Warhammer - Knight of the Realm

by Anthony Reynolds

  'She frequently suffered fits,' continued Folcard. 'She w ould fall to the ground, her limbs shaking and foam frothing from her mouth. It w as clear to everyone but Lutheure that she w as... unclean. When she gave birth to Calard, everything seemed to be in order. There was no obvious corruption in him, and I prayed to the Lady that his blood w as pure. All seemed well, and indeed even Yvette's fits became infrequent.

  When she became pregnant again, Lutheure was ecstatic. She gave birth to a daughter; Anara. Truly, in all the days that w ere to come later, I never saw him happier than at that moment.'

  Calisse bristled, but Folcard continued on, lost in the past.

  'But it did not last long. The midwives refused to hold the baby girl. She w as no more than w eeks old, but they said that they could hear the babe's voice in their minds.

  There was something terribly w rong with Anara, and in the years that followed, it became clear that she shared her mother's curse. She was of the fey; touched in the head, abnormal. She w ould hug a kitten to her chest, and cry out in horror as its heart stopped beating. She w ould stroke one of Lutheure's hounds, only for its eyes to start bleeding; as much as she cried, it would be dead w ithin the day. She w ould see things that had not yet come to pass. She could hear people's thoughts. Everyone hated her, and w orse, she could read the hatred in their hearts. There was much relief in the court w hen the Enchantress took her away.'

  Lady Calisse shifted uncomfortably. Though Anara w as now a young w oman, a holy damsel of the Lady no less, their brief meeting had left Calisse terrified.

  'But still w orse was to come, and it w as this that proved Yvette's blood w as truly cursed. Once again, she was heavy with child, though this time the pregnancy was difficult. She travelled to Bordeleaux, to be near her mother for the birth, which was long and bloody. She birthed an abomination. I w ill not dwell on it, for you saw the foul creature w ith your ow n eyes. I curse the day that it w as allowed to live. Yvette hurled herself to her death in horror and shame.'

  'Would that she had courage to have done so a decade earlier,' said Calisse. 'She might have spared all of us the horror of her foul get. But w hat relevance does this lesson in the sordid Garamont family history have?'

  'Calard might appear w holesome and untainted, but the same blood that runs in the veins of his freak sister, the same foetid blood that ran through the veins of the abomination, runs in his own. By his bloodline, that of cursed Yvette, he is tainted. I love Garamont more than life itself, and I will not stand by and see its line devolve.

  Who is to say that w ere Calard to sire an heir, that son w ould not be a debased bestial fiend? No, I cannot allow such a chance. Thus, for the good of the line of Garamont, Calard must die.'

  Calisse w ore a look of repugnance on her face. She could not fault Folcard's logic, nor even his twisted loyalty. Her ow n desires were far more straightforward; she merely w anted to see her ow n son succeed her husband, not her stepson.

  'It w ould seem that w e are in accord,' said Calisse. 'We both w ant to see Bertelis become castellan.'

  'That w ould seem to be the case,' said Folcard, somew hat reluctantly.

  'Then, what do you propose w e do about it?'

  'Things are already in hand, Lady Calisse,' said Folcard.

  'Ah,' said Calisse. 'I should have expected as much. You are so very efficient, aren't you, Folcard?'

  'I do my best, lady,' his haw k-like eyes glinting. 'Now if that is all, I will return to my duties.'

  'Fine,' said Calisse, dismissing him with a languid gesture.

  With barely a sound, the stick-thin chamberlain backed off into the darkness and w as gone.

  She plucked herself a heavy, blood-red grape from the bow l at her side, and popped it into her mouth.

  'Very fine indeed,' said Calisse to herself.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE PEASANTS WERE clustered behind the dry stone wall, cowering against the w ind and rain, pressed together for warmth. There was almost a score of them, and w hile they had tried to make a fire their kindling was soaked through and would not take. They had at last given up, and w ere now shivering beneath their rotting shared blankets, each lost in his or her own bleak thoughts.

  There were only a handful of them; the last pilgrims of a living saint, the hallowed grail knight Reolus of Quenelles.

