BJARKI GRINNED AS the prisoner screamed beneath him. He could feel the presence of daemons nearby, just beyond the veil separating the real world from the blessed madness beyond, and knew that they were savouring the pain he would unleash upon this one.
'Wait!' screamed the Bretonnian. 'I can help you!'
Bjarki ignored him.
'I... I know a w ay into the keep!' screamed the Bretonnian. 'A secret way! Unguarded!
Please don't kill me!'
'Stop,' ordered a voice. Bjarki sw ore. The Bretonnian continued to scream, w ailing like a beaten dog.
'I said stop, little bear,' grow led the voice again, more forcefully this time, and Bjarki's head snapped up. He glared angrily at his jarl, who was standing flanked by his two daughters. Each of them had their hands on the hilts of their blades. The jarl had his arms crossed over his broad chest.
'Why?' said Bjarki.
'What did he say, just then?' demanded the jarl.
'He's pleading for his life,' said the seer. 'Pathetic, really.'
'Did he not say anything else,' said Styrbjorn, eyes narrowed.
Bjarki licked his lips, wondering if he could get aw ay with lying to his jarl. He dismissed the idea; he would not risk further distancing himself from Styrbjorn over the life of one Bretonnian dog.
'He claims to know a w ay into the keep. An unguarded w ay, he says.'
'Let him up,' said Styrbjorn.
'He's lying!' stormed Bjarki. 'He'd say anything if he thought it would give him a few more seconds of life!'
'Let him up, I said,' grow led the Skaeling jarl.
'They are offerings to the gods, my jarl,' snarled Bjarki. 'You risk offending the great pow ers by intervening.'
Styrbjorn levelled a finger threateningly at the seer, and Bjarki shook his head, muttering under his breath.
He glanced dow n at the pitiful wretch still held immobile beneath his knife. The Bretonnian had stopped screaming now, and was merely whimpering, tears mixing w ith blood and mucous. Then in one sharp, angry movement, he sliced aw ay the Bretonnian's ear. The wretch screamed in agony, and his squeals increased as alcohol w as splashed onto the wound.
'Fine,' said Bjarki, and he shoved the bleeding wretch to the ground at Styrbjorn's feet. He tossed the man's ear to one of the w arhounds lurking nearby, which caught it deftly in its mouth and sw allowed it in one gulp.
It did not take long to w rangle the information out of the w retched Bretonnian. Bjarki found it disgusting at how quickly the man betrayed his comrades. Still, he was a cunning one - he kept the exact location of this supposed secret entrance into the keep to himself, clearly trying to keep himself alive. In truth, had he coughed up the location of the entrance, he would already be dead, so perhaps he was not as stupid as Bjarki first thought.
'He w ill not keep it from us for long,' said Bjarki w ith not a small amount of relish, brandishing his serpent dagger.
'No,' said Styrbjorn. 'I don't w ant to hear any more of his pathetic screams. He'll lead us to it.'
'You w ill accompany this raid yourself?' said Bjarki.
'Gods no,' said Styrbjorn w ith a laugh, shaking his head, and his daughters smirked.
Sensing there was something he was missing, Bjarki brisded, narrowing his eyes.
'It w ould take a w eek to get the smell out of my nostrils,' said Styrbjorn, and an evil grin appeared on his face. 'No, dear Bjarki, you w ill lead it.'
'What do you mean about the smell?' said Bjarki, still wary. Styrbjorn laughed again, as did his daughters.
'I think I already know what this ''secret entrance' is. You'll see,' said the jarl with a mischievous glint in his eyes.
BJARKI SCOWLED UP at the latrine chute some tw enty feet up the north side of the keep's w all.
It had taken the better part of tw o hours to navigate their w ay around the rocks to this position unseen, and Bjarki was in no mood to see the humorous side of the plan.
Half a dozen men had been chosen to accompany him. All were slightly built w arriors, smaller than their brethren. At first Bjarki had thought this was some implicit insult, but now he understood. The latrine chimney was narrow; only the slimmest Norscan would have any hope of fitting inside.
