Raising his gaze and standing once more, Calard felt exhilaration fill him, as the grail knight dipped his lance in salute to the knights, bow ing his head ever so slightly.
Then he was past them, and the world seemed to grow a little dimmer. The clouds closed ranks once more overhead, and the radiant brilliance that had bathed the grail knight faded.
'The grail knight Reolus,' w hispered Bertelis, shaking his head in wonder. 'Did you see the size of him? I had thought that the legends of his exploits may have been exaggerated, but seeing him here, I doubt them not at all.'
'We have been blessed indeed to have stood in the presence of such greatness,' said Gunthar as he pulled himself back into the saddle. Minutes later, distant cheering and the blaring of trumpets announced Reolus's entrance into the duke's camp.
'Remember this moment, knights of Bretonnia. Through courage, devotion and duty, you too may one day achieve such lofty heights.'
Calard's eyes misted over as he imagined people cheering his name, proclaiming his deeds and being aw ed in his presence. Gunthar's voice cut through his daydream.
'That isn't going to happen standing around like a bunch of dullards. To become a grail knight, one must display utter devotion to one's lord and the Lady, and perform all one's duties, how ever mundane, with pride and honour. Right now, our duty is to enter the forest and scare out the enemy. So let's not linger here any longer.'
Calard sw ung into the saddle, still amazed and honoured by having been so close to a grail knight: the mighty Reolus, no less. Faced against such a w arrior, the enemy had no chance. The mere possibility of seeing the knight riding into battle w as a thrilling thought.
The forest loomed like a malevolent beast in the distance. He shivered, scanning the tree line for movement. Gringolet snorted uneasily, and Calard gave the destrier a comforting pat, staring darkly tow ards the looming trees. It felt as though hateful eyes w atched their progress.
Pushing such childish thoughts from his mind, he concentrated on envisaging his triumphant elevation to the heady ranks of the grail knights, and smiled.
CALARD'S UNEASE RETURNED as they pushed into the forest of Chalons. The outskirts had been open and filled with light, the coppiced trees young and w idely spread, allow ing the knight easy progress. Late-blooming bluebells spread beneath the shadow s of the trees, creating an otherworldly vision of remarkable beauty.
Bones and the occasional grinning skull, the remains of some long-forgotten battle, peeked from beneath the softly lilting purple-blue flowers.
Sparse w oodland had slowly given way to denser, darker tracts, where the trees were older and more tightly clumped, and the knights' progress slowed. The ground was thick w ith fallen, rotting leaves. The light that pierced the thick canopy of twisted branches diminished, and the shadows deepened, becoming more menacing. Calard's eyes darted around, jumping from shadow to shadow , feeling eyes upon him and glimpsing flickers of movement out of the corners of his eyes.
After hours of travel, they w ere pushing into the dark, old forest, untouched by human hand. Thick oaks, gnarled like tw isted old men, leant over the knights as they progressed, creaking and groaning.
Moss and lichen clung to the trunks, and toadstools and fungus grew in abundance.
Mighty trees of ash and beech grew thick and tall, and small creatures rustled through the leaf litter and danced through the branches overhead. Leaves and sticks fell upon the knights, and they eyed their surroundings warily. The paths worn through the trees by boars or deer w ere tw isting and convoluting, and the branches of trees pressed in on all sides, making the knights duck and shield their eyes against tw igs that clawed at their exposed faces.
This was not a place for a knight of Bretonnia, and Calard imagined that the ancient forest w as resisting their presence, resentful of the intrusion into its dark heart.
Again, he felt eyes boring into him, and he swung in the saddle, casting his gaze around, trying to pierce the gloom, but seeing nothing untoward.
There were dozens of other groups pushing into the wilds, spread w ide like a net, scouring for signs of the enemy, and driving the greenskins ever closer to the forest's edge. Most w ere young knights errant, like Calard, and he still chafed at w hat he saw as a task better suited to peasants.
A shout from up ahead pulled him from his morose thoughts, and, as he pushed through a mass of tw isted bracken, he saw one of the yeoman scouts kneeling over several corpses sprawled upon the dark earth.
