He heard the clomp of hooves, and, as the clouds parted, he saw the shape of a man slumped in the saddle of a horse. As he watched, the man fell forwards, sliding from the saddle, and dropped heavily into the mud of the main thoroughfare through the village.
Luc dropped the blanket curtain back over the w indow, with quiet movements, and left his home, closing the swollen wooden door behind him. The air was chill, and he w alked w arily tow ards the horse and its fallen rider. One of the man's legs was caught in the stirrups, and he was being dragged through the mud. It w as a commoner's draught horse, not a pure-bred, and yet to be allow ed to ride a horse at all spoke of this man's exalted position. He was a yeoman, the highest status that a commoner could attain, and, as such, he w as a w ealthy and esteemed individual in Luc's eyes.
Raising his hand, Luc spoke soothingly to the horse, and it halted. It w as lathered in sw eat, and its eyes w ere wide with fright. Moving carefully, ensuring he made no sw ift movements, Luc drew closer, his eyes flicking down to the fallen rider.
The yeoman w ore a tabard of yellow and red, and had a shield strapped to his arm.
He had carved a furrow through the mud w here he had been dragged, and his face w as obscured. He w ore a pot-helmet on his head, and Luc saw quivers of arrow s and a bow strapped to the horse's saddle.
'Bertrand!' called Luc, shouting out for his brother-in-law, asleep in the family home.
He stepped cautiously to the side of the large horse and unhooked the yeoman's foot from the stirrup. Kneeling Luc rolled the man over. His tabard w as aw ash with blood, and he saw a broken spear shaft imbedded in the yeoman's stomach.
'Bertrand!' he shouted again, more urgently, and he saw the glow of pig-fat fuelled lanterns being lit in nearby hovels as the village awoke to his cry. Pressing his thick, calloused fingers to the man's neck, he felt a w eak pulse.
The yeoman's eyes flicked open, and he cried out in pain and fear.
'They are coming!' he w hispered hoarsely.
'Hush,' said Luc, trying to calm the man as he struggled w eakly to rise to his feet.
Villagers, woken from their slumber, crowded around, their voices fearful and questioning.
'Help me get him inside,' ordered Luc, and the yeoman was carried into his home and laid upon his pallet. His wife's face was full of concern and fear, and the tw ins began to cry.
'No!' cried the man, fighting against them. 'They will eat our flesh and grind our bones!'
The yeoman fell unconscious, suddenly going limp, his eyes rolling back in his head.
The w ords he had spoken were lifted straight from a common children's tale of the terrible creatures dw elling in the dark depths of the wild woods, but to hear a soldier speak them w ith such conviction made the villagers whimper in fear.
'I told you w e should have fled,' w ailed a voice, and others voiced their agreement.
'Be silent!' thundered Luc. A w ell-respected man in the village, his commanding voice cut through the hysteria. 'He is delirious. We must tend his wounds.'
Luc w as w ell aw are that if the man died in his home he w ould be held accountable, and he had no intention of letting such a thing come to pass. He pulled the man's shield from his arm, and laid it to one side. His eyes lingered on the red and yellow design upon it, of a rearing dragon with flames spewing from its maw . He did not recognise the heraldry, and it was forgotten in an instant as his brother-in-law, Bertrand, cut open the man's tabard w ith a knife to expose the horrible wound.
The spearhead was embedded deep in the man's stomach, and blood covered the area. Even if he somehow survived the deadly injuring, a secondary infection would probably claim him.
That w as w hen he heard the first horn.
Within minutes, every villager was dead.
THE WARGOR KNELT over the bodies, its nostrils tw itching. Gore dripped from its scimitar, and it licked the blood from the fur around its mouth.
The slaughter had been brief and frenzied. None had escaped the wrath of the beastmen.
Rising up, the w argor was forced to duck its horned head to keep from hitting the ceiling of the hovel, which made a grow l of anger rise from its chest. It hated such unnatural structures created by the hands of men, and its desire to destroy flared pow erfully. The stink of humanity was strong, further fanning the fires of hatred.
