‘Maloric!’ he bellowed again, wheeling his warhorse beneath him.
Nervous men-at-arms looked down from the castle walls at him. All of them were garbed in tabards bearing the heraldry of Maloric, the Earl of Sangasse. Maloric and Calard were of a similar age and had a long history of antagonism. Since childhood they had been raised to loathe one another, and even though they had fought side by side on dozens of occasions, even going so far as saving each other’s lives on the field of battle, they could never be anything but rivals.
Chlod licked his lips. Hundreds of bowmen were stationed along the walls, and a pair of mighty trebuchets were positioned atop the gatehouse. Scores of men-at-arms barred the way, shields locked together. Calard was undaunted, refusing to be intimidated by mere peasants.
‘Show yourself, Maloric!’ he shouted. ‘Calard, Castellan of Garamont demands it!’
At last, a young knight appeared atop the gatehouse. His hair was dishevelled and he was still blinking the sleep out of his eyes. Calard did not recognise him.
‘What is it you seek here, Garamont?’ called the knight.
‘Fetch your master, and be quick about it,’ shouted Calard. ‘I will not bandy words with you or any of Maloric’s lackeys.’
Chlod winced as the knight’s face reddened and several archers nocked arrows to strings.
‘Speak to me in such a tone again, Garamont, and you will be cut down where you stand,’ shouted back the knight. ‘Speak your piece quickly, or take your leave!’
‘I am a Questing Knight of the Lady,’ shouted Calard. ‘Any man who dares loose an arrow in my direction will be cursed by the goddess, as shall you if you give the order. Now be gone from my sight, I am done talking to you. I will speak to Maloric, and no one else. Fetch him from his bed if sleeping past dawn is his habit.’
His face flushed, the knight turned and disappeared from sight.
For long minutes, Calard and Chlod waited while men-at-arms and peasant bowmen shuffled their feet awkwardly. Chlod tried to shrink, making himself as inconspicuous as possible, while Calard paced back and forth before the gatehouse, his mount snorting and stamping its hooves in agitation.
Finally, the ranks of the men-at-arms in front parted, and an elderly knight appeared, his expression cold. This knight Calard recognised, though he could not recall his name. The knight bowed curtly, just low enough not to be openly discourteous.
‘The Earl of Sangasse and his lady bid you welcome, Calard of Garamont,’ said the knight. ‘My lord is currently sitting for breakfast, and asks that you join him.’
Calard dismounted, and a peasant ran forwards to take his reins.
‘Stay with the horses,’ he said to Chlod, before turning back towards the knight of Sangasse.
‘Lead on,’ said Calard.
The knight nodded, and turned on his heel, leading the way into Castle Sangasse.
‘CALARD, WHAT A pleasant surprise,’ said Maloric with a sardonic half-smile. ‘I thought you were dead.’
The earl was a lean man in his early thirties, handsome in an angular, sharp-featured way. His hair was pale and he sported a slender goatee beard. His clothes were finely made, and edged in silver. A long table laid with a spread fit for the king himself was before him. The rich aromas made Calard’s stomach knot, and he began to salivate despite himself; it had been weeks since he had eaten a meal not prepared by his manservant Chlod, who was a poor cook at best.
‘Sorry to disappoint, Maloric,’ said Calard, dragging his gaze from the food on display.
The Earl of Sangasse did not rise from his high-backed seat – a subtle insult that Calard did not fail to notice – and he looked Calard up and down.
‘My, my, you are quite a sight,’ said Maloric. ‘And what a stink! When was the last time you washed?’
‘One does not have much time for such luxuries when embarked on the quest, Maloric.’
‘Of course. I take it that you have still not yet been successful. It has been what, five years?’
‘Six.’
‘Six years,’ said Maloric, taking a swig of wine. ‘How time flies. Please, sit. No wait, I will send for a blanket. No offence, of course, but these chairs were imported from Cathay at not inconsiderable cost.’
‘I will stand, thank you,’ said Calard, coldly.
‘As you wish,’ said Maloric, shrugging. He gestured towards the food on the table. ‘Eat. Drink. You look half-starved.’