'There are more of them over there,' said the yeoman to Gunthar, gesturing vaguely to the east.
The knights errant crowded in, and Calard caught a glimpse of green flesh. The dead creatures w ere small, no more than four feet in height, and their skin was covered in barbaric piercings, raven feathers and black tattoos.
'More goblins,' said Gunthar. The veteran had dismounted, and pushed one of the corpses onto its back w ith his foot. The creature's face was frozen in a leering rictus that might have been terror, though it w as hard to discern. The goblin's lips were draw n back, exposing an array of sharp, yellow teeth, and its beady eyes w ere wide and surrounded by smudges of coal. A large black tattoo dominated the creature's face, a barbaric and crude depiction of a spider, its barbed legs spreading out over each side of the goblin's face, and its bulbous body on his forehead. The image had been tattooed in such a w ay that the goblin's eyes filled in for the eyes of the arachnid, and its oversized fangs framed the greenskin's mouth. Bones and fraying, black feathers had been pushed through the flesh of its drooping ears. It w as a feral, loathsome creature, and Calard found it morbidly fascinating and repulsive at the same time.
Dark blood leaked from a large gash in its head, where the skull had been caved in.
The other diminutive, vicious creatures had been just as brutally slain, and bore deep w ounds caused by strong, savage blow s.
This was the second group of slaughtered greenskins that they had encountered in the last hours.
'Infighting?' Calard had suggested w hen they had come across the first corpses.
Gunthar had shrugged.
'Possibly. Perhaps a pow er struggle betw een rival tribes in the aftermath of battle.
Who know s.'
'Gunthar,' said Calard. The w eapon master grunted in response, probing at the goblin's w ound w ith the tip of his sword. 'If this wasn't the result of infighting, then w hat killed these things? A scouting party like ours?'
'No, these are not blow s caused by Bretonnian hands,' said Gunthar. 'None of these creatures w as slain by lance or arrow , and, as far as I can determine, no other scouting party has come this w ay.'
Occasional distant blasts from horns sounded through the trees as other scouting groups sighted the enemy.
'At least w e know we are behind them,' said Gunthar. 'They are moving before us tow ards the edge of the forest, as w e had hoped. Either they keep moving and break from the forest, or they turn to face us.'
'Or w hatever else it is that hunts them,' said Dieter thoughtfully. 'Could w e perhaps be betw een tw o enemies?'
'Nonsense,' said Bertelis dismissively. 'The greenskins are little more than animals.
Their pack leader was probably killed in battle, and they are now fighting each other to claim dominance. They hear us closing in on them, and run like deer before us.'
Gunthar shrugged his shoulders.
'You could be right,' he said.
'Listen,' said Calard, and the knights fell silent. The only sound was the dry wind rustling through the trees and the occasional whinny from a horse.
'I don't hear anything,' said Bertelis.
'Exactly,' said Calard, 'not even the cry of a bird, or the scuffling of a w ood mouse.'
'You're right,' said Gunthar. 'There is something unnatural in the air. Come, let us push on. The sooner w e are out of this forest, the better. It feels like we are being w atched.'
The other knights muttered in agreement, staring around with wide eyes. Only Bertelis seemed un
concerned.
Calard started as he heard a shout from deeper in, his heart lurching. Bertelis smirked, and Calard reddened.
'Lord Gunthar, you'd better come and see this,' called a yeoman.
THE TREE WAS immense, an ancient and contorted oak that must have been old w hen Gilles the Uniter walked the earth, over a thousand years earlier. It would have measured more than fifty feet around its massive trunk, and twisted roots spread around it. The thick roots had grown over a stand of giant boulders, and, in places, had cracked the stone after centuries of relentless pressure.
Immense branches like the powerful arms of a w restler reached up into the air, and from these ancient limbs hung dozens of bodies.
'Lady, lend me strength,' w hispered Calard as he gaped in horror up into the canopy overhead.
