Warhammer - Knight Errant Read online

  He stepped forw ard and delivered a brutal punch to the jaw of the first of Maloric's men to react, knocking him senseless.

  Then the area w as suddenly filled with drunken revellers, who threw aside a tent flap and emerged into the thoroughfare, laughing and singing.

  Calard saw Bertelis double over as a fist slammed into his midsection, and he pushed people out of the w ay to get to his brother. He slammed into the heavyset thug standing over his brother, knocking him into a tent that collapsed as his weight brought dow n its uprights. There was an angry shout from w ithin and a w oman's scream. Heart pounding, Calard pulled his brother upright, and the two of them pushed their w ay through the crowd away from the fracas.

  'What I w ouldn't give to see that punch of yours again,' said Bertelis. He laughed, and then w inced in pain. 'It certainly wiped that smug look off the bastard's face.'

  Calard grinned. It certainly had felt satisfying.

  Their heads still buzzing w ith adrenaline and alcohol, the pair wended their way through the tents, having no clear idea of the direction of their tent lay in.

  'Well, w ould you look at this!' said Bertelis as they stopped to paused for a moment to get their bearings.

  'What?'

  Bertelis gestured, and Calard laughed out loud as he saw that they w ere standing next to a tent of pure w hite with a red dragon emblazoned on its tent flaps.

  'I w as just thinking I needed to relieve myself,' remarked Calard, loosening his trousers.

  'My thoughts exactly,' said his brother, and the two of them stood side by side as they pissed on Maloric's tent.

  'We are over here,' said Calard as he retied his belt, catching a glimpse of familiar heraldry in the distance. Bertelis grunted in response, and the pair made their way tow ards their tents.

  'A good night!' declared Bertelis. 'Booze, w omen and seeing you break Maloric of Sangasse's nose! What more could a man w ant?'

  Calard laughed, and w hen his head hit his pallet, he was asleep instantly, dreaming of Elisabet and victory. He thought he heard his sister's voice calling to him, but he could not find her, and soon it faded, replaced with darkness.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CALARD AWOKE WITH a start as he felt a hand on his shoulder. His dagger was in his hand instantly, and the young squire backed aw ay, his face paling before he fled the tent.

  'Calard of Garamont,' someone shouted, and he recognised the voice as Gunthar's.

  Calard w inced as he felt the throbbing pain in his fist, and he looked down at his bloodied knuckles, remembering dimly the events of the previous night. The weapon master shouted again, and Calard rose to his feet, his head pounding. Bordeleaux w ine was indeed fine, but it w as no less painful the next day than any other.

  'What?' he grunted irritably as he stepped out into the overcast morning light. He squinted up at Gunthar, w ho w as fully armoured and astride his warhorse, glaring dow n at him.

  'Get your armour on,' said the w eapon master, his voice icy. 'Battle aw aits. I will see you in ten minutes in the field west of here. Your brother is there already.'

  Gunthar kicked his steed into a trot, leaving Calard standing alone in his bedraggled clothes from the night before. The words of the veteran knight made him come fully aw ake in an instant, and he curtly ordered for his horse to be brought to him.

  Sw inging around, he re-entered his tent, shouting for his servants.

  He ripped off his clothes and hurriedly pulled on the thick padding that protected him from the bruises, cuts and chafing that the joints and edges of his armour w ould otherw ise inflict. He bent forwards and lifted his arms as his chain mail hauberk w as pulled over his head, and he stood up, letting the long-sleeved chain shirt settle.

  'Quickly now ,' Calard snapped, and with practised ease his breastplate w as fitted in place, its leather ties fastened. The rest of his armour w as fitted gradually into position, the heavy plates overlapping each other and tightened. While the squire affixed his greaves and cuisses to his legs, Calard pulled on his soft leather gloves, and strapped his rarebraces and vambraces to his arms, before his cow ters and pauldrons w ere fitted over the top. As the last buckles and ties were fastened, Calard pulled on his steel gauntlets, and his sword was strapped at his waist. His red and blue tabard w as pulled over his armour and, fully garbed for w ar, he knelt before the small triptych shrine of the Lady. Bowing his head, he spoke a quick prayer, asking for strength and valour, before he stood and strode from his tent.

