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-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 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.

'He and his brother, along w ith his entourage, have been my guests for a w eek now, drinking my oldest wines and dining on my finest foods. Another week of this and I w ill be a pauper,' said Lothgar. 'I hope this proves w orthwhile.'

'If Madeleine ensnares him then it will be, my lord.'

Baron Lothgar grunted in response, casting his gaze skyw ards.

'The w eather is turning,' he said, 'and there is little chance of any sport here. The boar can w ait another day. Let us return home.'

The knight nodded his head as he drew his steed to a halt. He signalled to one of the peasants trotting nearby, w ho lifted a horn to his lips and blew three sharp blasts.

'Let's hope that Lady Madeleine has been more successful in her hunt,' said Lothgar.

'IT WOULD APPEAR that the hunt is over, my lord castellan,' said Lady Madeleine.

A drunken cheer rose from the knights of Bastonne at the proclamation.

'About time,' said Lord Calard. 'We are in need of more drink, anyway.'

Lady Madeleine raised a delicately plucked eyebrow.

'You have not already consumed enough of my father's w ine for one morning? I'd suggest that you w ere already drunk if it w ere not impertinent.'

'That w ould be impertinent indeed,' said Calard in a low voice, leaning tow ards Madeleine. 'But I am disappointed. I had hoped, amidst the confusion of the hunt, to have stolen some time w ith you alone, unchaperoned.'

'Now it is you w ho is being impertinent,' said Madeleine.

Calard stood in the saddle, and saw that Baron Lothgar w as guiding his steed tow ards him. He dropped back into the saddle and gave Madeleine a w ink.

'Care for a quick ride?' he said w ith a w icked gleam in his slightly glazed eyes. 'It is too fine a morning to return to your father's castle just yet.'

'Too fine a morning?' replied Madeleine, laughing. 'It's raining, you fool.'

'Nothing w rong with a bit of rain,' said Calard. He turned his steed in a tight circle, and it stamped its hooves, eager to run. 'Well?'

'My father w ill not be best pleased,' she said.

'And you? Would you be best pleased?' Calard smiled as he saw the young lady shake her head slightly, exasperated w ith him.

She sighed. 'Fine,' she said.

Calard kicked his horse into a gallop, and the two of them raced off through the trees, just as the baron w as draw ing near. Calard laughed out loud at the outraged look upon his host's face.

Calard had been aw ay from Garamont for almost tw o w eeks now. The pressures and demands of his newfound position niggled in the back of his mind, as much as he tried to ignore them.

He had a realm of his ow n to govern now, and was responsible for all who dwelt w ithin it, peasant and noble. Levelling taxes and levies, resolving grievances, overseeing the proper usage of his realm's monies, negotiating alliances and border disputes w ith his neighbouring lords, ensuring his dues were paid to duke and king, maintaining order across his lands; all were his duty now to oversee. The amount of paperw ork w as unfathomable, the petty politicking and back-stabbing of his court exhausting. He had a newfound respect for his father, for he had never heard the old man complain, nor had he ever appeared to falter under the pressure. Indeed, Calard had never realised there was any particular pressure in the position.

'There is much w ork to be done here, my lord,' Folcard had said w hen Calard had informed him he would be attending the tournament in Lyonesse. 'I shall pen a polite refusal.'

'No,' Calard had said. 'I think a few weeks away will do me good. In my absence, I empow er you to act on my behalf, Folcard. You are more suited to all this anyw ay.'

Calard w as w ell aw are that he was running away from his responsibilities, but he had pushed those thoughts to the back of his mind.

He and his companions had been on their way to the tourney w hen they had stopped in at Lothgar's estate a w eek earlier. The baron had w elcomed them in, opening up his cellar and organising an impromptu feast, mistakenly believing that Calard w as here to w oo his daughter. In the w eek since, Calard had been happy to maintain the misunderstanding. They had time to kill before the tournament in Lyonesse began and besides, he w as enjoying himself.

They rode for several minutes, weaving betw een the silver-skinned trunks of birch, and Calard w as impressed w ith the skill of the lady's riding. Even at a full gallop, she remained elegant in her side-saddled position, courtesy in a large part to the double-pommelled saddle on w hich she sat. Such a saddle allowed ladies to ride at a gallop, and even to safely jump fences and fallen logs. Beneath her flowing dress, Madeleine's legs would be curled around the twin pommels, holding her tight against the horse's body.

At last they came upon a clearing, and the tw o of them reined in their steeds. Calard w as laughing, and he swung his leg over his mount and dropped to the ground, using his boar-spear for balance. He staggered, and realised he was more drunk than he had thought. Madeleine laughed, and ramming the spear into the ground he stepped in close, his hands circling her slim waist.

He breathed in her scent as he lifted her from the saddle and placed her lightly on the ground. She did not resist as he pulled her close.

'So, w hen are you planning on asking my father, then?' she breathed.

'Asking your father w hat?' said Calard, distracted as he looked down into the impressive crevasse of her bosom.

'Why, for my hand in marriage, you fool.'

Calard blinked. 'What?' he said.

'You w ere going to ask my father for my hand?' she said, pulling away from him and fixing him with a steely look.

'Well?' she said, eyes hardening.

'Well...' said Calard.

Madeleine pushed away from him, a look of outrage on her face. 'You bastard,' she said.

From somew here, Calard heard dogs barking, but in his drink-addled state, and with a furious young lady glaring at him, he barely registered the sound, nor w hat it portended. The ears of both horses suddenly flattened, and they began paw ing at the ground, nostrils flaring.

'You are a drunkard fool, Calard of Garamont,' snapped Lady Madeleine. 'A boy, playing at being a man. I shall be telling my father forthwith that your intentions here have been anything but noble.'

The sound of dogs barking came ever closer, and Calard's eyes were drawn past Madeleine's shoulder. The horses whinnied in fear. Madeleine's voice seemed to fade aw ay as he saw the undergrowth shudder, leaves and branches shaking.

'Are you even listening to me?' she said, but her voice had become just a distant drone.

A massive, furred shape burst from the trees, snorting and stamping. It was almost five feet tall at the shoulder, and its bulk w as immense. Its fur rose in a sharp, matted ridge dow n its spine, and four tusks emerged from its slavering mouth, each easily tw o feet in length. Its beady, red-rimmed eyes were filled with rage. A second later and it w as charging.

Calard hurled Lady Madeleine aside. She fell with a squeal of outrage to the muddy ground, and Calard reached for the spear embedded in the earth.

The immense boar, easily the largest such beast that Calard had ever clapped eyes on, came at him in a w ild rush, hurtling across the clearing at great speed. Thick, ropey threads of spittle dripped from its maw as it bore dow n on him, and Calard spun the spear up in front of him. The beast must have been ten times his weight.

Jamming the butt of the spear dow n into the ground, Calard stamped one foot dow n hard onto it, setting it as best he could. The bladed tip he lifted, and he tensed his body as the immense beast hurled itself at him, intending to rip him from groin to neck w ith its tusks.

The spear took the boar in its chest, and the force of its impact drove it deep into its flesh. It felt to Calard like he had been struck by a falling mountain, and he was hurled backw ards, falling to his back as the boar's momentum carried it over him.

The stink of the beast w as terrible, and hot blood gushed across his face. It came dow n on top of him, its weight all but crushing the life from his body. The creature w as not dead, and it struggled to right itself, slipping in the mud and its ow n blood. It snorted, sw inging its head around to gore him, but trapped underneath the beast as he w as, he was mercifully out of its reach, and it merely gouged out several great rents in the earth.

He heard the pounding of horses' hooves nearby, and heard dogs barking and grow ling furiously. He gasped as the great boar staggered to its feet, one hoofed leg almost crushing his hip, and he tried to roll to the side. The boar sw ung its head violently, and he heard a pitiful yelp as a dog w as sent flying.

Calard rolled from beneath the mighty beast as a spear rammed dow n into its shoulder, and a pair of armoured boarhounds leapt on it, jaw s snapping. Calard's spear w as still embedded deep in its chest, and blood w as pumping from the wound.

Another spear w as driven into the boar, striking deep behind its left shoulder blade.

The tip of the spear found its heart, and it slumped to the ground, still fighting. The huge, armoured dogs continued to w orry at the beast as it died, until they were hauled off the immense carcass.

Calard w as helped unsteadily to his feet. He put a hand to his head and saw blood on his fingers.

'Are you all right, my lord?' said a voice, but he couldn't focus on w hom it w as that had spoken.

'Fine,' he managed. Then he fell backwards, and hit the ground hard.

Suddenly, everything changed.

Calard didn't hear the harsh w ords spoken betw een father and daughter, or the concern in the voice of his cousins, Huebald, Baldemund and Tassilo. He didn't see his companions as they swung from their saddles to come to his aid. It w as as if as soon as he struck the ground he w as transported to a different place, a different time.

Dark clouds rushed across the skyline with unnatural speed, as if hours were passing in the blink of an eye. The light faded, until it was as dark as tw ilight, throw ing the surrounding forest into gloom. The temperature plummeted, and he began to shiver uncontrollably. His breath fogged the air in front of his face, and splinters of frost began to form across his armour.

A thick, cloying fog rose around him, and Calard looked around for any sign of his companions. He could see nothing. He was alone, utterly alone.

The undergrowth beneath him began to w rithe like a living creature, and he cried out, but the rising fog deadened all sound. Ivy and grass coiled around his hands and boots, craw ling over his leggings and curling around his arms. He fought to rise from the ground, but the plant-life tightened around him, pinning him in place.

A ghostly figure began to materialise w ithin the fog, and Calard ceased his struggles, his eyes w idening. He heard the snort of a destrier, and as the apparition solidified, he saw that it rode the largest w arhorse he had ever seen.

An overpow ering, earthy smell filled his nostrils. It w as not an unpleasant scent, but w as strong and heady, a mix of sap, moist earth, rotting vegetation, oak and fir.

The rider was armoured from head to toe in archaic plate. Coiling ivy bedecked this armour, and a thick plume of leaves erupted from the crow n of his helmet. The greenery covering the apparition's armour w as in constant movement, constant grow th. Fresh leaves unfurled, new life bursting forth. Within heartbeats, these young leaves matured and grew w ide, before starting to w ither and yellow. Then they fell from its armour, and the mesmerising cycle began anew.

From w ithin the darkness behind the eye-slits of its helmet burnt a pair of furious, glow ing orbs, exuding a ghostly green light, and Calard felt his body shudder involuntarily w ith terror as they fixed on him.

Calard fought against the plants restraining him, thrashing and pulling against their restrictive grasp, desperate to get aw ay. The grass, ivy and roots merely tightened their grip, and whipping strands of ground creepers wrapped themselves around his neck, constricting his breath.

The immense destrier stamped its hooves and snorted, exhaling great billowing clouds of steam. The apparition slowly drew its sword.

That sw ord, ancient and terrible, was covered with intricate spiralling engravings, and an icy fog fell from the blade. The knight levelled the point of the sword towards Calard, and he felt a freezing chill emanating from the blade.

Calard's breath w as coming in short, sharp gasps as he stared up at the knight looming above him, expecting to be cut dow n at any moment. The supernatural figure exuded a raw , elemental power, a kingly majesty that w as at once terrible and aw esome. Its glow ing green eyes glared dow n at him balefully and he felt its terrible rage w ash over him like the untamed fury of a storm.

The knight muscled its immense steed closer, black hooves slamming into the ground scant inches from Calard. The mighty beast tossed its head, and he felt its hot breath on his face.

Face me, cow ard.

Calard reeled backw ards as the stabbing pain of the unnatural voice pierced his mind.

Face me! it pulsed again, and he cried out.

'I can't!' he cried. How could he fight against this supremely powerful, mystical w arrior, him with his hands bound by w hipping cords of ivy, roots and grass?

How can you hope to best me, if you cannot even best yourself?

'Help me!' cried Calard, though to w hom he cried to, he couldn't say.

Cow ard!

The pow er and malice in the w ords stabbed at him, and Calard cried out, closing his eyes tightly. He heard the mournful sound of the apparition's blade humming through the air, and he clenched his eyes tighter, waiting for the blow to fall.

'Just do it!' he bellow ed.

'Do w hat, my lord?' said a concerned voice.

Calard opened his eyes, and found himself staring into his cousin Tassilo's concerned face.

'Tell me w hat you w ould have me do, my lord, and I w ill gladly do as you w ish,' said the knight.

Calard turned his w ild gaze from Tassilo, kneeling over him, and saw his other companions, Huebald and Baldemund, standing nearby, looking worried. A light rain w as falling but it w as bright, despite the thick canopy created by the tall beech trees.

The unearthly chill was gone, and of the apparition, there was no sign.

'Are you all right, my lord?' said Baldemund.

Calard nodded, though he immediately regretted it as shooting pain lanced through his head.

'I'm fine,' he said. 'Stupid of me, to have fallen. I'm fine, really.'

All sense of drunkenness had left him, though his head w as pounding and there was a horrible taste in his mouth.

His hands w ere still shaking as Tassilo helped him to his feet.

'You gave us a terrible shock,' said the young knight with some relief. 'I thought you'd lost your senses there for a moment. One of the boar's hooves must have struck you in the head. It bled a lot, but the w ound isn't deep.'

Calard mumbled something about the drink, and wiped a hand across his face. He w aved aw ay Tassilo, and pulled himself back into the saddle.

'Baron Lothgar? Lady Madeleine?' he said.

'Gone,' said Huebald. 'I don't think they are best pleased w ith you.'

'No?' said Calard, still somewhat w oozy.

'I think the lady's words were something along the lines of ''I'd sooner marry the boar than that Bastonnian pig' ,' said Tassilo, smirking.

'You w ere thinking of marrying her?' said Baldemund.

'Of course not,' said Calard, looking around. 'Where's the boar?'

'The baron's peasants took it,' said Huebald.

'Was it as big as I remember?'

'Bigger,' said Tassilo, smiling.

'Come,' said Huebald. 'I'd say it w as past time that w e w ere making our w ay back. I think it w ise for us to collect our gear and be on our w ay before the baron decides to gift it to the poor.'

Calard's mind w as drifting back to the glow ing eyes of the apparition. The Green Knight... It had been the same for months now, the vision. It haunted his dreams, and only strong drink seemed to keep it at bay.

Calard dragged his thoughts back to the present.

'Yes, I fear w e have outstayed our w elcome,' he said. 'Just let us hope that my brother has done nothing in our absence to bring further dishonour upon our host.'

He had a sinking feeling that was not going to be the case.

'GET UP!'

Bertelis tried to ignore the voice, and rolled over in the sumptuous bed, throw ing an arm across his eyes.

Clothes - his clothes he realised - w ere thrown at him, and he groaned.

'Come back to bed,' he said, reaching out w ith a hand, his eyes still closed.

'Get up, you fool!' the girl said again, her voice filled w ith panic. Bertelis lowered his arm and propped himself up on the mattress, his gaze lingering on the girl frantically dressing herself at the foot of the bed.

Lady Celeste, Baron Lothgar's younger daughter, w as a beauty and no mistake, petite and perfectly formed in all the right places. He watched the delicate curve of her back as she struggled to pull on her dress. Her fair hair was pinned up, but errant strands hung loose dow n her pale shoulders. He smiled, enjoying the view as she bent over to retrieve one of her slippers. Articles of clothing were strewn across the room, having been cast aside in the heat of passion the night before.

Celeste saw his grin and her eyes flashed with a mixture of panic and amusement.

'Get up, you fool!' she said again. 'My father is on his way here, now!'

The grin dropped from Bertelis's face and he hauled the sweat-soaked sheets aside, the threat of discovery galvanising him into action. Naked, he leapt to his feet.

'What is he doing back so early? I thought the hunt w as meant to take all day?' said Bertelis.

'It w as,' said Lady Celeste. She threw open the wooden shutters of her window and leant out.

'Oh, Lady above, he is already on his way up,' she wailed. 'I'll be disowned!'

Celeste raced around her room, throw ing discarded undergarments into a basket in the corner of the room. She heaved a padded blanket off the floor and with a sharp w hip, made it settle over her bed.

Bertelis w as standing there uselessly, still naked, holding his bundle of clothes in front of him. Struggling to drag her w ayward blonde hair into order, Celeste ran to the door and peered out. Bertelis made to follow her, but she pulled back abruptly, hearing footsteps and her father's voice. She slammed the door, panicking.

'He's here!' she said, eyes darting around the room. 'Lady, preserve me!'

Her gaze settled on the w indow. Following her gaze, Bertelis began shaking his head.

'No. No!' he said, even as Celeste began pushing him. He ducked and picked up his bundle of clothes as he w as shoved tow ards the arched window.

'What are you doing?' he said, half laughing. 'It's got to be a fifty foot drop!'

'More,' said Celeste, still pushing him tow ards the window. She gave him another solid shove.

'There's a ledge,' she said. 'Now go!'

A cold w ind w hipped at Bertelis's back, and he glanced over his shoulder, seeing the cobbled courtyard far below .

There was a knock on her door.

'He's here!' Celeste w ailed.

Bertelis turned around on the spot, so that he had his back to the room. The ledge w as not even a foot w ide.

Lady Celeste slammed the shutters of her w indow closed, almost knocking Bertelis dow n into the courtyard, stranding him on the sill. For a moment he teetered on the edge before regaining his balance. The cold air made goose-bumps rise all over his body.

Fearing w hat would happen if Lord Lothgar were to open the windows wide only to come face to face w ith his naked buttocks, he shimmied to the side, pressing himself up against the cold stone w all, his clothes bundled in front of him.

Looking dow n he saw his brother Calard riding into the courtyard below , accompanied by his retainers and vassals, returning from the hunt. He saw Tassilo's upturned face, saw the young man's mouth gape open.

Calard's gaze settled on Bertelis, seventy-five feet above the courtyard. Bertelis grinned, and raised a hand in greeting.

'WELL, THAT WENT well,' said Calard.

The five knights of Garamont, accompanied by some thirty-odd men-at-arms w earing the red and blue of Calard's heraldry, w ere around four miles from Baron Lothgar's castle. The rain was getting heavier, and the sun was dipping low.

'Who w ould have thought Baron Lothgar w ould have known such... colourful...

language,' said Bertelis.

'Not I,' said Calard.

'I think my ears are still ringing.'

'Still, I w ould imagine any father would have a few choice words to say if they found a naked man on his daughter's w indowsill,' said Calard.

'And if his other daughter had just been turned dow n by said man's older brother,'

piped in Tassilo.

'True,' said Bertelis. 'I didn't quite realise she was that young.'

'Or that w e had drunk quite so much of his cellar,' said Calard. 'Live and learn, eh?'

'Indeed,' said Calard.

Laughing, the brothers led their entourage aw ay from their host's lands, heading north-w est.

For a moment it w as like old times betw een the two, the tension and distance that had grow n up betw een the two brothers temporarily forgotten.

Such a respite w as not to last.

* * *

ELISABET AWOKE TO pain. She ached all over, and it felt as though there was a w eight pressed against her chest, making breathing difficult. She was lying on her side, w ith her legs draw n up to her chest. Her joints groaned as she struggled to push herself up. There was no strength in her arms, and every movement brought w ith it fresh agonies.

She w as still within the cave, she saw, though her vision w as hazy and vague.

Candles still burnt around her, giving off their sickly stink, but Elisabet w as alone -

of Haegtesse there w as no sign.

The hateful doll-totem of herself lay on the pallet, grinning up at her mockingly.

Feeling the witch's control over her gone, she tried to push herself to her feet, to run from this horrific place, but her vision swam and her legs had no strength, and she collapsed in a spraw led heap. Wheezing, her heart hammering weakly against her ribcage, she sobbed.

What had been done to her?

It w as then that she looked at her ow n hands. They were wasted, the skin loose and covered in liver spots. Her fingers ended in yellow, cracked nails. She saw that the hair hanging before her eyes was grey, and she could feel the lice against her flaking scalp. Looking down at herself, she saw that her youthful, supple body w as gone, replaced w ith the cancerous, ancient and skeletal form of Haegtesse.

A groan of horror claw ed its way up from her age ravaged, half-collapsed lungs, passing her toothless, bloody gums and emerging as a croaking w ail.

Outside, Haegtesse heard the desolate cry, and smiled. She ran her hands over her stolen body, feeling the pleasing contradiction of softness and firmness, the tautness and fleeting elasticity of youthful skin. She breathed in deeply, rejoicing in her clear vision and the strength she felt in her limbs.

With a smile, she walked away from the cave, leaving her wasted, dying husk behind her. It had served its purpose these past ninety years. Now she had need of this body, young, untainted and fertile.

The brambles and thorns parted before her, and she began w alking to the north.

CHAPTER TWO

BERTELIS'S ARMS FELT like leaden weights and his breath was coming in short, sharp gasps, but he pushed through his exhaustion and launched another attack.

Feinting with a strike to the head, he rolled his wrist and w hipped his sword around in a low , disembow elling slash. His opponent took the attack on his shield and launched a strike of his own, his blade hissing through the air. Bertelis deflected the blade, letting it glance off his black and red shield, throwing the other knight slightly off balance. Not giving the man a chance to recover, Bertelis launched into a series of sw ift attacks, his blade cutting left and right, forcing his opponent backw ards, defending frantically.

Stepping in close, Bertelis slammed his shield into his opponent. The knight grimaced and staggered back. His rear foot, supporting the majority of his w eight, slipped in mud, and he dropped to one knee. In an instant, Bertelis's sword tip was at his throat.

'I concede,' said the defeated knight, Huebald, blinking rain out of his eyes.

None of the cousins felt any shame at being bested by their younger kinsman.

Bertelis had alw ays been talented with the blade but had never been one to dedicate himself to training. That had all changed since the death of Gunthar.

Gunthar, the old w eapon master of Garamont, had taught both Bertelis and Calard in the arts of sw ordplay and the joust since the day they could walk. He had been one of the finest swordsmen in all of Bastonne in his day, and he had been w ounded in a duel six months earlier, a duel that he had fought in lieu of Calard. Though he had defeated his opponent, Gunthar had in turn been badly injured. His wound had festered, and the only chance would have been to have his leg amputated, though even then his chance of surviving was slim. Refusing to suffer such an ignominious fate - for w hat good w as a knight that could not even sit in the saddle? - Gunthar had given his life defending Bertelis, standing over him and protecting him w hile he was incapacitated. He had taken a dozen or more enemies w ith him before he finally fell, a hero, pierced by a score of blades.

The old w eapon master had given his life that Bertelis might live, and that was something that the younger Garamont brother had found hard to accept. In the months since, he had dedicated himself to his training to an almost obsessive extent.

Bertelis removed his blade from his cousin's throat, his chest heaving with exertion.

Still he allowed himself no rest, and turned to face his other two cousins.

'Come,' he said, nodding to Tassilo. Slender and quick, the youngest of his cousins w as a skilful swordsman and Bertelis enjoyed sparring with him.

'Enough, brother,' said a voice.

Bertelis turned to regard Calard, w ho was emerging, dishevelled, from his red and blue tent. His face w as heavy with stubble, and his dark hair was unruly, hanging around his shoulders. He was dressed in the same clothes he had been w earing the night before, and even from here, Bertelis could smell the reek of alcohol on him.

'Decided to grace us w ith your presence?' said Bertelis, sheathing his sword.

'Couldn't really sleep with the racket you lot w ere making, could I?' replied Calard.

'It's almost midday, brother,' said Bertelis. 'We were meant to strike the camp at daw n.'

'Water,' ordered Calard, sending servants scurrying. He was handed a goblet of w ater, and drank deeply.

'Midday?' said Calard, squinting up at the overcast sky.

'That's right,' said Bertelis.

Calard's bleary gaze w andered around the clearing. 'Training again?' he said.

'No, I've been milking cattle,' snapped Bertelis. 'Yes, I've been training, for all the good that it w ill do. At this rate w e are not going to arrive at the tournament in time to take part anyw ay.'

'The tournament's w hat, a w eek aw ay? That's plenty of time.'

'It is tw o days aw ay, brother,' said Bertelis. He turned away, muttering under his breath, a look of disgust on his face.

Calard's expression darkened.

'Don't turn you back on me, brother,' he snarled.

Bertelis turned back tow ards him.

'How can I serve you, my lord Garamont?' he said, giving a mocking bow .

Feeling the eyes and ears of his knights and peasants all around, Calard bit back his angry retort. He fixed his younger half-brother with an angry stare.

'Come here,' he said through gritted teeth, lifting the tent flap and gesturing inside. 'I w ould speak w ith you alone.'

Seeing the shared glances betw een his knights, Calard felt his rage build.

'Strike the camp,' he ordered. 'We leave w ithin the hour.'

CALARD POURED A goblet of w ine and offered it to his brother. Bertelis refused, as he knew he would. The wine w as worth a small fortune, being one of Bordeleaux's finer exports, and rather than have it go to w aste, he drained the goblet. As an afterthought, he poured himself a second.

'Don't ever talk to me like that again in front of our cousins,' said Calard. 'Our father w ould never have stood for such disrespect. He'd have had you flogged for such insolence.'

'Our father is dead,' said Bertelis. 'You didn't save him, remember?'

The colour drained from Calard's face. It had been less than six months since the death of Lord Lutheure, killed by a hateful creature of Chaos. Castle Garamont had been overrun and Calard, accompanied by the revered Grail Knight Reolus and a lance of loyal knights, had raced to save it from destruction. Even travelling the fey paths of the Lady of the Lake, led upon those mystical secret ways by his sister, the Damsel Anara, and travelling many hundreds of miles in the blink of an eye, he had been unable to save his father.

The true horror of the event had been two-fold. One, that Lutheure w as already dying, his body w ithered and wracked by poison delivered by Calard's beloved, the Lady Elisabet of Marlemont. And tw o, that Lutheure's killer, a horrifying creature that w as truly neither man nor beast, w as none other than the castellan's own mutated son, driven and obsessed to slay its ow n father. The same blood that flow ed in its veins flowed through Calard's, and the horror and disgust of that know ledge haunted his dreams. Tainted blood.

That w as w hat Calard knew his knights whispered behind his back, and yet he did not silence them. Indeed, he feared it w as the truth.

'You think he would have lived had you been there?' said Calard, his eyes haunted.

'We'll never know,' said Bertelis.

'Maybe you could have saved him,' admitted Calard. 'But you w ere not there; your injuries are only now fully healed.'

'As I said, w e'll never know.'

Calard stared into his brother's accusing eyes, seeing the anger simmering there, and he sighed. Taking his goblet of w ine, he sank onto a divan, his shoulders slumped.

'What is w rong w ith you these days?' he said, not looking at Bertelis. 'Where is all this anger coming from? Is it because of father's death? Is it because of me?'

Bertelis's hands were clenched into fists.

'What's w rong w ith me? Take a look at yourself. You've been drunk for months, neglecting your responsibilities... you don't even know what day it is.'

'I didn't ask for our father to die,' snapped Calard. 'I didn't ask to become the lord of Garamont.'

He looked up at his brother.

'Is that w hat this is about? You w ant to be the lord of Garamont, Bertelis? I'll abdicate. I don't w ant these responsibilities. You can have them.'

'That is not w hat I w ant and you know it,' said Bertelis.

'I'm sure your mother w ould be most displeased to hear you say that,' said Calard.

'Leave her out this,' grow led Bertelis.

'I thought you'd be the last person to lecture me,' said Calard, taking another swig of his w ine. 'You used to be different. All you do is train these days. You never used to be so... obsessed.'

'Would that I had paid more attention to Gunthar,' said Bertelis.

For a moment, there w as silence.

'You've changed, brother,' said Calard, at last.

'Yes, I have,' said Bertelis. 'Maybe it is about time that you did, too.'

Calard placed his goblet on a side table and hung his head in his hands. His half-brother and he had alw ays been the closest of friends. He had believed that he would alw ays be able to rely on Bertelis, no matter w hat. How had things gone so wrong?

Everything had changed with the death of their father. Calard's w hole world had been shattered. He w as blood-brother to a mutant monstrosity. His beloved had been exposed as a w ould-be murderer. Attempts had been made on his life, and he had accused - falsely, it seemed - his step-mother, the Lady Calisse, Bertelis's mother.

And he had been thrust into a position of great authority and responsibility that he w as now here near ready for.

Coming back to the present, his head still in his hands, Calard sighed.

'There is truth in your w ords, brother,' he said. 'And I am sorry for mentioning the Lady Calisse.'

In a w ay, Calard felt sorry for his brother, for he knew that the Lady Calisse spouted her poison in his ear at every occasion.

Bertelis folded his arms and shifted his feet. 'You are under a lot of pressure,' he said. 'I do not envy you.'

Calard smiled, though his eyes were hollow and empty.

'Is it really tw o days until the tournament?'

'It is,' said Bertelis. Calard swore.

'Tw o w eeks we've been away from Garamont then,' he said, shaking his head.

'Folcard is going to kill me.'

THOUGH WELL INTO her middling years, Bertelis's mother, the haughty and proud Lady Calisse, w as a strikingly handsome w oman still, and as she laughed, the years dropped aw ay from her.

In her prime, Calisse had been a renowned beauty, and before she had w ed Lutheure of Garamont, a score of knights from all over Bretonnia had paid her suit, competing for her hand. Elegant and imperious, she was reclining on a velvet chaise longue w ithin castle Garamont, her diaphanous silk dress flowing around her.

'It w as you w ho tried to have him killed,' she said in a soft voice, her eyes gleaming w ith deadly amusement. 'I knew it!'

The chamberlain of Garamont, Folcard, stood in the doorway, tall and gaunt, like a looming vulture w aiting for its prey to die. His face was long and severe, and his nose w as hooked. He had the look of one who had been sucking on lemons, and deep frow n lines were permanently etched on his face.

'Keep your voice dow n,' Folcard said.

'Oh, calm yourself,' said Calisse with a dismissive wave of a hand heavy with rings. 'I sent all the servants aw ay that w e might speak freely.'

For more than six decades Folcard had served the Garamont line, overseeing the day to day running of the castle and its estate with a rod of iron. He was the terror of the servants, an exacting and harsh master, but he w as nevertheless widely respected for he w as himself no slouch, even at his age, and put in more w ork than any of those w ho served under him.

Castle Garamont and its line was Folcard's life, utterly and completely, and his devotion could not be questioned. Which was why Calisse was so amused to have finally worked out that it w as he w ho had tried to have Calard murdered w hile engaged in Bordeleaux the previous autumn.

Folcard glared at her, making no attempt to hide his disdain for her, though she was long past caring w hat the old chamberlain thought of her.

'It w as Tanebourc, w asn't it?' said Calisse. 'He w as the one that you coerced into doing your dirty w ork?'

'Your lover?' snapped Folcard. Calisse stared at him blankly.

'Yes, I knew that you w ere being unfaithful,' said Folcard. 'Your adulteries started soon after Bertelis w as born, if I am not mistaken?'

'Was that how you got to him? You blackmailed him into doing what you w anted, threatening to tell Lutheure that he was bedding me if he didn't do as you w ished?'

'Something like that,' said Folcard.

'If you knew of my... infidelity these last tw enty years, why did you never speak of them to my husband?'

'I am a loyal servant of Garamont,' said Folcard coldly. 'I w ould never have done anything to bring dishonour upon my lord.'

Calisse laughed, the sound cold and unfriendly, but filled with genuine humour.

'But you w ould happily have your lord's son murdered?' she said. 'It is a curious sort of honour you follow , my dear chamberlain.'

'The Lady Yvette of Bordeleaux was tainted,' spat Folcard. 'Touched in the head.

Corrupted. She ensorcelled Lutheure, ensnaring him and clouding his judgement.'

Lady Calisse's expression hardened. Always she had felt as though she w ere in the shadow of her husband's first wife. Always it felt to her as if her husband had judged her, w eighing her against his first partner. He would never allow so much as a bad w ord spoken of her in his presence, and Calisse had been forced to endure having a painting of the woman stare at her across the great hall for her entire marriage.

'She frequently suffered fits,' continued Folcard. 'She w ould fall to the ground, her limbs shaking and foam frothing from her mouth. It w as clear to everyone but Lutheure that she w as... unclean. When she gave birth to Calard, everything seemed to be in order. There was no obvious corruption in him, and I prayed to the Lady that his blood w as pure. All seemed well, and indeed even Yvette's fits became infrequent.

When she became pregnant again, Lutheure was ecstatic. She gave birth to a daughter; Anara. Truly, in all the days that w ere to come later, I never saw him happier than at that moment.'

Calisse bristled, but Folcard continued on, lost in the past.

'But it did not last long. The midwives refused to hold the baby girl. She w as no more than w eeks old, but they said that they could hear the babe's voice in their minds.

There was something terribly w rong with Anara, and in the years that followed, it became clear that she shared her mother's curse. She was of the fey; touched in the head, abnormal. She w ould hug a kitten to her chest, and cry out in horror as its heart stopped beating. She w ould stroke one of Lutheure's hounds, only for its eyes to start bleeding; as much as she cried, it would be dead w ithin the day. She w ould see things that had not yet come to pass. She could hear people's thoughts. Everyone hated her, and w orse, she could read the hatred in their hearts. There was much relief in the court w hen the Enchantress took her away.'

Lady Calisse shifted uncomfortably. Though Anara w as now a young w oman, a holy damsel of the Lady no less, their brief meeting had left Calisse terrified.

'But still w orse was to come, and it w as this that proved Yvette's blood w as truly cursed. Once again, she was heavy with child, though this time the pregnancy was difficult. She travelled to Bordeleaux, to be near her mother for the birth, which was long and bloody. She birthed an abomination. I w ill not dwell on it, for you saw the foul creature w ith your ow n eyes. I curse the day that it w as allowed to live. Yvette hurled herself to her death in horror and shame.'

'Would that she had courage to have done so a decade earlier,' said Calisse. 'She might have spared all of us the horror of her foul get. But w hat relevance does this lesson in the sordid Garamont family history have?'

'Calard might appear w holesome and untainted, but the same blood that runs in the veins of his freak sister, the same foetid blood that ran through the veins of the abomination, runs in his own. By his bloodline, that of cursed Yvette, he is tainted. I love Garamont more than life itself, and I will not stand by and see its line devolve.

Who is to say that w ere Calard to sire an heir, that son w ould not be a debased bestial fiend? No, I cannot allow such a chance. Thus, for the good of the line of Garamont, Calard must die.'

Calisse w ore a look of repugnance on her face. She could not fault Folcard's logic, nor even his twisted loyalty. Her ow n desires were far more straightforward; she merely w anted to see her ow n son succeed her husband, not her stepson.

'It w ould seem that w e are in accord,' said Calisse. 'We both w ant to see Bertelis become castellan.'

'That w ould seem to be the case,' said Folcard, somew hat reluctantly.

'Then, what do you propose w e do about it?'

'Things are already in hand, Lady Calisse,' said Folcard.

'Ah,' said Calisse. 'I should have expected as much. You are so very efficient, aren't you, Folcard?'

'I do my best, lady,' his haw k-like eyes glinting. 'Now if that is all, I will return to my duties.'

'Fine,' said Calisse, dismissing him with a languid gesture.

With barely a sound, the stick-thin chamberlain backed off into the darkness and w as gone.

She plucked herself a heavy, blood-red grape from the bow l at her side, and popped it into her mouth.

'Very fine indeed,' said Calisse to herself.

CHAPTER THREE

THE PEASANTS WERE clustered behind the dry stone wall, cowering against the w ind and rain, pressed together for warmth. There was almost a score of them, and w hile they had tried to make a fire their kindling was soaked through and would not take. They had at last given up, and w ere now shivering beneath their rotting shared blankets, each lost in his or her own bleak thoughts.

There were only a handful of them; the last pilgrims of a living saint, the hallowed grail knight Reolus of Quenelles.

Once they had followed their glorious idol wherever he went, traipsing across the countryside and proclaiming his brilliance to w hoever would listen. They had gloried in the magnificence of just being near him, and they had eagerly performed any mundane tasks that they thought might ingratiate themselves into his favour: collecting wood for his fire, delivering him fresh game, lovingly polishing his boots w ith their spit if he left them outside his tent.

They had w orshipped the ground Reolus walked on - literally - for it w as clear for all to see that the blessing of the Lady w as upon him. He had drunk from the sacred grail of the goddess, and the power of the Lady infused him. The grail knight was, in their minds, the holiest, most devout paladin in all of Bretonnia, and perhaps just by being close to him, they might themselves share in a sliver of his blessed glory.

They had not clapped eyes on the object of their devotion for almost tw o seasons.

They had accompanied him to Bordeleaux, there to fight the foul greenskins and beasts of the forest. Some forty-odd pilgrims had fallen in those battles, but they had done so gladly, hoping that in death they might be noticed by their idol. Nevertheless, once victory had been attained, the grail knight had entered a sacred copse of trees and never come out. In the blink of an eye, he had travelled across Bretonnia, leaving his pilgrims lost and in despair.

Immediately, they had set out to find him. Their journey had taken them hundreds of miles as they chased rumours of w here he had been. They were run out of villages and pelted w ith stones, and several of their comrades had hung from the gallows for crossing the land of a Bordelen lord. They had entered Bastonne, for that is where they had been told he had travelled, but there they learnt that he had headed north, into Gisoreux.

The pilgrims had been forced to scrounge food w here they could, and more of their number had hung w hen they were caught poaching on the estates of a Gisoren noble lady. In truth, it had been lucky that any of them had escaped. Then they had backtracked into Bastonne, having missed their lord by less than a day, but a w eek later they had lost his trail. A bear had killed two more of their number w hen they had tried to take shelter w ithin a cave, and another had starved to death only days earlier. They had stripped his body and left him in a ditch, donning his clothes in an attempt to stave off the cold. Winter was closing in, and their predicament was only going to w orsen. They were now in central Bastonne, and had no idea in which direction they should go to seek their lord and master.

Still, devout and full of faith that they would be reunited with the living saint, they continued to carry w ith them a varied melange of sacred objects: a broken shoe that Reolus had once w orn, a gourd from w hence he had drunk, a bone w ith meat still clinging to it, long rancid and filled with wriggling maggots, that he had chewed once and discarded, along with a host of other holy artefacts.

Several of the pilgrims wore scraps of royal blue cloth edged in silver, torn from Reolus's discarded tunics, tabards and cloaks. The most holy of these fabrics bore a good sized portion of Reolus's sacred heraldry - a silver unicorn upon a field of blue -

and this w as w orn proudly upon the chest of Chlod, the leader of the pilgrims, a hunchbacked peasant w ith a lopsided face.

An opportunistic liar, murderer and thief, Chlod had bullied and lied his way to become the leader of the pilgrims, not out of any sense of actual faith or devotion, but for purely selfish reasons. As the abbot of this ragtag group, he had the pick of any food and scraps that they managed to scrounge, and he enjoyed ordering the others around. He had only joined the pilgrims in the first place as a means of hiding from retribution after he had been one of a handful of peasants hired to kill a nobleman.

The murder of the young knight - Calard of Garamont - had failed, and while the other peasants had been caught, tortured and hung Chlod had managed to avoid the clutches of the yeomanry.

Chlod w as currently having the crown of his head shaved to the scalp by another of the pilgrims, a thick-bodied w oman covered in mud and faeces. Her tongue jutted from the corner of her mouth as she concentrated. A rat poked its head out from the neck of Chlod's shirt, tw itching its whiskers. Momentarily distracted, the woman's hand slipped, and she sliced his scalp with her rusted blade.

'Stupid w oman,' said Chlod, turning and thumping her in the face with a meaty fist.

She fell backw ards with a cry, shielding her face from further assault. Chlod touched a hand to his head. He w inced, and his fingers came aw ay bloody. There were still several clumps of hair clinging to his shaved crown, but he decided that he didn't w ant the w oman coming near him w ith her knife again today.