The corpses swung gently from the boughs, hanging from ropes and chains. Others had been nailed into the trunk of the tree, their blood mingling with the sap that leaked from the w ounds. Heads impaled on wooden stakes protruded from the ground, and dozens of corpses, many little more than crumbling skeletons, were piled up around the base of the mighty oak, along w ith rusting weapons, scraps of armour and shields. Calard w as shocked to see more than one Bretonnian helmet and shield amongst the pile, and many of the skeletons were clearly of human origin.
The bodies of recently slain goblins and orcs hung alongside withered skeletons, and fresh blood dripped from the horrendous wounds that many of them bore.
Hundreds of black carrion birds w ere perched in the branches of the horrendous, deathly oak tree, and they stared accusingly down upon the intruders. Many of them paused mid-feast to glare at the knights, while others continued to gulp dow n eyes, like peeled grapes that had been plucked from sockets, and tear strips of flesh from bones w ith w ickedly sharp beaks.
A yeoman hurled a rock at one of the bloated birds, and it fluttered its heavy black w ings, issuing a harsh, hateful, accusatory cry.
Bertelis dismounted and began approaching the base of the tree w arily, drawing his sw ord.
'Bertelis,' hissed Calard, eyes darting around nervously. His brother ignored him, advancing slowly forward.
'Let us not tarry here,' said Gunthar, his voice strained.
Still, the younger Garamont brother w alked towards the grisly oak tree. He pushed aside a goblin corpse w ith his foot, and bent dow n, peering at shapes almost completely hidden beneath the tangle of roots.
'Bertelis,' hissed Calard again.
The sandy-haired knight flashed an irritated look at his brother, and reached a hand betw een the dark roots of the tree, biting his lip. He couldn't quite reach w hatever it w as that glinted in the darkness, and he bent lower, straining, and groping deeper beneath. It looked like the tree would come to life and swallow the young knight at any moment. Calard knew such a notion was foolish, but he felt anxious and uneasy nonetheless.
'Come on, brother!' he snapped.
He saw Bertelis stand, hefting something from beneath the twisted roots. He turned it over in his hands, and Calard saw that it w as a helmet, old and rusted. A skull slipped from w ithin it, falling at Bertelis's feet, and the young knight jumped, and then laughed out loud at his ow n foolishness.
'This helm bears the heraldry of Walden of Lyonesse,' Bertelis called out. Walden had been a knight engaged on the holy quest for the grail, and rumour had it that he had suffered a mortal blow from a dark knight of cursed Mousillon. His retainers had claimed that the Lady had appeared upon a ghostly ship, powered by neither sail nor oar, and had borne him to her immortal realm. 'It w ould appear that he did not join the Lady on her misty isle after all.'
Bertelis shook his head sadly and dropped the helmet to the ground. Somew hat reluctantly it seemed to Calard, he w alked aw ay from the tree and mounted his horse.
'Let us be aw ay from this cursed place,' said Gunthar.
Dieter stared long at the grisly tree, his brow furrowed, his expression serious. He had heard of such things before, deep in the darkest reaches of the sprawling Drakw ald forest, in the realm of his homeland. He shook his head, dismissing the notion. No, it was surely as the young knight had said: the greenskins were probably leaderless and barbarically preying on each other. He could not, however, fully shake the notion that there w as something else within the forest, something hateful and jealous, something that w atched them even now.
He glanced around once more, sw allowing heavily, his mouth suddenly dry.
CHAPTER EIGHT
WITH THE SOUND of straining timbers and the sharp snap of leather and rope, the massive trebuchets fired. Leather slings, filled with great chunks of masonry, were w hipped through the air behind the long rotating arms, as the massive counterw eights descended. As the groaning long arms were flung past the vertical position, the masonry was hurled high into the air, spinning end over end.
The massive blocks of stone and mortar seemed to hang in the sky for a moment of w eightlessness as they reached the apex of their trajectory, before plummeting tow ards the ground.
With pounding thuds that rocked the earth, the colossal missiles slammed dow n into the massed ranks of the greenskins, embedding themselves deep into the ground and crushing scores of the enemy.
Other blocks skidded and bounced before coming to rest, crushing and killing dozens more.