They had w aited until the white moon had slunk over the horizon before setting off, moving stealthily and keeping to the shadows. Weapons had been wrapped in furs, and jangling buckles and armour stripped off them so that they could move in silence. For most of the w ay they had been forced to w ade through w aist-deep water, alw ays keeping a w ary eye out for sharks, and trying to keep their bodies low, so as to ensure that w herever possible the rocks were betw een them and anyone who may have been looking dow n from above.
The w all beneath the chute was slick with excrement, and it coated the rocks at the foot of the w all. At any rime other than extreme low tide the waves would be lapping up against the base of the w all, washing aw ay the foulness. Already the tide was beginning to turn, and Bjarki realised that there was no chance of getting back around to the east of the island before the rising waters forced them to sw im. He did not relish the idea of that, giving the dark fins of the ever-present sharks a glare.
They w ere true beasts of Kharnath; fearless, indiscriminate killers, and driven mad by the merest w hiff of blood in the water. He knew they would take him as w illingly as any other Norscan or Bretonnian that fell into their domain - that he w as a seer of the gods mattered not at all.
Bjarki still didn't see the need for this far-fetched ploy, and he suspected that Styrbjorn insisted on it merely because it amused him to think of his seer climbing a filth-smeared chute. He was certain that the direct attack Styrbjorn planned w ould be enough to take the castle w alls, but seeing that there was no turning back now, he sighed and nodded to one of the warriors accompanying him, Eilif.
Eilif was Styrbjorn's nephew, and the slender young warrior had his blond hair pulled back in a single thick plait that hung down past his w aist. He nodded back at Bjarki and began picking his way over the rocks to the base of the w all. He had a length of rope looped over his shoulders, knotted every couple of feet, and after pausing to look up for a few moments to pick out his route and memorise the location of handholds, he began his ascent.
Eilif climbed sw iftly and surely, and Bjarki cast a look up tow ards the battlements atop the keep. If anyone looked down now, they would see the Norscan clearly, but thankfully the arrogant Bretonnians seemed not to expect any attack from this quarter - there w as no room to land a ship, and the keep was too high for ladders or grappling hooks. The Norscan continued climbing hand over hand, digging his fingers and toes into the gaps betw een the stones.
At last the young Skaeling reached the toilet chute and he jammed his feet into crevices and pulled a hammer and a six-inch iron spike from w here they had been tucked into his belt. Waiting until a w ave crashed against the rocks to help disguise the sound, Eilif struck the spike sharply, driving it into the mortar betw een two stones, before pressing himself hard up against the wall and freezing. He was concealed from above by the jutting chimney of the latrine shaft itself, and Bjarki and the others ducked back behind the rocks, lowering themselves into the black w aters as the heads of several sentries up above peered over the edge.
After a minute or so, Bjarki risked a glance upw ards, and saw that the sentries were no longer visible. He signalled to Eilif, who quickly unlooped his rope and tied its end to the piton. He let the rope unfurl, and Bjarki grabbed it as it fell dow n to the base of the w all.
The iron bars that blocked the latrine chute w ere corroded and crumbling, and it took little effort for Eilif to rip the latticework free, though Bjarki w inced at the sound, ducking back behind the rocks. When no sentry seemed to have heard the sound, the bars w ere dropped from above and deftly caught by a w arrior below . The young w arrior climbed sw iftly back dow n the rope.
'Bring him,' said Bjarki in a low voice, and the Bretonnian prisoner was shoved forw ard. His head w as bound in
cloth, and blood soaked the area w here his left ear had been. His mouth w as gagged so that he did not shout out and alert the guards.
His eyes w ere wide with fright and pain, and filled with tears. Still, having someone that knew their way around the inside of the castle would be useful.
'You first,' grow led Bjarki.
He w as a hunchbacked w retch, and the seer looked at him critically for a moment.
Though he w as certainly stronger than he looked, the malformed Bretonnian peasant might have trouble climbing the rope, let alone the vertical latrine chimney. And if he slipped and fell while half-way up, he might ensure those behind him fell as w ell.
'No,' said Bjarki, changing his mind. 'I am first.'
The Bretonnian nodded his head, clearly just grateful to be alive. Still, Bjarki knew that given the briefest opportunity, he would try to run. He dipped a finger into a pouch, and leant tow ards the wretch, who drew back aw ay from him in fear.
'Give me your hand,' said Bjarki, imparting a portion of his power into his voice.