It kicked out at a small w ooden table, smashing one of the legs and sending it crashing to the hay-strewn floor. It stamped a cloven hoof down upon the wreckage, splintering the wood and smashing it to pieces. It moved around the room w ith sharp movements, smashing clay pots with its blade, spilling seed and grain, and it slashed at the pallets strew n across the floor. Steam rose in the cold air as it urinated on the blankets that w ere thick with the stench of humanity.
Discovering a leather flagon tucked in a corner, the wargor ripped the lid off it, sniffing. Lifting the flagon over its head, it poured the alcohol into its mouth, the fiery liquid sloshing over the fur of its chin and down its chest. Draining the flagon, the beastman hurled it aw ay.
Feral black eyes spied a shield leaning against the wall, and it snarled, thick fingers tightening around the hilt of its scimitar. It stalked across the room, and lifted the shield up, gazing intently at the red and yellow design.
The w argor snarled again and defecated, its foul-smelling spoor thudding to the floor, before it stalked out of the hovel, roaring to its kin. Many of the buildings w ere ablaze, and the heat of the flames made the beast's heart race. The herd was busy slaughtering the last of the villagers and smashing down the hovels in which they lived, trampling them into the ground. They lived to tear dow n civilisation, and nothing fired their blood like wanton destruction and butchery. Nevertheless, in its brutal, violent mind, the wargor knew that the shield was important, and that the Gave w ould be pleased w ith its discovery. It roared again, and raised its bloody scimitar high in the air.
Within minutes, the bray herd was on the move once more, the beastmen running sw iftly as a pack through the night tow ards the welcoming darkness of the forest.
THE KNIGHTS RODE in silence. They passed knocked-down, ancient dry-stone walls, and fields of dead sheep and cattle. Most of the butchered animals were clustered in the corners of their paddocks, where they had huddled in panic and been viciously hacked apart. Many had broken their legs in futile efforts to leap the fences, and countless others had been trampled beneath the hooves of the terrified flock, before brutal blow s to skulls and through necks had killed them.
The cold light of predawn was grey and lifeless, and mournful trails of smoke rose from the burnt-out cottages in the dip below . Bodies lay strewn around the crude buildings. The carrion birds were already at w ork upon them, and their calls were harsh as they squabbled and burrow ed their heads into the carcasses.
The stench of burnt flesh reached Calard's nostrils as the patrol entered the ravaged village. Men and women lay sprawled in the mud alongside children, dogs and livestock, all killed by savage blow s, their flesh hacked apart and heads caved in.
It w as the same all across the east of Bordeleaux: villagers and towns sacked, their occupants butchered. It w as clear now that the greenskins had been driven out of Chalons by the beasts of the w ild woods, and, though the knights had yet to sight the full force of the enemy, much less face it in open battle, an enemy that could force the brutish orcs and goblins from the forests w as one surely to be respected.
It w as only an hour past daw n, and the ground was still covered in dew. A low mist hugged the dips in the landscape, and there was an icy chill to the air.
The knights were all tired, having been out on patrol since midnight. They had just been returning to camp near the grail chapel of Theudric, the night having passed w ithout major incident, when they had seen smoke rising in the distance.
'Dismount and look for survivors,' ordered Gunthar, his voice impassive.
'Survivors?' baulked Bertelis. 'They don't leave survivors.'
Gunthar gave t
he knight errant a hard look. With an exasperated sigh, Bertelis sw ung his leg over his saddle and slid to the ground. Calard and the other knights of Bastonne did likewise, and they began to search through the ruination wrought only hours earlier.
Tw o w eeks had passed since the destruction of the greenskins and the night of butchery that had follow ed.
As if the ambush against the knights by the creatures of the forest had been a signal heralding the commencement of slaughter, thousands of corrupted beasts burst from the forest of Chalons, descending upon Bordeleaux with hatred and savagery.
As darkness fell across the hills and fields of Bordeleaux, hundreds of scattered bands and raiding war parties had emerged, intent on bloodshed and mayhem. They fell upon unprotected villages, towns and isolated castles, killing and burning. They slaughtered men, w omen and children, livestock and dogs. Those that were not butchered w ere dragged screaming and kicking back into the forest to face w hatever vile fate aw aited them before they too w ere killed.
