Warhammer - Knight of the Realm

by Anthony Reynolds

  Seeing the rout, Bertelis swore and jerked on his reins, bringing his nervous steed back under control.

  'We die here, then,' Bertelis shouted over the roar of the w ind. 'We'll take as many of these w horeson bastards as w e can w ith us.'

  'No,' shouted Calard, shaking his head. 'We have to pull back. There is no victory to be had here!'

  'Cow ard!' shouted a voice, and Calard spun to see Maloric. 'You'd bring dishonour upon the knights of Bastonne by fleeing like peasants?'

  Some four hundred yards ahead, another fiery comet of death roared dow n through blizzard, and though its impact w as hidden in the gusting snow-flurries, the ground shook beneath them as it struck home, and screams could be heard dimly from w ithin the snowstorm.

  'This battle is lost!' bellow ed Calard. 'What good w ill more deaths do? Alive, we can seek vengeance!'

  'The battle is not over yet!' snarled Maloric. 'Knights of Bastonne! To me!'

  Calard cursed, but the milling knights rallied to the call, dragging themselves into order, and Maloric raised his voice to address them.

  'We must ride to the aid of the Duke of Lyonesse!' bellow ed Maloric, raising his sword into the air. 'It is our duty as the king's knights! Are you w ith me?'

  Muted cries of affirmation answered the Sangasse noble, though Calard remained silent, his face dark. The wind changed direction suddenly, and Calard could see the Norscans closing in, thousands upon thousands of them - they appeared to be in no particular hurry.

  'I'll not follow a Sangasse dog,' snarled Tassilo.

  'Then be branded a cow ard and a traitor,' retorted Maloric, loud enough for all to hear, and the nobles affiliated with Garamont bristled in anger. Tassilo brandished his sw ord, but Calard halted him w ith a barked order.

  'The king would wish us to ride to his brother duke's aid!' roared Maloric, infuriated by the reticence of Calard and his knights. 'We ride now, w ith or w ithout you, Garamont!'

  Calard's cousins looked to him to make his decision. He could feel Bertelis's gaze upon him, and he knew that his brother w anted to fight, even if that meant following the Sangasse noble. His every instinct told him that it w as folly, but reluctantly, Calard nodded.

  'Fine,' he said.

  As one the Bastonnians broke into a gallop, charging into the snowstorm after the duke and the bulk of his army, riding hard. They could see little, though Calard knew the enemy w ere near at hand, and he felt certain that this ride was doomed.

  They came upon the army of Lyonesse abruptly as the w inds shifted, and they saw that the entire force of knights was engaged in a desperate battle. A hectic melee was underw ay, w ith the full force of the duke's knights engaged on three sides. Clearly, the Norscans had turned to face the Bretonnians, picking this place to make their stand, and they had stood up to the duke's charge. Doubtless the casualties had been many, but they had absorbed the charge, and the Bretonnians' flanks were now completely overrun. The slaughter was terrible, with countless hundreds of knights already ripped from their saddles and butchered.

  With a shout, Maloric ordered the knights of Bastonne forwards, spearing tow ards the heart of the melee. More Norse were appearing out of the snowstorm, and Calard knew that they w ere completely surrounded. And still worse was to befall the Bretonnians, for the Norscan chieftain had one final surprise.

  The ground began to shudder and reverberate as if shook by an earthquake and monstrous trumpeting lifted above the roar of the w ind, the same sounds that Calard had heard before battle had commenced. It w as akin to the blare of massive horns, but Calard could not begin to fathom the size of the instruments needed to create such a din.

  He didn't have to w ait long to discover what it w as that made the sounds, and what he saw made his blood run cold.

  From out of the blizzard's w hitewash came three massive shapes, pounding forwards through the snow and ice, the ground reverberating with every titanic footfall of the monsters.

  They w ere giant, shaggy-hided beasts, each as tall as a castle w all. They had huge trunks of muscle extending from their wide heads, and one of them raised this prehensile limb to the heavens and again the terrifying trumpeting sound echoed across the battlefield. The immense beasts w ere quadrupeds, w ith large flapping, dark furred ears and beady eyes filled with burning rage, and each had four immense tusks that curved dow n to the ground.