Several of the pilgrims were eyeing his rat, licking their lips, and he shoved the creature back under his clothing, glaring at them.

'You ain't eating him,' he growled. 'You can eat each other first.'

'Lord Reolus the holy w ill deliver sustenance into our hands,' said a toothless pilgrim, his eyes filled with passion and belief.

'Wish he'd do it soon,' muttered Chlod.

One of the peasants stood up, stretching his back. He squinted through the rain for a moment, looking back along the muddy road on the other side of the low, stone wall behind w hich his companions cowered. His eyes widened, and he dropped to the ground behind the w all.

'Someone's coming!' he said in loud w hisper.

The pilgrims shrunk further under their grimy blankets, as if trying to disappear beneath them.

'Who?' said Chlod.

'Don't know ,' came the reply.

'Is it a patrol?'

'Don't know !' said the pilgrim, in a belligerent voice. 'Shh!'

'Don't know ,' repeated the pilgrim, quieter this time.

'Well, find out, then,' said Chlod, in a bullish stage w hisper, a heavy, spiked club clenched in his hands.

The pilgrim turned around and w arily poked his head up over the top of the w all. He looked around for a moment, then ducked back dow n.

'It's a w oman,' he said. 'A lady.'

'A lady?' said Chlod, his brow s drawing together. Curious, he scrambled around, shuffling aw kwardly, and squinted over the wall.

She w as w alking along the road tow ards them, her head lowered as the rain lashed at her. She w ore a long purple dress that clung to her body, completely soaked through as it w as, and despite the fact that its hems were tattered and dragged in the mud, the material w as clearly rich. Chlod imagined the rings that the lady undoubtedly w ore on her fingers, the earrings that w ould pierce her lobes and quickly calculated w hat price he might be able to get for her hair. He licked his lips.

His eyes scanned the area around the lady, for what lady of renown w ould travel by herself, especially in such weather? As much as he tried, however, he could spy no guards accompanying her, no knights, no servants.

'Looks like Reolus delivered,' he said with a feral, lopsided grin.

The other peasants were peering over the wall now too. 'You think she might have some food to spare?' said the thick-limbed, female pilgrim.

'I think that the price we'd get for her dress alone would keep us fed for a year,' said Chlod, not taking his eye off his prize.

'But... she's a lady,' exclaimed another of the pilgrims, a stick-thin man of middling years w ith a gaunt face.

'We'd all hang if w e so much as looked at her funny,' said another.

'There ain't no one around to see w hat happens,' said Chlod. 'And besides - if we don't get nothing to eat soon, how will we be able to serve our lord Reolus? Won't be much good to him dead.'

'But... she's a lady!' said the gaunt faced pilgrim.

Chlod pulled his predatory gaze aw ay from the noblew oman, and glared at the speaker.

'How many ladies you know w hat w ander around in the rain and the mist, all on their lonesome? She's a w anton, and no mistake,' he said. 'That's probably w hy Reolus sent her to us - Bretonnia'd be better off w ithout her.'

'You really think Reolus would want us to rob her, Chlod?' said the gaunt faced man, his eyes w ide.

The hunchbacked pilgrim nodded his head solemnly.

'I think it's our duty, as his holy pilgrims, to do so,' he said.

Chlod couldn't care less w hat Reolus might wish for him to do. All he cared about w as his ow n skin. Murdering a noblewoman didn't bother him in the slightest, so long as he got aw ay w ith it. He'd done w orse.

He risked a glance over the w all again and saw the lady was no more than tw enty paces aw ay. Her path w ould take her close to the wall. Her dark, sodden hair was loose, and obscured her face. Gesturing for silence, he pointed for three of his companions to craw l back along the w all some way. He gritted his teeth in frustration at the racket they made, but glancing through a hole in the wall, he saw that the lady w as still coming, seemingly oblivious to the danger.

When she was no more than a few yards off, Chlod leapt to his feet.

'Now !' he shouted, and w ith some difficulty, he clambered over the w all. His club foot clipped its top, dislodging a few stones, and he fell flat on his face. Righting himself quickly, he hobbled out into the roadw ay brandishing his spiked club, leering at the young lady before him, w ho had stopped moving as soon as he appeared. Had his intentions not been murderous, his appearance might well have been comical.

Three others leapt out onto the road behind the lady, brandishing broken swords, cudgels and knives, and he felt the reassuring presence of another behind him.

The w oman was young, barely out of her teens. Had she been of low birth she would already have spaw ned half a dozen youngsters and her back w ould be bent from w orking in the fields, but this w as a noblewoman. She had no need to w ork, and her back w as straight, her skin as flawless as alabaster, and Chlod grinned as he saw the flash of silver on her fingers.

'Don't move, now , young miss, and you w on't come to no harm,' he lied, his fingers tense on the haft of his dub.

He edged tow ards her, moving slowly as if not to frighten her, and the other pilgrims closed in silently. She was like a rabbit cornered by hounds.

The young lady though, it seemed, had no intention of running. Indeed, she showed not the slightest hint of fear, which made Chlod uneasy. This was not how the rabbit w as meant to act. His eyes passed her, trying to spot her guards, but the road w as clear. From beneath her lank hair, he saw the lady's lips begin to move as she began to mouth something under her breath.

'Take her!' he barked, hefting his spiked club in both hands, intending to brain her w ith the brutal w eapon and be done w ith it.

'I think not,' said the girl. There was something strange about her voice, and it gave the pilgrims pause.

Chlod saw one of her eyes then, wide and malicious, staring out from behind rain-slick strands of black hair. He thought he saw shadows moving in the periphery of his vision, but he could not drag his gaze aw ay from the horrifying stare of the girl.

Unholy pow er beyond the ken of simple folk lurked there. In her terrifying black eyes, he saw an ancient soul long condemned to darkness.

Too late he realised his error. This was no defenceless noblewoman. This was something else entirely, something ancient and vile.

The girl's mouth continued to move, incanting softly.

Shadow s shifted with malevolent purpose around him. He felt a chill as one of the shades passed by him, and the pilgrim behind him toppled face first into the mud w ithout a sound, blood bursting from his eyes, ears and nose.

The shadows closed in, and Chlod knew that his end had come. He could hear them w hispering to him, their insane, indecipherable voices filled with hatred and an unquenchable hunger.

'Wait,' said the girl, her voice making his skin crawl. The shadows paused, hissing angrily.

Chlod just stared at the girl-w itch, his eyes wide in horror. She smiled from beneath her w ild nest of hair. It was not a pleasant smile.

'You'd like to serve me, w ouldn't you?' she said.

Chlod threw himself into the mud before her.

* * *

THE SILVER MOON of Mannslieb w as high overhead when Calard and his companions finally crested a rise and saw the tournament camp laid out before them.

The night was bitterly cold as winter drew in, but the sounds of laughter and music, and the smell of roasting venison and boar w armed their spirits.

They had crossed over the border of Artois the previous evening passing into the lands of Lyonesse, on the north-western coast of Bretonnia. They had ridden through the night, stopping only briefly for a few hours rest before pushing on. The previous night had been the same, and everyone w as saddle-weary and drained. Still, they w ere here now, and the tournament proper was not due to commence until first light the next morn.

Tournaments w ere encouraged by king and duke in times of relative peace as a means of keeping the knights of Bretonnia battle-ready and their skills sharp. While the southern lands of Carcassone and Brionne were currently at w ar, besieged by a plague of verminous skaven emerging from beneath the Vaults, and the north of Quenelles was being subjected to bloody attacks from a clan of ogres descending from the Massif Orcals, much of Bretonnia w as currently untouched by w ar on any scale large enough for the call to reach L'Anguille, Lyonesse or Artois, hence this tourney.

Many of the nobles present w ould have arrived a w eek ago or more - or at least sent their servants ahead of them, in order to claim the best site for their tents and though there w ould already have been countless individual bouts, jousts and many drunken nights of feasting, it w as for tomorrow 's event that the gathering had met. It w as the highlight of the w eek's entertainment, and judging from the number of tents pitched across the lowlands, it would be one of particularly impressive scale.

Calard and his entourage rode dow n tow ards the jubilant encampment, scanning the pennants flying atop the tents for those of friends and relatives. While the vast majority of knights present w ere from Lyonesse, Artois and L'Anguille - the place chosen for the tournament w as near the border of all three lands, after all - there was on display heraldry proclaiming that some of the participants were from more distant lands: Gisoreux, Couronne, Bordeleaux and Montfort. There was even one knight from w ar-torn Carcassonne, far to the south.

'There,' said Bertelis, spying what it w as they had all been looking for; heraldry declaring that other knights of Bastonne were present.

Calard and his entourage turned their steeds towards the Bastonnian contingent, and he ordered his servants on ahead to find a suitable location to pitch their tents.

The peasants w ere exhausted, for they had not even had the chance of rest that the knights had, busy as they w ere preparing food for their masters and taking care of their horses, but they knew better than to voice any resentment.

Without complaint, they kicked their heavy draught horses on ahead, laden with tents, foodstuffs, chests of clothes and anything else that their lords might need to make their lives more comfortable w hile aw ay from home.

'Montcadas,' said Bertelis brightly, standing in the saddle to get a better view of the flapping heraldry.

Calard saw the Bastonnian baron's heraldry too, and he smiled. They had fought alongside the baron in the campaign in Bordeleaux two seasons past, when Calard and Bertelis, as Knights Errant, had ridden to Bordeleaux to engage a massive greenskin army. In the ensuing war, the Bretonnians became embroiled w ith a further enemy - the beastmen. During those bloody times, Montcadas had left an impression on both of the brothers. As fierce as a bear and almost as hirsute, Baron Montcadas had taken the young brothers under his w ing, earning their respect and admiration.

The smile dropped from Calard's face as he saw a tent near the baron's; it w as white and flew a pennant with a blood-red dragon motif in its centre.

'Looks like the vermin have come out for the tournament as w ell,' said Bertelis.

'Maloric,' spat Calard.

For generations there had been a blood fued betw een the Garamont and Sangasse families. Three years Calard's senior, Maloric was the young earl and heir of Sangasse, and had been his rival and enemy since birth. Calard and Maloric had fought alongside each other in the Bordeleaux campaign, though their antagonism had resulted in Gunthar's mortal injury, and despite Maloric's assistance in the defence of Castle Garamont against the horrific half-human beasts of the forest, the hatred betw een the tw o remained strong. If anything, it had intensified since Calard had inherited the mantle of castellan; Maloric had seen first-hand the twisted creature that had been Calard's brother, and had spread the w ord around the courts of both enemy and friend of the Garamonts' shame.

'Maybe in the tournament tomorrow I w ill have a chance to put the w easel on his arse,' said Bertelis.

'I pray that one of us does,' agreed Calard.

'Come!' said Tassilo. 'It's a night for revelry! For dance, for drink, and pretty faces!'

'Never mind their faces,' said Baldemund, 'I'm more interested in what else they've got to offer.'

Long tables packed w ith feasting nobles were positioned at the centre of the encampment, surrounded by heaving pavilions. From w ithin these vast tents came sounds of merriment - and the clash of sw ords.

'We might not be too late to enter the duels,' said Bertelis. 'Care to enter, brother?'

'You go,' said Calard. 'I'm going to try and find Montcadas. I haven't seen him since...'

He didn't need to finish the sentence; Bertelis knew of what he spoke. Calard turned in the saddle and flicked a gold coin towards Tassilo, w ho caught it deftly.

'If the duels are not yet done, put this on my brother,' Calard ordered. His cousin nodded.

'Might enter myself,' said Tassilo with a smile.

Calard flicked him another coin.

'Put this on your opponent,' he said w ith a smile.

While Bertelis and Tassilo moved off tow ards the largest of the pavilions, accompanied by a quartet of peasants to act as their squires, Calard and his other companions dismounted, handing their reins to w aiting servants.

'Make sure they are brushed dow n, fed and w atered,' said Calard, not even deigning to look at the peasants to w hom he spoke. 'The night is cold - see that they are w ell blanketed.'

'Now to find Montcadas,' he said. Succulent aromas reached his nose; he could smell roasting meat, as w ell as frying onion and garlic sauces, and his stomach grumbled loudly.

'But first,' he said, 'let us eat.'

Hunger w as not a sensation familiar to many Bretonnian nobles, and the three knights w ere salivating as they picked their way through the crowd.

'GARAMONT!' BOOMED A deep voice, and Calard looked up from his meal of stuffed quail and venison to see the heavy-set figure of Baron Montcadas marching towards him. The baron w as shorter than Calard, but w hat he lacked in height he made up for in w idth. A patch bearing the fleur-de-lys covered his left eye, and vivid scars covered the left side of his face. A wide grin split his thick beard, and as Calard pushed himself upright, the baron sw ept him into a crushing embrace.

'Good to see you, my boy!' said Montcadas, releasing him and slapping him hard on the shoulder. By the rosy tint of the baron's nose he guessed that the baron had been enjoying the vintages on offer.

'It is good to see you too, baron,' said Calard. 'You know my cousins?'

The tw o knights bow ed to the baron, w ho nodded his head in response, before turning his attention back on Calard.

'A knight of the realm now , eh? And a castellan, no less.'

'I'd have fallen in my first battle had it not been for you,' said Calard.

'Ah, don't be daft, boy,' said Montcadas, though Calard could tell that his w ords had pleased the baron.

Montcadas's expression darkened, and he lowered his voice.

'I w as grieved to hear of the death of your father. A good man, Lutheure,' he said. 'I am sorry for your loss.'

Calard nodded his head and smiled his thanks.

Montcadas took a step back from him, casting a critical gaze over the young lord of Garamont.

'You are not looking your best, boy,' said Montcadas. 'What's Folcard been feeding you?'

'I am not sleeping well,' admitted Calard.

Montacadas regarded Calard thoughtfully.

'There is a lot of pressure that comes w ith becoming the head of a noble family,' said Montcadas in a low voice. 'There is no shame in feeling out of your depth at first.'

'Am I so transparent?' replied Calard.

'You've a good head on your shoulders. You'll do fine,' said Montcadas.

'Were that it w ere so simple,' said Calard.

'Of course it is not as simple as that, but don't make the mistake of trying to complicate things. You're new to your role. You'll make a few mistakes, but everyone does. Learn from them and don't dw ell on the past.'

'I'll try, baron,' said Calard, and despite himself, he felt his mood lift for the first time in months.

'The fates have not been kind to you of late, boy, and that's the Lady's truth. But it's w hat you do under such circumstances that w ill be your making,' said Montcadas, unusually serious. 'Or your dow nfall,' the baron added, shrugging. 'It's up to you now . But don't forget that you have friends and allies on your side.'

'I appreciate it, baron,' said Calard.

He saw an attractive young lady moving through the crow d tow ards them, being led by the hand by a young boy, no more than six summers old. The boy w as w earing an exquisite, miniature suit of armour. Seeing their approach, Montcadas smiled, his previous seriousness evaporating.

'What you need is a w ife,' he said, his voice booming. 'If you think running a realm is hard, try being married. It'll put things in perspective. And speaking of which, allow me to introduce you to my sister's youngest, the Lady Josephine.'

'Uncle!' she said in exasperation, shaking her head. Then she curtsied, gazing appraisingly at Calard for a moment before low ering her eyes as a good lady w as taught.

'My lady,' said Calard, bow ing.

'Lord Calard,' said Josephine, a smile in her self-assured voice, 'it is my pleasure to introduce you to your second cousin once removed, young Sir Orlando of Bordeleaux.'

Calard looked dow n at the boy, then tow ards Montcadas questioningly.

'Young Orlando here is the son of your mother's niece, Calard,' he said in a soft voice.

'They are close family friends of my house. I was, after all, the one who introduced your mother to your father.'

'I never knew,' said Calard, before turning his attention back to the boy, w ho w as staring up at him curiously.

He dropped to one knee to be on a level w ith the boy.

'It is an honour to meet you, Sir Orlando,' he said, bow ing his head solemnly.

The boy bow ed in return, his face a serious mask of concentration. The boy's attention w as suddenly draw n away from Calard, and his jaw dropped.

'Look!' he cried, pointing into the sky.

There were gasps and exclamations of wonder from the nobles around them, and Calard stood, looking up into the night sky to see what Orlando has spotted.

Angling dow n through the clouds, moonlight shimmering like silver upon their flanks and feathered w ings, was a flock of winged horses. Fully armoured knights rode in their saddles, and they circled down towards the ground in graceful arcs.

'Pegasus knights!' cried Orlando, his voice full of excitement and w onder.

One of the knights pulled away from the others, leaning back in the saddle as his steed furled its w ings tight against its body. It dropped tow ards the ground like a diving hawk, gaining speed with every passing moment. At the last second it spread its w ings and scores of nobles ducked involuntarily as the pegasus sw ept dow n low, passing just overhead.

Peasants scrambled out of the w ay as the pegasus landed, silver-shod hooves striking the earth. It slow ed its pace and halted, tossing its head.

The pegasus w as larger than any destrier, and must have been pushing twenty hands tall at the shoulder. They w ere known to be aggressive, and though they looked noble and angelic in countenance, Calard knew that they could be unpredictable and dangerous w hen the mood took them, and w ould w ilfully stomp a man to death if provoked. Nevertheless, amongst the Bretonnian nobility they were highly sought after steeds, fierce and loyal if raised from a foal, and eager to bear a knight into the thickest fray.

It w as said that vast flocks of pegasus could be seen soaring the mountain peaks above the tiered city of Parravon, though Calard had never journeyed so far east to see if such tales w ere true. It w as from those stocks that the majority of the pegasus seen w ithin Bretonnia w ere bred. Such creatures did not come cheap, however, and those w ho rode them w ere amongst the wealthiest knights of all Bretonnia. Nor was purchasing a pegasus foal any guarantee that the beast w ould bond w ith its intended rider and accept him, and few were willing to risk the investment - one did not w ish to be tw o hundred feet in the air before discovering that your mount had taken a dislike to you. No amount of w ealth could protect you then.

The knight riding upon the snow-coloured beast w ore a tabard of red and silver over plate shined to an almost painful degree, and he bore a silver pegasus motif upon his chest. The attention of every man and lady w as upon him, and he tore his helmet from his head theatrically. Wavy blond hair dropped to his shoulders, and he flashed a w inning smile to his audience as he slid from the saddle.

Spontaneous clapping erupted, and there were cheers. The knight lapped up the attention, bow ing low.

Josephine's eyes shone as she looked upon the dashing knight.

Calard instantly disliked him.

'Who's this?' he said, unimpressed.

The knight was irritatingly good looking, and was instantly surrounded by a coterie of faw ning supplicants, both men and w omen. He exchanged a brief w ord with several nobles, bow ing to lords and placing a kiss upon the hand of half a dozen blushing ladies of particular beauty, w ealth or social position.

'Laudethaire,' said Montcadas. 'Beloved of Parravon. Whatever else might be said about him, though, he's a damn good fighter.'

Laudethaire, his pegasus steed having been led away, swept by Calard and Montcadas w ith barely a glance, exuding scented perfumes. Over one shoulder he proudly w ore a golden sash, which proclaimed him as the lord of the joust, having w on the prestigious aw ard earlier in the day.

He did a theatrical double-take w hen he saw Lady Josephine, and paused, a look of rapture on his face.

'Such beauty must surely make even the goddess envious,' he said, taking her hand.

He maintained eye contact w ith her as he placed a kiss upon her hand. 'Enchanted, my lady.'

Josephine curtsied, oblivious to the venomous looks she was receiving from dozens of w omen nearby. With a w arm smile, Laudethaire moved on, and Calard was bustled by the devotees following in his wake. As the jostling crowd began to clear, he saw that the Lady Josephine had a slight blush to her cheeks.

His expression brightened as he saw a familiar figure pushing through the crowd.

'Here,' said Tassilo darkly, holding out a pouch bulging w ith coin. Calard took his w innings.

'I take it by the bruises on your face that you did not w in then, my friend?' he said.

'No,' said Tassilo, placing a hand gingerly to his cheek. 'But at least you benefited from my humbling.'

'Bertelis?'

'Through to the finals,' said Tassilo. 'His is the next bout. He's facing the knight who defeated me - Merovech of Arlons.'

'Never heard of him,' said Calard.

'I hadn't, either,' said Tassilo. 'But the man is a devil w ith the blade.'

TIERED SEATING HAD been erected around the sides of the pavilion, from where hundreds of nobles w atched the progression of bouts on display in relative comfort.

They sat on dow n-filled cushions, and servants wound through their ranks, keeping goblets topped up and bearing platters of extravagant and exotic sw eetmeats: jellied eels, ox tongues, liver pate, jaguar's earlobes, quails' eggs. The most w ealthy and influential of these lords and ladies occupied private booths sw athed in velvet and hanging with their personal and family heraldry.

Calard saw Lord Orderic, the host of this tourney, seated w ithin the grandest of these booths. An immensely fat noble of considerable wealth and influence, Lord Orderic w as drunk and clearly enjoying himself. He had boar fat dripping down his face, and he w ore a lascivious grin as he slipped a pudgy hand up the dress of a serving girl.

'This w ay,' said Baron Montcadas. 'I have a booth.'

The bear-like Bastonnian lord trundled through the crowd, leading Lady Josephine by the arm. Young Orlando held onto Josephine's free hand, staring around him in w ide-eyed excitement. Calard, walking behind, found himself staring at Josephine's slender waist and the sway of her hips beneath her midnight blue slip.

A collective groan of empathetic pain rose from the audience as, dow n in the roped-off area in the centre of the tent, a broad-shouldered knight suffered a heavy blow to the head, w renching his plumed helmet out of shape. Honourably, his opponent stepped aw ay from him, allowing his seconds to rush forward and help the knight free of his damaged helmet. Polite applause greeted this act of chivalry, and the knight lifted his visor, smiling and saluting the audience while his opponent had a bandage quickly w rapped around his bleeding head. Several flowers were thrown in the knight's direction from blushing young ladies, who turned aw ay giggling to each other w hen the knight bow ed in their direction.

Montcadas led them into his private booth, and they took their seats overlooking the spectacle. Orlando stood on his seat in order to see over the wooden balustrade in front.

The w ounded knight's seconds left the duelling floor, and the bout recommenced. It w as over quickly, w hen the unwounded knight slipped on one of the flowers that had been tossed tow ards him. He stumbled, and his opponent struck him a mighty blow to his shoulder that knocked him to the ground. With a sword-tip at his throat, the knight w as forced to concede, though his face was thunderous.

Trumpets blared and the crow d cheered and hollered. As the tw o knights left the competition floor, a troupe of players danced and cartw heeled in to entertain the crow d before the next bout commenced. One of them, a w oman with greasepaint on her face, held up a flaming brand, and spitting out a mouthful of combustible oil, sent a burst of flame roaring into the air, like the breath of a dragon. Bizarrely, jugglers tossed dried and desiccated frogs into the air, keeping a dozen or more aloft at any one time, and the crow d laughed at the clownish expressions on the faces of a band of stunted men the size of children, who were dressed up like miniature knights and riding pigs. These ''knights'' charged around the arena, waving wooden swords and clinging desperately to their steeds.

One of the sw ine took fright as the fire breather blew another burst of flame into the air, and the pig dove into the crowd, squealing w ildly, while its miniature rider held on for dear life. Two more of the diminutive ' knights'' came together, and a blow from one of them sent the other rolling off the back of his ow n swine, which garnered a cheer from the crow d.

'There he is,' said Tassilo, pointing.

Calard saw his brother on the edge of the arena, rolling his arms as he stretched out his muscles. Bertelis's heraldry, a silver dragon on a black and red field, was displayed on an unfurled banner held aloft by one of Garamont's yeomen. Calard yelled out, but his voice w as lost in the crowd.

Another of the hog-knights was knocked from his saddle as his steed charged into one of the jugglers, and another cheer rose from the crowd. One of the rider's legs got caught in the rope that served as reins, and he was dragged around the arena on his back, much to the amusement of the crow d and his fellows. Orlando's giggling was contagious, and Calard found himself chuckling along w ith him.

At last trumpets sounded and the arena w as cleared, the hog-knights being herded off to the side by the jugglers. One of the pigs had to be physically picked up by a strongman, and carried squealing back to its enclosure.

'Round eighteen!' bellowed a fat crier, his voice carrying out across the expansive pavilion. 'Betwixt Sir Bertelis of Garamont, Bastonne,' he roared, gesturing tow ards the young knight, 'and Sir Merovech of Arlons!'

Calard and his companions bellowed their support, stamping their feet and thumping the balustrade.

Bertelis smiled and waved to the crow d, turning around on the spot, before pulling on his helmet. The yeomen clustered around him helped strap his shield onto his left arm and he strode out into the centre of the floor.

His opponent, Merovech, walked out to meet him. Bertelis was one of the tallest knights of Garamont, yet Merovech was taller still, and he walked forward with a languid, relaxed grace that spoke of immense self-confidence. He moved as if his armour w as a second skin.

That armour w as of an archaic, old fashioned style, fluted and with serrated barbs at its edges, and for a moment Calard w as reminded of the armour of the Green Knight, w ho continued to haunt his dreams. But no, this armour w as quite different, though he suspected they w ere fashioned in a similar, bygone age - or at least Merovech's armour had been crafted w ith such ancient designs in mind. Armour styles were constantly in flux across Bretonnia, w ith fashion changing as frequently as the seasons, and w hile most knights would look dow n upon one who could not afford to keep up w ith the latest trends, there was not a single derisive comment or disdainful look cast tow ards Merovech.

His armour w as of such dark steel that it w as almost black, and he w ore a spotless tabard of pure w hite over it. He carried no shield, but bore a pair of blades strapped at his side. He bore no heraldry other than a simple black fleur-de-lys, an ancient symbol that reflected purity and devotion.

That symbol w as carried by most nobles in some form or other, both knight and lady.

Whether it w as worn as a silver pendant around the neck, engraved on a knight's armour, or w oven into a maiden's undergarments as a symbol of her chastity, it w as a symbol of ancient and holy significance. It w as said to represent the lily, the sacred flow er of Bretonnia. In the old tales, hundreds of lilies reputedly burst into flower under the full silver moon w hen the Lady of the Lake first appeared to Gilles le Breton, in the age of heroes long past.

The first knight to be given the honour of bearing the fleur-de-lys as his personal heraldry had been Landuin - the finest of all of Gilles's Holy Companions. The fairest, most skilful and noble knight ever to have walked the Old World, Landuin hailed from the realm of Mousillon, w hich was at that time the envy of its neighbours.

Landuin's tale w as one of tragedy and betrayal, how ever, one from which his reputation, and that of his realm, w as never to recover. ' Those dwelling at the loftiest of heights have the furthest to fall' , w as an infamous line from The Death of Gilles le Breton, referring to Landuin's fall from grace.

Repressing a shudder at merely thinking of the cursed realm of Mousillon, Calard dragged himself back to the present.

Merovech's helmet w as crafted to resemble a snarling dragon, and the tall knight saluted Bertelis graciously as the crier and seconds cleared the arena. Bertelis returned the salute, and the tw o stepped away from each other, awaiting the signal for them to commence.

'For Garamont!' roared Calard, thumping his hands on the banister.

Brass horns hanging w ith pennants were raised to lips and they blew a resounding staccato.

Bertelis drew his sword and cut the air in front of him w ith a few practise swings.

Merovech drew the larger of the two blades scabbarded at his w aist, a sw ord of beautiful design. Most knights would have been forced to use the w eapon with two hands, such w as its size and weight.

The crier raised his hands into the air, silencing the horns.

'Commence!' he roared, going red in the face before trotting backw ards out of the w ay.

Calard leant forw ard, watching intently as the bout began.

The pair of knights stalked around each other.

Stepping forw ard with the speed of a striking serpent, Bertelis w as the first to make a move, w hipping his sword in towards his opponent's chest. His footwork was precise, his strike perfectly balanced. Merovech turned it aside with the minimum of effort, and feinted a riposte.

The tw o knights continued to stalk around each other, Bertelis launching the occasional testing strike, which Merovech would deflect with the barest turn of his w rist, but Calard could see that neither knight had revealed their full speed or power.

Bertelis launched another attack, an overhead strike. As Merovech's blade rose to deflect it, Bertelis rolled his wrist, flicking his sword tow ards his opponent's neck. It w as a blindingly fast shift of direction, one that had caught Calard out on more than one occasion, but Merovech avoided it easily.

Again and again it looked like Bertelis was going to score a hit upon the taller knight, only for Merovech's sword to turn the blow aside at the last moment, scant inches from striking home. Calard could see his brother getting increasingly frustrated, but w here in the past this might have led him to attack furiously, leaving himself open for counterattack, he now channelled his emotions, using his anger to add strength and focus to his blow s.

He launched a blinding series of strikes, attacking high and low. As Merovech sidestepped, Bertelis spun around on the spot, his blade slicing through the air tow ards his opponent's neck. It was a perfectly executed strike, and one that Bertelis had clearly set up. Merovech swayed backw ards at the last second and Bertelis's sword missed him by less than an inch.

Stepping back, Merovech saluted Bertelis for a move w ell performed, and drew his second blade, a short-sw ord that he w ielded in his left hand to complement the one held in his right. He twirled the blades before him, and stepped forward to engage Bertelis.

The tw in blades formed blurring arcs and the audience sat in silence, spellbound.

Bertelis backed aw ay steadily, desperately fending off the attacks coming at him from every angle. There w as no time for him to even consider launching a counterattack of his ow n, and it took all his skill and concentration merely to keep his enemy's blades from his neck.

Merovech sw atted Bertelis's blade to the side with his shortsword, and a spin of his other sw ord sent Bertelis's blade sailing into the air. It spun end over end and sank point first into the ground. The move had been so fast that Calard had barely seen w hat had happened, but he applauded as Merovech stepped back to allow Bertelis to retrieve his weapon in order to allow the bout to continue.

'He's good,' he said grudgingly.

Saluting each other, the knights came together again. The bout lasted only a few more heartbeats. Bertelis saw an opening, and lunged forward, the tip of his blade striking for his opponent's heart. Belatedly he realised that Merovech had lured him into the strike.

Bertelis's sw ord was battered to the side and Merovech's tw in blades crossed, slipping through the gap betw een Bertelis's helmet and breastplate, and as they touched the chainmail coif protecting his neck, they stopped. Had the blow been follow ed through, Calard had no doubt that his brother's head w ould now be lying on the ground, such w as the near perfect execution of the killing move.

Thunderous applause broke out across the pavilion, and Calard joined in, shaking his head at the skill of the unknown knight. The only knight he had ever seen to rival his skill was the revered grail knight, Reolus.

Merovech saluted Bertelis once more, before sheathing his swords and pulling the helmet from his head. His face was as w hite as virgin snow. His hair too w as devoid of colour and it fell halfway down his back, as straight as a blade.

Bertelis looked furious w ith himself, but Merovech leant in to him, speaking words unheard by any other.

Bertelis's heraldry was pulled down from the boards positioned at either end of the duelling grounds. The heraldry of eight more knights, including Merovech's, remained; these were the finalists, and they would duel to become the overall w inner and be aw arded the scarlet sash that w ould proclaim them as lord of the sword.

Calard had no doubt that Merovech w ould be w earing that w inner's sash come the end of the evening.

'How did he not w in the joust?' said Calard.

'He did not compete,' replied Tassilo. 'He only came into camp after dusk.'

Calard drained his goblet, his mind drifting back to his nagging responsibilities, know ing that the time to return to Garamont drew near. He lifted his empty goblet again, w aving it impatiently. As it was being filled, he cast a look along the length of the booth.

Lady Josephine was leaning forward in her seat, smiling and laughing with someone on the other side of the balustrade. Leaning forward to see w ho it was, Calard's expression darkened. His long time rival and foe, Maloric of Sangasse, was standing on the tier below the box, smiling and chatting.

Feeling eyes upon him, the rakishly handsome Sangasse nobleman glanced in Calard's direction, and though he maintained his smile, his eyes hardened. He said something to Josephine, and they both laughed lightly, and Calard's free hand clenched on his sword hilt.

Maloric placed a lingering kiss upon Josephine's hand before he moved off. He nodded his head respectfully to Montcadas as he passed, and his eyes glinted with sardonic amusement as he glanced up at Calard.

'I see that your brother lost, Garamont,' he said, his voice thick with derision. 'What a surprise. Doing Bastonne proud.'

'Keep w alking, Sangasse,' snapped Tassilo.

'Tighten your dog's leash, Garamont,' said Maloric, managing somehow to look dow n his nose at Calard and his companions, even though he was positioned on a low er tier. 'Its yapping is w earisome.'

'Piss off, Sangasse,' growled Calard, his face an angry red.

Maloric leant in, peering at Calard's face, and he chuckled.

'Drunk again, I see. It's becoming rather frequent, from w hat I hear. I also hear that the new lord of Garamont is unfit to rule his own household, let alone his realm, and that his elderly chamberlain is forced to run it for him. Such a sad state of affairs,' he said, shaking his head in mock remorse.

'Go to hell, Sangasse,' said Calard, 'or I'll call you out here and now . You have no sw ordsman to hide behind this time.'

'And you no old man,' replied Maloric. 'But I w ould take no pleasure in killing a drunkard, even one with a bloodline as cursed as yours. Come for me w hen you're sober, perhaps.'

'Is there a problem, Sangasse?' boomed Montcadas.

'No problem,' replied Maloric. 'Though, methinks Lord Garamont here has had enough w ine for one evening.'

The Sangasse noble turned on his heel to leave, and the glass in Calard's hand shattered.

Maloric looked back over his shoulder, laughing.

'Are you all right, cousin?' said Tassilo, concern in his voice.

'Fine,' snapped Calard.

CHAPTER FOUR

THE WOODEN CUP slipped from Rolan's hand, falling to the stone floor and spilling its contents. He came aw ake w ith a start at the sudden noise, his entire body jerking violently. He w as still dressed, and seated in the sole rickety w ooden chair before the fireplace, and he blinked dimly as he heard the cup rolling across the uneven floor.

It w as deathly cold in his small hovel, and dark, and he scowled into his fireplace, pulling his lice-ridden blanket further around his shoulders. An icy wind clawed through the cracks in the walls, and his breath fogged the air in front of his face.

Clutching his blanket around him like a cloak, he knelt dow n in front of the hearth, his knees cracking alarmingly. He picked up the rusted scythe-head leaning against the w all and poked at the lump of peat in the centre of the fireplace. Smoke w as still rising from w ithin the fibrous hunk of bog mud, and embers glow ed and crackled as he poked at it.

Leaning close, he blew steadily until tongues of flame licked up its sides.

Rolan stood up w ith a groan, stretching his back out. His joints ached; winter w as fast approaching, and he was not looking forward to it. He had lived on the island of Landri his whole life, and recognised the signs that the approaching season would be long and harsh. There were literally thousands of islets that made up the archipelago off the north-w est coast of Bretonnia, though the vast majority of them w ere uninhabited and barren. Landri was one of the furthest from the mainland, and was large enough to maintain a steady, if small, population.

Outside, the w ind had picked up, and he heard his sheep bleating frantically.

'Bloody foxes,' said Rolan. Throwing off his blanket, he stood up and moved to the door.

'Come, dog,' he said.

Hauling the door open w ith both hands - its leather hinges were long rotted and useless - he braced himself against the icy wind that swirled in around him.

'Dog!' he said. 'Come!'

On her belly, the sheepdog backed aw ay further under the table, its tail betw een its legs and its head betw een its paw s, whimpering.

'Stay there and let your master catch his death out here alone then,' muttered Rolan.

Rolan stepped out into the night and hauled the door closed behind him. As an afterthought he grabbed the rusted pitchfork leaning against the wall of his hovel.

Mannslieb w as full overhead, but the silver moon was obscured behind a thick bank of clouds, making the night darker than it ought to have been.

His hovel w as located on the northern point of Landri, positioned high on the grassy headland and staring out into the dark w asteland that was the ocean. All was darkness across the w ater, and the roar of the sw ell was loud. Immense sheer cliffs dropped dow n onto sharp rocks jutting like knife-points from the turbulent w aters.

The sea crashed relentlessly against the base of these cliffs, battering the headland w ith primal force, day in, day out.

Rolan's closest neighbour w as more than a mile aw ay, and it was a good three miles to Landri village and the abbey around w hich the mainstay population of the island w as clustered.

Rolan could see his flock only dimly in the gloom, pale shapes clustered in a tight conglomeration in the corner of their stone-walled enclosure that backed up against his hovel. The shaggy-coated animals were pushing and shoving at each other, desperate not to be on the edge of the flock, and several were scrabbling frantically to leap the low w alls.

Clucking his tongue reassuringly, Rolan swung the gate into the enclosure open, and stepped into the muddy, churned up yard. These sheep were his life, literally; if harm w as to come to them, it w as he that w ould suffer for it. His lord was not a forgiving man.

He stomped through the mud, using his pitchfork as a w alking stick, and started to count his livestock. As far as he could tell, they were all accounted for, and they seemed to calm a little in his presence.

The w ind changed abruptly, and a smell carried to Rolan's nostrils. It was a w et, bestial odour, like rancid meat, sw eat and urine; the stink of a predator.

His flock w ent berserk, bleating madly, fighting each other to escape their enclosure, trying futilely to clamber over the dry-stone wall. Rolan spun around, bringing his pitchfork up before him, eyes wide.

At first he thought it w as an animal, massive and shaggy and horned. It clambered over the w all on the opposite side of the enclosure, dislodging several stones that w ould have taken tw o men to lift. Then he saw the long handled axe held in its hand, and he realised it was a man, albeit one of immense stature, w ho w as wearing the pelt of some great beast across his shoulders and a horned helmet on his head.

Rolan w as not a tall man, and long years of w ork, solitude and malnutrition had further shrunk his shoulders and stooped his back. The stranger tow ered over him, seeming to grow w ith every quiet step he took tow ards him, and Rolan suspected that even his lord would have been dwarfed by him. Nevertheless, Rolan was no coward.

'Back w ith you, devil,' Rolan said, jabbing the air w ith his pitchfork.

The interloper laughed then, a barking, harsh sound. The clouds parted briefly, and Rolan saw the stranger more clearly, and a cold fear gripped his heart. Norscan...

Prayers to Manann w ere made daily, and weighted effigies of sacrifice w ere thrown into his ocean depths by the peasants on holy days each year, in the hope that the god of the sea w ould protect the island's fishermen, and smash the ships of any Norscan raiders. It seemed that these devotions had not been enough to abate Manann this year.

There were scores of watchtowers and keeps scattered through the archipelago, each equipped w ith a pyre that needed just a spark to ignite it. Those beacons, once lit, could be seen for miles all around, giving advance warning of the approach of any enemies. Why had none of them been lit?

Rolan saw more of the raiders now. They were circling around the sides of his hovel, dark and be-horned shadow s moving with silent, deadly intent, like hunting pack animals, like wolves closing in on the kill. Rolan turned and ran.

He rounded his hovel only to see another of the immense, fur-cloaked Norscans slam a heavy, iron-shod boot into the door, smashing it to splinters.

Spinning, Rolan made to run to the south, over the w ind-swept moorlands towards the village, but he froze as he saw the glow of fire in the distance. The village was burning.

There came a tortured yelp from inside his hovel as the raiders found Rolan's loyal sheepdog. His limbs w ere quivering now, and he backed aw ay tow ards the cliff edge as the Norscan closed in around him. He felt the open expanse behind him, and he glanced dow n tow ards the crashing breakers far below .

