Hammer and Bolter Year One

by Christian Dunn

  Above the battling armies, great swarms of bats wheeled and dived through the lashing rain and clouds of arrows. They descended on the living, latching onto any exposed flesh to feed, biting and clawing. Some of these creatures were immense, bearing fully barded warhorses to the ground before wrapping leathery wings around their prey and draining them of blood.

  At the centre of the fighting, Duke Merovech of Mousillon and his elite cadre of vampire knights, his seneschals, carved a swathe through the Bretonnian lines, butchering everyone that stood against them. Mounted on black warhorses with eyes that glowed like coals, they thundered forwards, smashing knights from their saddles, cutting down Bretonnia’s finest with contemptuous ease. More knights pressed in to halt their rampage, but all fell before their murderous wrath.

  Faster and stronger than any mortal man, these vampire knights fought with callous ferocity. Their eyes were red-rimmed and savage, their slitted pupils dilating as their bloodlust surged. They struck with such force that shields shattered beneath their axes and blades. Their lances punched straight through armoured breastplates, lifting warriors from the saddle and tossing them aside like children.

  Merovech fought like a daemon, lips pulled back to expose his elongated canines. Blood splattered across his snow-white face as he hacked a questing knight’s head from his shoulders and thundered on, driving his heavily armoured nightmare towards the immense gates of Couronne. He slashed left and right, killing with every stroke.

  The centre of the Bretonnian battle-line was buckling inward, threatening to break at any moment. Desperate to hold the line, reserve companies of knights charged forward to bolster the defences, but the line continued to strain.

  A shadow descended from above, and King Louen Leoncoeur joined the fray.

  Mounted on ferocious hippogryph, the king landed amongst the vampire knights, smashing several aside with the force of his impact, stopping their momentum dead. One of the deathly pale knights was impaled upon his glittering lance, and two more were killed in the blink of an eye, ripped savagely apart by his beast. Gore stained the hippogryph’s six-inch claws and dripped from the curved tip of its beak. It screeched a deafening challenge, talons clawing up the ground. The king hurled his lance aside and drew his ancestral sword, its blade shining like the sun.

  A dozen knights each mounted upon the back of a snorting royal pegasus landed with their king, flailing hooves and well-aimed lance strikes smashing more of the enemy warriors from their saddles. One of them unfurled the king’s standard, and a cheer rose from the Bretonnian ranks as the king’s resplendent heraldry was revealed.

  Leoncoeur slew the first of the dark knights that came at him, taking its attack upon his sacred lion shield and driving his blade through the vampire’s chest. He swayed back in the saddle to avoid the thrust of another foe, and his lightning riposte took the undead knight in the face.

  Leaping forward, the king’s hippogryph bore another vampire knight to the ground, pinning it down beneath its eagle-taloned fore-limbs, claws biting deep into plate armour. The hippogryph tore the vampire’s throat open, spraying blood and almost decapitating the undead creature.

  With a deft twist of his blade, the king turned aside a serrated blade thrusting towards his heart. The vampire’s fangs were bared, its eyes little more than glittering points. It hissed and recoiled from the blinding light of the king’s sword, its face blistering as if in direct sunlight. Leoncoeur’s blade struck down onto the vampire’s head, carving through its helm and skull. With a twist, he freed his weapon and cast his fiery gaze around him, seeking the next foe.

  A lance thrust into the chest of the king’s hippogryph, the blow delivered with such power and force that it drove up through armour and muscle, pushing deep into the mighty creature’s body, seeking its heart.

  Every soldier stationed upon the walls of Couronne watched as with a final, piercing cry the king’s royal hippogryph fell, collapsing in a heap upon the muddy plains. The rain continued to pelt down, and lightning flashed, throwing the terrible figure of Merovech into stark relief as he loomed over the king from the saddle of his nightmarish steed. Leoncoeur was pinned beneath the bulk of his slain mount, and he was unable to rise. He glared up at the vampire lord, mouthing a curse. The vampire duke smiled, exposing his elongated fangs. He swung himself from the saddle of his infernal steed, and drew a massive serrated sword, stepping forward to deliver the killing blow.

