A thick appendage of blood-slick muscle shot from w ithin the chaotic creature's body and w rapped around the arm of another knight, who struggled to free himself. A circular lamprey mouth appeared upon the tip of this rope of muscle, and it burrow ed up into the knight's armpit, squeezing through a gap in his armour and biting through his chainmail. The knight began to scream as it burrow ed into his flesh, consuming the man from the inside out.
The tw o mules that w ere hitched to the w heel mechanism used to raise and lower the portcullis w ere whinnying in fear and straining to escape their traces. The monstrous spaw n tore one of them loose, lifting it up into the air before ripping it in two. One half it devoured, w hile the other half it hurled at the knights w ho were bringing their sw ords to bear on it, smashing several of them backw ards as the bloody corpse struck them.
Behind all this, the Norscan sorcerer was striking down more Bretonnian warriors, clearly revelling in his power.
Chlod backed aw ay from the horrors being unleashed, his sanity fraying, and found himself up against the large stained glass windows in the north w all that looked out over the harbour and island.
Seeing a bloody knife that a dead Lyonessian soldier had used lying on the floor nearby, Chlod half-considered grabbing it and plunging it into his own breast; better to die than be consumed by that hulking spaw n creature and become part of it. Then he recalled the sorcerer's words: 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.
Chlod looked dow n at his wrist again, staring at the daemonic black mark there, and began to w eep.
Then there was an ear-splitting crash as the stained glass windows exploded inw ards.
Chlod fell forward to his knees as shards of coloured glass rained down around him, cutting his hands and face, and he felt strong winds buffet him.
Something large and w hite hurtled over the top of him, and there w as a clatter of hooves on stone.
Gaping up from the ground, Chlod saw a knight riding upon a pristine white pegasus plunge his lance into the heavy mass of flesh that was the Chaos spawn. Black blood spew ed from the w ound, hissing and burning, and a dozen mouths opened and screamed in pain.
Tw o other pegasus knights crashed through the stained glass windows, and Chlod pressed himself flat to the floor, making himself as small as possible, praying that he w ould not be trampled.
Through his fingers Chlod saw the first knight, Laudethaire, plunge his lance into the spaw n again, and for a moment he thought the Beloved of Parravon was going to slay the beast, adding to his already impressive tally of heroic feats.
Then the throat of Laudethaire's pegasus was torn out by ripping teeth, thick bloody cords of muscle, ligaments, arteries and flesh torn free in a torrent of blood. Its virginal white fur was splattered with gore, and the noble beast reared and fell, throw ing Laudethaire from the saddle.
One of Laudethaire's companions was killed, the Chaos spawn impaling him and tearing him from his saddle. His steed reared, kicking out w ith its hooves, but w hipping tentacles studded with barbs w rapped around its neck and bore it to the ground.
The thrashing beast had its noble flesh subsumed into the spaw n's bulging mass, before the creature consumed Laudethaire's dying pegasus noisily. Twisted, befouled w ings sprouted from the beast's back in mockery of the pristine white wings of the noble creature. The Parravonian noble himself staggered to his feet but w as struck bodily by the young blond-haired Norscan who had accompanied Chlod and the seer.
The Norscan strained to ram his knife into the knight's throat. Laudethaire managed to catch hold of the w arrior's wrist before the knife plunged home, and the pair struggled, locked together, shards of coloured glass crunching beneath them. They reeled around, almost as if they w ere locked in some macabre dance, and then toppled out through the smashed w indow.
There was a horrible screech as the third knight rammed his lance into the monstrosity's head - or at least one of them. A large flipper-like appendage slammed into the knight that had wounded it, breaking his steed's w ings like tw igs and sending nobleman and pegasus smashing back through the stained glass windows, falling to their deaths.
Chlod backed further aw ay from the thrashing monster. It might have been in its death throw s, but he could not be sure. A lance still protruded from it and black blood w as oozing from the w ound. The Norscan sorcerer was nowhere to be seen.
Backing up against the smashed w indow, Chlod looked down and saw Laudethaire clinging desperately to the ledge just below , hanging by one hand. If he fell, his plate mail w ould certainly drag him to the ocean floor.