In the bay that sw ung around to the w est of the headland on which he stood, a score of ships could be seen. These were not the fishing boats used by the Bretonnian fishermen, nor even the multi-tiered greatships of the fleets of Couronne and Bordeleaux that he had glimpsed on occasion in the distance. No, these w ere Norscan longships, equipped with square sails and banks of oars that propelled them at formidable speed through the oceans. A brazen idol projected forth from the prow of each of these vessels, twisted representations of gods and daemons, and immense spiked rams sliced beneath the water-line. Black shark fins cut through the waves in the w ake of the longships.

Larger ships, with two, three or even four banks of oars remained in the deeper water offshore, w hile the smaller longships rode the waves onto the beach, like killer whales hurling themselves onto land to snatch at seals basking there.

A dozen longships had already been dragged up onto the beach, and in the moment before the clouds once again obscured the view , Rolan could see scores of Norscan butchers making their w ay up the tw isting paths from the beachhead.

Eyes w ild, Rolan spun back tow ards the half dozen giants closing in around him, brandishing his pitchfork. It looked useless next to the heavy, spiked and bladed w eapons of the raiders, and he doubted that he w ould be able to even land a blow before the end came for him.

Stories of the bloody sacrifices performed by these northern monsters came back to him, stories of still beating hearts ripped from chests, and all manner of agonising tortures performed on their victims before the release of death was granted. He took another step backw ards, and felt the edge of the cliff beneath his heels.

He glanced dow n again. Better to be dashed upon those rocks than be butchered in the name of some infernal daemon-god. The pitchfork dropped from his fingers, spinning end over end tow ards the jutting rocks below. With a shuddering breath, Rolan closed his eyes and stepped backw ards into open space.

A mailed fist grabbed him by his shirt front. Feet dangling out over the cliff-face, Rolan gasped. He w as hurled to the ground aw ay from the cliffs edge, tossed through the air one-handed as if he weighed no more than a newborn lamb. There he cow ered, shaking like a leaf in a storm, looking up at the Norscans with wide, wild eyes. One of them grabbed him by his hair and hauled him roughly to his feet. With the haft of his axe, another then struck the back of his legs hard, breaking the bones and forcing him to his knees.

Rolan cried out as his head w as reefed backw ards. His eyes bulged as an axe w as buried in his throat.

Overhead, the gods rumbled their approval.

* * *

HIGH JARL EGIL Styrbjorn placed one heavy boot on the prostrate, dying priestess and yanked the blade of his axe free. Splintered ribs protruded from the chest w ound, blood bubbling around them. The dying woman's eyes were wide, her mouth open in silent agony, but the jarl gave her no further notice - just another w eakling southerner, a pitiful wretch that he earned no honour from slaying. Spinning an axe around in each hand, he continued up the steps tow ards the abbey's smashed doors, leaving the woman to die, alone and ignored.

The axes that the Skaeling warlord w ielded were ancient, hellforged weapons, heavy w ith infernal magicks, their blades shaped in the likeness of wolf heads. A gleaming blood-red ruby w as inset into the hafts of the axes, representing the eyes of the great w olves, and they blazed w ith inner fire. The axes were named Garmr and Gormr, in honour of the great w olves that accompany Kharnath on his bloody hunts across the heavens. They were holy artefacts of the Skaelings, handed down through the generations.

The air w as rich with smoke and the sounds of butchery - the screams of the dying, the clash of w eapons, the roaring of his men. At the top of the stairs, Styrbjorn paused, looking back tow ards the sea.

The burning enemy tow nship grew like a malignant tumour around the abbey.

Scattered pockets of resistance remained, but the enemy w ere weak, and Styrbjorn felt no particular desire to join the slaughter. These were not worthy foes, not like the Graelings, the Vargs, or any other Norscan tribes, nor the Kvelligs and Tahmaks of the Kurgan. The slant-eyed Hung tribesmen too w ere enemies that you could be proud to fight and kill, men that knew not the meaning of fear or panic.

But these soft-bellied southerners, they were hardly men at all. Few stood even to the Norscan's shoulders, and they were as w eak in spirit as they were in body. Almost universally, it seemed, they were a race of malformed runts; pathetic, wretched and honourless. Any one of them would have been killed at birth had he been born of a Skaeling w oman, for any mother would have been shamed to bear such a stunted w retch. Only the ruling class had any backbone at all, and even they would have been regarded as lesser men had they been born into any Norscan tribe.

Scores of longships could be seen in the harbour of the burning tow nship, though it w as only a fraction of the fleet that had accompanied him from Norsca. Fully half of his ships had beached unseen on the north side of the island, and their warriors had closed in on this tow n under the cover of darkness. When the first of his longships had been seen approaching the town, the terrified inhabitants found that their escape w as already cut off from behind. None had been spared - not man, w oman or child. Even the dogs of the enemy were butchered like vermin. Bands of his w arriors still roamed the tow n, hunting down the last survivors. Some dragged screaming w omen by the hair from burning buildings, to be used and slaughtered in the name of the true gods, w hile others ransacked the more wealthy structures for plunder.

Even as he w atched he saw more of the enemy cut dow n by his men, smashed from their feet by axe, sw ord and spear. He saw heads hewn from shoulders and lifted high into the air for the gods to see, before being rammed onto spikes or hung from belts. He saw w eeping terrified men have their throats slashed before being kicked face dow n into the streets and spat upon for their cowardice. He saw shaggy-furred w arhounds w orrying at the bodies of the fallen, tearing apart flesh and crushing bone w ith their powerful jaw s.

Styrbjorn w histled sharply and two of the hounds lifted their blood-smeared snouts from the belly of their latest kill.

The w arhounds, brothers of the same litter, were massive beasts the size of small ponies. Their back legs and flanks were scaled like a lizard, the skin tough and leathery. Their heavy shoulders, forelegs and heads were covered in thick black fur.

Bony spurs ran dow n their backs, and tusks like those of a boar jutted from their toothy maw s. Around their necks were thick, spiked collars, and Styrbjorn's rune w as branded into their flesh. They slunk away from their kill, growling and swinging their heavy heads from side to side, and a curt command from Styrbjorn brought them loping tow ards him.

Flanked by the w arhounds, Jarl Styrbjorn stalked inside the abbey. Its doors had been smashed off their hinges and lay in splinters, and he stepped over bodies spraw led across the floor. The stink of blood made his eyes dilate and his heart beat a little quicker. It w as clear to Styrbjorn that many people had fled here to the abbey for protection. The notion that any god w ould offer succour to those w ho cowered from their enemies rather than fight them was laughable.

Guttural laughter accompanied a cry of agony that echoed through the interior of the abbey and Styrbjorn strode dow n the central aisle towards its origin. A cluster of his elite huskarl w arriors were gathered on the dais at the head of the abbey, surrounding a figure spraw led on the floor. Encased in ornate armour of Chaos, these w arriors had the mark of the gods about them, a palpable aura that made the skin tingle. Still, Styrbjorn w as god-touched himself, and he wore the favour of his w arlike deities like a cloak.

Styrbjorn's huskarls stepped aside, bow ing their heads, and he saw that the figure that occupied their attentions was an elderly w oman, perhaps someone of holy significance. She w as garbed in a long green dress, and a silver amulet resembling a three-petalled flower hung from a fine chain around her neck.

Bjarki, the Skaeling seer, stood before the holy woman, clutching a curved sacrificial blade. He w as grinning.

Blood w as streaming dow n the woman's cheeks. Her eyes had been cut out, Styrbjorn saw . Her fingers and thumbs had been hacked off as w ell, and she groped around her blindly, leaving bloody smears on the stone floor.

Bjarki had long been in the jarl's ear, urging him to strike against the lands of the southern horsemen, the lands called Bretonnia in the indecipherable southern tongue. Long had the seer desired to see w reck and ruin come to these lands, and his excitement that his dreams of devastation w ere now starting to come to fruition w as abundantly clear.

Almost tw enty years ago, Styrbjorn had been aboard the longship that had come across the tiny fishing coracle, adrift in the middle of the sea that divided Norsca from the southern lands. There had been two people aboard that tiny boat - an old man, and a young boy no more than six w inters old. From their dress and the indecipherable babble that they spoke it w as clear that they w ere southerners, and know ing the currents of the seas in that region as well as any living man, Styrbjorn knew that they had come from Bretonnia.

Laughing, Styrbjorn had nailed the old man to the mast of his longship, and a similar fate w ould have befallen the boy, had the Norscans not seen the witch-light in his eyes. Defiant and unafraid, the small boy stood his ground, his fists clenched as he stared dow n the longship full of Norscans, and every Skaeling there could see as clear as day that the boy w as god-touched.

Impressed w ith his bravery in the face of death, the Norscans had instantly dubbed the boy Bjarki - ' little bear' in the Skaeling dialect. Styrbjorn had taken the child into his household, feeding and clothing him and teaching him the ways of the Norse.

He had taught him how to hunt sabretusk and blood-bear, to kill w ith axe and blade, to honour the gods w ith your actions and taught him the meaning of pride and honour.

The boy never talked of w hy he was adrift on a coracle accompanied by no one but an old bondsman, and Styrbjorn never pressed him. It was clear that the child had renounced any ties to his birth land and embraced the w ay of the Skaeling w holeheartedly. That he harboured a burning hatred for Bretonnia was obvious, and Styrbjorn encouraged this emotion, knowing that it w ould fuel the youngster's grow ing strength.

It mattered not at all that Bjarki w as not of Norse blood - the pow er of the gods w as w ith him, and no tribesman would be foolish enough to incur the wrath of the gods by doing him harm.

Styrbjorn's seer at that time, old Skaelabran, had been a w ithered ancient w ho had all but despaired of finding a successor. For a decade the old seer clung to life as he taught the secret w ays to the young Bjarki, and many w ere the scars and beatings that the youngster endured under his harsh tutorship.

When Bjarki had been w ith the Skaelings a little over a year he had first voiced his desire to see Bretonnia burn. Four times Styrbjorn had raided its coastlines during Bjarki's childhood, and the boy had raged and stamped his feet w hen he had not been allow ed to accompany him, to w itness the slaughter first-hand. Styrbjorn w as impressed w ith the youngster's enthusiasm, but his decision would not be changed.

Bjarki w as much smaller than the Skaeling boys his age, and Styrbjorn w ould not risk incurring the wrath of the gods by taking him on a raid before he w as ready for it.

It w as not old age and senility that eventually did for old Skaelabran. Little more than a skeletal husk held together by bitterness and diabolic will, his life was finally ended w ith a knife thrust to the heart, care of his young apprentice. Having learnt all he could, Bjarki saw no further use for the vicious old Norscan. It had been a proud day for Styrbjorn, w ho regarded Bjarki as his blood-kin.

The seasons flowed into each other and the years turned, and for the last five years Bjarki had accompanied Styrbjorn on his raids. Those had been fruitful years of plenty, and much w ealth and favour had been garnered in raids against the Empire, the Kurgan and other Norse tribes. Much of their successes had been attributed to Bjarki, and Styrbjorn w as past the point of feeling any jealousy or anger when these w hispers reached his ears. Still, in that time Styrbjorn had not chosen to pitch himself against the Bretonnians.

'Only a foolish hunter returns to the same hunting ground every day,' he remembered his grandfather telling him. 'A w ise hunter varies his hunts, so as not to hunt any one of his prey-flocks to extinction.'

He remembered the w ords w ell, and after a half-decade of raiding the Bretonnian coastlines every season, he had then directed his men elsewhere for a further five years, allow ing the Bretonnians to grow weak and complacent.

The tortured priestess on the ground - for Styrbjorn w as certain now that she was a holy w oman - looked up at him, despite her lack of eyes, and he felt certain that she perceived him. She began to talk, spouting a stream of garbled nonsense that he knew was directed at him in particular.

'What does she say?' the jarl asked.

Bjarki licked his lips, his eyes filled with bloodlust and hunger.

'She says that w e defile this place with our presence,' said the seer, smirking. 'That the Lady w ill strike us down.'

'The Lady?' questioned Styrbjorn, nodding his head tow ards a pristine marble statue at the rear of the dais.

Bjarki turned his head tow ards the statue and gave a curt nod.

'The patron goddess of this land,' he said. He spat tow ards the statue. 'A minor deity of little true pow er.'

Styrbjorn knelt dow n before the woman on the floor. She could not see him, but recoiled from his closeness. It was not something that Styrbjorn w as unfamiliar w ith

- there w ere few even amongst the Skaelings who were able to remain close to him for long w ithout experiencing discomfort, even pain. The eyes of the gods were on him, and just to be in his vicinity was to catch a measure of their gaze. Those of particular w eakness were even known to fall to the ground in his presence, their bodies becoming instantly warped and altered as the gods gifted them the blessing of change.

The tortured priestess tried to grasp the totemic amulet around her neck, but w ithout fingers, the movement was pathetic and useless, making Styrbjorn smile. He reached out and closed his ow n large hand around the amulet, ignoring the pain it caused and the stink of burning flesh. With a sharp yank, he broke the chain, and hurled the offending amulet aw ay from him.

The priestess tried to pull aw ay, her face a grimace of loathing, but he reached down and grabbed her by the throat, his fingers almost encircling her neck. It was like the neck of a sw an, delicate and fragile, and it would take no more than a tw ist to end her life. Exerting little effort, he dragged her towards him, so that her face was no more than a foot from his ow n.

'Before you perish, know that your death shall not be meaningless. The lord of skulls shall feast on your heart and drink of your blood, w oman. And know that in the times of Darkness that w ill soon come to engulf the world, the gods themselves will w alk the lands, leading their legions in the battle to end all battles. And in those End Times, great Kharnath will cut dow n your Lady, hacking her head from her shoulders and great shall be the lamentation. Your goddess will perish - she knows this. And now you too know the truth.'

It didn't matter to him that she could not understand his words; he could see that they pained her, and that was all that he wished.

Sobbing and babbling, Styrbjorn allow ed her to pull aw ay from him as he rose back to his full height.

'Do w ith her what you w ill,' he said to his men, and stepped past them, moving tow ards the statue of the goddess. Styrbjorn shook his head derisively. If this was w ho they prayed to, then no wonder they w ere weak. This was no god to be feared and respected; not like the gods of the north.

The goddess was tall and slender, w ith flowing hair entwined with ivy and leaves. In her hands she bore a chalice. Tears ran down her cheeks, dripping rhythmically into the goblet, and Styrbjorn touched a finger to her face. The tears appeared to be real, pooling in eyes that were far too expressive to be carved of mere marble.

Behind the Skaeling jarl, the agonised cries of the priestess faded into a strangled, gargling sound, and he knew that Bjarki had slashed her throat. Still staring into the statue's eyes, he saw that the salty tears of the goddess suddenly turned red. She w ept blood tears for her defiled priestess, and Styrbjorn chuckled.

Turning back tow ards his warriors, Styrbjorn held out his hand.

'Give me your hammer,' he ordered one of his huskarls, who immediately handed over the massive double-handed w eapon to his lord. Indeed, had Styrbjorn calmly ordered him to kill himself, or any of his comrades, the man would have done so w ithout a second thought. Styrbjorn smiled. It was good to have such devotion.

The Norscan chieftain was in good spirits as he swung the hammer around in a pow erful arc. The blow smashed the goddess's head from her shoulders. Stepping forw ard, Styrbjorn slammed the flat of his foot into the statue's midsection, tipping it backw ards. It broke in tw o as it struck the back w all, and he swung the hammer again, shattering goblets and chalices carefully arrayed along the ledges set into the w alls to smithereens.

'Will you not strike me dow n?' Styrbjorn sneered down at face of the goddess, whose head had rolled so that it had come to rest looking up at him, blood tears still trickling from its eyes.

Nothing happened, and he smirked, shaking his head.

How could he respect a people whose very god was not w orthy of respect?

IT WAS THREE hours later, and the sky was lightening with the approaching daw n.

Styrbjorn sat upon his throne, which had been brought up from his longship and placed upon the dais w here the statue of the Bretonnian goddess had once stood.

Impaled figures surrounded him. Not all were dead, and many tw itched and moaned as they slid further down the spikes. Only cowards faced such a death - w arriors who stood and fought, even w eakling southern warriors such as they had encountered, w ere given honourable deaths, killed by the blade and the axe. Those who fled in panic and cow ardice, who soiled themselves in fear, or dropped their weapons mid-battle - they w ere given no such respect.

Bjarki squatted at his feet, a savage grin on his blood-smeared face. The shaman had enjoyed the night's work, though Styrbjorn sensed this bloodletting had merely w hetted his appetite.

The pews that had filled the abbey had been smashed apart and piled atop each other, and a fierce blaze now roared in the middle of the floor, the flames licking up tow ards the rafters high overhead. The stained glass images of the enemy goddess had been smashed out, and hundreds of corpses had been nailed into the stone w alls; their bodies stripped and their flesh used as parchments, the runic symbols of the Norse gods had been carved into their skin.

The fires w ere being stoked with oil and wood, and severed heads were thrown into the searing heart of the blazing pyres. Hair frizzled and burst into flames, and skin and flesh melted from skulls like butter. Inside, brains and tongues bubbled and broiled under the intense heat, and lower jaws fell aw ay from the skulls as muscles and tendons w ere rendered to ash. Finally, all that w ould be left w ould be blackened, ash-covered skulls, and once the fires had died down they would be dragged from the embers and arranged into piles, in honour of Styrbjorn and great Kharnath, the skull-taker.

'Why do w e linger here, manling?' snarled a voice like rocks grinding against each other, and Styrbjorn turned from staring into the flames to regard the craggy face of Zumarah.

The dw arf stood no taller than a Norscan boy of ten years, though he w as almost as broad as he w as tall. His chest was immense, and his thick limbs w ere easily as strong as any Norscan's. The fire of hatred burnt in the dwarf's deep set eyes, and a double row of lumps protruded from beneath the flesh along the ridge of his brow .

Styrbjorn did not know if those studded grow ths had been implanted beneath the flesh, or w hether they were gifts of the gods. The pair of tusks that rose from his low er jaw , however, were certainly evidence of the gods' touch. The dwarf's skin was tough and stony, the texture of rough granite and a deep, ruddy colour, and a thick beard, as black as coal and bound into a dozen tight, ringletted coils w ound with meteoric iron hung dow n past his waist.

'We linger here because I w ish it, dwarf,' said Styrbjorn.

'You promised me slaves, Norscan,' growled Zumarah, 'and I w ould have them. So far I have seen none.'

'These ones were promised to the gods,' said Styrbjorn, gesturing to the impaled figures arrayed around the edge of the dais. Those still living cried out for death, but no one harkened to their pleas. 'And I would not seek to anger the gods by denying them, for you or any other mortal. Be patient, Zumarah - tonight w as just a skirmish; the real battle w ill come soon. You shall have what you w ere promised.'

'My services do not come freely, Norscan,' snarled Zumarah, 'nor do they come cheaply. And Ereshkigal-Namtar hungers.'

'Your... daemon-construct shall feed soon. I have given you my w ord, dwarf-kin, and the w ord of a Skaeling jarl is not given lightly. Your geld shall be honoured.'

The dw arf snarled, setting his feet solidly and glaring up at the seated jarl. Hatred and vitriol oozed from the dw arf's every pore.

'Do not think to cheat me out of my dues, manling,' growled Zumarah.

The greed of the dark dw arfs was unlike anything Styrbjorn had ever experienced. It w as beyond passion, beyond desire. It was more akin to a burning need, a desperate compulsion for acquiring w ealth and slaves far beyond w hat they could ever need.

Still, it mattered little. The daemon-construct that Zumarah had crafted and bound to his w ill was a w eapon of awesome power and destruction. He had first seen its pow er in action against the Aesgars, and it had levelled their fort in moments. The destruction it had w rought was w ondrous and terrible.

'The rest of my fleet is tw o days behind us,' said Styrbjorn. 'We w ait here until their arrival before w e push onto the mainland.'

'You have such little faith in the strength of your w arriors that you must w ait for reinforcements?' sneered Zumarah.

Bjarki hissed, exposing his sharply filed teeth and rattled a bone-charm threateningly. The dwarf looked at the Skaeling seer with a look of derision and contempt.

'You think I fear your curses, bane-spinner?' snarled the dwarf. 'Stay your tongue or I'll rip it out.'

Bjarki leapt to his feet, his face flushing w ith anger, but Styrbjorn laid a hand of his shoulder, keeping him from lashing out.

'Tw o days, w e wait here,' said Styrbjorn. 'This is my decision, and there is to be no discussion. The gods caused the seas to rise in anger, and the ships bearing my tuskers have been delayed; I w ish to see how these Bretonnians fare against such beasts, and w ill not attack w ithout them.'

The dw arf regarded the jarl defiantly, refusing to be cow ed by the big Norscan chieftain. The stony-faced creature's beard split into a grin.

'We understand each other, you and I,' said the dw arf. 'This is good. Two days.'

With that, Zumarah turned and strode aw ay from the jarl, his short legs and heavy build giving him an oddly rolling gait.

'Why did you hold me back?' spat Bjarki. 'He deserves the blessings of the Pox Father's touch for the w ay he spoke to you, my jarl.'

'Is it for my honour that you w ould call down Grandfather Nurgleth's attentions, or your ow n?' said Styrbjorn.

Bjarki, still quivering with barely suppressed rage, flashed an angry glance tow ards him, w itch-light sparking.

'It is alw ays for your honour, my jarl,' he said.

'You feel that I need your help, or that of anyone else, to protect my honour, Bjarki?'

said Styrbjorn, his voice low and dangerous.

The seer licked his lips.

'Of course not, my jarl,' said the seer finally.

'Good,' said Styrbjorn, and his eyes took on a lustful, eager light. 'Now tell me, the w oman w ho shall bear my son - she is coming to us even now, you say?'

'She is making her w ay tow ards the crow-fields,' confirmed Bjarki. 'There, the gods have decreed that you shall w in a proud victory over the weakling horsemen. Great w ill be the slaughter. Great w ill be the lamentation of their women. Your consort-bride w ill arrive on the eve of battle, and your son shall be conceived under the green moon, after victory has been w on.'

Styrbjorn smiled. A son! He had w aited so long for one of his women to bear him a son to succeed him, but long had that eluded him. Thirteen daughters his wives and consorts had borne him, but no son. Indeed, tw o of them accompanied him now, sw ord-maidens of commensurate skill, easily the match for any of his warriors.

'You hear that, daughters?' he said. 'Soon you w ill have a brother, and then you w ill be free to w ed!'

Fraygerd and Hrefna w ere born of different mothers, but that they w ere sisters was obvious. Both shared their father's tall stature and noble countenance. Both had long, straight hair the colour of sand, though Fraygerd wore hers bound in tails while Hrefna's hung loose and w ild. A little more than a year separated the tw o - they w ere nineteen and seventeen respectively - and though Fraygerd w as the taller and stronger of the pair, Hrefna's fiery nature more than made up for that deficiency on the field of battle.

'I've yet to meet the man w ho I w ould deem w orthy of marriage,' said Hrefna, and Styrbjorn smiled. He turned back tow ards his seer, who w as staring at the tw o girls w ith undisguised desire, for all that they stood more than a foot taller than him.

'Tell me w here she is now.'

The seer nodded, and knelt cross-legged on the floor. With one hand he drew his knife, and slashed it across his palm, which was crisscrossed with a mass of scars.

Blood w elled and muttering an incantation under his breath the seer wiped his knife clean on the matted furs w rapped around his shoulders before sheathing the blade.

Clenching his fist and holding it above him, he threw his head back and allowed the drips to fall onto his face, splashing onto his tattooed lips, his cheeks and falling upon both eyelids.

Bjarki began to rock slightly, still muttering an incantation. The taut muscles of his arms and torso, covered in ritualised scars and ink, began to tw itch as his spirit soared. God-touched as he w as, Styrbjorn felt the vicious little shaman's spirit pull clear of its mortal flesh; it felt like a cold breath on his skin as the seer's soul-spirit brushed by him and w as gone.

Moments later, he felt the shaman return, and Bjarki gave a shuddering breath as he slammed back into his body.

'Well?'

'She's five day's w alk south of the crow -fields.'

'She has an armed guard?'

'No,' said Bjarki, w iping away the blood that w as dripping from one of his nostrils.

'She has a measure of pow er of her ow n.'

'She is alone?' said Styrbjorn, concern in his voice.

'A group of w retches accompany her. She is using them for her blood-magic. They are armed, but they are not w arriors. But she does not need them for protection, my jarl

- as I said, she does not need protecting.'

Styrbjorn w as unconvinced.

'I w ant you to go to her, Bjarki. I w ill not risk anything befalling her before the consummation. Kveldulf,' he ordered, gesturing tow ards one his warriors nearby, a bow -legged, broad-shoulder Skaeling with a nose that had clearly been broken a dozen times. The warrior stepped forward and dropped to one knee. 'You and your horsemen w ill accompany Bjarki to the mainland.'

'As you w ish it, my jarl,' said Kveldulf.

'Find her, and protect her, Bjarki,' ordered Styrbjorn. 'Bring her to me. I'll see you at the crow fields - that is w here the battle is to take place, yes?'

'That is w hat I have read in the entrails, my jarl,' said Bjarki, bow ing his head.

Standing he nodded to Kveldulf. 'Ready your horsemen, w arrior. We sail w ithin the hour.'

CHAPTER FIVE

CALARD'S HEAD WASN'T pounding yet; that w ould come later. Cursing himself for having agreed to take part in the day's event, he grimaced as he accepted a lance handed to him.

The sun could not pierce the thick banks of cloud overhead, for w hich Calard w as thankful - he didn't think he could have dealt with direct sunlight stabbing into his eyes. Drinking deeply from a w aterskin, he swished the cooling liquid around his mouth. Bertelis w as riding alongside him and though he said nothing Calard could feel his brother's silent rebuke.

'Keep tight, and don't break formation,' said Montcadas, ahead of them.

The baron, being the most senior of the contingent from Bastonne, had assumed command, and w ould be leading the charge of their formation. It had been the baron's decision that all the knights of Bastonne would fight as one single lance formation, much to Calard's chagrin, for it meant that Maloric and his Sangasse lapdogs w ould be fighting at his side. He had hoped to face his rival from opposite ends of the field, but the baron had scuppered any such ideas the night before.

Indeed, had it not been for that proclamation, Calard w ould certainly not have drunk quite so much as he had - at least that w as w hat he told himself at any rate.

'Think you can manage to stay in the saddle until the start w ithout throw ing up, Garamont?' sneered Maloric.

'If I'm sick, I'll make sure it's in your direction,' muttered Calard.

'Can w e stop this line of conversation, please?' groaned Tassilo. The young knight w as positively green in the face from overindulgence.

'And for the love of the Lady stay dow nwind,' snapped Maloric. 'I can smell the wine on you from here.'

'Don't disgrace me today,' snarled Bertelis under his breath to Calard, leaning in close, and he bit his tongue not to snap back an angry retort.

'Let's show these uptight bastards how the knights of Bastonne fight!' roared Montcadas, and the nobles around Calard and Tassilo lifted their lances high with a cheer.

'Does he need to be so loud?' groaned Tassilo.

'You'll feel better to be up and moving about soon,' said Calard, though there w as little conviction in his voice.

Abruptly, Tassilo lost his battle w ith his insides, and he leant over in the saddle and vomited loudly. Maloric turned aw ay in disgust, while Huebald and Baldemund chuckled and instantly began ribbing the young knight for his lack of drinking constitution. Bertelis said nothing and merely stared straight ahead, the muscles in his jaw tw itching. Calard himself was breathing deeply.

A scabby peasant dog dodged betw een the legs of the horses and began to lap at Tassilo's vomit, and Calard felt his stomach heave. A sharp horn echoed across the field and Calard w illed himself not to be ill, holding onto his lance tightly.

The knights began to move, w alking forwards to the cheers of the crowd in the stands. Heralds hollered the names of the knights in turn as they moved forward, accompanied by further cheers and shouts, amid much banner-w aving and fanfare.

Horns blared, and drums beat out regular tattoos as the knights moved into position opposite each other across the open field.

The field had been well chosen, for it was broad and flat. It slid off to the south-w est, w here it became marshy and boggy, but w as otherw ise well drained, and though its grass w ould still doubtless be completely churned up by mid-afternoon, it would not become the muddy quagmire that had been the fields of several tournaments he had taken part in. One such tournament the previous spring, at Glaston, had been an utter debacle. By its conclusion, it had been impossible to discern who was ally and w ho w as opponent, for everyone was caked head to toe in clinging black mud that obscured their heraldry and colours. The event had been called off after more than tw o dozen deaths, most suffered w hen destriers had broken limbs in the sinking mud and throw n their riders.

Gunthar had alw ays taught him that the location of a battle w as as important for victory as any other factor, often more so even than the quality of the combatants. He had told Calard stories of castles held by half a dozen peasants against endless hordes of greenskins, and of entire armies of knights being slaughtered by low born archers because of a poorly chosen battlefield, situated with a sinking marsh across its centre.

This was a prime location for an even contest that favoured neither side, and as he cantered his destrier into position he looked across the field. The sides had been evenly split, with roughly six hundred knights gathered on each end of the tournament field. Double that number of peasants w ere gathered behind their masters, though they w ould take no direct part in the event. They were there as support for their lords, to attend to the fallen, to supply fresh lances and water on each turn.

This was not a florid, theatrical joust. This was a true test, the closest that one could come to true w arfare during times of peace. The dukes and even the king himself w ere known to compete in these events on occasion, often in disguise so as not to receive any particular quarter from their opponents, and more than one knight had been honoured for having proved a w orthy opponent to these luminaries.

In essence, this was a battle as any other battle, mortal or otherw ise. The knights, ranked up in tight formation, would charge across the field at each other in an attempt to strike their opponents from the saddle. Those unwilling or unable to continue retired, aided or carried from the field by their retainers if necessary, and so the tournament continued. Having made a pass, the knights would wheel around and their formations w ould regroup for another charge. So it w ould continue until one side w as declared the winner. More often than not, the battle w ould rage through the morning, and horns would blare, announcing a cease to the event, and the combatants w ould eat and drink and have any injuries tended. Then, another horn w ould sound, and the battle w ould recommence. Usually a victor w as declared before mid-afternoon, but it w as not unheard of for battles to rage long into the afternoon and into dusk if no clear w inner could be seen.

Serious injuries w ere commonplace, and death was an accepted part of every tourney. Even those w ith the smallest turnout w ould be lucky not to have at least one death during the day's event, but this w as but a part of w hat made the tournaments w hat they w ere. If there was no risk, then the tourney w ould be a poor training ground for the rigours of real battle.

'The enemy have refused to quit the field!' bellowed a crier, yelling the traditional phrase at the top of his lungs. 'In the Lady's name, our honour demands that w e clear the field of their presence!'

A great cheer rose from the gathered knights, and Calard heard Tassilo groan. He smiled. He w as still not feeling great, but the fresh air and light mist of rain that had begun to fall w as making him feel eminently better than he had w hen he had first risen. He might even make it through without losing the contents of his stomach, he thought.

'For Bastonne!' roared Montcadas.

The knights began to edge forw ards, nudging their steeds into a w alk, and Calard slammed dow n the visor on his helmet. That walk turned into a trot, and the knightly formations began angling tow ards each other across the field. Several smaller detachments of knights errant kicked their steeds forward on the flanks, galloping out to take up flanking positions against their opponents while their comrades advanced more slow ly.

The first strike was betw een two of these smaller detachments of young knights errant, w ho, eager to get to grips w ith the ''enemy' had charged headlong across the field tow ards each other from outset.

Cheers rose as a dozen knights w ere struck from the saddle, falling hard onto the earth.

Montcadas, riding at the tip of the w edge of Bastonnian knights, urged his steed into a canter, and the others did likewise, keeping their formation tight. Lances were held in the vertical position, and for a moment it seemed strange to Calard that the baron had a lance in his hand too, rather than his usual spiked morning star. Still, such a w eapon w ould have been inappropriately deadly for a tourney. As it was, tourney lances w ere not nearly as lethal as w ar lances, blunted and crafted to break more easily w ith far less likelihood of skewering the victim. They were capable of delivering a pow erful blow , easily enough to break bones and send a knight pitching from the saddle, but usually not enough to penetrate armour or impale.

Calard felt the familiar thrill as the speed of the knights picked up, and the ground began to thunder beneath the pounding of hooves. Great sods of earth w ere torn up as tw elve hundred knights drew towards each other, gauging the moment to low er lances and kick their horses into the gallop.

'CHARGE!' ROARED MONTCADAS, kicking his spurs into his steed's flanks. As one the Bastonnians swiftly lowered their lances and their destriers leaped forwards to meet the foe head-on and at full pace.

The knights of Bastonne and Lyonesse struck each other at full gallop, and the power of the tw o forces coming together was bone-shattering. Even muffled by his helmet the sound w as tremendous, w ith men shouting and bellowing, horses screaming, hooves pounding the ground like an avalanche. Lances cracked sharply like dry tinder as they broke upon shield and breastplate, and metal struck metal as horses and knights smashed into each other.

Adjusting his bodyw eight for the strike, Calard expertly guided his lance-tip tow ards the chest of a knight w ith a snarling lion upon his helmet crest. Intent on his ow n strike, the knight was not prepared for the blow, and Calard rose in the saddle as he struck, putting the full w eight of his armoured body and the momentum of his horse behind the blow . The strike was nigh on perfect, and it struck the knight just below the heart, lifting him from the saddle even as Calard's lance shattered into splinters.

The Lyonesse knight pitched backw ards to fall amidst the flailing hooves, and Calard w as rocked backw ards in the saddle by the force of the impact, which jarred up his arm and shoulder, numbing it. A lance speared towards him, and he turned his shield at the last moment as he reeled, forcing it to skid off the shield's surface w ithout breaking.

Splinters of w ood spattered off his helmet as more lances were broken. As he thundered past the knight, he slammed the w eighted, counterbalanced end of his splintered lance into a knight's helmet. The man did not fall, but he slid sideways in the saddle as his balance w as thrown, and Calard saw Maloric's already broken lance smash him to the ground.

Abruptly, there w as nothing in front of Calard but open ground, as the tw o w edges of knights rode clear of each other. Throwing his shattered lance to the ground, Calard turned in the saddle, smiling as he heard his brother Bertelis alongside him whoop w ith unashamed joy. Around six of his comrades had fallen in the exchange, but more than ten of the Lyonesse knights were down.

The knights rode across the field to w here their opponents had begun the charge, w here hundreds of peasants w ere arrayed, holding out fresh lances. Others w ere racing across the field either on foot or upon the backs of thick-limbed draught horses, dodging betw een charging lance formations, to attend to fallen nobles and lords. Already dozens of knights were being stretchered off the field with broken arms and legs, and the screams of horribly injured horses were cut short as their throats w ere mercifully slashed.

'Tassilo?' asked Calard, not seeing his cousin.

Huebald lifted his visor and shook his head, rolling his eyes.

'He practically threw himself onto a lance,' he said. 'I think he just w anted a lie dow n.'

Calard laughed out loud, feeling the last hint of his hangover dissipate like fog under a rising sun.

'Baron?' said Bertelis sharply, cutting through the jovial chatter.

Montcadas w as slumped in the saddle, and Calard's smile dropped from his face. He sw ung from his horse and dropped to the ground, running to the baron's side, as the big man pitched sideward.

Calard caught him, but the baron w as a huge man, and his armour easily doubled his w eight. Maloric was at his side a moment later, and together the two of them low ered the big man to the ground, the blood-feud betw een them momentarily forgotten.

A shattered lance w as embedded in the baron's chest, having punched through his breastplate. It w as on the opposite side than his heart, thankfully, but blood w as bubbling up through the rent metal, staining the light-coloured timber of the lance a deep red. A tourney lance should not have been able to penetrate a breastplate, but it had been know n to happen on occasion, usually when the blunted tip of the lance had already been broken off.

The baron w as roaring through gritted teeth like a w ounded bear.

'Get a surgeon here, now!' bellowed someone.

Calard w as staring at the w ound, realising that the lance tip had pierced one of the baron's lungs, and know ing that he would likely begin drowning in his own blood shortly if nothing was done. Nevertheless, the shock of seeing the injury had frozen him into inaction, and he stared numbly at the blood foam bubbling from the w ound.

Unaffected by Calard's immobility, Maloric pulled the baron's helmet from his head.

The Sangasse nobleman hissed, and Baldemund, standing behind them, swore under his breath. The baron w as still roaring in pain, his jaw gritted so tight that Calard feared he w ould shatter a tooth.

A splinter of wood four inches long had pierced Montcadas's right eye - his sole remaining eye. Blood was streaming down his cheek and soaking his silver-flecked beard. Instantly, Calard understood what had happened. When the lance that had pierced Montcadas's chest had shattered, one of the long splinters of w ood had shot upw ards, slipping through the visor-slit of the baron's helmet and sunk into his eye.

'Pull it out, Lady damn it,' roared Montcadas.

'Don't touch it,' Huebald advised. 'Pulling it out might do more damage.'

The baron reached for the sliver of wood and Calard was shaken out of his stupor, grabbing Montcadas's gauntleted hand before the older knight could rip the offending splinter from his eye. The baron roared in agony and rage, fighting against the hands holding him dow n, desperate to tear the shard of lance-w ood from his eye.

'More damage?' Baldemund muttered under his breath. 'The man won't see again, mark my w ords.'

Calard knew instinctively that his cousin spoke the truth. Montcadas was shaking his head from side to side in absolute agony. His eye w as a pool of blood, and Calard w inced just looking at the stiletto-sharp, red-soaked splinter protruding from the socket.

'Where's that damn surgeon!' bellow ed Calard.

A blast of horns sounded in the distance, echoed by dozens of others back and forth across the tournament field. It w as the signal to cease combat, and for a moment Calard thought that perhaps the competition was being called to a halt because of Montcadas's injury. He dismissed it straight aw ay - even deaths rarely halted a tourney.

He heard men shouting in the distance, voices raised in concern and inquiry, but he paid them no mind.

A surgeon arrived, slipping his way through the knights crowded around Montcadas, and Calard w as pushed aside. He stood up, feeling helpless and distraught.

More raised voices intruded on him and horns blared nearby. He turned tow ards Bertelis, w ho had turned away from Montcadas and w as craning his head to see what w as going on. The men all around were calling out in confusion, speaking in hurried tones as w hispers spread like wildfire through the gathered knights.

'What is it?' said Calard.

'Yeoman outriders, w earing the colours of the Duke of Lyonesse,' said Bertelis.

'Lyonesse is under attack!' shouted one of the yeomen from horseback. 'The duke requests your aid! The enemy is upon us!'

'What enemy?' shouted Calard.

'Norscans!' came the reply.

CHAPTER SIX

EVERY MOVEMENT WAS agony. Her joints throbbed w ith rheumatism and arthritis, and she became short of breath after hobbling no more than tw enty paces. Her vision w as hazy and indistinct, and the bright light hurt her eyes. She leant up against a barrel placed to the side of the muddy roadw ay through the hovel village to catch her breath.

Elisabet had left the crone's cave before daw n, desperately trying to make her w ay back to her home. Surely, she thought desperately, someone would be able to help her.

Elisabet w as still gasping like a fish stranded on land when the rock hit her. It struck her on the cheek, splitting her aged skin, and weak, thin blood ran dow n her face.

She cried out and raised her feeble arms up to protect herself as more rocks, lumps of manure and rotten vegetables rained dow n upon her.

'Witch! Witch! Witch!' shouted the voices of children, taunting her.

Elisabet covered her face protectively. A rotten marrow exploded as it hit the barrel beside her, spreading stinking foulness and writhing maggots. Another rock struck her, this time hitting her between her withered breasts, and there was a dry, w ooden snap as a rib broke.

Crying out, she staggered to her feet and hobbled as fast as she could, trying to escape the relentless children. She slipped in the mud and fell.

