Through the blur of feathers and w ildly flapping birds, Calard saw the beast spring, leaping through the air tow ards him w ith spindly fingers outstretched. Gringolet reared, w hinnying in fear, and then it struck, slamming into Calard and tearing him from the saddle. Gringolet was borne to the ground by the w eight of the foul creature, legs flailing w ildly, and Calard hit the ground hard, the creature above him. The wind w as knocked from his lungs, and he lay on his back, gasping for breath.
Stunned by the shocking impact, Calard dimly registered Gringolet screaming in pain, and he knew, in that moment, that his faithful steed must have broken a leg in the fall.
Anger rose w ithin him, and he struggled to stand. His vision swam, but he could see the creature crouching above him, its eyes burning with hatred, though the rest of its body w as a dark silhouette. Miraculously, Calard still held his sword, and, gasping for breath, he mustered the strength to strike.
A hoof slammed dow n onto his forearm, pinning it to the ground.
Gringolet screamed again, and from his prone position, Calard could see the stricken horse struggling to lift itself up from the ground. Its shattered right foreleg could not bear its w eight, and it buckled unnaturally beneath it, sending the horse crashing to the ground w ith a tortured cry that claw ed at Calard's heart.
With a surge of anger, Calard smashed his shield rim into the beast's leg, and it stepped back w ith snarl, freeing his pinned arm. Staggering to his feet, Calard stepped tow ards the beast that tow ered above him, sw inging his sword in a deadly arc tow ards its neck.
The monster's hand flashed out, and it caught the sw ord blade, halting it mid-swing.
Blood began to flow down the blade, running over Calard's gauntlet, but, struggle as he might, he could not free the weapon from the creature's iron grip. With a snarl of anger, it lifted one of its powerful legs and slammed a kick into his chest, sending him flying backw ards.
From the ground, he saw that the beast still held his sword by the blade, and its head cocked to one side, as if the blood dripping down the blade intrigued it.
Gringolet struggled to rise again, and collapsed to the ground once more. Snapping out of its reverie, the beast surged forw ards suddenly and drove the blade into Gringolet's neck. Calard cried out as his sw ord was pushed deep, until the hilt of his w eapon rested against the grey's flesh. A torrent of blood spilled from the mortal w ound, and began pooling beneath it. The steed that Calard had raised from a foal thrashed for a moment, blood bubbling from its mouth, and he cried out to see the noble creature in such pain. Then it lay still, hot blood pooling beneath it.
Grinning, the beast returned its attention to Calard, and as he tried to lift his aching body from the ground, a kick slammed him back dow n. The hissing creature crouched over Calard, one hoof upon his armoured chest, and one hand pulling his head back violently to expose his throat. A dagger flashed before him, the metal blackened and covered w ith vile runes and symbols.
The hiss escaping from the creature's lips stopped abruptly, and it drew its face close to Calard's. Its breath w as hot and foetid. It sniffed at him, as if sampling his smell.
He gagged, trying to pull aw ay, but he w as unable to get aw ay from the revolting creature.
It crouched closer still, though he tried to pull away, revulsion and horror rising w ithin him, and it licked his face, from chin to temple. His skin burned where the hot, w et tongue touched his face, and he cried out involuntarily. He saw the creature's eyes w iden.
Calard cried out again as sudden pain stabbed into his mind like a hot knife, like w rithing tentacles seeking something inside. It felt like worms were burrow ing into his brain, and he screamed in agony, writhing beneath the monster, but pow erless to pull aw ay.
Images, memories and emotions flickered unbidden through his mind: Elisabet's heart-shaped face as she leant in close to him, the touch of her lips, and the surge of love that he felt for her; the sudden reappearance of Anara in his life, and the shock of the change that had been w rought in her over the years they had been apart; he saw again the fight betw een Gunthar and Ganelon, and felt again the shame of his part in Gunthar's injury; he saw him and Bertelis riding out to the outlaw s on the edge of the forest, back in Bastonne, a lifetime ago.
A million images flickered maddeningly through his mind, everything he had ever experienced, and he cried out at the excruciating, writhing pain.
