Warhammer - Knight Errant Read online

  The camp w as like a grand city, with thousands of tents arrayed in orderly rows upon the grass, each one proudly displaying the colours of its owner, and flying pennants and banners. Deer and pigs were roasting on spits, over cooking fires tended by peasants, and the heady scents of herbs and garlic rose tantalisingly from heavy pots stirred by dutiful servants.

  A mock duel w as underway, performed by gaudily costumed players, and a row dy crow d cheered as a black-clad knight, bearing the heraldry of cursed Mousillon, was cut dow n, bladders of pigs' blood spilling from the ''mortal' w ound inflicted by the dashing hero. This noble knight grabbed a comely w ench around the waist and delivered a dramatic kiss upon her lips, dipping her backw ards theatrically, as jesters capered around, w aving rats and frogs on sticks and making obscene gestures behind the couple, accompanied by laughter from those gathered around them.

  Livestock screamed as they w ere slaughtered, and peasants led carts laden with fresh produce through the crow d. Wagons piled high with wooden casks of w ine bearing the stamp of Bordeleaux w ere pushed through the mass of people.

  The duke's massive blue pavilion took pride of place in the centre of the camp, positioned atop a knoll that dominated the area. It w as rimmed with gold, and each of its spraw ling wings was topped w ith sky-blue streamers and pennants, edged in gold thread. The duke's standard was held aloft atop the hill, proudly showing the golden trident upon a field of blue that w as his personal heraldry.

  The tents of those nobles and knights closest to the duke through birth and favour w ere positioned around this massive pavilion, and it was clearly a show of status: the closer one's tent w as to the duke's the more respect one w as due.

  Calard smarted that, due to their late arrival, his peasants were forced to erect his tent on the lee side of the hill, tow ards its base. Positioned lower still, in the muddy dip that fell aw ay into marshland, was the vast peasant camp, w here the nobles'

  militias and men-at-arms conglomerated. Here too, a form of hierarchy was displayed, for the peasant soldiers of the duke had taken the highest ground, furthest from the mud and reeds.

  Scanning the thousands of heraldic designs and colours on display, Calard saw that knights had gathered here from all across Bretonnia. He saw a silver unicorn upon a field of black that must have been the heraldry of a knight from Quenelles, and the black image of a squat fortress upon a halved field of w hite and yellow that w as clearly the heraldry of a knight from distant Montfort.

  By far the majority of the knights were from Bordeleaux, as w as to be expected, and the vast majority of these sported variations of the duke's heraldry. Everywhere was the tri-forked image of Manann's trident, and Calard w as amazed at the sheer amount of variety in that simple image. Here was a pair of crossed, long-hafted white tridents upon a quartered field of blue and black, there an image of three trident heads, the tips of each resembling the fleur-de-lys, upon a field of red. Other shield designs w ere more unique, representing long held family traditions and honours.

  Calard saw a silver stylised bull's head upon a black background, and a sinuous golden beast that must have been a cockatrice upon a shield divided into countless diamonds of blue and red.

  'Every knight bears heraldry that is utterly unique to him, yes?' asked Dieter, staring around him in w hat Calard took as aw e.

  'That's right,' he replied. 'The image may relate to some heroic deed done by an ancestor or the knight himself, or it might be passed dow n to him through family tradition. The colours used are generally taken from one's parents.'

  Calard gestured to his ow n shield.

  'The dragon is a traditional emblem of Bastonne,' he said, pointing to the w hite image of the fire-breathing dragon rampant. 'Many knights of Bastonne bear such an image, for it harks back to the time of Gilles the Uniter, who hailed from Bastonne. It w as he w ho first took the dragon as his symbol, after he slew the great w yrm Smearghus that had plagued the realm for centuries.'

  'And the colours?' asked Dieter. He seemed fascinated by details, and this was a subject that Calard w armed to.

  'The red,' he said, indicating the field on the left of his shield, 'is taken from my father's shield, in honour of him. The blue is taken from my mother.'

  Dieter frow ned.

  'Bertelis is your brother, yes?' asked the Empire noble, indicating the other knight errant riding ahead. Calard nodded in response.

  'His colours are red and black. Why are his colours not red and blue, as yours are?'

