Warhammer - Knight Errant

by Anthony Reynolds

  What's more, he w ould probably die fighting alongside them. It was a galling thought.

  The pistol in his hand boomed as its w heel-lock mechanism created the spark that ignited the black pow der, and the back of a beastman's head exploded outw ards in a spray of shattered bone and gore. Quickly bolstering the precious weapon, he smoothly drew another.

  Hundreds of knights were locked in battle beyond the row s of stakes in the ground, and he could see that if they w ere not supported, they would be surrounded and mercilessly cut dow n in moments. Dieter swore at the foolishness and arrogance of the knights. Could they not see that as soon as their momentum slow ed, they were going to be surrounded and butchered?

  Battle instincts that had been honed through years of service as an infantry sergeant, before he had been elevated to captain, reared w ithin him.

  'Sound the advance,' he ordered the peasant holding a rusted horn in his shaking hands. The man had only just taken on the role, after the head of the previous musician had been hacked from his shoulders only moments earlier. Dieter had slain the offending beast, and handed this witless peasant the instrument.

  'Sound the advance,' he repeated. The man just stared at him blankly, and then lifted the horn to his mouth. His face w ent red with exertion, but his enthusiasm did not match the sound coming from the instrument. It sounded like a baby blow ing bubbles of spit.

  'Oh, for Sigmar's sake,' snapped Dieter. He lifted his sabre up high in to the air before him. 'Forw ard!' he roared, his voice, honed on the parade ground, easily carrying over the din of battle. He stepped forw ards into the breach as the enemy gathered their strength beyond the w all of deadly stakes.

  Nobody follow ed his move, and he cursed himself for a fool. These simple peasants could not understand Reikspiel, the language of the Empire. He repeated his order, this time bellow ing it in the Bretonnian tongue.

  They w ere the worst soldiers that he had ever led, even worse than the stubborn Middenlanders. At least the northern men could fight, even if they questioned every order he gave them. These men-at-arms w ere ill-disciplined and poorly equipped, and had clearly received only rudimentary training. They were not fit to be soldiers at all, in Dieter's mind, but then he was not surprised. The nobility were utterly obsessed w ith fighting on horseback, and gave little thought to the strategic use of infantry, no matter the fighting conditions or the foe.

  'Forw ard, damn you!' shouted Dieter, his generally stoic manner cracking and finally the men-at-arms began to advance.

  They marched out betw een the angled stakes, pushing past dozens of impaled bodies.

  So thick had been the crush of the enemy charging at their line that scores of them had run blindly onto the fire-hardened spikes. Dieter dispatched a tw itching, goat-headed creature that w as trying to pull itself off a stake w ith a slashing cut that severed its spine.

  Some fifty paces ahead, tw o formations of knights were locked in deadly combat as they fought vainly to ride free. They had lost all momentum, however, and were being surrounded by ever more enemy w arriors, who were dragging them from their saddles and butchering them w ith savage, chopping blows.

  'Charge them!' roared Dieter, and he ran forwards, praying to Sigmar that the men-at-arms w ere following.

  Montcadas had clearly been uneasy w hen Dieter had requested to fight alongside the infantry. In truth, it was clear that the baron had not w ished Dieter to fight at all, for fear of the political repercussions if he died while under Bretonnian hospitality.

  'The Emperor w ould wish me to fight alongside his Bretonnian brothers,' Dieter had replied. 'Just as I know that if ever the Empire was in need of aid, Bretonnia w ould support it.'

  In truth, Dieter found all the politics wearing and he longed to return to his former, simpler life as an officer in the state army of Reikland. This was certainly a far cry from the disciplined ranks of halberdiers he had commanded, but one could not alw ays choose one's tools.

  The simple peasants had been frightened by his wheel-lock weapons, and had recoiled back from him as he had fired the handgun, crafted by the finest engineers of Nuln. The ignorant savages had thought it some form of w itchcraft.

  Dieter charged tow ards the swelling mass of unruly creatures surrounding the beleaguered knights. Levelling one of his pistols, he fired, and an enemy w as sent crashing backw ards, its skull pierced by the lead shot. With a shout, he reached the enemy, and slashed his sabre across the chest of one of the hulking beasts.