Unable to resist the seer's order, the Bretonnian held out his hand, palm up. Had Bjarki told him to slit his own throat he would have done so, and the terror in the man's eyes show ed that he understood that.
Bjarki took the man's hand in his and closed his eyes, muttering arcane phrases.
After a moment he opened his eyes and turned the peasant's hand over. There was a black mark upon his w rist, and the wretch's eyes widened as he looked upon it.
'This is the mark of Drazh'la'gha the flesh-eater,' said Bjarki in a low, menacing voice that made the peasant w ince. 'It is a curse, and I am the only one that can remove it.
Attempt to escape, shout a w arning to any defender, or try to trick me in any w ay, and Drazh'la'gha w ill consume you from the inside out. Do as I say, and I w ill remove it. You understand?'
The peasant clenched his eyes tightly shut, and tears w ere once again running down his face. It w as disgusting and shaming, and Bjarki felt nothing but loathing for this pathetic creature.
'You understand?' he said again, and the man nodded his head. 'And do not think that death is an escape. If you die w hile the curse is still in place, your soul shall never have rest. It shall be the plaything of Drazh'la'gha for all eternity. You do not w ant to fall to your death w hile climbing Bretonnian filth.'
Satisfied, Bjarki nodded to the young Skaeling w arrior, Eilif.
'See that he follow s close behind me,' the seer ordered. Then giving the latrine chimney one last, sour look, he began the climb.
'WHAT WAS IT?' said Duke Adalhard, speaking to one of his knights who had gone to look over the edge of the keep, having heard a metallic sound from below .
'Nothing, lord,' said the knight. 'Perhaps a trick of the w ind.'
Adalhard nodded vaguely, turning his mind back to the task at hand. From atop his tow ering keep, Duke Adalhard was organising the defence of his castle, communicating w ith those below with flags and runners. He saw hundreds of longships ploughing through the seas towards the western battlements, the longest stretch of w all within the castle, and the least heavily defended. It w ould be difficult for the enemy to gain a foothold upon the narrow strip of land beneath the western w alls, and the approach was treacherous, with many hidden rocks and the surging w aves.
Still, a foothold w as possible, and he could ill afford to leave those walls undefended.
With some reluctance he ordered them bolstered, sending the last reserve companies of men-at-arms and knights tow ards them. The eastern walls had taken the brunt of the assault and w ere in desperate need of reinforcement, but there w ere no more men to spare. Ideally, the defenders w ould be rotated on shifts, in order that weary men w ere able to get some decent rest and food, but that w as a luxury that the duke w as unable to afford.
The Norse assault w as now hitting Castle Lyonesse from all angles. The heaviest concentration of enemy forces came at the eastern w alls, but longships were being row ed at speed tow ards the island from every quarter in an effort to ensure that the Bretonnian's defences were spread as thinly as possible; and it was working. Only the north w as not suffering attack - the keep took up most of the northern tip of the island, and it was simply too tall, and the ocean's currents north of the island too fierce, for an attack to have any attempt of success from that quarter.
Thankfully the enemy artillery had been silenced. Adalhard was under no illusions as to w hat w ould have happened had it not; he would have gone down in history as the only duke to allow Castle Lyonesse to fall to the enemy.
Damaged crenulations and battlements had been barricaded w ith sacks of grain, barrels filled with water and hastily nailed together planks of w ood. One wall section fifty feet w ide had collapsed, killing three knights and scores of peasants, leaving the w all only half its original height.
That w as the biggest chink in the castle's armour, and the enemy had hurled themselves against it, clambering eagerly up the loose stones and chunks of masonry, screaming w ar cries and bellowing praise to their infernal gods. It was only because the grail knight Reolus had taken it upon himself to stand there, atop the crumbling w all, defying the enemy, that the section had not yet been overrun. His presence inspired those around him to great heights of bravery and courage, and it w as there that the fighting had been the fiercest.
Betw een attacks the duke ordered w ine, bread and cheese distributed amongst the defenders, and he had opened up his storehouses, seeing to it that even the lowliest peasants drafted into service - those of them that w ere left alive at any rate - w ere supplied w ith blankets, replacement w eapons, adequate arrow s and shields.