They smashed down hovels, and tore dow n the walls of inns and homesteads. They had rampaged through the night in a fury of destruction, butchering and tearing dow n any vestige of civilisation they came upon. Windmills were toppled and crops trodden into the earth, sheep and cows slaughtered, and bales of hay and homes w ere put to the flame.
Terrified peasants blockaded doors and windows, but such meagre defences were useless against their hateful murderers. With violence almost beyond comprehension, the beasts smashed their way into homes and food-stores, and, though the low born inhabitants defended themselves with pitchforks and hoes, they w ere hacked down and butchered in front of their children and wives. Babes w ere slain w ithout mercy, their heads dashed against walls, and the elderly and crippled w ere ripped apart in an orgy of death.
Hearing the blare of horns from all around, and seeing the flames of burning villages in every direction, the duke had ordered his knights and their indentured men-at-arms out into the night. Hundreds were killed as the beasts ambushed them en route to the beleaguered villages, and a desperate night of bloodshed had ensued.
The beasts displayed a low cunning, avoiding the strength of Bordeleaux and striking only against the w eak and vulnerable. When they did strike at the forces gathered by Duke Alberic, they targeted isolated groups of knights, setting on them from all sides.
Nothing but corpses remained, testament to the sudden violence done to them.
How ls and braying roars had echoed through the night. The beasts had chosen the time of their attack w ell, for the silver moon of Mannslieb w as new in the sky and cast little light through the massed clouds. The baleful eye of Morrslieb w as fuller, an insidious half crescent of glowing green, but it did little to light the fields, even w hen the clouds parted and it peered malevolently down upon the horror being wrought.
When the sun at last rose, and the night of blood w as ended, Duke Alberic's knights found the countryside in ruin. Black smoke rose in the distance to the north, west and south.
Word had filtered into the camp of scores of other massacres further afield, leagues to the north and south. Outriders and yeoman rode in, bearing the grim news, having seen w ith their own eyes the butchery meted out across the fair land.
As the tally of destruction grew, the duke reluctantly ordered his forces to be split, to protect a w ider area from attack. With no knowledge of where the beasts w ould strike next, he spread his forces wide in preparation for further incursions.
Calard and the other knights of Bastonne had ridden to the south. They were some thirty leagues from Duke Alberic's camp, and only half a day's ride from the broad river of Chalons, which formed the natural border betw een the lands of Bordeleaux and the dukedom of Aquitaine.
They had been patrolling the area for tw o w eeks, and, in that time, they had seen more than a dozen villages razed to the ground, every inhabitant slaughtered or dragged into the w ild woods. These, thought Calard darkly, looking at the dead peasants lying in the mud, had most probably been the lucky ones.
The knights fanned out and began to enter the burnt out peasant homes, sifting through the rubble and detritus, seeking any sign of life. The thatched roofs of many of the hovels w ere still smouldering.
'Why did these people not flee?' asked Dieter Weschler, his foreign accent clipped as he stared around at the brutality of the carnage. As ever, the Empire soldier's appearance w as immaculate, his black breastplate highly glossed, and his moustache carefully oiled and upturned.
'And become outlaw ?' asked Calard. He looked dow n in distaste at the corpse of a man lying face first in the mud, a sickle clutched in his pale, lifeless hand. The back of the man's head had been smashed open like a nut, and he sported a horrible w ound in his back that had severed his spine. He had probably been trying to run, w hich would account for his wounds being on his back.
They do not understand honour, he thought in disdain and pity. He could not expect anything else of the lower classes, but he still found it galling that a man w ould rather flee in dishonour than face his enemies. Not that there is anything honourable about the enemy, he reminded himself.
'I do not understand,' said Dieter, frowning. He looked at his host, Baron Montcadas in confusion.
'The life of a commoner is forfeit if he leaves the lands he is bonded to w ork upon w ithout the express permission of his lord,' said the baron, his broad, bearded face serious.
