Barbarians sw armed through the burning streets of the tow n, and Chlod had seen thousands of them march off to the north and south. He had hoped that perhaps they w ere heading off to find easier pickings elsewhere, but his hopes were dashed w hen, hours later, the enemy began to return w ith freshly felled lumber. For ladders, battering rams and such, most likely.
All through the day the enemy had worked, and now that it was approaching dusk it seemed that they w ere readying themselves for their first attack against the castle.
Chlod shivered again. He had hoped to have slunk off and found a place to hide by now , but no such opportunity had as yet presented itself. Patience, he thought to himself. In the confusion of battle it should be easy to disappear.
In truth, Chlod didn't expect there to be any such need, however. The walls of the castle w ere huge - indeed the fortress was the grandest structure that he had ever seen - he could not conceive of how the enemy could possibly tackle it.
Chlod w as snapped out of his reverie as he heard the blare of a thousand horns sound.
'Right, this is it then, you scum!' shouted the yeoman w arden who had been given the job of getting Chlod and the other untrained peasants into a semblance of a fighting force. The men around him, farmers, shopkeepers and merchants in the main, looked scared, holding their simple spears awkwardly. None of them had been given shields or armour. Few of them had ever held a w eapon in their lives.
'Don't even think about making a run for it,' snarled the yeoman. 'I've passed the w ord amongst the men-at-arms that they are to kill anyone who does not stand and fight. Now get moving!'
Men-at-arms w earing white tabards w ith a red lion's head on their chests flanked the new recruits, and they jabbed them forw ard w ith their halberds. Chlod found himself herded along w ith the rest of the group he had been assigned to, passing through the streets inside the castle toward the eastern w alls.
At the bottom of the w alls he paused, squinting upw ards. The stairway up the inside of the w all w as steep and high, and there was no banister to stop anyone from falling if they made a misstep. He sw allowed thickly.
'What's the matter w ith you?' barked one of the men-at-arms, giving Chlod a shove.
'Afraid of heights,' said Chlod.
The man-at-arms snorted, and cuffed him hard over the back of his head, making his teeth rattle.
'Get moving,' said the man, and Chlod begin the ascent, pressing himself hard up against the w all, keeping as far from the edge of the stairs as possible.
Finally, sweating and shaking, he reached the top of the tow ering wall. It w as colder here, for there was no protection from the biting winds. Thousands of bow men were already stood upon the w alls, with bundles of arrows stacked against the battlements. Chlod pushed past them to look through the crenulations. What he saw took his breath aw ay.
Night w as falling rapidly, but the enemy could be clearly seen thanks to the fires still raging through the tow nship on the mainland. More than a thousand longships, each one brimming w ith Norscans, were being rowed at speed tow ards the island.
Countless drums began to beat then, both from the land, the approaching ships and from aboard all the longships surrounding the castle, and tens of thousands of voices rose in a blood-curdling roar.
The siege of Lyonesse was about to begin.
CALARD STOOD ALONGSIDE Bertelis and the Empire ambassador, Dieter Weschler, as they surveyed the approaching Norscans from the top of the eastern gatehouse.
Calard's cousins, Baldemund, Huebald and Tassilo stood nearby. The knights of Bastonne w ere all fully armoured in plate and chain, over which they wore their heraldic tabards and cloaks. They had the visors of their helmets raised, and each stood w ith their hands resting upon the pommel of their swords.
Dieter, in contrast, was dressed in the fashion of the Empire, w hich was frankly bizarre to the eyes of the Bretonnians. He w ore a black lacquered breastplate, w ith a gold symbol of a tw in-tailed comet upon it, the symbol of the barbarian hero the citizens of the Empire worshipped as their patron god. He wore knee high riding boots, bright blue tights and an outrageously prominent codpiece. The sleeves of his silk tunic w ere puffy and slashed, and extravagant dyed red feathers - griffon feathers he said - bobbed from the top of his black sallet helmet.
How ever, it was the Empire nobleman's weapons that drew the most disapproval from the Bretonnians. He wore a sheathed sabre - lighter and more flimsy than any Bretonnian sword - and had a pair of pistols bolstered at his sides. Calard had seen Dieter use those w eapons before, and though no Bretonnian noble would ever use a missile weapon anywhere outside of the hunt, he respected their killing power. Alone of the men gathered atop the gatehouse, Dieter w as not paying attention to the Norse longships being rowed towards them. His whole focus was upon the w eapon held reverently in his hands, a multi-barrelled handgun. He was oblivious to the looks of distaste of the knights around him as he lovingly stroked it.
