Warhammer - Knight of the Realm Read online

  ANTHONY REYNOLDS

  For my mates in Blighty. Miss you heaps... but not the w eather.

  PROLOGUE

  THE GLOW OF embers cast a hellish light through the tent, and ribbons of acrid smoke coiled around the seated figure. Threatening shadows surrounded him, w hispering hatefully, and the seer's eyes snapped open.

  Barking a curse of w arding, the seer upended a bow l of w arm blood onto the glow ing coals. It boiled and spat and the murderous shadow s retreated into the darkest recesses of the tent, banished. A moment later and the seer was alone, seated cross-legged before the hissing embers.

  His upper body w as naked, and a crisscrossing network of scars covered his sinewy, taut flesh, interspersed with talismanic tattoos and ritual piercings. Bones, flint runes and sticks w ere bound w ithin his thick mane of dark hair, and his tattooed lips parted in a smile, exposing teeth that had been filed to points.

  'At last,' he said.

  The seer surged upright, pulling thick furs around his shoulders and snatching up his goat-skulled staff.

  Throw ing aside the heavy flap of his tent, he stepped out into the roaring gale.

  The snow was knee deep, and he leant into the wind as he stamped his way through the Skaeling village of Strovengaard. Snow and ice billowed around him, and he could see little, merely vague shadows suggesting the tents and structures of the village. It mattered not; he could have walked blindfolded through the village without tripping or making a false step.

  Climbing the icy stairs of the longhouse, hunched against the fury of the gale, the seer slammed the iron-shod butt of his staff against a pair of grand double doors.

  They w ere carved with stylised images of warriors and daemons, surrounded by spiralling designs that seemed to w rithe w ith movement, but the seer w as wise enough not to be ensnared by their tricks.

  The doors opened a crack before their guardian recognised who it was that sought entrance and the doors w ere thrown wide. The seer strode inside, snow blasting in around him, and the portals w ere slammed shut.

  It w as stiflingly hot inside and stank of sweat and charred meat. The feast was in full flow , and the general hubbub rose to the rafters as the favoured w arriors of the tribe, the huskarls, ate and drank, laughed and fought.

  Each member of this w arrior elite was a battle-scarred veteran that had proven himself time and time again before his peers, his lord and the gods themselves. They w ere giants among men, fierce, proud and volatile, each one marked in some w ay by the Great Pow ers, and yet even through their haze of drunkenness, they instinctively gave w ay as the shaman stalked amongst them.

  The seer stood barely to the shoulder of any of the huskarls, but they parted before him like the ocean before the prow of a dragonship. None caught his eye, and conversations silenced as he passed. Even the massive warhounds of the tribe, stalking around the periphery of the feast, cowered before him, whimpering and snarling.

  One pair of eyes did not low er, and the seer threw a glance towards the squat, inhuman figure seated in a dim corner of the hall. He saw malice and hatred in those stony eyes, and returned the glare briefly. How he would love to cut the heart from that one and devour it before life faded from the stunted bastard's eyes.

  Dragging his gaze aw ay from the dark dw arf, the seer continued to make his w ay through the press of w arriors. An icy trickle ran down the back of his neck as the snow and ice upon his furs and hair began to melt. The butt of his staff slammed into the saw dust covered floor with every step.

  Against the far w all was a raised platform, upon w hich a dozen people feasted, seated at a long table perpendicular to the others in the room, allowing them an unobstructed view across the hall. The wall behind this table w as hung with w eapons, shields, severed heads, skulls and beast pelts of all description. They were all trophies w on by the lord of the tribe, their high jarl, in the decades since he had come to pow er; the day that he had hacked his father's head from his shoulders and claimed his ascendancy.

  As a seer of the Skaelings, he had no need to bow to any man or beast, and yet as he reached the bottom of the dais he dropped to one knee and lowered his head. His jarl w as more than just a chieftain to him, for he had w elcomed him into his home, clothed and fed him, and taught him the ways of the Skaeling Norscans. To the seer, his jarl w as a father in all but name and blood.

  'Rise, Bjarki,' the Skaeling chieftain said, his voice deep and sonorous.

  The seer lifted his head to look upon his adopted father, his eyes shining with savage anticipation.

