by Death
Chlod passed wind loudly and grunted in his sleep before starting to snore once more. Calard tried to blot the noise out, but it was no use. In frustration and exasperation he sat up. Grabbing one of his heavy boots, he hurled it across the makeshift shelter, hitting Chlod square in the face.
The peasant awoke with a shout, jerking sharply. He blinked, looking around him fearfully.
“You were snoring,” said Calard.
“Sorry, master,” said Chlod.
“Give me back my boot.”
The peasant scrambled from beneath his blanket and crawled across the shelter, holding Calard’s boot like a holy artefact. He spat on it and gave it a quick rub down with his shirtfront, making Calard grimace. Grinning like a simpleton, Chlod set the boot down carefully alongside its partner.
“Can I get you anything, master? Water?”
“No,” said Calard, rolling away from Chlod. “I just want to sleep.”
He heard his manservant crawling back to his blanket, and bit down his frustration at the noise the peasant made, despite his trying to be quiet. The wind continued to howl outside, and again there came another sound, something like a howl.
“What was that, master?” said Chlod, his voice fearful.
“Nothing. The wind. Go to sleep.”
“I heard that there are beasts what live up here in the mountains,” said Chlod. “Big shaggy cats with teeth like swords. Maybe they are out there now, hunting us.”
“And I will throw you to them if you do not shut up,” said Calard. “Now, I don’t want to hear another word from you until morning. Don’t let the fire die down overnight.”
“Yes, master,” said Chlod. Calard could still hear the fear in the peasant’s voice.
It took him another half an hour to fall asleep, dreaming of home, and of cats with teeth the size of swords, and then nothing.
Calard awoke instantly, knife in hand. Chlod was leaning over him, and the cold light of morning was penetrating the thatch of branches overhead.
Chlod’s eyes were fearful. He was fully dressed and had clearly been up for some time. It was remarkable that Calard had not woken earlier, for he was a light sleeper and would normally have been roused as soon as Chlod had stirred.
“What is it?” said Calard in irritation, wiping the last of the sleep from his eyes.
“There’s people, master,” said Chlod. “They’re armed, and they look like they are in a murderin’ mood.”
Calard threw off his blanket and sheathed his knife. He pulled on his boots, and picked up his bastard sword. He could hear voices, a dozen or more, the sound an angry murmur. He slid the scabbard from his blade and tossed it onto his blanket before kneeling briefly before his small triptych shrine to the Lady, closing his eyes and invoking her blessing. He then rose to his feet and stepped out into the morning glare, the fresh snow crunching beneath his boots.
There was a shout, and the first of the men appeared, pushing through the low branches of the pines outside Calard’s encampment. There were at least a score of them, he saw, and Chlod was right: they looked as though they were out for blood.
He recognised several of them as villagers from the day before. There were too many of them for him to defeat, he knew that, but he would be damned if he didn’t take several of them with him to the halls of Morr if they came at him.
They were scowling and muttering angrily, and they spread out as they closed in on him, cudgels, hatchets and daggers clenched tightly in their hands. Several of them had hunting bows in hand, arrows nocked to strings, and Calard’s disdain deepened—amongst the Bretonnian nobility, the bow was a coward’s weapon, fit only for hunting, or for peasants who had no comprehension of honour.
Calard walked out to meet the villagers, rolling his shoulders. He gripped his blade in both hands and set himself in a ready stance, ensuring that he could see each of the would-be brigands.
“Is this how you thank those who do you a service?” he said, his voice filled with scorn. “You wait until they leave your village and follow them to their camp, intent on murder and robbery?”
“Honourless dog,” said one of them, a brutish man with a thick beard.
“I bet he ain’t even a knight,” said another, his face twisted in anger. “Probably stole that armour off some poor dead bastard. Killed him, maybe.”
“I’m gonna cut your heart out,” said a third man, fingers tightly gripping a butcher’s knife. He had clearly been crying and his eyes burnt with rage and grief. “My Adela’s dead because of you!”