  'Bertelis and I are born of the same father, but my mother died w hen I w as young, and our father remarried. Bertelis bears the black from his mother's side. He is my half-brother.'

  'Ah!' said Dieter in triumph. 'Now I see! And he has a yellow dragon's head upon his shield, which marks him as coming from Bastonne.'

  'Correct, more or less. Not all knights who bear the symbol of a dragon are from Bastonne, but the vast majority are.'

  'The other knights,' said Dieter, gesturing tow ards the hundreds of pennants all around them, 'are from Bordeleaux, for they bear a trident?' Calard nodded. 'Why do they bear this symbol?'

  'Duke Alberic's realm is bordered to the w est by the sea, and his lands have long maintained a close link with the god of the ocean depths, Manann. You know this deity?'

  'I do. He is w orshipped within my Empire as w ell.'

  'It is said that the first duke of Bordeleaux, the great lord Marcus, who fought alongside Gilles, had a special bond w ith Manann. In the Canticles of Battle, it is said that Manann and Marcus fought side by side against their enemies, and that Marcus took his heraldry in honour of this relationship.'

  'I see,' said Dieter. He frowned. 'Why is it that there is no green on any of the heraldry?'

  'Green?' asked Calard, incredulous. 'The colour has tw o connotations, neither of w hich a knight would choose to associate himself with.'

  'Oh,' said Dieter, 'I am quite partial to the hue.' Calard realised that the soldier wore a sash of green around his w aist, but he ploughed on regardless.

  'For one, green is a simple colour to achieve. Green dye is common, easily affordable, cheap. Green is a peasant colour, and as such, no knight w ould deign to w ear it.'

  'I see,' said Dieter, fingering his sash, 'and the other reason?'

  'Green is also the colour of the fey.'

  'The fey? I do not recognise this word.'

  'The fey are the spirits of the woods; unpredictable and capricious, they are as likely to aid a knight lost in their realm as they are to lead him to his doom.'

  'They sound dangerous.'

  Calard smiled. 'Well, yes, they are dangerous for the unwary and anyone who knows not the charms spoken to divert their attentions. Do you not have similar creatures in your Empire?'

  'Perhaps,' said Dieter vaguely. 'Many strange and dangerous beings dwell within the mighty Drakw ald, and the east of our realm w as once plagued by vengeful creatures that roamed the nights.' He smiled. 'Ghosts and night terrors, perhaps, nothing more than stories told to frighten children.'

  'The fey are very real,' said Calard seriously. His eyes widened as they passed a knight in deep conversation with another man. The noble's cheeks were unshaven, and his battle gear w as w orn and bloodied, his cloak and tabard tattered. A massive tw o-handed sword was snapped across his back, and his steed was laden with rolls of blankets and equipment. Soaps of parchment, holy w ritings and prayers, hung from the horse's caparison. The knight felt Calard's eyes upon him, and inclined his head in acknow ledgement of the young warrior, though he did not break from his conversation.

  When they had passed, Bertelis drew alongside his brother.

  'Did you see?' he asked in a low voice.

  'I did,' exclaimed Calard. 'That w as Gundehar of Raisol, was it not?'

  'He is a famous knight?' ventured Dieter. Bertelis scoffed, throwing a scathing glance at the Empire soldier.

  'He is the victor of Albermale Fields, and the slayer of the Beast of Rachard!' Bertelis s
aid. Dieter looked blank. Bertelis turned aw ay in disgust.

  'Gundehar of Raisol,' said Calard, 'is a knight of Bordeleaux, who is engaged upon the noble quest. He seeks the grail of the Lady, and until he achieves his goal, he may not rest. His deeds are renowned all across Bretonnia.'

  Dieter raised an eyebrow .

  'Does he think your goddess is to be found here?'

  'She is everyw here,' said Calard, 'but she w ill only appear to one w ho has proven his devotion to her, w ho has defeated many enemies of Bretonnia in his quest to find her.'

  'He did not look as... impressive as many of the other knights.'

  'A knight engaged on the holy quest must forsake earthly comforts,' said Calard, 'and he must never spend two nights under the same roof, for to do so displays a lack of conviction to his cause, w hich the Lady would frown upon.'

  'But for us, tonight, earthly comforts are w hat w e seek!' declared Bertelis loudly. 'For w e have been victorious in battle, and w e will drink to our success! Wine and women, w e shall have our fill of both!'

