'Take him!' hissed an urgent voice, and dark shapes loomed tow ards him. His eyes flashed across the tent, and he saw his thrashing brother pinned down on his pallet by other shapes, a rough sack over his head.
A knife stabbed tow ards him, and he turned the blow aside as Gunthar had taught him, using his forearm to force the attacker's arm aw ay. He thundered his elbow into the man's hooded face, and the attacker reeled backw ards, falling heavily over the small chest that housed Calard's clothes.
Calard threw himself to his side as he sensed movement behind him, and he hissed as a blade that had been aimed at his neck slashed across his shoulder. Another attacker came at him, blade flashing and Calard launched himself forwards, his hands reaching for the man's w rist.
His momentum made him slam into the attacker, w ho tripped backw ards over the pallet w ith a curse. Going with him, Calard fell on the man heavily with his knee, driving the air from him. Sw eeping up the attacker's knife, Calard rose sw iftly to his feet, slashing around to keep the assassins at bay.
Three of them circled warily. He stole a quick glance tow ards his brother, who was still struggling against the men pinning him dow n. One of the men flicked a glance behind him, to see w hat w as transpiring and he swore. His accent w as crude; a peasant's accent. Even had he not spoken, the stench of the assassins betrayed their low born status.
'Garamont!' roared Calard at the top of his lungs, and his brother began to fight anew , throwing off the men pinning him dow n.
The three attackers moved in on Calard. He swung to the right and grabbed one man's arm as it slashed tow ards him, knife gleaming. He pulled the attacker off balance and huded him into one of the others, but cried out in pain as the third man's knife plunged into his side.
Dropping to one knee, he punched up, ramming his knife into the man's throat.
He stood upright, w incing at the pain in his side. Then he heard the hiss of a sw ord being draw n, followed by a horrible, pained scream, and Calard felt the presence of his brother at his back.
Faced w ith the two brothers, one armed w ith a sw ord, the assassins faltered.
'Garamont!' Calard bellow ed once more.
CHLOD, STANDING WATCH outside the tent, flicked his glance left and right, biting his fleshy lip. Things were going horribly wrong, and the image of him hanging from the gallow s flashed through his mind.
With a quick glance through the tent flaps, he saw the two nobles standing back to back, and he made up his mind. He could hear the approach of running men, and he stepped out into the thoroughfare.
'Over here! Our lord is attacked!' he shouted, as he saw several men-at-arms w earing the red and yellow of Garamont. 'Get in there!' he shouted as they raced past him.
More people w ere appearing, knights emerging from tents in their bedclothes, roused from their slumber by the noise.
Glancing down, Chlod realised that the front of his stolen Garamont tabard w as covered in blood from the murder of the sentry. Sw earing, he ducked his head and shuffled quickly through the growing crowd.
There was more shouting inside the tent, and the sound of w eapons clashing, but Chlod did not look back. There was a crash that sounded like a suit of armour being knocked over, and he heard one voice shout: 'Take them alive!'
He sw ore again. None of the others in the murderous group knew his name, but they could certainly describe him.
His misshapen face was covered in a sheen of sweat as he pushed his way frantically through the grow ing press of people gathering around. Pushing free of them, he broke into an aw kw ard, loping run. He still clung to the polearm, and he almost tripped over it as he ducked betw een a pair of tents. He kicked something and tripped over it, falling to his hands and knees. The metal-brimmed helmet on his head fell forward to the ground and he dropped the aw kward weight of the polearm.
He struggled to push himself upright, and found his hands on a body.
He looked dow n into the face of the murdered sentry. He had not realised he had retraced his steps in his panic.
'You there! What are you doing?' someone shouted, and Chlod froze. He fought his instinct to run, and turned to face the speaker. It was a knight, standing half-dressed, a sw ord in his hand. Chlod licked his lips.
'Why w ere you running?' asked the man, stepping forwards and peering at him closely. Chlod gaped at him stupidly, his mind blank.
'Is that blood on you?' asked the knight.
Chlod nodded slowly. The knight furrowed his brow . 'Are you injured?'
'No,' stammered Chlod. Draw ing closer, the knight's eyes widened as he saw the body on the ground. The peasant slipped a hand inside the tabard he w ore, fingers closing on the knife at his hip.