  Atop the backs of these monsters w ere strapped immense howdahs of timber, their sides draped w ith furs and leathers and dotted with shields, and within these structures w ere dozens of w arriors.

  The Norscans battling the Bretonnians hurled themselves aside, though many of them w ere too slow or too far lost in their own battle frenzy. The beasts thundered forw ards, smashing into Norscan and knight alike with titanic force, sending men and horses flying through the air with each great sweep of their heads. Tusks skew ered destriers and riders alike, blood spraying in all directions, and massive trunks w rapped themselves around men, crushing ribs and limbs before hurling them into the blizzard, arms and legs flailing. Still others were crushed into nothingness, trampled beneath immense stamping hooves that flattened them completely - armour, bone and all.

  Hundreds of knights were slaughtered as the trio of behemoths smashed through the knights w ith the elemental force of a thunderbolt, and many more w ere killed by the javelins and axes hurled by the Norscans riding within the howdah towers. Lances and sw ords dug into the legs of the shaggy-furred beasts but it w as like striking rock, and w eapons w ere jarred from numbed hands. These attacks w ere little more than pinpricks to the mighty beasts, w ho seemed not to feel any pain.

  The army of Lyonesse, already struggling to survive being engaged on three sides by the brutal Norscan w arriors was utterly shattered by the appearance of these three monstrous beasts. Merely the stink of them, thick and unpleasant, was enough to drive horses mad w ith terror, and panic spread across the entire battle line. The heart of the Bretonnian army w as smashed apart, the immense mammoths thundering through the ranks of knights with impunity, killing everything that came near them. Hundreds of noble knights of Bretonnia w ere left as unrecognisable smears of blood trampled into the ground, and countless more w ere killed as they w ere smashed through the air by sw inging tusks, or hacked apart by the bloodthirsty w arriors w ho descended on the panicked knights in a fury, axes smashing men from saddles and cleaving the legs from beneath proud destriers driven mad w ith fear.

  The banner of Lyonesse fell and was trampled underfoot. Tens of thousands of black-feathered carrion birds were descending from the skies, battling the winds in their eagerness to feast on the corpses, and Calard realised that w hat he had earlier taken for a storm cloud had actually been these feral birds, massing in their tens of thousands.

  Calard saw w hat could only be the w ar-chieftain of the Norscans seated upon a high-backed throne atop the how dah-tower of one of the mammoths, a giant, grey-bearded w arrior bedecked in dark metal, and he felt intense hatred that such a barbarian had caused the deaths of so many noble knights. His gaze flickered to the figure seated at the chieftain's feet, a w oman of obvious beauty, and Calard felt his blood run cold.

  Elisabet!

  Knights w ere streaming from the field now, w ith no thought of honour or dignity, leaving their butchered comrades to lie w here they fell. He could feel the displeasure of the goddess.

  The duke fell, and panic rolled across the battle line.

  The army of Lyonesse was routed.

  CHAPTER NINE

  IT WAS NEARING midnight and Styrbjorn stood amongst his huskarls in a w ide ring atop the plateau of the steep sided hill. The battle had gone w ell, the horsemen army crushed, and he could feel the gods' approval. The scale of the bloodshed had fuelled his desire, and he stared hungrily at his writhing witch-consort, alone within the circle before him.

  She w ore nothing more than a light shift, which showed off the contours of her body to good effect. Her arms and legs w ere bare and she wore no shoes or sli
ppers upon her feet, though she gave no indication that she felt the chill night air. Every inch of exposed skin, from the smooth flesh of her legs and arms to her face, w as covered in ritualistic patterns and runes carved into her flesh by Bjarki's steady hand. These cuts w ere not deep, just enough to bring the blood to the surface, but they did nothing to mar her beauty. Indeed, to the jarl, they merely enhanced her allure, for the sight of blood alw ays enhanced his desire.

  His w itch-consort had created a consecrated circle at the top of the w ind-swept hill, and it w as outside this that Styrbjorn's w arriors w ere gathered. The edges of the circle w ere marked w ith gore-coloured powder from w hich a vague red smoke arose, together w ith a smell like bow els that had been opened by a sw ord thrust. Eight bodies - the w arriors that Styrbjorn had handed over for sacrifice - w ere positioned equidistant around the circumference of the circle, each representing one of the eight points of the star of the true gods.