‘I did not come here to eat your food, nor to trade insults, Sangasse,’ said Calard.
‘Oh?’ said Maloric. ‘Then to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?’
‘I have returned home to find my castle in ruin,’ said Calard, ‘and to suffer the insult of seeing Sangasse peasants tilling Garamont land. I have seen no sign of even one of my vassal knights, nor my appointed heir Orlando or his guardian, Baron Montcadas. I come here to call you to account for these transgressions, Maloric, and I swear by all that I hold holy that if you have done harm to my household, I will kill you.’
Holding Calard’s gaze, Maloric reached out and plucked a shelled quail’s egg from a silver plate. He popped it between his teeth and washed it down with another swig from his ornate goblet.
‘Are you done?’ said Maloric, dabbing at his lips with a silk napkin.
‘Long has Sangasse looked upon Garamont lands with envious eyes. I should have known that you would make a play for them in my absence,’ said Calard. ‘Did you murder Orlando with your own blade, Maloric, or did you have one of your knights do it for you?’
‘I am no murderer of children, and I would be well within my rights to demand justice for such an insult, offered in my own hall no less. However, you are clearly aggrieved and not in full control of yourself. What god did your family offend, Calard, to see it suffer so? Truly your bloodline is cursed.’
‘Do not speak of my family, Sangasse dog,’ said Calard.
‘I will forgive that this once, Garamont, for you speak in rashness and ignorance. But I warn you, do not fling your baseless insults and accusations in my direction again or I will not be so tolerant. I would not wish such a fate as your family has suffered on any noble son of Bastonne, even you, but my patience can be pushed only so far.’
‘I saw men garbed in the regalia of Sangasse patrolling Garamont lands,’ said Calard in an even voice, regathering some control of his temper. ‘And I know that your men have camped in the ruin of my castle. What explanation do you offer for this?’
‘I would not have an empty, unguarded land bordering my own,’ said Maloric. ‘Without a standing military force, Garamont would be a breeding ground for miscreants and outcasts, a haven for bandits and worse. I am merely ensuring the protection of my own lands by sending patrols into your homeland. I have annexed a portion of Garamont lands to pay for this additional militia, in lieu of recompense – for whom should I claim recompense from? As I said, I thought you dead.’
‘And what of my nephew and heir, Orlando? What has become of him?’
Before Maloric could answer, a side door to the chamber opened and a lady swept into the room, trailed by handmaidens. Rose-scented perfume wafted into the room in her wake.
‘You know my wife, Josephine,’ said Maloric.
‘Your wife?’ said Calard in shock.
The last time he had seen the Lady Josephine had been in the halls of Garamont. She was Baron Montcadas’s niece, and Calard had thought of her often during his long absence. On dark and lonely nights he had harboured romantic notions of marrying her on his return to Bretonnia, were she unwed. The old Baron Montcadas, who had always been more of a father than his own had ever been, had hoped to see the two of them wed years earlier, and had Calard not taken up the quest he believed they might have done. He had known her to be a warm-hearted and beautiful young woman, born of a wealthy and respectable noble family, and he had always found her company engaging.
‘Calard, we thought you were dead!’ said Josephine, rushing across to him. She hugged hi
m tightly, tears in her gentle eyes.
‘You married Maloric?’ said Calard.
‘He is a good man, Calard,’ said Josephine, softly, ‘and a dutiful father.’
‘You... You have children?’ said Calard, stepping awkwardly away from her embrace.
‘You have been gone a long time, Calard,’ she said. There were dirty smudges on her silk dress, and Calard was suddenly conscious of his travel-worn appearance.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, but she waved away his apology.
‘It is nothing.’
‘Say you,’ said Maloric, standing and moving to Josephine’s side. ‘I am the one who pays for these dresses. She has expensive taste,’ he said to Calard as he embraced his wife.
Calard turned away, his mind reeling. He helped himself to a goblet of wine and downed it in one draught.
When he turned back around, his face was an unreadable mask.
‘Have you heard from Bertelis?’ asked Josephine.