  ‘The king! The king!’ roared the royal battle-standard bearer, and knights surged forward to protect their liege-lord. They were met with the fury of Merovech and his warriors, and a desperate melee erupted. Dozens of loyal knights pushed forward, interposing themselves before their king and the murderous vampire knights, selling their lives dearly. Merovech began to laugh as he killed, the hideous sound booming out across the battlefield.

  The outcome of the battle balanced on a knife’s edge. Merovech hacked down the knights standing between him and the king. He slammed his mighty sword into the standard bearer’s neck, the blade biting through armour, bone and flesh, and the king’s banner fell.

  Knights and men-at-arms all the way along the battlefront saw that resplendent tapestry fall, and their resolve shattered.

  It began as a trickle, one man-at-arms turning to flee from the overwhelming horde, but soon became an uncontrollable torrent. The panic was infectious, and soon thousands of peasant soldiers were turning and fleeing back towards the gates of Couronne, trampling each other in their haste to escape, ignoring the barking orders of nobles and yeomen to hold. The rout became unstoppable, gaining numbers with every passing second. It surged blindly, and the undead poured over their lines.

  ‘The king lives!’ roared a dark-featured knight, lifting the royal banner from the ground, but only those nearby heard his cry. His voice was lost in the tumult of panicked voices, and word of the king’s fall continued to spread.

  Trumpets sounded the retreat, and the Bretonnian army turned to quit the field, Merovech’s sinister laugh echoing over the battlefield.

  A resounding clarion horn sounded suddenly, echoing across the heavens, drowning out even the rumble of thunder and the terrible clashing of weapons. It was the sound of the hunt, and it came from the east, behind the undead army. Those soldiers upon the battlements turned their gaze, while those on the ground paused in their flight, necks craning to see what was happening.

  Against the horizon the storm clouds broke, and sunlight speared down through the gap. The deafening hunting horn sounded again, and an army emerged from the woodlands behind the forces of Mousillon. With a mighty horned figure leading the charge, this newly arrived army streamed from the tree-line and surged down the hillside to smash into the enemy’s rear.

  A murmur rippled across the Bretonnian ranks.

  ‘The fey,’ said voices filled with awe. ‘The fey have come to aid us!’

  Orion led the charge, the deafening resonance of his hunting horn still echoing across the heavens. The mighty horned god of the hunt bounded down the hill towards the army of the dead, as fast as the swiftest elven steed, launching arrows from an immense bow as he ran. Each shaft was the length of a man and struck with titanic force, skewering half a dozen of the living dead with every shot.

  Calard stormed down the hill alongside the living god, white fire flickering up the length of his magical elven lance, Elith-Anar. His heart was filled with rage as he saw the vast undead army besieging Couronne, and his eyes blazed with holy fire. He kicked his noble steed Galibor on to match the speed of the furious god of the woods, lowering his lance as he neared the enemy battle line.

  The wild hunt thundered forward in the wake of their enraged king. All manner of creature, elf and forest spirit had been caught up in the rampaging hunt, unable to resist the bestial call of their lord. All were filled with Orion’s insatiable bloodlust.

  Painted in swirling warpaint, unearthly wild riders howled at the heavens as they galloped hard, leaning eagerly forward over the necks of th
eir elven steeds, faerie-fire blazing in their eyes. Vengeful dryads wearing their war-aspect darted forwards, snarling and spitting, their limbs elongated into killing spikes and barbed talons. Lumbering tree-kin made the ground shake as they pounded forwards, emerging from the forest, their deep reverberating hoots akin to brazen war-horns.

  Wolves, stags, boars and wildcats had all responded to the king-in-the-wood’s clarion call, and they flowed behind him, gathering pace and numbers, driven mad by the enraged king’s fury. Clouds of black-feathered crows, eagles and owls flew at his shoulder, wickedly sharp beaks and talons ready to rip and gouge.

  Elves borne upon the backs of horses and warhawks streamed from the woods, spear-tips glittering. Others ran forward on foot, launching arrows as they came, their faces masks of animalistic fury.