  Once they had followed their glorious idol wherever he went, traipsing across the countryside and proclaiming his brilliance to w hoever would listen. They had gloried in the magnificence of just being near him, and they had eagerly performed any mundane tasks that they thought might ingratiate themselves into his favour: collecting wood for his fire, delivering him fresh game, lovingly polishing his boots w ith their spit if he left them outside his tent.

  They had w orshipped the ground Reolus walked on - literally - for it w as clear for all to see that the blessing of the Lady w as upon him. He had drunk from the sacred grail of the goddess, and the power of the Lady infused him. The grail knight was, in their minds, the holiest, most devout paladin in all of Bretonnia, and perhaps just by being close to him, they might themselves share in a sliver of his blessed glory.

  They had not clapped eyes on the object of their devotion for almost tw o seasons.

  They had accompanied him to Bordeleaux, there to fight the foul greenskins and beasts of the forest. Some forty-odd pilgrims had fallen in those battles, but they had done so gladly, hoping that in death they might be noticed by their idol. Nevertheless, once victory had been attained, the grail knight had entered a sacred copse of trees and never come out. In the blink of an eye, he had travelled across Bretonnia, leaving his pilgrims lost and in despair.

  Immediately, they had set out to find him. Their journey had taken them hundreds of miles as they chased rumours of w here he had been. They were run out of villages and pelted w ith stones, and several of their comrades had hung from the gallows for crossing the land of a Bordelen lord. They had entered Bastonne, for that is where they had been told he had travelled, but there they learnt that he had headed north, into Gisoreux.

  The pilgrims had been forced to scrounge food w here they could, and more of their number had hung w hen they were caught poaching on the estates of a Gisoren noble lady. In truth, it had been lucky that any of them had escaped. Then they had backtracked into Bastonne, having missed their lord by less than a day, but a w eek later they had lost his trail. A bear had killed two more of their number w hen they had tried to take shelter w ithin a cave, and another had starved to death only days earlier. They had stripped his body and left him in a ditch, donning his clothes in an attempt to stave off the cold. Winter was closing in, and their predicament was only going to w orsen. They were now in central Bastonne, and had no idea in which direction they should go to seek their lord and master.

  Still, devout and full of faith that they would be reunited with the living saint, they continued to carry w ith them a varied melange of sacred objects: a broken shoe that Reolus had once w orn, a gourd from w hence he had drunk, a bone w ith meat still clinging to it, long rancid and filled with wriggling maggots, that he had chewed once and discarded, along with a host of other holy artefacts.

  Several of the pilgrims wore scraps of royal blue cloth edged in silver, torn from Reolus's discarded tunics, tabards and cloaks. The most holy of these fabrics bore a good sized portion of Reolus's sacred heraldry - a silver unicorn upon a field of blue -

  and this w as w orn proudly upon the chest of Chlod, the leader of the pilgrims, a hunchbacked peasant w ith a lopsided face.

  An opportunistic liar, murderer and thief, Chlod had bullied and lied his way to become the leader of the pilgrims, not out of any sense of actual faith or devotion, but for purely selfish reasons. As the abbot of this ragtag group, he had the pick of any food and scraps that they managed to scrounge, and he enjoyed ordering the others around. He had only joined the pilgrims in the first place as a means of hiding from retribution after he had been one of a handful of peasants
hired to kill a nobleman.

  The murder of the young knight - Calard of Garamont - had failed, and while the other peasants had been caught, tortured and hung Chlod had managed to avoid the clutches of the yeomanry.

  Chlod w as currently having the crown of his head shaved to the scalp by another of the pilgrims, a thick-bodied w oman covered in mud and faeces. Her tongue jutted from the corner of her mouth as she concentrated. A rat poked its head out from the neck of Chlod's shirt, tw itching its whiskers. Momentarily distracted, the woman's hand slipped, and she sliced his scalp with her rusted blade.

  'Stupid w oman,' said Chlod, turning and thumping her in the face with a meaty fist.

  She fell backw ards with a cry, shielding her face from further assault. Chlod touched a hand to his head. He w inced, and his fingers came aw ay bloody. There were still several clumps of hair clinging to his shaved crown, but he decided that he didn't w ant the w oman coming near him w ith her knife again today.