‘No,’ said Calard. ‘I hoped that you might have?’
Josephine shook her head sadly.
The last time Calard had seen his half-brother had been in Lyonesse, just months before he had taken up the quest, and he still carried the guilt over the last words they had exchanged. Calard had just witnessed the death of Elisabet, a noblewoman he had once loved. While he could see now that it had been an accident, at the time all he had seen was that she had died at his brother’s hand. Blinded by grief, he had spoken angrily, and his words haunted him still, six years on.
‘You are my brother no longer,’ he had said. Calard had had many nights to regret those words, but he feared that he would never have the opportunity to atone for them. Bertelis and he had parted ways soon after.
‘What happened to my home?’ said Calard, dragging himself back to the present. ‘Where is Orlando? Where is Montcadas?’
Fresh tears welled in Josephine’s eyes and Maloric’s expression darkened.
‘I’m sorry, Calard,’ Josephine said.
CALARD STARED AT the empty plate in front of him. Despite its quality and his hunger, the food had been like ash in his mouth.
‘It was ablaze by the time my knights and I arrived,’ said Maloric. ‘There was nothing to be done. It burned solidly for two days, and it was a week before the embers cooled.’
‘The goddess must have been looking over me,’ said Josephine. ‘Only my two handmaidens, a stableboy and I escaped.’
‘How she didn’t break a leg leaping from her window, I’ll never know,’ said Maloric.
‘How could two knights have killed them all?’ asked Calard. ‘Fifteen of my vassal knights, as well as what, forty men-at-arms? Fifty? It is inconceivable. No two men could do that.’
‘They were no men,’ said Josephine. ‘Of that I am certain. They were daemons in knights’ bodies.’
‘You saw them, you said?’ said Calard.
‘Only from afar. I was in my chambers preparing for bed when I heard them arrive at the castle gates. It was late. I heard the voices of your knights welcome these newcomers, as if they knew them. Their voices were raised, not in alarm but in surprise, joy even. At first I thought maybe it was you, Calard, returning home, but I was mistaken. The screams started soon after that.’
Calard leaned forward, focused completely on Josephine’s words. Her face was pale and drawn, and her eyes misted over as she took herself back to that fateful night five years earlier.
‘I know this is hard,’ said Calard. Josephine composed herself before continuing.
‘I left my room and was coming down the stairs. There were bodies everywhere. The screams were deafening. I could see one of them clearly through the open doors of the main hall. He – it – was covered in blood, from head to toe, and it moved faster than any man should. I ran to Orlando’s room, but one of the monsters had already been there.’ She sobbed, and took a moment to contain herself before continuing. ‘He looked as though he was sleeping. His eyes were closed, but there was so much blood... The baron was there too. He died with a sword in his hand, blind as he was, the brave old fool. I ran to my room, and barricaded the door. I stayed there until I smelled smoke. The floor started to get hot. When the heat became unbearable I leapt from my window.’
‘The knight you saw,’ said Calard. ‘Did you see his heraldry?’
‘No,’ said Josephine. ‘But the devil was garbed in white.’
‘Dressed in white...’ breathed Calard. The vision that had been plaguing him for months sprang unbidden into his mind. The images were confusing, their meaning unclear, but he recalled again a shield of white lying discarded on the ground, splattered with blood. Bones and a skull, bleached white in the sun, were visible in the dead grass. A breeze picked up and black petals filled the air. Several flowers settled on the shield face, and only now did Calard recognise them for what they were.
‘This knight. His shield bore a black fleur-de-lys, didn’t it?’
‘It is possible,’ said Josephine, frowning, ‘but I could not be sure.’
‘I am certain,’ said Calard. ‘The Lady sent me a vision of black lilies falling upon a shield of white. She was telling me who did this.’
The lily was sacred to the Lady, and had been since the founding of Bretonnia. The tri-petalled symbol of the fleur-de-lys was a stylistic representation of the sacred flower, and while it had always been a sign of purity, the symbol had also been traditionally worn by the nobles of a house that was once proud and honourable, but had long fallen to darkness.