He saw again the battle against the greenskins, and felt the hot surge of adrenaline that he had experienced in his first foray into combat. He saw Anara as a child, and the fearful glances she received from the servants. He saw himself as a child, after his mother had died, crying himself to sleep because he believed that his father hated him. His father...
The probing tentacles dug deeper, and Calard realised that he could feel the creature's excitement rise. Images of the dying lord of Garamont reared up in an overw helming parade: flashes of the family castle in Bastonne blurred w ith visions of his father from years earlier, happier memories of his father laughing, holding hands w ith his mother, and bouncing Calard on his knee.
He felt a surge of triumph from the beast, and he saw , for the briefest fraction of a second, memories that w ere not his.
He saw blood, so much blood, and horrified expressions. He felt pain and fear, and desperation... and hatred. He felt hatred like he had never felt it before, an all consuming need for vengeance, for blood, for death and for release. He saw the leering faces of daemons, and they clawed at him w ith talons of fire, eyes filled w ith the promise of pow er, and eternal damnation.
He w atched through the Gave's eyes at it fought w ith tooth and nail against the other beasts of the dark forest reaches. He felt exhilaration as he stood victorious over bloody corpses that he had ripped apart w ith his bare hands, the sweet, hot taste of blood upon his lips. He smelt the fear that rose from the other beasts as they backed aw ay from him, snarling. He revelled in dominating them, forcing them to his will.
He heard the keening cry of an animal in pain. He hoped he would die, prayed that he w ould, to escape this torment. Then the probing tentacles within his mind retracted w ith a suddenness that made him gasp, leaving him exhausted, and with blood dribbling from his nose and ears, and he realised that the sound of an animal in pain w as coming from his ow n lips.
The creature above him threw its head back and roared its triumph to the heavens, and Calard succumbed to darkness.
REOLUS SLAMMED THE axe into the giant's neck as it struggled to rise from the ground, and a torrent of blood gushed from the fatal w ound. Staggering back, leaving the w eapon imbedded deep in the monstrous beast's flesh, and bleeding from a dozen w ounds, the grail knight heard the keening roar of the beast's w ar leader echo over the battlefield. It w as the sound of victory, and Reolus's heart sank.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
IT WAS LIGHT when Calard woke, blinking heavily. His head was pounding, and he w inced. He heard concerned voices, and he rolled to his side, vomiting up the contents of his stomach. That seemed only to make the pain in his head worse, like stabbing needles behind his eyes, and he was sick once more, his whole body convulsing with the violence of his heaving.
When at last the nausea left him he lay back, exhausted, his body aching all over. He saw canvas above him, and felt a hand on his shoulder.
His memories of the beast came back to him in a rush, and he struggled to rise, crying out, but hands pushed him back onto the pallet. Spots of light filled his vision, and a w ave of dizziness overcame him.
'...over. It's over,' said a voice that he realised was Bertelis's.
'...black tentacles, in my mind, prying, probing. Gringolet...' Calard groaned. He jerked w ith the remembered agony.
'...delirious,' said a different voice, one that he did not recognise. Then everything began to fade once again, and he slipped into a tortured dream. He saw daemonic faces leering at him, blood, and a dark forest canopy overhead. He saw the back of a knight riding away from him
, leaving him, and he felt a stab of fear as things began to creep out of the darkness around him.
He cried out in his sleep, writhing beneath sweat-soaked sheets.
'WILL HE BE all right?' slurred Bertelis, looking down at his brother in concern. The ageing physician sighed wearily.
'I don't know . His physical injuries are not severe, and are healing well. The damage seems to be to his mind.' He shrugged. 'Such things are unpredictable. I am sorry, I don't know w hat afflicts your brother. Maybe w ith rest, he will come back. Now , I am sorry, but I have other men that need tending.'
Bertelis nodded numbly, and the physician shuffled away. The cries of the wounded and the dying w ere all around. Hundreds of men lay on pallets and blankets beneath the aw ning and more w ere being brought in every minute. The man had probably not slept at all since battle had begun.
He heard men moaning in pain, and winced at the screams as grisly amputations w ere performed. He took another long draught from the w ineskin in his hand.
