Warhammer - Knight Errant

by Anthony Reynolds

  The knight's face was obscured by his helmet, and he wore a tabard of plain cloth.

  There was nothing about the knight that gave any hint to his identity, save his voice, w hich muffled as it w as, held a recognisably Bastonnian accent.

  'Blue and red, w ith a w hite dragon,' the knight had repeated, pointing at him with one armoured finger. 'There will be another coin for you once the deed is done. Such a tragedy,' he said mockingly, 'a young knight killed by a stray arrow .'

  Then the man had left, and Donegar had stared at the coin. With it, he could feed his starving children for a year.

  He had half hoped that the knight with the red and blue heraldry would die in battle.

  He w ould not be able to claim the second promised coin, but he w ould not have to live w ith being a murderer. How ever, it had not happened thus far. Perhaps the young knight w as protected by the Lady? Doubt gripped him. He had no wish to be cursed by the goddess of the nobility.

  Then the thought of a second coin filled his mind. With it, he could afford to pay the w ise woman to tend to his w ife, who was dying of the wasting sickness.

  The villein shouted his order, and the regiment lifted their bow s high into the air once more, fifty arrow s knocked to strings. They were the last of the shafts. Two more volleys, and they would all be expended.

  Donegar pulled the string back to his cheek, the arrow knocked and ready to be loosed.

  He low ered his aim, sighting on the group of knights errant that were breaking aw ay from the battle and riding back tow ards the hill. He licked his lips once more, feeling sick in his stomach, but thinking only of his family.

  BREATHING HEAVILY, CALARD cut his way free of the enemy and rode clear. His armour w as dented and pierced in a dozen places, and he had cast off his helmet after he had sustained a ringing blow to his head that had w renched the helm out of shape and partially obscured his vision.

  Parts of his chainmail hung in loose shreds, the links having been shattered by sw ords and axes, and the blue and red shield that proudly bore his personal heraldry w as battered and dented. Gringolet sported dozens of cuts and w ounds, but none of them w ere deep, the destrier's plate and chain barding having taken the brunt of the damage, though the proud red and blue caparison w as torn in dozens of places.

  Bertelis too bore similar damage, and blood w as leaking from a w ound he had taken on his upper arm from a blow that had torn through his plate mail. The battle had raged for hours, and Calard had seen dozens of young men slain, never to gain their full knighthood.

  No more than half a dozen knights remained in the formation of knights errant that Calard had started the battle fighting alongside, and they had been joined by the shattered remnants of other under-strength regiments. He had not known most of the knights, and one of them, curiously, bore no heraldry. His shield had been painted plain white, and he kept his helmet firmly on his head, even during the short moments of respite. Calard had recognised one of the knights, however, and he had glared hatefully as Maloric of Sangasse had joined their ranks.

  The slim young knight w as equally displeased, but neither of them wished to argue w ith their superiors. Much to Calard's irritation, Maloric had acquitted himself well, killing with cold, swift efficiency. The presence of the Sangasse noble had made Calard fight w ith renewed vigour, determined not to be outshone by his pale-skinned rival.

  'How pleased I am to see you still alive, Garamont,' said Maloric, flicking up his visor as they broke combat, his voice thick with sarcasm.

  'I thank the Lady that you w ere not knocked from the saddle, dear Sangasse,'

  snapped back Calard. He tugged on Gringolet's reins sharply, and pulled to the back of the formation, his thoughts dark. Bertelis, riding alongside him, went to drop back w ith him, but Calard stopped him w ith a curt w ord.

  He dearly w ished to lash out at the bastard Sangasse noble, and did not trust himself to remain at his side. The Baron Montcadas's orders had been strict, and he was not going to allow his hot-headedness to bring dishonour to his family by breaking his w ord.

  He didn't see the arrow as it hissed through the air towards him. It struck him in the shoulder just above the top of his shield and he was knocked backw ards out of the saddle.

  He hit the ground hard, and all the air was driven from his lungs. The shaft had punched straight through his plate armour, and he groaned in pain.

  Ahead, the knights errant rode on, oblivious to his fall.