'Witch! Witch! Witch!'

The children closed in around her, and several of the larger children began hitting her w ith sticks. Scabby dogs darted around the filth-encrusted youngsters, yapping excitedly, and Elisabet cow ered, crying and wailing.

'Get aw ay, you dirty little w retches!' bellowed a voice, and the old woman cried out in relief as the children scattered, shouting insults and laughing.

She lay crying in the mud and the manure, trying desperately to catch her breath and slow her heart that w as fluttering like a bird's. Everything hurt. Vaguely she registered a group of men standing around her, but she didn't have the energy to lift herself up or to offer them thanks.

'Ware yourself, w arden,' said one of them. 'That's the crone Haegtesse, that is.'

'Bollocks,' scoffed the warden.

'That's her all right,' said another. 'Old w itch put a curse on my cousin, she did. I ain't touchin' her. She's got the evil eye.'

A shadow leant over her, and she cowered before it.

'That right, you old hag?' said a brutish voice.

She shook her head painfully, moaning.

'I asked you a question, w itch,' said the warden, jabbing her w ith the butt of his halberd.

'No,' she managed.

'You callin' my man a liar? This good upstanding pillar of the community, here?' he said, jabbing her in the chest again with his halberd.

'No,' she w himpered. She crawled on hands and knees towards the man, scrabbling for him w ith claw-like hands. He stepped away from her reach.

Trying to reclaim some dignity, Elisabet climbed to her feet, straightened her back and lifted her chin to look upon the yeoman ruffians.

'Don't look 'er in the eye!' w arned one of them, and they all took a w ary step backw ards.

Affecting an imperious tone, she addressed them.

'I am the Lady Elisabet of Marlemont, and I demand that you escort me to my father's estate immediately.'

For a second there w as silence, and then the yeomen burst into laughter. The sound struck Elisabet like the stones that had been hurled against her moments earlier, battering her w ith equal force and she felt herself wither beneath the onslaught.

A name floated up from the back of her mind, and she realised that she recognised the voice of the w arden. He was one of the peasant w arriors that had accompanied her beloved Calard to the east six months previous, to fight the greenskins menacing Bordeleaux. Before he had left, he had done her a kindness, she remembered. What w as his name? Perdi? Perlo?

'Perdo,' she said, pointing a finger towards him as she remembered. 'Warden Perdo.'

The w arden stepped back from her w ith a sharp intake of breath.

'How do you know my name, hag?' the peasant yeoman demanded, his men shuffling nervously.

'You did me a kindness once. I was riding with Calard, returning from the w estern fields. A dog barked, startling my mare and she shied. I lost my balance for a moment, and dropped a scarf to the ground. You picked it up for me,' said Elisabet, the vision as clear in her mind as if it had been yesterday. 'I tried to stop him, but Calard's brother, Bertelis, cuffed you over the head for it. Said I'd never get the stink of your touch out of the silk. I am sorry for that. It w as a noble gesture, and I never thanked you for it.' Silence greeted her claim.

'Told you, Perdo. She's a w itch,' muttered one of the men.

Elisabet made to speak again, but the w arden stepped forwards and slapped her across the face w ith flat of his mailed hand. The blow stung her, loosening several rotten teeth and sent her sprawling back dow n into the mud.

'There w eren't nobody there but myself, the lady, and the tw o young lords,' he snapped. 'Only way you could know that is if you really are a w itch. Bind her! And gag her, so she don't bew itch us.'

Elisabet w as shoved face-first into the mud, and her hands were trussed up painfully behind her back. She w inced, trying to beg them to stop, to listen to her, but her head w as reefed backw ards and a tw isted strip of stinking cloth was jammed into her bloody mouth, then tied around the back of her head. Her ankles were bound w ith biting cord, and she w as lifted up roughly, like a prize pig being led to the blooding.

'Take 'er to the dungeons,' ordered the warden. 'She can rot dow n there until the chamberlain decides what to do w ith her.'

CHLOD LICKED HIS lips as he glanced fearfully towards the noblewoman seated before the glow ing embers. Her arms w ere covered in blood up to her elbow s, and her hair w as matted and tangled. Her once fair dress was muddied and torn around its hems, and her face w as streaked with grime and dirt.

The corpse of one of the pilgrims was spread-eagled out before the w itch, chest ripped open and ribs splayed. She paw ed through the innards, muttering under her breath, and lifted several organs to her nose. Some she merely sniffed, others she licked or nibbled. Chlod's stomach churned. Her hands dipped again into the viscera, hauling intestines out and slapping them dow n onto the flat of a rock, and she began poking through the mass of stinking guts.

The pilgrims huddled together in a miserable clump, their faces long and their eyes haunted. Some of them, like Chlod, were watching the woman's grisly work, while others had their eyes tightly closed, their heads turned resolutely aw ay. Some cried softly to themselves, and one was muttering a prayer to Reolus, begging him to deliver them from this evil creature.

'Quiet,' snapped the w itch, casting a hateful glance in their direction, and the pilgrims shrunk under her gaze.

Turning back tow ards her grisly work, the witch peered intently into the human entrails, poking at them w ith her long fingernails and delving amongst the glistening, ropey tract w ith her blood-slick, slender hands.

From w ithin a big bag covered in matted fur, the w oman pulled a vile doll, its body made from a tw isted burl of w ood and strands of dark hair stitched into its head. Its face w as horrific, something from a nightmare, w ith the skin of some creature pulled taut across it and held in place w ith nails. Sharp animal teeth, perhaps from a w olf or a badger, protruded from its gash of a mouth, and its eyes w ere staring buttons on bone. What looked like tattoos had been painted onto the thing's lips. It was a hideous thing, and the witch stroked a bloody hand across its hair, smoothing it dow n in a horrible mimicry of child-like affection.

The w itch nestled the doll amidst the entrails of the pilgrim, standing it upright so that it looked back at her from w ithin its gory throne, and she began to chant, rocking back and forth and holding her bloody hands out before her.

The pilgrims murmured in fear, hugging each other tighter. There were only a handful of them left now. This was the second victim that the witch had taken for her vile practices. At least it w as one less mouth to feed, Chlod thought.

He didn't have any idea w hat the witch's destination was, but she seemed to know w here she was heading. She pushed them on relentlessly, heading in a steady northw esterly direction. She seemed to have a sixth-sense for avoiding trouble, and guided them around patrols of knights and men-at-arms, avoiding chattels, castles and peasant villages as if she could see the lay of the land from high above, like it was a map laid out before her.

Chlod felt a chill run down his spine. Frost began to form before his eyes, coating the low -hanging branches near the w itch, making them droop low from the weight, and he saw a thin coating of ice appearing on the doll, crackling across its face like a creeping sickness.

The w itch looked up into the empty space above the coals of her fire pit and smiled.

Chlod w ondered if she were demented, for there was nothing there, but she began to converse w ith the empty space as if it w ere a living and breathing person. He w ondered if there w as something there, something that he did not have the ability to perceive.

She w as talking in a language that he did not understand, one that sounded harsh and guttural to his ears used to the soft and florid language of the Bretonnians. He had heard men of the Empire speaking their ow n tongue, and this language w as something akin to that, though subtly different and perhaps not quite as hard on the ear as that loathsome tongue.

The one-sided exchange lasted for several minutes, until an accord seemed to be met, and the conversation ended. The icy chill departed, and Chlod began rubbing his hands together, trying to restore the circulation in his fat, sausage-like digits.

One by one, the pilgrims drifted into a restless sleep. Chlod remained awake the longest, w atching the witch as she continued to poke through the grisly remains of his erstw hile comrade until his eyes started to droop. He hadn't slept in several days, and w hen oblivion finally came upon him, sneaking up like a phantom in the dark, he slept like a dead man, neither moving, nor dreaming.

THE SEVERED HEADS hanging from the saddle and traces of Bjarki's pony bounced up and dow n as he galloped across the dark landscape. For three nights he had been back in the lands of his birth. They had ridden hard through the nights, moving w ithout pause from dusk till daw n. The Skaeling ponies were hardy beasts, and though Bretonnian warhorses would easily outpace them over short distances, they w ere capable of maintaining their pace for hours on end without rest. After three nights of ceaseless travel, Bjarki and the band of riders moving with him had covered hundreds of miles, but their steeds showed no sign of tiring. They lay low during the daylight hours.

A dark, insatiable hunger gnawed within Bjarki. For long years he had waited for his chance to avenge himself against the society that had turned its back upon him, and now that his time for vengeance had come he found himself drunk w ith the desire for bloodshed.

Being back in Bretonnia brought all his old memories resurfacing. With the return of this know ledge, his fury and hatred increased tenfold.

Had he stayed on at his father's w ealthy castle-estate, no more than three days ride from w here he now was, then the Enchantress would have come to claim him sooner or later. Such w as the w ay of things in Bretonnia. In this land, those born with the gift - ' fey-touched' as the Bretonnians would say - w ere regarded with outright fear and suspicion. The Enchantress scoured the countryside for children with the w itch-sight, for those w ho had the gift of premonition and who could instinctively tap into the breath of the gods that flow ed down from the north. These children she gathered to her, taking them from their families who attempted to forget that they had ever been born. Perhaps one girl in every hundred taken w ould return a decade or more later as a handmaiden of the Lady, one of her damsels, schooled in the mystical arts; boys that w ere taken w ere never seen again.

Even as a child he had heard a myriad of possible fates for these sons of Bretonnia stolen from their families. Some said that they w ere abandoned in the middle of the dark w ildwoods of the realms, left to fend for themselves against the beasts that dw elled there. Some even said that that w as what beastmen w ere - the boy-children abandoned by the Enchantress and altered by her magic. Others said that they were spirited aw ay to the Lady's fair isle, there to live in perpetual states of childhood, doomed never to grow up, and to serve forever as pageboys and servants. Some even w hispered that it was the sacrifice of these children that kept the seasons turning, and that if the practise were ever to cease, that Bretonnia w ould become entrapped in an eternal, never-ending winter.

Such w ould have been his fate. In a society raised to abhor those w ith his talents, he had no place. His parents hated and feared him, and even as a toddler he had come to despise them for it, taking pleasure in making them feel awkward w hen guests paid visits, antagonising them whenever he could.

In the w itching hours of one mid-autumn night, he had been w oken by his elderly caretaker, and hurried from his father's castle. Scared, and not knowing what was happening, he remained silent as he was led down the empty w inding streets tow ards the harbour. A boat w as w aiting for them. Terrified and shivering he had somehow fallen asleep.

When he had aw oken it was just before daw n and land was only a vague, misty shape on the horizon. Wide eyed and pale, he'd been given food and water, and the old man tried to calm him. The Enchantress was coming, he'd said. Doubtless his parents w ould have been relieved to have had him taken off their hands, but this old man, fearful of w hat w ould become of his young charge, had taken it upon himself to save the boy. The old fool.

It had been the w ill of the gods that the Norscans found him.

Bjarki licked his lips, tasting the blood upon them, rich and metallic. He was in his correct, allotted place, doing what it was the gods wished of him.

The w oman who w ould bear his jarl a son w as nothing more than a tool, he saw that now - a lure to bring the Skaelings to these lands. She was important - if it w ere not for her, his jarl w ould not have been tempted to attack the southlanders - but he w as under no illusions about her real value. How ever, his lord would have no reason to keep his w arriors here in Bretonnia if any harm came to her, and so he w ould protect her w ith his life.

She w as close; he could almost taste the breath of the gods upon her.

Bjarki turned tow ards the minor Skaeling chieftain, Kveldulf. The man w as a born horseman. He w as aw kward when moving on his own two feet - his legs were bow -

legged and too short for his broad body - but in the saddle there were few Skaelings w ho could match him.

'Hurry,' he urged the chieftain. 'She is close - less than an hour ahead of us.'

The horseman nodded his head, making his beard, braided with tiny skulls, shiver like the charms Skaeling women used to protect their young from w ind-borne daemons.

With a barked command he passed the w ord, and the twenty horsemen picked up their pace.

CHLOD WAS PISSING up against a tree when the marauders rode into camp.

Hurriedly, he finished his business and dropped to the ground. He swore to himself.

Why did these things always seem to happen when he was relieving himself?

There was a score of them, brutal looking savages dressed in outlandish furs and leathers, their heads covered in horned helmets. They were big men, and their arms and faces w ere covered in warpaint and tattoos. Many sported beards of blond hair, and they rode upon unarmoured, stocky horses. These were sturdier beasts than the w arhorses of the nobility, smaller and more compact, w ith shaggier coats. Severed heads and hands hung from their saddles, and vile symbols had been daubed and branded into their flanks.

Chlod pressed low against the ground, his eyes w ide and fearful as he peered around the thick roots of the tree at the intruders. It w as still an hour or tw o before daw n, and had the urge to urinate not come upon him, he w ould undoubtedly have still been fast asleep.

The marauders stood motionless amongst the trees as they surveyed the camp. Chlod didn't know if he had been seen, but he dared not move for fear of draw ing attention to himself.

As it w as, the attention of the riders appeared to be focused upon the w itch w ho stood to meet them.

One of the riders, a short, wiry figure w ith unruly dark hair and a massive cloak of spiked fur over his shoulders, dropped to the ground, stepping tow ards the witch, speaking the same language that Chlod had heard the witch talking earlier in the night. She answered him in the same language, and he gestured questioningly tow ards the sleeping pilgrims.

Hearing voices, one of them w oke up and yaw ned. That yaw n turned into a startled squeal as she saw the horsemen.

The w itch shrugged her shoulders and the wiry one smiled, before swinging tow ards the pilgrims.

Chlod shrank back further betw een the roots of the tree as he saw the savage figure slide a handaxe from his belt, keeping his body betw een it and the pilgrims, so that they could not yet see it. The others w ere awake now, and they stared around them w ith wide eyes, visibly shaking. One of them cried out for Reolus to save them, but no avenging paladin of light appeared. Another waved a slipper that the Grail Knight had once w orn at the horsemen, perhaps hoping that they w ere nothing more than apparitions and that by brandishing the holy artefact w ould banish them. It didn't.

The fur-cloaked individual slammed his handaxe into the neck of the slipper-wielder, w ho fell clutching at the w ound, blood fountaining from betw een his fingers. Two of the pilgrims made a run for it, but these the horsemen struck down. An axe spun end over end and struck one of them in the back, and another of the marauders stood in the saddle and hurled a javelin that took the other pilgrim in the neck.

She fell no more than ten yards from Chlod's position, and for a moment he stared into her eyes as she looked right at him. The tip of the javelin, along with two feet of its length, was protruding from her throat and blood bubbled around it as she died, one hand reaching out for Chlod, w ho shrank back.

A horseman thundered across the clearing and ripped the javelin loose, and Chlod felt certain that he had been seen. He closed his eyes, but opened one a moment later w hen the fatal blow did not fall. The horseman had turned away from him, and looking past him, Chlod saw the last of his pilgrim companions butchered, head caved in by the w iry one's axe.

One of the horsemen moved forward, and the head of his steed lowered tow ards a bloodied body. The pony bit into the pilgrim's arm, tearing off a strip of flesh that it gulped dow n greedily, and Chlod felt his gorge rise as the other steeds stepped forw ard to graze on the corpses.

The axe-w ielding savage spun suddenly, turning his gaze in Chlod's direction, eyes narrow ing. It w as clear that he could not see him in the gloom, but perhaps he sensed him there. Blood and brain matter dripped from his axe head, and he took a step in Chlod's direction.

A w ord from the w itch halted him, and he spat a reply in her direction. He threw a quick, venomous glance in Chlod's general direction, and then swung away w ith some reluctance. A horse w as made available for the witch, and though the beast shied aw ay from her, whinnying in fear, a barked w ord from the w iry man made it freeze. She climbed up into the saddle of the beast, w hose ears were flat against its head and eyes w ere wide in panic.

Without a backw ards glance, the witch rode aw ay from the camp, accompanied by her new found companions, leaving the bloodied corpses of the pilgrims in her wake.

Chlod lay motionless, petrified into immobility, as he listened to the sound of horses'

hooves moving into the distance. He lay there long after the sound of the horses had faded. Not until the first w eak rays of the early w inter dawn turned night into day did he dare shift his position.

Shivering uncontrollably, he shuffled forward and began to rifle through the pockets and pouches of his dead comrades. He took w hat little foodstuffs and coin they had, and almost as an afterthought, he stripped them of all the artefacts of devotion.

Though the holy items had done little to protect them from the axes of the marauders, Chlod judged that he had little to lose by carrying them, and if perchance there w as any remnant of sacred pow er within them, then he figured he might magnify their protection by bearing them all.

Half an hour later Chlod w andered out of the treeline, his pockets bulging. He wore a dented knightly helmet on his head, one that had been worn and discarded by Reolus a decade earlier, and a breastplate upon his chest that had been shorn almost completely in half by the dreaded cockatrice of Yoravale. He'd discarded his trusty spiked club, and now wore a sw ord on his hip, one once wielded by Reolus, though it had been tossed aside after its blade had been shattered tw o feet from its tip by a river troll at the Bridge of Tears. His malformed, hunchbacked body w as w rapped in scraps of material from Reolus's personal standard, and he was beginning to feel good, upbeat even. Once again, he'd survived against the odds and come out, if not smelling of roses, at least better off than he had been an hour earlier.

A smug smile w as smeared across his uneven face as he walked out onto the fields beyond the tree line.

In the distance he saw a w agon, loaded with produce, making its way along a pitted roadw ay.

Snow began to fall, but even that could do nothing to lessen Chlod's buoyant mood.

Breaking into an aw kward, loping jog, Chlod headed for the distant w agon.

CHAPTER SEVEN

THE BRETONNIAN ARMY was gathering strength as it moved northward. Each day, hundreds more knights and their respective entourages joined the march, answering the Duke of Lyonesse's call to w ar. Word was received that already Duke Adalhard had already engaged the Norscan vanguard on the fields of northern Lyonesse, fighting them to a standstill, but that w hile he was engaged, a far larger force had sw ung to the north-w est, riding unopposed inland into hillier country.

From the reports of the yeomen outriders, it w as understood that the Norscans had landed w ithout w arning some three days ride north of Castle Lyonesse and struck sw iftly inland, burning everything in its path. The force was said to number in the tens of thousands.

It had pained Calard to leave Baron Montcadas behind. The grizzled, tough old fighter had been treated as best he could, and the field surgeons had been confident that he w ould recover w ell from the wound he had suffered in the chest, barring complications arising from infections. However, there had been nothing that could be done for the baron's eye. The splinter of lance that had embedded itself there had damaged it beyond repair. Having already lost his left eye in battle against the beastmen six months earlier, the baron w as now blind, condemned to live out the rest of his life in darkness. Worse, it ensured that he was unable to fight for his duke and king, for w hat good w as a blind knight in battle? How could he fulfil his sworn duty if he could not even defend himself, let alone the lands bequeathed to him by his lord?

Montcadas had put on a brave face, but Calard had seen through his bluster, recognising that he was fighting back a terrible black despair. In the care of the young Lady Josephine, and escorted by a cadre of retainers, he would even now be making his w ay back to Bastonne. Calard's young cousin Orlando had wanted to ride w ith them to w ar, and had sulked when he had been told in no uncertain terms that he w ould be riding back to Bastonne w ith the baron and Josephine. Calard had asked that they come visit him at Garamont upon his return and had fared them w ell, feeling a deep sense of pity for the baron.

Calard had seen the knight kill orcs and beastmen by the dozen. He'd seen him bash the brains out of tw isted monstrosities twice his size, and seen him shrug off injuries that w ould have slain a lesser man. And yet, for all his resilience all it had taken was a random freak accident in a tourney to lay him low . The field surgeon had said he'd been lucky - had the splinter sunk an extra half inch it would have pierced the brain.

In the baron's place, Calard w ondered if he might have preferred that it had.

Word had been received that a Bretonnian army w as moving in support from Couronne, dispatched at the king's behest, and it was said that it already crossed the Sannez and w as pushing into the ancestral lands of L'Anguille. There, it was due to link w ith a substantial, if sluggishly marshalled army of that dukedom, and from there they w ould turn southward in the hope of halting the Norscans' progress inland.

There had been bad blood betw een Lyonesse and L'Anguille of late, border disputes and a rekindling of a long dormant feud, and it w as said that this was the reason for Duke Taubert of L'Anguille's lack of urgency in coming to the aid of his neighbour.

Apparently, he had raised a considerable army, but w as holding it back, w aiting to see if the Norscans turned tow ards his ow n lands. In the meantime, it seemed he was content to let them ravage the lands of his rival. Only when the force sent from Couronne entered his realm did he make any pretence of aiding Lyonesse.

The Norscans' goal remained unclear. Had they been just a raiding force intent on loot and slaughter, then doubtless they w ould have stuck close to the shore, for there w ere many settlements and towns dotted all along the north-west coastline. They might have sailed eastward tow ards the city of L'Anguille itself, with its famed lighthouse built long before the rise of the Bretonni, or sailed southward tow ards the bountiful lands of Bordeleaux, Aquitaine and Brionne.

Calard and his companions had left the tourney fields two and a half days ago, and ridden hard through the lands of Lyonesse. It w as a fecund landscape, though more open than Bastonne, and almost oppressively flat. It was markedly colder here than it w as in his homeland too, and cutting w inds whipped across the fields from the distant coast.

Pulling fur-lined cloaks around them tightly to combat the ceaseless winds, utterly ignorant of the discomfort of the freezing Garamont men-at-arms struggling to keep up the relentless pace, the brothers allowed the drudgery and boredom of the ride to w ash over them. It w as too cold and the wind too loud for them to pass the time in conversation, and each was left alone with his thoughts.

Only at night, as they clustered around campfires, drinking wine and feasting on succulent venison and boar did they sw ap stories and boasts w ith the other knights w ith whom they travelled. Calard, his brother noted, drank only sparingly, and was mixing water w ith his wine.

Several of the Lyonessian knights had fought the Norscans before, and the brothers listened to their tales intently, seeking to learn all that they could of the foes they w ould be facing w ithin days. It seemed that the sight of their dreaded longships appearing in the night to raid and burn w as not uncommon along the Lyonesse coasts. From these w arriors they learnt that the Norse were depraved, bloodthirsty barbarians that had sold their souls to Dark Pow ers, towering brutes of men, savage and fearless in battle. It w as said that they had no concept of honour and were nothing more than merciless butchers, neither giving nor expecting mercy on the field of battle. It w as also said that they murdered their own children, the ones deemed too small or w eak to uphold the honour of the tribe, and that their lives were ones of constant struggle and w arfare, against both rivals and the harsh landscape of Norsca itself, filled as it w as with mutated, predatory beasts, never-ending winters and months on end of absolute darkness.

They heard tales of berserkers more animal than man, who foamed at the mouth and felt no pain as they hurled themselves at their foe, and of shaggy beasts that came dow n from the frozen mountainous lands of the barbarians to join battle. They heard tell of dark sorcerers w ho called down the curses of their bloodthirsty gods, and of daemons of blood and fire that stalked alongside the Norscans, flames billowing from their maw s and their blades smoking with infernal runes.

What made them w orse in Calard's mind was that they were, or at least had once been, men. These were not near-mindless, savage creatures like greenskins, whose nature it w as to fight and kill, nor were they feral beasts of the forest w hose base, uncontrollable urges and innate jealousy forced them to seek out humans to kill. No, these w ere men, thinking, rational men, who had chosen willingly to w alk a path into damnation. They revelled in it.

Calard shuddered to think of how far they had allowed themselves to fall.

He w as riding alongside his brother in silence, with his cousins Tassilo, Baldemund and Huebald nearby. Horizontal sleet slashed at them, and they were braced against biting w ind, lost in their own misery. The other knights that paid fealty to Garamont rode behind them, and Calard's men-at-arms, bone-w eary and half-frozen, marched and stumbled alongside, heads bow ed. These peasants, bedecked in tabards of blue and red, bearing heavy polearms and shields freshly painted with Calard's dragon heraldry, w ere forced to stomp through the snowy, long grass alongside the road, w hich was occupied by the knights of the army.

One of the peasants stumbled, clearly exhausted. The man had w rapped a threadbare strip of cloth around his lower face in an attempt to keep w arm, but he had no gloves, and he w as shivering uncontrollably. He lurched into the roadway in front of Bertelis's steed, tripping over his broad-headed polearm, and the younger Garamont noble w as forced to drag his steed's head to the side, pulling the destrier out of the w ay to avoid a collision. As he passed the man, Bertelis kicked him in the side of his pot helmet, knocking him to the ground.

Turning in his saddle, Bertelis glared angrily down at the man, pulling his mink-lined cloak close around his neck with one sheepskin lined glove. His gaze roved across the men-at-arms and settled on the yeoman in charge of the regiment, a thick-jaw ed, brutish man sporting a livid scar across his left cheek. His lips were blue, and his teeth w ere chattering.

'Discipline your man, yeoman,' Bertelis snapped. 'Had I not been w ary, that one might have injured my horse. See that he suffers twenty lashings at the end of the day's march. And I w ant your entire regiment on a double-w atch duty tonight in penitence for his failings.'

The yeoman w arden bow ed his head, accepting the punishment without complaint.

Any w ord of defiance would only have made things worse for him and his men, and w ith a nod, he ordered the man w ho had stumbled lifted back to his feet, and the march continued.

'Lazy w retches,' said Bertelis as he turned away. Calard merely grunted in response.

Another half an hour passed in silence, until a shout came from up ahead. Peering through the blinding white gale, Calard saw Laudethaire and one of his pegasus knights descending through the clouds, fighting against the buffeting winds. The Parravonians had been ranging out ahead of the army, scouring the land below.

'Hope the bastard falls off,' remarked Bertelis as Laudethaire came swooping down to land.

'I'd pay to see that,' said Calard.

It w as from the pegasus knights that the army had learnt of the movements of Duke Adalhard and his warriors, and of the army of Couronne and L'Anguille moving south-w est to cut off the Norscans.

'I'm going to ride forw ard to hear w hat news he brings,' said Calard. 'I could do w ith moving, just to try and w arm up a bit. I think my arse is frozen to the saddle. Coming w ith me?'

Bertelis nodded his head in response.

'Keep an eye on this lot,' said Calard to his cousins, nodding towards the men-at-arms stumbling alongside the road. 'Make sure they don't slacken off the pace.'

Kicking their steeds forward, the brothers pulled off the roadway and cantered up past line upon line of knights. Men-at-arms, w retched peasant bow men and servants scurried out of their w ay like vermin fleeing before a lamp, but Calard paid them no mind - they may as w ell have been invisible to him. Towards the head of the column he rode, passing several hundred knights whom he had seen at the tourney, though he had been unable to spot the knight w ho had beaten Bertelis in the duel, Merovech of Arlons. He certainly would have been handy in the coming battle, for rarely had Calard seen a knight more skilful with the blade.

Horns blew , and the entire column came slowly to a halt.

Bertelis shook his head as many hundreds of peasants by the roadside slumped gratefully to the ground. Others quickly broke open w agons of food and drink, running lightly through the ranks of knights offering refreshments.

'It'll take an age to get them moving again now ,' he said.

Cantering forw ard, they came upon a circle of knights that had gathered around Laudethaire to hear his report. The blond-haired knight, clearly enjoying the attention, w as speaking to Orderic, the noble who had organised the tourney.

Calard and Bertelis nudged their horses forward until they were positioned just outside the inner circle of knights, and they strained forward to hear Laudethaire's w ords.

'They are riding ten miles ahead of us, my lord,' the Parravonian said, in answer to a question from Orderic.

'Who's he talking about?' Calard said to a nearby knight.

'Norse w ar party,' answ ered the man.

'They are riding hard, in order to rejoin their main force. They have with them a noblew oman of Bretonnia,' said Laudethaire, his voice carrying over the wind, and his gaze passing over the gathered knights theatrically.

Calard frow ned, and several other knights voiced their outrage.

'A captive?' called one knight.

'I w ould presume so,' answ ered Laudethaire. 'I w ould have launched a rescue attempt, of course, but the cross w inds would have made such an attack a foolish, suicidal endeavour. It is risk enough that my pegasus fly at all in these conditions.'

'Of course,' said Bertelis under his breath.

'She must be rescued,' announced Orderic. 'She is a noblewoman of Bretonnia. She cannot be allow ed to suffer whatever loathsome fate aw aits her at the hands of the savages. If w e sent riders ahead, now, do you think they would reach the war party before it rejoins the full Norse army?'

'No,' said Laudethaire. 'But there is more. The enemy, it seems, has grown w eary of running. They have set camp, and aw ait us no more than half a day's ride to the north. It seems that a stage has been set for us to face the Norse in battle at last!'

A cheer rose from that pronouncement.

'And w hat of the army of Duke Adalhard?' said Calard, raising his voice so that he w as heard. 'And of the forces of Couronne, and L'Anguille?'

Laudethaire looked through the crowd at Calard, assessing who it w as that addressed him. His eyes flickered condescendingly over Calard's heraldry and bearing a look of distaste on his handsome face. Clearly unimpressed, he turned away.

'The army of Lyonesse is making camp five miles from the Norscans' position,' he said finally. 'If you ride hard, you should make it there before daybreak.'

'And the knights of Couronne and L'Anguille?' said Calard, an irritated edge to his voice.

'They are a day and half aw ay,' said Laudethaire, casting another condescending glance in his direction. 'Have I answered enough of your questions now, Bastonne?'

Calard felt his face redden as several knight chuckled, and he saw Bertelis reach for his sw ord. Calard reached out a hand to halt his brother.

'For now , yes, oh Beloved of Parravon,' said Calard in a mocking tone that raised more chuckles.

'Enjoy riding through the snow and the mud,' snapped Laudethaire, and with that, he spun his pegasus around, w hich snorted and stamped its hooves. It broke into a gallop, w ings unfurling and beating hard as it soared up into the air.

'He w ill be sipping wine in the duke's camp w ithin the hour, I'll wager,' said Bertelis, as he and Calard sw ung aw ay from the disbanding gathering.

'Bastard.'

* * *

AS NIGHT DESCENDED over northern Lyonesse like a shroud the Skaeling horsemen thundered into the Norscan encampment, Bjarki and Haegtesse riding at the fore. The shaggy coated Norscan ponies' flanks were lathered in sweat. Hounds snarled, and bondsmen and warriors moved out of the w ay respectfully, eyeing the w itch desirously.

Haegtesse rode w ith her head held high, enjoying the stares. She had made herself more presentable for the lord of the Skaelings, braiding her hair into plaits and w ashing the blood and grime from her pale skin. A blood bear's pelt hung across her shoulders, the fur spiked and thick, and her totem-dolls hung from her delicate silver belt. To the Skaelings Haegtesse looked like some foreign princess, and they felt pride that this w as to be the one w ho would bear their jarl a son. Pale, youthful, cold and beautiful, she drew many openly lustful looks and enthusiastic w hoops from these men w ho had not had a w oman in weeks, though those nearest to her lowered their eyes and backed aw ay, feeling in their bones and their guts that she w as powerfully god-touched.

Night w as drawing in quickly, and the sky overhead w as dark with movement. Tens of thousands of ravens and crow s accompanied the Skaelings, hanging overhead like an impenetrable thundercloud, hungry and impatient for the slaughter to begin.

These dense flocks of carrion eaters had accompanied the Norscans from their homeland, a black amorphous cloud of feathers and malicious will that had shadow ed their longships, knowing that a feast of soft flesh w ould soon be theirs.

Less mundane beasts circled overhead, shadowy hissing creatures w ith leathery w ings that snapped like canvas sails.

In the distance there was a trumpeting roar, and the ground shook as some beast of immense w eight and power thrashed against its restraints. Laughter and the sounds of feasting w arriors mingled with the sound of weapons being sharpened, of seers invoking the blessings of the Dark Gods. Those Norscans with more than a little beast in them, the ones known as the ulfwerener, howled up at the rising green moon, the eye of the gods, and the bestial sound w as joined by the roars, grow ls and how ls of many hundreds of the immense hounds that prow led the outskirts of the camp, seeking easy meat.

While her outw ards appearance was one of youth and health, Haegtesse could already feel the malignant black cancers growing inside her, corrupting her newfound body from w ithin. Already they were working their way insidiously through her liver and stomach, and their loathsome black touch w as reaching towards her lungs. It w as happening quicker now than she had experienced before - each new body that she claimed decayed quicker than the last, and it seemed that the process was speeding up exponentially. She doubted that this body, young and strong as it w as, w ould last her longer than a handful of years, a decade at a push, before it w as a little more than a rotting cadaver, toothless and haggard, having aged a dozen years w ith each passing season.

Much of her strength w as currently being utilised to protect her womb from the malignant sickness spreading through her body, shielding it so as to ensure that she did not fall barren. Such a thing could not be allow ed to come to pass - the daemon-child that she would bear the Skaeling jarl w as the key to her immortality.

The Norscans had set their camp at the northern end of a sw eeping valley ridged by steep sided hills. At the far end of the valley rose a hill that was not unlike an ancient burial mound, though of a scale that w ould only have been built for a king of great w ealth and influence. No one knew how these mounds, or mottes as they w ere known locally to the Lyonessians who lived in their shadow, had come into existence. They seemed too regular in shape to have been naturally formed, so it w as surmised that they had been built of human endeavour, but for w hat purpose remained unclear.

Perhaps they were burial mounds, of the first Bretons tribesmen that had come to these lands, or perhaps they had been raised as defensive structures, with wooden hilltop forts constructed on top of them by even more ancient peoples long forgotten.

Whatever the case, the mottes dotted the landscape of northern Lyonesse. Most of them had castles built atop them, for they occupied pow erful positions in the landscape, but this particular motte w as said to be cursed, and no one had ever dared to raise a foundation upon it.

'Make w ay!' snarled Bjarki.

Passing by tens of hundreds of Skaeling warriors, all readying themselves for battle, the horsemen w ended their way tow ards the motte at the far end of the valley.

Haegtesse's eyes shone is she stared up at the tow ering hillock. That was the place w here the child must be conceived. She had read the portent in the eyes of the sacrifices she had lured into her woodland cave, seen it in the entrails of a dozen slaughtered sw ine and w itnessed it in a score of prophetic dreams. Under the full moon, on the turn of the tide, the child must be conceived - not an hour later, nor an hour earlier. And while predicting the waxing and waning of the Chaos moon of Morrslieb w as an impossibility, she knew with absolute certainty that the auspicious night w as close. Two nights perhaps, maybe three, and the green moon would wax gibbous, passing as close to the surface of the w orld as it had for a decade and exerting its power upon those beneath its baleful gaze.

It w as on such nights that the dead rose from the earth, when once sane family men brayed at the moon and slaughtered their sleeping families with hands that had turned to talons, and w hen the veil that separated the material world from the realms of Chaos w as at its thinnest. Even those w ithout the sight were able to perceive daemonic things straining to tear through the ethereal boundary that bound them, screaming into reality to rend and feed.

And it w as under such a moon that the daemon-child would be conceived.

At the foot of the tow ering hillock they reined their steeds in. Simple tents of fur and crossed logs had been erected here, and totems hanging with skulls, severed heads and burnished icons of the Norscan gods had been hammered into the ground. The Skaeling jarl's huskarls lounged here, massive intimidating god-touched warriors bedecked in heavy armour and fur.

'Where is he?' demanded Bjarki. Before the huskarls could answer, skin tent flaps w ere thrown aside and Styrbjorn emerged from his hastily erected residence to greet his bride. A pair of sw ord-maidens emerged behind him, and from the similarity they bore to the Skaeling lord, Haegtesse surmised these to be the jarl's daughters.

The Skaeling too had prepared himself for the meeting, and he looked every inch a w arrior king.

He stood a head taller than any of his huskarls, and his broad shoulders were encased in thick plates of dark metal fashioned into the likeness of snarling, tusked w olf heads. His broad chest w as protected by a breastplate of ensorcelled dark iron, w ith the azure, unblinking eye of Tchar in its centre. Chainmail hung from his eight-pointed belt-buckle, and his legs were encased in spiked armour.

His thickly muscled arms w ere bare and covered with tattoos, and gold and bronze tores w ere coiled around them. He was not wearing his war helmet, and his long, grey-streaked hair hung dow n his back. Over his shoulders he wore the shaggy pale fur of an ymgir, one of the snow yetis that stalked the mountains of Norsca.

The jarl's eyes, as pale as the eye of Tchar on his chest, settled hungrily on Haegtesse.

The w itch smiled as she saw the Skaeling jarl, and slid languorously from the saddle.

Without speaking a w ord, the jarl swept her into a crushing embrace, pulling her hard up against him and draw ing her into a pow erful kiss. Haegtesse allowed herself to melt into his body, feeling his taut muscles and the invigorating touch of the gods on his tongue. She felt her desire for him strongly as her body responded to the tow ering Norscan, and was pleasantly surprised by the strength of her passion. It had been many decades since anyone had stirred her like this.

Breaking from the passionate kiss, the Skaeling hooked a pow erful arm around her back and began to guide her forcefully tow ards his tent. It was obvious that he intended to have her there and then, to rut w ith her like an animal and slake his desire, but Haegtesse stopped him w ith a hand upon the chest.

'Not yet,' she said in the Skaeling dialect.

Standing up tall she came barely to the Norscan's chest, and her body w as weak and fragile compared to the brutal pow er in his massive frame, and yet Styrbjorn froze beneath her touch. She could feel his lust raging within him, and she knew that he longed to drag her into his tent, screaming and fighting if needs be, but she realised that he could feel her power, and was respectful of it.

Such respect w as a w elcome thing after dwelling w ithin Bretonnia this last century, w here she was feared and despised. It was good to be back amongst those w ho understood her place in things. They were not Kurgans, but at least they paid homage to the true gods, even if they knew them by different names.

'What is w rong, woman?' said the Skaeling, his eyes flashing dangerously.

'Patience, jarl of the Skaelings,' Haegtesse said, playfully running a fingertip down the front of Styrbjorn's breastplate. 'The gods themselves have ordained this conception, but it must take place under strict ritual. Trust me and the son I bear you w ill be the greatest w arrior your tribe has ever seen.'

The Norscan flicked a glance towards Bjarki, who nodded almost imperceptibly, and the jarl released Haegtesse.

'Fine,' he said.

'It must take place at the top of carrion hill,' said Haegtesse, gesturing up at the hill looming behind them, 'under the gaze of the gods. I w ill need eight of your strongest men for sacrifice.'

'They are yours,' said Styrbjorn w ithout hesitation.

'Good,' said Haegtesse. 'I w ill take my leave, and prepare the site.'

When she had gone, the jarl slapped a meaty hand on Bjarki's shoulder, rocking the slighter man.

'She's the one,' enthused Styrbjorn, his eyes filled with passion and excitement. 'After all this time! A son!'

'Indeed, my jarl,' agreed Bjarki.

'And all this ritual is necessary?'

'It is, my jarl.'

Styrbjorn looked dow n at the seer curiously.

'What is it that bothers you, little bear? Are you not pleased that at last I shall father a son? Your position w ithin the clan will not change, you know that.'

'I know , my lord. That is not w hat troubles me.'

'No? Then what? Speak, man.'

'I don't trust her, my jarl,' said Bjarki. 'What does she get out of this?'

'She w ill be the mother of the greatest Skaeling warrior ever to w alk the earth. Is that not enough?'

'I don't know . Maybe.'

'She's a beauty as w ell, isn't she? And powerful. Just touching her made my flesh tingle.'

'She is a pow erful blood-w itch, it is true. But it w ould be w ise for us to be w ary of any trickery on her part. I'd suggest killing her as soon as the child is born.'

'After she bears me my son, you may do to her anything you like, little bear,' said Styrbjorn.

