Warhammer Anthology 12

by Death

  The beast roared in agony, its flesh smoking from the wound as if the glittering blade were aflame, and it pulled away sharply. The pressure was released from Calard’s chest and he rolled towards his sword, fingers closing around its hilt.

  The wyvern snarled as the flesh around the knife blistered, giving off a horrible stench of burning meat. It was shaking its foreleg, trying to dislodge the gleaming blade from between its metacarpals, having seemingly forgotten Calard.

  The knight rose to his feet, hefting his bastard sword in front of him, and flicked his wet hair out of his eyes. Ignoring him, the wyvern gripped the knife between its teeth and pulled it free, tossing it away.

  Calard darted forward, hefting his heavy blade over his shoulder, mouthing a prayer to the Lady. With a grunt of effort, he slammed it into the wyvern’s neck, striking with all the force he could muster. The blade hacked deep with a sickening wet sound, and the beast screeched as hot blood gushed from the wound, spraying across Calard and painting the cavern in a red torrent. The beast reared up on its hind legs, head thrashing from side to side, almost wrenching the sword from his hands.

  As the beast staggered, its head collided with the cave wall, bringing down a tumble of rocks and dust, and Calard only barely managed to avoid being knocked from his feet by its wildly thrashing tail. Stepping in precariously close to its heaving bulk, he slashed a deep cut into its pallid underbelly, unleashing a flood of grotesque intestines. The unmistakeable shape of half-digested human bodies could be seen within the beast’s semi-transparent tract. Calard swallowed back his revulsion, stabbing into the wyvern’s stomach again and again.

  The wyvern scrambled backwards, hind claws ripping up the cave floor, and snapped at Calard, who lurched out of the way and slashed with his sword. He severed the beast’s tongue, and it gave out a piteous yelp. Blood was still gushing from its neck in rhythmic spurts. There was so much blood on the floor and walls now that the cave resembled a slaughterhouse.

  “For the love of the Lady, just die!” shouted Calard, lashing out at an open claw that reached for him, hacking deep into flesh and bone.

  The beast was backtracking frantically now, dragging its thick intestinal ropes across the floor. It sounded like a wounded bear, a growling whine rumbling within its chest as it staggered farther back into the cave, but Calard had no intention of letting it escape. He followed it mercilessly, cutting and hacking with his blade.

  The last of its lifeblood pumping from its neck, the wyvern launched itself at him one last time. Its mouth opened wide, and Calard knew he had not the speed or strength remaining to avoid it. Instead, he stepped forward, directly into the path of the gaping jaws and stabbed upwards.

  The blade pierced the roof of the beast’s mouth as it closed upon him. Calard cried out as tusk-like teeth punched through his armour as if it were paper, but he maintained his hold on his blade, pushing it up into the monster’s brain.

  With a final bellow, blood bubbling up its throat, the full weight of the wyvern’s head bore Calard to the ground. That head alone would have weighed as much as two Bretonnian warhorses and, for a panicked moment, Calard thought that was how he was to meet his fate, ignobly crushed to death by the monster he had just slain.

  At last he dragged himself free and rose shakily to his feet. Breathing hard, he reversed the grip on his sword and dropped to one knee, closing his eyes as he placed his forehead against the crossbar of the hilt.

  “Lady of mercy, I dedicate this kill to your honour,” he breathed, “and pray that in your wisdom you shall show me your favour.”

  He remained there for many minutes, exhausted. After some time, he heard a sound behind him and he surged back to his feet and swung around, his sword at the ready.

  There was a startled screech and his manservant, Chlod, jumped back in fear. The hunchbacked peasant slipped on the blood-slick rock floor and fell heavily.

  “It is just me, master!” Chlod cried.

  “Stupid peasant,” Calard said, shaking his head. “That’s a sure way of getting yourself killed.”

  “Sorry, master,” said the filthy lowborn, dipping his head.

  Calard sheathed his sword across his back and after a brief search he retrieved his knife. The blade was gleaming with a soft, inner light.

  He staggered and almost fell as the pain of his injuries crashed in on him. His wounds needed tending; who knew what vile poisons would have been carried in the wyvern’s claws and bite.