  The men-at-arms struck then, sw inging their polearms into the enemy with more desperation than skill. He saw several beasts go dow n, but many more turned aside the clumsy blow s w ith swords and shields, only to tear into the peasants with brutal savagery, cutting then dow n in swathes.

  Still, there were over a hundred peasants in the formation, and they pushed forwards relentlessly, stabbing and cutting. They took down perhaps one beast for every three of their number that fell. It was a staggeringly poor performance, but the charge w as having the desired effect.

  With the w eight of numbers supporting them, the knights were finally able to kick their steeds free of the deadly melee, though the ground was littered w ith the corpses of those w ho had not been so lucky.

  The men-at-arms w ere left unsupported, and Dieter knew that they would break at any moment. They w ere poor w arriors at best, and w ere being slaughtered by the monstrous beasts. Dieter w as w alking steadily backw ards, his sabre flashing left and right defensively as the enemy surged forwards.

  He knew there would be no chance of an ordered retreat, and he saw the fear and panic in the eyes of the men around him. Any moment now, their resolve would be shattered. It w ould start w ith just one man turning and running, and then all semblance of order w ould be lost.

  An axe sw ung at his head, and he ducked backwards, stumbling into a peasant and almost falling. A jagged spearhead thrust tow ards his lacquered black breastplate, and he turned it aside w ith a deft parry. His blade flashed back in a lightning riposte that stabbed into the beast's groin, and blood sprayed.

  Bellow ing roars echoed deafeningly over the already horrendous din, and Dieter saw massive creatures of muscle and horn rampage tow ards the faltering line of men-at-arms.

  Half again as tall as the largest of the peasants, these behemoths smashed aside their smaller kin in their lust to kill. They broke limbs and shattered bones, their giant axes and cleavers cutting through any that w ere too slow to get out of their w ay. Snorting and stamping, the minotaurs low ered their heads and charged through the press, crushing bodies under their cloven hooves, and throwing beastmen over their shoulders with dipping sweeps of their heavy heads.

  The resolve of the men-at-arms w as shattered, like a delicate crystal goblet beneath a hammer blow . The peasant soldiers turned and fled, scrabbling over each other in their blind rout.

  Dieter w as not a stupid man, and he had no intention of throwing his life away for some pointless show of bravery. While the foolish Bretonnian nobility may have seen it as a gross display of dishonour, Dieter turned and ran for his life.

  LORD REOLUS LOWERED his glowing lance and charged. He thundered over the rough ground, eyes blazing w ith holy fury as he focused on the phalanx of rampaging bull-headed monsters.

  He aimed the tip of the sacred lance, Arandyal, at the neck of the closest of the hulking creatures as it ploughed into the infantry. It swung its lowered head sidew ays, impaling one man upon its bronze-tipped horns. With a flick of its head, it sent the man spiralling up into the air like a rag-doll. As the peasant came tumbling dow n, the minotaur's giant axe arced up to meet him. The axe cleaved through flesh and spine, hacking the man in two.

  Greedily, the towering beast grabbed the upper half of the fallen man in one hand, lifting it up to its mouth to drink of the blood gushing from the terrible wound.

  Rivulets of hot crimson ran dow n the beast's neck and chest, its tongue squirming like a monstrous w orm in the entrails of its prey. Engrossed in its g
ory feast, it saw the approach of Reolus and his knights too late.

  Arandyal speared tow ards the minotaur's thick neck, but, w ith inhuman speed, it tw isted, swinging its axe up to shatter the w eapon. Reacting with the speed of a darting snake, Reolus rolled his wrist, and the tip of his lance flicked deftly in a tight circle, avoiding the axe and leaving a lingering arc of light in its wake.

  The lance ripped the minotaur's throat out, blood boiling as it came into contact w ith the sacred w eapon.

  Arteries pumped blood from the fatal w ound like geysers. It dropped to its knees, hands clutching at the w ound, and Reolus smashed his sword, w ielded in his left hand, through its skull.

  The knights thundered on. More of the tow ering beasts turned to face the charge. So tall w ere they that they looked down upon the knights, even though they were sitting astride their massive steeds. With a roar, they leapt forwards to meet the charging knights.