'I see,' said Dieter. 'A sad day this is. The Emperor would be grieved to hear of this tragedy. As an envoy of the Empire, I express my heartfelt condolences to the people of Bretonnia,' he said, bow ing stiffly.
'Bretonnia thanks you for your gracious w ords,' the baron replied, inclining his head,
'and I am sorry that you have chosen such an ill time to journey to our fair lands.
Now , please excuse me, Dieter.'
'They are only peasants, Empire,' said Bertelis scornfully, as the baron w alked to speak w ith Gunthar, looking like a bear decked in armour.
'They are people, like you or I,' observed Dieter. He was a diplomat, and though his face w as expressionless and his words carefully chosen so as not raise the ire of his hosts, Calard observed that he w as irritated by Bertelis's words.
'They are not,' said Bertelis hotly. 'They are a breed apart, vermin born to serve.'
'Only by chance of birth are men like you and I born into privilege,' said Dieter.
'Bah!' snorted Bertelis. 'Sometimes I envy the simple lives of the peasants. They do not realise how good they have it.'
'Oh?' asked Dieter coldly. 'How so?'
'They have homes to live in and food on their tables. They can marry w homever they w ant w ithout the concern of politics, and they live under the protection of their lord.
They have not a w orry in the world, and no responsibilities. They work, they eat, they sleep and they rut. It doesn't sound like a bad life to me.'
Dieter glanced down at the corpses around them. As one, they were gaunt to the point of starvation, and stunted by malnutrition and inbreeding.
'Indeed. They seem very lucky indeed.'
Calard snorted, and ducked his head to enter a hovel. Its door had been smashed dow n, and he blanched as the stink from inside assailed him. It smelt like the lair of some foetid, w et animal.
There were several corpses here, all very dead. He felt a tw inge of remorse as he looked upon the bodies of tw o children that w ere so similar in appearance that they must have been tw ins.
He thought then of his ow n twin, Anara. He had not been much older than these tw o butchered children when last he had seen her.
Sickened, he moved back into the fresh air, and breathed deeply. A shout drew his attention. A ginger-haired knight of Garamont, w hom Calard recognised as Tanebourc, w aved to him. The man was good company. Quick to smile, w itty, and alw ays w ith a ribald tale to tell, he was popular amongst the knights of Garamont.
Nevertheless, his face was uncharacteristically grim as he stood over a corp
se.
Looking dow n, Calard saw that the corpse was a man-at-arms, bearing the red and gold livery of Garamont.
'Who is he?' he asked, not that he knew any of the men-at-arms by name.
'He w as assigned to a scouting party that never returned last night.'
'A deserter?'
'Perhaps,' said Tanebourc, 'but I w ouldn't think so. A deserter would have discarded his tabard, but he might have been too stupid to think of that,' said Tanebourc w ith a grim smile. Then the smile dropped from his face. 'I w ould expect that w e will find the rest of his scouting party somew here around here, butchered by the beasts.'
Tanebourc had been correct in his evaluation. Fifteen Garamont yeomen w ere found some tw o miles distant, slaughtered along with their steeds. Calard sighed.
'Build a pyre,' he ordered his men-at-arms.
THE GAVE FELT the tentative approach of the wargor as it picked its way past the moss-covered rocks and skulls. He could feel the creature's animalistic, destructive urges, the primal savagery of its nature. Its heart burned hot w ith hatred, but it w as cow ed and fearful as it drew near the holy gibbet tree. Though it hated the Gave with all its being, as the Gave hated himself, it knew who was the master, and slunk forw ards full of respect and fawning submission. He could sense the wargor's fear as its eyes flicked warily betw een the immense, sleeping forms of the giants, the twins of one flesh. Had they been awake, the w argor would already have been dead.
The Gave's blue eyes flicked open. All was darkness around him, and he felt the w arm, rotting heart of the tree against his body, clutching him like a child to its bosom. Grubs and w orms burrow ed through the soft flesh of the tree, and they craw led over him as he breathed deeply the musty scent of rotting wood. He felt the blood of the sacrifices offered to the tree upon his skin.
Warhammer - Knight Errant Page 13