  Wearily, Calard moved towards the cave entrance.

  “Fetch your axe,” he said to Chlod over his shoulder. “I want its head.”

  There were cheers and clapping as Calard approached the snow-topped palisades encircling the mountain village, but he did not deign to raise his hand in response. He had cleaned his armour and skin as best he could in a mountain stream. The icy water had washed away the worst of the wyvern’s blood, but he was still covered in grime and dirt, the result of nearly five years on the road. He was unshaven, his cloak hung in tatters and his armour was in need of urgent repairs, but for all that he rode with his head held high, his nobility plain for all to see.

  Though he was no cleaner than the stinking rabble that welcomed him as their avenger and saviour, he looked down his nose at them. They were classless outcasts, exiles and rascals living beyond the law, while he was a noble of Bretonnia, a questing knight of the Lady.

  If the village had a name, Calard had not heard it, and nor did he care to. Located high in the peaks of the Grey Mountains, the soaring range that divided Bretonnia and the Empire, it overlooked the pass known colloquially as the Crooked Corridor. Calard was not sure if it fell officially on the Bretonnian or Empire side, but it hardly mattered; neither realm cared enough to claim it.

  The people of this village were a bastard mix of intermingled backgrounds. They spoke a pidgin hybrid of Bretonnian and Reikspiel, and Calard was certain that the majority of them were nothing short of brigands. Doubtless they ambushed the caravans seeking to avoid paying the taxes of Axe Bite Pass and risking the Crooked Corridor. Calard did not know which was worse—the smugglers that used the pass, or the cutthroats that preyed upon them.

  Nevertheless, the Lady had led him here and he had sworn to the self-appointed village burgomeister that he would see the beast dead. He felt the envious eyes upon him as he rode through the village gates, and while the wretched curs were undoubtedly pleased that he had vanquished the beast that had been plaguing their lands, he was still wary of the potential for robbery.

  The villagers cleared a path for him, broad smiles splitting their faces as they whooped and applauded. His lip curling in distaste, Calard guided his proud Bretonnian warhorse through the press of unwashed bodies. The highly-trained animal snorted as the villagers pressed in around it.

  “I know,” said Calard, patting its neck.

  Behind Calard came Chlod, riding upon a dejected-looking mule. The malformed peasant waved cheerily and grinned his stupid lopsided grin. Dragged through the mud and snow-slush behind him was the wyvern’s head, drawing gasps and whispers from the villagers.

  Calard guided his steed up towards the high point of the village, winding his way past dozens of shanty houses, all covered in a thick layer of snow. The burgomeister was standing out on the porch of his home, a structure that stood out as rich and ostentatious amongst the other hovels. Still, the house was little more than a shack, and Calard looked upon it with disdain. A hangman’s gallows protruded from the front stoop of the building, a grim reminder that this place was outside of Bretonnian and Empire law.

  The burgomeister was a heavy-set, jowly man, and he stood on his porch with a broad grin on his face as he waited for Calard to draw near. He was surrounded by a handful of richly-dressed individuals, and his fat wife stood at his side.

  “The hero returns!” declared the burgomeister, raising his arms high. “The beast is dead!”

  The rest of the village had followed Calard and Chlod and stood now in a semi-circle a
round them at the foot of the burgomeister’s stoop. The crowd erupted into further cheering and clapping.

  “We shall have a feast this night in honour of this great deed!” promised the burgomeister, eliciting another burst of applause.

  The man spoke with a strong Parravonian accent, a noble’s accent, and Calard wondered briefly what the man had done to be living out here. Murdered a rival and been cast out? Run up debts from which he had fled? Been dishonoured in some sordid court intrigue? Whatever the answer, the man was an outcast, worthy only of Calard’s contempt.

  The head of the wyvern was manhandled to the foot of the burgomeister’s stoop by five men, and a great cheer rose as ropes hauled it up upon the gallows. The ropes creaked under the immense weight, and it spun there in place, its one remaining eye bulging from its socket.