  High Jarl Egil Styrbjorn sat brooding upon a w ooden throne carved to resemble a tw in-headed dragon, its clawed forelimbs forming the armrests and its unfurled w ings the high back. He w as a massive man, tall and powerfully built despite his years. Bjarki could feel the touch of the gods upon the high jarl as a tingle upon his flesh and a dull buzzing in the base of his skull. Both his beard and long, dark blond hair w ere streaked with silver, though his icy grey eyes still blazed w ith strength and vigour.

  Flanking him w ere his wives and daughters. His youngest wife, the personification of Norscan beauty itself - tall, proud, and strong - w as leaning against her husband, her bosom pressed against one of his powerful arms. His youngest child was no more than a babe; his eldest w as already past child-bearing years. Not that such a thing had been put to the test - no Skaeling chieftain would allow a daughter to marry until he had a son to carry his name.

  'I have seen her, my jarl,' said Bjarki, a slight smile curling at the seer's tattooed lips.

  All eyes turned tow ards him, and the dull murmur of conversation died.

  'I have seen her in a blood-vision,' said the seer, 'delivered by the gods themselves.'

  Styrbjorn's w ives and daughters traded glances, and the Skaeling chieftain leant forw ard ever so slightly.

  'Speak plainly, little bear,' said Styrbjorn.

  'I have seen the one who w ill birth you a son,' said the Skaeling seer.

  The only sound was the crackling of flames and the dull howl of the wind outside.

  'Where?' grow led Styrbjorn.

  'Across the sea, in the land of the southern horsemen. 'Bretonnia.'

  CHAPTER ONE

  BOUGHS CREAKED AND groaned overhead, and an icy wind whispered through the trees like a dying breath. Thorned twigs scratched at Elisabet's arms as she pushed through the tangle of brambles and branches, draw ing blood.

  The hem of her dress was tattered and stained, and strands of unruly hair had escaped their binding, pulled loose by snagging branches.

  The w ild forest resisted Elisabet's every step, and she began to imagine that there w as a malicious sentience within it, a darkly verdant will that lurked at its heart, thw arting her attempts to penetrate its borders.

  She shivered at the thought, realising that there was a certain truth in the notion; all the w hispered stories she had heard said that the crone Haegtesse did exert some measure of pow er over the w oods. That power ensured those who meant her harm, or those w hom she did not w ish to receive, were turned around, finding themselves w alking back tow ards the edge of the woods instead of into them. It w as for this reason that Haegtesse had not hung from the gallow s decades, or indeed a century, earlier. In truth, many had come to believe that she was nothing more than a local superstition, a story told to scare children into behaving.

  Elisabet, how ever, knew that the crone Haegtesse was no myth, for she had visited her once before. Long had she cursed that day, and a w retched sob rocked her slender frame.

  She hardly knew why she sought out the hag again now. Was it shame that brought her back to the place that had started it all? Her resentment, her anger, her self-l
oathing?

  Where else had she to go, she thought bitterly? She was outcast, her life forfeit.

  Again she saw her beloved Calard's face, a mask of horror and disgust.

  A tw inge of bitterness stabbed through her. It had all been for him. How could he not see that?

  In truth, Elisabet didn't know w hy she came here. It felt like she was being drawn here, and she had no power to resist this siren call. It was as if an invisible leash was fastened around her neck, dragging her inexorably back to the crone's cave.

  Elisabet's foot caught betw een a pair of tw isted roots resembling sinewy arms, and she w inced as her ankle twisted beneath her. She fell aw kwardly, hands burying themselves in the rich leaf litter. Insects and worms w rithed across her skin.

  Horrified, she pulled herself free of the contorted roots and scrambled to her feet.

  Her eyes w idened as she came face to face w ith the doll-totem. She w as certain that it had not been there just a moment before.

  It dangled less than tw o feet in front of her face, and she staggered back from it, her large, dark-rimmed eyes w ide.

  It hung from a low bough, like a corpse sw inging slowly from a gibbet, a crude representation of a w oman, crafted of wood, bone and hair and strung together with half-rotted sinew. It stunk like rancid meat, and Elisabet covered her nose and mouth. What looked like dried blood w as daubed upon the totem's chest, in betw een its malformed breasts, and strings of beads, shells and knucklebones hung from its cruciform, spread-eagled arms and legs. Its fingers and toes were twigs and it wore a frayed skirt of dried grass and thorns.

