Warhammer - Knight of the Realm

by Anthony Reynolds

  He w as a w ily old wolf, Styrbjorn. That w as the reason the jarl had ruled as long as he had. Normally, a chieftain of his age w ould have long since been supplanted by a younger, stronger aspiring champion, but Styrbjorn w as cunning. He could outthink his younger rivals. It w as a rare gift, and Bjarki looked forward to seeing what ploy the old w olf would employ against the southlanders.

  'Their pride will be their downfall,' predicted Styrbjorn. 'And they will fall hard.'

  CALARD AND THE other knights from the tournament rode into Duke Adalhard of Lyonesse's camp close to midnight, bone-w eary, aching and cold. They had ridden ahead of the low born men-at-arms and archers, w ho w ere unable to keep up the pace. The footsloggers would likely not reach the camp before daw n.

  Storm clouds w ere building overhead, blotting out the stars and the moons, and snow had been falling since nightfall. Already, it w as several feet thick on the ground, and several inches were being added with every passing hour.

  The camp w as a hive of activity when they rode in, despite the late hour, with hundreds of flaming braziers lighting up the area like day. Thousands of peasants ran to and fro, busy on errands and mundane tasks, and a great many knights w ere already fully armoured and mounted up, in readiness for attack. From the northern outskirts of the camp, came shouts and the sound of w eapons clashing and it w as clear that the Norscans w ere already launching probing attacks, testing the Bretonnians' defences. It was obvious that few would be getting sleep this night.

  Laudethaire made a special effort to come out and greet Calard and the other w eary knights as they rode into camp, making a show of how rested he was, and Calard's mood darkened as he saw the smirk on the noble's face.

  Garamont servants had ridden ahead and made tents and food ready for the brothers, and w hile they were hungry and the idea of a soft pallet w as tempting, Calard and the other noble lords made their w ay tow ards the duke's pavilion, to present themselves to him before seeking sustenance and rest.

  The duke w as a man of middling years, a tall knight with dark, shoulder-length hair w ho w ore an expression that showed he clearly did not suffer fools. He was garbed for w ar, and a fine red tabard bearing a silver lion-head design hung over his exquisite suit of plate. A cloak made from the pelt of a lion w as swept over one shoulder, and seeing the skin of the mighty beast Calard w as reminded of the tales of Gilles le Breton and his companions he had learnt at his father's knee.

  Thierulf, closest friend and devoted ally of Gilles, harkened from the lands now know n as Lyonesse, and it w as said that w hen he was no more than a boy he slew a marauding lion w ith his bare hands. Skinning the beast and w rapping its still bloody fur around his body, Thierulf returned to his father's hill fort in triumph, and his legend w as born. It w as in honour of this great hero that the nobles of Lyonesse, particularly those w ho claimed descent from Thierulfs bloodline, incorporated a lion into their heraldry in some form or other.

  Calard w as instantly impressed with Duke Adalhard. The aura of authority around the man w as palpable; this w as a man w ho w as used to being instantly obeyed, and yet it w as obvious that he w as a w arrior first and foremost. He had no doubt that the duke w ould be leading the charge once battle w as met; he had the air of one who w ould not shirk from battle.

  'Lyonesse thanks you all for your sw ift response,' the duke said to the gathered, w eary nobles. 'With your aid, we shall w ipe the field of these barbarian invaders, and w in a great victory on the morn. You've ridden hard, and I thank you for that. Get some rest - I'll need you fresh tomorrow .'

  'On the morn, duke?' questioned one of the knights. 'Are not the Norscans already assailing us? Is not battle already underw ay?'

  'There is no real strength behind their attacks,' said Duke Adalhard. 'It's all bluster.

  They are merely trying to keep us in a state of readiness and tension, to sap our strength before tomorrow - that is w hen the real battle w ill take place. Get some rest.

  My men w ill ensure that the attacks are nothing more than feints.'

  The duke's gaze settled on Calard, and he reddened beneath the stern warrior's gaze.

