Warhammer - Knight Errant

by Anthony Reynolds

  Now , the forest was no more than a mile in the distance.

  'Lady above,' breathed Calard, his eyes w ide in horror.

  Calard pushed his w ay through the press of gaw king onlookers, and ran through the camp, heading tow ards the other side of the table-topped hill. He dreaded what he w ould see there. Gaining a clear view across the fields to the w est, he sighed in horror.

  The forests of Chalons were only a mile away. It w as the same to the north, and to the south.

  The forest had completely surrounded them. They were in the belly of the beast, trapped deep w ithin its heart of darkness, and it was surely only a matter of time before they w ere completely engulfed.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  DREAD AND NERVOUS anxiety churned within Calard's stomach. Black birds, the eyes of the enemy, circled high overhead, out of bow range.

  'I w ill be glad w hen night comes, just so w e won't have to see those hateful things any longer,' said Bertelis.

  The glare of the sun was harsh, burning an intense, blazing orange. The sky was red, fading to purple and dark blue in the east. It w as less than an hour until dusk.

  According to Anara, the beasts w ould begin their onslaught an hour after sundow n.

  'Not long now ,' said Calard. He too w ished the time would pass quickly. He hated the hours before battle w as met.

  The day had been one of frantic activity as the camp prepared for attack. Orders w ere given, and men-at-arms formed into fighting echelons that were spread around the hill, facing out in all directions.

  Fletchers and blacksmiths worked hard through the day, and hundreds of new arrow s w ere made and distributed amongst the five hundred peasant archers and bow -armed yeomen of Garamont, Sangasse and Montcadas. Iron braziers w ere positioned around the perimeter, and peasants gathered additional firewood to ensure that none of them w ould burn low throughout the long night ahead.

  A team of some three hundred men had marched out before daw n, under the w atchful gaze of Baron Montcadas, heading towards an isolated copse of beech trees half a mile from Adhalind's Seat. Nervously eyeing the unnatural, tortured forest of Chalons, w hich had completely surrounded the camp in the night, the peasants set about lopping these tall, straight, grey trees. The branches and twigs were shorn from the trunks, and they w ere hauled back to the camp, w here they were hewn into lengths around ten feet long. The tips were sharpened with axes, and hardened with fire. Over the course of the day, several thousand stakes were cut, and these were set into the ground around the base of Adhalind's Seat, forming a ring of spikes facing outw ards. The overlapping lines of stakes allowed for sorties of knights to charge through them, w hile ensuring that an enemy trying to storm them w ould have to fight hard for every inch of ground they took.

  The archers stood on the hillsides behind the stakes, each man w ith dozens of arrows stuck into the soft earth in front of him, and carrying a pair of quivers. Calard did not, of course, approve of the use of missile weapons, but he respected the tactical use of the peasants. Besides, the peasants had no concept of honour, too ignorant to understand that it w as shaming to kill from a distance.

  More sharpened stakes had been sunk into the earth around the sacred copse that butted up against the north-w est hillside, and hundreds of archers stood behind them, supported by large blocks of men-at-arms.

  The archers were under orders to fire upon the foe until they were within a hundred paces, at w hich point they w ere to pull back onto the slopes of Adhalind's Seat, joining the bulk of the archers there, and allowing the men-at-arms to step forw ard and hold the line. It was here that the men of Garamont w ere stationed, here that they w ould face the enemy.

  Half a dozen knights, all vassals of Calard's father, had nobly volunteered to fight on foot and lead the peasant rabble. They knew that holding the line against the enemy w as of paramount importance. If the line broke, and the beasts w ere allowed to despoil the sacred shrine, then the good name of their lord w ould be sullied, for it w as Garamont's responsibility to see it protected. With their line bolstered by the presence of the stern knights, Calard w as more confident that the men-at-arms w ould hold.

  There were gaps in the wooden stakes, to either side of the shrine's edges, through w hich the Garamont knights could sally forth to attack the enemy directly, if they managed to w eather the storm of arrow s. Many of the nobles were confident that the unruly rabble of the enemy w ould not be able to advance beneath the clouds of arrow s that w ould descend among them, but Baron Montcadas w as not convinced.