'This,' said Dieter, speaking the Bretonnian tongue with a strong, harsh accent, 'is von Meinkopt's Whirling Cavalcade of Death.'
'That's nice,' said Bertelis mildly.
'Yes, she is beautiful, is she not?' said Dieter, spinning the barrels of the weapon.
'The repeater handgun - the epitome of superior Empire technology.'
Calard grunted, paying little attention. The Norse ships were almost within range of the trebuchets.
'You know that the engineers of Nuln have devised a carriageless horse?' continued Dieter. 'A mechanical, equine steed superior in every regard to a horse of flesh and blood. A marvel.'
That got Calard's attention, and he turned tow ards the Empire ambassador w ith a look of bafflement on his face, unsure if this was some strange joke that did not translate w ell. He shook his head, and turned back tow ards the enemy. The air was filled with the reverberation of thousands of drums, echoing in from all directions, making Calard think of the huffing beat of a forge's bellow s; or perhaps the breathing and heartbeat of some infernal god.
'This is not a full scale assault,' said Tassilo. 'They will just be testing our strength.'
'Looks like a lot of them to me,' said Huebald.
'What is going on over there?' said Calard, peering past the approaching longships tow ards the mainland. There was a flurry of activity on a hill overlooking the beachhead claimed by the Norscans. He had already learnt that the Norscan warlord w as no unthinking barbarian. The tactics he had used in defeating the army of Lyonesse spoke of a cunning strategist, and he was suspicious of w hat he was up to now .
'They're building something?' ventured Tassilo.
Dieter pulled out an extendable cylinder with glass at either end, and raised it to one eye. The Bretonnians swapped bemused glances behind his back, not having any idea w hat the eccentric Imperial envoy was doing.
'They are digging in,' said Dieter, removing the cylinder from his eye and replacing it back in its case w ithout explanation.
'They are w hat?' said Tassilo.
'They are creating a defensive emplacement. It is common in my homeland.
For...for...' Dieter waved his hand, trying to find the right w ord to use. 'Artillery,' he said in Reikspiel, though the Bretonnians stared at him blankly. 'War machines.
Cannon,' he said, finding no suitable Breton word.
'That's far out of range of our trebuchets,' said Calard, eyeing the distant construction of the emplacement with unease.
As if speaking the word for the giant stone throwers was the signal, the first of the trebuchets nearby fired.
The leather sling attached to the arm of the w ar machine whipped through the air, flinging the chunk of rock nestled within it spinning high into the sky. The peasants arrayed along the w alls below gave a cheer, and a dozen trebuchets fired, hurling their missiles into the darkening sky.
The first rock scythed down through the air, smashing the mast of a longship and plunging through its rear deck, taking a dozen oarsmen w ith it. The ship instan
tly floundered, taking on water, and Norscans were sent reeling into the turbulent w aters as their vessel began to sink. Great explosions of water marked the place w here other rocks had missed their mark, but several more ships were sunk as their hulls w ere smashed to splinters, and scores of warriors w ere killed as the sharks cutting through the w aters gorged themselves.
Still, the number of ships far outw eighed those few that were sunk, and they sliced through the w ater at impressive speed, their dragon-headed prows smashing aside the timbers and w arriors floating in the sea before them. Banks of oars rose and fell w ith perfect synchronicity as the Norscans heaved at them, pulling the longships sw iftly through the ocean.
Several of the longships struck rocks and submerged reefs as they neared the island, ripping great rents in their hulls and dooming the warriors aboard. But for every longship that floundered, either struck by trebuchet fire or fatally damaged by the knife-like reefs below the surface, a score successfully ran the gauntlet.
The first longships ran aground, ploughing at speed into the soft sand that ran along the eastern bank of the island, and Norscans w ere instantly over the edge, leaping into the knee-deep waters and racing for the walls. Hundreds of arrows were loosed as knights and yeomen spread across the battlements shouted the order to fire. The first w ave of Norscans onto the beach w ere scythed down, but more leaped onto the sand as longship after longship joined the fray.