The Bretonnians had scoured Chalons for tw o weeks, driving the greenkins before them. Hundreds of knights and peasants had worked in concert to push the greenskins out into the open, so that a decisive battle could be w on against them.
This was that battle. The sheer number of greenskins that Chalons had harboured w as staggering. A victory would be had, here, that w ould clear the area of the greenskin menace for decades, or the armies of Bordeleaux would fail, and the dukedom w ould burn.
At a shouted command, hundreds of bow s w ere raised to the heavens, arrows nocked to strings. At another command, the bow men loosed, and the air was filled with a dense cloud of deadly arrow s that hissed as they sliced through the air. High into the sky they arced, and, as they began to fall tow ards the earth, a second volley was fired.
It w as ducal law that every able Bretonnian peasant boy learnt to fire the longbow , though in truth the law was rarely upheld. Few peasants had the means or skill to purchase or craft a bow , and few er still had the strength needed to draw one. Still, those peasant families that w ere blessed enough to ow n a longbow , which was often passed dow n from father to son, pushed their sons to practise with it, building their strength, for the coin earned through going to w ar, though so miniscule as to be nigh-on ridiculous, was, to most peasant families, a princely wage.
Calard hissed in frustration and shook his head, bristling with impatience as he w atched the enemy being mercilessly cut dow n by the missile weapons of the duke's peasant militias. Scores of peasants strained as they rotated the pow erful winches that low ered the arms of the trebuchets, readying the powerful weapons for another shot. Further volleys of arrow s descended into the enemy massing on the field before them, and Calard sw ore as hundreds were cut dow n.
'Where is the honour in this?' he snarled from his position w ithin the massed line of knights arrayed against the foe. The nobles of Bastonne were gathered together, and knights w ho owed fealty to his father surrounded him. The intimidating bulk of Baron Montcadas and his knights were nearby, the bearded baron toying w ith his spiked morning star as he glared at the enemy.
A little w ay off, Calard could see Maloric and those warriors sworn to Sangasse. He w as pleased to see the ugly bruising that marred the young knight's face, and, as if sensing Calard's gaze upon him, Maloric turned and glared hatefully across the line in his direction.
'I'd say you've improved his looks drastically,' said Bertelis. Calard chuckled as his brother made an obscene gesture at Maloric, w ho bristled in anger.
Casting his gaze further along the line of Bretonnians, Calard could see more than three thousand knights arrayed for battle. Banners and pennants
, proudly displaying the heraldry of the most pow erful nobles, whipped in the wind, and his eye was draw n to the duke's banner, held aloft in the centre of the knights. He could make out the vague figure of the grail knight Reolus in the distance, sitting tall in the saddle among the duke's entourage.
Some ten thousand men at arms stood in ragged lines behind the resplendent ranks of the nobility.
They w ere arranged in deep blocks of troops, bearing shields and pennants in the colours of their lords. Their number w as prodigious, but Calard had little faith in their strength. The battle w ould be w on or lost in the charge of the knights.
'How can w e hope to prove ourselves when the enemy is cut dow n by mere peasants?'
asked Bertelis.
'Compose yourself,' snapped Gunthar, his eyes alert and piercing. 'Your time w ill come. The duke w ishes their lines to be thinned before we engage.'
'There w ill be nothing left alive for us to engage,' replied Calard sourly. 'This is not how battle is fought, to stand idly by w hile the enemy is slaughtered by bow and w ar machines.'
'Quiet, both of you!' snapped Gunthar. 'Have some patience, and learn from the duke's strategy. This battle w ill still be w on by knightly charges, but the duke w ishes to ensure a complete, resounding victory, w ith minimal losses. See how he has sent the knights of southern Bordeleaux out to the north to flank the enemy? He w ants the enemy to charge straight tow ards his bow men. When they are nearing we will charge into their front, while the flanking knights charge their exposed side. At the same time, a force of some fifteen hundred men-at-arms is encircling the enemy through the forest to the south, cutting off their escape. If we charge ahead now, the duke's plan w ould be ruined.'
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