'Did you kill this man?'
Chlod tensed, making ready to draw the knife. He nodded slowly, keeping his eyes locked on the knight.
'One of the assassins, was he?'
That gave Chlod pause, and he almost laughed out loud. Then he gave a demented, lopsided grin.
'Yes, my lord,' he said. 'I saw him run from the tent. I gave chase.'
'I see. Bring the body,' he ordered. 'It w ill need to be identified.'
With a nod, marvelling at his good fortune, Chlod bent dow n and began to drag the dead body out into the open.
'SANGASSE,' SPAT BERTELIS. 'It had to have been.'
Calard nodded, and then w inced as the alcohol w as poured onto the wound on his side. He screwed his eyes shut against the lancing pain.
'I'm sorry, my lord,' said the aged servant. Baron Montcadas had sent him to the Garamont tent.
'Glad to see you still alive, lad,' the baron had boomed, giving Calard a hefty pat on the shoulder that made him gasp in pain.
'The man might be a peasant, but he is the best damned healer of battle-w ounds I've met.'
Calard w aved aw ay the old servant's apology.
The w ound was dabbed dry, and Calard looked over his shoulder at the injury. It didn't look like much, but blood w as leaking from the puncture w ound, and it hurt like hell.
'Any more stitches, brother, and you w ill look like a scarecrow,' remarked Bertelis.
Calard snorted. It w as true, his body w as criss-crossed with w ounds and stitches.
The servant pressed a sw addling of cloth to the w ound, and with the aid of another man, w rapped bindings of cloth around Calard's chest.
The man produced a clay jar, and placed it on the pallet next to Calard.
'This is honey, my lord,' said the man. 'Have a servant smear it on the w ound twice a day, morning and night. As far as I can tell, the knife did no serious internal damage, though you w ill be sore for some time. The biggest risk is from infection, and the honey w ill help fight that. The wound must be dressed and cleaned daily. I w ill check on you tomorrow , my lord.'
Calard nodded, and the elderly man stood to leave, his knees creaking alarmingly.
'Give my thanks to the lord baron for your services,' said Calard. He turned to his brother as the servant left the tent, and he waved the other hovering servants to leave. They scooted out through the servants flap in the rear of the tent, passing through the press of men-at-arms stationed outside.
'Peasants!' spat Bertelis as he paced back and forth. 'Whoreson peasants sent to kill us! I w ouldn't have thought even Maloric would stoop so low !'
'The man is a snake,' said Calard. 'It seems that nothing is beneath him.'
'I say w e head to the Sangasse's now , and finish this once and for all.'
'No,' said Calard firmly. 'We need proof first.'
A serving boy pulled aside the main tent flap and stepped lightly inside, standing motionless and head bow ed as w as proper.
'What is it?' snapped Bertelis.
'Noble lords, Baron Montcadas and Lord Tanebourc w ish to speak w ith you,' said the boy.
'Then don't leave them waiting outside like paupers!' snapped Bertelis. 'Stupid boy!'
The servant ducked back outside, and the broad figure of Montcadas entered, a deep frow n on his
bearded face. Such was his size that the interior of the tent seemed to shrink in his presence. Tanebourc w as at his side, tall and lean, his face a mask of concern and controlled rage.
'You all right, Garamont?' asked Montcadas.
'I am,' said Calard.
'I thank the Lady that your injuries w ere not more serious,' said Tanebourc.
'Had I not w oken, my throat w ould have been cut.'
'Then it must have been the Lady that stirred you,' murmured Tanebourc, and Calard thought again of the voice in his dream, his sister's voice.
'Tw o of the men w ere taken alive, yes?' asked Bertelis.
'They w ere,' replied Montcadas. 'Tanebourc here has offered to oversee their...
questioning.'
'Good,' said Bertelis. 'Make sure they do not die easily.'
Tanebourc bow ed his head to the younger of the brothers.
'Find out w ho sent them, Tanebourc,' ordered Calard, his w ords burning w ith anger.
'It w ill be done,' said the knight, giving a gracious bow , 'and, once again, may I say how relieved I am to see neither of you more seriously harmed from this despicable attempt on your lives.'