  Each of the Skaeling w arriors was nailed to an A-frame of timber propped up w ith a third hunk of lumber, their arms spread w ide and their feet dangling two feet above the ground. Their skin had been flayed from their bodies and their chests had been ripped open, the ribs broken and splayed outwards to expose the organs within. Not all of them w ere dead, and those still living moaned wordlessly from mouths bereft of tongues, tw itching as carrion birds pecked at their moist innards, jabbing sharp beaks into soft, living flesh. Their hearts, exposed to the elements, thumped erratically, and they thrashed their heads from side to side, trying vainly to stop the murderous crow s and ravens from feasting on them.

  Blood-smeared, foul smelling totem-dolls hung from the A-frames, turning slowly as the w inds pushed at their bloated, repulsive forms. The closest of them was a representation of a child, or a baby. Blond hair lined w ith silver - his own, he realised dimly - w as stitched into the babe's head. A pair of horns, perhaps hacked from the head of a goat, protruded from the babe's chin.

  A raven landed on the head of this doll before realising that it w as an unstable roost and flapping off, cawing loudly, sending the totem-doll swinging wildly.

  Skull-headed braziers burnt foul herbs and roots, embers glow ing brightly as the icy w inds howled.

  Three fifteen foot tree-trunks stripped of their branches leant against each other in the centre of the circle, tied together with barbed chain, forming a crude tent structure w ith no sides. The excess length of the chain hung down in the centre of the structure, and another totem-doll hung there, the rusted hook emerging from its back passed through one of the links, so that it hung some four feet above the ground, spinning slowly.

  The ground beneath the doll w as spread w ith furs, and it was upon these that Styrbjorn's w itch-consort lay, writhing and moaning softly, speaking in the daemon tongue. Her eyes w ere hazy and indistinct, and she ran her hands over her body in w ays that made Styrbjorn's heart rate quicken. The hallucinogenic smoke from the braziers w as having an effect on him as w ell, and he could see the insubstantial shades of daemons cavorting around his witch-consort, caressing and stroking her flesh. His desire for her was strong; all he wanted to do w as step forward into the circle and take her.

  'Not yet,' said Bjarki, at his side, as if hearing his lustful thoughts. 'The conception must take place at the exact right moment.'

  'And how long will that be?' said the Skaeling jarl, his voice husky.

  As if the gods w ere giving him their own answer, the wind suddenly picked up, making the embers in the braziers glow brightly. Like the breath of the gods themselves, it swirled around the circle in an anticlockwise direction. Under the effects of the mind-altering smoke, Styrbjorn saw elemental daemons and spirits how ling within that w ind. Faces snarled at him, and clawed hands reached out tow ards him. The wind intensified, and he saw more creatures in the flash of movement w hipping around him, skinless winged beasts w ith reptilian faces, naked w omen w ith bird-like talons in place of hands and feet, and monstrosities with mouths filled with rotting fangs and worms. Styrbjorn smiled deliriously as the daemons of the air w hipped around him, scratching at his flesh and tugging at his braided beard.

  The w ind began to lift, rising high into the sky above the circle, and the clouds themselves began to rotate, slow ly at first, then faster, and faster. Soon the sky resembled one of the great w hirlpools that sometimes appeared to threaten his dragonships off the coast of Norsca, a sw iftly spinning maelstrom centred directly overhead. A patch of open sky appeared in the centre of the swirling clouds, and Styrbjorn's breath caught in his throat as he glimpsed the immense green eye of the gods peering through the clouds down at him.

  The clouds w ere ripped aside by the force of the swirling winds and Styrbjorn could see that the green moon w as hanging low and full, directly overhead. His flesh tingled as the green light bathed him in its glow, and he heard the moans of his witch-consort escalate. In his drug-addled state he imagined that the moon w as literally a great eye, its pupil slitted like a serpent's. He could feel the malevolence flowing down from that eye in w aves, and he smiled drunkenly; the gods themselves had manifested to w itness the conception. Truly, his son would be blessed by the gods indeed!

  Licking his lips, he looked down at his shaman.

  'Now ?' he said, his voice rough and bestial.

  The w iry seer, an expression of rapture on his face, nodded his head.