  THE KNIGHT BEARING no heraldry turned in the saddle and saw Calard lying motionless on the ground. A riderless grey steed was nuzzling at his body. The knight grinned.

  She w ould be pleased. He felt suddenly aroused at the thought. Long had he desired her, and long had she teased and taunted him, maintaining a civil distance betw een them. Now , having done as she wished, she would be his. That had been the promise.

  His grin faded as he saw the young Garamont noble push himself to his knees, one hand clamped around the arrow protruding from his shoulder. The knight cursed. It had not been a killing blow .

  Pulling on his reins sharply, he peeled off from the formation and began riding tow ards the fallen knight. Thinking help was coming for him, Calard lifted his hand in a w ave and struggled to his feet.

  The knight snarled, and kicked his steed into a gallop, his fingers clenching hard around the hilt of his sword.

  CALARD SAW THE knight riding towards him, and pushed to his feet. The arrow hurt like hell, and he winced.

  He looked up at the knight riding towards him. The knight flourished his sword, and kicked his steed into a charge.

  Thinking the enemy was closing behind him, he swung around, but there w as no enemy nearby. He turned around and froze for a second, not comprehending what w as happening.

  The knight was not slowing down, and Calard felt a chill run down his spine. He threw a glance left and right, seeking cover, but there w as none. He felt helpless, having dropped his sword when the arrow had struck. The thunder of hooves shook the ground beneath his feet.

  The sw ord flashed down towards him, and Calard threw himself desperately to the side, w incing at the pain in his shoulder as the arrow still imbedded in his flesh scraped bone. The sword sliced through the air, an inch aw ay from him. The knight w heeled around sharply, and kicked his steed forward for another pass. He knew he w ould be lucky to avoid another attack.

  Calard staggered backw ards, keeping his eyes locked on the treacherous knight before him. Some vassal of Sangasse, no doubt, he thought venomously.

  Then a pair of knights raced past him, one on either side, galloping hard from behind him. He recognised their heraldry: Bertelis and... Gunthar!

  The charging knight pulled his steed to one side, his helmet turning left and right as he sought escape. The enemy was surging forwards once more, racing across the churned up earth tow ards them. There w as nowhere for the knight to flee.

  Bertelis and Gunthar bore dow n on him, and he kicked his steed forwards once more, to meet them head on.

  His sw ord arced dow n towards the weapon master's head, and Calard saw Gunthar's sw ord flash. Then Gunthar w as past the knight, who w as tumbling to the ground.

  Calard had not even seen the blow , so fast had it been performed.

  A w et nose nuzzled at Calard.

  'Good horse,' he said.

  Gunthar rode to Calard's side, and flicked up his visor. His face was pale and w an, but his eyes w ere full of concern. The enemy was no more than a hundred paces distant, and closing fast.

  'Can you ride?' he asked quickly, and Calard nodded. He pulled himself painfully into the saddle.

  'Bertelis!' bellow ed Gunthar. 'Leave him! We have to ride, now!'

  BERTELIS IGNORED THE shout, and slid from the saddle, consumed with rage. He stalked tow ards the fallen knight, who was scrabbling backw ards, leaving a smear of blood beneath him. Gunthar's w ound had been fatal, but the knight w as not dead yet.

  'Traitorous w horeson,' spat Bertel
is. He kicked the knight's sword away from him, sending it spinning across the ground, and held the point of his blade to the knight's neck.

  'Show your face before I kill you, dog,' he spat. When the knight made no move to remove his helmet, Bertelis reversed the grip on his sword and plunged it two-handed dow n into the knight's thigh.

  The man screamed in agony, and Bertelis smiled.

  As the cry faded aw ay, he heard Gunthar call to him again. Looking up, he saw that the enemy w as closing fast.

  Dropping to his knees, he scrabbled at the man's helmet. If it could be proven that it w as one of Sangasse's men, then the baron must surely have to take action against Maloric.

  With a w rench, he pulled the helmet free, and gasped as he stared down at the familiar face.

  'Tanebourc,' he breathed in shock. He stood up and staggered back a step, confusion and horror on his face.

  'Kill me, boy!' said Tanebourc desperately. 'Don't leave me to the beasts!'