Had this been any other enemy, Duke Adalhard would have felt confident that he w ould be able to hold almost indefinitely, or at least long enough for aid to come from Couronne, if not from his eastern neighbour, the bastard Duke of L'Anguille. His greed-sick rival was doubtless enjoying hearing of his misfortune, already plotting how he could move against Lyonesse and extend the borders of L'Anguille.
With all the reserve companies committed to action, there was little more that Adalhard could do. He ordered a manservant to bring him his shield and helm.
'You cannot be considering fighting on the walls, my duke?' said one of his nobles, the stick thin Baron Broussard, aghast at the notion.
'I am. And you w ill be fighting alongside me, my dear baron,' Adalhard said w ith some relish. 'Every man able to w ield a sword is to fight.'
The man blanched. Inwardly, Adalhard was pleased to see the man squirm. He had little time for those w illing to send honourable men to their deaths but w ho w ould not face the same dangers themselves. Broussard w as a political animal - Adalhard had alw ays been sure to keep the man onside for he would have made a deadly political opponent - but in truth he loathed the man, and he was certainly no warrior.
'But if you w ere to fall, my lord, surely that w ould be a terrible blow to morale?' said Broussard smoothly, though Adalhard noted that a sheen of sweat glistened on his brow .
'And w hat does it say to the men if I w ere not to fight? It w ill give heart to the men to see me face the same dangers as they,' replied Adalhard dismissively.
'It is foolishness, my lord!' protested Broussard. He turned tow ards his companion, the porcine Marquis of Carabas, looking for support, but the man avoided his gaze.
'We must hand the young w oman over to the Norscans! Any other path is folly, my lord duke!'
'I have already made my mind up, baron. See that your man brings your w eapons and armour. I expect to see you garbed for w ar in ten minutes time. A second late and I w ill have you branded a cow ard and turncoat, and I w ill see you sw ing. Am I understood?'
'I alw ays knew that you w ere a fool,' said Broussard bitterly.
'If I am to die,' said Adalhard, 'then I will do so w ith honour, defending the realm I w as sw orn to protect. I w ill not cow to the demands of any Norscan whoreson, even if it does mean certain death.'
; 'There is no honour in death, however it comes,' said Broussard. 'The notion of honour is a convenient fiction, and every Bretonnian with half a brain know s it. It means nothing!'
'You are w rong baron,' said Adalhard.
'I should have allied myself w ith L'Anguille long ago,' said Broussard. 'At least then I w ould still be alive on the morn.'
The duke said nothing, merely regarding Broussard w ith the expression of one who unw ittingly steps on a slug w hile walking barefoot.
'None of us are going to survive this!' said Broussard, an edge of hysteria entering his voice. 'We are all going to die here if you don't hand the w itch over to them! What does she matter to you, anyw ay? She's just some Bastonnian w hore! Can you not see that?'
'What I see,' said Adalhard, 'is a man w illing to hand a w oman of noble birth over to blood-drenched savages in an attempt to save his ow n pathetic, worthless, honourless life. What I see is a man unw illing to take up a sw ord and fight the enemies of his lord. You disgust me, Broussard. I should have disposed of your services long ago.'
Broussard's face tw isted in fury, and he scrabbled for the dagger sheathed at his w aist. Before any of Adalhard's bodyguards could react, he pulled the blade clear and lunged at the duke.
Adalhard sw atted the dagger aside with the flat of his hand and backhanded the baron in the side of the head. Broussard w as knocked to the ground, and before he could rise the duke's men w ere upon him, pinning him down.
The Duke of Lyonesse drew his sword. Elven runes engraved upon the blade glittered, and he took a menacing step forw ards. The baron struggled, his eyes wide with terror, but he w as held firmly.
'You condemn every man in this castle to death if you do not hand her over,'
Broussard said, breathing hard.
'And I condemn every man to live in shame if I do,' said the duke.
Broussard licked his lips, and a spark of hope appeared in his eyes as the duke sheathed his ancestral sword.
'You are not w orthy of dying a w arrior's death by this sw ord,' said Adalhard, shattering that fleeting hope. 'It w ould be a dishonour to the memory of my forefathers to stain its blade w ith your blood. Hurl him over the battlements.'
Warhammer - Knight of the Realm Page 26
