Warhammer - Knight Errant

by Anthony Reynolds

  The stink of sweat, w ine and sex assailed him, and he blinked in the dim light.

  Bertelis w as sprawled naked on the bed, the nubile form of a young w oman nestled against his chest. She turned as the door opened, pulling the sheets up over her body, modestly, her eyes filled with the w ild fear of a rabbit caught in the open.

  'Wake up,' said Calard. 'It's late.'

  Bertelis squinted up at him, opening and closing his mouth as if tasting something foul upon his tongue. He dropped his head back dow n onto the goose feather stuffed pillow.

  'Come on, get up,' said Calard more insistently. Bertelis sighed in resignation, and stood, stretching, without a thought for modesty.

  'Get out,' he said casually to the girl. She stared at him blankly for a second, and he turned tow ards her. 'I said get out.'

  The girl, the sheet wrapped around her, retrieved the clothing that w as scattered all over the room, doing her best not to catch Calard's eye. She fled the room, and Calard could hear her soft steps as she ran up the hallway.

  'Who w as that?' he asked.

  'Who?' asked Bertelis as he took a long sw ig from a w ater jug. 'That girl?'.

  'Oh, I don't know . Just some...' said Bertelis vaguely, one hand flapping as he sought the w ord. 'Some... girl.'

  Calard snorted, shaking his head, and immediately regretting it as his vision spun.

  'That w as quite a night,' said Bertelis, dressing quickly.

  'My memories of it are somew hat... vague,' said Calard. Bertelis snorted.

  'After the speeches, the dining and the dancing, after father and mother had retired, you spent most of it declaring how you w ould slay a hundred orcs, and drooling into the cleavage of the young Lady Elisabet of Carlemont.'

  Calard groaned and slapped a hand to his head. It w as starting to come back to him.

  'Oh, Lady protector, tell me I did nothing to embarrass myself in front of her,' he said.

  'Well, the last thing I saw was her and that young serving girl, Annabel, helping you to your room. What happened after that, I know not,' said Bertelis with a lascivious grin. He dunked his head into a basin of w ater and flicked it back, spraying water across the room behind him. Wet, his golden hair seemed darker, and hung in long strands dow n his back.

  'Come on then, w e'd better get going,' said Bertelis brightly, stepping out into the corridor. Calard could have strangled his brother. Somehow, he always seemed to avoid the after-effects of overindulgence, which was perhaps why he indulged so often. In the light streaming through the arched windows, Bertelis looked over at him w ith a critical, pitying expression.

  'You look tw ice as bad as I feel,' he said, eliciting another groan from Calard. 'Let's go armour up. Father w ill skin us alive if we keep him w aiting.'

  THE KNIGHTS OF Bastonne sat astride their warhorses on the grassland beyond the tow ering walls of Castle Garamont, their armour shined to perfection and colourful banners w hipping in the stiff breeze. Each proudly bore his colours and heraldry, and each carried his helm in the crook of his left arm, his lance held vertical in his right, and his shield thrown over his back. Their number had been carefully chosen so as to outdo the Sangasse contribution, and only a handful of knights would remain at Garamont.

  Hundreds of men-at-arms stood in the mud behind them, straining to see and hear the goings on, w earing tabards of red and gold, the lord castellan's colours, and holding polearms and tall shields in their muddy fists. A further contingent of peasants stood alongside the men-at-arms, a muster of bow men drafted into service from amongst the populace, each holding a longbow of yew in his labourer's hands.

  Fully armoured and w earing flowing cloaks that mirrored the colours of their livery, Lutheure's sons knelt before their father, the lord castellan of Garamont. Calard could still smell the delicate scent of Elisabet's perfume in his nostrils, and he breathed in deeply. Moments before, he had shared a delicate farewell with her, and he had almost been overw helmed by his love for her as he saw tears w ell in her soulful eyes.

  'I shall return in glory, and then we shall be w ed.' He realised that he had spoken w ithout thought, and his face reddened. 'If you w ill have me, I mean,' he added.

  Despite her tears, Elisabet had laughed, her pale cheeks blushing the delicate colour of roses. In answ er, she had loosened a violet silk scarf from around her head and tied it around the steel rarebrace that protected his left upper arm. He had been speechless, drinking in the sight and scent of her closeness.