  Indeed, many of the nobles in the war tent on the previous evening had argued long and hard for the knights of Bastonne to ride out and meet the enemy head-on, on the flat fields around the hill, for they were unhappy with the idea of hiding behind walls of stakes and relying on peasant archers. Where was the honour in that they questioned?

  Montcadas had not entertained these considerations, dismissing them too quickly in Calard's eyes, but he had held his tongue, letting the more experienced knights argue their cases.

  To his surprise, Montcadas had even draw n Dieter Weschler into the discussion, asking him how an Empire army w ould mount a defence against this enemy. The other knights had murmured their discontent, but Montcadas had silenced them w ith a fiery glare.

  'In my land, w e would hold the high ground with our heavy infantry battalions,'

  started Dieter. 'We w ould pound the enemy w ith cannon and mortar, and lines of arquebuses w ould fire as the enemy came into range. These handguns have not the range or rate of fire of your long bow s, but w ithin tw o hundred yards they are devastating. We w ould funnel the enemy towards our strongest positions, tow ards the true strength of our armies, its infantry.'

  Several of the gathered knights scoffed at this, laughing under their breath at the foolishness of their neighbours. Ignoring their snide remarks, Dieter had continued w ith dignity.

  'Our knightly orders would be held back to counterattack against enemy cavalry, or w herever the line began to falter. Regiments of halberdiers and spears would be held in reserve under the command of a senior captain, who w ould order them forwards into any breaches. Victory w ould come as the enemy broke against our infantry battalions, for there is not a more disciplined force in the Old World.' The small captain stood proudly, his chest puffed out like a cockerel's as he went into further detail about the disposition of the armies of the Empire, and their tactics. He quoted from tactical manuals that Calard had never read, and spoke of battles that he had never heard of. At last, Montcadas thanked the Empire captain, who nodded curtly in response, clearly pleased at having been given the opportunity to speak of his homeland.

  'Our knights,' Montcadas had said, 'are our most potent w eapon. No better knights can be found in the Old World or beyond, and they are rightly feared by all w ho oppose us. Given more knights, this battle w ould be w on easily, for nothing can stand against our charge. How ever, as the noble damsel has foretold, we will be facing an enemy ''beyond number' . I fear that if w e ride forth from Adhalind's Seat and engage the enemy on even ground, we will be surrounded and slaughtered to a man. Our charge w ill falter, and, as soon as w e have lost our momentum, our advantage has been lost.'

  'We w ill not be able to make use of our greatest advantage if w e hide behind walls of stakes and peasants,' countered Kegan, spitting out the last w ord as if it tasted bad in his mouth.

  'Quite true,' replied Montcadas. 'The enemy w ill break against Adhalind's Seat, and w e shall charge forth and drive through the enemy where it threatens us most, before pulling back. This will not be the glorious battle that many of you noble knights wish it to be. It w ill not be the glorious battle that I w ould w ish it to be. But there w ill be no glory if every man here is slaughtered, and I w ill be damned if I let such a thing come to pass under my leadership.'

  At the end of the discussion, as the knights moved off to begin preparations and steal a few hours rest, Calard had seen Montcadas sit dow n heavily, looking tir
ed and strained. This shocked Calard more than anything else he had seen or heard that night, for he had believed that the massive baron w as utterly indefatigable, an elemental force of battle that never tired, nor ever even considered losing.

  'I w ish that Lord Gunthar w as with us, lad,' he had said, and Calard had hung his head in shame. 'I am a leader of men, and I like to think a fine one, but I prefer to lead from the front. I am no master of strategy. I prefer to leave that to more learned men. I suppose that the Lady tests us all, and one can only hope to live up to the challenges she sets.'

  'I think the strategy is sound, baron,' said Calard.

  'Good,' said Montcadas w ith a smile. 'I've never lost a battle in my life, and I don't intend to start now .'

  The tents in the camp had been mostly dismanded so that reinforcements could cross the hilltop unimpeded, and so that messages could more easily be passed w ith flags and banners. A few tents remained, connected by aw nings of canvas, to act as a field surgery, and hundreds of pallets were laid out. Water w as collected from the spring that fed the grail shrine's serene glade, and peasants were organised into small groups to transport the w ounded from the main battle lines.

