Suitably chastened, Belmonde did not reply. Luc reined in his horse before a low-roofed building, the odious stench of unwashed bodies and boiled vegetables emanating from within. A faded sign above the door bore a crude etching of a many turreted castle below which were carved the words, ”The Manor”.
Luc laughed at the inappropriateness of the name as the brothers dismounted, tethering their horses to the inn’s only hitching rail while Belmonde did likewise with their pack mule. Casting a distasteful glance at the establishment, Luc and his brothers ventured within.
THE STENCH OF the inn was an almost physical thing, all-encompassing and overpowering. The sweat of hard labour, poor food and stale beer mingled into a pungent aroma that caught in the back of his throat. The inn was surprisingly full and, conspicuously, none of the bar’s patrons raised their eyes to the knights. A surly looking barkeep sat behind a trestle bar at the end of the room and Luc’s annoyance rose as he moved through them. Did these peasants not realise the honour he brought them merely by deigning to enter their stinking establishment? He drew a gold coin from a purse hanging from his sword belt and dropped it onto the bar.
‘There are three horses and a pack mule outside,’ he stated. ‘See to it that they are fed, watered and stabled adequately for the night.’
The innkeeper’s eyes bulged at the sight of the coin, more wealth than he would normally see in a year, and he snatched it up in his meaty fist. His eyes darted suspiciously around the room, frightened that others might see his sudden good fortune. He smiled and barked, ‘Antoine! Move your worthless carcass and take the lords’ horses to the stables! Hurry now!’
In response, a harried looking youth scurried quickly from the inn.
‘We shall also be requiring rooms, food and wine,’ continued Luc. ‘This should ensure that they are of the requisite quality…’ He dropped another coin on the wooden bar, its clatter causing heads to turn throughout the inn. The innkeeper scooped up the second coin as quickly as the first.
‘You shall have the very best my lords!’ said the man. ‘Best in all Bretonnia!’
‘I somehow doubt that,’ replied Luc airily, ‘but do what you can.’
He turned his back on the man and made his way to an empty table next to the window. Conversations that had been low and subdued before now ceased altogether and every man in the bar stared into his tankard as though fascinated by its contents.
‘Luc,’ whispered Belmonde urgently, ‘do you know how much you gave that man?’
‘Of course,’ answered Luc, ‘It is only money, and a Bretonnian knight needs not money.’
Fontaine smiled, thinking he understood his brother’s intentions, and said, ‘Yes, one must always be prepared to help the lower orders. You must learn this, Belmonde, if you are to be part of this, the brothers Massone’s quest…’
Silence filled the expectant gap left hanging by Fontaine’s words and he struggled to conceal his anger as no one in the bar took the bait of his statement. Belmonde, finally grasping his brother’s vain theatrics, said, ‘Yes, Fontaine. To destroy the evil blood drinkers that dwell in Blood Keep we must be true to the vows we swore in the Lady’s Chapel in Couronne. We must…’
His words trailed off in the face of Luc’s stare. Unaware of Luc’s chagrin, Fontaine continued, ‘Indeed, brother. For such is our quest, to do battle with the creatures of the night that plague these noble people, that carry their children to Blood Keep and drain them of their souls. To face the vampires!’
Fontaine sat back in his chair, the barest hint of a self-satisfied smirk playing around the corners of this mouth. A throat cleared at a table beside the fireplace and his grin widened as an aged voice began to speak.
‘If you are truly heading to Blood Keep then you are even more stupid than you look.’
Fontaine’s grin vanished and he surged to his feet, face scarlet and his hand flashing to his sword hilt. A blur of silver steel and the blade was in his hand.
‘Who dares insult my honour?’ he roared, eyes scanning the wary crowd. A single pair of eyes rose to meet Fontaine’s. A man, bent by age and toil, his skin worn and leathery, whose eyes, despite the twin ravages of time and alcohol, were clear and blue, haunted by a wisdom that belied his appearance.
Fontaine’s resolve faltered as he met the old man’s gaze, but his pride would not allow him to back down now. He held the sword at the old man’s throat and said, ‘Were you a worthy foe I would challenge you to a duel. But I am a man of honour and will not strike one so venerable.’