  Staggering backw ards, his eyes haunted, Bertelis ignored the man's pleas and pulled himself into the saddle.

  'Kill me!' roared Tanebourc again.

  The horde of the enemies were closing fast, and w ith a final glance Bertelis rode away from Tanebourc. He heard the knights' tortured cries escalate as the hateful tide of Chaotic creatures sw armed over him, and rode hard after Calard and Gunthar.

  A lance of knights pounded down the hill past him, charging into the packed beastman forces, but Bertelis barely registered them.

  Tanebourc w as his mother's favourite, there was no secret about that, and Bertelis knew that the man w ould do anything for her. If he had succeeded in killing Calard as he had intended, then he, Bertelis, his mother's only son, would have been the heir of Garamont.

  His mind w hirled. Surely his mother would never stoop so low ? She could be single-minded, and had a barbed tongue, but she w as no murderer. Was she?

  'Who w as it?' Gunthar asked him later, his voice grim.

  'I didn't recognise him,' Bertelis said.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  MONTCADAS WAS BLOODY and weary beyond w ords. For three hours, the Bretonnian lines had endured constant attack, and he had no idea how many knights he had lost. More than half, certainly, and the casualty rate amongst the peasants had been even more severe.

  They had exhausted their supply of arrow s almost an hour earlier, and the peasant levy of bow men w as now forced to fight with knives and cudgels alongside the decimated ranks of men-at-arms.

  The southern half of Adhalind's Seat had fallen, and it was only a matter of time before the hill was completely overrun, an hour at most.

  His arms felt leaden, and the spiked head of his morning star w as thick w ith concealed gore.

  'Its w ill is driving the beasts,' Anara had said, her voice distant and vague, her eyes fey and lost. 'Kill it and the attack w ill falter.'

  'Then w e kill it,' he had replied, wearily. His orders had been passed, and every knight still fit to ride w as gathered together, for one final throw of the dice. They w ould take the fight to the monstrous creature leading the beasts, and see it killed, or die to a man in the attempt.

  'Lift the standard high,' said Montcadas. His banner bearer w as as w eary as him, but he nodded grimly. All the knights around him were exhausted. Only the shining, silent figure of Reolus seemed beyond such mortal concerns. Even Anara looked wan and tired, dark circles ringing her eyes.

  This is it then, he thought, a desperate last charge to slay the beast leading the enemy. Montcadas snorted. It w as the stuff of legends, and w ith a grail knight leading and a damsel of the Lady w ith them, it seemed like the kind of heroic charge that the bards w ould sing of for generations, if they were victorious. If they w ere not, then no one w ould remember them.

  The enemy warlord was out in the darkness, at the fringe of the tortured, unnatural forest to the northeast, the damsel had said. So, it w as in that direction that the knights w ere preparing to make the final charge. Only a skeleton defence would be left to hold against the attacks that continued unabated against the hilltop.

  It w ould be a glorious charge, over tw o hundred knights arranged in a solid wedge, w ith he and Reolus at its tip.

  Wind w hipped at the heavy fabric of the banner as it w as lifted high. 'Sound the horns,' said Baron Montcadas.

  A single note, as clear and sharp as a freshly-forged, virgin sword blade cut through the air.

  'May the Lady grant us the strength to finish this,' breathed Montcadas.

  CALARD'S HEART RACED as he heard the signal. He was positioned towards the edge of the northern-most w ing of the thick wedge of knights, and, though he bristled that he w as not closer to the apex of the attack, just to be riding in such august company made him sw ell with pride.

  'Be strong,' he said to his w eary steed, Gringolet. 'Just one last charge.'

  Had it not been nearing midnight and the battlefield swathed in darkness, the charge w ould have been an aw esome sight, every last living knight riding forth in one final, desperate attack.

  He prayed that he w ould make a good account of himself, and that somehow his father w ould hear of it.

  Calard urged Gringolet forwards with a kick, the mighty grey reacting instantly to his spurs.

  His w eariness and the pain of his injuries were forgotten as he rode towards the enemy. Though he knew that he would almost certainly die, he felt suddenly pow erful, invincible, like one of the companions of Gilles le Breton, whose deeds w ere recounted in ballad and song.