Hundreds of black crow s and ravens were circling around the gatehouse outside, filling the air with their ugly cries, sensing death.
'Help me!' urged Laudethaire, his voice filled with panic. 'For the love of the goddess, help me, damn you!'
Chlod licked his lips. He didn't want to risk getting pulled out of the w indow himself; even if he survived the fall, which was doubtful, he w as a poor sw immer. Still, having the vaunted Beloved of Parravon in his debt w as a tempting proposition.
'I'll make it w orth your w hile, damn it!' begged Laudethaire. His fingers were beginning to slip on the stonework.
Greed outw eighing self-preservation, Chlod went to reach for the knight. Laudethaire slipped suddenly, his finger losing their hold, but he managed to catch himself just before he plunged to his death, grabbing another ledge just below the first.
Chlod sw ore. There was no chance of him reaching the knight from his position now and so, trying not to look dow n, he climbed out onto the first ledge. Keeping one hand holding tightly to the w indowsill, he stretched his hand down tow ards the Parravonian knight, tongue sticking out the side of his mouth in concentration.
'Quickly, you foetid little peasant bastard!' snarled Laudethaire from betw een clenched teeth.
Chlod's expression darkened and he froze, just inches from grabbing hold of the knight's forearm.
'What are you doing?' gasped Laudethaire, his eyes filled with fear and indignant outrage. 'Help me, damn you!'
Chlod snorted, and stood upright. 'I'll see you hang for this!' snapped Laudethaire.
'Don't you know w ho I am?'
'You're dead,' retorted Chlod, and slammed his heel down into the knight's face.
Laudethaire lost his hold on the ledge and he was gone, dropping like a stone tow ards the ocean, falling to his death. Chlod watched the knight plummet, arms and legs flailing w ildly, until he hit the water. Then he was gone, disappearing into the black ocean w aters, the weight of his armour dragging him down. Chlod spat after him derisively.
Something fleshy and stinging touched his neck, and Chlod almost fell himself as he sw ung around to see a pinkish, lumped tentacle squirming over the windowsill from inside. He gave a girlish screech of shock, and brushed it aw ay with the back of his hand, shimmying along the ledge as he did so to escape its touch.
More tentacles appeared, flowing over the windowsill like a living waterfall, and Chlod knew that there was no escape from their numbing touch.
Without giving himself time to rethink the idea, Chlod closed his eyes and let go, falling backw ards off the ledge.
DUKE ADALHARD DEFLECTED an overhead blow with his shield and slashed open his attacker's throat. Blood fountained from the fatal w ound, and Adalhard stepped back, his blade flashing down to deflect a spear that w as stabbing tow ards his groin, and w ith a roll of his wrist he struck upw ards, the tip of his sword crunching up into the chin of another Norscan, shattering bone and teeth.
At his side, the corpulent figure of the Marquis of Carabas stabbed another berserker in the belly. The baron's w ide eyes betrayed his fear, but the duke w as proud of the fighting spirit of the man. An axe blade sliced through the air to take the baron in the neck, but Adalhard struck out, knocking aside the killing blow and plunged his sw ord into the Norscan's chest, sliding the blade betw een the
ribs to pierce the heart.
There was a moment's break in the fighting and Adalhard gazed dow n towards the harbour. The cobbled road he stood upon w as slick with the blood of the dead and dying, and from the top of the hill leading down to sea level he could see hundreds more Norscans leaping ashore. He had seen Laudethaire's noble attempt to retake the ocean gatehouse, and the Parravonian might yet succeed in closing the portcullis, but the damage w as already done.
'We can take them, my lord,' urged one of his knights, but Adalhard shook his head.
Behind him, the enemy w ere streaming through the shattered main gates, while a black w edge of enemy warriors had taken up position upon the east w all, where hundreds of Norscans were pouring in over the breach. The eastern gatehouse too w as lost to the enemy, the entrance smashed asunder by one of the Norscans'
immense tuskers. Thousands of enemies were streaming through the gap.
The castle was lost.
Adalhard w as so tired. A part of him wanted nothing more than to charge dow n into the enemies before him, to go dow n fighting, here and now; get it over w ith. But he knew what had to be done. He w ould make the enemy bleed for every inch of ground they took, to make their progress as painful as possible. That w as his duty; to the Lady, to the king and to himself.
