[Knights of Bretonnia 02.1] - Rest Eternal

by Anthony Reynolds - (ebook by Undead)

  As exhausted as he was, sleep eluded Calard. Wrapped in a woollen blanket, cloak balled up into a pillow, he stared into the glowing fire, listening to its reassuring crackle and the howl of the wind. His horse whinnied softly and shifted its weight at the back of the shelter.

  If the storm that had been threatening to break all week did not come, they should pass into the lowlands of Bretonnia within a day or so. It had been almost five years since Calard had taken up his questing vow, and just over four since he had last set foot in the land of his birth. He longed to hear Bretonnian voices, eat familiar food and drink a goblet of a fine Bordeleaux vintage. Too long had he been travelling through uncultured foreign lands.

  In his relentless quest for the grail, Calard’s travels had taken him far from his beloved homeland. He had gone as far north as the frozen lands of Kislev, inhabited by its warlike savages, and as far to the south as Tilea, an amoral cesspit of intrigue and backstabbing where a warrior’s honour and sword sold to the highest bidder. In the east, he had travelled through the dwarf-patrolled passes of the Worlds Edge Mountains and looked out across the desolate Dark Lands beyond.

  He had spent the better part of two years within the borders of the Empire, and had come to loathe the place and its citizens. There was no divide between the classes in the Empire, and even the lowest born cur could rise to the heights of power. How such a society could operate was beyond him.

  Everywhere Calard went he saw dishonour and death, and through it all he steeled his soul, praying fervently to the Lady to lead him onwards, desperate to prove himself worthy. Visions and dreams of the grail haunted him, the holy chalice always appearing so close but just out of reach. In the Lady’s name Calard had done great and noble deeds across the length and breadth of the Old World, hoping against hope that with one such action his deity would favour him by manifesting before him.

  It was said that only those questing knights of pure and noble intention would ever be blessed with a visitation from the Lady of the Lake, and of those, few were judged worthy. Fewer still survived imbibing the elixir held within the grail itself, for only the truest exemplars of Bretonnian knightly virtue, paladins with souls unsullied and free of taint, were able to drink it and live.

  It felt like an age had passed since Calard had relinquished his rulership of Garamont, since he had symbolically set aside his lance and forsaken all else but his holy quest. Calard had named his nephew Orlando his heir, presenting the boy the Sword of Garamont, the ancient heirloom of his family’s rulership. Until his successful return, the boy was the ruling Castellan of Garamont. Orlando had been seven years of age when Calard had left; he wondered if he would even recognise the boy now.

  Calard knew that he had left Garamont in good hands. He had requested that the Baron Montcadas act as regent for his lands until such a time as he returned—or Orlando came of age—and he trusted the man implicitly. Montcadas was a bear of a man, full of warmth, paternal wisdom and strength. He was also the terror of his enemies, fearless and unforgiving, roaring his challenge as he thundered into battle swinging his heavy morning star—or at least he had been before he had lost his sight. One of his eyes had been put out fighting the bloodthirsty beastmen of the wildwoods; he had lost the other in a tragic tourney accident. He yearned to hear Montcadas’ booming laughter and wise counsel again.

  A part of Calard longed to walk the halls of Castle Garamont again, to ride the perimeter of his lands and see his own heraldry, a silver dragon rampant on a field of red and blue, flying from the parapets; but he reminded himself that it would not be the same as it had once been. It would not feel like home anymore.

  His father, that stern and cold figure that had ruled over Garamont for nigh on forty years, was dead, having never accepted Calard into his heart. His stepmother, Calisse, hated him more than ever. And Bertelis was gone.

  More than anything else, Calard missed his half-brother.

  He felt a stab of guilt as he thought of Bertelis, and he wondered if he would ever see him again; and if he did, if his brother could possibly find it in his heart to forgive him.

  The last time he had seen Bertelis had been within the shattered walls of Lyonesse, after the departure of the Norscan hordes that had besieged the island fastness. It had not been a happy time, and they had not parted on good terms. Calard burned with shame thinking back to that fateful day.

  He had relived it so many times in the last five years. Even now he could hear that horrible sound as Elisabet’s head connected with the marble stairs. He saw again Bertelis’ face, aghast. Rationally, Calard had known that it was an accident, a tragic, awful accident, but he had allowed himself to be blinded by rage and grief.

  His brother had begged his forgiveness, but Calard had turned his back on him.

  “I have no brother,” he had said, his voice cold and empty. In the days afterwards, as he grieved, he regretted speaking those words but there had been no opportunity to make amends. He had not seen Bertelis since, nor even heard of his whereabouts, though not for want of trying.

  Calard’s grim thoughts were interrupted as Chlod rolled over and began to snore loudly. Calard regarded the peasant with an expression of distaste, and swore under his breath. The ignorant wretch was curled into a ball, an idiotic smile on his face. Chlod clutched a regal blue scrap of cloth in his hands, one side lined with mink. Once, that scrap had been a part of the cloak worn by the holy grail knight Reolus. Even five years on, Calard could not believe the knight was dead.

  Chlod muttered in his sleep, then giggled, and Calard swore again. He hated how sleep always came so easily to the peasant, while it took him hours to drift off. Even then, Calard’s sleep was restless and fraught with nightmares. Who knew what sort of dreams the ignorant peasant was having. Frankly, Calard did not wish to know, certain that they would be unwholesome and base. The little hunchback was an unpleasant fellow, seemingly bereft of conscience, but he had a certain animalistic cunning that had served Calard well on occasion over his years of servitude. His eagerness to please and sycophantic toadying were disgusting to behold, but Calard tolerated these.

  The howling gale outside was picking up. The sound was mournful, almost like the roaring of great beasts was concealed within it. Calard shivered, and pulled his woollen blanket tightly around him.

  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 cou
ld 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.