Scores of hastily constructed ladders were carried up the beach by teams of fur-clad w arriors. The air w as thick with arrow s, and hundreds more Norscans were cut dow n, but still on they came, mindless of the casualties they were suffering, stamping uncaring over their fallen comrades.
Dieter moved tow ards the gatehouse battlements, his repeater handgun loaded and clasped in his hands.
'Excuse me,' he said, but the peasant bow men loosing their shafts through the crenulations did not hear his polite w ords.
Bertelis slapped a peasant archer across the back of the head as he w as reaching for an arrow , and the man, an ugly brute w ith warts all over his face, mumbled an apology and shuffled aside, moving to a different firing position.
Dieter threw the young Garamont noble a dark look and nodded his thanks to the peasant, before stepping up and taking aim w ith his handgun.
A moment later there w as a deafening boom and acrid smoke billow ed from the w eapon, w hich bucked in Dieter's hands violently. There was a clockwork clicking noise and the barrels rotated, and Dieter fired another shot. Again the barrels rotated, and he fired again. Each shot resulted in the death of an enemy, punching through breastplates and skulls w ith impressive force. The amount of smoke almost completely obscured the Empire ambassador, and Calard coughed. Dieter fired the last tw o barrels, though Calard doubted he could actually see a target now so thick w as the smoke.
Blinking aw ay the tears that the black pow der brought to his eyes, Calard moved to the southern battlement of the gatehouse, looking along the long eastern wall.
Many hundreds of bow men w ere positioned there, though as the first ladders were slammed against the w alls, they moved back to allow the men-at-arms, knights and spear-armed peasants behind them to step forw ards.
Polearms and spears pushed at the first ladders and several were knocked backw ards, the Norscans already climbing them falling into their comrades swarming tow ards the w alls behind them. Hundreds of arrow s were fired from the towers and the gatehouse into the Norscans massing at the base of the w alls. Men fell from ladders as arrow s thudded into their bodies, though others ignored the shafts protruding from shoulders and necks and pushed on, climbing up tow ards the battlements.
Boiling oil and pitch w as tipped over the edge of the walls, scalding flesh and searing upturned Norscan faces, making eyes run from sockets like melted fat. Still more longships ploughed into the soft sand of the western beach, though Calard saw that this w as but a fraction of the Norscan's strength.
More ladders w ere hefted into position along the western wall below Calard's position on the gatehouse, and he saw the first enemy berserkers reach the battlements. They leapt over the w alls, roaring incoherently, swinging axes and swords wildly.
Polearms w ere brought crashing down onto the horned helmets of some, killing them instantly. Spears stabbed others, but the Norscans appeared not to care about the w ounds they took, and began laying about them w ith furious abandon. He saw a massive, near naked savage w ith three arrows protruding from his tattooed flesh take a sw ord thrust to the chest as he scrambled over the battlements, but even that didn't stop him. With foam spilling from his mouth, he hacked the head from a knight's shoulders, sending it flying down to the ground inside the castle walls, far below .
More Norscans pushed onto the w all, spilling into the gap formed by this berserk fiend, and Calard instantly saw the danger.
'With me!' he roared, draw ing his sword and throwing himself down the stairs tow ards the breach.
A polearm slammed dow n onto one of the berserker's shoulders, making his arm go limp, but still he would not fall. He hacked his axe into the neck of one peasant, and kicked another off the wall. Calard barged his way through the men-at-arms and archers, running along the wall tow ards the immense Norscan, who he realised must have been over six and a half feet tall.
'For Bastonne!' Calard shouted.
Hearing his cry, the Norscan spun around tow ards him, swinging his axe in a murderous arc. Calard ducked beneath the blow and rammed his sw ord up into the marauder's belly. Blood burst from the shocking w ound, and his guts flopped out onto the stonew ork, accompanied by a repellent stink. The Norscan dropped his axe, bellow ing in fury and pain, but still he did not die. He grabbed Calard around the neck and squeezed, and the squeal of metal being forced out of shape sounded sharply.
A sw ord hacked into the berserker's neck and he finally fell. Calard gasped, and nodding his thanks to his brother Bertelis, he ripped his sword free of the Norscan's gut. Other knights had also seen the breach, and had raced forwards from the other side, and the last of the Norscans that had made it over the w all were cut dow n.