'Tomorrow , w e will rout these southlander horsemen,' said the jarl, changing topic and gazing out along the valley. 'We will slaughter them all, and laugh as they beg for mercy. It w ill be a good day, little bear.'

'I have no doubt of that, my lord.'

'They are arrogant, these southlanders. They think we are nothing but mindless barbarians, like the slant-eyed Hung. They will underestimate us, expecting us to simply charge at them across the open ground.'

'There is honour to be had in such tactics,' said Bjarki. 'The blood god favours such a direct approach.'

'The skull-taker cares not w hose blood it is that runs,' said Styrbjorn. 'Personally, I w ould rather it w as their blood and not mine.'

'True enough,' said Bjarki.

Bjarki had lived alongside his jarl for long enough to know that the grizzled old w arrior had devised a battle plan days earlier. He would have been labouring over the best w ay to defeat the southlander horsemen ever since he had announced the invasion, constantly refining and discarding plans as he concocted new and better w ays of claiming victory.

He w as a w ily old wolf, Styrbjorn. That w as the reason the jarl had ruled as long as he had. Normally, a chieftain of his age w ould have long since been supplanted by a younger, stronger aspiring champion, but Styrbjorn w as cunning. He could outthink his younger rivals. It w as a rare gift, and Bjarki looked forward to seeing what ploy the old w olf would employ against the southlanders.

'Their pride will be their downfall,' predicted Styrbjorn. 'And they will fall hard.'

CALARD AND THE other knights from the tournament rode into Duke Adalhard of Lyonesse's camp close to midnight, bone-w eary, aching and cold. They had ridden ahead of the low born men-at-arms and archers, w ho w ere unable to keep up the pace. The footsloggers would likely not reach the camp before daw n.

Storm clouds w ere building overhead, blotting out the stars and the moons, and snow had been falling since nightfall. Already, it w as several feet thick on the ground, and several inches were being added with every passing hour.

The camp w as a hive of activity when they rode in, despite the late hour, with hundreds of flaming braziers lighting up the area like day. Thousands of peasants ran to and fro, busy on errands and mundane tasks, and a great many knights w ere already fully armoured and mounted up, in readiness for attack. From the northern outskirts of the camp, came shouts and the sound of w eapons clashing and it w as clear that the Norscans w ere already launching probing attacks, testing the Bretonnians' defences. It was obvious that few would be getting sleep this night.

Laudethaire made a special effort to come out and greet Calard and the other w eary knights as they rode into camp, making a show of how rested he was, and Calard's mood darkened as he saw the smirk on the noble's face.

Garamont servants had ridden ahead and made tents and food ready for the brothers, and w hile they were hungry and the idea of a soft pallet w as tempting, Calard and the other noble lords made their w ay tow ards the duke's pavilion, to present themselves to him before seeking sustenance and rest.

The duke w as a man of middling years, a tall knight with dark, shoulder-length hair w ho w ore an expression that showed he clearly did not suffer fools. He was garbed for w ar, and a fine red tabard bearing a silver lion-head design hung over his exquisite suit of plate. A cloak made from the pelt of a lion w as swept over one shoulder, and seeing the skin of the mighty beast Calard w as reminded of the tales of Gilles le Breton and his companions he had learnt at his father's knee.

Thierulf, closest friend and devoted ally of Gilles, harkened from the lands now know n as Lyonesse, and it w as said that w hen he was no more than a boy he slew a marauding lion w ith his bare hands. Skinning the beast and w rapping its still bloody fur around his body, Thierulf returned to his father's hill fort in triumph, and his legend w as born. It w as in honour of this great hero that the nobles of Lyonesse, particularly those w ho claimed descent from Thierulfs bloodline, incorporated a lion into their heraldry in some form or other.

Calard w as instantly impressed with Duke Adalhard. The aura of authority around the man w as palpable; this w as a man w ho w as used to being instantly obeyed, and yet it w as obvious that he w as a w arrior first and foremost. He had no doubt that the duke w ould be leading the charge once battle w as met; he had the air of one who w ould not shirk from battle.

'Lyonesse thanks you all for your sw ift response,' the duke said to the gathered, w eary nobles. 'With your aid, we shall w ipe the field of these barbarian invaders, and w in a great victory on the morn. You've ridden hard, and I thank you for that. Get some rest - I'll need you fresh tomorrow .'

'On the morn, duke?' questioned one of the knights. 'Are not the Norscans already assailing us? Is not battle already underw ay?'

'There is no real strength behind their attacks,' said Duke Adalhard. 'It's all bluster.

They are merely trying to keep us in a state of readiness and tension, to sap our strength before tomorrow - that is w hen the real battle w ill take place. Get some rest.

My men w ill ensure that the attacks are nothing more than feints.'

The duke's gaze settled on Calard, and he reddened beneath the stern warrior's gaze.

There were only fourteen dukes in all of Bretonnia, each ruling over one of the ancient dukedoms formed w hen Gilles le Breton unified the Bretonni tribes. As such, the Duke of Lyonesse w as one of the most pow erful individuals in all of Bretonnia, and Calard felt aw ed merely to be in his presence. He lowered his gaze as the duke's eyes narrow ed.

Your bloodline is tainted.

Again he heard Maloric's voice, the words stinging him. Did the same corruption that had spaw ned his mutated, hateful beast-brother reside in him?

'It is Garamont, isn't it?' said the duke finally, snapping Calard from his doubts. He looked up, startled to have been picked out, and even more shocked that the duke knew his family.

'Yes, my lord,' he managed, and the duke nodded his head sagely.

Calard felt incredibly self-conscious as dozens of pairs of eyes turned towards him.

Knights w ho had previously barely registered his presence now looked at him w ith new found respect. Just being recognised by the duke had clearly raised him in their esteem.

'I knew your old w eapon master, Gunthar,' said Duke Adalhard of Lyonesse. 'A good man. Best sw ordsman I ever met. I w as saddened to hear of his passing.'

'Thank you, lord,' said Calard. 'Not a day goes past that I do not miss his presence.'

Calard breathed out and w iped a hand across his brow as the duke's attention shifted aw ay from him.

The snow continued to fall as preparations for the next day's battle w ere made, and w ith the sounds of Norscan war drums, horns and shouts echoing through the night, Calard finally allowed himself to succumb to his exhaustion. Half an hour after meeting the duke, he fell into a fitful sleep in his tent, dreaming of blood and fire, haunted by how ling warriors with the faces of wolves. Inevitably, his dreams shifted, and again he faced the ethereal, terrifying apparition of the Green Knight.

Again he w as powerless, stricken with paralysing fear before the ghostly spectre. It loomed before him, brandishing its dolorous blade, surrounded by coiling fog.

'Face me!' the Green Knight taunted, and Calard aw oke lathered in sweat.

It w as dark, still an hour or so before daw n. He had been asleep for no more than an hour. Nevertheless, Calard pushed himself from his pallet; he would get no further sleep this night.

CHAPTER EIGHT

THE SNOW HAD continued to fall throughout the night, and the landscape was blanketed in a thick, unspoiled layer of white. Within an hour the blood of thousands w ould be splashed across it, the battlefield churned into a quagmire of slush and mud, but for now it w as pristine and virginal.

The early morning sun was hidden behind thick clouds. Not a sound rose from the Bretonnian battle line other than the snap of standards blow ing in the wind and the occasional w hinny of horses. Peasants held the reins of their lords' steeds as the knights knelt in the snow, heads bow ed as they prayed to the Lady of the Lake, invoking her protection in the coming battle.

Relentless drumming could be heard from the Norse lines, a mile and a half further along the valley, but the sound w as muffled by the w orsening storm. The howl of w ind muted all other sound, and swirling eddies of snow ensured that the enemy w ere indistinct and hazy in the distance.

Such a blizzard w as unnatural, particularly so early into w inter, and Calard w ondered if there might not be some diabolic sorcery at w ork.

His eyes w ere closed tightly and his lips moved silently as he beseeched the Lady for her protection. Warmth infused him as he whispered his prayer, dispelling the icy chill from his limbs, making him feel rested and strong. All doubt w ashed away as he felt the pow er of the goddess upon him, and he was confident that by day's end the Bretonnians would be victorious.

A horn sounded and Calard completed his ritual prayers, blinking his eyes as he came back to the present. Still feeling the warmth of the Lady's blessing within him, he mounted his armoured destrier and accepted a w ar lance as it was handed to him.

Across the battle line, some ten-thousand other knights swung up into the saddle, all having prayed to receive the blessings of the goddess. Five times that number of peasants w ere ranked up in deep formations behind the knights. They had not prayed; the Lady of the Lake w as a goddess of the nobility, and no peasant w as allow ed to w orship her - not that she w ould answer them if they did. The idea that the goddess w ould care for the lowborn masses, who had no understanding of honour or chivalry, was laughable.

The valley was open and flat, almost tw o miles wide and clear of rocks and trees. It w as the perfect horseman's battlefield, and it suited the Bretonnian w ay of doing battle to fight the enemy here. The sides of the valley rose up to hills, and although it w as now completely obscured by the blizzard, Calard knew that a massive motte w as located at the enemy's back.

As a predominately infantry army, one might have expected the Norscans to position themselves atop that motte, forcing the Bretonnians to assail them there, but it seemed that the Norse w ere eager for battle, and had marched forward to meet the Bretonnians head-on.

Already, yeomen outriders were riding those hills, ensuring that no enemy forces w ould outflank the Bretonnians. The weather w as too severe to allow Laudethaire and his pegasus knights to overfly the enemy army, and the exact number and disposition of the enemy forces was vague. Nevertheless, it w as clear that if one discounted the peasant men-at-arms and bow men w ho were unreliable in battle at best and a liability at w orst, the Norscans outnumbered the Bretonnians, but not by a substantial margin. Considering that the bulk of the Norscan army w as on foot, and that most of them w ore little in the way of armour, the odds w ere considered favourable.

From w hat little had been garnered by the yeomen scouts, the enemy w ere forming up in a w ide advance, with a strong centre. It w as there in the centre that the most heavily armoured w arriors had been seen, and it was likely there that the enemy chieftain had positioned himself. Light cavalry had been seen ranging out on the flanks. The duke had positioned his knights accordingly. The enemy appeared to have little in the way of missile fire, and lacked the long pikes and spears that w ere the bane of knightly formations, and so the duke's plan was to hit them hard and fast, to ride them dow n in one concentrated charge that w ould rip the heart out of the enemy army.

The knights of Couronne and L'Anguille were still a day and a halfs march to the north, but it seemed to Calard that trying to forestall battle until their arrival was unnecessary. Clearly the Duke of Lyonesse had come to the same conclusion, though Calard w ondered how much of his decision had to do w ith his running feud w ith L'Anguille. For decades there had been tension betw een the two dukedoms, and border disputes and bloodshed betw een their nobles had become commonplace.

Muffled shouts could be heard on the w ind, and banners were dipped and w aved as orders w ere passed. In response, several thousand lightly armoured peasant bow men ran lightly forward on the flanks of the knightly formations, and the mounted yeomen on the extreme left w ing began cantering out w ide.

The bow men trotted through the snow ahead of the main battle line and Calard sw ore. He w as freezing, and he just w ished the battle w ould commence so he could get moving and w arm up. Despite all his best efforts, snow had seeped through the joints of his armour and melted, soaking the padding against his skin and making his limbs shiver uncontrollably.

'Come on,' he said. A trickle of melted snow slid dow n the back of his neck, and he grimaced in discomfort. He brushed snow from his shoulders, feeling the chill through his gauntlets, and kicked away the ice that had formed on his stirrups.

Muffled drums echoed in the distance, and Calard felt a brief flicker of trepidation as he heard w olves howling above the gale. Monstrous, trumpeting horns blared in the distance, and Calard briefly pondered the size of the instruments needed to make such a sound. The crisp, clear sound of Bretonnian horns blared, signalling the advance.

'At last,' murmured Calard.

The knights began to move at the command, w alking their steeds forward through the snow while tens of thousands of men-at-arms marched behind.

Duke Adalhard w as situated in the centre of the army, surrounded by his most senior knights, all bedecked in the finest armour that money could buy. The duke's standard bearer held aloft the famous banner of Lyonesse, an embroidered, four hundred year old tapestry depicting the hero Thierulf, wearing his trademark lion pelt, standing atop a pile of dead greenskins, his head surrounded by a halo of light.

It w as a revered artefact rumoured to have the hair of elven princesses w oven into its design, and it was said that no army fighting under it had ever lost.

The knights of Bastonne had once again formed up together, though it left a bad taste in Calard's mouth to be forced to fight alongside Maloric and his Sangasse lapdogs. Despite his lack of sleep, Calard's mind felt more focused that it had done in months - most likely due to his refusal to partake in any w ine since the abandonment of the tourney, four days earlier. His senses were as alert as they had ever been; perhaps a blessing of the goddess. He vowed that he would outdo Maloric this day.

All across the field, scores of knightly formations moved forwards through the storm, standard bearers straining against the wind to keep their banners upright. Horses snorted and stamped their hooves impatiently as the icy winds blasted, driving snow against them. Calard patted the neck of his destrier, murmuring soothing w ords that w ere sw allowed by the gale.

Out ahead, the peasant bow men took up positions on the flanks, angling their lines up against those of the enemy in the far distance. Under the barking orders of villeins and yeomen, and w ith more than a few cuffs to the backs of heads of the more dull-w itted of the inbred sots, the bow men set themselves, planting arrow s point first into the ground in front of them. They did not draw yet, for while the enemy would have been at the extreme of their range under normal circumstances, the blizzard and blustering w inds were such that firing at anything more than half the regular longbow range w ould have been pointless.

Calard had his visor dow n to keep the biting wind off his face, and he squinted through the blizzard, trying to see the enemy. They were nothing more than vague shadow s in the distance now, and as blasts of w ind and snow whipped across the valley, they w ere almost completely obscured. Calard prayed that the scouts had been correct in their appraisal of the Norse battle lines, for by the time they got close enough to see the enemy lines clearly it would be far too late to alter the battle plan.

Nevertheless, Calard knew that there were few forces in the entire world that could stand against a concentrated Bretonnian heavy cavalry charge, and he had little doubt that today w ould once again reassert the dominance of the Bretonnian knight.

Even if this vile w eather was some sorcery of the enemy, it would avail them little.

The snow was certainly not deep enough to hamper the pow erful destriers they rode, and the centre of the valley dropped aw ay slightly to either side, ensuring that the deeper snow drifts were located off to the flanks, far from the action that w ould be taking place in the centre of the field.

All ten-thousand knights w ere moving forwards now, the entire noble contingent of the army bar some four hundred knights that w ere being held back as a tactical reserve. One mighty charge, concentrated at the enemy's centre, and the battle w ould be as good as over. The knights out on the w ings w ould ride forward as if they were going to assault the flanks of the enemy, before angling inwards once the enemy had no time to react to the change of direction, and they would smash into the centre along w ith the bulk of the Lyonessian force.

It w as a simple plan, but one that many Bretonnian generals had used to good effect on dozens of battlefields.

Calard and the other knights of Bastonne were located towards the right of the centre, formed up behind an uninspired but w ealthy and influential knight of their lands, Lord Sigibold, who was the most senior knight of their party since Baron Montcadas had been forced to leave them. He w as a capable w arrior, though Calard recognised that he was a poor leader of men, and it had been w ith some reticence that the knights of Garamont had fallen in behind him.

Calard's cousin Tassilo had summed the man up w ell w hen he described him as

' deeply average in all regards''. No one disliked the man, but no one really liked him either, and it w as clear for all to see that he was far out of his depth.

Still, Calard doubted that even Lord Sigibold could possibly make a mess of leading the Bastonnians today. All the knights of Bastonne were seasoned warriors, and w hile Calard and Bertelis were the knights with the least experience of them all, they w ere far from the eager young knights errant that they had been a year earlier.

Horn blasts sounded, and the knights all along the battle line urged their steeds into a canter. They passed by the bow men on each flank, kicking up pow der as the destriers' momentum began to increase.

Dark, low clouds hung over the Norscan army and it seemed to Calard that they w ere somehow unnatural; they were too dark, too low , and they seemed to shift and pulse like a living creature, their shape in constant fluctuation.

Pushing the thought aside, he concentrated on making sure he kept tight with the knights around him, and as their pace increased, the knights seamlessly formed the w edged lance formation that had proven so deadly against the enemies of Bretonnia for so many centuries. Deadly and with the full w eight of armoured men and horses behind it, the lance formation was able to punch through the most resilient defences and drive deep into formations, dividing them and sending men scattering. Indeed, many times all it took w as for an army to see the Bretonnians thundering towards them en masse to send them fleeing the battlefield; it w as a brave - or foolish - man w ho w illingly stood in front of a charging knight, let alone an entire army of them.

Such an outcome w as unlikely this day though, Calard judged. Nothing he had heard about the Norscans made him think that the notion of turning tail and fleeing in the face of their enemies would even cross their barbarian minds.

The snow muffled the sound of the thundering hooves, and again Calard thought he heard the sound of w olves howling, though it was impossible to pinpoint w here the sound w as coming from.

A regiment of knights errant out to the right, impetuous and hungry for glory, low ered their lances and kicked their steeds into a gallop, breaking ranks and pushing ahead of the battle line. Calard knew instinctively that they had launched the charge too early, and that their steeds w ould be struggling by the time they struck home.

For many of those young knights, some of w hom might have been as young as fifteen, this w ould be their first and last taste of battle. Every battle w as dangerous, of course

- even tourneys had no small amount of risk involved - but it w as a knight's first foray into battle that w as so often his last.

It w as the w ay of battle, Gunthar had taught him. The first to die in any battle w ere the most inexperienced, the weakest, the poorest warriors, the unlucky, those too young to be fighting, or those too old and slow . Most of these died in the first clash, and it w as then that the real fighting would begin. This factor w as even more emphasised in a siege, Gunthar had told him. In the first days of a siege, the weak w ere picked off one by one until only the most veteran, hardened warriors were left on either side. It was brutal and it w as savage, and many good men w ere lost in the opening skirmishes, but it w as the w ay of things, in the same w ay that the w olf picked off the w eakest in the herd, and the runt of the litter invariably died w hen the hardship of w inter descended.

Calard could see the enemy moving now, could hear their drums pounding out a savage rhythm as they began loping through the knee-high snow tow ards the wall of knights bearing down on them.

Glancing out along the line to the right, he could see barbarous, lightly armoured horsemen bearing dow n on the yeomen riders out there, who were firing their bow s from the saddle.

Clouds of arrow s fired by the foot archers further back darkened the sky, arcing over the knights' heads before descending into the enemy ranks that w ere now running full pelt tow ards the knights, screaming war cries that could be heard only vaguely, as if they w ere coming from a great distance. The depth of the enemy ranks could still not be gauged due to the gusting snow s, but Calard saw hundreds of men stumble and fall as the arrow s slammed dow n amongst them, driving through furs into heathen flesh and muscle, punching through horned iron helmets to pierce skulls.

Shields were lifted up high as hundreds more arrow s sliced down through the gale, but it did not slow the Norscans.

From amongst the barbarian lines, black iron chains were released, and hundreds of shaggy-furred hounds w ere set loose. Slavering and howling, they bounded ahead of the Norscans, kicking up clouds of snow powder in their eagerness to close the distance. They were immense beasts, and many of them bore the mark of mutation and corruption. Some had boar-like tusks curling from their maw s, while others had tw o heads or serpentine tails that ended in snapping snake heads.

They bounded through the snow towards the impetuous knights errant out in front, Norscan hound and Bretonnian knight hurtling tow ards each other at full speed. One w arhound, a massive beast w ith hindquarters striped in alternating bands of orange and black, leapt into the air and ripped the first knight from the saddle, massive jaws clamped around his head. Then the rest of the knights and hounds struck each other, coming together w ith colossal force.

A dozen monstrous hounds w ere skewered on lances, and several more were bow led over by the flailing hooves of the mighty destriers, bones shattered. Young knights w ere dragged dow n into the snow, yanked from their saddles as jaw s locked around legs and torsos, w renching plate mail out of shape. Calard saw a destrier stumble and fall, screaming horribly as a w arhound bore it to the ground, jaw s gripping its neck, and the unfortunate knight in the saddle of the mauled horse was ripped apart as three snarling hounds leapt upon him.

The knights errant charge had completely stalled now, their impetus lost, and those young knights still in the saddle were slashing down at the hounds with swords and lance-butts. One of the beasts w as struck in the spine, and its hind legs gave way beneath it. Still snarling and snapping the beast w as killed as hooves caved in its skull.

Seeing that the young knights were getting the better of the w arhounds, the rest of the Bretonnian army flowed around the melee, keeping their momentum going as they bore dow n on the Norscans.

They w ere around tw o hundred yards from the barbarians, and horns blared suddenly. As one the wall of Bretonnian knights spurred on their steeds, breaking into a thundering gallop.

Ten-thousand lances lowered, and a roaring cry rose from the lips of the knights.

'For Bastonne!' roared Calard, and dug his spurs into his steed's side once again, urging the stallion on.

His heart w as racing. There was something breathtaking about being part of a massed charge, and it never failed to fill Calard with excitement.

He could see the enemy more clearly now; hulking brutes bedecked in furs and hefting brutal looking axes, blades and spiked maces.

The barbarians' charge faltered, individual w arriors slowing as the wall of knights thundered tow ards them. Calard felt the thrill of victory wash through him. The enemy w ere men after all. They were not daemons or monsters, but merely men -

men that knew fear.

The howls of w olves echoed from the flanks, but Calard ignored the sounds, intent on the enemy in front of him.

The flush of imminent victory spurred the Bretonnians on, and they hurtled towards the Norscans, lances lowered.

The battle w ould not last long at all, thought Calard. Overhead, a sound like thunder shook the heavens.

A DARK RED, spitting light shot up through the blizzard and exploded overhead.

'That's the signal,' snarled Zumarah to his dark kin, his eyes gleaming. He spoke in his native tongue, a guttural language not unlike the sound of gears grinding and rocks being crushed.

The Chaos dw arf gazed adoringly at Ereshkigal-Namtar, his beloved and priceless daemon-construct.

Zumarah had personally overseen its creation in the nightmarish hellforges deep below the scorched surface of Zarr-Naggrand. For over fifty years he had slaved over its construction, barely allowing himself or his slave-crews any rest so consumed was he in his obsessive work. Thousands of slaves had perished during its forging. These ones had their life fluids drained from their bodies, their bones and gristle ground to pow der, and this viscous mix was added to the alloys, tempering them and dyeing the metal of the great beast a ruddy, blood-bronze.

Upon the completion of the physical, inert form of the infernal machine, he had been present for fifty days and fifty nights of ritual and ceremony as great Hashut's high priests infused it w ith the eternal daemon-twins. Ereshkigal and Namtar had been the true names of these malicious daemons of blood, rage and industry, and they had struggled hard against their bindings, screaming and roaring as they strained to break their bonds and rip the high priests, and Zumarah, apart from the inside out.

Nevertheless, their struggles had been in vain, and they had now been caged w ithin his daemon-construct for over a decade.

Its construction w as a thing of beauty, and Zumarah felt a jealous pride as he looked upon Ereshkigal-Namtar's exalted form.

It w as the size of a small house, standing almost fifteen feet tall and some tw enty feet long, and w eighed more than a fully laden Norse dragonship. Indeed, transporting the infernal machine across the seas had not been an easy task, but one that, if the Norscan's w ord could be valued, w ould be w orth his while.

Ereshkigal-Namtar had not accepted its imprisonment, and still it strained against its bonds. Steam rose from its brazen body, and runes that glow ed with heat shimmered across its form. Ensorcelled chains, each link the size of a man's head, bound the daemon engine, connected to its blood-bronze body and pounded deep into the ground to hold it in place. Chunks of shiny black volcanic rock engraved w ith runes of power were hammered into its sides, and these runes glowed like lava as they exerted their power of containment upon the tw in daemons locked inside the machine.

The bulk of the engine's w eight was borne upon a pair of immense, spiked wheels, each taller than an ogre, and filled with hundreds of intricate, interconnected cogs and w heels that w ere in constant motion. The barrel of the engine's gaping, tooth-filled maw , which was wide enough to sw allow a horse with ease, was rimmed with more runes of binding, and the stink of sulphur, blood and death rose from w ithin.

The brass flanks of the daemon engine rippled with movement as the daemons struggled vainly to escape, and a myriad of gargoyle-like faces pressed forth from w ithin, each one more horrific than the last as they snarled and reached for Zumarah.

The stony-skinned dwarf laughed at them.

'Ready Ereshkigal-Namtar for firing,' he growled over his shoulder to his two kinsmen.

Belonging of a low er caste level than he, these tw o Chaos dwarfs w ore but simple masks of metal over their faces rather than the tall helmets of the nobility, and heavy aprons of leather, w ith strips of metal woven into them, protected their squat bodies from the heat of their daemon-machine charge. They bow ed their heads to their forgemaster, and moved forw ards to align the cog-runes for firing.

Hellcannon the Norscans had called his beloved daemon engine. Zumarah liked the name. It w as appropriate, and fitted well.

A dozen black orc slaves w ith heads bow ed in dog-like submission squatted near the engine, their powerful bodies covered in scars and burns. As Zumarah's kinsmen aligned the cog-runes, the heat from Ereshkigal-Namtar increased exponentially as its pow er grew, and the black orcs whimpered, turning their heads away. Creatures sorcerously bred for servitude by the high priests of Hashut in ages long past, each of the black orcs w ore a collar of iron around their necks. Thick chains connected each of these collars, and just like the daemon-engine that they tended, the ends of this chain had been hammered into the ground.

Zumarah turned tow ards the battlefield below, and although it was all but completely obscured from view by the roaring blizzard, he knew that his estimations of the distance and trajectory w ere accurate.

He grinned to himself, his eyes blazing w ith hatred and his tusks pressing against the stony flesh of his cheeks as he imagined the carnage about to be unleashed.

'Fire,' he grow led.

THE NORSCANS' ADVANCE had completely stalled, and some of them w ere even now turning around, pushing back against those behind in their panic. They w ere already breaking and running and the Bretonnians were still a little over a hundred yards from their lines. This is going to be an absolute rout, Calard thought.

The entire Norscan centre turned tail and fled in the face of the Bretonnian charge. It w as hard to see exactly w hat w as going on, thanks to the blinding gale of snow and ice particles, but it w as clear that the Norscan centre had almost completely dissolved.

Again he heard roars and howls off to the flanks, and this time he thought he heard something else reach his ears on the wind; men screaming in pain and terror. He glanced to the east, but could see little, though he thought he saw vague shapes, animalistic and furred in the blizzard, and knights turning around in confusion and panic.

The sight was alarming but there w as little that he could do but concentrate on his ow n duty, and he dragged his attention back to the front and centre. Besides, even if the Norscans w ere somehow overwhelming the Bretonnian flanks, their entire centre had been all but routed.

Seeing the enemy running before them, the Bretonnian war horns blared, and the army of Lyonesse sw ept forward into the gap.

The knights at the forefront of the charge caught up w ith the Norscans, many of w hom, seeing that they were about to be overrun, turned and hurled themselves at the knights, swinging their axes murderously. These ones were hacked down where they stood, lances smashing them from their feet and impaling them.

The Bastonnians thundered into the breach in the Norscan line, and Calard lined up a fleeing man with his lance. The man spun towards the charging horsemen, but Calard's lance took him in the chest before he could swing his axe, driving through his ribcage and punching out his back. The lance was wrenched from Calard's hand and he slid the blade of Garamont from its inlaid scabbard, the ancient heirloom gleaming coldly.

More Norscans w ere run down, and Calard struck a blow upon the head of one of the barbarians, cracking the skull.

Calard realised that many of the Norscans had fled not directly away from the Bretonnians, but rather had moved off to the sides, pushing into the ranks of Norscans on the flanks. He turned his head from side to side in concern as he realised that none of the men he had faced appeared to be the heavily armoured Norscan elite that they had expected.

There was something very wrong here, he realised suddenly. His gaze w as drawn upw ards as the shadow y outline of the reportedly haunted, tow ering motte at the end of the valley hove into view.

Abruptly, there came a sound like a mountain falling, and a comet trailing hellish red flames shot up into the air from the top of the steep-sided hillock. It soared up high and Calard follow ed its trajectory skyward, mouth gaping wide in shock and wonder.

Then the roaring comet reached the top of its arc and began to descend tow ards the ground; tow ards the charging Bretonnians.

'Lady protect us,' Calard breathed as the roiling inferno came screaming down tow ards the valley floor, and he heard shouts of panic and fear spread through the ranks.

Calard w as throw n from the saddle as the missile smashed down amongst the knights fifty feet to his left, making the ground shudder beneath the impact, and the sounds of horses and men roaring in agony rose to the heavens, louder even than the screaming w inds. The heatwave of the blast burnt Calard's lungs, and he gasped as, even at this distance, his plate armour heated up to an uncomfortable level.

Those knights closer in to the blast w ere cooked alive inside their armour, their flesh bursting into flames along w ith tabards, banners and horseflesh. A circle over fifty yards in diameter w as scorched into the ground, ice and snow instantly turning to steam. Hundreds died in that first barrage, their flesh igniting beneath the intense heat, their blood boiling within their veins.

Those directly under the impact of the fireball were unrecognisable, nothing more than charred, tw isted corpses that still burned fiercely. So intense were the unnaturally burning, vivid red flames that plate armour ran like quicksilver, dripping onto the ground in flaming, hissing blobs.

Hooves flashed near Calard's head as he pushed himself to his knees, horses screaming and bucking in terror all around. The stink of cooked flesh made him gag, and he staggered unsteadily to his feet as knights fought to regain control over their horses. Spying the precious blade of Garamont on the ground a few feet distant, he leapt for it, uncaring of the danger, and closing his hand around the hilt, he sheathed it.

'Calard!' baw led a voice, and he looked around to see Bertelis. Dodging through the chaos of terrified animals, he reached his brother, grabbed onto his saddle as he caught his breath, standing close so as to lessen the chance of getting trampled or kicked.

'What in the name of the Lady w as that?' Bertelis shouted. Calard merely shook his head in response.

'Sigibold?' he shouted.

'Dead,' replied Bertelis.

Calard spied a horse w ith no rider nearby, its ears flat against its head and its eyes w ide in terror. He lurched towards the beast, making a grab for its reins. Securing them, he sw ung himself up into the saddle. The terrified animal reared, but Calard w ould not be unsaddled again, and the animal quickly began to calm dow n under his firm control. Calard cast a quick glance around him, appraising the situation.

Duke Adalhard, thankfully, had not been engulfed in the blast, and Calard could see him and the majority of his army of knights still charging up the centre, intent on running down the few fleeing Norscans that could still be seen there. From his position, it w as obvious that the Norscans were merely leading the Bretonnian duke further into their midst. He caught a glimpse of massive warriors bedecked in black iron closing in from the flanks, giants of men with horned helmets and snow-covered furs over their shoulders that were stalking tow ards the Bretonnians in their thousands, encircling them.

The Bretonnians had been duped into charging the centre, Calard realised, which had given w ay before them w ith little resistance. It had been a simple, well executed ploy, and Calard felt despair as he realised that in all likelihood no knights would ride aw ay from this battle alive. Now the hammer blow was about to fall, and the Norscans w ere going to close in on either side, like wolves.

No, Calard corrected, seeing further as the w ind suddenly dropped. The first hammer blow had already fallen.

He saw thousands of corpses strewn across the snow out on the flanks, bodies that had literally been torn apart.

Even as he stared despairingly out tow ards the flanks, he saw figures bursting from snow drifts, powder and snow exploding upwards as they leapt from their concealment and fell upon the knights and peasants out on the army's edge. Calard heard their w ar cries as they laid into the Bretonnian flank, tearing through rank after rank, their axes reaping a bloody toll, hacking men apart w ithout mercy.

'This is a massacre,' said Calard, turning his horse to survey the battlefield all around. The surviving knights of Bastonne were milling around in confusion. No one w as taking command. In every direction Calard saw thousands of Norscans marching through the blizzard tow ards them. In the rear, seeing the enemy closing in, the men-at-arms and peasant bow men took flight, hurling weapons to the ground and quitting the field.

Seeing the rout, Bertelis swore and jerked on his reins, bringing his nervous steed back under control.

'We die here, then,' Bertelis shouted over the roar of the w ind. 'We'll take as many of these w horeson bastards as w e can w ith us.'

'No,' shouted Calard, shaking his head. 'We have to pull back. There is no victory to be had here!'

'Cow ard!' shouted a voice, and Calard spun to see Maloric. 'You'd bring dishonour upon the knights of Bastonne by fleeing like peasants?'

Some four hundred yards ahead, another fiery comet of death roared dow n through blizzard, and though its impact w as hidden in the gusting snow-flurries, the ground shook beneath them as it struck home, and screams could be heard dimly from w ithin the snowstorm.

'This battle is lost!' bellow ed Calard. 'What good w ill more deaths do? Alive, we can seek vengeance!'

'The battle is not over yet!' snarled Maloric. 'Knights of Bastonne! To me!'

Calard cursed, but the milling knights rallied to the call, dragging themselves into order, and Maloric raised his voice to address them.

'We must ride to the aid of the Duke of Lyonesse!' bellow ed Maloric, raising his sword into the air. 'It is our duty as the king's knights! Are you w ith me?'

Muted cries of affirmation answered the Sangasse noble, though Calard remained silent, his face dark. The wind changed direction suddenly, and Calard could see the Norscans closing in, thousands upon thousands of them - they appeared to be in no particular hurry.

'I'll not follow a Sangasse dog,' snarled Tassilo.

'Then be branded a cow ard and a traitor,' retorted Maloric, loud enough for all to hear, and the nobles affiliated with Garamont bristled in anger. Tassilo brandished his sw ord, but Calard halted him w ith a barked order.

'The king would wish us to ride to his brother duke's aid!' roared Maloric, infuriated by the reticence of Calard and his knights. 'We ride now, w ith or w ithout you, Garamont!'

Calard's cousins looked to him to make his decision. He could feel Bertelis's gaze upon him, and he knew that his brother w anted to fight, even if that meant following the Sangasse noble. His every instinct told him that it w as folly, but reluctantly, Calard nodded.

'Fine,' he said.

As one the Bastonnians broke into a gallop, charging into the snowstorm after the duke and the bulk of his army, riding hard. They could see little, though Calard knew the enemy w ere near at hand, and he felt certain that this ride was doomed.

They came upon the army of Lyonesse abruptly as the w inds shifted, and they saw that the entire force of knights was engaged in a desperate battle. A hectic melee was underw ay, w ith the full force of the duke's knights engaged on three sides. Clearly, the Norscans had turned to face the Bretonnians, picking this place to make their stand, and they had stood up to the duke's charge. Doubtless the casualties had been many, but they had absorbed the charge, and the Bretonnians' flanks were now completely overrun. The slaughter was terrible, with countless hundreds of knights already ripped from their saddles and butchered.

With a shout, Maloric ordered the knights of Bastonne forwards, spearing tow ards the heart of the melee. More Norse were appearing out of the snowstorm, and Calard knew that they w ere completely surrounded. And still worse was to befall the Bretonnians, for the Norscan chieftain had one final surprise.

The ground began to shudder and reverberate as if shook by an earthquake and monstrous trumpeting lifted above the roar of the w ind, the same sounds that Calard had heard before battle had commenced. It w as akin to the blare of massive horns, but Calard could not begin to fathom the size of the instruments needed to create such a din.

He didn't have to w ait long to discover what it w as that made the sounds, and what he saw made his blood run cold.

From out of the blizzard's w hitewash came three massive shapes, pounding forwards through the snow and ice, the ground reverberating with every titanic footfall of the monsters.

They w ere giant, shaggy-hided beasts, each as tall as a castle w all. They had huge trunks of muscle extending from their wide heads, and one of them raised this prehensile limb to the heavens and again the terrifying trumpeting sound echoed across the battlefield. The immense beasts w ere quadrupeds, w ith large flapping, dark furred ears and beady eyes filled with burning rage, and each had four immense tusks that curved dow n to the ground.

Atop the backs of these monsters w ere strapped immense howdahs of timber, their sides draped w ith furs and leathers and dotted with shields, and within these structures w ere dozens of w arriors.

The Norscans battling the Bretonnians hurled themselves aside, though many of them w ere too slow or too far lost in their own battle frenzy. The beasts thundered forw ards, smashing into Norscan and knight alike with titanic force, sending men and horses flying through the air with each great sweep of their heads. Tusks skew ered destriers and riders alike, blood spraying in all directions, and massive trunks w rapped themselves around men, crushing ribs and limbs before hurling them into the blizzard, arms and legs flailing. Still others were crushed into nothingness, trampled beneath immense stamping hooves that flattened them completely - armour, bone and all.

Hundreds of knights were slaughtered as the trio of behemoths smashed through the knights w ith the elemental force of a thunderbolt, and many more w ere killed by the javelins and axes hurled by the Norscans riding within the howdah towers. Lances and sw ords dug into the legs of the shaggy-furred beasts but it w as like striking rock, and w eapons w ere jarred from numbed hands. These attacks w ere little more than pinpricks to the mighty beasts, w ho seemed not to feel any pain.

The army of Lyonesse, already struggling to survive being engaged on three sides by the brutal Norscan w arriors was utterly shattered by the appearance of these three monstrous beasts. Merely the stink of them, thick and unpleasant, was enough to drive horses mad w ith terror, and panic spread across the entire battle line. The heart of the Bretonnian army w as smashed apart, the immense mammoths thundering through the ranks of knights with impunity, killing everything that came near them. Hundreds of noble knights of Bretonnia w ere left as unrecognisable smears of blood trampled into the ground, and countless more w ere killed as they w ere smashed through the air by sw inging tusks, or hacked apart by the bloodthirsty w arriors w ho descended on the panicked knights in a fury, axes smashing men from saddles and cleaving the legs from beneath proud destriers driven mad w ith fear.

The banner of Lyonesse fell and was trampled underfoot. Tens of thousands of black-feathered carrion birds were descending from the skies, battling the winds in their eagerness to feast on the corpses, and Calard realised that w hat he had earlier taken for a storm cloud had actually been these feral birds, massing in their tens of thousands.

Calard saw w hat could only be the w ar-chieftain of the Norscans seated upon a high-backed throne atop the how dah-tower of one of the mammoths, a giant, grey-bearded w arrior bedecked in dark metal, and he felt intense hatred that such a barbarian had caused the deaths of so many noble knights. His gaze flickered to the figure seated at the chieftain's feet, a w oman of obvious beauty, and Calard felt his blood run cold.

Elisabet!

Knights w ere streaming from the field now, w ith no thought of honour or dignity, leaving their butchered comrades to lie w here they fell. He could feel the displeasure of the goddess.

The duke fell, and panic rolled across the battle line.

The army of Lyonesse was routed.

CHAPTER NINE

IT WAS NEARING midnight and Styrbjorn stood amongst his huskarls in a w ide ring atop the plateau of the steep sided hill. The battle had gone w ell, the horsemen army crushed, and he could feel the gods' approval. The scale of the bloodshed had fuelled his desire, and he stared hungrily at his writhing witch-consort, alone within the circle before him.

She w ore nothing more than a light shift, which showed off the contours of her body to good effect. Her arms and legs w ere bare and she wore no shoes or slippers upon her feet, though she gave no indication that she felt the chill night air. Every inch of exposed skin, from the smooth flesh of her legs and arms to her face, w as covered in ritualistic patterns and runes carved into her flesh by Bjarki's steady hand. These cuts w ere not deep, just enough to bring the blood to the surface, but they did nothing to mar her beauty. Indeed, to the jarl, they merely enhanced her allure, for the sight of blood alw ays enhanced his desire.