  No peasant w as spared a duty, and non-combatants w ere organised into teams to aid the battle, either as aides to the few surgeons in the camp, as labourers to bear arrow s, w ater and fresh lances, or organised into lightly armoured skirmish echelons to support the men-at-arms and dispatch injured enemies with knives and cudgels.

  Calard took a deep breath, trying to calm his frayed nerves. The sun was sinking ever nearer to the horizon. The attack w ould come at any minute. Even the knowledge that the holy paladin Reolus w ould fight at their side did little to curb the feeling of dread rising w ithin him.

  The grail knight had arrived at the camp hours earlier, emerging from the unnatural forest to a great cheer. Knights and peasants had stopped their work to w itness the arrival of the grail knight and his entourage. The knight's self-appointed heralds ran before the resplendent knight, exhorting his exploits in loud voices, and blowing long notes on trumpets and horns.

  The revered knight rode his massive midnight black stallion at the head of some fifty knights, but they seemed to pale beside him, and all eyes w ere locked on the renow ned champion of the Lady.

  He had looked like a hero of legend, plucked straight from the illuminated pages that chronicled the exploits of Gilles the Uniter. He could have been one of the companions, one of the near-mythical paladins that rode at the side of the Uniter and freed the lands of the Bretonni from darkness.

  In the dull, overcast afternoon light, the holy knight seemed to glow like a beacon.

  The visor of his full-faced helm was lowered, and he rode with his head held high.

  Candles surrounded the silver, heraldic unicorn atop his helmet, and the light they created shone a halo around the knight, and gleamed off his highly polished and ornate armour. The lance Arandyal was held vertical in one hand, and his shield was slung over his back. His deep blue cloak fluttered in the breeze behind him.

  To his right, a knight bore the grail knight's personal standard: a majestic, rearing unicorn of shimmering silver upon a field of blue. The bearer's face shone with pride at the honoured duty.

  'Hark ye, knights of Bastonne!' hollered one of the pilgrim heralds. 'Witness the approach of Saint Reolus the Wise, beloved of the Lady! Saint Reolus the Bold, paladin of Quenelles! Saint Reolus the Valiant, who slew the blood-beast of the Orcals!'

  'Blessed are ye to look upon his holiness! Give praise, for he has come to fight the beasts! Victory is certain, for the Lady will not allow any harm to befall her favourite, and never shall his standard fall w hile he doth take breath!'

  Tw o hundred pilgrims had marched behind the hallowed knight, shouting of his deeds in loud voices, and holding aloft scraps of armour, food and clothing that had been cast off by the object of their devotion. The ragtag bunch of peasants w ore a motley collection of armour scavenged from battlefields, over which monkish robes w ere pulled. Many w ore high gorgets of stiffened leather to protect their necks, and most had shaved the tops of their heads as a mark of their devotion. They carried w ooden shields, upon which w ere nailed parchments and scraps of beautifully illuminated holy works, and in their rough, calloused hands they carried rusted blades, clubs and daggers.

  As the holy entourage came closer, Calard noted the heraldry of the knights accompanying Reolus. They hailed from all four corners of Bretonnia, and it was obvious that they had recently seen battle. The knights' shields were chipped and battle w orn, and their cloaks were bloodied and tattered. Their armour w as dented, and many bore injuries. Some of the pilgrim zealots were limping, leaning heavily on w ooden crutches, while others had arms in splints and were w rapped in bloodied bandages. Nevertheless, they bore their wounds proudly, not wishing to show any form of w eakness in front of the grail knight.

  Calard had felt the spirit among the knights of Bastonne soar as the grail knight drew near. Truly they were favoured, knights whispered. Calard almost laughed out loud. They w ere surrounded on all sides by a hateful, cunning and unnatural foe, but w ith the presence of a grail knight and a sacred damsel of the Lady, how could they possibly lose?

  Black birds circled overhead, higher than an arrow could reach, and, despite the arrival of Reolus, the sense of foreboding and dread would not leave Calard.