  'Be safe, Calard,' she had said, and the young couple embraced. Too soon, she pulled aw ay from him. Turning as her tears threatened to flow anew, she fled into the protective arms of her father, w ho was smiling broadly at Calard. He had w atched her go, feeling exultantly happy, but sad at the same time. He dragged his mind forcefully back to the present.

  His heart pounded w ith barely restrained excitement as he knelt before his father, though he felt a tinge of unease. On one hand, this was his chance, at last, to prove himself on the field of battle, and he was full of noble confidence in his own abilities and those of his brother. He could not deny, however, that his father's health was w orsening despite the facade that he presented to the court. He knew that just to be standing outside, fully decked in his gleaming armour, w ishing his knights well, w ould tax him dearly, and that he would most likely spend the rest of the day abed, exhausted. He prayed to the Lady to see his father safe, but he had a sickening feeling in his stomach that he would not see him again.

  He pushed these morbid thoughts from his mind as he lowered his head to accept his father's blessing.

  'Lady, may your w isdom and care protect these noble knights from harm, and inspire in them the strength and courage necessary to return home in triumph. Embolden them w ith your divine light, and in your name, let them cleanse the lands of Bordeleaux of its evil taint, and do Garamont and Bastonne proud. Lady, bless them that they may uphold your name w ith virtue. Honour is all. Chivalry is all.'

  The tw o kneeling knights repeated these last two sentences, intoning them quietly.

  'Rise, my sons,' Lutheure said, and the tw o young knights errant rose up to their full heights to look dow n upon their lord and father. Lady Calisse swept past the castellan in a w ave of flowing silk and scented perfumes to embrace Bertelis, leaving Calard standing aw kwardly before his father. The older knight's expression w as distant.

  'I w ill make you proud, my lord,' he said softly.

  'Your mother w as from Bordeleaux,' said the castellan softly, ignoring his son's w ords. Calard's eyes w idened. In all the long years since his mother's death, his father had spoken of her perhaps twice. As if realising he had spoken aloud, the castellan frow ned, and his usual, cold mask dropped over his face once more.

  'Keep your brother safe,' Lutheure said brusquely. Calard sw allowed, and bow ed his head.

  Lutheure embraced Bertelis, and Calard bow ed graciously to his stepmother, though the Lady Calisse turned her head aw ay from him, and spoke to a handmaiden.

  With a cheer, the two young knights mounted their massive destriers. Squires passed them their w eapons and shields, and Calard felt trembling excitement at the prospect of w ar. They joined the ranks of knights, drawing their steeds alongside their grim w eapon master, Gunthar, who was to accompany them to battle.

  'How are you feeling?' Bertelis asked in a low voice, throwing his brother a sideways glance.

  'Like a horse is kicking me repeatedly in the head,' said Calard, though he maintained his smile. His brother smirked.

  The lord castellan's ancient sword was brought forth, borne upon a cushion by his chamberlain, and Lutheure lifted it into his trembling hands. The sword of Garamont had been handed dow n to each of the successive rulers of Garamont, and it w as an heirloom of priceless value, said to have been blessed by the kiss of the Lady of the Lake. Its scabbard w as inlaid with spiralling designs picked out in gold, and the pommel of the sw ord w as shining blue steel forged in the shape of a fleur-de-lys, the s
ymbol of the blessed Lady. The lord castellan pulled the blade free, the sound of the blade ringing out over the gathered knights.

  For a moment, as he lifted the sword high into the air, its blade shimmering with silver, fey light, Lutheure resembled the powerful knight that he had once been, strong, fearless and full of implacable courage.

  'To victory!' he shouted, his voice deep and strong. This was met w ith another cheer, and the host of Garamont lifted their lances high in salute to their lord. Calard caught Elisabet's tearful eyes through the crow d of w ell-wishers, and he kissed the silk scarf w ound around his arm w hile he maintained eye contact. She blew him a kiss in return, her eyes welling with tears. Then his eyes flicked to his father once more, settling on the powerful, distant man that he knew not at all.

  'I w ill make you proud of me, father,' promised Calard. Then he wheeled his horse and joined the column of knights as they turned to the w est, towards the distant sea and the lands of Bordeleaux. Blushing ladies threw flowers before the resplendent knights, and peasant children and dogs ran alongside them. Trumpets blared as they rode aw ay from Castle Garamont, and Calard gave the castle that had been his home these last decades a final look, before kicking his spurs into Gringolet's flanks.

