Hammer and Bolter: Issue 25, page 1
THE COURT BENEATH
Phil Kelly
A lone figure trudged towards Castle Couronne, stopping for a moment to examine his reflection in the steel of his sword. The face reflected in the blade was the dirt-streaked mask of a beggar. Grimacing, the knight tried to wash off the worst of the dirt in a puddle by the side of the road. A cart towed by a pair of malnourished mules rumbled past, splashing yet more filth onto his already stained surcoat.
The knight looked up at the skies and sighed deeply before returning to his reflection. If anything he had made the scarecrow in the steel look worse. The exposed streaks of pale flesh only served to accentuate the layers of filth he had accrued over the long years of his quest.
Gone for a five-year and nothing to show for it. Well, nothing but some ugly scars, a few loose teeth and a bad case of ringworm, that was. His money-purse had been stolen long ago, and his noble steed lost to the forest two years previously. He still had his sword, at least – he’d paid good silver for it to be chained to his wrist as a gesture of commitment – and his shield was still intact, more or less. Yet the fact remained that here he was, about to address the Grand Court of Couronne whilst looking little better than a pauper’s arse.
He smelt the part, too; the powdered harpies of the Grand Court were going to eat him alive. No matter that Bretonnia had been rid of many a monster since his travels began. He had met with prophets and ghosts alike on his travels; had even fought alongside the Green Knight himself at one point. The courtiers cared not for hollow boasts, however. Without proof of his victories they were like to dismiss such claims as the ravings of a madman.
Shaking his head, the knight trudged on. There was little choice. An army of the dead was said to be shambling towards the peasant villages to the north, the renegade sorcerer Myldeon adding to their number with every corpse-pit he passed. Though they were loath to admit it, the Grand Court had made a powerful enemy the day they chased Myldeon from their ranks for practising the forbidden arts. The knight whispered a quiet oath to the Lady that the necromancer would be brought to justice before he had raised half the kingdom from their graves. Scowling at the wilful incompetence of Bretonnia’s gentry, the knight made his way into the shadow of the crenellated monstrosity known as Castle Couronne.
The towering edifice looked as if the father of giants had knocked down three perfectly good fortresses and piled them one atop another before employing a mad architect to fortify the results beyond all reason. Gilded spires jutted out from precarious sub-mansions like fungi, gargoyles leered from stone kennels, towers sprouted from walls buttressed with twisted oak trees. Murder-holes and arrow slits perforated every crooked wall from top to bottom, and tattered pennants fluttered from the trebuchets and mangonels cresting its many towers. A pair of majestic stone dracogryphs guarded a broad bridge over a moat of bubbling pitch. It was a lunatic king’s fantasy groaning in the wind, a wyrdstone-tainted nightmare made real.
For the knight, it was home.
Two densely muscled men-at-arms sidled out of the shadows of the gatehouse to bar his way, their hook-ended polearms thrust towards his face. Even over the stench of the moat he could smell the wine on their breath – Alabier Red, and a bad year at that. One of the guardsmen had an eye missing, replaced with a rusting nugget of ironstone. The other had a smile that had been crudely widened by a blade, a common punishment for the low-born who laughed out of turn.
‘Let me pass, in the name of my father. In the name of the king,’ said the knight, drawing himself up to his full height as he approached the guards.
Their polearms did not move an inch, each hovering a hand’s breadth from his face.
Shaking his head, the knight grabbed his gauntlet in his teeth and pulled his sword hand free, wiping the worst of the muck from the battered face of his shield and flicking it into the bubbling pitch of the moat. The gesture revealed a lion rampant on a field of blue and red. It had seen far better days, but it was undeniably the royal heraldry of Couronne.
A tense moment passed. As one, the men-at-arms kneeled, their polearms lifted and their eyes cast down.
Sir Louen of Couronne took a deep breath and marched inside.
A fine mist of rain fell as Louen and Brocard the Bold rode their noble steeds along the winding road. Castle Couronne dwindled in the distance behind them. Some twenty metres behind the two Bretonnian lords was a single lance of knights, their brightly-coloured pennants slicked flat with damp. Leather-patched squires rode behind them in sodden silence. It would have been extremely charitable to call it an army. It was barely even an escort.
