The younger knight swayed in the saddle and lifted his left arm slightly, opening his shield guard. The point of Gunthar's sword blade scraped across his breastplate before passing under the younger man's armpit. Clamping his arm dow n sharply, Ganelon trapped Gunthar's blade. Feeling his weapon trapped and useless, Gunthar slammed his shield hard into the smaller man, knocking him from the saddle.
Ganelon fell hard, but came sw iftly to his feet. Gunthar's steed tossed its head, and the older knight stared down at his opponent. Then he swung one leg over his saddle, and dropped to the ground. He sent his horse running clear with a smack on its rump, and peasants ran forw ard to lead both horses aw ay.
Ganelon lifted his helmet aw ay from his head, and tossed it arrogantly to the side, confident in his abilities. 'A fine, if somewhat unconventional move,' he remarked.
Gunthar w as silent as he circled, his sword and shield raised. Ganelon's stance was relaxed to the point of cockiness, his arms hanging loose at his sides. He jumped lightly from foot to foot, taunting his opponent.
'The arrogant bastard,' hissed Bertelis, at Calard's side.
Gunthar sw ung in with a pow erful blow to the neck. Ganelon's blade flashed up from his side, sweeping the attack aside, before slicing back w ith a vicious riposte that Gunthar w as hard pressed to deflect w ith his shield. Ganelon did not follow up the attack, but merely w aited for Gunthar to attack again.
The w eapon master stepped forwards and struck, a strong overhead slash that w as taken on the shield. Ganelon's blade darted forward, but it w as pushed aw ay harmlessly by Gunthar's blade, and he stepped in close and bashed the smaller man w ith his shield. His sword followed the attack, and Ganelon was forced to back aw ay from his opponent's blade as it slashed in, left and right. His cocky showmanship evaporated as he saw his opponent's skill, and what followed was the most dazzling display of sw ordsmanship that Calard had ever witnessed.
The tw o men fought toe to toe, each blow snapped with astonishing swiftness, each displaying remarkable skill. The swords crashed together time and time again, and the dance of blades as they thrust, struck, parried and riposted was dizzying to w atch. The entire crowd was silent, enthralled by the contest playing out before them, aw are that they w ere in the presence of two masters.
After minutes of frantic swordplay, the pair stepped away from each other, breathing heavily. Gunthar's helmet was dented in tw o places, and he had suffered a pow erful blow upon his left rarebrace, w hich had sheared through the plate metal and the chain links beneath, and bitten into his arm. Ganelon's shield was bent out of shape from the heavy blow s he had taken, and he bore a cut across his cheek that w as bleeding profusely, though it was not deep.
Gunthar w as the larger and stronger of the pair, and arguably more skilled, but Calard had never seen a man as fast w ith the blade as Ganelon. Added to this, the man w as more than three decades younger than the ageing weapon master, and, as the fight w ore on, Calard could see that Gunthar w as tiring. His heart began to sink.
'He needs to end this quickly,' said Bertelis.
Ganelon too could see that his opponent was tiring and his cocky strut w as returning. Gunthar's attacks grew slower, until it was clear that exhaustion w as getting the better of him.
With pained, helpless expressions on their faces, Calard and Bertelis watched as Ganelon stepped around their w eapon master, leaping forward to strike a flurry of lightning blows, before leaping back once more. More blow s struck Gunthar, denting his breastplate and helmet, and his left pauldron was hanging uselessly from his shoulder. Ganelon pulled the battered shield from his arm and hurled it away.
Gunthar follow ed his every move with his shield held before him, his sword poised.
Calard had seen a similar battle played out once before. As a boy, he had w atched from a distance as an ageing stag still strong but past its prime, w as harried by a pack of w olves. The w olves were respectful of the power of the stag knowing they could be impaled on its antlers or crushed by its hooves, but they w ere also confident in their speed. Their jaws snapped each time they darted in, causing dozens of w ounds on the noble beast, and it gradually began to tire. Grow ing bolder, the w olves darted in w ith growing confidence, until the stag w as dead on its feet, exhausted beyond its ability to defend itself any longer. Then the wolves had leapt in, tearing out its throat, and the proud beast had died.