His w itch-consort had created a consecrated circle at the top of the w ind-swept hill, and it w as outside this that Styrbjorn's w arriors w ere gathered. The edges of the circle w ere marked w ith gore-coloured powder from w hich a vague red smoke arose, together w ith a smell like bow els that had been opened by a sw ord thrust. Eight bodies - the w arriors that Styrbjorn had handed over for sacrifice - w ere positioned equidistant around the circumference of the circle, each representing one of the eight points of the star of the true gods.

Each of the Skaeling w arriors was nailed to an A-frame of timber propped up w ith a third hunk of lumber, their arms spread w ide and their feet dangling two feet above the ground. Their skin had been flayed from their bodies and their chests had been ripped open, the ribs broken and splayed outwards to expose the organs within. Not all of them w ere dead, and those still living moaned wordlessly from mouths bereft of tongues, tw itching as carrion birds pecked at their moist innards, jabbing sharp beaks into soft, living flesh. Their hearts, exposed to the elements, thumped erratically, and they thrashed their heads from side to side, trying vainly to stop the murderous crow s and ravens from feasting on them.

Blood-smeared, foul smelling totem-dolls hung from the A-frames, turning slowly as the w inds pushed at their bloated, repulsive forms. The closest of them was a representation of a child, or a baby. Blond hair lined w ith silver - his own, he realised dimly - w as stitched into the babe's head. A pair of horns, perhaps hacked from the head of a goat, protruded from the babe's chin.

A raven landed on the head of this doll before realising that it w as an unstable roost and flapping off, cawing loudly, sending the totem-doll swinging wildly.

Skull-headed braziers burnt foul herbs and roots, embers glow ing brightly as the icy w inds howled.

Three fifteen foot tree-trunks stripped of their branches leant against each other in the centre of the circle, tied together with barbed chain, forming a crude tent structure w ith no sides. The excess length of the chain hung down in the centre of the structure, and another totem-doll hung there, the rusted hook emerging from its back passed through one of the links, so that it hung some four feet above the ground, spinning slowly.

The ground beneath the doll w as spread w ith furs, and it was upon these that Styrbjorn's w itch-consort lay, writhing and moaning softly, speaking in the daemon tongue. Her eyes w ere hazy and indistinct, and she ran her hands over her body in w ays that made Styrbjorn's heart rate quicken. The hallucinogenic smoke from the braziers w as having an effect on him as w ell, and he could see the insubstantial shades of daemons cavorting around his witch-consort, caressing and stroking her flesh. His desire for her was strong; all he wanted to do w as step forward into the circle and take her.

'Not yet,' said Bjarki, at his side, as if hearing his lustful thoughts. 'The conception must take place at the exact right moment.'

'And how long will that be?' said the Skaeling jarl, his voice husky.

As if the gods w ere giving him their own answer, the wind suddenly picked up, making the embers in the braziers glow brightly. Like the breath of the gods themselves, it swirled around the circle in an anticlockwise direction. Under the effects of the mind-altering smoke, Styrbjorn saw elemental daemons and spirits how ling within that w ind. Faces snarled at him, and clawed hands reached out tow ards him. The wind intensified, and he saw more creatures in the flash of movement w hipping around him, skinless winged beasts w ith reptilian faces, naked w omen w ith bird-like talons in place of hands and feet, and monstrosities with mouths filled with rotting fangs and worms. Styrbjorn smiled deliriously as the daemons of the air w hipped around him, scratching at his flesh and tugging at his braided beard.

The w ind began to lift, rising high into the sky above the circle, and the clouds themselves began to rotate, slow ly at first, then faster, and faster. Soon the sky resembled one of the great w hirlpools that sometimes appeared to threaten his dragonships off the coast of Norsca, a sw iftly spinning maelstrom centred directly overhead. A patch of open sky appeared in the centre of the swirling clouds, and Styrbjorn's breath caught in his throat as he glimpsed the immense green eye of the gods peering through the clouds down at him.

The clouds w ere ripped aside by the force of the swirling winds and Styrbjorn could see that the green moon w as hanging low and full, directly overhead. His flesh tingled as the green light bathed him in its glow, and he heard the moans of his witch-consort escalate. In his drug-addled state he imagined that the moon w as literally a great eye, its pupil slitted like a serpent's. He could feel the malevolence flowing down from that eye in w aves, and he smiled drunkenly; the gods themselves had manifested to w itness the conception. Truly, his son would be blessed by the gods indeed!

Licking his lips, he looked down at his shaman.

'Now ?' he said, his voice rough and bestial.

The w iry seer, an expression of rapture on his face, nodded his head.

Styrbjorn shrugged off his furs and stepped over the blood-pow der marking the circle. Billowing smoke rose from the powder as he passed the barrier, and he felt more than saw the shadow-daemons within the circle rise up to challenge him, surrounding him, hissing malevolently. Shadows of movement flickered in the corner of his vision as they jabbed at him w ith insubstantial talons, but he heard them hiss in pain and recoil, even as he felt their icy claws numb his flesh.

Then Styrbjorn felt delicate, warm hands against his flesh and he forgot the daemonic shades, forgot that he w as surrounded by his entourage of onlooking huskarls, forgot that the gods themselves stared down from the heavens. He gazed upon his w itch-consort, the one who would bear him a son, and she pressed a goblet into his hands, brimming with a potent smelling brew. He drained it in one draught, throw ing his head back and closing his eyes. It burnt as it w ashed down his throat, and he marvelled as he opened his eyes, for all the colours he perceived seemed brighter than they had done before, swimming before him w ith almost painful brilliance.

All of his senses w ere heightened to levels that Styrbjorn could never have imagined possible as the potent brew began to take effect. The overload of sensation was staggering. He tossed the goblet aside, eyes focused on the woman writhing on the ground before him.

The w itch gazed up at him w ith eyes that had turned completely black and licked her lips. Taking him by the hand, she drew him into her embrace, and under the unblinking eye of the gods overhead, a daemon-son w as conceived.

SCORES OF BIRDS took flight, filling the air with the flapping of wings and panicked cries, shattering the peace of the forest glade. Tiny glowing sprites with flickering, insubstantial w ings darted away, disappearing in an instant as if they had never been.

The majestic equine beast that had a moment before been drinking from the still pond lifted its head. Its flanks glowed like moonlight and the single horn that rose from its forehead gleamed w ith pearlescent brilliance. It regarded its mistress with deep, soulful eyes.

Morgiana opened her almond-shaped eyes and turned to regard the noble creature.

'You felt it too, then,' she said, her voice soft and musical. The unicorn stamped one of its forelegs into the ground, and tossed its head.

Horrific images of fire and death still lingered in her eyes, and she shuddered at the brutality her prescience had foreshadowed. She saw again the as yet unborn child, daemonic eyes ablaze w ith the promise of savagery. She saw him as a young man, flames w reathing his horned head, the coastal cities of Bretonnia in ruins and the oceans filled to the burning horizon with tens of thousands of Norscan longships. The screams of the endless lines of innocents being led to the sacrifice made her w ince, and she saw mountains of skulls piled high beneath the turbulent heavens. She heard children weeping, and the stink of burning flesh still lingered in the back of her throat.

Morgiana folded her long, slender legs beneath her as she sat up. She moved w ith unearthly grace, her every movement languid, her every gesture effortless. She carried herself like a queen, yet no queen of Bretonnia had ever wielded such power as w as hers to command.

No higher authority existed in all of Bretonnia than the Fay Enchantress, save the divine. The power to dethrone kings w as hers to command; only the goddess could call Morgiana to question.

A priceless hand mirror hung from the golden girdle encircling her slender waist, and she lifted the potent artefact up in front of her. Her ow n, flawless image stared back at her coldly. Her hair was bound up w ithin an elaborate headdress of the latest Bretonnian courtly fashion, and her ageless, regal face was pale.

The Enchantress blew lightly upon the mirror. Hoarfrost began to form upon the intricate silverwork of its frame, and her reflection misted over as if a sudden, impenetrable fog surrounded her.

Shapes began to form in the mirror, hazy like a dream at first, but slow ly solidifying into recognisable human forms; a pale, dark haired young lady, her head thrown back in rapture and a pow erful w arrior kissing her neck.

The young damsel opened her eyes and stared out of the mirror directly at the Enchantress. Her suitor continued his affections, oblivious to their distant observer.

Morgiana reached a hand tow ards the image of the girl in the mirror, eyes locked w ith those of the dark haired young woman. Her finger tips touched the surface of the looking glass, which was as cold as ice, and sank within. The mirror's surface w as as yielding as w ater, and ripples made the vision of the damsel and her lover shimmer as Morgiana's hand sank w ithin it.

She placed her fingertips upon the young damsel's head. Morgiana felt the damsel shudder as she sent the vision of what might come to pass if the daemon-child lived into her mind. It w as over in a second, and the Enchantress pulled her hand back. It w as numb w ith cold, but she ignored the discomfort.

'What w ould you have me do, mistress?' said the vision of the girl in the mirror. Her lover tensed and lifted his head, looking around for w ho it w as she talked to.

'Bring the child to me, Anara,' the Enchantress w hispered. Her gaze flickered to the broad, strong features of the damsel's lover. 'Take Reolus with you. His sword will be needed.'

'It shall be as you w ish, my mistress,' replied Anara.

Then the vision in the mirror faded, and the Enchantress stared at her ow n reflection. There was a hint of sadness in her eyes.

'I'm sorry, Anara,' she w hispered.

THE GOBLET THAT the jarl had drained and hurled aw ay from him had rolled to the edge of the circle of blood-dust surrounding the intertwined couple. Smoke rose from w here the liquid seeped from the vessel, and Bjarki knelt down before it. His jarl and the w itch were in the throes of passion within the circle but Bjarki paid them no heed, concentrating on the goblet. Lifting it carefully, so as not to disturb the ritual circle, he raised it to his nose, sniffing. Frowning, he touched a finger to the small amount of liquid still contained within and licked it.

All manner of herbs and roots could be tasted w ithin, as well as the essence of certain dream-inducing mushrooms that he was familiar with. But behind all that, there w as a bitter taste that he recognised, though he could not put his finger on w hat it w as. Bjarki furrowed his brow and stood, pushing through the circle of enthralled, drug-addled huskarls, trying to identify the substance in his mind.

Bjarki stalked dow n to the bottom of the hill, the witch-consort's banshee screams of pleasure ringing out across the low lands. Muttering to himself, he entered his tent, w racking his mind for the source of the herb or root that he had tasted in the brew .

Herbs, roots and the innards of animals and men hung from cords strung above his head, and he flicked through them, hoping that something would jog his memory.

Finding nothing, he squatted on the floor and began to tear open his saddlebags, untying leather thongs and rolling out bundles of leather within w hich were hundreds of small pockets, each containing a neatly wrapped bundle of leather and fur, tied up w ith dried sinew and horsehair. Within each package w as a rare ingredient, either gathered by Bjarki or one of his predecessors or traded from the lands of the Kurgan, the Hung or the southlanders, or lands even further afield; the hot forests of the lizard-people many months' sail to the south-w est, the realm of the Dragon King in the east beyond the great w all, or from the lands of sand and dust-daemons to the south.

Norse runes w ere burnt into the leather of these packages, telling him what was contained w ithin each - some he had never opened, having never had the need. He flicked through his precious collection with growing irritation, cursing.

Bjarki finally gave up, angry and frustrated, and he threw himself down onto his furs.

It came to him just as he started to drift off to sleep.

'Whorlroot,' he said to himself. 'The devious bitch.'

The w itch had dissolved a large amount of the deadly root in his jarl's draught, concealing its taste w ithin the hallucinogenic brew's potent flavour. In small doses, if taken regularly, Bjarki knew that the root w ould slowly kill a man, w asting his muscles and eating him aw ay from the inside. It was a cunning way to do aw ay w ith an enemy if obvious hostility needed to be avoided, so long as one could slip the root pow der into a draught regularly enough without causing suspicion, for its symptoms w ere akin to many w asting sicknesses, and only one particularly skilled in herb-lore w ould ever detect it. Taken in the quantity that the witch had slipped into Styrbjorn's draught, it w ould cause the victim to fall into a deep sleep from w hich he would not w ake - unless a draught to countermand its effects was imbibed. Thankfully, such an antidote w as relatively simple.

Quickly, Bjarki began tearing open his pouches and grinding up roots, praying to the great gods of the Skaelings that he was not too late.

HAEGTESSE OPENED HER eyes with a start as she felt a sharp kick from w ithin her belly. The cold light of dawn penetrated weakly through the low hanging cloud cover, and fresh snow blanketed the top of the hill, but w ith her naked body w rapped in the thick furs strew n within the ritual circle atop the hill, she felt the chill only on her cheeks.

Her hands ventured dow n over her stomach, which had been firm and flat only hours earlier, marvelling at the considerable bump there now . Her flesh w as taut and stretched, bulging with new life. She felt the daemon-child within her kick again, more forcefully this time, and she gasped. She could hear the child's as yet unformed thoughts flow ing through her mind like an incoherent whisper, confused and jumbled yet pulsing w ith staggering intensity. Such power!

The gods of Chaos had clearly blessed the union, and she judged that she would come to term w ithin the month. She felt a flicker of unease as she considered how pow erful the boy w ould be by the time she gave birth. He w as already so strong, though his pow er was as yet unfocused and vague. Once he gained mastery over it, he w ould be horrifyingly potent. He w ould - if he lived - command pow er that she could not hope to comprehend.

She sat up w ith some aw kwardness, unused to the w eight of the child within her.

She clutched the furs around her and glanced down at the figure of the Skaeling jarl.

He had rolled aw ay from her, and was wrapped in furs, so that she could not see his face. She did not hear his breathing. She was almost sorry to have killed him; he had been a fine lover.

Nevertheless, his death had been necessary - he w ould never have stood by and allow ed her to do w hat it w as she intended. She would leave this stinking Norscan camp concealed in the shadow of Dark Magic and birth the child in the wilderness, alone. It w ould be a simple matter to befuddle the minds of any sentries, and yet she didn't even think that w ould be necessary; the Skaeling warriors had celebrated their victory long into the night, and few w arriors would be yet aw ake.

Again the child kicked within her, and she gasped.

By the time the daemon-child reached five years of age he w ould be capable of things that had taken her half a dozen lifetimes to master, and she doubted that she w ould be able to overcome him. But as a new born? He might have power, but he w ould not yet know how to control it, nor have the self-awareness necessary to protect himself from her. And he would be dead long before he mastered his gods-blessed power.

She stroked her belly lovingly.

'A month's time, and the gods w ill hear your birth screams,' she whispered. 'And then you w ill die - by my knife - and I shall live forever.'

'I don't think so,' said a voice in her ear.

She started in alarm and spun around to see Jarl Styrbjorn staring at her, his eyes as cold as ice. How could this be? He had drained enough of the draught to kill one of his immense tuskers!

She began to mouth an incantation that w ould summon her guardian daemon-shades to her and rip Styrbjorn's soul to shreds, but the jarl backhanded her hard across the side of the face and she fell with a cry. She hadn't even seen the blow coming, and the pain was intense. Stars flashed before her eyes and she could already feel the bruise rising.

'Kurgan bitch,' grow led Styrbjorn. 'You think I'd let you harm my son? You think you could kill me?'

Haegtesse couldn't talk, still dazed by the sledgehammer blow that the Skaeling jarl had struck her. She tried to get aw ay from him, scrabbling frantically on hands and knees, but he grabbed her by the hair and hauled her head back, exposing her throat. She w as pow erless against his strength, and for a second she thought he was going to kill her.

As Styrbjorn held her immobile, a horrific device of black iron was lowered over her head by another set of hands. The Skaeling seer, she realised dimly. Of course he must have been the one to realise w hat it w as Styrbjorn had drunk, and concocted its antidote. Damn him!

The device the seer carried was a helmet-like cage, and it stank of blood as it w as low ered over her head. She saw that runes of the Dark Tongue were engraved upon its bands, and she struggled violently, screeching like an animal as she tried to avoid having it locked in place.

Styrbjorn struck her again then, a blow that rattled her brain and left her almost insensible. The brank w as fastened around her head. Inward facing spikes carved deep gouges in her flesh, and she winced. The front of the headpiece was hinged, and as its door w as pushed closed and locked, a spiked metal tongue depressor was forced into her mouth. It pierced the flesh of her cheeks and tongue and bit deep into the roof of her mouth. She almost choked on her ow n blood as it filled her throat.

Her arms w ere w renched painfully behind her back and bound tightly w ith cord. The Skaeling seer, Bjarki, squatted in front of her, grinning, and her eyes flashed with hatred. Yet w ithout the pow er of speech and with her hands bound, she was as helpless as a newborn.

'Whorlroot,' said Bjarki, still grinning. 'Clever. It was a close thing - another half an hour and the father of your unborn child would have been worm-food.'

Jarl Styrbjorn stood up, stretched his arms, and shouted for his armour.

'Bring her,' he said, gesturing to the clearly pregnant, bound figure of Haegtesse. 'We make for the coast.'

'TELL US ANOTHER story?' begged one of the peasants, a plea which was echoed by a dozen others crow ding around inside the hovel, hot w ith sweat and the heat of the open fire.

Chlod, stuffing his mouth w ith hard bread dunked in stew, grinned, wiping hot gravy from his chin. He waved a hand, and one of the peasants that made up his audience handed him a clay jug of cheap w ine, which he swigged from.

The peasants w ere looking at Chlod expectantly, and he was relishing being the centre of attention as he spoke of the holy feats of the grail knight, Reolus.

Chlod had arrived at Lyonesse, upon the rocky northeast coast, some tw o days earlier, borne upon the back of a w agon laden with produce, and had been enjoying its hospitality ever since. To his audience, he was a dashing adventurer, a heroic pilgrim seeking his master, and they happily fed and watered him in exchange for his tales.

'One more story, then,' he said, smacking his lips.

It didn't get much better than this, he thought, with a smile. He should be able to w ork this charade here for at least another few weeks. He shoved half a biscuit dow n his shirtfront for his rat, and then, with his audience hanging on his every word, he began another fanciful tale about how he, a lowly peasant pilgrim, saved the life of the holy paladin Reolus.

CHAPTER TEN

THE WAVES POUNDED relentlessly against the white stone of the castle w alls, the crashing of the surf sending deep, sonorous booms echoing through its halls. Sprays of foam and icy w ater exploded up the sheer sides of the fortress, reaching for the battlements. Snow w as falling from dark clouds overhead and w hile it was only early afternoon, it w as as dark as tw ilight.

Calard stood upon the north-w est wall, braving the elements as he stared darkly out tow ards the horizon. He could taste the salt spray upon his lips, and snow gusted through the crenulations, billowing around him and chilling his flesh.

It had been three w eeks since the catastrophic defeat of the army of Lyonesse, three w eeks since he had been forced to flee like a peasant from the w rath of the Norscan w horesons. He had felt the Lady's displeasure as he and the other knights of Bastonne had fled the field, pursued by the how ling hordes of Chaos.

The slaughter had been terrible, and above it all the Norscan chieftain had watched from atop his throne upon the back of the immense tusker, laughing as the monstrous beast smashed men and horses out of its path w ith every swing of its heavy head.

He shuddered as he thought again of the violent trumpeting of the monsters as they rampaged through the ranks of the proud knights, stomping and slaughtering everything in their path. They seemed inured to pain, ignoring scores of lances imbedded in their tree-trunk legs, and barely seeming to register the flashing swords that hacked at them. Calard felt his despair grow. What could a man do to fight such beasts? What could an army do to fight them?

Calard clenched his hand into a fist and struck the cold stone of the battlements, compacting the snow settling there.

He thought of the Lady Elisabet, the lady w hom he had given his heart only to be cruelly betrayed. She had been the last person he had expected to see in the midst of that chaotic battle, a prisoner sat at the Norscan w arlord's feet upon the back of the mighty beast.

Again he saw Elisabet's large tearful eyes as she tried to get close to him, just after he had learnt of her murderous plot to kill his father, the castellan of Garamont. He saw again the hurt, the pain, and the desperation - the love - in her expression, and it felt like a cold claw clutched at his heart. He had believed that he would wed Elisabet w ithin a year of his return home from Bordeleaux, and had even gone so far as to meticulously plan how he was going to ask for her hand.

He hated her. She had shattered his dreams. She had poisoned his father, turning him into a w ithered skeleton, old before his time. And he hated himself for the fact that there w as a part of him that loved her still.

She w as out there, he thought, staring off into the distance, a captive of the brutal Norscan w arlord. His anger rose just imagining what horrors she was being subjected to by the Norse chieftain, by his men. No matter w hat she had done, she didn't deserve that.

Staring intently at the horizon, seeing the storm clouds rolling in from the north and the flash of lightning in the distance, he swore. He felt so helpless. She was probably in Norsca by now ; if she was still alive at all.

The battle had ended in butchery, and the scale of it filled him with loathing and disgust; the enemy w ere nothing more than bestial savages. He had seen knights hacked limb from limb by frenzied Norsemen long after there had been any honour left in the fight. He had seen blond-haired marauders tear out the throats of knights w ith their bare teeth. He saw hulking, black-armoured barbarians bedecked in furs matted w ith congealed blood slaughtering the injured, beheading them w ith mighty sw eeps of their broad-bladed axes. None were given mercy or clemency. Even the steeds of unhorsed knights were hacked apart by axe and sw ord, giant mutated hounds savaging them and tearing great chunks of meat from their flanks.

The Duke of Lyonesse had been carried clear of the slaughter, though the famed banner of Lyonesse w as lost, trampled into the mud. Miraculously, the duke was still alive; he'd merely been knocked unconscious by a blow to his head. The Lady had clearly intervened on his behalf, protecting him from w orse hurt. He was hastily borne aw ay from the battlefield, his closest coterie of knights escorting him swiftly for Castle Lyonesse in the west, upon the walls of which Calard now stood.

After their victory, the Norse army had struck for the coast, driving hard. For a w eek Calard and those surviving knights that had not accompanied the duke had dogged the progress of the barbarians, but there w ere less than fifteen hundred survivors of the ten thousand knights that had fought in the battle, and they could do little to threaten them.

They had engaged in running battles w ith the outriders of the Norscans but these w ere nothing more than skirmishes for they had not the numbers to force the Norscans into a decisive battle. They had not even the strength of numbers to stop the Norscans from sacking a dozen villages and small hamlets as they rampaged back tow ards the coast, and the mood of the Bretonnian camp had been grim.

By the time the knights of Couronne had caught up w ith the remnants of the shattered Lyonessian army, half of the Norscan army had already put to sea. The relief force had been pitifully small, however, for the majority of the knights despatched had turned back as soon as it w as clear that the Norscans were not seeking to penetrate deeper into Bretonnia. Only the younger knights errant, those desperate to prove their w orth, had continued their ride from Couronne.

He had been surprised to see a familiar face amongst the knights, however; none other than the foreigner Dieter Weschler, a nobleman of the Empire that Calard had fought alongside six months earlier. The man's appearance w as, if anything, even more fastidious and outlandish to those attuned to Bretonnian sensibilities than Calard remembered; all puffy sleeves, tights, ostentatious plumes and lacquered black steel.

Dieter w as, it turned out, now the Empire's ambassador to Bretonnia, though he confided in Calard that he w as growing tired of the king's court, with all its intrigue and back-stabbing. He had leapt at the opportunity to ride forth and do battle, and he saw that doing so w as an opportunity to further strengthen the relations betw een Bretonnia and the Empire.

How ever, as pleased as Calard w as to see his old comrade in arms, he was furious to learn that the entire relief force that had set out from L'Anguille had turned back once it had established that the enemy no longer threatened their own border.

Nevertheless, fighting alongside Dieter, Calard and the remaining knights had made a good account for themselves in a daring attack against the last of the Norscans boarding their longships, yet the battle had little relevance; the enemy warlord - and Elisabet - had already departed Bretonnian shores.

In impotent rage Calard had stood upon the snow -covered beach, surrounded by dead and dying Bretonnians and Norscans, and watched as the last longships pulled aw ay into the distance. It had been a grim journey from there to Castle Lyonesse, a day to the south, and Calard and the other Bastonnian knights had ridden in silence, escorting the injured. For tw o nights they had been the guests of the Duke of Lyonesse w ithin his island fortress - one of the most impressive and defensible casties in Bretonnia.

It w as located just off the north-w est coast of Lyonesse, some four hundred yards from the mainland.

Calard heard someone climb to the top of the stairs behind him, but did not bother to turn to greet them. In silence Bertelis moved to his side and leant against the battlements, gazing out to sea.

The brothers stood in silence, listening to the pounding of the surf as snow billowed around them. Only a w eek earlier neither of them had seen the ocean, and Calard had dreamt of the day w hen he would since he was a child, but this w as not how he had imagined it. He had envisaged blue-green waters sparkling with reflected light and filled with an abundance of life, not the unyielding fury of this isolating w asteland of black, icy water.

'Do w e return to Garamont then, brother?' said Bertelis finally, his voice low.

Calard sighed. He had no w ish to return to his ancestral home and face his responsibilities, but he could not continue to shirk his duties, he knew.

And as much as he hated to admit it, there w as nothing that could be done now to save Lady Elisabet. She w as gone, as w ere the Norscans, across the seas.

'Yes,' he said at last. 'It is time to return home. Ready the men.'

Bertelis nodded and turned to leave when a fanfare of horns began to sound. Calard frow ned. 'What's this?' he said.

They could see men running tow ards the east gate, and they heard shouts of excitement and aw e. The gates w ere opened, and the portcullis raised, and again long fluted horns blared.

'Must be someone important,' said Bertelis, and the brothers began descending the w alls quickly, with no further discussion, joining the crowds that were thronging tow ards the east gate.

REOLUS, HOLY GRAIL knight of the Lady and the epitome of knightly perfection, rode alongside a damsel of the Lady through the rapturous crow d, his head held high.

It seemed that the clouds parted momentarily as the illustrious pair entered Castle Lyonesse amid a fanfare of excitement, and rays of sunlight shone down upon them.

Reolus rode upon a pow erful, jet-black destrier that was easily tw enty hands high, w hile the damsel rode without a saddle upon a smaller dappled grey. The grail knight carried aloft his gleaming silver lance, the famous Arandyal, and bore his helmet under his other arm. His face was expressionless, his features strong and ageless.

The grail knight wore a flowing tabard of regal blue over his gleaming armour, its edges embroidered w ith silver thread. The damsel wore a filmy purple dress, and her hair w as bound up in an elaborate headdress, her face obscured by a silken veil.

A thick cloak, its inside lined with softest mink fur, hung from Reolus's shoulders, and a golden clasp in the shape of the Lady's holy chalice was fastened upon his chest. Only those w ho had supped from the grail were allowed to w ear such emblems, those w ho had come face to face w ith the goddess herself and been found w orthy. The grail knights were the most respected individuals in all of Bretonnia, paragons of virtue and honour w ho w ere beyond reproach.

Calard's breath caught in his throat as he gazed upon the hallowed warrior once again. A palpable holy aura shimmered around Reolus, and his eyes gleamed with the Lady's pow er.

The Duke of Lyonesse was amongst those that spilled out to w itness the grail knight's entrance to his castle, and he bow ed low before Reolus and the damsel of the Lady.

Calard and Bertelis pushed through the crowd to hear his words.

'Lord Reolus and Lady Damsel, I am honoured,' said Duke Adalhard. 'What is mine is yours; I w ill have apartments readied for you immediately. We shall feast this night in your honour!'

Reolus raised a hand, and the cheering that had erupted at the duke's announcement simmered down.

'Your hospitality does you proud, my lord duke,' said Reolus. 'How ever, I fear there are more pressing matters at hand. The Norscans.'

'The Norscans have left,' said the duke with a frow n.

'No,' said the damsel, and Calard jerked as if he had been struck, as he recognised the voice as that of his sister, Anara.

'No, my lady?' questioned Duke Adalhard.

'The Norscans have not left Bretonnian lands,' said Anara, her voice vague and ethereal. 'They are encamped thirty miles westward. They have defiled the temple of the Blessed Lady upon the Isle of Landri, and slaughtered all its priestesses. I can hear their souls crying out in fear even now, denied their eternal rest.'

'The Lady Elisabet?' called out Calard, pushing to the front of the crowd, and he blushed as he felt hundreds of pairs of eyes turn to focus upon him. Anara regarded him as if he w ere a stranger, with no hint of recognition in her eyes.

'She is there,' said Anara finally, 'and it is the will of the Lady that she be reclaimed from the Norscan infidels.'

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CALARD SHIVERED AS the icy w ind whipped across the exposed top of the keep. The pegasus stamped their hooves, clearly unimpressed, and the knights of Parravon stroked their necks, whispering quietly to placate the pow erful steeds. They looked as unhappy as their mounts w ith the arrangement, and Calard felt a knot in his stomach at the prospect of riding one of the temperamental beasts. 'Mount up,' said Laudethaire.

Calard grimaced as Bertelis gave him an excited smile and pulled himself smoothly into the saddle. The pegasus snorted and reared instantly, unfurling and beating its w ings violently in protest at its unfamiliar rider, but Bertelis stayed in the saddle, grinning like a madman, and brought it under control w ith a firm yank on the reins.

Its ears w ere still flat against its head, and it quivered in anger, but it began to settle as its ow ner grabbed it by the bridle and talked to it in a firm, calm voice.

Reolus w as already astride his mount, as stoic as ever, and his pegasus seemed content and relaxed beneath him. Anara ran a hand along the length of the pegasus she w as to ride and it knelt before her, much to the amazement of the Parravonian knights, allowing her to step into the saddle in a dignified manner. She barely seemed to register the strangeness of the situation, lost as she was in an animated discussion with herself.

Calard gazed at the pegasus that he w as to ride and felt his mouth go dry, though he did not for a moment regret insisting that he be part of the rescue. The Parravonians had been resistant, but Reolus had backed Calard's w ish, and his word brooked no argument, even w hen Bertelis demanded that he too accompany the w ar-party.

The w inged steed was a magnificent beast, larger than a Bretonnian warhorse and as w hite as virgin snow. Its mane w as thick, a mix of feathers and hair, and its powerful w ings were held tight against its body, furled like an eagle's. It flashed him an angry look, steam billow ing from its flared nostrils, and he swallowed.

'Frightened, Garamont?' said Maloric smugly from the back of his ow n pegasus.

Calard flashed the Sangasse noble a dark look. He still could not believe that the grail knight Reolus had suggested he accompany them; couldn't the grail knight see that he w as nothing but a treacherous dog?

'Mount her just like a horse,' advised the knight holding the pegasus's reins. 'Get your feet in the stirrups quickly and hold on tight, as she w on't like being ridden by a stranger.'

Calard nodded, blushing as he felt the eyes of his companions upon him, and gripping the pommel with one hand, he placed his left foot in the stirrup and hauled himself into the saddle. The pegasus bucked, throw ing its head around violently, and spun on the spot. Calard had ridden since before he could w alk, and was well used to breaking in rebellious steeds, but never had he ridden a beast as large and pow erful as this, and he struggled to bring her back under his control.

She reared, unfurling and beating her wings, sending snow gusting in eddies before her, and Calard felt himself half-kicked out of the saddle as the pegasus reared and bucked again.

'Whoa!' shouted Calard in w hat he hoped was a firm, authoritative voice, and using his w hole body w eight and the strength in his arm, he pulled the pegasus's head to the right, simultaneously using his right leg to disengage its hind quarters, robbing it of its strength. It snorted and pulled against him, but could do nothing against his practised one rein stop, and it began to calm dow n as it realised its rider w as not inexperienced.

'Damage her mouth and you w ill be paying restitution, Bastonne,' said the Parravonian knight haughtily.

'And w hat restitution will you pay if she throws me into the ocean?' muttered Calard in reply.

Having brought the pegasus under control, at least temporarily, Calard looked out over Castle Lyonesse and its surrounds, trying to ignore the knotting of his stomach.

He breathed out evenly, trying to slow his rapidly beating heart.

The keep on which they stood rose higher than any of the castle walls, allowing a clear view across the island fortress and the surrounding sea. It truly w as an impressive defensive structure, and though Calard felt there was a good amount of pride involved in the duke's claim that it w ould never fall by force, he could well believe that fully manned and well provisioned, the castle could hold against an enemy besieger for many months, possibly even years.

Its w alls w ere high and thick, and tow ers topped with immense trebuchets were built at strategic points along its lengths, each one offering good vantage for archers to fire dow n upon anyone trying to scale the sheers walls on either side. Even the smallest of these tow ers w as easily three times the height of any of the tow ers of Castle Garamont - indeed, the entirety of Castle Garamont could be completely enclosed w ithin Castle Lyonesse ten times over.

From his high vantage point, Calard looked over the tightly packed buildings huddled w ithin the castle walls below the keep tow ards Lyonesse harbour. A dozen ships were anchored in the calm waters of the protected cove, inside the protection of the walls.

After the keep itself, the massive gatehouse that covered the entrance to the harbour w as the most defensible part of the stronghold. That arched gatew ay was of such scale that the largest ships of the Bretonnian fleet would be able to sail through it into the harbour w ith room to spare, passing beneath the most immense portcullis Calard had ever seen.

When that portcullis was lowered, he heard tell from the proud local knights, its w eight forced a second portcullis to rise from the rock beneath the water like a counterbalance. These tw o black iron gates, one falling and one rising, w ould meet a few yards under the water, forming an impenetrable barrier.

Calard's eyes drifted aw ay from the harbour tow ards the temple of Manann, positioned on top of the rocky cliffs at the southern tip of the island. He could see the statue of the sea-god staring out to the open sea atop the circular temple, trident in hand and flanked by bizarre beasts that w ere half lion, half fish.

Though the Lady of the Lake w as the official patron deity of the Bretonnian nobility, it w as a fool that w ould not pay his respect to the lord of the ocean when travelling upon - or over - his domain. Calard had already left an offering of gold at that temple earlier that day; the idea of falling from the back of a pegasus into the ocean filled him w ith dread. He knew that if such a thing occurred, the weight of his armour w ould ensure he sank like a stone. The mere thought of the deep sea beasts that Manann ruled, the unnamed, blind and pallid horrors said to dw ell upon the abyssal ocean floor made him shudder w ith horror. He hoped that his offering would see him safely back onto solid land.

'How long w ill it take to reach the island the Norse have desecrated?' asked Reolus.

'An hour, w ith favourable w inds,' replied Laudethaire.

'May the Lady protect you all,' said Tassilo. He stood with the rest of Calard's cousins, Baldemund and Huebald, looking concerned.

Calard nodded and pulled on the reins as his steed began to become agitated.

'It is time that w e w ere gone,' said Reolus, and is if understanding the grail knight's w ords, his pegasus stretched its broad, feathered wings, first to one side then the other, like an eagle readying for the hunt.

Cold fear knotted Calard's stomach again, though as no one else seemed to be show ing any sign of unease, he tried to hide it.

'I've alw ays w anted to fly,' said Bertelis. For a moment he looked again like the excitable young boy he had once been, his eyes alight with adventure, rather than the rather serious, solemn young man he had become since their return from Bordeleaux. Calard felt none of his exuberance, and was clutching his reins tightly, his jaw clenched so hard it hurt.

'For the glory of Parravon, the Lady and the King!' bellowed Laudethaire, raising his lance high.

'For the glory of Laudethaire, more like,' said Maloric under his breath, and had he not been in a mild panic, Calard w ould have grinned despite himself.

'To the air!' cried Laudethaire, and urged his steed tow ards the edge of the battlements.

'Lady protect me,' muttered Calard as the other pegasus broke into a gallop tow ards the edge of the keep. The animal beneath him wanted to join them, and with a flick of the reins and a kick he urged it forward.

The pegasus in front leaped the battlements, w ings beating powerfully. Then Calard's ow n steed w as at the crenulations and he roared wordlessly as it launched into the air.

There was a moment of w eightlessness and Calard felt his stomach rise up into his chest. The sheer walls of the keep fell away and suddenly there w as nothing between him and the ground a hundred yards below but air. For a sickening moment he was certain that he w as about to plunge to his death.

Then the pegasus beat its w ings and they rose into the air, his steed tucking its forelegs beneath it like a leaping horse. With no prompting from Calard, w ho was concentrating on not falling to his death, the pegasus swooped into a banking turn behind the other knights, soaring around the keep. The rush of the w ind made Calard's eyes w ater, and he gaped at the sheer drop below him, clutching at the pommel as he stared in uncomprehending horror down at the buildings at the base of the keep, far below .

They sw ung around to the w est and dipped down tow ards the wall. Flying past one of the great tow ers that guarded the approach from the w estern seas, Calard dimly heard people cheering and saw waving banners, but he w as too busy trying to stay in the saddle to pay them any attention. The pegasus briefly furled its wings, and Calard let out an uncontrolled groan as they hurtled down towards the ground for a moment. Sw ooping dow n low over the western wall, he saw men-at-arm sentries w aving up at them. His eyes goggled as he saw the waves crashing against the jagged rocks far below and then they were out over the ocean, with nothing beneath them but the icy depths, leaving Castle Lyonesse behind them.

Calard realised that he had been holding his breath, and he let it out slow ly, trying to relax. The winds buffeted them, making the pegasus rise and fall in the air unpredictably. Nothing could be seen out in front but the open ocean and storm clouds, w ith the occasional jagged spear of rock rising from the black w ater, and Calard cursed.

He heard a shout, and turned his head to see Bertelis waving at him exuberantly.

Calard ignored him, and turned his head forwards again, staring resolutely out to sea, clinging to the reins with grim determination.

'An hour,' he muttered to himself. Right now that seemed like an eternity.

THE PEGASUS BANKED and began to circle down through the clouds. Calard was frozen, and his whole body w as aching - he had found it impossible to relax in the saddle know ing that he was hundreds of feet above the ocean. He could see nothing through the dank clouds; they might have been a thousand feet up or a dozen.

A gap appeared in the clouds below , and for a brief moment he saw the island that the Norscan had claimed, far below . Calard saw countless figures moving in the light of thousands of fires far below . They looked tiny and insignificant from his vantage, but he knew from experience that each of those figures was a fearless warrior, standing almost a head taller than any Bretonnian. Low fog hung over the ocean, but he could see thousands of longships that had been pulled up upon the beaches of the island. His rage grew as he looked upon the defiled ruin of the chapel to the Lady upon the southern tip of the island.

That chapel seemed to be the focus of the Norscan's revelry, and he heard drunken shouts, roars and booming laughter echoing up from it. It had been gutted by fire, and its roof had caved inw ards in several sections, allowing the billowing snow to fall w ithin.

Then the clouds closed in, concealing his view and their approach. Like a flock of birds flying together in an arrowhead-like formation, the pegasus swooped down through the clouds, w ith Laudethaire at its apex. Calard had no idea how the knight w as navigating their progress, but he seemed to know w here he was headed. They dropped further through the clouds, Calard leaning back in the saddle as the angle of descent increased, and he felt that they must surely hit the ground or the ocean at any moment.

They broke through the low hanging clouds again, and Calard saw that they had dropped perhaps a hundred and fifty feet. The open ocean w as now beneath them, partially concealed in thick fog. Laudethaire had clearly guided them out to sea, so as to approach the island from an unseen quarter.

Calard sw ore as his pegasus dived, and he hung on grimly. The pegasus dropped like a stone as it entered the thick bank of fog. It sw ooped low, hooves trailing in the icy w ater as it follow ed Laudethaire's lead tow ards the rocky cliffs in front of them.

The sw ell was immense, and Calard's pegasus lifted them higher with a pow erful beat of its w ings as a tow ering wave threatened to engulf them. The beast tossed its head in pleasure as the w ind whipped sea-spray off the top of the waves into them.