  “A bed shall be made up in my own house for our brave hero!” declared the burgomeister. “We shall eat and drink well this night!”

  More cheers sounded, but Calard raised a hand. The villagers fell silent.

  “That won’t be necessary,” he said. “I cannot tarry. I must continue on my journey. All I require is a fresh supply of food and some dry tinder.”

  There were mutters amongst the crowd at this, and Calard saw the burgomeister’s grin falter.

  “Night draws in, sir knight,” said the man. He was still smiling but his smile no longer reached his eyes. “Let us show our gratitude. Be our guest of honour this evening. Please.”

  “No,” said Calard, shaking his head. “I must decline. I need only some food and dry tinder, and I shall be on my way.”

  “Is my home not good enough for you, noble sir?” snapped the burgomeister’s wife. “Are you worried it might not be seemly to consort with the likes of us?”

  The burgomeister shushed his wife, and Calard curled his lip, not even attempting to hide his scorn.

  “Regretfully, my vows do not permit me to sleep in the same place two nights running,” said Calard, his voice filled with anything but regret, “lest the Lady judge me idle in my quest. If it were not for my vows, I should gladly take up your kind offer, madam. Alas, it is not to be. I bid you goodbye.”

  He turned his horse around, intending to leave the village and its honourless inhabitants behind him.

  “Come, peasant,” he said to Chlod, clicking his fingers. Calard glanced back over his shoulder as he nudged his steed towards the village gates.

  “Food and dry tinder, thank you,” he said. “I shall wait outside the palisades.”

  With that, Calard rode from the village, uncaring of the venomous glares he was receiving.

  The fire crackled and spat and the damp wood smoked heavily, filling the enclosed shelter with the scent of burning pine needles. It had been some two hours after the sun had set when Calard had called a halt, deeming it too dangerous to continue their descent in the darkness.

  They had taken shelter in the lee of a rockfall just off the main path leading down towards the Crooked Corridor, and Chlod had quickly rigged up some additional protection in the event of the weather worsening. Under Calard’s watchful eye and with his thick tongue poking from the side of his mouth in concentration, the peasant had woven branches together to form a rough framework roof, over which he had laid a blanket of smaller twigs and pine needles. An oiled canvas sheet was strung up to form an entrance, and weighted down with rocks it formed an adequate barrier from the wind. There was enough room within the shelter to house both Calard’s horse and Chlod’s mule as well as the two men, and while the Bretonnian nobleman was not overly pleased at having to be in such close proximity to his manservant, he had a belly full of food and the fire was warm.

  As exhausted as he was, sleep eluded Calard. Wrapped in a woollen blanket, cloak balled up into a pillow, he stared into the glowing fire, listening to its reassuring crackle and the howl of the wind. His horse whinnied softly and shifted its weight at the back of the shelter.

  If the storm that had been threatening to break all week did not come, they should pass into the lowlands of Bretonnia within a day or so. It had been almost five years since Calard had taken up his questing vow, and just over four since he had last set foot in the land of his birth. He longed to hear Bretonnian voices, eat familiar food and drink a goblet of a fine Bordeleaux vintage. Too long had he been travelling through uncultured foreign lands.

  In his relentless quest for the grail, Calard’s travels had taken him far from his beloved homeland. He had gone as far north as the frozen lands of Kislev, inhabited by its warlike savages, and as far to the south as Tilea, an amoral cesspit of intrigue and backstabbing where a warrior’s honour and sword sold to the highest bidder. In the east, he had travelled through the dwarf-patrolled passes of the Worlds Edge Mountains and looked out across the desolate Dark Lands beyond.

  He had spent the better part of two years within the borders of the Empire, and had come to loathe the place and its citizens. There was no divide between the classes in the Empire, and even the lowest born cur could rise to the heights of power. How such a society could operate was beyond him.

  Everywhere Calard went he saw dishonour and death, and through it all he steeled his soul, praying fervently to the Lady to lead him onwards, desperate to prove himself worthy. Visions and dreams of the grail haunted him, the holy chalice always appearing so close but just out of reach. In the Lady’s name Calard had done great and noble deeds across the length and breadth of the Old World, hoping against hope that with one such action his deity would favour him by manifesting before him.