The tall ginger-haired knight bow ed once more, and turned to leave.
'It w as Maloric,' said Bertelis to Montcadas, his eyes burning w ith anger.
'I do not believe so,' said the baron softly.
'What?' asked Calard. 'Who else w ould it have been? Regardless, Maloric is cunning.
Doubtless the attackers w ill not be traced back to him.'
'I have already spoken w ith him,' said the baron. 'He denies he had any involvement.'
'Well, of course he w ould deny it!' said Bertelis, outraged.
'Be quiet!' stormed Montcadas, his voice booming. Silence followed, and when the baron spoke again, his voice w as softer. 'Maloric denied any involvement, and I believe him.'
Bertelis scoffed, but Calard w as silent, thinking. 'One of his knights, then?'
'Perhaps,' said Montcadas noncommittally.
'I w ill challenge him,' said Bertelis suddenly.
'No,' said Calard firmly, thinking of Gunthar, lying wounded in his tent, half dead.
'Never again w ill I allow any man to fight my battles, never.'
'I w as attacked as w ell, Calard! I w ould be w ithin my rights to call him out!'
'I w as the target,' said Calard. 'They had you pinned down. They could have killed you, but they did not. No, it was me they w anted dead. I shall challenge him myself.'
'No, you w ill not,' said the baron, his face stern. 'I will not allow it, and, as the most senior knight in the camp, my w ord is final.'
Calard gaped at the baron, and Bertelis's jaw dropped.
'This is outrageous!' the younger brother stormed.
'There w ill be no challenge!' bellowed the baron, his eyes glowering with anger. 'We are assailed by a devious foe that threatens the land, and this petty rivalry you have w ith the Sangasse family has gone far enough! One noble is already dead, and Gunthar, a finer knight than any us, is fighting for his life. Even if he survives, he may never ride again. No, there will be no more of your petty squabbles! Once this w ar is over, and you have returned to your lands, then you may do as you w ish, but there are more important concerns here than a centuries-old feud.'
There was silence in the tent. Both Calard and Bertelis were looking at the floor, w hile Montcadas's furious gaze flicked from one to the other.
'I have spoken to Maloric of this as w ell, and I have made him sw ear on his honour that neither he nor any of knights will continue the feud until this war is over. I will have your w ord as w ell, brothers of Garamont.'
Calard glared at the floor and shook his head slightly. How had it come to this? he thought.
'Fine,' he said at last. 'On my honour, I sw ear it.' Bertelis mumbled his own oath.
'Good,' said Montcadas. 'Your attackers w ill be questioned, and if it comes to light that they w ere paid to carry out the deed, and they name their employer, then action w ill be taken. Now,' he said, 'get some rest. We have a long day tomorrow . There have been reports of the enemy moving in the daylight hours, some tw enty miles to the south, and w e are riding out to scour the area. I w ish you good night, and may the Lady look over you.'
Unseen, Tanebourc stood in the shadows, having overheard the exchange. His face w as thunderous.
AS THE FIRST rays of daw n rose, another struggling peasant w as wrenched into the air, his legs kicking uselessly beneath him as the rope tightened around his neck.
Fourteen other bodies hung limply from the boughs of the trees.
Bertelis glared at the dying man, watching as he turned a deep shade of purple. With his hands tied behind his back, the w ould-be murderer kicked and struggled vainly, eyes bulging. A stink rose into the air as the man lost control of his bodily functions, and Bertelis shook his head in disgust.
The five surviving assassins had been questioned for hours. They had suffered all manner of pain before they had been brought here and strung up. Bertelis thought it too lenient. In his opinion, they should have been kept alive, to experience far more suffering before they journeyed on to Morr's eternal halls.
Tanebourc had been thorough, though. The man had extracted confessions and accusations from the men, hence the other bodies that w ere swinging in the breeze from the boughs. Bertelis stared at one of the corpses: a heavy set man, a yeoman w arden no less. This was the man that the accusations had led back to. Tanebourc had interrogated the man; of course he had not sullied his own hands w ith the grisly task, for such a thing w as beneath a knight of honour, but if the w arden had been employed by one of the nobility, he had died with the secret.
