Warhammer - Knight Errant

by Anthony Reynolds

  The baron's bushy beard parted in a broad, toothy smile, and he pulled his morning star from his side, the heavy spiked ball falling to hang alongside his horse as the chain w as released from its leather binding.

  'Let's go get 'em, eh lads?' said the baron, w inking towards Calard.

  The young knights errant whooped in anticipation, and the baron sw ung his bulk around in the saddle to address the knights behind him.

  'Knights of Bastonne!' he roared w ith the thunder of an angry bear. 'We ride to battle!

  Form up!'

  With that, the baron kicked his steed forward into a trot.

  'Stay close to me lads,' he rumbled to Calard and Bertelis, and they fell in alongside the stocky knight of Montcadas. Gunthar pulled his steed alongside them, his moustache tw itching in irritation.

  'Don't tense up, and don't break formation w hen the charge is launched,' he said.

  'Keep tight, and don't lose your momentum.'

  'We know how to fight, old man,' retorted Bertelis, but the veteran knight ignored him.

  'Follow the lead of the baron. He w ill be the point of the lance, and you must ride close. We must be as one, for if w e become splintered w e will lose our advantage.'

  Bertelis groaned in exasperation, and Calard too felt his frustration and embarrassment rise.

  'We are not children,' Calard snapped, feeling a blush on his cheeks to be spoken to in this manner within earshot of the more senior knights.

  'That w ill be determined shortly,' said Gunthar. 'Just remember w hat I have taught you.'

  CALARD'S HANDS WERE sw eating within his gauntlets and his throat w as dry, as the knights crested the hill.

  The buildings of the village were crude dwellings, constructed from a latticework of sticks, and covered in a thick gruel of straw, mud and manure. Such w attle and daub lodgings w ere common in Bretonnia, for it was illegal for a peasant to make use of stone in the construction of their own dwellings. The streets were filled with screaming peasants, w ho ran in all directions.

  Several of the hovels were ablaze, and black smoke rose, in billowing clouds above them.

  Calard's eyes, how ever, were drawn to the enemy. He had never seen a live greenskin before, though he had stared for hours on end at the massive stuffed head of one of the brutes, mounted in the castle banquet hall, marvelling at its savage, thick features and gaping, tusk-filled maw . That severed orc head had always made him shiver, but it w as as nothing compared to w itnessing the brutal creatures in the flesh.

  Each of them w as as tall as a man, though they w ere hulking monsters of muscle, far broader and heavier than the peasants they were slaughtering. The air was filled with their savage roars, and they hacked around them w ith heavy cleavers and cudgels, butchering everything in their path.

  The ground reverberated w ith the pounding of hooves as the knights of Bastonne galloped tow ards the beleaguered villagers, and Calard felt his breath catch in his throat. He saw one roaring greenskin slam its crude w eapon into the shoulder of a screaming peasant, blood spurting from the mortal blow as it drove deep into the man's body. An axe slammed into the neck of another, nigh on severing the peasant's head, and the greenskin monster roared its pleasure as hot blood sprayed into its face.

  Scores of peasants had already been massacred, and the few that tried to fight their attackers w ith pitchforks and hoes were cut dow n mercilessly. Calard saw a man's head rupture as it w as slammed violently into the doorframe of a barn, and heard the cries of peasants that had chosen to die in the flames consuming their homes rather than be torn apart by the animal ferocity of the greenskins.

  The village was a scene of nightmarish brutality and horror, with screaming peasants running in every direction, seeking escape, and dozens of hulking, green-skinned creatures revelling in the panic and slaughter. Calard saw a child impaled upon a spear hurled through the maelstrom of battle, and, as he w atched, he saw a w oman hurl herself from the upper storey of a barn, desperate to escape the flames threatening to burn her alive, only to be leapt upon and ripped apart by a pair of massive green-fleshed brutes.

  'For Bastonne and the King!' bellow ed Baron Montcadas, swinging his spiked morning star over his head, and the knights kicked their steeds into a gallop. The baron formed the apex of the charge, pulling ahead of the line of knights, and the other nobles of Bastonne formed a tight w edge behind him. Calard guided his steed expertly w ith his thighs and spurs, and lowered his lance before him as he had been trained, and the knights of Bretonnia thundered into the main street of the village.