  There were only fourteen dukes in all of Bretonnia, each ruling over one of the ancient dukedoms formed w hen Gilles le Breton unified the Bretonni tribes. As such, the Duke of Lyonesse w as one of the most pow erful individuals in all of Bretonnia, and Calard felt aw ed merely to be in his presence. He lowered his gaze as the duke's eyes narrow ed.

  Your bloodline is tainted.

  Again he heard Maloric's voice, the words stinging him. Did the same corruption that had spaw ned his mutated, hateful beast-brother reside in him?

  'It is Garamont, isn't it?' said the duke finally, snapping Calard from his doubts. He looked up, startled to have been picked out, and even more shocked that the duke knew his family.

  'Yes, my lord,' he managed, and the duke nodded his head sagely.

  Calard felt incredibly self-conscious as dozens of pairs of eyes turned towards him.

  Knights w ho had previously barely registered his presence now looked at him w ith new found respect. Just being recognised by the duke had clearly raised him in their esteem.

  'I knew your old w eapon master, Gunthar,' said Duke Adalhard of Lyonesse. 'A good man. Best sw ordsman I ever met. I w as saddened to hear of his passing.'

  'Thank you, lord,' said Calard. 'Not a day goes past that I do not miss his presence.'

  Calard breathed out and w iped a hand across his brow as the duke's attention shifted aw ay from him.

  The snow continued to fall as preparations for the next day's battle w ere made, and w ith the sounds of Norscan war drums, horns and shouts echoing through the night, Calard finally allowed himself to succumb to his exhaustion. Half an hour after meeting the duke, he fell into a fitful sleep in his tent, dreaming of blood and fire, haunted by how ling warriors with the faces of wolves. Inevitably, his dreams shifted, and again he faced the ethereal, terrifying apparition of the Green Knight.

  Again he w as powerless, stricken with paralysing fear before the ghostly spectre. It loomed before him, brandishing its dolorous blade, surrounded by coiling fog.

  'Face me!' the Green Knight taunted, and Calard aw oke lathered in sweat.

  It w as dark, still an hour or so before daw n. He had been asleep for no more than an hour. Nevertheless, Calard pushed himself from his pallet; he would get no further sleep this night.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THE SNOW HAD continued to fall throughout the night, and the landscape was blanketed in a thick, unspoiled layer of white. Within an hour the blood of thousands w ould be splashed across it, the battlefield churned into a quagmire of slush and mud, but for now it w as pristine and virginal.

  The early morning sun was hidden behind thick clouds. Not a sound rose from the Bretonnian battle line other than the snap of standards blow ing in the wind and the occasional w hinny of horses. Peasants held the reins of their lords' steeds as the knights knelt in the snow, heads bow ed as they prayed to the Lady of the Lake, invoking her protection in the coming battle.

  Relentless drumming could be heard from the Norse lines, a mile and a half further along the valley, but the sound w as muffled by the w orsening storm. The howl of w ind muted all other sound, and swirling eddies of snow ensured that the enemy w ere indistinct and hazy in the distance.

  Such a blizzard w as unnatural, particularly so early into w inter, and Calard w ondered if there might not be some diabolic sorcery at w ork.

  His eyes w ere closed tightly and his lips moved silently as he beseeched the Lady for her protection. Warmth infused him as he whispered his prayer, dispelling the icy chill from his limbs, making him feel rested and strong. All doubt w ashed away as he felt the pow er of the goddess upon him, and he was confident that by day's end the Bretonnians would be victorious.

  A horn sounded and Calard completed his ritual prayers, blinking his eyes as he came back to the present. Still feeling the warmth of the Lady's bl
essing within him, he mounted his armoured destrier and accepted a w ar lance as it was handed to him.

  Across the battle line, some ten-thousand other knights swung up into the saddle, all having prayed to receive the blessings of the goddess. Five times that number of peasants w ere ranked up in deep formations behind the knights. They had not prayed; the Lady of the Lake w as a goddess of the nobility, and no peasant w as allow ed to w orship her - not that she w ould answer them if they did. The idea that the goddess w ould care for the lowborn masses, who had no understanding of honour or chivalry, was laughable.