'Stupid beast,' spluttered Calard, spitting sea water from his mouth.

The flight of pegasus banked to the east, gliding silently through the fog, heading for a rocky cove. There were no longships beached here, for blade-like rocks pierced the w aters on approach to the small bay, making navigating it safely impossible.

Thankfully, there were no Norscans in sight - this w as clearly an unoccupied area of the island. On the headland, Calard could see the defiled chapel of the Lady, lit daemonically from w ithin by fires.

The flight of pegasus glided into the cove, and they hit the ground running. Calard dragged his steed to a halt. Sw inging a leg over the saddle, he dropped to the ground.

His legs w ere shaky, but it felt good to have solid ground beneath him, and he let out a ragged breath.

'Didn't fall off then, Garamont?' asked Maloric from nearby. Calard w as pleased to see that for all the cockiness in his voice, the Sangasse noble looked pale and worn -

clearly the flight had taken its toll on him as w ell.

'Sorry to disappoint,' said Calard through lips that w ere numb w ith cold.

In a low voice, Laudethaire indicated that tw o of his Parravonian kin would take the pegasus to the skies, so as to avoid risk of their discovery.

'What if w e need them in a hurry?' asked Bertelis.

'They w ill be near,' said Laudethaire, looking briefly at the younger of the Garamont nobles as if he w ere a bug.

'Does anyone else think that the Norscans might not just stand idly by w hile we w alk into their camp and take Elisabet?' said Maloric.

'Scared, Maloric?' said Calard in an acidic tone.

'Just not stupid,' he shot back. 'I care for her too, Garamont.'

'She'd not give you the time of day, Sangasse,' said Calard, his voice rising as hatred and jealousy reared w ithin him. In Bordeleaux just before the w ar against the beasts of the w ildwood, Maloric and he had exchanged heated words regarding Elisabet.

Maloric had claimed that the token of affection he wore on his arm had been a gift from her, and Calard had reacted angrily, discounting his w ords as those of a viper.

Still, even then, he had suspected the Sangasse noble spoke true.

'Stay your tongues,' said Reolus, his voice low and firm.

Calard fell instantly silent, ashamed to have been admonished by the holy paladin.

'The Lady's pow er shall conceal our approach,' said Anara, her voice vague and ethereal as she stared around at things that the others could not perceive. 'We shall be as ghosts, spirits passing unseen through the night.'

Calard shuddered, and sw apped an uneasy glance w ith Bertelis.

'Do not speak,' said Anara softly. 'Do not make sudden movements. Do not draw your w eapons. Any of these things will break the spirit-walk and that will be the death of us all.'

The knights, other than Reolus, regarded the slight figure of Anara w arily, but they nodded their heads in understanding. Each of them regarded the damsel with a mixture of reverence, suspicion and fear, for her ways w ere strange and unearthly, and yet undoubtedly divinely inspired.

As the pegasus took to the air, angling out over the sea and disappearing into the fog, Anara began to incant. Calard could not understand her words, but it made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, and he could taste an oddly metallic tang in the air. Anara's eyes rolled back in her head and she threw her arms out to either side, palms held up to the heavens as she continued to speak in that soft, unnatural voice.

Calard felt his skin prickle, and a w ave of intense cold passed through him, making him shiver involuntarily. Ice crystals began to form on his armour, and his breath misted the air in front of his face. Thick fog rolled up off the water and began to surround the knights, who looked around them in unease. The biting chill permeated deeper into Calard's body, making his joints ache and every breath painful, and the forming ice threatened to lock up the joints of his armour. His hands and feet w ere numb, and he could feel that numbness creeping up his limbs and into his body.

It w as suddenly hard to keep his eyes open. All he w anted to do w as to lie down and let oblivion take him.

Blinking against the urge, Calard looked around at Bertelis, who w as pale and draw n, his eyes haunted. The fog continued to build around them, rising to engulf them completely, and Calard felt the icy touch reach his heart. He gasped.

This was what death must feel like, he thought. To lie down and give in to it w as so tempting. He could forget the pressing responsibilities that he felt unworthy to bear.

He could forget about his doubts as to his ow n purity. All he had to do w as close his eyes, and nothing w ould matter.

Do not, thundered his sister's voice in his mind, making him start w ith its sheer pow er. Give in and you w ill be lost forever in this place, neither alive nor truly dead.

Calard's drooping eyes flicked open, and he focused on his sister's face. She gave no indication of having spoken to him, still engrossed in her incantation, with her head throw n back.

Lost in this place, Calard thought, confused. Where are we?

He w as not surprised w hen Anara answered him, still speaking directly into his mind.

We are in betw een, she said, in the shadow realm. This is neither the world of the dead nor the w orld of the living.

Calard looked around him. His surroundings had not changed, though the fog obscured them. No, he realised, that w as not quite correct. The landscape around him had changed, but he had not noticed it at first, blurry and indistinct, as it was in the thick fog. The surrounds were devoid of all colour, he realised, cast in shades of grey, like the vague memory of a dream.

Come, said Anara into his mind, and this time he realised that she must have been speaking to everyone. With the grail knight Reolus at her side, his eyes shining with holy light, Anara stepped forward. The fog parted before her like a peasant rabble before a queen, and the knights fell in behind.

They w alked in silence, and indeed every sound seemed to be muffled, as if they were hearing them from a great distance. The pounding of the w aves, deafening only minutes before, now sounded faint and even the howling of the wind seemed distant.

Calard frow ned as he realised that he could not feel the touch of the w ind at all, and though he w as chilled to the core of his being, he could not feel the snow upon his face. Indeed, those flakes of snow being carried into him by the w ind that he could not feel w ere not settling on any of them, he realised. He reached out to catch one of the snow flakes; it passed right through his hand, as if it were nothing more than an image, w ith no physical form at all.

'What...' he began before he remembered Anara's w arning not to speak. He saw by his brother's expression that he too w as trying to understand what w as happening and as they climbed steadily up from the beachhead, Calard realised that nothing around them seemed real; everything was like a dream.

The hillside itself was shadowy, with no colour to it at all. The rocks and low shrubs clinging to the hillside were vague and indistinct, like after-images that w ere not really there at all. Calard reached out to a strand of tall grass as he passed it, but his hand passed through the colourless ghost image.

Gazing up tow ards the defiled chapel, Calard saw that it too appeared as a slightly distorted shadow image, and even the light of the fires burning within had no colour to them - they merely burnt bright w hite.

Abruptly a pair of Norscan appeared, rounding a stand of rocks just ahead, heading directly tow ards them, moving down tow ards the cove, axes in hand. They were no more than a dozen yards aw ay and could not fail to notice the group of knights in their path. Curiously, he could see a glowing sphere of light in the centre of the Norscans' chests.

Calard's hand flashed to his sword but a hand stopped him. Anger surged as he saw that it w as Maloric's, and in that moment all he wanted to do w as cut the Sangasse noble dow n. How dare he lay hands upon him!

Maloric shook his head and nodded further up the line. Calard glanced up the hill, seeing that the Norscans were making no aggressive moves towards them indeed it looked as if they had not noticed them at all, though they were now less than half a dozen paces aw ay. His eyes were drawn again to the glowing light in the centre of each Norscan's chest. The glow w as coming from within them.

Calard felt a chill as the Norscans' eyes passed over him, looking through him. He saw also that the tw o w arriors were vaguely transparent and he realised that just as everything else in this shadow-realm, they w ere as ghosts. Or perhaps, he thought, it w as himself and his companions who were the ghosts here.

The larger of the Norscans, a hulking warrior that loomed over them all, was clearly irritated, and he and his companion were bickering in their brutish tongue, though it sounded like their voices came to his ears from a long w ay aw ay. The smaller man w as pointing down at the cove, and Calard guessed that he had heard or seen something of the Bretonnians' arrival. They are probably sentries, he thought.

Anara and Reolus gave the pair no mind and continued to climb up the shale-strewn path, and the Norscans walked straight through them. The ghost images continued on, still bickering, and Calard flinched as they walked through him. He felt nothing except a momentarily flicker of w armth as the glowing centre in the middle of the Norscan's chests touched him in passing.

Marvelling at the pow ers wielded by his sister, Calard and the knights topped the shale path and found themselves looking down upon the Norscans' camp. Tens of thousands of w arriors were picketed in the snow, their tents dotting the landscape as far as the eye could see. The hills rolled out before them, and Calard saw endless campfires surrounded by marauders w ho w ere eating, drinking and fighting.

Every one of them had a burning sphere of light in their breast, and he saw that some w ere brighter than others. A couple of the warriors, perhaps one or tw o in every thousand, had fires that burnt w ith such white-hot intensity that it hurt his eyes to look upon them.

An altercation betw een two clearly inebriated warriors escalated, cheered on by their comrades, and one of them buried his axe in the other's neck. Blood rendered black in Calard's monotone vision sprayed out across the snow, and with another blow the head w as severed from the warrior's shoulders. The victor hefted the head of his opponent high into the air, but this w as not w hat Calard w as focusing on. His eyes had been draw n to the soul-light of the defeated Norscan. He watched as the sphere flickered and grew faint before blinking out completely, like a candle snuffed out.

Quickly, w hispered Anara, and the knights followed as the damsel and the grail knight led the way up tow ards the headland, towards the imposing chapel positioned there.

They moved through the Norscan camp, walking straight through tents and warriors like ghosts. An immense warhound lifted its head at their passing, grow ling, but a drunken Norscan kicked the beast into silence.

They w alked straight through cooking fires on which animals and men were spitted, feeling nothing as they passed through the flames.

In the distance they could hear the trumpeting of the shaggy mammoths that had w reaked such havoc against the army of Lyonesse, though where those beasts w ere caged or picketed, Calard knew not.

Everyw here he looked, Calard saw vile evidence of the Norscans' brutality. Bodies w ere impaled on spears driven into the earth, their skin stripped from their muscles and loathsome symbols carved and branded into their flesh. Warriors were stretching the flayed skins of men across their shields and massive pauldrons, daubing their breastplates and faces w ith blood.

Warriors that seemed more beast than men hunkered dow n over the butchered carcasses of animals, ripping them apart w ith hands and teeth in the manner of dogs, grow ling at anyone that came near.

They passed near a w arrior whose soul-light burnt w ith particularly fierce intensity.

The hulking Norscan w as bedecked head to toe in black armour, and a single twisting horn sprouted from his helmet. A pair of serrated swords were crossed upon his back, each blade covered in glowing runes of dark pow er, and a forked tongue darted from his mouth as if he w ere tasting the air as Anara steered them past him. He stood up, sniffing, searching for them, but his eyes, which Calard saw were as black as pitch, passed over them without focussing - clearly even with his daemon-given pow ers he could still not see them.

Every instinct screamed for Calard to draw his sword and attack these vile, heathen barbarians. Their very presence was an affront to the goddess, and he was quivering w ith hatred as they picked their way through the enemy encampment. These were the ones w ho had butchered so many honourable knights three weeks earlier, and he dearly w ished to enact the Lady's vengeance upon them.

They climbed in a direct line tow ards the defiled chapel at the top of the headland.

Bloody standards made from the flensed skin of his kinsmen were ' rammed into the earth outside the temple, and they fluttered and waved in a strong wind that he could not feel. The ornate stained glass windows of the chapel had been smashed, and he saw that young w omen w earing the garb of temple novices had been nailed to the w alls, the symbols of the profane deities of the Norscans carved into their foreheads and their eyes plucked from their sockets by the carrion birds that perched on every available roost. There were tens of thousands of the crows and ravens, and they squabbled and fought for positions out of the w ind.

She is near, came Anara's voice.

If Anara felt any outrage at the w rong done to the temple of her patron deity, she gave no outw ard sign. The doors of the temple had been smashed inwards with colossal force, hinges ripped completely from the wall, and the bodies of innocents w ere strew n around, nigh on unrecognisable as having once been men and women. Most of them had been half-consumed by carrion birds and w arhounds.

Reolus made to climb the steps and enter the temple, but Anara stopped him w ith a hand upon his arm, and proceeded to w alk around the outside of the temple, heading for its rear.

Dim sounds of revelry could be heard coming from w ithin as the knights followed the damsel's lead.

They w ere high up on the headland here, with sheer cliffs that fell away into the ocean far below . Calard jerked in shock as there was a dim crash and a man fell through him to land at his feet, an axe embedded in his back, amid a show er of glass. Calard stepped aw ay from the man as he tried to rise then fell forward, dying, his soul-fire flickering.

Calard continued on after the others, rounding the rear of the temple. What he saw made him recoil in horror.

A circle of eight thick wooden pylons had been driven into the ground, their fire-blackened lengths daubed w ith infernal symbols. They were hazy and indistinct, as w as everything in this cursed shadow-land. Affixed to each pole was a chain. The eight lengths of chain met in the centre of the circle, where they were welded to a thick collar of metal encircling the neck of a young w oman.

The w oman was heavily pregnant, and a black iron brank w as locked around her head like a cage. The device was akin to the scolds' bridles that were sometimes used to punish gossiping or argumentative peasant w omen, but this one filled Calard w ith loathing, for there was something deeply unnatural about it. Shadow s w rithed around it like living things, and it w as engraved with vile runes that burnt w ith fiery intensity, binding the woman as pow erfully as the brank itself.

A crude aw ning - a heavy canvas sail of a Norscan longship, Calard realised - had been strung up over the w oman, giving her a modicum of protection from the elements, and fires burnt outside the circle. Furs w ere strewn beneath her, but the tension of the chains ensured that the woman was unable to lie dow n upon them -

the best she could manage w as to sit slumped, her head lolling forward, with the chains keeping her in an upright position. To treat anyone with such disregard made Calard feel sick to the pit of his stomach, but to do so to a pregnant young lady w as beyond reason.

A score of armed guards stood around the circle, talking amongst themselves, backs to the fires to ensure they maintained their night-sight, but Calard paid them no mind, his eyes focusing on the slumped form of the pregnant woman. Even shadowy and ghostlike as she was, with her face obscured by the repulsive brank locked around her skull, he realised that there was something sickeningly familiar about her.

'Elisabet,' he breathed in horror.

The ghostlike figures of the closest sentries snapped to attention as he spoke aloud, their heads turning in his direction.

One of them muttered something under his breath, staring straight at Calard and making a w arding motion w ith one hand. Calard reached for his blade, his hand closing around its ornate hilt.

The other sentries w ere hefting shields and weapons, gazing around them w arily. As if aw oken by the sudden tension of her captors, the imprisoned figure of Elisabet moaned and lifted her head, the chains attached to her neck clinking.

'In the Lady's name,' breathed Calard in horror, taking an involuntary step forwards.

One of the sentries barked a w ord in the harsh Norscan language, and made to lift a horn to his lips and sound a w arning that would bring the entire Norse army running.

Reolus w as suddenly in motion. He drew his sacred sword, Durendyal, and in this shadow y in-betw een realm it blazed w ith ethereal flames. Similar flames seemed to burst into life from the grail knight's eyes, burning with the fury of the goddess, and the Norscans fell back from him, terror w ritten on their faces at the ghostly apparition taking shape before them.

Then the grail knight cut dow n the first sentry, his blade first hacking through the Norscan's horn just as it touched the w arrior's lips and slicing cleanly through the man's head, carving through teeth, skull and brain matter w ith the ease of a hot knife cutting through pig-fat. Before the top half of the man's head had slid aw ay from the rest of this body, Reolus had stepped past the w arrior and killed another tw o men, his blade sliding through the muscled torso of one and the other dying instantly as Reolus skewered his head-on the length of his sacred blade. He moved w ith such sublime grace and speed that no one had even made a move, and three men w ere already dead.

'Take them!' roared Reolus, and Calard tore the blade of Garamont from his scabbard, leaping tow ards an axe-wielding ghost. He saw that his own sword too w as glow ing faintly, and his vision shimmered before him as he stepped out of the realm of shadow s and back into reality.

Sensation returned to Calard in a flood, almost stunning him w ith their vibrancy. The sound of battle around him w as loud, and he felt the biting wind tugging at his cloak, felt the heat of the fires nearby. He smelt blood and death, and he plunged his sword into the throat of the Norscan before the hulking warrior could react to his sudden appearance. The warrior's ice-blue eyes widened as the blade slid through his flesh and severed his spine, blood bubbling up from the fatal w ound.

Laudethaire and Maloric hacked down another pair of the sentries, and as Calard kicked the Norscan off his blade, he saw Bertelis sunder the skull of another, his blade carving dow n through the man's head. Reolus spun through the melee, a living avatar of the Lady, killing and dismembering with every pass of his blade.

All the guards w ere dead in seconds, and Calard ran to Elisabet's side. She had stood at the sound of battle, and he could see her eyes wide as she stared around her through the bars of her imprisoning headgear. He looked down at her distended, pregnant belly, his mind reeling. How was this possible? When last he had seen her, no more than three w eeks earlier, she had been as slim as ever, a petite girl.

Calard looked helplessly at the chains that bound Elisabet, having no idea how to release her from their bondage, but Anara w as at his side suddenly. She placed her hands upon the seamless iron collar around Elisabet's neck. Speaking a single word, there w as a flash of light and then the collar fell aw ay.

Now that the chains no longer held her upright, Elisabet slumped forw ards, and Calard caught her lightly in his arms.

'There is powerful sorcery at w ork here,' said Reolus as he looked down upon the brank enclosing Elisabet's head.

'Get it off her,' said Calard.

'I shall try,' said Anara, and she placed her hands upon the cage of black iron, closing her eyes. Smoke began to rise from under her palms, and Calard gagged as the smell of burning flesh filled his nostrils. Elisabet, unable to speak because of the iron gag of the brank, moaned in distress, and Calard held her strangely unfamiliar body tightly against him.

'Brother... Did you?' asked Bertelis, staring at Elisabet's pregnant form.

Calard shook his head in response.

The horrible runes engraved upon the iron bars of the brank blazed a deep red, and Calard saw beads of sw eat begin to run dow n Anara's face and her brow crease in pain. Smoke and the stink of burning flesh continued to rise from the damsel's hands, and the runes binding the ironwork burned ever brighter. At last there came a sound like the cracking of ice, and the ironwork broke, falling aw ay from Elisabet's head and dropping to the ground, the skin of Anara's palms still attached.

Anara fell backw ards in a sw oon, her hands blistered and raw as if she had grasped a red-hot poker from the coals. Reolus low ered her gently to the ground, and Calard looked dow n into Elisabet's face.

She w as looking up at him w ith a smile that made his blood run cold, and as he stared into her eyes, they turned as black as night, as if ink had been dropped into her irises and was spreading rapidly to cover the entire surface of her orbs.

Calard released her, recoiling as if he had suddenly found himself embracing a cadaver.

'You're not Elisabet...' he groaned.

'No, I'm not,' said the thing that w ore Elisabet's body. Then it began to speak in a tongue that made Calard's stomach clench in horror, and maddening, horned shadow s rose up around him. He heard malignant whispering in his ears, and his sw ord dropped from numb fingers.

Then he felt insubstantial talons pierce his flesh and he gasped in agony and fell to his knees.

CHAPTER TWELVE

THE INTERIOR OF the despoiled chapel was filled with wood smoke and the smells of sw eat and cooking meat, and the sounds of drunken revelry rose to the rafters.

Warriors shouted, clinked drinking horns and laughed as a young skald recounted the gore-soaked adventures of Knut the Bloody, a Skaeling berserker w ho had fought alongside the ever-chosen Asavar Kul.

This revered hero had taken part in the sacking of the Kislevite city of Praag tw o hundred years earlier, before, glutted w ith blood, he ventured northward, journeying into the heart of the god-touched lands there where dreams and nightmares become reality. The Skaelings were enjoying the tale, roaring their approval as the skald re-enacted a battle fought betw een Knut and a mighty bloodthirster of Kharnath that ended w ith him breaking the back of the monster over his knee, and the powers that be granting him daemonhood and eternal life as a rew ard for his tenacity.

In one corner of the chapel a fight was underway. More w arriors were sent sprawling and tables overflow ing with food and drink were sent smashing to the stone floor as a massive, bearded huskarl laid around him in a drunken fury. He had already sent one man crashing through a stained glass window, an axe buried in his back, and half a dozen others w ere strewn around him, bloody and broken. Another was felled, bellow ing as the huskarl shattered his forearm w ith a hammer-blow of his fist.

Styrbjorn reclined in his throne atop the stepped dais at the end of the chapel, only half listening to the ranting Chaos dwarf, Zumarah, who was speaking angrily, standing one step from the top of the dais, spitting his words out as he addressed the Skaeling jarl.

'...promised me slaves, manling,' the dwarf w as saying. 'And here we sit on this Hashut-forsaken rock, doing nothing!'

'Patience, Zumarah,' said Styrbjorn, w aving aw ay the words of the infuriated dwarf.

'Once the w itch bears my son, then we shall take the fight back to the southlanders.'

'You speak lies and poison, manling,' said Zumarah, placing a foot on the top of the dais. Styrbjorn's w arhounds were instantly on their feet, baring their teeth and snarling at the dw arf. Unfazed, the dwarf merely snarled back at them, though he did not move any closer to the Skaeling jarl. Styrbjorn barked a command, and his w arhounds dropped to their haunches, tails betw een their legs, though their unblinking eyes remained fixed on Zumarah.

'Once the bitch spaw ns the child, you w ill be taking it back to Skaeling lands, mark my w ords,' said the dwarf. 'If you do not deliver on your promise to me, I shall take my slaves from amongst your ow n people, starting with your bitch daughters.'

The shield-maidens Fraygerd and Hrefna, standing to either side of their father's throne, bristled. Hrefna half-drew her sword from her scabbard, her face tw isted in anger. The dwarf, standing only half the height of the tall, blonde warrior woman but easily three times her weight, snarled and reached for the double-headed axe strapped to his back.

'Let me cut his heart from his chest and offer it to mighty Kharnath, father,' spoke Hrefna.

Styrbjorn held up a hand to forestall any violence, and cast an amused glance at the dw arf.

'It's a foolish individual w ho insults a Skaeling woman, Zumarah,' he said. 'Their fury is far deadlier than any man's.'

'And it's a dead man w ho thinks he can swindle a Daw i, manling,' snarled the dwarf.

Bjarki w as seated cross-legged at Styrbjorn's feet, head dow n as he listened to the conversations occurring around him, and he smiled to himself. In truth, he agreed w ith the dwarfs sentiment; Styrbjorn w as growing soft. He had believed that the Skaeling jarl w ould stay on in Bretonnia after the great victory at the crow fields, carving a sw athe of destruction across the length and breadth of his hated birth land, and he had longed to be a part of the slaughter of the people who had turned their back on him. Long had he dreamed of returning to his father's estate and killing everyone there. He had not expected the jarl to flee like a frightened child to this island sanctuary to see his son birthed in solace, stalling Bjarki's blood-dreams of vengeance.

'Your son should be born surrounded by death!' Bjarki had argued w ith Styrbjorn the day after the victory. 'The first sounds he hears should be the din of battle; the screams of the dying, the roar of the victor, the clash of steel and the rending of flesh!'

Styrbjorn had grabbed him around the throat, his face flushing in anger and his eyes glinting w ith the gods' favour.

'Who is jarl here? Remember your place, little bear.'

Styrbjorn had shoved him aw ay, and Bjarki's hand had leaped to the w elts around his throat. He w as not used to such treatment. As w iry and tautly muscled as he w as, he w as still slight of frame and puny next to the hulking Skaelings - and Styrbjorn w as larger even than any of his chosen huskarls - but few w ould dare incur the w rath of the gods by laying a hand upon one of their chosen representatives.

Before he could snarl a curse, Styrbjorn had levelled one meaty finger at him.

'Don't go against me in this, Bjarki,' the jarl had warned in a dangerous voice. 'You are like a son to me, but I w ill not risk my blood-son by staying here in this foreign land.'

Bjarki knew that many of the Skaeling warriors were unhappy with the decision to leave the southlander's lands, and he had heard whispers of malcontent amongst the chieftains that had sw orn themselves to Styrbjorn. In truth, if he did announce that he w as sailing back to Norsca after the birth of the daemon-child, the seer would not be at all surprised if a leadership challenge arose, and that Styrbjorn w as forced to fight to maintain the dominance he had held these past decades.

Bjarki came back to the present, his head snapping up as he felt the sundering of the rune-magic binding the witch, Haegtesse.

'The w itch!' he snarled, leaping to his feet, interrupting the bickering betw een the dw arf and the Skaelings. 'She's free!'

Styrbjorn rose instantly from his throne, snatching up the tw in axes, Garmr and Gormr.

'With me!' he roared deafeningly, his god-touched voice booming through the chapel.

All activity ceased instantly, the young skald freezing mid-sentence, and giving pause to the bearded huskarl, w ho was holding another man by the scruff of the neck, fist poised to cave in his face.

Then the jarl was racing through the chapel, smashing men out of his w ay in his hurry, w arhounds at his heels, and he angled towards a side-door leading out to the rear. Bjarki darted forw ard in the wake of his jarl, flanked by Styrbjorn's daughters, and every w arrior present followed a second later, swords and axes bared.

IT FELT LIKE blades of ice were being driven into his flesh, and Calard gasped in agony as they pushed tow ards his heart. He'd never felt such pain in his life, and his eyes w ere w ide as he tried to focus on the face of the shadow-creature before him.

It w as no more solid than a firelight shadow, and he could see straight through it, though the impression of a blank, featureless face could be vaguely discerned. It turned its head on the side and leant in close to him, staring intently at him as if intrigued by the pain it w as inflicting. He groaned in excruciating torment as the shadow 's talons encircled his heart. He knew that it could kill him at any moment; all it had to do w as clench its hand and his heart would burst like an overripe melon under a hammer.

The nightmarish shade seemed to be savouring his torture; he saw its outline shudder as if in the throes of pleasure as it fed upon his pain, and heard its w hispering hisses increase in excitement. He stared in horror as it lifted its other hand tow ards his face, needle-like talons of black smoke poised to ram into his brain.

He could do nothing against it, paralysed in agony and terror.

The creature's hissing stopped abruptly and it sw ung its strangely ovoid, blank face aw ay from Calard, as if it had heard a sound. Reolus's blade, gleaming like quicksilver, sliced through its insubstantial cranium, and it emitted a horrible, w ailing screech as its head came apart.

Calard gasped and fell forw ard as the shade pulled its talons from his flesh, its long limbs contorting as it reeled in agony. Its shadowy head was in two halves, each hanging loose from its shoulders, and for a second Calard thought he was going insane, for a second image flickered before his eyes, superimposed upon the outline of the shade.

It w as a skinless, horrific thing and it w rithed in agony as a substance like oily smoke rose from its split head. It had no eyes or nose, just a lipless mouth filled with tiny, serrated teeth. The daemon emitted a chattering wail that might have been pain, and thrashed around as if in the midst of a fit. Calard saw the image for only a fraction of a second before the daemon w as once more as insubstantial as a shadow , but he knew that he had glimpsed the creature's true form.

Then it was gone, dissipating into smoke, leaving behind it a stench akin to rotting, foetid meat. Dimly, Calard heard the frantic cries of his fellow knights, and Bertelis gasped in pain.

Calard's chest w as numb w here the daemon's talons had pushed through his flesh but feeling had returned to his fingers and he swept up his fallen sword as he leaped to his feet. Shadows danced all around, and he saw one of them rising up betw een him and Bertelis, who was trying to keep it at bay w ith sweeps of his sword as he backed aw ay. Calard, looking through the shadowy daemon, could see his brother's face contorted in horror.

The daemon glided forwards and he saw Bertelis's sword pass clear through its body.

It had no visible effect on the shade, which loomed over him w ith taloned arms raised high, ready to plunge them down into his body. Calard cried out and threw himself forw ard, and he slashed the blade of Garamont through the insubstantial creature's body.

Its w hispers turned into wails and it swung towards him, oily smoke coiling from its w ound. It lashed out w ith one long, taloned arm, and again Calard saw it as it truly w as for a fraction of second. The exposed muscles of its skinless arm glistened wetly, and sharp, curving bone protruded six inches from the bloody flesh of its fingertips.

Calard leapt back from its strike and struck w ith his blade, which was gleaming with silver light. He severed the daemon's arm at the elbow and it w ailed again. He cleaved his sw ord through its neck with his return strike. It felt like he struck nothing more solid than air, but the daemon dissipated into the night, leaving a rancid stink behind it.

Tw o of Laudethaire's Parravonians were down, twitching and writhing, and Calard saw a third slump to the ground as one of the shadow daemons plunged its talons into his head. He saw the man tw itching horribly, blood running from his nose and his tongue lolling from the side of his mouth. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he w ent into violent convulsions, arms and legs rigid and his back arching unnaturally.

Horrifyingly, the dying man seemed to attract the interest of the daemons, which bent over him, their heads lowered so that they were only an inch from the faces of the convulsing man, as if utterly fascinated by the spectacle, forgetting everything else that w as going on around them. Several of the daemons crowded around each dying man, completely absorbed as they thrashed out their last moments of life.

Laudethaire slashed furiously with his own blade, and two of the shadows disappeared into coiling smoke. Calard saw Maloric backing away from another pair of the daemons that materialised out of now here, his face pale as his sword passed harmlessly through them. Bertelis swore as he slashed his own blade through the head of another creature, to no effect.

'Stay w ith me,' said Calard, keeping the creatures at bay w ith the ancestral sword of Garamont, w hich w as said to have been blessed by the Lady of the Lake. He had alw ays thought that w as just a story, but now he believed it. The shadow-wraiths w ere w ary of the glittering blade, and they kept their distance now, chattering and w hispering.

Now w ith some space around him, Calard cast his gaze around the circle.

Anara w as picking herself up from the ground, leaning upon her w hite staff, her eyes locked onto the... thing resembling Elisabet. Calard cried out as a trio of shadow s darted tow ards his sister, but he needn't have bothered. As they descended on her, ethereal claw s raised, the damsel whispered a w ord and slammed the butt of her staff into the ground. A sphere of light flashed into existence, completely enclosing her, blinding and crackling with power. Two of the daemons were caught in the blast, and they w ere instantly rendered to smoke. The third recoiled away, only to be cut in half by a flick of Reolus's gleaming sword, which he was wielding in two hands with consummate skill.

The grail knight, his eyes blazing with fey power, was closing on the witch, who was cackling maniacally. From over her shoulders and under her outstretched arms dozens of shadow -w raiths were flying forwards at the holy paladin, hurling themselves into his path as the witch backed aw ay tow ards the cliff edge.

Reolus hacked his blade around him in a blinding dance as he stepped forwards, his body angled as if he w as battling against a gale. Scores of shadow daemons flew against him, intangible clawed hands reaching to impale him but he carved through them, in constant motion, slicing his way tow ards the witch.

Calard gasped as he felt frozen knife talons plunge into his leg, and the entire limb w ent numb. Bertelis cried out, but there w as nothing he could do against the revenants, and Calard knew that he would have died then and there had it not been for Laudethaire, w ho sliced his own gleaming blade through the back of the shade looming up before him. It screamed in torment as its body dissipated into the air.

With a nod of thanks, Calard spun around, his blade leaving a trailing arc of light through the air as he forced another shade back. He saw Maloric surrounded, and the Sangasse nobleman lifted his shield before him as one of the phantoms struck at him. It w as a futile gesture, for its taloned arm merely passed through it, and Maloric cried out.

For a moment, Calard's rival looked straight at him, looking through his attacker, and Calard saw the desperation in the knight's eyes. Calard knew that Maloric was too proud to cry for help from the likes of him, and as a silent communication passed betw een the tw o rivals, he saw the flare of hatred in the Sangasse noble's eyes.

He doesn't expect me to go to his aid, Calard realised, and again he felt a contradiction of emotions: mild satisfaction in knowing that Maloric was about to die; a tw inge of dishonour that the Sangasse expected him to do nothing.

Another revenant rose up behind Maloric. The Sangasse earl did not register this new threat, and he w as unprepared as the shade readied to plunge its knife-like claws into his head.

Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion. Dimly, he heard Norse w ar cries and realised that they had been discovered. They would be overrun in moments, but that didn't seem to matter at this instant. Calard's entire world shrunk; all he saw w as his mortal enemy about to be cut dow n.

Then everything w as moving quickly again.

Calard roared a cry of w arning and leapt forwards. His blade struck one of the daemons standing in his path, which dispersed into amorphous, stinking smoke, its true form flashing before his eyes momentarily. Maloric, perhaps thinking that Calard w as going to strike him dow n next, lifted his shield protectively and drew his sw ord back, ready to plunge it into Calard's neck, unaw are of the danger behind him.

The shade rearing up behind Maloric struck, and Calard threw himself forwards to intervene. Even as insubstantial, shadow-talons stabbed dow n tow ards the Sangasse earl's helmet, Calard thrust his gleaming sword over Maloric's shoulder, impaling the daemon.

For a second he saw its blind, skinless face spitted on his sword tip before it disappeared.

Maloric's sw ord w as just inches from Calard's throat, his eyes were wide in shock.

Calard sw ung aw ay from him to engage the other darting shadows surrounding them both.

Laudethaire lifted a curving, silver horn to his lips and blasted a long note upon it, before turning to face the onslaught of Norscans closing in on them. More of his companions had been overw helmed now, for their weapons were useless against the daemons. Clusters of the shadow y daemons still lingered over their twitching bodies, heads low ered over them in fascination, cluttering excitedly.

Reolus w as continuing to battle against a veritable flood of daemons. They had completely surrounded him, stabbing and slashing. It was impossible to discern how many of them there w ere, for their forms blurred together into one, nightmarish tw isting fury, spinning around the grail knight and almost completely obscuring him from sight.

Calard dragged his gaze aw ay as again he heard the roar of enemies made of flesh and blood. A tide of Norscans w as racing tow ards them, axes and spears raised. At their fore w as a massive beast of a man w hom he recognised as their war leader, a seven foot tall giant w ith grey-streaked hair and beard. He wielded an axe in each hand and his face was a mask of rage.

A pair of giant w arhounds raced out in front, outpacing their master as they headed directly for Calard, but the w arlord barked a command, pointing tow ards the witch.

They changed direction instantly, heading towards the heavily pregnant noblewoman, w ho w as still backing aw ay tow ards the edge of the headland.

Laudethaire blew another note on his silver horn, and cutting through the shadowy body of another daemon, he sw ung to face the onslaught of Norscans.

Anara w as shouting words that Calard could not understand. He realised that she had been incanting for some time, and as she reached a crescendo she slammed her staff into the ground again. A blast of light and wind radiated out around her, exploding outw ards with colossal force.

Calard w as throw n to the ground, half blinded, but as he blinked his eyes and struggled to his knees, he saw that the last of the daemons were gone.

The w itch too seemed to have been stunned by the sheer power that Anara had unleashed, but she recovered quickly. Calard felt sick to the pit of his stomach as he saw the features of his Elisabet tw isted by hatred and evil as she stared at Anara, and he felt the w itch gathering her power.

Lightning crackled in her black eyes, but before she had a chance to unleash it, one of the giant Norscan w arhounds struck her, bow ling her over and jaw s clamping around one of her arms. There was the sickening sound of bones crunching as the beast bit dow n hard, and the witch screamed in agony, her concentration shattered.

The second hound leaped on her, biting into her thigh and shaking its head from side to side, throwing her to the ground like a rag doll.

Then the Norscans were upon them. The giant enemy w ar leader claimed the first kill, cleaving his axe through the body of one of the Parravonians, the huge weapon shearing through plate armour, flesh, ribs and spinal column, and blood splattered everyone nearby. The knight fell, hacked completely in two through the chest.

An axe arced for Calard's head, and he managed to turn it aside w ith a frantic swipe of his blade, though the force of the blow jarred his arm. A spear-tip screeched a line across his helmet, and he lashed out w ith his sword blindly. A solid boot slammed into his chest, knocking him backw ards to the ground.

A w ild-haired Norscan leapt on his chest, straddling him. This one was not nearly as large as the others, and his hair and eyes were dark w here the others were generally flaxen-haired and pale-eyed. Still, for all that he seemed possibly even more savage than his comrades, w ith a crazed look in his eyes that w as somehow akin to the unnatural light he sometimes saw in Anara's eye, and he w ondered if this could be some feral Norscan sorcerer or priest. His tautly muscled chest was covered in tattoos, and he w ore thick, matted furs over his shoulders. Calard's eyes focused on the serpentine dagger the Norscan lifted up in both hands, blade angled downwards, ready to be plunged into his neck. He fought him, struggling to throw the manic Norscan off him, but to no avail.

A shield smashed into the Norscan's face, breaking his nose and knocking him off Calard's chest, and Bertelis stepped in front of his brother, defending him as he scrambled back to his feet.

Another of the Parravonians was hacked down by the Norse warlord, split from crown to sternum, and another had his head shorn from his shoulders by the thick-bladed sw ord of a black-armoured bear of a man w ho looked incredibly drunk.

The enraged gaze of the w arlord was fixed behind the knights desperately forming a defensive circle against the Norscans surrounding them, and Calard risked a glance behind him to see w hat w as happening. Only feet from the edge of the headland, he saw Reolus kick one of the warhounds aw ay from Elisabet. The animal scrabbled frantically, but w ent over the edge, yelping as it fell a hundred feet onto the rocks below . The grail knight impaled the other beast w ith a dow nward strike of his blade, plunging it down with both hands like a huge dagger. The sword w as driven through the w arhound's thickly muscled neck, pinning it to the ground as it died, thrashing and snarling, hot blood pooling beneath it.

Calard heard the Norse chieftain roar in fury as he launched himself towards the grail knight, barging his ow n warriors out of the w ay in his haste.

The w itch-Elisabet, one hand clutching her distended belly, was trying to regain her feet. One arm w as a floppy, blood-smeared ruin, but there w as still power in her, and she inhaled sharply, electricity crackling in her eyes.

Again Laudethaire blew a note on his silver horn, and the air behind the witch was suddenly filled with beating w ings and flailing hooves as a w hite, equine shape soared up from the edge of the cliff, a knight in its saddle. The witch spun around and extended one hand tow ards the pegasus, and arcs of contorting energy leapt from her fingertips to strike the beast in the chest.

It screamed as its flesh withered and atrophied beneath the coruscating dark energy, as if all the moisture in its body w as suddenly drawn out. It muscles shrivelled and its skin shrank. In a heartbeat its ribs w ere protruding like those of a month old corpse, and its head w as little more than a skull covered in a taut layer of dried skin, shrivelled eyes lolling in empty sockets.

Bones snapped like dry twigs, unable to hold the pegasus's own bodyweight, and the noble beast toppled out of the air as its w ings snapped with audible cracks. It hit the ground and all four legs w ere instantly broken. Desiccated, but somehow still alive, the pegasus toppled backw ards over the cliffs edge, taking its rider with it.

The w itch spun back tow ards Anara, but the damsel thrust the point of her staff forw ard, striking her squarely betw een the eyes. The blow felled the witch instantly, and she slumped to the ground, unconscious.

More pegasus rose up from over the edge of the headland, and they swooped down into the frantic melee. They buffeted the Norscans with their pow erful w ings, breaking arms and knocking men back, their hooves caving in skulls. Only one of the beasts had a rider in the saddle, and that knight drove his lance through the body of a Norscan, impaling him.

'Mount! Mount!' shouted Laudethaire, leaping into the saddle of his own steed, which had cleared a space around its master. A hurled spear struck him in the shoulder, driving up underneath his pauldron and embedding deep in his body, and he rocked backw ards, gasping in agony.

Bertelis took a heavy blow on his shield that bent it out of shape, though his lightning riposte slashed open his attacker's throat, and blood fountained from the fatal w ound. He spun, and grabbing the saddle horn of a pegasus, he hauled himself up.