  THE TWIN MOONS were high in the sky, just beginning their descent towards the horizon, and the night was still filled with the sounds of celebration. Flaming torches and lanterns lit the encampment, and the sounds of revelry were all around.

  Duke Alberic had given a speech earlier in the evening, but Calard could only dimly remember w hat he had said. It w as something about the w ar not being over, that they had achieved a great victory, but that the w ar w as not yet w on. He pushed the thoughts from his mind, as his brother raised his goblet for another toast.

  'To our glorious victory!' shouted Bertelis, and the brothers drank. Calard spilled his w ine as he tried to set it dow n, and it spread out across the table before him, much to the hilarity of those lounging around it.

  'My dress!' screeched a young w oman, rising unsteadily from the table as the w ine splashed over her lap. She overbalanced, and fell backwards, tripping over her stool.

  Calard stood up unsteadily, chivalrously going to the w oman's aid. Wine stained her front, and Calard thought she might be about to break out in tears at the sight of her ruined clothes. Instead, she erupted into throaty laughter, and the others joined in, pounding the table in their mirth, sending plates of discarded food and goblets jumping.

  Calard helped the girl to her feet, and she leant against him as she fought for balance.

  'You're handsome,' she slurred at him as he set her atop her righted stool, and he grinned foolishly at her. He dabbed at her bosom w ith a cloth, his eyes goggling at the impressive display, while his brother reclined, smiling, and was fed sweetmeats from the hand of a w oman languidly stretched upon a lounge, like a cat.

  'The lady that gave you this is very lucky,' said the girl, touching the silk scarf w rapped around his arm.

  'I am the lucky one, in truth,' said Calard, gazing numbly at the girl's soft, pale hand upon his arm. She lifted her head, staring up at him w ith unfocused eyes, her pupils dilated.

  'She is far aw ay though, is she not?' asked the girl in a husky voice, moving closer.

  He saw the thick layer of make-up that the girl had applied to her face, and the scent of cheap, cloying fragrance enveloped him.

  Calard blinked and pulled back, reaching for his goblet.

  'She is w ith me always,' he said, his voice wistful. 'She is my muse, a paragon of earthly beauty and sw eetness, and I dedicate my victory today to her.'

  The girl pouted, flicking her blonde hair. She turned unsteadily, and practically fell into the arms of another young and clearly intoxicated knight.

  'Such a romantic, brother,' said Bertelis, sipping from his goblet as the pair of girls on either side of him cast venomous glances at each other, both clearly vying for his attention. One had a hand draped over Bertelis's shoulder, playing with his sandy-coloured hair, w hile the other was stroking his thigh.

  Only a low born peasant w oman would behave so, thought Calard. Women of class w ere far more refined than any of these desperate hangers on.

  Calard unw rapped the pale scarf from his arm, closing his eyes as he held it to his face, breathing in deeply. Tucking it back into his tunic, he drained the last of the bottle of Bordeleaux w ine. He stared blankly at the empty bottle before tossing it over his shoulder.

  'More drink!' he declared, lifting himself to his feet.

  'Let us take a moment of fresh air,' said Bertelis, untangling himself from the arms of the tw o w omen who flashed each other dark looks, as if it were the other's fault that the handsome young knight was leaving. He swung around and took the hand of the first, and she fluttered her eyelashes at him as he kissed it delicately. Breaking aw ay, he leant over the other girl and kissed her lingeringly on her neck, her eyes closing in pleasure.

  'Adieu, adieu, fair ladies,' said Bertelis theatrically as he rose to his feet. 'We shall return anon, and every moment not in your presence shall pain us greatly.' Bow ing to them both, he backed aw ay and joined his brother. Together, they walked out into the w arm night air, their balance unsteady.

  'Wenches,' said Bertelis disparagingly.

  'I thought you liked them,' said Calard.

  'Too clinging,' said Bertelis, dismissing the girls with a w ave of the hand. 'This is our night, my brother. Let us drink and be merry!' Bertelis raised his arms into the air dramatically, but stumbled as his foot slipped in the mud. He fell against a tent, almost pulling it to the ground.

  Calard laughed, as his brother righted himself with some difficulty. Bertelis gave the tent a dark look, pointing an accusing finger at it.