  The sun w as vainly trying to break through the clouds overhead, and his hangover w as forgotten as his heart raced in expectation of the coming battle. He did not stop to consider why no other knights were rushing to make themselves ready for the forthcoming engagement.

  Gringolet w as led towards him, the mighty dappled grey steed saddled and bedecked in its fine red and blue caparison. The destrier's head was protected by its spiked, steel chanfron, and the warhorse stamped its hooves eagerly.

  Lifting one armoured foot into the stirrup, Calard pulled himself into the saddle smoothly. He accepted his shield and lance as they were handed to him, and urged Gringolet on. Why had his brother gone without him, he wondered angrily?

  He pushed through the crow d, the massive destrier muscling peasants out of the w ay, and cursed at his slow progress. At last, he broke free from the press of bodies and tents, and kicked Gringolet into a gallop, heading away from the duke's camp.

  He turned his steed to the w est, and rose in the saddle as the destrier leapt a dry-stone w all, and thundered tow ards the group of knights and mounted peasants in the field beyond.

  He slow ed as he approached the gathering of mounted w arriors, his brow furrowing.

  He saw Bertelis with a foul expression on his face, and brought Gringolet to a halt before Gunthar, w ho w as glowering at him.

  'You took your time,' the veteran said.

  'What's going on?' asked Calard. He saw that all the knights, apart from Gunthar, around tw enty in total, w ere young, and yet to earn their full knighthood. The peasants w ere yeomen, mounted upon unarmoured w orkhorses, and armed w ith spears and bow s. The Empire envoy, Dieter, was there too, though Calard noted that he no longer w ore his green sash. The Empire soldier looked bright and cheerful, w hich irritated Calard, whose headache was returning with a vengeance.

  'We are on scouting duty,' said Bertelis sourly.

  'What?' asked Calard.

  'Ducal orders,' snapped Gunthar. 'There are still a large number of greenskins within the w estern fold of the forest, and such are their numbers that they remain a considerable threat. Along with dozens of other parties, we are to scour the forests and drive them into the open. '

  'So, no battle then?' asked Calard darkly.

  'Not just yet. It got you ready quickly though, didn't it?' said Gunthar, giving him a humourless smile.

  'Isn't this duty more fit for peasants? Where is the honour to be earned in chasing shadow s?'

  'The peasants have enough trouble scaring pigs from the trees, let alone an army,'

  said Gunthar lightly, and several of the young knights laughed. 'No, this duty requires strong, brave young knights. What enemy would not flee before such noble w arriors?'

  'There is no honour in it,' snapped Calard.

  The smile slipped from Gunthar's face.

  'This is a necessary duty,' he said, 'and the order comes from the Duke of Bordeleaux, or did you think that a knight's duty w as merely to sleep, drink and w omanise in between battles?'

  Calard bit back an angry retort, and Gunthar drew closer to him, out of earshot of the other young knights.

  'You are not ingratiating yourself in front of your peers, Calard,' hissed the knight.

  'You sound like a spoilt noble's son, unwilling to sully his hands with duties he sees as beneath him.'

  'This duty is beneath me. And how dare-' began Calard but his w ords were cut short.

  'How dare I speak to you like a child? Act like a knight and I shall treat
you as one.

  Even your libertine brother managed to rouse himself and make it here on time. I expected much more of you, Calard.'

  Calard felt the colour in his cheeks rise in shame and anger.

  'You are not the lord of Garamont yet, Calard, and I am responsible for you w hile we are engaged in Bordeleaux. You will do as I order, or I w ill have you shamed in front of all these knights.'

  Calard clenched his teeth, and looked down, quivering with rage.

  'Do your father proud, Calard,' said Gunthar, more softly, and Calard nodded his head. Satisfied, Gunthar pulled his steed around sharply.

  'We ride! Now !' he shouted, and kicked his steed forwards, angling it tow ards the south. The other knights fell in behind him, and the peasant yeoman kicked their steeds hard, ranging out in front.

  'Why didn't you w ake me?' asked Calard darkly, pulling alongside Bertelis.

  'Sorry,' his brother replied casually. 'I w as up early. I thought you w ould wake in time. I didn't think-'

  'No, you didn't,' said Calard.

  BORDELEAUX, IT SEEMED to Calard, was a land blessed by the Lady. Its soil was rich, and he could imagine what it w ould be like in the height of spring. The rolling hills would be aw ash with life, and the air would be rich with the promise of summer.