  Several of the pilgrims were eyeing his rat, licking their lips, and he shoved the creature back under his clothing, glaring at them.

  'You ain't eating him,' he growled. 'You can eat each other first.'

  'Lord Reolus the holy w ill deliver sustenance into our hands,' said a toothless pilgrim, his eyes filled with passion and belief.

  'Wish he'd do it soon,' muttered Chlod.

  One of the peasants stood up, stretching his back. He squinted through the rain for a moment, looking back along the muddy road on the other side of the low, stone wall behind w hich his companions cowered. His eyes widened, and he dropped to the ground behind the w all.

  'Someone's coming!' he said in loud w hisper.

  The pilgrims shrunk further under their grimy blankets, as if trying to disappear beneath them.

  'Who?' said Chlod.

  'Don't know ,' came the reply.

  'Is it a patrol?'

  'Don't know !' said the pilgrim, in a belligerent voice. 'Shh!'

  'Don't know ,' repeated the pilgrim, quieter this time.

  'Well, find out, then,' said Chlod, in a bullish stage w hisper, a heavy, spiked club clenched in his hands.

  The pilgrim turned around and w arily poked his head up over the top of the w all. He looked around for a moment, then ducked back dow n.

  'It's a w oman,' he said. 'A lady.'

  'A lady?' said Chlod, his brow s drawing together. Curious, he scrambled around, shuffling aw kwardly, and squinted over the wall.

  She w as w alking along the road tow ards them, her head lowered as the rain lashed at her. She w ore a long purple dress that clung to her body, completely soaked through as it w as, and despite the fact that its hems were tattered and dragged in the mud, the material w as clearly rich. Chlod imagined the rings that the lady undoubtedly w ore on her fingers, the earrings that w ould pierce her lobes and quickly calculated w hat price he might be able to get for her hair. He licked his lips.

  His eyes scanned the area around the lady, for what lady of renown w ould travel by herself, especially in such weather? As much as he tried, however, he could spy no guards accompanying her, no knights, no servants.

  'Looks like Reolus delivered,' he said with a feral, lopsided grin.

  The other peasants were peering over the wall now too. 'You think she might have some food to spare?' said the thick-limbed, female pilgrim.

  'I think that the price we'd get for her dress alone would keep us fed for a year,' said Chlod, not taking his eye off his prize.

  'But... she's a lady,' exclaimed another of the pilgrims, a stick-thin man of middling years w ith a gaunt face.

  'We'd all hang if w e so much as looked at her funny,' said another.

  'There ain't no one around to see w hat happens,' said Chlod. 'And besides - if we don't get nothing to eat soon, how will we be able to serve our lord Reolus? Won't be much good to him dead.'

  'But... she's a lady!' said the gaunt faced pilgrim.

  Chlod pulled his predatory gaze aw ay from the noblew oman, and glared at the speaker.

  'How many ladies you know w hat w ander around in the rain and the mist, all on their lonesome? She's a w anton, and no mistake,' he said. 'That's probably w hy Reolus sent her to us - Bretonnia'd be better off w ithout her.'

  'You really think Reolus would want us to rob her, Chlod?' said the gaunt faced man, his eyes w ide.

  The hunchbacked pilgrim nodded his head solemnly.

  'I think it's our duty, as his holy pilgrims, to do so,' he said.

  Chlod couldn't care less w hat Reolus might wish for him to do. All he cared about w as his ow n skin. Murdering a noblewoman didn't bother him in the slightest, so long as he got aw ay w ith it. He'd done w orse.

  He risked a glance over the w all again and saw the lady was no more than tw enty paces aw ay. Her path w ould take her close to the wall. Her dark, sodden hair was loose, and obscured her face. Gesturing for silence, he pointed for three of his companions to craw l back along the w all some way. He gritted his teeth in frustration at the racket they made, but glancing through a hole in the wall, he saw that the lady w as still coming, seemingly oblivious to the danger.

  When she was no more than a few yards off, Chlod leapt to his feet.

  'Now !' he shouted, and w ith some difficulty, he clambered over the w all. His club foot clipped its top, dislodging a few stones, and he fell flat on his face. Righting himself quickly, he hobbled out into the roadw ay brandishing his spiked club, leering at the young lady before him, w ho had stopped moving as soon as he appeared. Had his intentions not been murderous, his appearance might well have been comical.