  'I think w e might already be rather merry, brother,' Calard remarked.

  'You might be right,' admitted Bertelis, and the pair began staggering along the line of tents, arms throw n over each other's shoulders.

  'Do you have any idea w here we are?' asked Bertelis.

  'I w as hoping that you did,' Calard said, laughing and they stopped, swaying from side to side. They turned left and right, brow s lined in drunken thought, and broke into laughter once more.

  'Well, look at this, my friends,' said a snide voice, 'a pair of young lovers, arm in arm.

  How touching.'

  The brothers straightened, pulling their arms from around each other's shoulders, and Calard's face flushed an angry red. It took him a moment to focus on the speaker, a slim man slightly older than Calard, standing with his hands on his hips.

  His finely cut clothes were spotless white and edged in silver, and a red dragon in flight w as emblazoned on his chest.

  'Maloric,' he snarled as he glared into the face of the youngest member of the Sangasse family. 'I thought I smelt something foul upon the air.'

  Maloric w as a rakishly handsome man, some three years older than Calard, and were it not for the longstanding feud betw een their houses they might have been friends.

  How ever, the bitter enmity betw een the two noble families ensured that they would never be anything but rivals. Both came from renow ned noble bloodlines, and though Garamont had w on more accolades from past battlefield victories, the Sangasses held a stronger political position within Bastonne, due largely to their close marital ties to the royal households of Bretonnia.

  'Ouch,' said Maloric, feigning hurt as he stepped closer to the Garamont brothers, touching a hand to his breast. 'You w ound me, dear neighbour.'

  One of the heavyset men behind Maloric smirked.

  'So you finally made it to Bordeleaux, did you, Garamont? I thought you w ere cow ering at home, too scared to take to the field. Or were you hoping to arrive once the battle w as done?'

  'Sangasse dog,' snapped Bertelis, and he spat into the ground. The men behind Maloric bristled, and the slim young knight turned towards Bertelis.

  'What's this? Is it Bertelis, Garamont's brat? You tw o look nothing alike, you know ,'

  he said, his finger passing back and forth betw een the brothers. 'But then you w ere born from different mothers, weren't you. How old must you be, Bertelis? Eightee
n summers? But w ait!' he said putting a hand to his cheek in mock outrage. 'That w ould mean that you w ere born w ell within a year of your mother dying,' Maloric continued, pointing a finger at Calard, his voice mocking. 'Scandalous! Dear me, that raises all kinds of questions, does it not?'

  Bertelis took a step tow ards Maloric, his hands clenching into fists. Calard stepped in front of him, turning his back on Maloric, and placed a hand upon Bertelis's chest.

  The younger brother paused at the touch, his chest rising and falling heavily as he stared hatefully at the Sangasse noble.

  'This is not the time, brother,' said Calard through clenched teeth. His brother gave a slight nod of the head, and Calard turned to face Maloric once more. The slim noble stared at Bertelis w ith cold, dangerous eyes, the hint of a mocking smile playing on his lips.

  Calard saw that Maloric w ore a silk scarf wrapped around his upper arm, clearly a token of affection.

  'What sort of poisonous viper w ould see fit to give you her token?' he snapped, seeing a satisfying anger in Maloric's eyes. It was there for less than a second, and was replaced w ith mocking humour.

  'Poisonous viper? A bit harsh, methinks. This was given to me by none other than the fair Lady Elisabet of Carlemont. Her family w as the guest of Sangasse for the equinox. I believe you know her?'

  Calard felt the colour drain from his face.

  'You lie,' he said.

  'Why w ould I bother? The truth is much more amusing,' said Maloric, and now it was Calard's hands that clenched into fists.

  'Not the time, remember? He speaks naught but poison,' said Bertelis in his ear, and Calard glared at Maloric before answ ering.

  'You are right brother. Let's leave this place. It reeks of offal and filth, all of a sudden.'

  'That's right, dogs, run. I think you w ill find that your tents are dow n the hill, away from your betters.'

  Calard turned aw ay from the smirking Maloric, chuckling humourlessly. Then he sw ung around violently and slammed his fist into the slim noble's face. There w as a satisfying crack, and blood spurted from the knight's nose. He fell to his back in the mud, as Bertelis guffaw ed in shocked amusement.