A massive, toothed orifice gaped open in the chest of another monster, displaying thousands of inw ard curving teeth and an array of barbed tentacles that w aved blindly. A distressingly human head emerged above this foetid, circular maw , a single blinking, red eye peering out through the crooked teeth of its slack-jawed mouth.
One of the beastmen pulling the creatures forwards stumbled and fell, and was instantly lifted up into the air by a pair of malformed flipper-like appendages. It w as stuffed into a flapping mouth that w as too small to contain its oversized teeth. The beastman bellow ed as it w as devoured. Additional mouths opened up upon the spaw n's body, and slug-like tongues lapped at the blood upon its flesh.
All the w hile, more of the beastmen massed along the tree line, and the blare of horns and beating of drums rose to a chaotic, jumbled cacophony of tortured sounds.
Calard saw the men-at-arms below the hill shuffle and glance around at each other, their fear palpable. The knights leading the cohorts shouted encouragement to the soldiers, but their voices were tense and strained. Gringolet w hinnied nervously as the scent of the beasts carried to him on the w ind.
'Easy,' said Calard as he patted the destrier's neck in reassurance. The steeds of the knights around him flattened their ears against their heads, and one of them reared, hooves flailing out blindly, but the knight quickly regained control of his mount.
A tall, hellish creature stepped from the forest, surrounded by heavily armoured beastmen. It clearly commanded respect from its minions, and silence descended around the clearing. The pounding of drums stopped mid-beat, and the horns were silenced. The braying and roaring of the beasts dropped aw ay, and even the massive w ar hounds slunk low to the ground, snarling, their tails betw een their legs, as the creature stepped forw ards.
Its face w as a mass of stitches, fur and skin, and three pairs of horns erupted from its head. It drew to a halt just metres from the forest edge, and stared up at the Bretonnians before it balefully. Thorns and briars flowed across the ground around it, erupting from the soil wherever the unnatural creature trod. Calard jerked as he felt the creature's eyes upon him, though that w as surely impossible, for the beast w as many hundreds of yards aw ay.
It slammed its tw isted, branch-like staff heavily into the ground, where it took root, bony tendrils penetrating the earth. The black birds overhead dropped like stones from the sky, sw ooping low over the battlefield to come to rest upon the branches of the staff, turning their malevolent, burning red eyes tow ards the defenders on the hill.
Lifting an arm, the creature extended a long, multi-jointed finger. It looked like the slender leg of a monstrous spider as it pointed tow ards the Bretonnians. To Calard, it felt as though the creature w as pointing directly at him.
A mighty roar echoed across the clearing. The cacophony of noise began anew, and the beastmen began loping tow ards the hill in the centre of the clearing.
From every side they came, like a w olf pack moving in for the kill.
GUNTHAR JERKED AWAKE, the sound of horns filling his ears. He reached for his sw ord, but hands held him dow n. He swore, fighting against them, kicking and thrashing. He almost passed out from the pain, but struggled to maintain consciousness.
'Leave him be,' said a voice, and the bodies pressing down on top of him eased aw ay.
Breathing heavily and covered in sweat, Gunthar swung his legs over the side of the pallet, and staggered to his feet, eyes darting around. His vision swam, and he reeled, his left leg giving way beneath him. He caught himself, and stood straight once more, though his left leg was shaking and unsteady.
His feverish eyes darted around, looking at the anxious faces of the peasants that had been holding him dow n.
'What in the Lady's name is going on?' Gunthar managed. In the distance, he could hear the hellish sounds of the enemy. 'The camp is under attack!' he said in shock, as realisation began to sink into his feverish mind.
'You must lie back, my lord!' said a small, middle-aged man emphatically. Gunthar recognised him as Montcadas's surgeon. The ageing man had a small saw in his hand, and w ore a dirty apron over his slight frame.
'Damned if I w ill,' snarled Gunthar. The peasants looked nervous and scared. He shouted for his arms and armour, and they jumped, but did not move to enact his order. Pain shot down his leg, and he was falling once more. He sat dow n heavily on the pallet. His brow was covered in sweat, and his vision blurred before him. He shook his head, and wiped a hand across his brow .