The man shrugged, as though the matter was of no consequence, saying, ‘You are a fool to think you can defeat the Blood Knights. They are warriors beyond compare. I know. I stood in the ranks when the Due de Montfort fought them at Gisoreux. He was a great man, but the vampires cut him down like a child.’
Luc stood and gently lowered Fontaine’s sword arm.
‘I am also a warrior of no small repute, old man,’ Luc began. ‘In Kislev they called me Droyaska - blademaster - and in the northern wastes, the Chaos beasts know me as the ”One who walks with Death”. It is the night stalkers who should be wary of me.’
Fontaine spun his sword, sheathing it in one smooth motion and sat down as Luc stood before the wizened figure.
The old man fixed Luc with his piercing gaze, looking deep into the young knight’s eyes. He leaned forwards and whispered, ‘There is fierce pride within you, boy. I see it plain as day, but do not travel to Blood Keep. If you do, you will all die. I can say it no more plainly than that. Heed my warning, leave this place and do not return.’
Luc smiled and turned his back on the old man, addressing the bar’s patrons, ‘Know this, people of…’
‘Gugarde,’ whispered Fontaine.
‘Gugarde,’ continued Luc smoothly. ‘We travel on the morrow for Blood Keep and the vampires. That my name shall be remembered is reward enough.’
His speech over, Luc spun on his heel and strode in the direction of the stairs to the upper floors.
‘Innkeeper!’ he barked. ‘Show us to our rooms and I demand you bring us the finest wines you possess.’
A THIN MIST hung over the muddy road as the three knights led their horses from the gloom of the stable into the weak morning sunlight. Luc tethered his black gelding to the hitching rail again and slid his sword from its oiled scabbard. He moved to the centre of the road, swinging his weapon in easy arcs around his body, loosening the muscles of his shoulders. He slowed his breathing and held the blade before him, the quillons level with his face. Suddenly he lunged, spinning and twisting, the blade a sweeping arc of silver as it spun in a glittering web before the knight. Luc’s bladework was flawless, every movement perfectly balanced and controlled. Cut, thrust, parry and riposte, Luc’s sword became an extension of his flesh. He finished his exercises by making one last, neck-high cut, spinning the weapon by its pommel and scabbarding it.
Luc returned to his horse, examining the beast’s legs and hooves. The stable lad, Antoine, had obviously looked after the horse. Its flanks were clean and groomed and the leather saddle had been given a fresh coating of oil. He crouched beside the gelding and tightened the saddle cinch before climbing onto the horse’s back. He stared up into the soaring mountains and felt a thrill of anticipation surge through him. He was so close to his goal he could almost taste it. High above him, the blackened fastness of Blood Keep awaited him. All his years of questing and battle had led him to this point and now that he was here, he was faintly amused to discover that there was a tremor of fear mixed with his excitement. Would he prove worthy? Almost as soon as he formed the thought, he chided himself for his lack of faith. Had he not fought the mightiest foes and vanquished them? The real question should be, was this quest worthy of him?
He twisted in the saddle to make sure his brothers were ready and saw the young lad, Antoine, standing by the stable door, casting hopeful glances at the armoured warriors. Luc fished in his purse and drew out a copper coin, flicking it in the boy�
�s direction. The boy scampered forwards and caught the coin, hesitantly approaching Luc. He smiled nervously, exposing yellowed stumps of broken teeth.
‘Sir knight?’ he began.
Luc scowled. ‘I have no more coin for you boy.’
‘No, sir,’ said the boy shaking his head, ‘I don’t want no more of your money.’
‘Really?’
‘Really,’ said Antoine. ‘I want to come with you, to fight the vampires.’
Luc laughed and slapped his thigh with mirth, ‘You want to fight the vampires, boy? How old are you?’
‘Not sure, sir knight. I think maybe thirteen. I can be your squire. I can carry stuff and I can cook and clean swords and stuff. Please?’
‘It takes more than that to become a squire boy,’ said Luc sternly. ‘Years of training, noble spirit and the right heritage. Can you match up to that?’