Another flurry of attacks, and Gunthar suffered a fierce blow to his head that w renched his helmet half off. He pulled it free and dropped it to his side, blood flow ing from his temple.
Darting forw ard again, his blade flashing dangerously, Gunthar defended himself w ith deft skill, despite his exhaustion. His sword flashed towards Ganelon's neck, but there w as little power behind the blow , and it was swatted aside easily, leaving his body and throat horribly exposed. Calard held his breath, w aiting for the fatal blow to fall.
Ganelon could have easily killed Gunthar then, but he did not. He stabbed his blade into Gunthar's thigh, the blade punching through his armour and sinking deep into the muscle. Gunthar roared in agony as the tip of the sw ord scraped his thighbone, and the leg collapsed beneath him.
The younger knight twisted the blade, before withdrawing it and stepping back, the half-smile still frozen on his face. He was toying w ith Gunthar now, drawing out his death before the gathered knights of Bastonne.
'Dear Lady above,' said Calard hoarsely. 'Let him die with dignity, you bastard.'
Somehow , Gunthar pushed himself back to his feet to face his opponent, grimacing in pain. His shield slipped from his arm, and he clutched his blade in both hands.
'I salute you,' said Ganelon. 'Never have I faced such a skilled opponent.'
'And you never w ill again,' said Gunthar, spitting blood.
'I think it is time for you to die, now. I am getting hungry,' said Ganelon demurely.
'Killing always gives me such an appetite.' He stepped towards Gunthar, his sword held poised.
Gunthar stumbled suddenly, and Ganelon surged forwards, his sword lancing for his enemy's throat. He realised, too late, that the slip was nothing more than a convincing feint, and he tried desperately to reverse his movement, but he w as already committed, his w hole body moving forwards. As his blade w as turned aside by Gunthar's armoured forearm, the tip of the older knight's sw ord drove low into his body, slipping through the weak joints in his armour around his groin. The force of his momentum drove him further onto the blade, and he gasped in pain as the major artery in his groin was severed, and the blade sank deep into his flesh.
Ganelon stumbled backw ards, and the blade slipped from his body. Blood spurted like a fountain from his fatal w ound, the colour bright and vivid against the gleaming silver of his armour. He stared in disbelief at the gushing blood, and fell to the ground.
There was not a sound from the gathered onlookers. Ganelon looked around numbly, his expression one of shock, his mouth opening and closing like that of a fish stranded on land. The colour drained from his features as his lifeblood pumped from his body, pooling around him and soaking into the earth. In moments, he was dead, falling back against the ground, his eyes staring blankly at the grey sky.
Maloric turned aw ay w ith a snarl, and began pushing his w ay through the frozen crow d. Gunthar fell face first to the ground, blood running freely from the deep w ound in his thigh.
Shouting for aid, Calard ran to the w ounded w eapon master.
CHLOD'S EYES LIT up as he saw the coins. Haifa copper crown! It w as more money than he had seen for many moons, and far more than could be earned through honest w ork.
He reached across the table greedily, and snatched at the proffered coin. The solidly built w arden pulled the coin back before he could grab it, and Chlod scow led darkly at him.
The last month had been tough. Twice he had been beaten: once by drunk, young knights merely for sport, and once by men-at-arms, w ho had caught him stealing from a knight's tent. He w as lucky in the latter case that
a beating had been all that he had received.
Just minutes ago, he had been sleeping, but had w oken instantly as the first kicks slammed into his body. He guessed that at least one rib w as broken.
Dragged through the mud like a sw ine being led to the slaughter, he had been brought before the w arden, who was now leering at him. He knew the man by reputation: a black-hearted murderer and thief. He w as clever, though. In front of the nobility he w as all sunshine and roses, obliging and dutifully subservient. It was only amongst the peasantry that his brutality came to the fore.
The bastard charged a tax of his ow n, though of course the nobility w ere unaware of it. Safety tax, he called it. As in, if you pay it, you are safe, and if you do not, then you are beaten and punished for some fabricated crime. Being a yeoman w arden, at the top of the pecking order of the peasantry, the bastard could torture and punish men and w omen as he saw fit without any intervention from the nobility. In fact, in Chlod's experience the nobility were pleased to see such acts, for it made them feel as if order w as being kept.