The death toll had been high. Barely a hundred knights had survived the night of blood. Of those, perhaps another twenty w ould die of their wounds before the day w as out, and another dozen w ould bear crippling injuries until their dying day.
Bertelis's head w as wrapped in bandages, and his right arm w as strapped and held immobile in a splint. He was told that he would not be able to w ield a sw ord or a lance for months. He had been desperately fighting to reach his brother, and had fallen heavily as his steed had been cut from beneath him, breaking his arm as he hit the ground. As he had struggled to rise, an axe had smashed into his helmet, w renching it out of shape and cutting deep into his scalp. He had been lucky it had been only a glancing blow , else his skull would surely have been smashed. As it was, he had been told that he had received a fracture, and he found that exerting himself in any w ay, even just w alking for more than ten steps, made him feel nauseous and dizzy.
He had managed to pull his helmet from his head, and his face was aw ash with blood. He had been unable to focus his eyes, let alone stand and fight. He dimly remembered the beasts looming over him, and he had thought that, in that moment, Morr had come for him.
Then someone had killed the creatures, and stood sentinel over him: Gunthar.
With hazy, unfocused eyes he had seen the ageing weapon master kill perhaps a dozen of the beasts. With astonishing speed and displaying all his skill, Gunthar had fought furiously to defend him. At last, the knight had fallen, pierced by blades and spears, his armour covered in blood and punctured in a dozen places. Bertelis had cried out as the noble w eapon master w as finally felled, an axe slamming into his neck w ith brutal force. Gunthar had fallen facing Bertelis, and he had w atched the light slip from his eyes.
He had died so that Bertelis might live, for moments later the enemy swarming around him w as pushed back. The young knight swore, and took another swig of w ine. The old man's death haunted him.
The end of the battle w as still a confused blur. There had been a terrible sound, an exultant cry of bestial triumph that echoed across the battlefield. It had pierced his mind. Then the battle had ended.
On hearing the cry, the beasts of the forest had slunk back into the trees, abandoning the field. Those embroiled in combat fought on, and it had taken over an hour before battle had finally ceased, but the fight had been over as soon as that exultant, bestial cry had sounded.
Thousands of peasants had been killed, and the stink of the mass graves w as revolting. Even in death, the peasants managed to sicken him, he thought resentfully.
He looked dow n at Calard's grey-tinged face. For the past tw elve hours he had maintained his vigil over his brother, w atching as he tossed fitfully, moaning and crying out in his sleep. Still, at least he was alive, which was more than could be said for most of the knights that had fought that night.
Garamont peasants had found Calard, lying comatose amid piles of the dead, and at first they had mourned for him. They had borne his lifeless body back to camp, convinced that he had been claimed by Morr. It w as only when one of the duke's physicians had examined him that a faint, fluttering heartbeat w as felt.
There had been no victory celebration, for in truth there had been no victory. They had not slain the beast leading the enemy forces, nor had they sent the creatures fleeing from the battlefield. They had just left.
What w as it all for? It seemed to him that there w as no point to the attack, and no point to calling it off when they had, but then, the creatures w ere little more than beasts, animals driven by the senseless urge to kill, like a fox in a hen house. It was folly to even try to understand their motives.
Grief and black despair gripped him, and he shouted for more w ine as he drained his w ineskin. He kept thinking back to Tanebourc's face, frantic w ith fear, as he begged for death.
He had believed, for a time, that his mother w as sleeping with the man, though he spoke his thoughts to no one, not even Calard. Then, one night, his blood fired with drink, he had confronted her with the allegation. She had slapped him, hard across his cheek, her pale face flushed with anger. The blow had stung him.
'How dare you!' she had snarled, lines creasing her thick make-up.
He had believed her w hen she refuted his accusation, but, even if he had never consummated that lust, Tanebourc desired her, and Bertelis knew that she w as manipulative. He w as certain that she would be able to tw ist Tanebourc to perform any deed she asked of him.
Would she really try to have her husband's first son killed, though? It w as with horrible reluctance that he had to admit that she might. The evidence showed that she must have been the one behind the attempts, but that know ledge was his, and his alone.
