Knight of the Realm, page 1
This is a dark age, a bloody age, an age of daemons and of sorcery. It is an age of battle and death, and of the world’s ending. Amidst all of the fire, flame and fury it is a time, too, of mighty heroes, of bold deeds and great courage.
In the west of the Old World lies Bretonnia, a fabled land of magic and chivalry. It is also a land of honour and virtue, where noble knights of the realm keep their domains safe as their peasants till the fields, where knights errant strive to win their spurs in battle and where questing knights venture in search of the most holy of artefacts – the grail. For it is said to sup from this most holy chalice a knight will become more than just a hero, he will become a saint.
Upon his throne in the city of Couronne sits King Louen Leoncoeur, just ruler of Bretonnia and its greatest champion. By the will of the Lady of the Lake, beneficent deity of all Bretonnia, by lance and sword, are the lands of the king kept safe from greenskins and the mutant beastmen of the darkling forests, from malicious daemons and the walking dead.
As the time of battle draws ever nearer, Bretonnia will need its heroes like never before.
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, whispering hatefully, and the seer’s eyes snapped open.
Barking a curse of warding, the seer upended a bowl of warm blood onto the glowing coals. It boiled and spat and the murderous shadows 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 was naked, and a crisscrossing network of scars covered his sinewy, taut flesh, interspersed with talismanic tattoos and ritual piercings. Bones, flint runes and sticks were bound within 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. Throwing 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 were carved with stylised images of warriors and daemons, surrounded by spiralling designs that seemed to writhe with movement, but the seer was 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 were thrown wide. The seer strode inside, snow blasting in around him, and the portals were slammed shut.
It was 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 warriors of the tribe, the huskarls, ate and drank, laughed and fought.
Each member of this warrior elite was a battle-scarred veteran that had proven himself time and time again before his peers, his lord and the gods themselves. They were giants among men, fierce, proud and volatile, each one marked in some way by the Great Powers, and yet even through their haze of drunkenness, they instinctively gave way 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 lower, 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 away from the dark dwarf, the seer continued to make his way through the press of warriors. 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 sawdust covered floor with every step.
Against the far wall was a raised platform, upon which 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 was hung with weapons, shields, severed heads, skulls and beast pelts of all description. They were all trophies won by the lord of the tribe, their high jarl, in the decades since he had come to power; 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 was more than just a chieftain to him, for he had welcomed him into his home, clothed and fed him, and taught him the ways of the Skaeling Norscans. To the seer, his jarl was 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 wooden throne carved to resemble a twin-headed dragon, its clawed forelimbs forming the armrests and its unfurled wings the high back. He was 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 were streaked with silver, though his icy grey eyes still blazed with strength and vigour.
Flanking him were his wives and daughters. His youngest wife, the personification of Norscan beauty itself – tall, proud, and strong – was leaning against her husband, her bosom pressed against one of his powerful arms. His youngest child was no more than a babe; his eldest was 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 towards 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 wives and daughters traded glances, and the Skaeling chieftain leant forward ever so slightly.
‘Speak plainly, little bear,’ said Styrbjorn.
‘I have seen the one who will 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?’ growled 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, drawing 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 wild forest resisted Elisabet’s every step, and she began to imagine that there was a malicious sentience within it, a darkly verdant will that lurked at its heart, thwarting her attempts to penetrate its borders.
She shivered at the thought, realising that there was a certain truth in the notion; all the whispered stories she had heard said that the crone Haegtesse did exert some measure of power over the woods. That power ensured those who meant her harm, or those whom she did not wish to receive, were turned around, finding themselves walking back towards the edge of the woods instead of into them. It was for this reason that Haegtesse had not hung from the gallows 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, however, knew that the crone Haegtesse was no myth, for she had visited her once before. Long had she cursed that day, and a wretched 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-loathing?
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 twinge of bitterness stabbed through her. It had all been for him. How could he not see that?
In truth, Elisabet didn’t know why 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 between a pair of twisted roots resembling sinewy arms, and she winced as her ankle twisted beneath her. She fell awkwardly, hands burying themselves in the rich leaf litter. Insects and worms writhed across her skin. Horrified, she pulled herself free of the contorted roots and scrambled to her feet.