‘Sixteen swords, Brocard. Sixteen,’ said Louen, despondently.
‘At least his lordship gave you a good horse, Louen,’ replied Brocard, frowning as he flicked rainwater from the immaculate steel unicorn that curved over his left shoulder. ‘Ancient or not, you know how the man loves his purebreds.’
‘And the humiliation to go with it. How low the flame of chivalry has burned,’ muttered Louen into his tangled beard, ‘if but sixteen souls can be roused to defend the land.’
‘Lady’s sake, don’t be so dramatic, Louen,’ said Brocard, fixing him with a reproachful glance from his famously mismatched eyes. One was blue, one green; their colours were echoed upon his personal heraldry and the caparison of his mighty charger. ‘What did you expect, turning up after five years with nothing to show for your efforts besides a beggar’s plea?’ he said. ‘If you ask me you were lucky to get more than a boot up the backside. And if the necromancer has raised as many as you say, it’s a wonder you rallied anyone at all.’
‘Why, thanks. When did you become such a bloody realist?’
Brocard’s easy smile disappeared in an instant. Louen decided not to press the matter. The rain pattered down as they rode on in silence, passing the burnt-out windmills and tumbledown chapels that typified the Marches of Couronne. Autumn had the twisted trees of the land in its grasp, and rotting mulch covered the sides of the dirt track. Every mile or so a twisted body lay by the side of the path, rainwater gathering in its eye sockets. Careless, thought Louen. They should have been buried face down, crow’s feet in the mouth, as was the proper custom. His father had an infamous distrust of superstition, and Louen knew enough to see it for the dangerous indulgence it truly was. No wonder Myldeon had amassed such a throng.
Thunderclouds mustered on the horizon. A lone magpie croaked from its perch atop a rusting thief-cage, half-heartedly pecking at the wet meat of its occupant.
As the sun passed high overhead, Louen eased his horse into a slow trot. Brocard rode alongside him, returned from counsel with the knights in the lance behind. They travelled in silence for a few minutes more.
‘A lot can happen in five years, Louen,’ said Brocard, suddenly.
‘What’s that?’ asked Louen, jolted from thoughts of the conflict to come.
‘I said, a lot has happened since you’ve been gone.’
‘I feared as much. Not good news, either, judging by your demeanour.’
‘No, Louen,’ replied Brocard. ‘Sadly not. We have little enough of that these days.’
‘Care to tell me about it?’
Brocard looked back over his shoulder at the fifteen knights riding behind them, then met Louen’s gaze.
‘In a while, perhaps,’ he sighed.
They rode onwards for a few hours more, Louen moving up and down the column talking to the men he would soon be fighting alongside. As the sun began to sink, a moss-covered bridge forced them to cross a trickling brook in single file. Before the rest of the knights could catch up, Louen spurred his steed to catch up with Brocard’s heavily-armoured stallion.
‘You’ve changed, old friend,’ said Louen, riding close.
‘You noticed,’ said Brocard, bitterly.
‘It’s bad, then?’
‘Yes,’ said the knight, his magnificent armour clinking as he slumped in the saddle, head hung. He held his gauntlet to his face, thumb and finger rubbing his eyes. ‘It’s really bad,’ he said, voice barely audible over the rain.
‘Eleanor?’
‘No. Our son.’
‘Landuin? Bright lad.’
‘Too bright,’ said Brocard, his voice cracking. ‘He was… He was Taken, Louen.’
‘What?’ said Louen, turning in his saddle with a jerk. ‘Landuin was… Really?’
Brocard’s face twisted into a knot of unresolved grief. ‘His bed was empty and the sheets were cold as ice. He was Taken. I won’t see him again.’
The knight’s expression was so tragic that Louen felt his gut churn hollow.
‘Well,’ said Louen, not knowing what else to say, ‘I’ll be damned.’
‘No, my friend,’ said Brocard, wiping his eyes. ‘It’s not you that’s damned.’
The knights rose at dawn, their squires buckling their ornate suits of armour plate by plate. Their heavily-muscled horses churned the rich earth, nervous despite their impeccable breeding.