'The w ound is festering, my lord!' said the surgeon.
'You w ere going to take my leg, damn you!' raged Gunthar, realisation clawning on him.
The little surgeon guiltily placed the saw on a small table, upon w hich was laid all manner of knives and other implements. They looked like the tools of a torturer. The little man w rung his hands in front of him. 'It is the only way to save your life, my lord!'
'What a life that w ould be! No, I w ill not face that dishonour.' He licked his lips. His throat felt dry and thick. 'Bring me w ater!' he ordered one of the men, and a w ooden goblet w as pressed into his shaking hands. He put it to his lips, not caring that it was a crude drinking vessel fit only for a peasant. The w ater was cool and soothing, and he knocked it back in one long swig.
'You w ould be alive,' said the surgeon softly.
'I w ould rather be dead than live like that,' spat Gunthar. He realised that he was dressed in nothing more than a gow n over his underclothes, and he gingerly pulled back the cloth to look upon his w ound. He bit his lip as the material tore aw ay from the w ound, and he tasted blood in his mouth. His vision swam once more, but he blinked quickly, trying to focus his mind.
Around three inches above his knee, the injury he had sustained was angry and red, w eeping a sickly looking fluid, the flesh around it rotting and festering. He gagged at the stink of the w ound, despite the honey smeared over it.
He had seen enough w ounds in his time as a knight to know that if the leg was not removed the w ound w ould kill him. He stared at it in shock for a time, and sw ore under his breath. He heard men shouting orders outside in the gloom, and the roar of the enemy.
Gunthar's gaze hardened, and he turned tow ards the surgeon's underlings. They w ere still standing around awkwardly, unsure what to do. 'My arms and armour, damn you!' he shouted, making them jump again. 'Go and get them now ! And bring me my horse!'
The men looked to the surgeon nervously.
'What are you looking to him for? I am a knight of Bastonne, and you w ill obey me, or I shall see you hanged! Go! Now !'
The men fled, running to fulfil Gunthar's orders.
'You are in no state to fight, my lord!' the small man said w ith serious conviction.
Gunthar sw ung his fevered gaze back tow ards the diminutive surgeon, bristling in anger. The man's face w as lined with concern, and he felt the anger seep from him.
He w as so tired. It felt like he had been kicked and trampled by a w ild stallion.
Everything hurt. He sighed, his shoulders sagging.
'I know ,' he said finally, 'but I w ill not lie here while others are dying.'
'I w ill not lie to you, amputating a leg is not w ithout its risks,' said the little surgeon softly. 'I have performed the procedure tw enty-three times. Seven of those men died through loss of blood, and your age w ould count against you, but if the limb is not amputated you w ill die, no question. This I know with certainty. What good w ill you be to Bretonnia then?' He looked at Gunthar w ith weary eyes.
'You are right,' said Gunthar w ith resignation. 'My death might well mean nothing.
Whether I fight or not w ill not alter the outcome of the battle.' He sighed wearily, talking more to himself than to the surgeon. 'Fighting Ganelon was humbling. Fifteen years ago, I w ould have bested him w ithout breaking a sw eat. That duel made me feel old.'
'You still w on,' said the surgeon softly.
'Yes, and a skilful young knight of Bretonnia died,' said Gunthar. 'Who
is to say w hat great things he may have achieved had he lived? We will never know.' Gunthar laughed softly and w ithout humour.
'You could have many more years ahead of you, my lord. Who is to say w hat great things you may achieve?'
'Perhaps, but I have no w ish to live out the remainder of my years as an invalid, an embarrassing cripple unable to fight for my lord w hen the call to battle is sounded. I could not live like that.'
'So you choose to die?'
'I choose to die as a knight of Bretonnia,' Gunthar said weakly. 'I will ride to battle, w ith my sw ord in my hand and with the enemy in front of me, and, if such is to be my fate, I w ill die.'
The surgeon sighed, looking exhausted and dejected.