Antoine’s head dropped and he muttered, ‘I know a short-cut up the mountains to the keep as well.’
Luc’s interest was suddenly piqued. He could see the boy was close to tears at the thought of being left behind and sighed. He didn’t need this, now of all times. But if the boy knew a quicker route through the mountains then perhaps he might be useful after all.
‘Very well,’ said Luc, ‘you may ride the pack mule and will do exactly as I say when I say it. You displease me even once and I will send you back here. Do you understand me?’
Antoine nodded enthusiastically, ‘Yes, sir! I do! You won’t be sorry, I promise.’
‘I’d better not be,’ snarled Luc in what he hoped was a suitably fearsome voice.
Fontaine walked his horse next to Luc and whispered, ‘Luc, are you sure about this? Do we really want this boy travelling with us? We will not be able to protect him properly if we are to go into battle.’
Luc nodded. ‘The boy claims to know a short-cut through the mountains. I shall let him lead us to the pass then send him on his way. He’ll be in no danger and I’ll look out for him if things turn vicious. You worry too much Fontaine. We are on the road to glory brother. Have faith.’
Fontaine shrugged, ‘You know best, Luc.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Luc, ‘I do. Now come on, I want to get as far up the mountains as possible before it gets dark. Even if the boy’s short-cut is genuine, I do not believe we will reach Blood Keep before nightfall, but I want to be sure we’ll get there while it’s daylight the following day.’
Luc touched his spurs to the horse’s flank and the small group headed north along the mud-choked street, Antoine swaying on the back of the pack mule. At the edge of the village, next to the village cemetery, the group passed a small, ill-kept shrine to the Lady of the Lake. A few flowers and a pile of mouldy grain were the only offerings within the alcove and the three knights bowed their heads as they passed. Overhead a carrion bird circled, black wings spread against the struggling sunlight.
THE SUNLIGHT BURNED through the mist within the hour and the ground began to grow noticeably steeper. The day had warmed and Luc removed his helmet. It was warm now, but he knew that once they climbed higher into the mountains, the temperature would plummet rapidly. The short-cut Antoine had shown them had cut nearly seven miles from their journey and Luc was in fine spirits. The air was clear and Luc breathed deeply, enjoying the sense of freedom he suddenly felt.
The morning passed uneventfully, the path up the mountains allowing them to make good time. The miles were covered quickly, though the horses were tired and Luc called a halt to their climb as the sun reached its zenith. Antoine walked and fed the horses as the knights rested and ate a light meal of black bread and cheese accompanied by a bottle of Estalian wine. Luc leaned back against a boulder and peered into the snow capped mountains, their tops wreathed in ghostly grey clouds.
Separating the land of Bretonnia from the heathen land of the Empire, the Grey Mountains towered above him. Blood Keep nestled in a narrow pass that connected the two lands and had once been a mighty fortress, home to a noble order of warrior knights that had protected the lands hereabouts from harm. The knights had been renowned for their honour and martial skills, the very sight of their banner enough to send cold jolts of fear through the servants of evil.
Legend told that one day a warrior had presented himself at the gates and demanded to join the order. It was said that this had been the deathless knight known as Walach of the Harkon family and that he had, in one night, infected the order with the curse of vampirism. The knights took the ancient name of the Blood Dragon order as their own and years of terror and bloodshed were unleashed on the lands surrounding their fortress. It had taken the combined might of four orders of Empire knights to stand against the vampires and drive them back to their fortress. After three years of siege, the gates were finally breached and the castle put to the torch. The knights and witch hunters slew the vampires and the evil legacy of Blood Keep passed into history. To this day, it was believed that their evil had been defeated, but Luc knew that the bloodline still lived.
Deep in the northern Chaos wastes he had fought one of the soulless vampire knights and cut the head from his body in a battle that almost cost him his life and left him with the long, white scar on his face.
Luc had gazed upon the seraphic face of the vampire and watched in amazement as his youthful face had aged centuries in a matter of seconds before disintegrating into ashes. The vampire’s blood-red armour, exquisitely detailed with intricate scrollwork and moulded muscles, was all that remained of the creature. It was a work of art and Luc could tell that it was incredibly ancient. The vampire must have been hundreds of years old, yet looked no different than Luc’s youngest brother, its youth prolonged for all eternity!