The first man, clutching a woodcutter’s axe in his hands, nodded. “He’ll pay for it, all right,” he said.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Calard, his voice low and menacing. “But come one step closer and you’re a dead man.”
“So long as I take you with me, I don’t care,” said the grieving man. He held his knife out in trembling hands. The man was no warrior—Calard saw that instantly.
“Don’t, Pieter,” said one of the others. “Let’s just kill him. Ain’t none of us have to get hurt.”
There were angry snarls of agreement, and Calard tensed as the strings of four bows were drawn back.
“She was with child!” shouted the grieving man, Pieter, quivering with rage. “And now she’s gone, and it’s all your fault!”
“I have hurt no woman,” said Calard, “and I will strike down any man who claims otherwise. I have done nothing but that which was asked of me.”
“Nothing but lied to get a free feed, more like,” sneered another of the men.
“I am a knight of Bastonne. I do not lie,” said Calard, eyes flashing.
“Blood’s been shed, you bastard,” snarled another man. “You’ll pay for what happened to Pieter’s woman.”
“Enough,” said Calard. “If it is your intention to rob and kill me, get on with it. You bore me.”
The archers tensed.
“Hold!” came a shout. “Hold!”
Calard saw the village burgomeister stomping through the snow from the main path, pushing his way through the angry mob. His face was flushed.
“I knew you were nothing more than a brigand, you cur,” said Calard. “I should have left you to your fate, to be devoured by the beast.”
The grieving man gave out a garbled scream and lurched forward with his knife. Expecting the attack, Calard slammed the flat of its blade against the man’s wrist, knocking the blade away. The man cried out and fell to his knees in the snow, gasping in pain. Startled by the sudden move, one of the bowmen loosed his arrow.
Calard was already moving, and the hastily taken shot glanced off his shoulder and struck a tree. Calard stepped forward, swinging his blade over his shoulder.
“Hold, damn you!” boomed the burgomeister, his voice filled with authority, giving the other bowmen pause.
“What is going on?” hissed Calard, not lowering his weapon.
“I might well ask you the same thing,” retorted the burgomeister.
“Speak plainly,” said Calard, “or your man here dies.”
“We know that you did not kill the wyvern,” said the burgomeister slowly.
“Are you bereft of your senses?” said Calard. “You hauled its head up on your damned gallows! You all saw it.”
“I don’t know how you did it,” said the burgomeister. “Sorcery, perhaps. What I don’t understand is why. You wanted no reward, only food and dry tinder. What do you gain from your deception?”
“You’re insane,” said Calard. “On my honour, I killed the beast. Tracked it to its lair and cut its head off. What is this? Some excuse so you can come down here to rob and kill me.”
“If you killed it,” said the burgomeister, “then why was its head gone this morning? And why was it seen flying above the peaks at dawn? If you slew the thing, how did it kill poor Pieter’s wife and destroy his home?”
“You are mistaken,” said Calard. “It must have been something else. Wolves, perhaps.”
“It weren’t no wolves,” said the burgomeister. “I saw it with my own eyes. It was the beast.”
“I killed it,” said Calard. “On the honour of my family name, I killed it.”
Calard was in a silent rage as he pulled his cloak tight around his neck, trying vainly to protect himself from the blizzard. The storm had finally broken, lashing Calard, Chlod and their steeds with gale force winds and snow, and though it could not have been even midday, it was as dark as twilight.
He could see no more than ten yards in front of him, such was the intensity of the snowstorm. At any moment, Calard expected to be blown off the side of the cliff, falling to his death. He knew they ought to turn back, for the path—little more than a goat track clinging precariously to the side of the mountain—was dangerous in the best of weather, let alone in this blizzard.
They had passed nothing that would have served as shelter in the last hour, and from what he could judge, they were only half a mile or so from the beast’s lair. Calard decided that their best bet was to press on, and to sit the storm out within the wyvern’s cave, as distasteful as the idea was.