  It was said that only those questing knights of pure and noble intention would ever be blessed with a visitation from the Lady of the Lake, and of those, few were judged worthy. Fewer still survived imbibing the elixir held within the grail itself, for only the truest exemplars of Bretonnian knightly virtue, paladins with souls unsullied and free of taint, were able to drink it and live.

  It felt like an age had passed since Calard had relinquished his rulership of Garamont, since he had symbolically set aside his lance and forsaken all else but his holy quest. Calard had named his nephew Orlando his heir, presenting the boy the Sword of Garamont, the ancient heirloom of his family’s rulership. Until his successful return, the boy was the ruling Castellan of Garamont. Orlando had been seven years of age when Calard had left; he wondered if he would even recognise the boy now.

  Calard knew that he had left Garamont in good hands. He had requested that the Baron Montcadas act as regent for his lands until such a time as he returned—or Orlando came of age—and he trusted the man implicitly. Montcadas was a bear of a man, full of warmth, paternal wisdom and strength. He was also the terror of his enemies, fearless and unforgiving, roaring his challenge as he thundered into battle swinging his heavy morning star—or at least he had been before he had lost his sight. One of his eyes had been put out fighting the bloodthirsty beastmen of the wildwoods; he had lost the other in a tragic tourney accident. He yearned to hear Montcadas’ booming laughter and wise counsel again.

  A part of Calard longed to walk the halls of Castle Garamont again, to ride the perimeter of his lands and see his own heraldry, a silver dragon rampant on a field of red and blue, flying from the parapets; but he reminded himself that it would not be the same as it had once been. It would not feel like home anymore.

  His father, that stern and cold figure that had ruled over Garamont for nigh on forty years, was dead, having never accepted Calard into his heart. His stepmother, Calisse, hated him more than ever. And Bertelis was gone.

  More than anything else, Calard missed his half-brother.

  He felt a stab of guilt as he thought of Bertelis, and he wondered if he would ever see him again; and if he did, if his brother could possibly find it in his heart to forgive him.

  The last time he had seen Bertelis had been within the shattered walls of Lyonesse, after the departure of the Norscan hordes that had besieged the island fastness. It had not been a happy time, and they had not parted on g
ood terms. Calard burned with shame thinking back to that fateful day.

  He had relived it so many times in the last five years. Even now he could hear that horrible sound as Elisabet’s head connected with the marble stairs. He saw again Bertelis’ face, aghast. Rationally, Calard had known that it was an accident, a tragic, awful accident, but he had allowed himself to be blinded by rage and grief.

  His brother had begged his forgiveness, but Calard had turned his back on him.

  “I have no brother,” he had said, his voice cold and empty. In the days afterwards, as he grieved, he regretted speaking those words but there had been no opportunity to make amends. He had not seen Bertelis since, nor even heard of his whereabouts, though not for want of trying.

  Calard’s grim thoughts were interrupted as Chlod rolled over and began to snore loudly. Calard regarded the peasant with an expression of distaste, and swore under his breath. The ignorant wretch was curled into a ball, an idiotic smile on his face. Chlod clutched a regal blue scrap of cloth in his hands, one side lined with mink. Once, that scrap had been a part of the cloak worn by the holy grail knight Reolus. Even five years on, Calard could not believe the knight was dead.

  Chlod muttered in his sleep, then giggled, and Calard swore again. He hated how sleep always came so easily to the peasant, while it took him hours to drift off. Even then, Calard’s sleep was restless and fraught with nightmares. Who knew what sort of dreams the ignorant peasant was having. Frankly, Calard did not wish to know, certain that they would be unwholesome and base. The little hunchback was an unpleasant fellow, seemingly bereft of conscience, but he had a certain animalistic cunning that had served Calard well on occasion over his years of servitude. His eagerness to please and sycophantic toadying were disgusting to behold, but Calard tolerated these.

  The howling gale outside was picking up. The sound was mournful, almost like the roaring of great beasts was concealed within it. Calard shivered, and pulled his woollen blanket tightly around him.