'Back!' roared the Duke of Lyonesse, though it left a bitter taste in his mouth. 'Fall back to the keep!'
* * *
REOLUS PAUSED AS frantic horns sounded the retreat. He glanced down and saw hundreds of knights and men-at-arms streaming back tow ards the keep.
The grail knight pulled his gaze back tow ards the enemy w arlord, who was moving purposefully tow ards him, spinning his tw in axes. Every instinct screamed for him to engage the enemy leader, to smite him in the name of the Lady, for his presence in this holy land of his ancestors was an affront, a cancer that needed to be cut out, a boil that needed to be lanced.
He glanced dow n again and saw the Duke of Lyonesse in the centre of a block of knights, prominent in his golden armour and helmet. They were falling back in steady order, the duke hollering orders over the din of battle. The enemy w ere surging up the streets from the harbour like a dark tide, and Reolus knew that his place w as dow n there, protecting the duke's retreat.
He turned back tow ards the still advancing enemy w arlord, and gritted his teeth in frustration.
He knew it w as only his pride that made him want to defeat this enemy rather than aid the fallback of the duke and his men. As if sensing his decision, the enemy w arlord ceased his advance.
'As the Lady is my w itness, w e shall face each other soon,' promised Reolus, though he doubted w hether the enemy could understand his words. The Norscan said something in reply, a guttural utterance that might have been acknow ledgement.
Reluctantly, Reolus backed aw ay, moving tow ards the stairs descending down the inside of the wall. Enemies moved to intercept him, but they w ere w aved back by the enemy w arlord, and he realised that the Norscan had understood his intent, if not his w ords.
Eyes blazing w ith the white heat of righteous fury and frustration, Reolus nodded his head tow ards the tow ering enemy leader. It was not a gesture of respect, merely an acknow ledgement that they would meet again. The Norscan inclined his head in response.
Yes, they w ould meet again, Reolus thought. And when they did, one of them w ould die.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
THE KEEP AT the heart of Castle Lyonesse, its donjon, was a strongly defensible structure built of the same gleaming w hite stone as the outer w alls. It was in essence a fortress in its ow n right, w ith five tall, cylindrical towers at its corners and walls almost eight feet thick, topped with crenulations and dotted with arrow slits. An impressive gatehouse was the sole entrance into the keep, complete with a pair of portcullises and massive, barred iron-bound doors.
The castle now belonged fully to the enemy, and they swarmed over the abandoned w alls and up the streets from the harbour. So many longships had by now passed beneath the still-open arched gatehouse and entered the harbour that there w as no room for them to beach; the Norscans merely lashed them together and clambered from ship to ship onto the land, streaming up to surround the keep. They ransacked, smashed and torched every building within the curtain walls, and choking black smoke filled the air.
The main gatehouse in the eastern wall was a shattered ruin, having been smashed almost to the ground by one of the w ar mammoths, and thousands of Norscans surged through the breach now that there was no one to stem the tide.
Cheers had risen from the keep as one of the giant war mammoths w as felled. Barrels had been fired by the great trebuchets atop the keep, and a handful had smashed dow n upon one of the great beasts, dousing its matted fur and how dah with oil.
Hundred of arrow s lit in flaming braziers had been fired from the tops of the tow ers, and the beast had roared in pain and fear as it w as consumed by fire. It had rampaged through the enemy ranks, killing hundreds as it smashed them out of its w ay w ith its spiked tusks. Nevertheless, it was but a small victory amid the darkness, and the cheers quickly died aw ay.
In the distance, a handful of hermit knights had defended the temple of Manann upon the south-w estern island headland until the last, and the Bretonnians within the keep had w atched mournfully as the last of them had been cut dow n in the distance. With their protectors slain, the old priests of the sea god had been dragged outside and sacrificed, their heads hacked from their shoulders and impaled on spears. Ropes w ere tied around the mighty bronze statue of Manann atop the temple, and it w as brought crashing to the ground. Peasant archers and men-at-arms upon the w alls of the keep moaned in horror and whispered prayers of appeasement at this sacrilege.
Untold thousands now surrounded the keep, and there was not a knight or low born w ithin with any doubt that it w ould fall. It was not a matter of if the keep fell, but of w hen.