  With staggering power, one of them hacked its axe into the neck of a destrier, ignoring the lance that plunged deep into its thick chest. The axe-head tore through metal barding and flesh, severing the horse's spine and sending its head flying. The knight riding the brutally slain horse was thrown sideways, to be crushed by his falling headless, steed.

  Another of the beasts stood up to the charge, its massive hand closing around the neck of another steed, which it hurled to the side contemptuously. Then it w as struck by a pair of lances, staggered backw ards and w as instantly lost beneath the thundering hooves of the charging horses.

  Tw o more beasts died beneath Reolus's flashing weapons. Gore sprayed across his gleaming armour and tabard, but it ran off him like oil, leaving him unsullied by their foul heart-blood. One by one, the knights around him were smashed from their saddles. Arms w ere cleaved from shoulders, and men fell, screaming. Clubs the size of men crushed heads, and horses screamed as heavy blow s cleaved deep into their flesh.

  Still, no w eapon came close to touching Reolus. He was like a god of w ar, cutting dow n everything in his path.

  He w as, how ever, but one man.

  Oblivious or uncaring of the w ooden stakes before them, consumed w ith bloodlust, a trio of minotaurs ploughed on after the fleeing men-at-arms. Reolus cut one of them dow n, his lance ripping through the tight muscles of its thigh, sending it crashing to the ground. Another of the beasts ran straight onto the wall of w ooden stakes set deep in the ground, impaling itself, while the smaller and more agile humans slipped betw een the deadly spikes. Uncaring, the creature pushed forwards, legs pumping like pistons, and the thick stake drove deep into its gut.

  The last of the beasts smashed the stakes aside w ith sweeps of its twin weapons and ran on, revelling in the slaughter as it continued its butchery. Beastmen streamed through the gap, w hooping and roaring as they set about w ith abandon, chasing after terrified men and hacking them down with brutal blow s to the backs of their heads.

  Fighting with ferocious passion, Reolus struck dow n everything that drew w ithin range of his deadly w eapons. He fought like a man possessed, but the press of bodies around him w as too great, even for him.

  HUNDREDS OF MEN were slaughtered before order was restored. His comrades all slain and his steed dead, pierced by a dozen blades, Reolus stood alone in the breach in the Bretonnian lines, killing everything that came w ithin range of his deadly blade.

  Baron Montcadas led the counterattack against the flood of enemies that had broken through, his spiked morning star smashing foes aside desperately. He would have fallen too, his knights surrounded and outnumbered, had not Dieter Weschler rallied the panicked men-at-arms and turned upon their attackers. At last, the enemies w ithin the camp were cut dow n, though the destruction they had w rought in those frantic few minutes was staggering.

  With cold efficiency, the Empire captain swiftly reorganised the men-at-arms, and personally led the charge that pushed the enemy back from w here they had surrounded the grail knight Reolus.

  Even as order w as restored, the beastmen breached the Bretonnian lines in two other places, streaming through and slaughtering the men-at-arms desperately trying to hold back the tide of enemies.

  Baron Montcadas knew that the hill could not be held indefinitely. Already, they had held for far longer than could have been expected, so great w ere the enemy numbers.

  The end was not far off.

  ANARA LET HER spirit soar free, and relished the familiar sensation as she left her earthly shell behind. She felt the winds of magic buffet her, but focused her mind and regained control, so that she rode the ethereal winds like a bird on the breeze.

  The battlefield spread out below her like a map as she soared into the night sky. The combatants surged back and forth like tiny ants, and she watched the mesmerising patterns formed by the ebb and flow of battle.

  She felt every death like a stabbing pain in her breast. Emotions flowed through her from below , and she felt keenly the exhilaration, terror, despair and savage joy of the knights as they killed and w ere killed.

  With her spirit-eyes she could see the silvery glow of pride and faith shielding them, and she thanked the Lady for her protection. The grail knight Reolus blazed w ith the intensity of the sun, the power of his faith almost blinding and the enemy fell back from him, for even in their mortal, blind states they could sense his power.