  A greenskin raised its thick head from the struggling peasant it had just clubbed to the ground, its small eyes glinting with savagery. The spiked metal ball of the baron's morning star sw ung into its head with brutal force, and the creature w as sent flying backw ards, its skull a shattered ruin, before it was trampled beneath the hooves of the knights' steeds.

  Everything was happening in a blur. The riot of noise was overwhelming as screams of pain and anger mingled with animalistic roars and bellows above the pounding of horses' hooves and the clanking of plate armour. The heat of the flames washed over Calard like a w ave, the hot air scalding his lungs with each breath. Burning buildings flashed past as the knights pounded into the village, and peasants dived out of the w ay, frantic to escape being trampled to death. The stink of blood, death and burning human flesh filled Calard's nostrils. His heart w as pounding and his breath w as coming in short, sharp gasps.

  'Keep tight!' shouted Gunthar, and Calard snapped back into focus. His w hole existence seemed to become suddenly centred on the tip of his lance, and he levelled it at the barrelling chest of a greenskin brute that roared its defiance as he bore down upon it.

  The creature leapt forw ard to meet the knights head-on, and Calard followed its every move w ith the tip of his lance. He took in every detail of the barbarous creature: its foul hide, w hich was the colour of rotting vegetation; the assortment of rusted armour plates that covered its broad shoulders; its malicious red eyes filled with bloodlust and bestial hatred. Gore dripped from the heavy bladed cleavers clasped in its massive fists, and thick tusks extended from its lower jaw . Its heavily scarred arms w ere immense, easily as thick as his thighs.

  The lance tip smashed into the orc's chest w ith a shuddering impact, and Calard tensed his muscles as he drove the lance through the creature's ribcage, as he had been taught on the practice fields of Garamont. The power of the blow shuddered up Calard's arm and into his body, as the vamplate of his lance was driven back into his breastplate, and his body rocked backw ards in the saddle. The lance drove clear through the creature's body, impaling it, and the w eapon was ripped from Calard's hands.

  The fallen orc was trampled beneath Gringolet's hooves, its bones crushed as it w as kicked and stamped by the knights close behind. Then Calard was past the orc, his sw ord hissing from his scabbard in a flash of silver. In what seemed like a fraction of a second, he had been blooded in battle, and had made his first kill with the lance.

  Calard's blade flashed out, glancing off the skull of an orc as he surged past, and other greenskins were lifted into the air as they were impaled on the lances of the other knights.

  Calard's earlier nervousness w as replaced by an empow ering surge of adrenaline, and he w hooped savagely, voicing his enthusiasm and excitement as the formation of knights thundered through the village, running down and slaughtering the greenskins. Nothing could stand against them, and the feeling of power and speed w as intoxicating.

  CALARD'S HANDS WERE shaking as he dismounted, and he took a deep racking breath, exhausted and exhilarated. His body w as tense, and it felt like he had been fighting for hours rather than the scant minutes that had actually passed.

  Kneeling, he w iped the dark blood from his sword on the tunic of a peasant lying face dow n and unmoving in the mud. The image of the orc as his lance had impaled it kept flashing into his mind, and he clenched his fist, feeling again the killing blow .

&
nbsp; Bertelis w hooped as he dropped from the saddle alongside him, and Calard beamed at him as the brothers clasped forearms.

  'Our first battle a noble victory!' said Bertelis. 'I saw your strike, brother, a fine blow it w as.'

  'As w as yours,' said Calard. Bertelis's lance had taken an orc in the throat, ripping its jugular free in a spurt of blood.

  'And the baron!' exclaimed Bertelis. 'He w as like the spirit of Gilles reborn! He must have killed, what, five of them?'

  'It w as truly a sight to behold,' he said, nodding in agreement, aw ed by the prow ess of the knight.

  'You did w ell, young lords,' said Gunthar gruffly, pulling his horse alongside the pair of knights errant. 'You remembered your training in the chaos of battle. More than a few knights have stumbled in their first engagement, freezing up or becoming overw helmed by their fear. I am proud of you both.'

  Calard beamed up at Gunthar, feeling a surge of pride at the rare praise.