  Three others leapt out onto the road behind the lady, brandishing broken swords, cudgels and knives, and he felt the reassuring presence of another behind him.

  The w oman was young, barely out of her teens. Had she been of low birth she would already have spaw ned half a dozen youngsters and her back w ould be bent from w orking in the fields, but this w as a noblewoman. She had no need to w ork, and her back w as straight, her skin as flawless as alabaster, and Chlod grinned as he saw the flash of silver on her fingers.

  'Don't move, now , young miss, and you w on't come to no harm,' he lied, his fingers tense on the haft of his dub.

  He edged tow ards her, moving slowly as if not to frighten her, and the other pilgrims closed in silently. She was like a rabbit cornered by hounds.

  The young lady though, it seemed, had no intention of running. Indeed, she showed not the slightest hint of fear, which made Chlod uneasy. This was not how the rabbit w as meant to act. His eyes passed her, trying to spot her guards, but the road w as clear. From beneath her lank hair, he saw the lady's lips begin to move as she began to mouth something under her breath.

  'Take her!' he barked, hefting his spiked club in both hands, intending to brain her w ith the brutal w eapon and be done w ith it.

  'I think not,' said the girl. There was something strange about her voice, and it gave the pilgrims pause.

  Chlod saw one of her eyes then, wide and malicious, staring out from behind rain-slick strands of black hair. He thought he saw shadows moving in the periphery of his vision, but he could not drag his gaze aw ay from the horrifying stare of the girl.

  Unholy pow er beyond the ken of simple folk lurked there. In her terrifying black eyes, he saw an ancient soul long condemned to darkness.

  Too late he realised his error. This was no defenceless noblewoman. This was something else entirely, something ancient and vile.

  The girl's mouth continued to move, incanting softly.

  Shadow s shifted with malevolent purpose around him. He felt a chill as one of the shades passed by him, and the pilgrim behind him toppled face first into the mud w ithout a sound, blood bursting from his eyes, ears and nose.

  The shadows closed in, and Chlod knew that his end had come. He could hear them w hispering to him, their insane, indecipherable voices filled with hatred and an unquenchable hunger.

  'Wait,' said the girl, her voice makin
g his skin crawl. The shadows paused, hissing angrily.

  Chlod just stared at the girl-w itch, his eyes wide in horror. She smiled from beneath her w ild nest of hair. It was not a pleasant smile.

  'You'd like to serve me, w ouldn't you?' she said.

  Chlod threw himself into the mud before her.

  * * *

  THE SILVER MOON of Mannslieb w as high overhead when Calard and his companions finally crested a rise and saw the tournament camp laid out before them.

  The night was bitterly cold as winter drew in, but the sounds of laughter and music, and the smell of roasting venison and boar w armed their spirits.

  They had crossed over the border of Artois the previous evening passing into the lands of Lyonesse, on the north-western coast of Bretonnia. They had ridden through the night, stopping only briefly for a few hours rest before pushing on. The previous night had been the same, and everyone w as saddle-weary and drained. Still, they w ere here now, and the tournament proper was not due to commence until first light the next morn.

  Tournaments w ere encouraged by king and duke in times of relative peace as a means of keeping the knights of Bretonnia battle-ready and their skills sharp. While the southern lands of Carcassone and Brionne were currently at w ar, besieged by a plague of verminous skaven emerging from beneath the Vaults, and the north of Quenelles was being subjected to bloody attacks from a clan of ogres descending from the Massif Orcals, much of Bretonnia w as currently untouched by w ar on any scale large enough for the call to reach L'Anguille, Lyonesse or Artois, hence this tourney.

  Many of the nobles present w ould have arrived a w eek ago or more - or at least sent their servants ahead of them, in order to claim the best site for their tents and though there w ould already have been countless individual bouts, jousts and many drunken nights of feasting, it w as for tomorrow 's event that the gathering had met. It w as the highlight of the w eek's entertainment, and judging from the number of tents pitched across the lowlands, it would be one of particularly impressive scale.