  From the enemy, she felt only rage, bloodlust and deep, all-encompassing hatred. So overpow ering was the hatred that it struck her like a physical blow , and her concentration wavered for an instant. Her physical eyes flickered, and she saw the battlefield through her mortal eyes for a second before she regained control and surrounded herself with the healing light of the Lady.

  She w ept tears of the spirit for the tortured forest that had been corrupted by the enemy, feeling its pain and its despair.

  Something drew her attention, and her spirit flew low over the battlefield, dread, loathing and pity mixed within her. She came to the edge of he forest to the w est, w here the enemy leader stood. She flew close, looking upon him with invisible eyes that saw far more than those of flesh and blood.

  Its minions w ere bringing men to it, dragging them forward like offerings to some brutal, primal deity. The beast lifted each of the victims to its eyes, gazing upon them intently, sniffing their scent. It seemed, however, that none of the men was what the creature sought, and it angrily stabbed its long, curving dagger into each man's neck, before tossing them aside like refuse. Already, there was a great pile of the dead and dying behind the beast, and scores more sacrifices were being dragged forward.

  Darkness sw irled around the creature like a living thing fuelled by the intense hatred that the beast exuded. Anara w as repulsed, and fought the urge to flee, but she peered deeper, though it caused her pain, looking past the wall of anger.

  She saw self-loathing disgust and fear there, but there w as something more, something that w as the true essence of this creature's pow er: betrayal, abandonment, and the intense, all consuming need for vengeance.

  That w as all it lived for, Anara realised, pitying the creature. Vengeance against the one that had done it w rong w as what drove it.

  There was something else too: release. It desired release.

  The creature looked up suddenly, and Anara reeled backw ards in shock, for the creature saw her. Its eyes blazed w ith blue w itch-fire, and it extended its will towards her, a w rithing mass of black tentacles invisible to all but those w ho saw with the eyes of the spirit.

  One of the oily, black, invisible appendages brushed against her spirit-arm and the ethereal limb w ent numb. It gripped her with immense strength, and she cried out, panic rising suddenly. The mass of black, tentacles surged tow ards her.

  Blindly, she struck out, and w hite light flared. The grip on her arm relaxed, and Anara fled, streaming across the battlefield tow ards her body, feeling the writhing black w ill of the creature pursuing her.

  Anara gasped, and sucked in a lungful of air as she w as jolted back into the
physical realm, almost slipping from the back of her majestic, white mare.

  'Damsel Anara, are you all right?' asked Montcadas urgently. She ignored him, and pulled up the flow ing sleeve of her arm. An angry red welt was rising there upon her flaw less, ivory skin, and she hissed with pain. It felt like a scalding brand had been pressed against her skin.

  Numbly, she heard the baron shouting for his aides to bring w ater and his battle surgeon.

  She knew that the beast w ould not rest until its vengeance was achieved, and such w as its overpow ering will, that it w as able to dominate and control the lesser beasts of the w ild woods. While it lived, the beasts w ould never cease their attacks against Bretonnia.

  The creature w as even capable of commanding the woodland, dominating it to its corrupt w ill. It commanded the forests in a w ay unlike the fey that dw elt in the holy forest of Loren. Their magic w as pure and in harmony with the natural w orld. This creature's pow er w as foul and brutal, filled with anger and cruelty.

  The vision came to her unbidden. She saw the lands overrun with tortured forests.

  They w ere filled with sickness, like pus-filled boils, and the dead were sprawled upon the ground, rotting to feed the agonised roots. She saw castles and the great cities destroyed and smoking, covered in twisted briars and thorns, and skulls w ithin helmets grinned at her. The land w as dead, and the Lady was fading into nothingness.

  At last, the vision began to fade, and she opened her eyes. All that she had seen w ould come to pass if the beast did not enact its vengeance. Unless...

  'The beast must die,' she breathed.

  DONEGAR LICKED HIS lips as he saw the telltale red and blue tabard and shield that marked his target.

  'A stray arrow missing its mark in the heat of battle,' the knight had said as he handed Donegar the coin. 'It is a tragedy, but such things happen. No blame w ill befall you, you have my w ord. No one will know from w hich bow the arrow w as fired.'