  Peasant w omen wailed over the mutilated corpses of fathers, husbands and sons, w hile others struggled to contain the fires that still raged, but Calard w as oblivious to their suffering, focused completely on his own victory. He had been tested in the forge of battle and had proven himself w orthy.

  'This w as but a skirmish,' said Gunthar. 'The enemy w as unprepared for our attack, intent on the slaughter of the defenceless, but it is good that your blades have been w hetted in blood. Remember this day, for things will never be the same again. Today, you have become men.'

  With a curt nod, the w eapon master w heeled his horse around, and began barking orders at the men-at-arms bearing the colours of Garamont, w ho w ere just now arriving in the village, organising them into work teams. A pit was dug on the outskirts of the village, and the corpses of slain peasants were hurled unceremoniously into the shallow grave. The bodies of the greenskins w ere dragged onto the smouldering remnants of a hovel gutted by fire, and the air was soon filled w ith a nauseating stink as their flesh was consumed in the flames. More than half the village had been levelled by fire, and peasants poked through the ruins to salvage anything of value.

  'Knights of Bastonne! The armies of Bordeleaux are near!' bellow ed Baron Montcadas.

  'We push on!'

  Calard pulled himself into the saddle once more, feeling older and more self-assured than he had only an hour earlier. He accepted a new lance offered to him by a soldier, bearing the colours of his father, and at the sound of a horn blow n by one of the knights the nobles of Bastonne rode from the devastated village. The men-at-arms and bow men trudged along in their w ake, stomping and slipping through the mud.

  The peasant villagers watched them go, their faces pale, and streaked with blood and filth as they stood despondent amid the scene of destruction all around them.

  The w arriors of Bastonne did not look back.

  CALARD'S JAW DROPPED as he drew to a halt atop the rise and looked dow n upon the seething battle underway below .

  They had ridden for half a day before encountering the scouts of Bordeleaux.

  Clarion horns sounded, and thousands of knights churned up the earth as they thundered across the field, lances lowering as they smashed into the massed ranks of the enemy. The greenskins surged like an overwhelming tide, their numbers inconceivable. Dim roars and screams carried up to the knights of Bordeleaux, and barbarous drums echoed across the battlefield. The greenskins pounded weapons against their shields, creating a resounding din, like the beating heart of some infernal god of war.

  The earth w as littered w ith the dead and dying hundreds of broken figures that tw itched and moaned in pain. Horses with legs broken beneath them screamed in inhuman agony. Dark clouds of arrow s descended through the air, killing hundreds w ith each volley.

  'Ah, w hat I w ould give to have a handful of cannons from Nuln here, now,' said Dieter, to no one in particular. Bertelis flashed a look of disgust at the Empire soldier.

  Thousands of men-at-arms and greenskins were locked in brutal combat, and Calard could see the line of the Bretonnian forces begin to buckle against the strength and ferocity of the foe. Even as he watched, he saw a heraldic black and w hite banner fall amidst the mayhem, and a few men-at-arms broke ranks, fleeing aw ay from the foe.

  These men were like the first rocks that started an avalanche, and soon hundreds of men-at-arms w ere streaming back tow ards their own battle lines. Scores of them w ere cut dow n by the enemy that surged forw ards as they fled, and hundreds more w ould have been slaughtered were it not for the knights that pow ered into the greenskins, stemming the gap in the line. They ploughed through the undisciplined enemy ranks, felling dozens with lance and sword, and scattering the survivors before them.

  The greenskin lines parted, and rattling chariots of crude design were dragged through the breach by giant w ar boars, murderous scythes spinning from their axles.

  Calard cried out as he saw a trio of these machines of war smash into a phalanx of knights. Nobles fell heavily as their steed's legs were cut from beneath them, while other knights were lifted from their saddles by the thick spears thrust by the orcs riding upon the backs of these w heeled constructs. The gigantic war boars, bristling w ith blood lust, gored and ripped with thick tusks capped w ith iron, and noble w arriors of Bordeleaux were crushed beneath the metal studded rims of chariot w heels.

  The carnage w as breathtaking. This was war, with thousands of men and beasts clashing in mortal combat.