For the last half an hour he had been leading his steed by its reins, forging on through the thickening blanket of snow. Their tracks were covered almost instantly, erasing all evidence of their passage.
Calard did not believe for a moment the villagers’ claim. He suspected that this was some ploy by the burgomeister, but for what purpose, he could not comprehend. He planned to return to the monster’s lair, find its corpse and journey back to the village with irrefutable evidence that he had done as he had pledged. He would not have his good name besmirched by mutterings of dishonour.
He leaned into the wind, his head lowered. His face was wrapped in woollen scarves so that only his eyes were exposed to the ruthless elements, and ice had formed a thick crust across his eyebrows.
He turned around, blinking through the blinding snow to see his manservant staggering behind with his mule. The peasant was tougher than he looked, but Calard didn’t think he would last long. Neither of them would. They needed to get to shelter, fast.
The path narrowed up ahead, and Calard pressed close to the cliff face as he edged his way forwards. The cliff dropped off into nothingness below. The Crooked Corridor, some two thousand feet down, was completely hidden in the storm. Calard was not sure what was worse—seeing the ground so far below, or seeing nothing but knowing the drop was there nonetheless.
A steep overhang jutted over the path as he trudged his way onwards, forcing Calard to duck his head to keep away from the cliff’s edge. His steed snorted in protest, pulling against him, but he calmed it and led it on. He recognised this location. They were close.
He emerged from the overhang, and snow pelted him. It was a struggle to keep moving, but he had no other choice. To stop was to die.
He heard a sound amid the gale—a roar?—and turned around, trying to discern its origination. Was it just the wind? Looking back the way he had come, he swore as he saw Chlod hanging over the cliff edge, clutching frantically for purchase. The only thing keeping him from falling were the reins of his mule, wrapped tightly around one hand. The obstinate beast’s head was down, its neck straining as the full weight of the peasant pulled at its mouth. Calard could see instantly that at any moment the beast would slip, and then both it and Chlod would disappear over the edge. Perhaps more importantly, the mule would take all of Calard’s possessions, which were strapped across its back, with it.
Mouthing a curse, Calard began to slide past his horse, moving to the peasant’s aid as quickly as was safe to do so. With his back to his towering warhorse, nothing but open space filled with swirling snow in front of him, he shimmied his way back. His feet were precariously close to the cliff edge, and he prayed silently to the Lady.
There came another roar in the storm, and a monstrous, winged creature appeared out of the blizzard.
It came from below, rising up the sheer cliff face with powerful beats of its immense wings. Its serpentine eyes blazed like embers, and Calard stared back in shock.
For a second he was sure that it was the same beast that he had already fought, but that was madness. No, he had killed that one, there could be no doubt of that; he’d cut its head off and put out one of its eyes. This beast had both its eyes, and its broad, heavy head was firmly attached to its muscular neck.
A second wyvern then, Calard thought. The mate of the first?
Buffeted by the strong winds and borne aloft upon its mighty wings, the beast lunged, huge mouth gaping. Calard’s horse reared, whinnying in terror, and he was knocked to the ground, scrambling frantically not to slip over the cliff edge.
The monster’s mouth clamped shut around his horse, and with a wrench of its neck it dragged the noble steed from the mountain path. One of its hooves clipped Calard’s shoulder, and he slid further over the cliff’s edge. The horse’s arterial blood sprayed, staining the snow, and the wyvern shook its head from side to side. Even through the gale, Calard heard the horrible snap as his steed’s spine was broken. The beast’s wings beat faster to compensate for the additional weight, and it dropped half a dozen feet. A sudden gust dragged it further out from the cliff face, and it disappeared in the storm.
Calard’s hand closed around a jutting rock and he gripped it tightly, forestalling his fall. His legs were dangling over the seemingly bottomless expanse. With a grunt of effort he hauled himself back onto the mountain path, clambering to his feet and unsheathing his sword. He turned and pressed his back against the cliff wall as the wyvern reappeared.