A fresh w ineskin was brought to Bertelis, and he snatched it from the hands of the peasant. Breaking the seal, he gulped down the fine wine greedily, seeking oblivion.
CALARD LAY UPON the pallet for four days, tossing and turning, tormented by nightmares and daemons. He woke several times, and the peasants set to w atch over him managed to force some w ater and food on him, but he w as often delirious and confused in these moments of wakefulness. In a drunken stupor, Bertelis verbally abused the peasants and lashed out at them, ranting and stumbling, before he collapsed unconscious in a pool of his ow n vomit, and was carried to his tent.
When Calard finally rose from his fever, he was ravenously hungry and thirsty, and gorged himself. He felt sore all over, as if he had been trampled beneath a herd of cattle, and his head still pained him, though blessedly even that discomfort lessened as he ate and drank.
His brother came to him, looking haggard, and reeking of alcohol. He had been greatly cheered to see Bertelis, though he w as disturbed by his brother's state. The young blond-haired knight w as unshaven and seemed to be fighting his own demons, though he w as clearly relieved and pleased to see Calard lucid and on the way to recovery.
Calard had grieved w hen he learnt of Gunthar's fate, a deep sadness overwhelming him. He had w ept tears for the knight, though he had hurriedly blinked them away, and it w as w ith pride and respect that he heard of the weapon master's last moments. He had died doing his duty, but Calard w ished that he had spent more time w ith the weapon master. He had so much yet to learn from him, and he cursed himself for not being more attentive and respectful to the knight. It w as too late now , and Calard regretted it. He could not have imagined a time w ithout Gunthar's stern presence, and now that he was gone there was a vacuum in his life that he felt would never be filled.
He mourned similarly for Gringolet. It w ould be impossible to replace the noble destrier.
With shock and horror, he learnt of the extent of the losses. So many men had died, the majority of w hom he had got to know w ell over the course of the campaign.
Baron Montcadas had survived, though he had lost his left eye w hen a beast's jaw s had closed around his head. He regaled Calard w ith the account of how he had killed the beast, dislocating its jaw s and beating it to death w ith
his fists. In truth, Calard had been unsure w hether the baron w as exaggerating or not, but he suspected not. It seemed that nothing could kill the barrel-chested bear of a man.
The baron had pursued the beasts into the forests, but had called off the hunt, fearing ambush. The beasts had melted sw iftly into the trees and were gone, leaving devastation behind them.
With the departure of the beasts, the unnatural forest that encircled Adhalind's Seat had begun to decay at a heightened rate. The trees rotted aw ay within days, collapsing under their ow n weight and filling the air w ith their putrid stench. Insects and w orms w rithed through the liquefying mass that blanketed the land, and birds sw armed in their thousands to pick through the rotting morass. Within a month, the existence of the vile forest w ould be little more than a memory, though the fields w ould be tainted for generations.
Driven by restlessness, Calard ignored the protests of the baron's little physician and w as soon up on his feet. He moved around stiffly, flexing his tight limbs and stretching bedsore muscles. His wounds were healing w ell, and though it would be many w eeks before his shoulder was healed, where the arrow had struck him, he had retained some movement there.
It w as as he moved through some training exercises with the sword that Anara had come to him, along w ith the grail knight Reolus.
He had never been so close to the revered knight, and he was awed and humbled in his presence. Anara w as coolly distant, not even asking how he fared, much to his disappointment, but the grail knight asked after his health with genuine concern.
Seen up close, it w as impossible to gauge the grail knight's age. His face was smooth and unlined, untouched by any scar, w hich would have been remarkable, even if he had fought in only half the battles it w as claimed he had. Indeed, if the stories were to be believed, he had once borne a horrible scar across his face, from his ear to his lips, but the scar had disappeared w hen he had drunk from the Lady's grail. He was not a handsome man, w hich had surprised Calard, his features evoking power and strength more than manly beauty. His jaw w as square and thick, and his brow s heavy, the nose broad and flat. It w as a w arrior's face, of that there was no doubt, and he w ore his hair clipped short, flecks of silver at his temples.
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