'I am no w arrior,' said the little man. 'I abhor violence in all its forms. I believe that life is a precious gift, and that it should not be set aside lightly. I have held the hands of hundreds of men as they died in torment from sickening wounds. I have seen countless young knights screaming in agony, tears of shame rolling down their faces as they lose control of their bodily functions. I have seen knights weep like babes as they try to hold their insides from spilling from their bellies. I see no pride in their deaths. I am not of noble birth, and as such perhaps I am incapable of understanding such things. Despite all of that, I will respect your w ish, even if I disagree w ith it. A man should always be allow ed to make his ow n choice of how he lives. Or dies.'
'Good. Now help me up,' said Gunthar.
A SINGLE ARROW w as loosed, soaring high into the air. 'Hold, damn you!'
The arrow arced high into the air before reaching the top of its trajectory. It seemed to hang in the sky for a moment, defying the forces that w ere pulling it back to earth, before hurtling dow n into the ground, sinking into the earth several hundred yards in front of the advancing mass of bodies.
Giant hounds, mutated far beyond their natural size, pounded across the grass, their tongues lolling from slavering mouths. They streamed out in a w ave before the beastmen running swiftly behind them. Like a deadly tide, they swarmed tow ards the Bretonnian lines.
Calard had to restrain his urge to drive his heels into Gringolet's sides, and charge out to meet them head-on. He could see that Bertelis was struggling w ith the same internal urges.
'I hate letting them come to us,' his half-brother said. 'The peasants will break and flee. Mark my w ords.'
'There is nowhere for them to flee,' remarked one of the knights at their side. Bertelis grunted in response.
More of the enemy w ere streaming from the trees on all sides, spilling out like arterial blood from a slashed vein.
'Lady above, but there are a lot of them,' said Calard.
At the base of the hill, stray arrows were being loosed by the Garamont bow men, despite the shouted orders to hold. Calard swore, and kicked his steed forward, leaving the formation.
He thundered dow n the hill, and rode along the front of the lines of peasants. He sw ung his horse around, his face angry.
'The next man that looses an arrow before he is ordered to w ill be cut dow n, here and now !' he roared. 'You w ill wait for the order!'
He turned to face the enemy, w hich was racing across the field in a solid mass, and lifted his lance high in the air. The night was lit with hundreds of torches and braziers, and though the moons had not yet risen, the numberless horde of the enemy could be easily picked out.
'Hold!' he shouted, his voice carrying over the righteous din. The open ground before the archers had been paced out, and Calard had memorised the distances. The closest enemy w as still almost three hundred and fifty yards aw ay. Though an exceptionally strong bow man may be able to fire such a distance, it was too far for the shot to be effective. 'Hold!'
The enemy closed with sickening speed, far quicker than a man could run, and Calard felt a bead of sw eat run dow n the side of his face. The slavering hounds in front began to outdistance the beastmen behind, racing over the grass with bounding leaps.
Calard blinked the sw eat out of his eyes, still holding his lance aloft. The enemy leapt the low scrub bushes that roughly marked three hundred yards distance. He resisted the urge to drop his lance and order the attack. He could see more details on the creatures now : the angry brands that had been seared into the flesh of the monstrous hounds, the bronze-covered tusks that sprouted from the massive jaw s of the largest beasts.
'Draw !' roared Calard, and the archers drew back their bow strings, lifting the long w eapons high.
The lead w ar hound, a monster of immense size with a row of horns sprouting from its head, passed a stand of low rocks that marked the tw o hundred and fifty yard mark.
'Now !' he roared, low ering his lance in the direction of the enemy. As one, the bow men loosed, and hundreds of arrow s hissed into the air. It looked like a dense flock of birds streaking high into the sky. Before they reached the fullness of their flight, a second volley w as loosed. The third was fired just as the first cloud of arrow s struck home.
There were roars of pain as the arrows sliced down into the massed enemy with lethal force. Scores fell as the arrows slammed home, driving through muscle and flesh. The enemy w as too far distant for the archers to pick out individual targets, but it didn't matter. They w ere so densely packed that almost every arrow found a mark.
The second volley struck, and Calard saw more beasts stumble and fall as the lethal shafts slammed into unprotected necks, heads and shoulders. A pair of arrow s had driven into the thick neck of the hound leading the pack, but it w as barely slow ed.