He had seen men around the camp missing their hands, and he had learnt that this w as the w arning for failing to pay your safety tax. Your hand w as hacked off with an axe and the stump shoved into burning coals to cauterise the wound. A second w arning was never given, since few people asked questions about peasants that disappeared.
Chlod had heard that those w ho had in the past tried to bring his corruption to the aw areness of the nobility were brutally murdered, along with every member of their family.
Not having had the coin w ith which to pay the w arden the tax he demanded, Chlod w as beaten w ith sticks, and kicked till he pissed blood before being dragged here.
Happily, though, things had not gone the way he had expected, and he still had both of his hands.
'You understand w hat it is I am telling you to do?' snarled the big w arden.
'Yes,' said Chlod. 'You w ant me to help kill some knight.'
For a peasant, even to utter w ords of dissent against a noble w as a punishable offence, usually resulting in the loss of fingers and ears, or a w eek in the stocks. For a peasant to lay hands on a noble, or even on his horse, accidental or not, was a far more serious offence, which often resulted in hanging. If a peasant physically harmed a noble, something that few would even comprehend, let alone premeditate, the punishments were of the utmost severity. On the rare occasion that such a thing came to pass, a peasant could expert agonising torture and slow dismemberment.
His family w ould suffer a similar fate, and his friends and associates would be tortured and maimed. Such w as the severity of the crime that the nobles made a brutal example of any w ho dared to assail them.
Chlod, how ever, had no family or friends. He had killed before, and had no qualms about doing so again, and the coin was enough to outw eigh the dangers. He was no fool, and w ould do all that he could to make sure that no retribution w ould come his w ay, but he w as w ell aware that things often turned out in ways that could not be foreseen. Plus, he was desperate.
'Kill some knight, that's the gist of it yeah,' said the warden, leering at him w ith his gapped teeth spread w ide in a predatory smile. 'Two hours before daw n. The noble's on the early patrol, and is due back at midnight. Don't even think about making a run for it. My men w ill be w atching over you from the moment you leave this tent. If you make any move to speak to anyone or leave the camp, you are dead, but not before you experience the most exquisite pain imaginable.'
Chlod believed he had a fairly vivid imagination, but he nodded and reached again for the coin. This time the warden allowed him to take it, and it disappeared instantly into a hidden pocket in Chlod's stinking clothes. He felt his scrawny, black-furred pet squirm against his skin, and he patted it roughly through his jerkin.
'Who's the knight, anyway?' he asked as he stood and made to leave.
'What?' asked the w arden.
'The knight, who is he?'
'Why? Does it matter?' asked the w arden.
'No,' said Chlod. The w arden grunted.
'Garamont,' the w arden said. 'Red and blue shield with a w hite dragon on it.'
Chlod's one good eye w idened, and he grinned stupidly.
'Shame he didn't fight Ganelon today,' said the hunchbacked peasant. 'You could have saved yourself some coin.'
'Remember,' grow led the warden, levelling a meaty finger at Chlod, 'the brother ain't to be hurt. Touch so much as a hair on his head, and we are all dead men. Now, piss off.' He inclined his head to a pair of brutes standing in the shadows, and Chlod was physically lifted and tossed into the mud outside.
Still grinning, he picked himself up and w iped the worst of the mud from his face.
Then he moved off, a spring in his ungainly step.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE CAMP WAS sleeping, and there w as no movement w ithin it. The hour was late.
The last patrol had come in hours earlier, and the next one was not due to return for some time.
On the outskirts of the camp, men-at-arms patrolled in groups of three. They fought off their tiredness, talking softly amongst themselves. The hours before daw n w ere the w orst time, the time w hen sleep beckoned most strongly, but they knew that they w ould be w hipped till their backs w ere bloody strips if they were caught resting while on guard. For men like them, such a beating w as often a death sentence. The open w ounds w ould likely fester and become infected, which was a slow and painful way to die.