Louen shook out the last shreds of a troubling dream and parted the boughs of his makeshift bivouac, dislodging a silver curtain of dewdrops and a fat-bodied spider in the process. Frowning, he watched the knights make ready.
‘Sixteen,’ he sighed to himself, pulling his armour on piece by tarnished piece. ‘A lance of ten-and-seven in total, with a rusting tip at that.’ The cold of the earth had sunk into the core of his bones. Five years of this, he thought, and it never gets easier.
A squire approached him, offering a bowl
The smell the stew left hanging in the damp air was delicious, and Louen’s empty stomach growled low. Taking his longknife from its scabbard, he sliced off a piece of edible fungus from a nearby tree and chewed it hard, hoping to appease his gut. One day I’ll sleep in a bed again, he promised himself, perhaps with a woman or two to warm it. And on that day I’ll eat rabbit stew, stuffed swan, roast boar, and more besides. Today, though, I’ll like as not be up to my armpits in corpses by lunchtime. Still, the deed needs done.
The knight rubbed his aching knees, blinking the sleep out of his eyes as he twisted his head from one side to the other with a series of dull cracks. Something strange hung in the air, a feeling of disquiet more than anything tangible. He sniffed, his senses slowly waking up. There it was; the faintest whiff of rotten flesh, carried on the wind.
‘I fear they’re coming to us, my friend,’ said Brocard, his spurs clinking as he strode up to Louen’s makeshift bivouac. The big knight’s handsome features were troubled. ‘You’d better say your devotions now, if you still want to make the charge.’
Louen nodded silently, taking his friend’s hand as he got to his feet. ‘Brocard,’ he said, ‘thank you for this. I’ll repay you if I can.’
‘It’s for the land, Louen. No need to speak of debt.’
‘As you say, old friend,’ said Louen. ‘Look for the single living man amongst the dead. Take the lance straight for him, squires to each side. Kill him true, and the numbers of the foe are of little import.’
‘Aye, I hear you. The necromancer – spitted like a boar.’
‘Make sure of it.’
Combing his beard with his fingers, Louen took his leave from Brocard and knelt by his horse, saying a quiet prayer to the Lady. He allowed himself a brief moment’s peace before straightening his tunic and striding towards the embroidered tents that dotted the clearing.
‘Knights of Couronne,’ he called out, pushing his way through dripping branches. ‘I bid you good day!’
He was greeted by a rough chorus of grunts and half-hearted greetings from the knights strapping on the last of their armour. A scattered handful stood to attention, their sword hilts raised in salute.
‘Today we draw blades together,’ called out Louen, drawing his sword from its scabbard. ‘Today we fight for the land once more.’
He paced around the edge of the clearing, looking each of the knights in the eye one by one. A few of them nodded their respect as he passed.
‘Today we reclaim our realm from the kingdom of death,’ said Louen, eyes glowering. ‘Breathe it, I bid you – it’s there. Smell it. That’s the taint of death, my friends. The stink of dark magic.’
He paused for a moment, his back to the rest of them as he scowled out across the countryside. Sure enough, there was movement in the fields below.
‘It seeps across the lands, polluting our rivers, choking our villages, spreading like a plague. And there is nothing to stop it.’
He paused, spinning on his heel to face them.
‘Nothing but the sons of Couronne!’ he roared.
A ragged cheer went up from the assembled knights as they gathered in front of Louen in loose groups.
‘Today we show the Lady we are worthy of her favour!’ shouted Louen. ‘Today we hunt, and today we kill!’
His men cheered, raising their swords to the sky in salute.
Louen raised his sword in both hands, his eyes wild.
‘Death to the villain, Myldeon!’
‘Death!’ called out Brocard. ‘Death!’
The knights joined the morbid chant, shouting and clashing their swords upon their shields until rain shook from the trees.
‘Lady, we beseech thee!’ shouted Louen over the warcry of his men. ‘Fair goddess of Bretonnia, guide our blades and strengthen our shields! Give us your blessing that we might scour the land of the traitor and the dead! Watch over us as we ride!’
Stepping onto his stirrup, Louen heaved himself into the saddle of his horse, tendrils of morning mist swirling in his wake.