‘The goddess has shown me who has brought this ruination on my house that I might seek vengeance,’ said Calard, his eyes gleaming with conviction.
‘If you say so,’ said Maloric, putting his arm around his wife’s shoulders.
‘My path is clear,’ said Calard, standing. ‘I must leave.’
‘Leave?’ said Josephine, half-rising. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘If he wishes to chase foolish dreams, let him go,’ said Maloric, placing a hand on his wife’s arm.
‘But go where?’
‘The knight that you saw,’ said Calard. ‘I know who he is.’
‘Who?’ said Josephine.
‘A black fleur-de-lys against a white field. That is the heraldry of Merovech of Arlons.’
‘The knight that defeated your brother at the tournament in Lyonesse,’ said Maloric. ‘Am I right?’
‘You are.’
‘Arlons?’ said Josephine. ‘Where is that? I am not familiar with the name.’
‘I am not surprised,’ said Maloric, ‘for it is a cursed place. It lies within the borders of Mousillon.’
‘Mousillon,’ breathed Josephine, her eyes widening in horror.
‘And that is where I go,’ said Calard.
III
MOUSILLON , REALM OF the Damned.
Chlod stared ahead with wide, unblinking eyes as the barge made steady progress across the black waters of the River Grismarie. His gaze was locked in the near distance, where a solid wall of fog rose up, linking the icy black water with the overcast sky, concealing the shores of Mousillon. The peasant shivered.
‘It is like the edge of the world,’ said Chlod. ‘And we are sailing straight towards it.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Calard. ‘It is fog, nothing more.’
He was turning a sword over in his hands, marvelling at its workmanship. The blade was flawless, gleaming silver and the pommel was beautifully crafted into the shape of a fleur-de-lys.
The Sword of Garamont was a priceless heirloom, and it had been in the family for generations. Said to have been blessed by the kiss of the Lady herself, Calard had presented it to his nephew Orlando when he had taken up his quest. He had feared it lost, stolen or destroyed when his castle was sacked, but such fears had been proven unfounded. Before he had left Sangasse three weeks earlier, Maloric had brought it to him, wrapped in velvet.
‘My men found it in the ruins,’ the Earl of Sangasse had said. ‘I thought it best not to lea
ve it for scavengers.’
Miraculously, perhaps protected by the Lady’s blessing, the blade had survived the fire unscathed. Calard sheathed the sword, and buckled it around his waist.
They were approaching the midway point of the Grismarie, and the river’s black water was flowing fast and deep beneath them. Squat guard towers could be seen along the river bank in the distance behind them, on the Bastonne side of the Grismarie. Similar towers were positioned all along the many hundreds of miles of Mousillon’s borders. Funded by the king’s coffers, these bastions had been erected almost five hundred years earlier, and they stood as silent sentinels, ever watchful for a threat from Mousillon. At the first sign of trouble, the massive pyres atop the towers would be lit, one after another, spreading the word faster than an eagle could fly.
Calard’s horse whinnied and shuffled uneasily, hooves sounding sharply on the barge’s deck. Standing, Calard moved back to where the destrier was tethered and spoke to her in soothing tones, stroking her neck. Five surly boatmen worked the barge in silence, but Calard ignored them. Having settled his warhorse, he made his way towards the bow, where Chlod sat clutching the gunwale. The barge rocked gently to and fro, and Calard, unused to being on the water, kept a solid grip on the railing as he moved to the front of the barge.
‘No good will come of this,’ said Chlod. The peasant was clearly terrified.
The fog loomed hundreds of feet above them, like the sheer walls of a castle marking the midway point across the Grismarie. The hunch-backed peasant closed his eyes and muttered a prayer as the barge entered the murk.
A chill descended on them, its touch wet and cloying, and visibility was suddenly reduced to less than a few feet. The mist seemed to swallow up all sound, making even the lapping of water upon the hull of the barge sound strangely distant. The fog seeped in under Calard’s armour, making his skin wet and clammy, and he began to shiver.
Hammer and Bolter - Issue 1 Page 19
