew that he had made the right decision.
This was the only way that he w as ever going to prove his purity, to his knights and to himself. This was the only way that he w as going to be free of the recurring nightmare of the Green Knight. It was time for him to face his fear, to stand and defy it.
It w as time for Calard to take up the quest, never to rest until he was visited by a vision of the Lady of the Lake herself and offered a draught of her sacred grail. For many knights such a journey took decades, though most w ere slain long before their goal w as fulfilled.
Many of those knights w ho succeeded in their search and drank from the holy grail died as a result, found unw orthy; only those pure of heart, with not a hint of taint w ithin them, survived imbibing that divine nectar.
Calard smiled. He w as now embarked on the Long Journey; he w as now a Questing Knight of Bretonnia.
IT WAS NEARING midnight and Bertelis was huddled before a spluttering fire, miserable and soaked to the skin. He sat in the lee of a dark ruin. Once it had been a sacred grail chapel, but it had long been abandoned to nature and the w eather, its crumbling w alls overrun with ivy and moss.
The younger son of Garamont raised his head as he heard the sound of horse's hooves on the road, and w atched as a knight garbed in w hite plodded through the rain tow ards him. As he got closer, Bertelis recognised the knight's heraldry; a distinctive black fleur-de-lys. His jaw dropped in wonder. This was none other than Merovech of Arlons, the albino knight who had bested him in the tournament before w ord of the Norscan invasion had come. He stood to w elcome the swordsman to his camp, suddenly embarrassed at his pitiful fire.
'Ho the camp,' called Merovech from tw enty paces distance. 'May I approach your fire?'
'Please do, my lord,' called Bertelis.
The knight reined in and looked down at the youngest son of Garamont. He raised the visor of his helmet, exposing his face, as pale as w inter snow.
'Bertelis, isn't it?' said Merovech, taking in his host's heraldry.
'I am honoured that you remembered me, my lord Merovech,' said Bertelis with a bow .
'I said that w e w ould meet again,' replied Merovech. 'I was impressed with your sw ordsmanship. It showed potential.'
'I fear that my humble skills pale in comparison to yours, my lord,' said Bertelis.
'Ah, but skills can be learnt,' said Merovech, exposing sharp canines as he smiled.
'And I am a very good teacher.'
Table of Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
EPILOGUE
books on Archive.
Warhammer - Knight of the Realm Page 34