  CHLOD'S STOMACH GROWLED noisily. When had he last eaten? He couldn't remember. He had not dared to go looking for food, fearing capture. His rat companion squirmed and climbed up his arm. It nuzzled at his ear, its mangy w hiskers tickling him. 'Food is coming, precious,' he whispered.

  Chlod sat among the pilgrims, grinning like a simpleton and licking his lips as he w atched the stale loaves being dealt out amongst them.

  'Break bread w ith us, brother!' said one of the devout followers of the grail knight.

  'You have been blessed!'

  'I have,' agreed Chlod. The itinerant vagrants had embraced him into their fold, fooled by his act, and now they would feed him as one of their own. His own cleverness astounded him. He took the proffered food, gratefully, and began stuffing it into his mouth w ith gusto. He held a crumb to his rat, w hich snatched it from his fingers eagerly.

  He had been hiding out for three days and tw o nights. He'd seen the bodies of the others, hanging from the trees, their faces purple, their eyes plucked from their sockets by carrion birds. He didn't know if any of them had spoken before they had died. They might not have known his name, but they knew his face. Were the yeoman w ardens looking for him even now? Did they know that he was one of those who had tried to kill the Garamont noble?

  When the order had come to dismantle the camp, he had been almost paralysed w ith fear. There would be nowhere to hide once all the billets and tents were pulled down, and he thought he w ould surely be identified when all the camp followers had been rounded up and gathered into groups.

  Keeping his head down low, he had stood w ith a group of other bedraggled peasants, labourers all. He did not know what lord they were in the service of. He tried to make himself as inconspicuous as possible, as the yeoman assigning the various peasants to w ork groups stalked past. The labourers had been assigned to chop down trees, and Chlod had tried to hide among their number, moving off with them as they shuffled aw ay.

  If they thought there w as anything strange about the extra number in their group, they said nothing, and a flicker of hope sparked inside him. If he moved off with them to collect lumber, then surely he w ould be able to slink off w ithout anyone noticing.

  Then he could get as far aw ay from the camp as possible, and he would never be incriminated in the attempt on the life of the young Garamont lord. He w ould travel to the w est, perhaps, towards the great port city of Bordeleaux. There, he was certain that he could lose himself in the warrens around the docklands.

  He had even grinned lopsidedly, thinking that perhaps the trickster god Ranald was smiling dow
n on him.

  A meaty finger had prodded him in the chest.

  'Not you,' snarled a yeoman. 'Whose man are you?'

  Chlod had gaped stupidly, his mind w hirring.

  'Who is your lord and master?' the yeoman had asked, more forcefully. There were no free men in the camp. Not even the villeins w ho led the ragged groups of longbow men w ere truly free, for they still paid taxes and dues to their noble lord. Any peasant w ho did not belong to a lord w as an outlaw , and outlaw s w ere hanged.

  'Garamont,' Chlod had lied. The yeoman frowned and looked at him doubtfully, but did not refute his claim.

  'Well, w hat are you doing standing over here, fool?' snapped the man, cuffing him hard over the back of his head. 'Get over there with your fellows,' he said, pointing tow ards a small group of men and w omen, who w ere being led to the north.

  Chlod hurried tow ards the group of peasants, praying that none of them would say that they did not know him. He kept his head down low as he shuffled past dozens of other peasants, trying not to catch the eye of any of them, but as he moved, he felt someone staring at him, and he looked up, straight into a face that he recognised.

  It w as another of the w ould-be assassins that had somehow escaped the hanging.

  The man began to push through the crow d of peasants tow ards him, and Chlod sw ore under his breath. He tried to ignore the man, dropping his head and moving as quickly as his clubfoot w ould allow, but the man drew alongside him. Chlod saw that his face w as pale, and his eyes were filled with fear.

  'They are going to hang us,' hissed the man, and Chlod looked around in alarm to see if any yeoman w as nearby.

  'We w ill die like the others!' the man w ailed, clutching at Chlod's clothing, and he cursed. He saw a yeoman turn in their direction, alerted by the sound.

  'Be quiet!' snarled Chlod dangerously, his hand closing around the dagger concealed w ithin his tunic. 'Get aw ay from me, now, or we will both be dead by sunset!'

  The man continued to w ail, clutching at him desperately.