‘To war!’
The knights roared in response, mounting up with practised ease and riding downhill after Louen with heraldic pennants streaming. They formed up into a lance three abreast before cresting a sloped ridge.
The misty hillsides below stretched away for miles. A sea of brown-grey bodies stumbled through the fields towards them, their numbers enough to make a lesser man faint. A lake glimmered silver in the valley at their back, potentially trapping them if all went well. Yet there were thousands of corpse-things spreading out across the landscape. Less than half a mile distant was an ancient barrow, the pallid form of the necromancer atop its lintel. Arrayed around him was a bodyguard of undead knights, their heraldry and posture somehow prideful even in death. Louen’s frown deepened. Even Myldeon’s elite had them outnumbered three to one.
The low moans of the dead carried over the pounding of hooves as the knights pushed their mounts to the gallop. Mounted squires fanned out on either side to prevent their masters being flanked, but Louen knew in his heart that there was no way they could succeed against such untold numbers. He whispered a quick prayer to the Lady nevertheless, and spurred his mount to full speed.
A single brass horn sounded in the morning air just as the wedge of Bretonnian knights hit the undead throng like a hunting spear thrust into an unprotected gut. It plunged deep into their ranks, splashing black blood and rotten flesh with the violence of the impact. The sheer momentum of the charge was a weapon in its own right. As the cavalry galloped onwards the dead were flung aside or trampled by the dozen. The knights plunged their lances through chests, throats, arms, heads, their wielders revelling in the power of their charge and the fact that their lances were still holding true against such meagre opposition. One after another the flesh-things came apart. Hundreds of the living corpses were put down before the Bretonnians had slowed at all.
But slow they did.
Such was the success of the initial charge that the squires flanking their knightly lords had long been left behind. Louen could see no end to the number of mottled bodies pressing in against them. One by one, the lances of Couronne’s finest were dragged from their hands by the corpses impaled upon them.
Swords drawn, the knights hacked and kicked at the dead men clutching at them, fighting hard to reach the necromancer on the barrow ahead. Cold hands grasped at caparisons, uneven teeth sank into the legs of man and horse alike. The low moaning of the horde was cut through with shouts of rage and the panicked whinny of bloodied horses.
To the left, Louen saw Red Rebelond pulled from the saddle, then Guido the Gut alongside him, his warhammer falling from lifeless hands. Sir Heverte’s warhorse, Steelshoe, went down under the weight of a dozen of the throng, trapping his master beneath him. Heverte’s unicorn helm was torn off, and Louen saw dead fingers sink into the proud knight’s face. His expression grim, Louen cast around, stabbing and slashing at the gormless creatures below as he searched frantically for the robed figure that would be controlling the horde. The barrow top was empty.
‘Louen!’ shouted Brocard. ‘Over here!’
Far ahead, his friend’s silvered armour glinted in the morning sun. Mace flashing, Brocard was determinedly smashing his way towards a gaunt and hunchbacked figure. The pale warlock was surrounded by his skeletal men-at-arms, long-dead knights formed up in a grotesque mockery of an honour guard. Their ancient blades rained blows upon Brocard’s shield and stabbed at his rune-inscribed breastplate, but they had little effect. Brocard was laughing manically, smashing skulls and ribcages with each sweep of his eagle-headed mace. Yet for all his bravado he was quickly becoming surrounded by the necromancer’s undead elite. The Lady must be proud, thought Louen, but he’s alone, and in over his head.
Louen spurred his horse on, the steed stamping and trampling its way through the living dead towards the other knight. Louen cut away arms and hands wherever one of the stinking creatures gained purchase on his horse’s armour. Ignoring Brocard’s plight for a moment, he hacked and gouged his way through the throng where it was thinnest. Suddenly there were no more of the creatures in front of Louen. His warhorse burst out of the churned mud by the side of the lake. He veered right and rode hard along the bank, plunging back into the battle as close to the barrow as possible. His blade met bone again and again, his warhorse’s flailing hooves adding to the tally as they caved in skulls and splintered ribcages. Before long Louen had carved a path so deep that the skeletal knights had pressed in all around.