  The valley was open and flat, almost tw o miles wide and clear of rocks and trees. It w as the perfect horseman's battlefield, and it suited the Bretonnian w ay of doing battle to fight the enemy here. The sides of the valley rose up to hills, and although it w as now completely obscured by the blizzard, Calard knew that a massive motte w as located at the enemy's back.

  As a predominately infantry army, one might have expected the Norscans to position themselves atop that motte, forcing the Bretonnians to assail them there, but it seemed that the Norse w ere eager for battle, and had marched forward to meet the Bretonnians head-on.

  Already, yeomen outriders were riding those hills, ensuring that no enemy forces w ould outflank the Bretonnians. The weather w as too severe to allow Laudethaire and his pegasus knights to overfly the enemy army, and the exact number and disposition of the enemy forces was vague. Nevertheless, it w as clear that if one discounted the peasant men-at-arms and bow men w ho were unreliable in battle at best and a liability at w orst, the Norscans outnumbered the Bretonnians, but not by a substantial margin. Considering that the bulk of the Norscan army w as on foot, and that most of them w ore little in the way of armour, the odds w ere considered favourable.

  From w hat little had been garnered by the yeomen scouts, the enemy w ere forming up in a w ide advance, with a strong centre. It w as there in the centre that the most heavily armoured w arriors had been seen, and it was likely there that the enemy chieftain had positioned himself. Light cavalry had been seen ranging out on the flanks. The duke had positioned his knights accordingly. The enemy appeared to have little in the way of missile fire, and lacked the long pikes and spears that w ere the bane of knightly formations, and so the duke's plan was to hit them hard and fast, to ride them dow n in one concentrated charge that w ould rip the heart out of the enemy army.

  The knights of Couronne and L'Anguille were still a day and a halfs march to the north, but it seemed to Calard that trying to forestall battle until their arrival was unnecessary. Clearly the Duke of Lyonesse had come to the same conclusion, though Calard w ondered how much of his decision had to do w ith his running feud w ith L'Anguille. For decades there had been tension betw een the two dukedoms, and border disputes and bloodshed betw een their nobles had become commonplace.

  Muffled shouts could be heard on the w ind, and banners were dipped and w aved as orders w ere passed. In response, several thousand lightly armoured peasant bow men ran lightly forward on the flanks of the knightly formations, and the mounted yeomen on the extreme left w ing began cantering out w ide.

  The bow men trotted through the snow ahead of the main battle line and Calard sw ore. He w as freezing, and he just w ished the battle w ould commence so he could get moving and w arm up. Despite all his best efforts, snow had seeped through the joints of his armour and melted, soaking the padding against his skin and making his limbs shiver uncontrollably.

  'Come on,' he said. A trickle of melted snow slid dow n the back of his neck, and he grimaced in discomfort. He brushed snow from his shoulders, feeling the chill through his gauntlets, and kicked away the ice that had formed on his stirrups.

  Muffled drums echoed in the distance, and Calard felt a brief flicker of trepidation as he heard w olves howling above the gale. Monstrous, trumpeting horns blared in the distance, and Calard briefly pondered the size of the instruments needed to make such a sound. The crisp, clear sound of Bretonnian horns blared, signalling the advance.

  'At last,' murmured Calard.

  The knights began to move at the command, w alking their steeds forward through the snow while tens of thousands of men-at-arms marched behind.

  Duke Adalhard w as situated in the centre of the army, surrounded by his most senior knights, all bedecked in the finest armour that money could buy. The duke's standard bearer held aloft the famous banner of Lyonesse, an embroidered, four hundred year old tapestry depicting the hero Thierulf, wearing his trademark lion pelt, standing atop a pile of dead greenskins, his head surrounded by a halo of light.

  It w as a revered artefact rumoured to have the hair of elven princesses w oven into its design, and it was said that no army fighting under it had ever lost.

  The knights of Bastonne had once again formed up together, though it left a bad taste in Calard's mouth to be forced to fight alongside Maloric and his Sangasse lapdogs. Despite his lack of sleep, Calard's mind felt more focused that it had done in months - most likely due to his refusal to partake in any w ine since the abandonment of the tourney, four days earlier. His senses were as alert as they had ever been; perhaps a blessing of the goddess. He vowed that he would outdo Maloric this day.