All around Adhalind's Seat, thousands of arrows were loosed in those first moments of battle, and countless hundreds of the enemy were felled. Those that did not die w ere trampled into the ground by those behind them.
Still, on the enemy came, charging through the devastating volleys tow ards the Bretonnian lines. As the distance closed, the bow fire became even more effective, and innumerable foes w ere cut dow n by the relentless storm of arrow s. Beasts w rithed in agony, pulling themselves forwards with their hands, desperate to be part of the carnage that w as about to erupt. The ground w as littered w ith thousands of tw itching bodies that struggled to rise, only to be crushed by the hooves and claw s of those pressing forward behind them.
Then the first wave of the enemy struck the Bretonnian lines, and the real bloodshed began.
RADEGAR'S HEART WAS beating fiercely, his breath rapid and shallow as the tw isted beasts of the forest screamed tow ards him. He clenched his hands around the rough-hew n shaft of his polearm, and licked his cracked lips, determined not to show his fear.
It had been a fine day w hen he had been chosen to join the Garamont soldiery. He didn't know how old he was, perhaps fourteen, and he had lined up alongside two hundred other young men, trying to stand tall and straight. He had been in awe as he stood beneath the shadow of the grand castle of his lord, and had gaped open-mouthed at the figure of Lord Lutheure, flanked by a dozen knights of the realm, fully garbed in their battle armour.
His heart had raced then as w ell.
'Don't slouch,' his father had said to him before he had left his home that morning, tw o hours before daw n, 'and if you are not chosen, do not return, for we cannot feed you.'
He had travelled by w agon that morning, along with the other hopefuls. Once a year, all the eligible peasants under Garamont's protection travelled to the castle in the hope of being picked to join the men-at-arms. The wagon had been filled with other boys his age, each one of them dreaming of joining the esteemed ranks of the soldiery.
He had puffed out his chest as the giant, scarred yeoman had stalked in front of the long line of hopefuls, a deep scowl upon his face. Fully half the gathered peasants he had dismissed instantly for being too small or w eak from malnutrition. Others were dismissed because of their hunched backs, or because one of their limbs w as w asted and useless. Others were sent home because their club-like hands were incapable of holding a w eapon, and others because they w ere plainly simp
le in the head, drool dribbling from their slack lips.
Unlike his younger brother, w ho had passed into Morr's care the previous winter, Radegar w as lucky enough to have been born w ith tw o arms and tw o legs, and his hands w ere fully functional, even though he had six fingers on his left. He was broad-shouldered, though when relaxed they tended to slump inwards, and his arms w ere strong from hard labour.
Every time the brutal yeoman stalked past, Radegar w ould pull his shoulders square and stand tall, trying to look as strong and capable as possible. Nervousness had claw ed at him as the group w as w hittled down, and his heart had soared as he w as chosen to pass through to the next round of cuts.
The remaining boys had been given wooden staves, and organised into pairs. Radegar had been paired up w ith a boy from his ow n village, who was tall for his age. In the bout that had follow ed, Radegar had knocked the boy senseless. He did not feel any remorse.
He had grinned like an idiot when he had been chosen to join the ranks of the men-at-arms, and he had w illingly sworn his oath before the castellan with eleven others that had been deemed w orthy.
He had been given five copper coins, and his hands had shook as he held them. He had never even seen such a princely sum of money, let alone held it in his hands.
One of the coins was taken from him instantly, to pay for the costs of his burial should he fall in battle. Three others were used to pay for his weapon, his tabard, his leather cap and his board. He had felt seven feet tall when he had first worn the tabard, after he had scrubbed out the blood of its previous ow ner.
It w as Castellan Lutheure's duty to provide protection for those in his service, and he had fulfilled this commitment by presenting each of the recruits with a long, rectangular shield bearing the Garamont colours and heraldry. They had seen much service already, but Radegar didn't care. Of course, if he allowed the shield to be damaged or, Shallya forbid, he lost it, he would be taxed accordingly, but Radegar had been too thrilled at receiving his post to be concerned. His final copper coin had gone to pay for training though he had received two copper bits after his first six months of service. Proudly, he had organised one of them to be given to his family, and the other had gone tow ards his board.
Warhammer - Knight Errant Page 23