He shook his head. You give peasants some responsibility, put some trust in them, and this is how they repay you, w ith treachery and attempted murder.
The w arden gave a last shuddering kick of his legs, and hung limply, swaying slightly from the branch overhead.
THE RIDE TO the south w as long and sombre. Calard rode much of the time in silence, lost in thought, thinking of the attack, and of Gunthar. He had spoken to Baron Montcadas's surgeon before they had left.
'He w ill live,' the small man had said, 'and he may yet keep the leg. But even if he does, he w ill never ride again. His days of fighting in the saddle are over.'
Calard shook his head, guilt weighing heavily upon him. He should not have allowed Gunthar to fight for him. Had he not, said a voice inside him, you w ould be dead. He pushed aw ay the voice, and scowled up at the heavy clouds. A single black bird circled overhead.
The attack in the night had left all the knights in the camp feeling sour and uneasy, and there w as little talk as the column rode through the south of Bordeleaux. There w ere tw enty-five knights, led by the Baron Montcadas, and ten peasant outriders w earing the yellow and red of Garamont.
The baron w as w atching over Calard and his brother like a haw k. Whether he was concerned about a further attempt on their lives, or w as merely ensuring that the brothers did nothing rash, Calard knew not.
The Forest of Chalons crouched on the hills to the east, everpresent and threatening.
He could see evidence that the forest w as expanding here as elsewhere. A peasant village in the distance seemed in the process of being swallowed whole, half the buildings already hidden by the trees, and Calard could see a tw isted, disease-ridden oak that had somehow sprung up w ithin one of the hovels, ripping its sodden turf roof off.
The dark shape of a modest castle loomed on a hilltop a mile aw ay. To Calard, it seemed like a brave knight standing alone and defiant against the monstrous forest draw ing forward to besiege it. How long before the trees overran it? A week? Perhaps a month?
Something about the castle seemed oddly familiar, and he frowned at the sense of deja vu. It w as an unsettling sensation, but he could not shake it.
A horse of purest w hite ran on the slopes beyond the castle, tossing its head, and Calard felt rejuvenated just
w atching the majestic beast. It seemed so free and full of life, running across the grass without saddle or bridle.
As they drew nearer, they saw that the castle was lifeless, abandoned perhaps a decade earlier. A tattered flag blew in the wind from atop its highest parapet, but the design upon it w as impossible to discern. Ivy had crept up the walls of the small castle, w hich were blackened with fire. Perhaps that had been w hat had forced its occupants to abandon it?
'We w ill stop there for half an hour to feed and w ater the horses,' said Baron Montcadas. The yeomen of Garamont rode ahead to prepare for the arrival of the knights. Calard watched them gallop across the grassy slopes towards the blackened castle, a slight frown on his face. He could not shake the idea that he had been here before.
They reined their warhorses in on the grassy flat before the modest gatehouse to the castle. There must have been a w ooden bridge that crossed to the gate once, but it had evidently rotted and fallen onto the rocks below. The gatehouse was open, the heavy w ooden doors hanging loose from their hinges.
Calard felt draw n to the abandoned, eerie castle, as if something was calling to him.
Handing his reins to one of the Garamont peasants, he walked towards it, a frown on his face. He had been here before, he was certain of it. Perhaps as a child?
He looked dow n into the rocky dip that must once have served as a moat, trying to see a clear w ay across to the castle gate. There were patches of stagnant water there, but it w ould not be difficult to cross.
'Calard?' called Bertelis, but he w aved him back.
Stepping carefully, steadying himself with one hand, he descended the steep slope.
Avoiding the stagnant pools of water, he crossed the rocky moat, and pulled himself up the incline on the other side, wincing at the pain that flared in his side. Another w ave of deja vu w ashed over him as he paused at the shattered gate, gazing through to the small courtyard w ithin the castle walls.
He shivered as a cold w ind howled through the gatew ay. I should go back, he thought, but he w alked forward, his brow furrowing in confusion. Half-remembered images flickered through his mind: running through the gateway past bemused guards, giggling chasing his sister.
Warhammer - Knight Errant Page 17