  All across the field, scores of knightly formations moved forwards through the storm, standard bearers straining against the wind to keep their banners upright. Horses snorted and stamped their hooves impatiently as the icy winds blasted, driving snow against them. Calard patted the neck of his destrier, murmuring soothing w ords that w ere sw allowed by the gale.

  Out ahead, the peasant bow men took up positions on the flanks, angling their lines up against those of the enemy in the far distance. Under the barking orders of villeins and yeomen, and w ith more than a few cuffs to the backs of heads of the more dull-w itted of the inbred sots, the bow men set themselves, planting arrow s point first into the ground in front of them. They did not draw yet, for while the enemy would have been at the extreme of their range under normal circumstances, the blizzard and blustering w inds were such that firing at anything more than half the regular longbow range w ould have been pointless.

  Calard had his visor dow n to keep the biting wind off his face, and he squinted through the blizzard, trying to see the enemy. They were nothing more than vague shadow s in the distance now, and as blasts of w ind and snow whipped across the valley, they w ere almost completely obscured. Calard prayed that the scouts had been correct in their appraisal of the Norse battle lines, for by the time they got close enough to see the enemy lines clearly it would be far too late to alter the battle plan.

  Nevertheless, Calard knew that there were few forces in the entire world that could stand against a concentrated Bretonnian heavy cavalry charge, and he had little doubt that today w ould once again reassert the dominance of the Bretonnian knight.

  Even if this vile w eather was some sorcery of the enemy, it would avail them little.

  The snow was certainly not deep enough to hamper the pow erful destriers they rode, and the centre of the valley dropped aw ay slightly to either side, ensuring that the deeper snow drifts were located off to the flanks, far from the action that w ould be taking place in the centre of the field.

  All ten-thousand knights w ere moving forwards now, the entire noble contingent of the army bar some four hundred knights that w ere being held back as a tactical reserve. One mighty charge, concentrated at the enemy's centre, and the battle w ould be as good as over. The knights out on the w ings w ould ride forward as if they were going to assault the flanks of the enemy, before angling inwards once the enemy had no time to react to the change of direction, and they would smash into the centre along w ith the bulk of the Lyonessian force.

  It w as a simple plan, but one that many Bretonnian generals had used to good effect on dozens of battlefields.

  Calard and the other knights of Bastonne were located towards the right of the centre, formed up behind an uninspired but w ealthy and influential knight of their lands, Lo
rd Sigibold, who was the most senior knight of their party since Baron Montcadas had been forced to leave them. He w as a capable w arrior, though Calard recognised that he was a poor leader of men, and it had been w ith some reticence that the knights of Garamont had fallen in behind him.

  Calard's cousin Tassilo had summed the man up w ell w hen he described him as

  ' deeply average in all regards''. No one disliked the man, but no one really liked him either, and it w as clear for all to see that he was far out of his depth.

  Still, Calard doubted that even Lord Sigibold could possibly make a mess of leading the Bastonnians today. All the knights of Bastonne were seasoned warriors, and w hile Calard and Bertelis were the knights with the least experience of them all, they w ere far from the eager young knights errant that they had been a year earlier.

  Horn blasts sounded, and the knights all along the battle line urged their steeds into a canter. They passed by the bow men on each flank, kicking up pow der as the destriers' momentum began to increase.

  Dark, low clouds hung over the Norscan army and it seemed to Calard that they w ere somehow unnatural; they were too dark, too low , and they seemed to shift and pulse like a living creature, their shape in constant fluctuation.

  Pushing the thought aside, he concentrated on making sure he kept tight with the knights around him, and as their pace increased, the knights seamlessly formed the w edged lance formation that had proven so deadly against the enemies of Bretonnia for so many centuries. Deadly and with the full w eight of armoured men and horses behind it, the lance formation was able to punch through the most resilient defences and drive deep into formations, dividing them and sending men scattering. Indeed, many times all it took w as for an army to see the Bretonnians thundering towards them en masse to send them fleeing the battlefield; it w as a brave - or foolish - man w ho w illingly stood in front of a charging knight, let alone an entire army of them.