  Amongst the panoply flew vast clouds of spites, some riding upon the shoulders of birds or beasts, others flying through the air, borne aloft upon flickering, crystalline wings. Garbed in shining armour and with a tiny lance clasped under its arm, one diminutive sprite flew at Calard’s shoulder, adding her own high-pitched war-cry to the din of roars and shouts.

  Even the branchwraith Drycha had joined the hunt, focussing all her malice now upon the legions of the undead.

  The hunt slammed into the rear of the undead legions, Orion scattering the walking dead before him. The forest lord did not slow his pace, thundering through the undead ranks, smashing dozens into the air with each sweep of his mighty barbed hunting spear. Calard galloped hard at his side, the enemy falling in droves beneath the thrust of his lance and the cut of his sword. Others were brutally knocked aside by Galibor’s armoured bulk, or crushed beneath the warhorse’s hooves.

  The wild hunt charged into the enemy with untamed savagery, an unstoppable tide that swept through the army before them. On they rode, butchering and slaughtering, driving a wedge deep into the heart of Mousillon’s ranks.

  Skeletal men-at-arms clutching rusted polearms were smashed aside, their bones shattered, their skulls trampled into the mud. Fighting side-by-side, elves and dryads and wolves and sprites ploughed through the enemy, cutting, hacking, biting and clawing, leaving the wreckage of their fury in their wake.

  Calard fought like the holy paladin of the Lady that he was, flames coruscating from his sword, his eyes flaring with fey light. He alone remained unaffected by the fury infusing the others that rode with Orion, yet he was no less dangerous for that. His every blow brought ruin upon the enemies of Bretonnia. He could feel the power of the grail pounding through his veins.

  The enemy fell before him like wheat beneath a scythe. He foresaw the strike of every spear and rusted sword moments before it happened, and he turned them aside effortlessly, countering with devastating blows that splintered bones and shattered blades.

  He saw the battle standard of the king through the press of battle, and his eyes narrowed. Sensing his intent, Orion glanced in his direction. His face was a mask of bestial savagery, yet there was nobility there. He nodded his horned head towards Calard in acknowledgement, and for a moment, he saw the young elven warrior, Cythaeros, in the living god’s features. Calard bowed his head to the forest king, then, guiding Galibor with his knees, he veered away from the ride of the wild hunt, angling towards the king’s banner.

  He saw Merovech then, looming over the stricken figure of the king, and with a shout, he urged his warhorse into one last burst of speed. The undead fell before him as he galloped towards his reviled foe. He was a shining light spearing through the darkness and the driving rain.

  ‘Merovech!’ roared Calard, his voice suffused with the power of the Lady.

  Unholy seneschals moved to interpose themselves between him and their dark lord. Their eyes were filled with hatred, but there was fear there too – the shining light of the goddess Calard exuded was anathema to these creatures of the night, and it caused them pain even to look upon him.

  Garbed in archaic armour of ancient design, each was a mighty warrior and dark champion in their own right, but even so, they could not hope to slow Calard’s furious charge. He plunged the elven lance Elith-Anar through the chest of one, skewering its blackened heart and hurling the blood-sucking fiend from its saddle. His sword flashed, and a dragon-helmed head flew into the air, mouth locked in a silent scream.

  ‘Merovech!’ he bellowed again, and another dark knight fell beneath his blade. He batted aside a vicious swinging broadsword, and his lightning riposte stabbed deep into the face of a further seneschal, the white flame flickering up the Sword of Garamont’s blade making the devil’s flesh blacken and blister.

  The fell duke of Mousillon swung towards him, turning away from the fallen Bretonnian king, still trapped under the weight of his steed.

  His face was the white of untouched snow, his expression arrogant and dismissive. His hair too was like alabaster, hanging down his black-armoured back. He held his jagged sword loosely. The blade would have taken a strong man to lift it two-handed, yet the undead warrior drew a second blade as Calard bore down on him, twirling the twin-blades.

  Calard had seen the vampire lord fight; he knew of his ungodly speed, and the brutal power that was contained within him.

  ‘Lady guide my blow,’ he breathed, readying his lance.

  Time seemed to slow.