  A formation of knights, its momentum lost, became mired in combat, deep w ithin an enemy formation. Their horn blower sounded his instrument frantically, as the greenskins surrounded them on all sides and began dragging them from the saddle, cleavers hacking at the knights savagely.

  A lance of knights, hearing the distress call, wheeled their steeds around to aid their comrades, and it w as then that Calard saw a fresh line of orcs erupt from the tree line, riding upon the backs of hulking boars. The powerful beasts hurtled across the ground, angling towards the flank of the knights w ho were oblivious to the threat.

  The knights of Bordeleaux overlooked the field from a vantage point, and only they could see the danger. The boar riders w ould slam into the flank of the knights, and more proud Bretonnians w ould be slaughtered.

  'Ride!' shouted Baron Montcadas, kicking his steed onwards, and the knights of Bastonne pow ered down the grassy hill to intercept the threat. Calard, his face flushed w ith anger, shouted a w ordless war cry, which w as lost amongst the cacophony of w ar, as he urged Gringolet on, willing the stallion to gallop faster.

  Too late, the boar riders realised this new danger, and tried to haul their bulky steeds around to face the knights' charge. The creatures were stubborn, obstinate beasts, and they snarled and slavered as their riders pulled brutally at them. Several of them threw their riders, bucking and spinning, and the massive tuskers gored each other in the confusion. The scent of blood drove them to madness, and they ripped at each other, as their riders tried frantically to control the wild beasts. Then the knights of Bastonne slammed into them.

  Calard's lance glanced off the armoured shoulder of an orc, throwing it off balance, and Gringolet's armoured bulk smashed the creature aside. It lost its precarious balance upon the ridged back of its mount, and fell beneath the flashing hooves of the w arhorses, even as the boar w as impaled upon the lance of another knight, spitting and snarling as it fell.

  There was a sharp crack from nearby, followed by an unfamiliar, acrid smell, and an orc w as felled as a lead shot punched through its thick, bony forehead. Calard glanced to his side to see the Empire soldier, Dieter, with one of his long ornate pistols extended, smoke spilling from the barrel.

  A knight alongside Calard was thrown from the saddle as a spear struck his breastplate, and he saw his brother's lance break as it sank deep into the body of another boar. Tucking his own lance tightly under his arm, he drove its point into the face of a savagely painted greenskin, feeling the satisfying impact as the long weapon drove through its eye socket
and brain, before punching through the back of its skull.

  Then the knights were free, having smashed through the flank of the boar riders, splitting them.

  'Wheel right!' roared Baron Montcadas, sw inging his gore splattered morning star above his head, spraying blood all around him. In perfect unison, the knights of Bastonne pulled their steeds around to the right in a w ide arc, wheeling to face the remnants of the boar riders.

  'For the glory of Bastonne!' roared the baron, echoed by the shouts of the knights riding behind him, and charged into the confused enemy.

  Calard screamed in savage fury as he killed. His lance was wrenched from his hand, so he drew his glittering sword and split the helmet and head of another greenskin.

  Within the hour, the field had been won, and the remnants of the greenskin army w as fleeing back into the trees, pursued by small regiments of knights and mounted yeomen.

  Calard reined his steed in, breathing heavily. His immaculate blue and red tabard w as splattered w ith blood, and ripped where a cow ardly arrow, fired by the enemy, had glanced across his chest. His shield, bearing his white dragon rampant upon a blue and red field was battered and scratched.

  In one hand, he held the delicate material of the scarf given to him by Elisabet, and he lifted it to his nose, inhaling the perfume that clung to it, feeling comfort in the familiar scent. He tucked the silk cloth beneath his breastplate, and bent forw ards in the saddle to pat Gringolet heavily on the shoulder, whispering to the powerful destrier.

  'You did w ell, boy. You did w ell.'

  CHAPTER SIX

  THE BLARING OF horns and the roar of cheering greeted the victorious knights as they rode into Duke Alberic of Bordeleaux's camp. The smell of roasting meat all but concealed the stink of bodies, sweat, horses and the open pit latrines. Heralds shouted the names and deeds of nobles as they approached, and groups of young knights, flushed with victory, were already celebrating loudly, toasting their success and boasting of their exploits.