  Styrbjorn shrugged off his furs and stepped over the blood-pow der marking the circle. Billowing smoke rose from the powder as he passed the barrier, and he felt more than saw the shadow-daemons within the circle rise up to challenge him, surrounding him, hissing malevolently. Shadows of movement flickered in the corner of his vision as they jabbed at him w ith insubstantial talons, but he heard them hiss in pain and recoil, even as he felt their icy claws numb his flesh.

  Then Styrbjorn felt delicate, warm hands against his flesh and he forgot the daemonic shades, forgot that he w as surrounded by his entourage of onlooking huskarls, forgot that the gods themselves stared down from the heavens. He gazed upon his w itch-consort, the one who would bear him a son, and she pressed a goblet into his hands, brimming with a potent smelling brew. He drained it in one draught, throw ing his head back and closing his eyes. It burnt as it w ashed down his throat, and he marvelled as he opened his eyes, for all the colours he perceived seemed brighter than they had done before, swimming before him w ith almost painful brilliance.

  All of his senses w ere heightened to levels that Styrbjorn could never have imagined possible as the potent brew began to take effect. The overload of sensation was staggering. He tossed the goblet aside, eyes focused on the woman writhing on the ground before him.

  The w itch gazed up at him w ith eyes that had turned completely black and licked her lips. Taking him by the hand, she drew him into her embrace, and under the unblinking eye of the gods overhead, a daemon-son w as conceived.

  SCORES OF BIRDS took flight, filling the air with the flapping of wings and panicked cries, shattering the peace of the forest glade. Tiny glowing sprites with flickering, insubstantial w ings darted away, disappearing in an instant as if they had never been.

  The majestic equine beast that had a moment before been drinking from the still pond lifted its head. Its flanks glowed like moonlight and the single horn that rose from its forehead gleamed w ith pearlescent brilliance. It regarded its mistress with deep, soulful eyes.

  Morgiana opened her almond-shaped eyes and turned to regard the noble creature.

  'You felt it too, then,' she said, her voice soft and musical. The unicorn stamped one of its forelegs into the ground, and tossed its head.

  Horrific images of fire and death still lingered in her eyes, and she shuddered at the brutality her prescience had foreshadowed. She saw again the as yet unborn child, daemonic eyes ablaze w ith the promise of savagery. She saw him as a young man, flames w reathing his horned head, the coastal cities of Bretonnia in ruins and the oceans filled to the burning horizon with tens of thousands of Norscan
longships. The screams of the endless lines of innocents being led to the sacrifice made her w ince, and she saw mountains of skulls piled high beneath the turbulent heavens. She heard children weeping, and the stink of burning flesh still lingered in the back of her throat.

  Morgiana folded her long, slender legs beneath her as she sat up. She moved w ith unearthly grace, her every movement languid, her every gesture effortless. She carried herself like a queen, yet no queen of Bretonnia had ever wielded such power as w as hers to command.

  No higher authority existed in all of Bretonnia than the Fay Enchantress, save the divine. The power to dethrone kings w as hers to command; only the goddess could call Morgiana to question.

  A priceless hand mirror hung from the golden girdle encircling her slender waist, and she lifted the potent artefact up in front of her. Her ow n, flawless image stared back at her coldly. Her hair was bound up w ithin an elaborate headdress of the latest Bretonnian courtly fashion, and her ageless, regal face was pale.

  The Enchantress blew lightly upon the mirror. Hoarfrost began to form upon the intricate silverwork of its frame, and her reflection misted over as if a sudden, impenetrable fog surrounded her.

  Shapes began to form in the mirror, hazy like a dream at first, but slow ly solidifying into recognisable human forms; a pale, dark haired young lady, her head thrown back in rapture and a pow erful w arrior kissing her neck.

  The young damsel opened her eyes and stared out of the mirror directly at the Enchantress. Her suitor continued his affections, oblivious to their distant observer.

  Morgiana reached a hand tow ards the image of the girl in the mirror, eyes locked w ith those of the dark haired young woman. Her finger tips touched the surface of the looking glass, which was as cold as ice, and sank within. The mirror's surface w as as yielding as w ater, and ripples made the vision of the damsel and her lover shimmer as Morgiana's hand sank w ithin it.