  Bertelis w hooped in excitement, and Calard laughed at his brother's exuberance as he felt his own excitement rise.

  CHLOD SQUINTED AS he surveyed the distant castle and the parade of knights that rode from it. He felt his pet, nestling against his scabrous neck, squirm and w riggle.

  'Do you see them, my beauty?' he asked the mangy rat. It tw itched its nose, unimpressed.

  Chlod had laid low these last days, keeping to the forest. In the distance he could see the limp forms of his former comrades, hanging from the gallows erected alongside the approach to the castle, testament to the justice of the Bastonnian lord.

  His stomach grow led loudly, and he thought w istfully of the roasted venison that he had enjoyed some four days earlier. It had been so tender that it had almost melted on his tongue. Just thinking of it made his mouth begin to w ater, and he wiped a long string of drool from his chin with the back of his hand.

  He w as sure that there w as abundant food all around him, but he w as no huntsman, and had not the know ledge or means to catch any of the sw ift hares that he glimpsed sometimes at daw n and dusk. He had picked a handful of mushrooms from the base of a tree the day before, praying that they w ere not poisonous, but had not yet plucked up the courage to eat them.

  No, foraging in the w ilderness was not for him. A shepherd by birth, he had been kicked out of his home by his mother for his laziness, and had made his way in the w orld by scavenging on the outskirts of villages and tow ns, taking what he could lay his hands on when he could. He had received countless beatings from irate farmers over the years, but he never complained. Better to be beaten than to be hanged.

  His small, piggy eyes watched the departing army intently. He knew that an army on the march w ould have countless hangers-on, and that there would be an abundance of food and game needed to supply the knights and their peasant militia. His stomach rumbled again, and his mind was made up.

  'We w ill have food aplenty soon enough, my beauty,' he said, and he set off in the direction of the departing army, limping unsteadily through the fields.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CALARD'S EARLY ELATION to be bound for glorious battle w as soon replaced with mind-numbing boredom as the monotony of the journey ground home. He didn't know w hy he had expected anything different, for Bordeleaux was hundreds of miles to the w est, but this did nothing to improve his foul mood.

  The first day had seemed like the daw n of some grand adventure, and as soon as he had throw n off the worst effects of his hangover, Calard had felt his spirits soar. The sun w as shining, he was w earing a token of his love's affection on his arm, he had his brother at his side and he was riding to w ar with a grand company of seasoned knights.

  The lands of Bretonnia w ere not without peril, for, despite the rigour with which the realms w ere protected, it was well known that all manner of foul beasts dw elt within the great tracts of forest and w ithin the high mountains. Outlaws preyed upon travellers, and even this far from the cursed lands of Mousillon, commoners barred their doors at night against the horrors of the night. Nevertheless, the knights of Garamont w ere unconcerned. Travelling in such force, few enemies would dare to strike against them.

  The first night had been fine indeed, the knights swapping exaggerated stories of their heroics in battle as they ate, drank and made merry. Calard and Bertelis listened intently, hanging on every w ord spoken by the veterans. The night was glorious, unseasonably w arm and clear as autumn deepened, and the brothers had felt a thrill to be encamped in the wilderness, their minds filled with tales of heroism and glory.

  Even the next day, which was overcast, and with a sullen wind whipping at them, Calard's spirits had been high. It w as only that afternoon, as the rains had begun, that his elated mood began to evaporate. It seemed somehow appropriate that, as they passed into Sangasse lands, the weather was turning. Knights of Garamont had rarely entered these lands peacefully, and the gathering black clouds mirrored Calard's darkening mood.

  For generations, Garamont and the Sangasse had been fierce rivals, and though it had been nearly half a century since blood had been spilt betw een the families, Calard w as uneasy travelling through their realm. He knew that his brother felt likew ise, as did all the knights of Garamont, but it w as necessary, for it would have taken them hundreds of miles out of their way to circumvent Sangasse's borders.