  Its face w as framed by dark, human-looking hair that crawled with lice. Skin, possibly human and dark w ith age, had been stretched across a lump of w ood crudely carved in the shape of a human head, and Elisabet felt her stomach lurch as she saw maggots squirming beneath. A w ide slash filled with human and animal teeth represented the doll-totem's mouth, and holes had been burnt for eyes. Rotten acorns stood in for eyeballs, and tw o further slits in the skin represented nostrils.

  Bloated flies craw led in and out of these gashes. The face seemed to leer at her, and Elisabet tried to stem the panic rising within her as it sw ung back and forth, creaking, in front of her.

  Keeping her distance, Elisabet edged past the doll-totem. She saw more of them, the low branches hanging with dozens of the vile things, each one a horrific mockery of humanity. Some had tw isted horns sprouting from their heads, and others were blackened w ith fire. Some had rusted nails hammered into their eyes, while others had disgusting, unrecognisable lumps of flesh hung around their necks like scarves, some w ith scraps of fur and skin still attached.

  Keeping her gaze resolutely forward, Elisabet followed the twisting path. At last she came upon the cave. A moaning w ind emerged from within, bringing with it the sickly scent of rot and decay.

  The giant husk of a tree loomed overhead, its twisted roots spread out beneath it, slick w ith bloodlike sap. This ancient tree had grow n atop a rocky outcrop, its thick roots cracking the stone and framing the cave entrance like mighty pillars. The slim fissure w as dark.

  A raven sat above the cave entrance, its head cocked to the side as it glared at Elisabet w ith one yellow eye. It cawed, the sound ugly and harsh, and a w hisper emerged from w ithin the cave, carried to Elisabet's ears on the breath of a foetid w ind.

  'Come, child...'

  Elisabet shivered, unsure if the words had been real or imagined. An inner voice was screaming for her to turn and run, to flee this horrid place, but she could not. The invisible leash tugged at her, impelling her onwards.

  The black feathered raven stared dow n at her, and she felt the hatred and hunger of the carrion eater w ash over her. She flinched as it took flight, crying raucously, and it flapped off into the darkness.

  The pull upon her grew more insistent, and the last fragments of her resistance w ere stripped aw ay. With a sob, she entered the cave.

  Elisabet stretched her hands out to either side, fingertips brushing the cold, wet rock. After a dozen hesitant steps into darkness the tunnel turned to the right, leaving the daylight behind, and the dim glow of candles could be seen flickering across the w alls in front. She saw that the stone had been carved into daemonic forms, capering horned figures, naked succubi and scaled, dog-faced warriors engaged in all manner of horrific debauchery, and she quickly averted her gaze.

  The cave opened up before her. Its extent was hidden in darkness, but the candles, thick and squat and exuding reeking black smoke, illuminated its centre. Roots from the tree above reached dow n into the cave like the arms of corpses. Less wholesome things hung there too: skinned hares dripping blood, tw itching rodents and bats impaled on hooks, and dozens of doll-totems, grinning at her as they slowly turned.

  Seated cross-legged upon a rotten pallet of straw and matted fur beneath these macabre ornaments w as the crone, Haegtesse.

  Her head w as bow ed, and unruly, matted grey hair hung over her face, obscuring it like a mortuary veil. Her w ithered, skeletal body w as draped in dank cloth, and she clutched a doll in her claw-like hands.

  'Come closer, my child,' said Haegtesse.

  Elisabet w anted to run, but her ow n free w ill w as of no consequence. Involuntarily, she began moving tow ards the hag. She felt like a player's marionette, her legs moving to the w him of another.

  'No,' she w hispered, tears running down her cheeks, even as she did as Haegtesse bid her.

  'Do not fight it,' said the crone. 'It w ill be easier for you if you do not.'

  With a gesture, the hag ordered Elisabet to sit dow n opposite her.

  Elisabet w as shaking her head, but found herself sitting cross-legged on the pallet opposite the crone.

  'So young,' said Haegtesse, reaching forward with a w ithered claw of a hand to touch Elisabet's porcelain cheek.