Her eyes widened as she came face to face with the doll-totem. She was certain that it had not been there just a moment before.
It dangled less than two feet in front of her face, and she staggered back from it, her large, dark-rimmed eyes wide.
It hung from a low bough, like a corpse swinging slowly from a gibbet, a crude representation of a woman, 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 was daubed upon the totem’s chest, in between 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 was framed by dark, human-looking hair that crawled with lice. Skin, possibly human and dark with age, had been stretched across a lump of wood crudely carved in the shape of a human head, and Elisabet felt her stomach lurch as she saw maggots squirming beneath. A wide 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 two further slits in the skin represented nostrils. Bloated flies crawled 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 swung 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 twisted horns sprouting from their heads, and others were blackened with fire. Some had rusted nails hammered into their eyes, while others had disgusting, unrecognisable lumps of flesh hung around their necks like scarves, some with 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 wind 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 with blood-like sap. This ancient tree had grown atop a rocky outcrop, its thick roots cracking the stone and framing the cave entrance like mighty pillars. The slim fissure was dark.
A raven sat above the cave entrance, its head cocked to the side as it glared at Elisabet with one yellow eye. It cawed, the sound ugly and harsh, and a whisper emerged from within the cave, carried to Elisabet’s ears on the breath of a foetid wind.
‘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 down at her, and she felt the hatred and hunger of the carrion eater wash 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 were stripped away. 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 walls 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 down into the cave like the arms of corpses. Less wholesome things hung there too: skinned hares dripping blood, twitching 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 was the crone, Haegtesse.
Her head was bowed, and unruly, matted grey hair hung over her face, obscuring it like a mortuary veil. Her withered, skeletal body was draped in dank cloth, and she clutched a doll in her claw-like hands.
‘Come closer, my child,’ said Haegtesse.
Elisabet wanted to run, but her own free will was of no consequence. Involuntarily, she began moving towards the hag. She felt like a player’s marionette, her legs moving to the whim of another.
‘No,’ she whispered, tears running down her cheeks, even as she did as Haegtesse bid her.
‘Do not fight it,’ said the crone. ‘It will be easier for you if you do not.’
With a gesture, the hag ordered Elisabet to sit down opposite her.
Elisabet was shaking her head, but found herself sitting cross-legged on the pallet opposite the crone.
‘So young,’ said Haegtesse, reaching forward with a withered 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 answer, 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 twig-hands of the doll were slick with blood, and fat flies crawled between its fingers.
‘A good likeness, yes?’ said the hag.
The witch laughed as understanding came to Elisabet.
The doll represented her.
The black hair stitched into the thing’s head was hers. The tattered cloth that wrapped its body was a torn fragment of a dress she had discarded the previous winter. Who knew what other parts of the doll were connected to her? Nail clippings? Blood? What did it mean?
She tried to pull away 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 somewhere she heard the tortured wail 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, two abreast. The mood of the nobles at the front of the party, carrying their stout, leaf-bladed boar spears, was sombre. Huge mastiffs, their powerful bodies armoured in thick plate, trotted alongside their masters.
Ranging out in front of the hunting party were dozens of peasants with snuffling dogs, scouring the forest for game. Unlike the armoured fighting dogs, these peasant runt-hounds were as scabby and wretched as those holding their leashes. Still, they had their uses. It was these half-starved animals that sought out the spoor of the great boars that roamed the Forest of Arden, and once discovered it was their duty to drive them back towards 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 dwelt within the wilds, but it mattered little. More important was that no damage was done to the mighty boars in the process; by law, only a noble was 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 was a nobleman of middling years, Baron Lothgar of Artois. His face was a mask of irritation, and it was clear that his mood had infected those retainers and courtiers riding nearby. He wore a deep red tabard over his breastplate, and a silver boar’s head was emblazoned upon his chest.
From further back along the procession of hunters came laughter, and the nobleman’s expression darkened.
‘Any game within a half a mile will be long gone,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Listen to them. They may as well be banging drums and singing the Chanson de Folgar at the top of their lungs.’