There were fewer guards inside the camp, and they were less vigilant. No one expected an enemy w ithin the camp, and their presence was more a reassurance than anything else. Most slept at their posts, enjoying what rest they could steal.
One guard, dressed in the red and yellow tabard of Garamont, w alked betw een the dark, silent tents. He yaw ned and looked up at the silver moon. One more hour, and he w ould w ake one of the others to take over, he thought.
His yaw n w as cut short as he spied a dark, hunched shape limping through the mud.
Peering through the darkness, he tightened his grip on his polearm, and moved to intercept the figure. He stepped in front of it, and relaxed a little as he saw it was just some hunchbacked peasant, one of the scores of menial hangers-on that cooked and cleaned for the nobles.
'Cold night,' w hispered the man, grinning inanely up at him. His eyes were uneven and he had clearly suffered a recent beating. He had probably failed to clean a spot of grease from his master's cloak, or some such minor offence.
'It is,' said the guard, his voice quiet. 'What's your business here?'
'Been sent by one of yer men,' w hispered the hunchback. 'He said you might like a drink.' He held up a half-empty w ineskin.
The sentry's eyes widened, and he hurriedly leant his polearm against a w ooden crate and took a long draught. He sighed in appreciation. The wine was bad, tasting like vinegar, but it w as greatly w elcome. His eyes flicked back to the hunchback.
'Who sent you?'
'Oh, I don't know his name, sir.'
'Was he a blond-haired young man? On the eastern perimeter?'
'Yeah, that w as him.'
'My brother,' said the sentry. 'I ow e him one.'
'Generous of him to think of you,' said the hunchback, his eyes flicking over the sentry's shoulder. A dark shape was moving through the shadows betw een the tents.
The sentry reached into his pocket and rummaged around. 'Here,' he said, producing half a small, bread roll from w hich weevils and moth-maggots hung. 'Have this for your troubles.'
'You are most generous, good sir,' said the hunchback, pocketing the bread in an instant and bobbing his head in gratitude.
The sentry lifted the wineskin over his head to drain it, and Chlod motioned with one hand. Shadow y forms slid out from betw een the tents, moving unseen past the distracted sentry.
'What's that over there?' asked Chlod suddenly, his voice low but filled with alarm.
The sentry dropped the wineskin to the ground
, and spun in the direction that Chlod w as gesturing tow ards, turning his back on the hunchbacked peasant.
Chlod clamped one thick, hairy hand over the man's mouth and dragged his blade across the sentry's neck, severing the jugular. The man twitched in his arms, and Chlod felt hot blood gushing over his hands. He dragged him awkwardly back into the darkness, and pushed the man to the ground in the shadow of a tent. He held his hand clamped over his mouth until his twitching stopped, and then stood upright.
He grinned as he saw more shapes moving stealthily through the night. With sudden inspiration, Chlod bent dow n and roughly pulled the red and yellow tabard from the dead sentry's body. With aw kw ard movements, he pulled it over his hunched frame, and planted the fallen man's iron-rimmed hat on his head. Lastly, he lifted the polearm from w here it leant, and then he began to nonchalantly walk towards the tent that bore the red and yellow of the lord of Garamont. This was going to be too easy, he thought.
CALARD WAS DREAMING of Elisabet, and he smiled in his sleep as he breathed in her intoxicating scent. They were lying together in the long grass overlooking Castle Garamont, enjoying the heat of summer, the sound of insects, and each other's body.
This was paradise, he thought, and Elisabet kissed his naked chest, nuzzling against him.
A voice w as trying to intrude, but he pushed it aw ay, not w ishing the vision to break.
It became more insistent, and in his dream he sat up, staring around him in confusion. Bees heavy w ith pollen flew ponderously from flower to flower, and tiny crickets clicked and leapt aw ay from the sudden movement.
'What is it, my love?' asked Elisabet sleepily.
The voice was getting louder, more insistent.
'Anara?' he said, looking around in confusion.
Wake, said the voice, jolting him w ith its power.
He came aw ake instantly, and saw a flash of movement above him.
Throw ing himself to the side, the knife stabbed dow n into his pillow, and Calard rolled from the pallet.
Warhammer - Knight Errant Page 16