Luc shook his head at the memory, remembering the feelings the vampire’s demise had stirred within him. He finished his bread and pushed himself to his feet. They set off again and continued further up the mountain, the air becoming colder as they went higher and higher into the peaks. The sun dropped behind them, bathing the Loren Forest in a golden glow as the day wore on.
‘Luc?’ said Fontaine, startling him from his thoughts.
‘What?’
‘It is getting late. Should we not send the boy home?’
Luc glanced round at Antoine, cursing as he raised his eyes to the darkening sky and realised that it was too late to send the boy back.
‘No, he will need to make camp with us tonight. I will send him back tomorrow. Where we go he cannot follow.’
‘Where shall we make camp?’
Luc scanned the horizon, spying a circle of jagged boulders perhaps an hour’s ride uphill. He pointed to the spot he had selected. ‘There, we’ll make camp in the rocks yonder.’
NIGHT DREW IN swiftly and it was dark long before they arrived at the circle of boulders. A wolf howled in the distance and the knights paused in their ascent. An answering chorus of howls echoed mournfully across the darkness and the horses whinnied in fear, eyes wide and ears pressed flat against their skulls. Antoine once again took the horses as they reached the rocks and Belmonde began preparing a fire in the lee of a flat-sided boulder. Satisfied that all was well, Luc walked to the edge of the camp and stared into the inky blackness, his thoughts on the castle above them and the beings that were said to have returned to dwell within it.
The mountains were a different place at night. Where earlier he could see for hundreds of miles in all directions, now he could barely see his hand before his face. The fire behind him illuminated a pitifully small area, its fitful light a tiny island of life in the night’s darkness.
Luc returned to the fire, the reflected heat from the boulder beginning to warm him now. He settled down on his haunches, watching as Antoine unpacked a pot, some chopped meat, vegetables and oats from the panniers on the pack mule. Luc suddenly realised how hungry he was, his mouth watering at the thought of a hearty broth.
‘You’ll need some water for that pot,’ pointed out Fontaine. ‘There’s a stream about twenty yards or so that way.’
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Antoine glanced fearfully in the direction Fontaine had indicated, unease plain on his features. Luc sighed, ‘Take a torch from the fire, boy. And don’t be long, I’m so hungry my belly thinks my throat’s been cut.’
Reluctantly, Antoine took up a burning brand and picked his way over the uneven ground in the direction of the stream. The brothers chuckled as they heard the boy cursing as he slipped on the uneven shale. Fontaine followed the bobbing torch as Antoine made his way towards the stream. A sudden sense of premonition made him glance uphill from the lad’s position as he caught sight of sinuous movement at the edge of the torchlight. He sat bolt upright, reaching for his sword as he saw more shadowy forms with red coals for eyes surrounding the boy.
‘No!’ he yelled as the first wolf attacked, a bolt from the darkness with gleaming fangs and claws. The boy barely had time to scream before the giant wolf’s jaws closed on his head, tearing his face off in a spray of blood. Claws like knives raked down his chest, laying him open to the bone. The creature’s body was briefly illuminated by the torchlight as it attacked, rotting skin and bone glistening wetly through mange ridden fur.
Antoine’s body spasmed as he died, his hand swinging around and thrusting the torch into the wolf’s body. It howled as long-dead flesh and fur ignited spectacularly. The sudden flare of the wolf’s death cast a wider ring of illumination and Luc had a brief glimpse of over a dozen undead wolves closing on them. The knights drew their swords, Luc grabbing Fontaine’s arm as he made to rush to Antoine’s aid.
‘He’s dead!’ he snapped. ‘There’s nothing we can do for him now!’
Fontaine nodded curtly, and stood back to back with his brothers, the fire at their centre.
Antoine was dead for sure. All they could do was avenge him and fight off these devil dogs as best they could. Their war-horses reared and stamped the ground as the wolves circled them, hooves lashing out as the beasts came in range. One wolf pounced forward, jaws wide. An iron shod hoof smashed its skull to shards with a single blow.
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