Thousands of crude skin drums pounded a relentless tattoo, and the enemy warlord strode through the ranks of his horde, an unmistakeable figure that tow ered over his minions. He was surrounded by a coterie of black-armour elites, and Calard stared dow n at him in hatred from the crenulated keep walls.
The enemy gave the defenders no chance to rest or recoup their strength, and Calard knew that every one of the Bretonnians was as exhausted as he. He'd never felt as tired in all his life. He felt numb, and yet sore all over, and his thinking was vague and hazy, as if his head was stuffed w ith wool. Every movement was an effort. Still, there w as no opportunity to close his eyes and fall into the sleep he so desired.
With a gesture from the w arlord, thousands of screaming Norscans launched themselves at the keep, streaming past their black-armoured leader, who stood with arms crossed, an implacable rock amidst the dark tide of chaos. Hundreds were cut dow n by w ave after w ave of arrow fire.
Under the cover of shields, the Norscans reached the foot of the gatehouse, attaching thick chains to the portcullis by hooks. These chains had been hitched around the shoulders of the largest of the enemy war mammoths, the one that had borne the enemy chieftain onto the walls just hours earlier, and its handlers urged it forward, striking it with barbed sw itches. The immense long-furred beast bellow ed and lurched forw ard, chains snapping taut behind it. The portcullis groaned and held for a moment. The mammoth bellow ed again and its titanic muscles strained. With a tortured groan of protesting metal, the portcullis was ripped free, and it was dragged fifty yards across the ground, carving a furrow through the snow before the mammoth w as halted.
More Norscans w ere killed as they charged through the now open, arched gateway tow ards the second portcullis. Scores were killed in the arched passageway leading through the gatehouse as arrow s w ere fired at close range through narrow slits, and the tortured screams of hundreds more echoed loudly within the enclosed space as boiling oil poured from murder holes in the walls and ceiling. Men screamed in agonising torment as their flesh was scalded red raw, eyeballs hissed and smoked
as they boiled in sockets, and the Norscans fought each other in their desperation to escape.
Those that did manage to reach the portcullis at the end of the murderous passage w ere met by polearms and spears thrust through the latticew ork, and dozens were impaled as they ran headlong into the wall of steel. More archers stood on the other side of the portcullis with the men-at-arms and knights, and they fired their deadly shafts into the Norscans straining to hook their immense chains onto this second barrier. No armour w as protection against fully draw n longbow s at such close range, and arrow s punched through helmets and solid iron breastplates w ith ease.
Still, the Norscan warlord sent wave after wave of his warriors into the deadly passage, uncaring of the mounting casualties, so intent on taking the keep was he.
When the oil ran out, the Bretonnians pumped boiling water through the murder holes and dropped rocks dow n upon them, while their arrows continued to cut dow n the Norscans in their scores.
More than a thousand men must have died w ithin the space of some fifteen minutes, and the scale of slaughter w as aw esome and terrible to behold. Still the enemy came on, charging into the corpse-filled passageway, clambering over the dead and dying in their desperation to reach the portcullis at the far end and earn the approval of their lord and gods.
For more than an hour the enemy continued to storm the gatehouse, w ith little success. Even w hen the great chains were secured upon the portcullis, the Bretonnians on the other side were able to unhook them, dislodging them and slaughtering the Norscans beneath their withering hail of arrows.
The enemy chieftain paced back and forth. He seemed determined to take Lyonesse in the shortest time possible regardless of the cost, and the Bretonnians were shocked and horrified at how much the barbarian had achieved in such a short space of time.
Everything Calard had ever learned of siege warfare from Gunthar and his tutors spoke of how they w ere generally long, drawn out affairs that might last half a year or more. The great siege of Carcassone, some two hundred years earlier, had lasted over three years. Generally, he had been taught, an adequately manned castle facing odds of ten to one or less w ould fall only w hen the defenders were starved out, had succumbed to disease, or w ere betrayed from w ithin. Walls sometimes collapsed w hen tunnels were dug to undermine them, or fire used to destabilise supports and make stone crack, but such tactics w ere slow and plagued by failure.
Warhammer - Knight of the Realm Page 29