He saw a pair of peasants struggling to push a ladder back aw ay from the w all, and cursed their stupidity.
'Slide them to the side!' he shouted. The peasants stared at him stupidly, and he cursed again. Sheathing the blood-smeared blade of Garamont, Calard grabbed a broad-bladed polearm from the dead hands of a man-at-arms. The w eapon had a vicious hook on the backside of the blade, normally used to drag knights from the saddle, and Calard hooked this around the top of the ladder.
'Help me!' he ordered, and a pair of peasants leaped forward to lend him their strength. Together, they dragged the ladder to the side. Just as a snarling Norscan appeared at the top of it, the ladder began to fall. The warrior leaped for the wall, grabbing it w ith one hand, but a mace pulverised his skull and he fell without a sound.
The falling ladder gained momentum as it tipped, striking another some yards aw ay and knocking it sideward. Three ladders in all were sent smashing to the ground, taking scores of Norscans falling to their deaths.
The battle raged on for an hour, and Calard's sw ord arm felt like a leaden weight by the time he heard the Norscans sounding the retreat.
Thousands of the enemy had been slain, the dead littering the ground. Teams of peasants moved along the w alls, clearing them of the dead. They killed any wounded Norscans they came across, though these were surprisingly few - the enemy tended to fight on until they were killed, pushing through the pain of horrendous injuries and forcing the Bretonnians to finish them with killing blow s. The corpses of the Norscans w ere thrown unceremoniously over the walls. The Bretonnian peasants who had been killed in the first attack too w ere hefted over the walls.
The bodies of the knights who had fallen in the battle w ere carried reverently from the battlements and borne to the square dow n by the protected Lyonesse harbour.
There they were gently placed upon pyres, their arms crossed o
ver their chests. They w ere all fully armoured, and their shields were placed at their feet. They were cleaned of blood and gore as best they could, so that they looked like they were merely lying in repose. Those knights who had suffered particularly horrendous wounds w ere covered w ith their cloaks.
The entire castle was silent as the pyres were lit.
'This is just the beginning,' said Bertelis as the knights' bodies were consumed in the roaring fires.
Calard knew that it w as going to get much w orse.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
WEARY AND SORE and still wearing his full battle gear, Calard knocked on the heavy oak door. The hallway was dark, lit only by flaming sconces set into alcoves every five yards. An icy wind blew in through the arched windows facing out to sea, making the flames flicker and dance, sending shadows cavorting madly across the stone w alls.
The door w as opened by a grim faced stew ard, who motioned for silence and ushered Calard inside. The murmur of voices involved in deep discussion came from w ithin.
He stepped inside and the door w as silently closed behind him. It was much w armer in here, with a pair of fireplaces on opposite walls burning fiercely. This was the Duke of Lyonesse's personal study, and Calard w as overawed to be stood w ithin it.
The ceiling was high, and paintings of the past dukes of Lyonesse lined the east and w est w alls. Some w ere standing in heroic poses, one foot placed upon the body of a vanquished foe, or upon a rocky outcrop and gazing into the distance. Others were riding mighty, rearing destriers, or doing battle w ith monstrous foes. All were suitably dramatic and incredibly lifelike. The dukes in the older portraits wore archaic styled armour and old-fashioned haircuts and clothes. Several elaborate suits of armour stood in-betw een these paintings.
The south w all was dominated by the stuffed and mounted heads of monsters and beasts hunted and killed by the various dukes. Calard saw the immense, wide-skulled head of a w yvern, the head of a stone troll, the brutish head of an orc w arlord w ith skin so dark as to be almost black. Other creatures he did not even recognise; there w as a snarling lizard creature w ith a bright red frill of skin around its neck, the head of a creature that vaguely resembled an ogre but w ith skin that looked like stone, and the head of a snarling hateful looking beast w ith a thick black mane. That one might have been a manticore, Calard thought. There were the stuffed heads of giant boars and exotic, sabre-fanged cats, and a huge, humanoid skull that was easily ten times the size of a man's. Above them all w as the head of a black dragon, its maw spread in a frozen, eternal roar.
Warhammer - Knight of the Realm Page 20