It descended on him, massive hind claws extended. Calard hacked with his sword double-handed, severing two talons, and the beast bellowed. Its other leg raked downwards, carving three furrows in the rock where Calard’s head had been a moment earlier.
The questing knight turned his face away as a shower of rock and snow struck him, and as the wyvern kicked at him again he threw himself further down the path. He landed on his chest in the snow, and slid half a dozen yards before coming to a halt, turning and rising to one knee, his sword at the ready.
The wyvern beat its wings and disappeared into the blizzard overhead once more, and Calard risked a glance back along the path. Chlod had clambered from the edge of the precipice, and was staring at him fearfully. The peasant shouted something that was swallowed by the roaring winds and pointed, and Calard glanced movement out of the corner of his eye.
The wyvern was coming down at him again, its wings buffeting him with wind and snow. Its tail stabbed for him and he slashed with his sword as it plunged for his chest, knocking it aside and carving deep into the bony sting.
The beast came in to land, one foreclaw clutching onto the cliff face for balance as it gripped the narrow path with its hind talons. One of them slipped off the edge, dislodging a landslide, but the beast regained its balance and began making its way towards him, moving crab-like along the narrow path with surprising dexterity.
Calard began backing up, seeking to get under the overhang, where the wyvern’s bulk would make it almost impossible for it to come at him. Seeing what he was doing, the wyvern hopped towards him faster, closing the distance in two bounds.
Its jaw snapped towards him, slamming shut less than half a foot away, and Calard slipped, falling to one knee. The beast hopped nearer, its foreclaw and left wing clutching at the cliff face, balancing itself as it leant upon its other wing.
Knowing that he couldn’t get away from the beast, Calard took the only other option that remained for him—he attacked.
With a shout, Calard leapt forward and slammed his sword into the beast’s wing, breaking several of the slender bones that fanned out from its claw. The beast roared, and brought its other wing around in a sharp arc. With no room to move, Calard was smashed into the cliff face by the force of the blow, striking the back of his head hard.
The beast grabbed him around the ankle with one of its foreclaws, dropping him to his back and pulling him through
the snow. He fought it, kicking and struggling as he tried to bring his blade to bear, but he was dragged helplessly towards the wyvern.
He kicked the beast hard as its mouth opened, striking one of its tusk-like teeth. If the wyvern felt any pain it gave no indication, and it stretched its neck forward to bite him in half.
Calard managed to thrust the blade of his sword forward, and the beast stabbed itself in the gum as it strained towards him. Blood ran down the blade, and the wyvern hissed and pulled its head back. Calard managed to kick his foot from the monster’s grasp, and he scrambled back away from it as it lunged again.
Part of the cliff path gave way beneath the wyvern’s weight suddenly, and it scrabbled for purchase. Its body slammed into the path as a boulder slipped under its hind legs, and one foreclaw gripped the rock tightly, less than two feet from Calard’s position.
With a shout, he brought his sword down hard upon it, breaking bones.
With a roar, the wyvern lost its grip and fell, tumbling backwards over the precipice. Its left wing would not work properly, the wing-bones broken by Calard’s first strike, and the wyvern tumbled down the cliff face, unable to keep itself airborne. It was gone almost instantly, careening off the cliff face once before being swallowed by the blinding snow.
“Is it dead, master?” shouted Chlod in his ear, coming up behind him. Calard shrugged.
“We must move on!” he shouted. “We’ll be dead if we don’t find shelter.”
With that, Calard stumbled on, fighting through the blizzard, Chlod and his mule close behind.
If anything, the storm had worsened by the time they reached the cave, and they were exhausted and half-frozen as they staggered inside.
They moved to the back of the cavern in an effort to escape the biting winds. Calard couldn’t feel his fingers or his toes, and he had stopped shivering, which he knew was a bad sign. He felt incredibly tired, and the desire to just lie down on the floor and sleep was strong. The rational part of his mind knew that to do so was to die, but another part of him whispered that he would just close his eyes for a moment.