  The dukedom w as a coastal one, and even this far inland there was a freshness to the air that carried hints of the wide blue seas. Calard longed to travel to the coast, to see the mighty cliffs and witness with his own eyes the crashing of the waves. One day, he said to himself.

  Less than a mile from the duke's camp, there came a shout from one of the yeoman outriders.

  Bertelis stood in the stirrups, straining to see further ahead.

  'What is it?' snapped Calard, not bothering to look:

  'I'm not sure,' said Bertelis. 'Wait... there is a big group of peasants, fifty or more, I'd say... and I can see a banner,' he said, straining. 'It is blue, and is emblazoned w ith...

  w ith a silver horse, standing side on, with a foreleg raised. No, not a horse, a unicorn.'

  That got Calard's attention.

  'Anything else?'

  'I think so... Yes!' said Bertelis in rising excitement. 'Beneath the unicorn is a silver grail, w ith a blue fleur-de-lys upon it!'

  'Reolus!' breathed Calard, standing in the stirrups to see w ith his ow n eyes. 'Are you sure?'

  'Yes! It is him!'

  The other young knights around them were exclaiming in wonder and amazement as they too strained to catch a glimpse of the famous knight.

  'Is this another knight w ho quests for your Lady's grail?' asked Dieter.

  'No,' said Calard in aw e, 'this is one who has drunk from it.'

  THREE PEASANTS WERE running ahead of the entourage. One of them blew several long tuneless notes on a rusted horn as he ran, his cheeks puffing out like inflated bladders. The peasant in the lead was a portly, balding individual, who held aloft a shield, cloven in two by some mighty blow . Despite the damage done to it, the heraldry upon its face w as clear: a silver unicorn upon a field of blue, above an image of the holy grail.

  'The shattered shield of Reolus,' remarked Bertelis in amazement, staring at the holy artefact. There was not a man in all of Bretonnia w ho did not know the names, deeds and heraldry of every hallowed grail knight, for they were veritable avatars of holy pow er, and their every action w as recorded and spread the length and breadth of the land. Fathers regaled their sons with tales of these mighty paladins, and noble courts listened attentively as the actions of the most famous grail knights were portrayed in verse, song and performance. The arrival of a grail knight at the fortified gates of a tow n or city resulted in parades and feasts, and a day of rest for all w orkers as the streets quickly filled with those hoping to catch a glance of the holy warrior.

  Gunthar called the knights errant to a halt, urging their horses off the muddy road so as to allow the grail knight Reolus free progress. They dismounted, to show proper respect, and Calard saw that even Gunthar seemed agitated and nervous, straightening his tabard and smoothing his flowing moustache. The heroic figure could still not be seen, surrounded as he was by a surging mass of pilgrims.

  'Hearken ye! Hearken ye!' bellow ed the balding peasant as he reached the knights, panting and sw eating from the exertion. He hefted the shattered shield high above his head. 'Witness the coming of a living saint, beloved of Quenelles, one who has supped from the grail! Bear w itness to his holy shield, shattered by the mighty devil troll of Carcassonne, before he spitted the foul beast upon his lance and did cleave its head from its shoulders w ith one mighty blow!'

  'You are blessed, sons of Bretonnia!' yelled one of the peasant's companions, draped in w hat must once have been a cloak discarded by the grail knight, though it was now tattered and ripped. 'You are blessed for you shall bear testament to the coming of Lord Reolus of Quenelles, favoured of the Lady, as he answers the Duke of Bordeleaux's call to w ar!' This pilgrim had clearly seen battle himself, for he had a brutal scar across his face and w ore a rusted sw ord upon his hip. 'Enemies will w ither beneath his shining gaze, and friends will become emboldened by his presence,' he yelled, spittle flying from his toothless mouth.

  'See the ruin that comes to those w ho face his holy wrath!' bellow ed the third of the pilgrims, an ugly brute w ith a lopsided face and the crown of his head shaved bare of hair. He pulled a severed head from a bloody sack, holding the grisly trophy up in the air before him, his face a mask of feverish devotion. The head was rotting and flyblow n, and the stink was atrocious, making the knights grimace in revulsion. 'This w as the cursed necromancer Merogant of Mousillon, cut dow n by Saint Reolus on the fields of Bodkin Moor!'