  'You made good use of the poison I gave you, then?' said Haegtesse.

  Elisabet did not answ er, but the hag did not seem to mind, muttering and chuckling to herself. Elisabet sat like a statue, unable to move anything but her eyes.

  She flashed a glance down at the totem in the crone's lap. The doll's eyes were beetles, their legs kicking as they sought futilely to escape the pins that impaled them. The tw ig-hands of the doll were slick w ith blood, and fat flies crawled betw een its fingers.

  'A good likeness, yes?' said the hag.

  The w itch laughed as understanding came to Elisabet.

  The doll represented her.

  The black hair stitched into the thing's head w as hers. The tattered cloth that w rapped its body w as a torn fragment of a dress she had discarded the previous w inter. Who knew what other parts of the doll were connected to her? Nail clippings?

  Blood? What did it mean?

  She tried to pull aw ay as the crone reached for her, but she continued to sit as rigid as a statue, unable to move a muscle, nor so much as cry out.

  There was a searing pain as Haegtesse pressed her fingertips to Elisabet's temples, and a feeling of vertigo overcame her. It felt as though the ground beneath her was shifting, and blinding agony stabbed in the back of her eyes.

  From somew here she heard the tortured w ail of an animal in pain, and then she was falling, falling into darkness...

  BENEATH THE SHADE of the tall, silver-barked beech trees, the hunters rode in a snaking line, tw o abreast. The mood of the nobles at the front of the party, carrying their stout, leaf-bladed boar spears, w as sombre. Huge mastiffs, their powerful bodies armoured in thick plate, trotted alongside their masters.

  Ranging out in front of the hunting party w ere dozens of peasants w ith snuffling dogs, scouring the forest for game. Unlike the armoured fighting dogs, these peasant runt-hounds w ere as scabby and w retched as those holding their leashes. Still, they had their uses. It w as these half-starved animals that sought out the spoor of the great boars that roamed the Forest of Arden, and once discovered it w as their duty to drive them back tow ards their noble masters
for the kill.

  Often, the runt-hounds and their peasant masters were gored to death by rampant boars or other less mundane beasts that dw elt w ithin the wilds, but it mattered little.

  More important w as that no damage w as done to the mighty boars in the process; by law , only a noble w as allowed to bring one down, and if it had already been injured by a foolish - and soon to be hung - peasant, then the honour of the kill was lessened.

  Leading the hunt w as a nobleman of middling years, Baron Lothgar of Artois. His face w as a mask of irritation, and it was clear that his mood had infected those retainers and courtiers riding nearby. He w ore a deep red tabard over his breastplate, and a silver boar's head w as emblazoned upon his chest.

  From further back along the procession of hunters came laughter, and the nobleman's expression darkened.

  'Any game w ithin a half a mile will be long gone,' he said in a low voice. 'Listen to them. They may as w ell be banging drums and singing the Chanson de Folgar at the top of their lungs.'

  'His pedigree is sound, though, my lord,' said the knight at his side. 'A castellan, no less. He w ould make a fine match for Lady Madeleine. Without speaking out of turn, my lord, w ould it perhaps be w ise not to allow your irritation to jeopardise this opportunity?'

  The baron sighed. He knew the advice was sound, but he lived for the hunt. To have it ruined by disrespectful young knights made his choler rise. And he could not shake the nagging feeling that the young Garamont brothers w ere wasting his time.

  He turned in the saddle to regard his guest, riding alongside his eldest unwed daughter, Madeleine.

  Lothgar w inced as he saw the young lord of Garamont drinking freely from the w ineskin. The wine the young lord was swigging like water was a hundred and fifty years old, acquired for no small sum from fair Quenelles. Though it was Bordeleaux that w as most famed for its vintages, the wines of Quenelles had a touch of the fey about them, grow n near the Forest of Loren as they were, and were highly sought after by true connoisseurs.

  Lord Calard, Castellan of Garamont, w as a young man, no more than tw enty-tw o years of age. He w as not as tall as his brother, but w as more pow erfully built. His dark hair hung loose to his shoulders in the latest fashion. His wealth was obvious in the cut of his blue and red doublet, and his dragon rampant heraldry shone with silver. Indeed, the sword at his w aist alone w ould have been worth more than half of Baron Lothgar's estates.