  The arrow had been painfully drawn from his shoulder, and the wound was heavily bandaged, allow ing him little freedom of movement. Thankfully, it had struck him on his left side, for if it had been his right he would have been unable to couch a lance or sw ing a sw ord. The shaft had pierced the muscle just below the shoulder joint, punching straight through his thick plate armour, and he thanked the Lady that it w as not a more serious w ound. It w as of course impossible to determine who had shot the arrow . A fluke accident perhaps, but a niggling doubt remained. An attempt had already been made on his life, and it made sense that having failed in his first attempt, Maloric w ould make another.

  That Gunthar w as riding alongside him filled him with pride, and not a little relief. He had been astonished to see the w eapon master armoured and riding to his aid, for the last he had seen of the man he had been near death, his w ounds badly infected.

  The w ounds were healing well, Gunthar said, and Calard had not seen the lie for w hat it w as.

  The fact that an unknow n knight had tried to kill him mid-battle w as galling. It must have been one of Sangasse's men, of that he w as certain. One day soon he would have a reckoning with the treacherous w orm.

  The thunder of hooves was deafening, and Calard couched his lance tight under his arm as Gringolet galloped at speed across the field that had been churned to mud.

  The ground w as littered with corpses.

  He had clasped forearms w ith Bertelis before the charge. They didn't speak; there w as no need to. Both understood that they w ere unlikely to survive the night.

  How changed he was, Calard had thought, looking upon his half-brother's tired features. He looked older, and his eyes were haunted by the atrocities he had w itnessed. Gone were the last vestiges of boyhood. All that Calard saw was a young knight, hard and tempered in battle. He w ondered briefly if he too had changed so.

  They had both seen so much death in the last months. The reality of w ar was far different from what either of them had imagined. Calard felt stupid, for though he did not really expect things to be like the tales they had listened to as w ide-eyed children, he realised that he had not really known what to expect. Certainly not the stench of the battlefield.

  Bertelis gave a w ild whoop, and Calard grinned and tightened his grip on his lance.

  Not everything about his brother had changed. He was certain that if they survived this night, then they would both get incredibly drunk, and Bertelis would no doubt
bed as many w omen as he could before he passed out. For a second, his thoughts drifted to Elisabet, and her face reared in his mind's eye. He saw her seductive, playful dark eyes. The scent of her had all but faded from the silk scarf tied around his upper arm, but its mere presence lent him strength.

  Calard low ered his lance, and the wall of knights slammed into the enemy once more.

  THE NEXT SACRIFICE was dragged forward, and the Gave gripped the man by the front of his tabard, pulling him close, sniffing at him and peering at him intently.

  Again, despite the colour of the man's livery, it was not the one it sought. With grow ing frustration, the Gave rammed his barbed knife into the wretch's neck, and hurled him aside, to join the scores of other bloodied corpses scattered around.

  A single horn sounded across the battlefield, and the Gave rose to his full, towering height, staring out across the open ground. The enemy was surging tow ards him in a great w ave, and he bared his teeth, hissing. Reacting instinctively, hundreds upon hundreds of the lesser beasts altered their charge tow ards the hill, leaping across the churned up earth tow ards the charging knights, but they w ere being scythed down like w heat. The Gave cared not.

  Responding to the threat posed to their master, the heavily armoured bestigor, w ho had thus far not partaken in the battle, w ere marching forwards to interpose themselves in the path of the enemy, hefting giant axes and halberds. While the rest of the beast herd w as nigh on uncontrollable, surging forth in an unruly mob, the bestigor marched in deep ranks behind icons of black iron, and the earth resounded w ith the stamp of their iron-shod hooves. They smoothly reordered their formation to the beating of drums, w idening their ranks to form a protective barrier around the Gave.

  Deep rumbling grow ls resonated from the darkness of the trees behind the Gave. The sound vibrated through the Gave's body, making his organs shudder, and his lips drew back in a cruel smile.

  Trees w ere uprooted as they w ere pushed aside by a pair of titanic, dark shapes that rose above the canopy. With a gesture, the Gave directed them forwards.