  Several of the knights errant hissed, and spoke silent prayers of protection to the Lady, and Calard saw Dieter touch a hand to the tw in-tailed comet emblem on his chest.

  'Blessed are ye!' shouted the third pilgrim, moving his hands in the air in some form of aw kw ard benediction, before the three peasants continued on their way, clumping aw kw ardly through the mud tow ards the duke's camp in the distance.

  Then the main troupe of pilgrims arrived, the bizarre panoply of the procession dizzying in its strangeness and fervour. There were lowborn men and women of all ages in the motley entourage, and they held aloft pieces of rusted armour, broken shoes, shreds of blue cloth and chunks of half-eaten food: all items discarded or cast aside by the grail knight. These pilgrims, who worshipped the knight as a living saint, saw each of the cast-offs as an artefact of holy significance, and they treasured them as if they might impart a small fraction of the holy knight's favour.

  Most w ere armed for w ar, with cudgels, daggers and maces hanging from rope belts, though more than a few sported rusted or shattered swords that they had scavenged from fallen w arriors. One wore a dented, ill-fitting knight's helmet on his head, while another proudly w ore a breastplate w ith several crossbow holes through it, the bolts having most likely, slain its previous ow ner. Many carried wooden shields that had been daubed w ith blue paint, and onto these had been nailed all manner of further devotional items: arrow s, scraps of vellum torn from holy texts, and the bones of those slain by their unwilling benefactor.

  'There he is!' breathed one of the knights in aw e, and Calard stood tall as the revered grail knight approached.

  He seemed like an immortal, divine paladin, a faultless living legend, and strength, majesty and faith radiated from him like the heat from an inferno. Calard's breath w as taken aw ay, his mouth gaping open as he was overcome by aw e. Grail knights w ere the epitome of knightly perfection, the ideal that every knight of Bretonnia aspired to, and to merely be in the presence of one of these esteemed paragons was overw helming.

  Riding upon the back of the biggest w arhorse that Calard had ever seen, the grail knight tow ered above his pilgrims, and the young knight errant felt suddenly like a child. The midnight-black stallion must have been nigh on twenty hands tall at the shoulder, and it w as bedecked in
a regal blue caparison, its edges stitched with shimmering silver thread. The venerated grail knight rode tall and proud, his presence aw esome and terrifying in equal measures.

  Whether it w as coincidence or divine favour, the clouds parted as the grail knight drew near, bathing him in warm, golden beams of light. His armour shone like the sun, and Calard squinted against its brightness. The knight's armour w as a w ork of inspired artistry, every inch of it covered in intricate detailing engravings, and inlaid w ith finely worked silver. A shimmering cloak of blue, lined with soft mink fur, fluttered behind him, held in place by a heavy golden brooch in the shape of the Lady's grail. The knight was adorned with countiess devotional tokens and sacred icons, from holy beads to miniature pendants carved from the finger bones of saints into the likeness of the Lady.

  He rode slow ly along the muddy roadw ay, stoically ignoring the pilgrims that capered and proclaimed his noble deeds in loud voices. His shield was a masterpiece of craftsmanship, clearly made by the same genius w ho had forged his armour, and his lance w as the finest example of its kind that Calard had ever borne w itness to. Its silver vamplate w as worked into the visage of a snarling dragon, and Calard thought he saw , for a brief second, a shimmering light coruscate up the length of the lance. It w as named Arandyal, and it was one of the most hallowed artefacts of Quenelles.

  Blessed by the Lady, Reolus had w ielded it against innumerable foes, and it was the w eapon that the grail knight w as said to have used to slay the dragon Grelmalarch, a beast that had terrorised the people of Carcassonne for centuries.

  The grail knight's full-faced helm was topped by a majestic heraldic unicorn of silver, w hich was surrounded by a host of candles. The Lady's fleur-de-lys was cut into the right side of the helmet as a breathing grill, and Calard felt his heart lurch as the grail knight turned his head in his direction.

  The grail knight's eyes glinted from w ithin the darkness of his helmet, and Calard felt a surge of primal terror beneath the gaze, as if his soul w as stripped bare. As one, the knights errant dropped to one knee before the grail knight Reolus, lowering their heads, and Calard, sw eating profusely, w as glad to no longer be locking eyes with the aw esome knight. Never in his life had he encountered anything with such a pow erful presence.