  Galloping at full speed, Calard saw every detail of his foe in the moment before they clashed. He saw the aristocratic disdain in Merovech’s eyes, eyes that gleamed like a wolf’s, reflecting back at Calard the holy light that surrounded him. He saw the dimly glowing runes along the length of the vampire’s swords, and he saw each individual raindrop coming down, splashing off his enemy’s fluted black armour.

  He saw the king looking up at him, and he saw Raben, the disenfranchised knight that he had fought alongside in cursed Mousillon, holding the king’s banner high. Even more of a surprise, he saw his erstwhile man-servant, the hunchbacked wretch Chlod, in the thick of the fighting, battling fiercely at Raben’s side with his heavy, nail-studded club.

  Calard rose in the saddle to deliver the strike. Elith-Anar speared towards the vampire’s chest, but with preternatural speed, one of Merovech’s blades swung up to deflect it with an elegant circular parry. With the smallest twist of the wrist, Calard caused the tip of his elven lance to roll around the vampire’s blade, avoiding the deflection. Merovech’s other blade came up, but in a display of skill and speed that surpassed even the vampire lord’s abilities, Calard again rolled his wrist, and the flaming tip of Elith-Anar flicked around his second blade.

  The lancetip took Merovech in the throat, punching out the back of his neck in an explosion of dark blood. Calard released his grip on the lance and continued on past the vampire as it fell to its knees.

  Hauling on the reins, Calard brought Galibor back around sharply. Dark blood pooled beneath the vampire, and his eyes registered the creature’s shock. He tried to speak, but nothing emerged from his mouth but a splatter of blood. Calard swung from the saddle of his warhorse, and stormed towards the Duke of Mousillon, the Sword of Garamont blazing in his hand.

  The vampire tore the lance from its throat and rose to meet him. Merovech had lost one of his swords; the other one he gripped in both hands. He hissed, and hurled himself at Calard.

  The Sword of Garamont came up, smashing Merovech’s sword aside. Calard’s allowed his momentum to carry him around, so that he had his back turned to his enemy. With a movement so fast it was little more than a blur, he spun his sword around so that he was holding it in a downward, dagger-like grip, left hand resting upon the pommel. He surged backwards, driving his sword into Merovech’s chest.

  The blade slid deep, only halting when the hilt was pressed against the vampire’s breastplate.

  ‘It is over,’ breathed Calard.

  The vampire’s mouth opened wide in final, soundless scream. His flesh began to wither and blacken, like parchment beneath a candle-flame.

  Calard wrenched his sword free, and the creature that ha
d been Merovech fell to the ground, collapsing to grave-dust. The entire army of the dead dropped, the dark magic binding and animating them dissipating. The rain ceased, and a howling wind began to clear the sky.

  Knights leapt forward to aid the king, while others, bloodied and battle-weary, gazed around them blankly, not yet comprehending that the battle was over. Chlod was staring at Calard in slack-jawed astonishment.

  ‘You took your time,’ said Raben with a wry smile.

  Freed at last from the weight of his slain hippogryph mount, King Louen Leoncouer was helped to his feet, and Calard dropped to his knees, a move that was mirrored by every warrior on the field. Chlod was still staring open mouthed at Calard, and had to be dragged to his knees.

  ‘Rise,’ said the king, and Calard lifted his head. Leoncouer nodded, and he stood.

  ‘What is your name?’ said the king.

  ‘Calard of Garamont,’ he answered, holding his head high. ‘Grail Knight of Bretonnia.’

  EPILOGUE

  A lone knight knelt in prayer upon the rocky beach as thousands of Norse longships ploughed towards the shore. An icy gale was blowing down from the Chaos, filling the vessels’ sails, driving these barbaric warriors of the Dark Gods towards the Bretonnian coastline.

  One of the ships, larger than the rest and its sail painted with ruinous sigils, pulled ahead of the pack, its dark iron ram slicing through the waves as it drove onwards. Heavily armoured huskarls hauled on the longship’s oars, to the beat of a brazen war drum.

  The longship rose upon the crest of a wave, but the steersman knew his trade, and the vessel was kept straight, hurtling towards the beach. Even as it ground ashore, driving a furrow through the black stones of the beach, the lone knight did not rise from his prayer. Nor did he so much as lift his head as the horn-helmed huskarls dragged the longship up the beach.