  The contingent from Garamont had linked with the knights and foot soldiers of neighbouring Montcadas, travelling to Bordeleaux beneath the shining white banner of Baron Montcadas, emblazoned w ith its fiery red heraldic sword. The baron led his knights, himself. He was a squat, broad-shouldered w arrior w ith a booming voice and a massive beard. Calard had met the man on several occasions. Indeed, the baron had briefly hoped to marry his plain, big-boned daughter into the Garamont line, and for a few months the previous year Calard had been terrified that his father w ould accept the offer on his behalf. Thankfully, nothing had come of the pairing and the girl w as married off to some other unlucky noble's son to the north.

  As w as the Bretonnian way, the knights of Garamont allowed Baron Montcadas command w ithout question, for he w as the most highly ranked noble present.

  A strange figure accompanied the Baron of Montcadas, a man dressed outlandishly in the strange fashion of the Empire, far across the Grey Mountains that marked the border of the tw o mighty lands. He wore silk stockings beneath his knee-high riding boots, and bizarre slashed, puffy sleeves billowed around his arms. A black lacquered breastplate protected his body, in the centre of which was the gold emblem of a tw in-tailed comet. Calard dimly recalled from his schooling that the insignia represented the barbarian Sigmar, w ho had founded the Empire, and who had, in time, been deified by his followers. The Cult of Sigmar w as apparently the official religion of the lands of the Empire, which Calard found unfathomable. Sigmar had certainly been a mighty w arrior, but to w orship him, a mere mortal, as a god seemed ridiculous.

  A black lacquered sallet helmet sat upon the man's head, a long red feather bobbing from its rim, and he rode a horse of Empire stock, neither as pow erful nor as regal as one of the pure Bretonnian bloodline. Calard w as intrigued by this strange man and the strange land he hailed from, and he stared in fascination at him as he w as introduced.

  The Empire soldier, for it was clear that he was a soldier, despite his bizarre and faintly ridiculous dress, was young, perhaps no more than five years Calard's senior.

  His cheeks were shaved smooth, as was his chin, but upon his upper lip he sported a prodigious moustache, the points of which were tw eaked and waxed into tight curls.

  The effect was humorous to Bretonnian eyes, though it w as clear that the man took his appearance very seriously. Indeed, he seemed to be fastidious to a f
ault, brushing off any speck of dust from his clothes, and ensuring that his every buckle and bootstrap w as shined and untwisted, and that everything was placed correctly about his person.

  His name w as Dieter Weschler, and Calard had spoken the name aw kwardly, trying and failing to pronounce it correctly. The man had corrected his attempt, his voice guttural and clipped to Calard's ears. He spoke Breton better than Calard had expected, though his accent w as strange. He had strength in him, Calard had decided as he had gripped forearms with the man and looked into his eyes.

  Bertelis had appraised the Empire man w ith a critical eye, sizing him up, and he was clearly unimpressed. There was no doubting that he w as wealthy, for his outlandish clothes w ere richly made, and he wore rings and earrings of gold, but, to a Bretonnian eye, he appeared more like a lowborn peasant merchant that had come into money than one born to it through noble bloodline.

  He had a sw ord strapped at his side, but it w as his other weapons that w ere making Bertelis w rinkle his nose in disgust. A long-barrelled handgun was strapped over Dieter's shoulder, and a brace of three pistols hung loosely at his side. In Bretonnia, w eapons that caused death from afar w ere regarded as cow ardly, and no knight w ould dream of sullying himself by making use of a bow or crossbow , outside of the hunt. To use such missile weapons on the field of battle marked one as a peasant, for there w as no glory to be had in defeating one's enemy from a distance. A noble w arrior's w eapons were the lance and the sword, the mace and the morning star. It w as only those w ho lacked honour, bravery and self-respect that resorted to the use of such w eapons as the bow .

  Black pow der w eapons were all but unheard of in Bretonnia, but Dieter explained w ith dignified pride that they were commonplace in the wealthier Empire states, apparently oblivious to the less than enthusiastic response of his audience.

  It w as w ith some shock that Calard learned that Dieter was a blood relative of the ruler of the Empire, and thus of the noblest stock of the land. He could tell that Bertelis too w as stunned by this revelation. The Baron of Montcadas said that Dieter w as a guest in his household, come to Bastonne to learn more of Bretonnia and strengthen the bonds betw een the tw o great lands. His own son, he proclaimed proudly, w as currently a guest of the Empire, living in a far off city called Altdorf, housed w ithin the Emperor's palace.