There was a rearing pegasus before Calard, keeping the Norscan temporarily at bay w ith its flashing hooves.

'What about Reolus and Anara?' shouted Calard, trying to see through the press of pegasus and men.

'They're fine,' shouted Laudethaire, wrenching the spear from his shoulder and hurling it aw ay from him. 'Get in the saddle, Garamont!'

Calard stepped into the stirrups and w as up in the saddle in an instant. A blade arced tow ards him and he met it w ith a blow of his ow n, the sound of steel on steel ringing out loudly. He hacked the blade dow n as the pegasus reared and flapped its w ings, carving through a Norscan's helmet and skull.

Guiding his steed with his knees, Calard turned around, casting a w ary eye around him.

A pegasus nearby w ent dow n, an axe carving its legs from beneath it, splashing its pristine white body w ith blood, and another knight w as killed, dragged from the saddle by a frenzied w arrior woman and hacked apart. The Norse had encircled them now ; the brief respite that they had enjoyed with the arrival of the pegasus was now lost.

Laudethaire w as already airborne, and the other pegasus w ere eager to fly, following his lead.

Another of the noble creatures w as killed, an axe shattering its chest and it spilt its rider over its head as it ploughed into the ground, rolling on top of the knight and crushing the life from him.

Calard slashed dow n at a Norscan straining to grab his reins. He sliced the fingers from the marauder's hand, and narrowly avoided being struck from the saddle by a w ildly aimed axe-strike.

'Go! Go!' he urged, kicking the pegasus hard, and it broke into a gallop, bow ling Norscans out of the w ay, and then he was in the air. A spear sliced past his head, and he saw another of the pegasus fall screaming as it w as struck by a hurled axe, the heavy w eapon spinning end over end before breaking the beast's right wing.

As he rose into the air, he glanced around tow ards the headland. He saw Anara in the saddle of a pegasus, and Reolus climbing into the saddle of another, cradling the unconscious form of the w itch that wore Elisabet's form.

Calard saw the enemy w arlord launch himself tow ards Reolus, roaring in outrage.

Anara w as in his w ay, and her pegasus reared as the Norscan bore dow n on her, silver-shod hooves flashing as it rose into the air. The Norscan came on, undaunted by the pow er in the beast's limbs, and he grabbed it by its bridle, dragging it back dow n to earth in an inhuman display of strength. Even as he pulled the pegasus off balance, he slammed his axe into its neck, and blood sprayed.

Reolus's pegasus could not possibly carry three people, and Calard tugged frantically on the reins, dragging his steed's head around tow ards his sister. She had rolled clear of her dying mount, and w as facing the tow ering Norscan looming before her.

Calard guided his pegasus dow n towards the warlord from behind, and his blade sliced through the air as they dipped low.

The Norscan sensed the attack coming and hurled himself to the side, throwing himself into a roll.

avoiding Calard's blade by scant inches. The pegasus hit the ground running, and Calard reached tow ards Anara w ith one hand. They gripped each other's forearms, and the damsel sw ung up behind him. The powerful steed continued to gallop for a few steps before it leaped out over the edge of the cliff, and they soared into the updraft.

Calard glanced over his shoulder and saw Reolus, bearing the unconscious and pregnant body of Elisabet, launch into the air behind them. The massive Norscan chieftain standing on the cliffs edge roared in outrage, eyes blazing in fury.

Turning, Calard leant forward in the saddle and patted his pegasus mount on the neck.

BJARKI MOVED TO stand alongside Styrbjorn, w iping the blood of his broken nose from his face. The jarl stared in fury at the w hite shapes of the pegasus flying into the distance, heading eastward.

'I w ant her back, Bjarki,' Styrbjorn said. He looked dow n at the seer, his eyes blazing w ith the fire of the gods. 'If it means killing every single one of these southlander w horesons, I want her back.'

Bjarki smiled and licked his sharpened teeth in anticipation.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

INSIDE THE WALLS of Castle Lyonesse, in the shadow of the looming keep, Chlod shivered and stood as straight as his hunched back allow ed. The yeoman warden stalked up and dow n the ranks of peasants, scowling as he barked orders at them.

Chlod had been one of the lucky ones - only a tiny fraction of the population that inhabited the tow nship on the mainland had been allowed to make the crossing and take shelter within the castle walls.

The Norscans had appeared on the horizon at daw n and panic had spread like lice through a flophouse. The sails of countless longships could be seen in the distance, spread as far as the eye could see. Peasants in their tens of thousands had streamed to the docklands, desperate to board one of the barges that ferried betw een the tow n and the island fortress of the duke, just offshore.

In times of peace, those barges ran back and forth from the duke's castle half a dozen times a day, loaded w ith produce, servants and taxes. The ferry-masters had been serving their duke in such a manner for countless generations, and they knew their craft w ell. Only in the most turbulent of seas w ere they reluctant to make the crossing.

A grow ing, panicked mob of peasants had raced to the docks, fighting each other in desperation to get aboard the flat-bottomed vessels, but they had been met by a garrison of men-at-arms, w ho w ere determined not to let them pass. Scores were killed in the ensuing ruckus, but the crow ds had been held at bay until a contingent of knights had arrived. The duke's knights had ridden into the crowd, killing scores before the remainder had scattered.

Only those w ho were judged able to fight had been allowed to make the crossing, for there w as a finite amount of space w ithin the castle walls; there was no hope of it providing shelter for everyone. Those deemed unable to aid in the defence of the castle - including women, children, the elderly and the infirm - had been advised by the duke's men-at-arms to abandon their homes and strike westward, to seek shelter in the villages a day's ride aw ay. No escort was offered - every able man w as going to be needed in the forthcoming siege.

One loudmouth peasant merchant, fat w ith self-righteousness, had berated the men-at-arms, shouting that it w as the duke's duty to protect those w ho laboured in his service, those who paid him taxes. Chlod had backed aw ay from the merchant, as had all the other peasants nearby, knowing what w as to come. The obese man had been clubbed to the ground by the soldiers, leaving him a broken, bloody mess in the mud. No one else had voiced their displeasure after that. They knew better. They understood and accepted their lot in life, and did not voice such complaints; or at least not w ithin earshot of the men-at-arms.

Chlod had heard a rumour that the famous knight Laudethaire, Beloved of Parravon, had conducted a daring raid against the Norse two nights ago and rescued a beautiful princess from the clutches of the barbarians. He had also heard that the story w as being spread by individuals in the pay of the Parravonian knight, and while some might had said that w as mere slander, Chlod could well believe it w as true.

The story had sounded romantic and heroic in its increasingly exaggerated retellings the night before, but now that the consequences of it w ere becoming clear, Chlod dearly w ished that the noblewoman had been left where she was. The nobility had never done anything for him but make his life a constant misery; it would be just his luck to die now because of one upper-class w ench. All those who had not been allow ed to seek shelter within the walls of Castle Lyonesse had probably been condemned to death - some ten thousand peasants, all told. He found it morbidly amusing, and not at all surprising, that the nobility would happily sacrifice so many for the life of one of their ow n.

Nevertheless, Chlod happily admitted to being a selfish individual, and he was just pleased that he had managed to be amongst those deemed sturdy enough to help in the defence of Castle Lyonesse. In truth, he had no desire to fight - he had been engaged in one of the noble's wars before, in Bordeleaux, and frankly it had scared the stuffing out of him - but he reckoned that he w as safer w ithin these stout w alls than outside them.

His judgement had proven sound. Only hours after the longships had been sighted, the Norse had surrounded the island fortress, and hundreds of their ships had been beached on the mainland. From atop the w alls, the Bretonnians had w atched impotently as the tow nship on the mainland w as sacked. The ash from the burning tow n still filled the air, falling from the sky like a dark mimicry of snowflakes. They had w atched as enemy outriders had galloped westward. Chlod expected few of the peasants that had abandoned the tow n w ould survive.

Several of the Norse ships had been sunk as the immense trebuchets atop the castle tow er had loosed, giant counterweights propelling the arms of the w ar machines at great speed. Chunks of rock were hurled high into the air, and while most fell short, splashing down into the ocean, some of the longships had ventured within range and w ere smashed to tinder. The Bretonnians had cheered as the waters around these w recks had turned into a bloody, churning froth as the Norscans were devoured by the sharks following in the wake of the ships, but the mood had soon turned sombre once more as the sheer scale of the Norscan force became apparent.

Just outside the range of the trebuchets, the Norscans formed an arcing blockade around the island fastness. Longships w ere lashed together, forming an impenetrable w all, and hundreds upon hundreds more w ere beached on the mainland. A few of the ships w ere unlike the others - large hulks with giant cages built into their decks, though w hat w as held in those holds Chlod could not discern. Still, the trumpeting that issued from them as hundreds of Norscans strained to drag them up the beach had threatened to make his bow els loosen.

Barbarians sw armed through the burning streets of the tow n, and Chlod had seen thousands of them march off to the north and south. He had hoped that perhaps they w ere heading off to find easier pickings elsewhere, but his hopes were dashed w hen, hours later, the enemy began to return w ith freshly felled lumber. For ladders, battering rams and such, most likely.

All through the day the enemy had worked, and now that it was approaching dusk it seemed that they w ere readying themselves for their first attack against the castle.

Chlod shivered again. He had hoped to have slunk off and found a place to hide by now , but no such opportunity had as yet presented itself. Patience, he thought to himself. In the confusion of battle it should be easy to disappear.

In truth, Chlod didn't expect there to be any such need, however. The walls of the castle w ere huge - indeed the fortress was the grandest structure that he had ever seen - he could not conceive of how the enemy could possibly tackle it.

Chlod w as snapped out of his reverie as he heard the blare of a thousand horns sound.

'Right, this is it then, you scum!' shouted the yeoman w arden who had been given the job of getting Chlod and the other untrained peasants into a semblance of a fighting force. The men around him, farmers, shopkeepers and merchants in the main, looked scared, holding their simple spears awkwardly. None of them had been given shields or armour. Few of them had ever held a w eapon in their lives.

'Don't even think about making a run for it,' snarled the yeoman. 'I've passed the w ord amongst the men-at-arms that they are to kill anyone who does not stand and fight. Now get moving!'

Men-at-arms w earing white tabards w ith a red lion's head on their chests flanked the new recruits, and they jabbed them forw ard w ith their halberds. Chlod found himself herded along w ith the rest of the group he had been assigned to, passing through the streets inside the castle toward the eastern w alls.

At the bottom of the w alls he paused, squinting upw ards. The stairway up the inside of the w all w as steep and high, and there was no banister to stop anyone from falling if they made a misstep. He sw allowed thickly.

'What's the matter w ith you?' barked one of the men-at-arms, giving Chlod a shove.

'Afraid of heights,' said Chlod.

The man-at-arms snorted, and cuffed him hard over the back of his head, making his teeth rattle.

'Get moving,' said the man, and Chlod begin the ascent, pressing himself hard up against the w all, keeping as far from the edge of the stairs as possible.

Finally, sweating and shaking, he reached the top of the tow ering wall. It w as colder here, for there was no protection from the biting winds. Thousands of bow men were already stood upon the w alls, with bundles of arrows stacked against the battlements. Chlod pushed past them to look through the crenulations. What he saw took his breath aw ay.

Night w as falling rapidly, but the enemy could be clearly seen thanks to the fires still raging through the tow nship on the mainland. More than a thousand longships, each one brimming w ith Norscans, were being rowed at speed tow ards the island.

Countless drums began to beat then, both from the land, the approaching ships and from aboard all the longships surrounding the castle, and tens of thousands of voices rose in a blood-curdling roar.

The siege of Lyonesse was about to begin.

CALARD STOOD ALONGSIDE Bertelis and the Empire ambassador, Dieter Weschler, as they surveyed the approaching Norscans from the top of the eastern gatehouse.

Calard's cousins, Baldemund, Huebald and Tassilo stood nearby. The knights of Bastonne w ere all fully armoured in plate and chain, over which they wore their heraldic tabards and cloaks. They had the visors of their helmets raised, and each stood w ith their hands resting upon the pommel of their swords.

Dieter, in contrast, was dressed in the fashion of the Empire, w hich was frankly bizarre to the eyes of the Bretonnians. He w ore a black lacquered breastplate, w ith a gold symbol of a tw in-tailed comet upon it, the symbol of the barbarian hero the citizens of the Empire worshipped as their patron god. He wore knee high riding boots, bright blue tights and an outrageously prominent codpiece. The sleeves of his silk tunic w ere puffy and slashed, and extravagant dyed red feathers - griffon feathers he said - bobbed from the top of his black sallet helmet.

How ever, it was the Empire nobleman's weapons that drew the most disapproval from the Bretonnians. He wore a sheathed sabre - lighter and more flimsy than any Bretonnian sword - and had a pair of pistols bolstered at his sides. Calard had seen Dieter use those w eapons before, and though no Bretonnian noble would ever use a missile weapon anywhere outside of the hunt, he respected their killing power. Alone of the men gathered atop the gatehouse, Dieter w as not paying attention to the Norse longships being rowed towards them. His whole focus was upon the w eapon held reverently in his hands, a multi-barrelled handgun. He was oblivious to the looks of distaste of the knights around him as he lovingly stroked it.

'This,' said Dieter, speaking the Bretonnian tongue with a strong, harsh accent, 'is von Meinkopt's Whirling Cavalcade of Death.'

'That's nice,' said Bertelis mildly.

'Yes, she is beautiful, is she not?' said Dieter, spinning the barrels of the weapon.

'The repeater handgun - the epitome of superior Empire technology.'

Calard grunted, paying little attention. The Norse ships were almost within range of the trebuchets.

'You know that the engineers of Nuln have devised a carriageless horse?' continued Dieter. 'A mechanical, equine steed superior in every regard to a horse of flesh and blood. A marvel.'

That got Calard's attention, and he turned tow ards the Empire ambassador w ith a look of bafflement on his face, unsure if this was some strange joke that did not translate w ell. He shook his head, and turned back tow ards the enemy. The air was filled with the reverberation of thousands of drums, echoing in from all directions, making Calard think of the huffing beat of a forge's bellow s; or perhaps the breathing and heartbeat of some infernal god.

'This is not a full scale assault,' said Tassilo. 'They will just be testing our strength.'

'Looks like a lot of them to me,' said Huebald.

'What is going on over there?' said Calard, peering past the approaching longships tow ards the mainland. There was a flurry of activity on a hill overlooking the beachhead claimed by the Norscans. He had already learnt that the Norscan warlord w as no unthinking barbarian. The tactics he had used in defeating the army of Lyonesse spoke of a cunning strategist, and he was suspicious of w hat he was up to now .

'They're building something?' ventured Tassilo.

Dieter pulled out an extendable cylinder with glass at either end, and raised it to one eye. The Bretonnians swapped bemused glances behind his back, not having any idea w hat the eccentric Imperial envoy was doing.

'They are digging in,' said Dieter, removing the cylinder from his eye and replacing it back in its case w ithout explanation.

'They are w hat?' said Tassilo.

'They are creating a defensive emplacement. It is common in my homeland.

For...for...' Dieter waved his hand, trying to find the right w ord to use. 'Artillery,' he said in Reikspiel, though the Bretonnians stared at him blankly. 'War machines.

Cannon,' he said, finding no suitable Breton word.

'That's far out of range of our trebuchets,' said Calard, eyeing the distant construction of the emplacement with unease.

As if speaking the word for the giant stone throwers was the signal, the first of the trebuchets nearby fired.

The leather sling attached to the arm of the w ar machine whipped through the air, flinging the chunk of rock nestled within it spinning high into the sky. The peasants arrayed along the w alls below gave a cheer, and a dozen trebuchets fired, hurling their missiles into the darkening sky.

The first rock scythed down through the air, smashing the mast of a longship and plunging through its rear deck, taking a dozen oarsmen w ith it. The ship instantly floundered, taking on water, and Norscans were sent reeling into the turbulent w aters as their vessel began to sink. Great explosions of water marked the place w here other rocks had missed their mark, but several more ships were sunk as their hulls w ere smashed to splinters, and scores of warriors w ere killed as the sharks cutting through the w aters gorged themselves.

Still, the number of ships far outw eighed those few that were sunk, and they sliced through the w ater at impressive speed, their dragon-headed prows smashing aside the timbers and w arriors floating in the sea before them. Banks of oars rose and fell w ith perfect synchronicity as the Norscans heaved at them, pulling the longships sw iftly through the ocean.

Several of the longships struck rocks and submerged reefs as they neared the island, ripping great rents in their hulls and dooming the warriors aboard. But for every longship that floundered, either struck by trebuchet fire or fatally damaged by the knife-like reefs below the surface, a score successfully ran the gauntlet.

The first longships ran aground, ploughing at speed into the soft sand that ran along the eastern bank of the island, and Norscans w ere instantly over the edge, leaping into the knee-deep waters and racing for the walls. Hundreds of arrows were loosed as knights and yeomen spread across the battlements shouted the order to fire. The first w ave of Norscans onto the beach w ere scythed down, but more leaped onto the sand as longship after longship joined the fray.

Scores of hastily constructed ladders were carried up the beach by teams of fur-clad w arriors. The air w as thick with arrow s, and hundreds more Norscans were cut dow n, but still on they came, mindless of the casualties they were suffering, stamping uncaring over their fallen comrades.

Dieter moved tow ards the gatehouse battlements, his repeater handgun loaded and clasped in his hands.

'Excuse me,' he said, but the peasant bow men loosing their shafts through the crenulations did not hear his polite w ords.

Bertelis slapped a peasant archer across the back of the head as he w as reaching for an arrow , and the man, an ugly brute w ith warts all over his face, mumbled an apology and shuffled aside, moving to a different firing position.

Dieter threw the young Garamont noble a dark look and nodded his thanks to the peasant, before stepping up and taking aim w ith his handgun.

A moment later there w as a deafening boom and acrid smoke billow ed from the w eapon, w hich bucked in Dieter's hands violently. There was a clockwork clicking noise and the barrels rotated, and Dieter fired another shot. Again the barrels rotated, and he fired again. Each shot resulted in the death of an enemy, punching through breastplates and skulls w ith impressive force. The amount of smoke almost completely obscured the Empire ambassador, and Calard coughed. Dieter fired the last tw o barrels, though Calard doubted he could actually see a target now so thick w as the smoke.

Blinking aw ay the tears that the black pow der brought to his eyes, Calard moved to the southern battlement of the gatehouse, looking along the long eastern wall.

Many hundreds of bow men w ere positioned there, though as the first ladders were slammed against the w alls, they moved back to allow the men-at-arms, knights and spear-armed peasants behind them to step forw ards.

Polearms and spears pushed at the first ladders and several were knocked backw ards, the Norscans already climbing them falling into their comrades swarming tow ards the w alls behind them. Hundreds of arrow s were fired from the towers and the gatehouse into the Norscans massing at the base of the w alls. Men fell from ladders as arrow s thudded into their bodies, though others ignored the shafts protruding from shoulders and necks and pushed on, climbing up tow ards the battlements.

Boiling oil and pitch w as tipped over the edge of the walls, scalding flesh and searing upturned Norscan faces, making eyes run from sockets like melted fat. Still more longships ploughed into the soft sand of the western beach, though Calard saw that this w as but a fraction of the Norscan's strength.

More ladders w ere hefted into position along the western wall below Calard's position on the gatehouse, and he saw the first enemy berserkers reach the battlements. They leapt over the w alls, roaring incoherently, swinging axes and swords wildly.

Polearms w ere brought crashing down onto the horned helmets of some, killing them instantly. Spears stabbed others, but the Norscans appeared not to care about the w ounds they took, and began laying about them w ith furious abandon. He saw a massive, near naked savage w ith three arrows protruding from his tattooed flesh take a sw ord thrust to the chest as he scrambled over the battlements, but even that didn't stop him. With foam spilling from his mouth, he hacked the head from a knight's shoulders, sending it flying down to the ground inside the castle walls, far below .

More Norscans pushed onto the w all, spilling into the gap formed by this berserk fiend, and Calard instantly saw the danger.

'With me!' he roared, draw ing his sword and throwing himself down the stairs tow ards the breach.

A polearm slammed dow n onto one of the berserker's shoulders, making his arm go limp, but still he would not fall. He hacked his axe into the neck of one peasant, and kicked another off the wall. Calard barged his way through the men-at-arms and archers, running along the wall tow ards the immense Norscan, who he realised must have been over six and a half feet tall.

'For Bastonne!' Calard shouted.

Hearing his cry, the Norscan spun around tow ards him, swinging his axe in a murderous arc. Calard ducked beneath the blow and rammed his sw ord up into the marauder's belly. Blood burst from the shocking w ound, and his guts flopped out onto the stonew ork, accompanied by a repellent stink. The Norscan dropped his axe, bellow ing in fury and pain, but still he did not die. He grabbed Calard around the neck and squeezed, and the squeal of metal being forced out of shape sounded sharply.

A sw ord hacked into the berserker's neck and he finally fell. Calard gasped, and nodding his thanks to his brother Bertelis, he ripped his sword free of the Norscan's gut. Other knights had also seen the breach, and had raced forwards from the other side, and the last of the Norscans that had made it over the w all were cut dow n.

He saw a pair of peasants struggling to push a ladder back aw ay from the w all, and cursed their stupidity.

'Slide them to the side!' he shouted. The peasants stared at him stupidly, and he cursed again. Sheathing the blood-smeared blade of Garamont, Calard grabbed a broad-bladed polearm from the dead hands of a man-at-arms. The w eapon had a vicious hook on the backside of the blade, normally used to drag knights from the saddle, and Calard hooked this around the top of the ladder.

'Help me!' he ordered, and a pair of peasants leaped forward to lend him their strength. Together, they dragged the ladder to the side. Just as a snarling Norscan appeared at the top of it, the ladder began to fall. The warrior leaped for the wall, grabbing it w ith one hand, but a mace pulverised his skull and he fell without a sound.

The falling ladder gained momentum as it tipped, striking another some yards aw ay and knocking it sideward. Three ladders in all were sent smashing to the ground, taking scores of Norscans falling to their deaths.

The battle raged on for an hour, and Calard's sw ord arm felt like a leaden weight by the time he heard the Norscans sounding the retreat.

Thousands of the enemy had been slain, the dead littering the ground. Teams of peasants moved along the w alls, clearing them of the dead. They killed any wounded Norscans they came across, though these were surprisingly few - the enemy tended to fight on until they were killed, pushing through the pain of horrendous injuries and forcing the Bretonnians to finish them with killing blow s. The corpses of the Norscans w ere thrown unceremoniously over the walls. The Bretonnian peasants who had been killed in the first attack too w ere hefted over the walls.

The bodies of the knights who had fallen in the battle w ere carried reverently from the battlements and borne to the square dow n by the protected Lyonesse harbour.

There they were gently placed upon pyres, their arms crossed over their chests. They w ere all fully armoured, and their shields were placed at their feet. They were cleaned of blood and gore as best they could, so that they looked like they were merely lying in repose. Those knights who had suffered particularly horrendous wounds w ere covered w ith their cloaks.

The entire castle was silent as the pyres were lit.

'This is just the beginning,' said Bertelis as the knights' bodies were consumed in the roaring fires.

Calard knew that it w as going to get much w orse.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

WEARY AND SORE and still wearing his full battle gear, Calard knocked on the heavy oak door. The hallway was dark, lit only by flaming sconces set into alcoves every five yards. An icy wind blew in through the arched windows facing out to sea, making the flames flicker and dance, sending shadows cavorting madly across the stone w alls.

The door w as opened by a grim faced stew ard, who motioned for silence and ushered Calard inside. The murmur of voices involved in deep discussion came from w ithin.

He stepped inside and the door w as silently closed behind him. It was much w armer in here, with a pair of fireplaces on opposite walls burning fiercely. This was the Duke of Lyonesse's personal study, and Calard w as overawed to be stood w ithin it.

The ceiling was high, and paintings of the past dukes of Lyonesse lined the east and w est w alls. Some w ere standing in heroic poses, one foot placed upon the body of a vanquished foe, or upon a rocky outcrop and gazing into the distance. Others were riding mighty, rearing destriers, or doing battle w ith monstrous foes. All were suitably dramatic and incredibly lifelike. The dukes in the older portraits wore archaic styled armour and old-fashioned haircuts and clothes. Several elaborate suits of armour stood in-betw een these paintings.

The south w all was dominated by the stuffed and mounted heads of monsters and beasts hunted and killed by the various dukes. Calard saw the immense, wide-skulled head of a w yvern, the head of a stone troll, the brutish head of an orc w arlord w ith skin so dark as to be almost black. Other creatures he did not even recognise; there w as a snarling lizard creature w ith a bright red frill of skin around its neck, the head of a creature that vaguely resembled an ogre but w ith skin that looked like stone, and the head of a snarling hateful looking beast w ith a thick black mane. That one might have been a manticore, Calard thought. There were the stuffed heads of giant boars and exotic, sabre-fanged cats, and a huge, humanoid skull that was easily ten times the size of a man's. Above them all w as the head of a black dragon, its maw spread in a frozen, eternal roar.

A polite cough drew Calard's attention, and he reddened as he turned towards the north w all, realising that he had been gaw ping with all the slack-mouthed dignity of a peasant. A small gathering of knights stood around the fireplace, the ones that he had heard speaking in hushed tones as he entered, though they had fallen silent now and w ere looking tow ards him.

He bow ed low to the group, his cheeks burning.

Calard's gaze w as instantly drawn to Reolus. The grail knight dominated the room, radiating pow er and authority, and the others stood around him, their body language show ing their deference. His face was broad and ageless, and he nodded almost imperceptibly to Calard in greeting, a slight smile on his lips, and the young lord of Garamont felt instantly more self-assured.

He did not know all of the knights standing with Reolus, though from their heraldry, ornate armour and rich clothing he recognised that they were important nobles of the Lyonessian court. It w as likely that they were related to the duke either through birth or marriage. They were all easily a decade older than Calard, and were most likely the duke's most senior knights.

Maloric w as there as w ell, and he flashed a dark look tow ards Calard, who smirked at him. If anything, Maloric's hatred of him had merely increased after he had saved the Sangasse noble's life on the Norscan occupied isle of Landri.

The Empire ambassador, Dieter Weschler, gave him a clipped bow . Everything about the man w as neat, organised and precise, from his carefully waxed and curled moustache to every fold of his puffy sleeves. Even his movements were measured and efficient.

Laudethaire stood w ith them, affecting a dramatic pose w ith one hand upon the mantelpiece above the fire and his luxurious blond hair flowing past his shoulders.

He eyed Calard w ith a look of disdain.

'Are you lost?' said Laudethaire, loudly.

Calard, taken aback, did not answ er immediately.

'I... I, um,' he stuttered eventually.

' ' I, um' . Very insightful,' said Laudethaire. 'We are here aw aiting the imminent arrival of the Duke of Lyonesse, so w hy don't you run along now and leave this to your betters, hmm?'

Calard reddened again and stumbled over his w ords as he tried to form a reply. He saw Maloric's face tw itch in amusement, but Laudethaire had not yet finished.

'It's bad enough that w e have one noble of Bastonne present,' said Laudethaire with a careless gesture tow ards Maloric, 'and I mean ''noble'' in the loosest possible sense of the w ord, but tw o?'

One of the knights of Lyonesse chuckled in amusement and the humour dropped from Maloric's face. Calard w anted the floor to open up and sw allow him w hole as he felt the eyes of everyone present boring into him.

'The young lord of Garamont came here at my request,' said Reolus, his voice quiet as he stared at the Parravonian pegasus knight. 'Are you calling my judgement into question, Laudethaire?'

To his credit, Laudethaire hardly baulked, his fear of causing the displeasure of a grail knight flashing only momentarily across his face.

'I jest,' he said smoothly, recovering instantly. 'And if my humour w as misinterpreted, I offer my most humble apologies. The Parravonian wit is oft misunderstood.'

Laudethaire bow ed low to Reolus. As he straightened, he flicked his long blond hair over his shoulder and flashed Calard a w inning smile that did not reach his eyes.

'No insult w as taken, I am sure,' he said.

'None at all,' mumbled Calard. Reolus w inked at him behind Laudethaire's back.

Thankfully, the conversation the knights had been having before Calard had entered the room started up again, and the attention w as taken off him. He moved tow ards the group, but stayed on the outer fringe, affecting an interested expression.

The discussion, which was mainly betw een the knights of Lyonesse and Laudethaire, w ent largely over Calard's head, and he had little to contribute. They were discussing inter-dukedom politics and court life, and Calard was amazed at the offhand w ay they spoke of the back-stabbing, machinations and duplicitous plotting that occurred betw een their various Bretonnian households. From the sounds of it, the politicking that took place in the royal court of Couronne w as as deadly as any battlefield; more so in many w ays, for at least on the battlefield you knew who your enemies were. To Calard it sounded vile, a poisonous viper's nest of intrigue and double-dealings. As lord of Garamont he knew that he would be forced to become involved at least in part in the politics of Bastonne, but he did not relish the thought of it at all. He did not believe he w as even remotely suited for such duties.

'Montforte is a fool,' Laudethaire w as saying, scathingly. 'He has lost much favour at court due to his heavy-handed approach in dealing with the trade issue. His decrees are restricting the flow of goods through the pass...'

'Axebite Pass?' said Dieter, his brow furrowed in concentration as he tried to keep up w ith the swift-flowing diatribe.

The valley known to the cartographers of the Empire as Axebite Pass was the largest and most accessible route betw een Bretonnia and Dieter's homeland. It cut through the giant peaks of the Grey Mountains that separated the tw o lands of men. At either end of the sheer-sided valley stood a mighty fortress, spanning the gap. On the Bretonnian side was Montforte; on the Empire side was Helmgart. Countless battles had been fought in the valley betw een the tw o impenetrable castles, for the peace betw een Bretonnia and the Empire was a fractious thing, and there had been blood spilt on numerous occasions.

Laudethaire looked at Dieter, as if w eighing whether to even bother answering his question. Finally, he nodded once, and turned away to continue talking with the Bretonnian knights.

'His w ife is the one with the brains, you know. Montforte has got rich thanks to her shrew d dealings. Abominable w oman. She should have been born a man,' said Laudethaire.

'Or strangled at birth,' said one of the Lyonesse nobles, eliciting chuckles from his comrades.

A pair of double doors opposite those that Calard had entered through w ere thrown w ide and conversation ceased. A thickset man dressed in courtly array stepped into the room.

'Lord Adalhard, Duke of Lyonesse, and the Damsel Anara!' he bellowed, far louder than w as necessary, and stepped aside. The knights dropped to one knee, lowering their heads respectfully.

'Rise,' said a firm voice, and as he stood upright Calard saw the duke escorting his sister into the room, her forearm gently placed upon his. The duke was garbed for w ar. Anara's gaze floated lazily around the room, her eyes distant, as if she w ere seeing things that no one else could perceive.

'We don't know w hen the enemy will attack again, so let us get straight to the point,'

said the duke, coming to a halt and casting his gaze around the gathered nobles. A manservant sw iftly brought a chair to him, but he w aved the man aw ay. 'Casualties?'

A stew ard stepped forward, flipping open a leather-bound book.

'Nineteen knights of noble birth slain,' he said. 'Forty-tw o injured. Of those, nine will not fight again, and seven will require months of recovery time.'

'Peasants?' said the duke.

'Under tw o hundred,' said the steward.

'And rough estimates of the enemy losses?'

'Perhaps... eleven hundred,' guessed the steward.

'If w e maintain those odds, my lord, then the enemy w ill surely have no chance of breaching our defences,' said one of the duke's knights, a massively overweight marquis w ith glittering rings on his fat fingers. 'We could hold them here for months on end, if not indefinitely, could we not?'

'It w ould be costly, Carabas,' said the duke. 'And w ho knows what L'Anguille is up to w hile we are occupied here. Invading my lands, no doubt. The man is a sw ine.'

'There is a w ay that the siege might be broken,' ventured another of the duke's knights, a stick thin, severe looking baron.

'Speak it then, Broussard,' said the duke.

'We give them w hat they w ant. We give them the girl.'

Calard's eyes w idened and his jaw dropped.

'Pah!' scoffed the marquis, scow ling at his compatriot. 'Castle Lyonesse has never been taken. We have nothing to fear from the likes of this barbarian rabble. Why should w e deliver them w hat they want, like bullied children?'

'We have already underestimated them once,' said the duke, 'and we all know what happened as a result of that. I w ill not do so again.'

'But my lord... you cannot really believe that the castle could fall, surely?' said the marquis. 'It has stood for more than fifteen hundred years, and outlasted a dozen sieges.'

'It has, Carabas,' agreed the duke. 'But that does not answ er the baron's question.'

He looked around the room, and his gaze came to rest on Laudethaire. He raised his eyebrow s questioningly. 'Well?'

'I sw ore an oath to protect those unable to protect themselves, my lord,' said the knight loftily. 'I w ould rather die than break my w ord.'

'Nobly spoken,' said the duke. 'Though I feel there is a caveat coming...'

'You are as perceptive as you are honourable, my lord,' said Laudethaire w ith a bow .

'If it w as know n beyond any shadow of doubt that the lady that Lord Reolus and I rescued w as indeed what she appears to be, there would be no contending what must be done. But I saw her w ield unholy powers with mine own eyes. She is possessed. I say give the w itch over to the Norse.'

The duke grunted noncommittally. He looked down at the ground thoughtfully for a moment, then lifted his gaze, switching betw een Maloric and Calard.

'And you tw o? I believe that both of you had some... attachment to the girl.'

Calard licked his lips, his mind spinning.

'I cared for Lady Elisabet of Marlemont, it is true,' said Maloric slowly. 'But I am not convinced that the creature that lies unconscious is her.'

'Anara? Is it Elisabet?' asked Calard, looking at his sister, who was talking to herself, acting out tw o sides of a hushed conversation. She did not seem to have heard the question, and several of the knights glanced at each other uneasily. She laughed to herself, and then scowled, and kept talking under her breath.

'Anara,' said Reolus, gently touching her on the arm. She snapped out of her double-sided conversation, looking vaguely startled, like someone forcibly woken from the middle of a dream. She smiled w armly at the grail knight, and for a moment she once again resembled the girl that Calard remembered.

'Your brother asked you a question,' said Reolus.

'Is it Elisabet?' said Calard as the damsel turned tow ards him w ith a questioning expression. 'Is it Elisabet that w e brought back w ith us?'

'Yes,' said Anara solemnly. 'And no.'

Calard furrow ed his brow .

'It is Elisabet's body,' elaborated the damsel, 'but she does not inhabit it.'

'Possessed, as I said,' said Laudethaire.

'I don't understand,' said Calard.

'Her body is a puppet,' giggled Anara, making spider-like motions with her hands, as if she w ere manipulating a marionette. 'She has no control over her strings. I thought at first she might be in there, imprisoned and helpless, a passenger with no control, but that's not so. She is... gone.'

'Gone?' said Calard.

'Gone,' said Anara.

'Can you expel this... presence... that has taken up residence within the girl's body?'

asked Reolus.

'Yes,' said Anara.

'Elisabet w ill be herself again?' said Calard.

'Yes. No. Maybe,' said Anara, shrugging. Her eyes misted over. 'If she is alive, there is a good chance that she will return. It might happen instantly, or it may take years, or never. She may not be able to find her way back. She may be w andering the spirit-w orld, lost and blind, or she may already have passed through the veil into the realm of Morr. She might not w ant to come back.'

'It is w orth the risk,' said Calard. Maloric nodded his head in agreement.

'Fine,' said Duke Adalhard. 'Do it. And if she does not return, then do w e hand her over to the Norscans? Reolus, what do you say on the matter?'

'You know my answ er. It is unthinkable to even consider handing a noblewoman of Bretonnia over to the likes of these Chaos w orshippers. Even if she were to pass from the w orld when the exorcism takes place, she deserves better than to have her body handed over to the enemy. Were it to mean the death of every last knight of Lyonesse, I w ould answ er the same,' said Reolus. 'As indeed would you, my lord.'

'I w ould,' nodded the duke. 'It's agreed then. Our fates are in the Lady's hands, and the courage of those defending this castle.'

'We have nothing to fear from these heathen savages, my lord,' said the Marquis of Carabas. Calard noted that this knight had not been present at the massacre some w eeks earlier, and he shook his head at w hat he saw as his uninformed bravado.

'What's that noise?' said Laudethaire suddenly.

At first Calard heard nothing, then a distant sound like the roaring of a furnace could be discerned above the how ling wind. And it was getting closer.

Horns blared in w arning, and shouts of panic, fear and alarm echoed up from all over the castle. Then there was an almighty crash, like the rumble of thunder directly overhead, and the ground shook. Calard felt the floor reverberate, and the suits of armour arranged around the room clattered as the vibrations running up through the keep made them shudder. The reverberation made an ancient candelabra upon the mantelpiece jump forw ards, and it would have smashed upon the floor had not Laudethaire caught it as it fell. He placed it back upon the mantelpiece as the reverberations subsided.

'Earthquake?' said Laudethaire.

'No,' said Reolus, shaking his head. 'The Norse.'

* * *

A SECOND FIREBALL w as arcing through the air, daemonic fire trailing in its wake, as Calard burst out onto the top of the keep. He ran to the east-facing battlements, leaping up the stairs to the crenulations as other knights rushed up the stairs behind him, pushing gawping men-at-arms out of the w ay. Calard noted that it came from the location that they had identified earlier as the dug-in emplacement upon the beachhead. Shouts of panic could be heard from all over the castle.

The blazing comet lit up the sky, like a miniature sun screaming across the heavens, though the light it cast w as a deep, malevolent red, tinging everything ruby w ith its daemonic glow . It roared like a dragon as it hurtled dow n towards the castle. The turbulent strait running betw een the island and the mainland was lit up, and Calard could see hundreds of longships ploughing through the water tow ards them. The second assault w as about to begin.

'To arms!' shouted Calard, he raced back tow ards the stairw ay leading down through the keep.

Halfw ay dow n the spiralling, dark staircase, Calard w as thrown against the wall, losing his footing as the ground shook beneath him; the fireball had clearly struck, and deep reverberations made the w hole island shudder. He swore and pushed himself off the wall, and continued his mad dash dow n through the levels of the keep.

He w as breathing hard as he reached the bottom of the spiralling stairway and ran out into the courtyard at the base of the keep. Men-at-arms w ere running tow ards the eastern w all, and Calard paused to catch his breath. Reolus and Dieter ran out into the courtyard behind him.

The sky w as filled w ith a hideous roaring sound, and Calard shielded his eyes against the inferno as another fireball came screaming down tow ards the island. Even from this distance, Calard could feel the intense heat it radiated as it fell inexorably tow ards one of the immense tow ers looming above the eastern curtain wall. Calard looked on in horror.

Men w ere streaming away from the doomed tow er, racing along the walls to either side of it and hurling themselves down the stairs leading from its lower levels to the inside courtyard. There was only one exit from the top of the tow er, a steep spiralling staircase, and no doubt scores of men w ould be fighting to hurl themselves down it.

Calard knew that none of them w ould survive.

The roaring inferno struck the top of the tow er with colossal force, engulfing it in red fire. The entire castle trembled beneath the impact, and the top two levels of the tow er w ere utterly demolished in an instant. Stone turned molten beneath the unnatural heat, running like syrup down the sheer sides of the w alls, and tons of red-hot rock w ere sent flying in all directions.

Hundreds of men w ere consumed in the raging holocaust. Those standing exposed on top of the tow er w ere killed instantly, flesh and bones burnt aw ay to cinders even as the trebuchets w ere rendered into ash. The skin of those inside burst into flame, their lungs filled with scalding heat and fire as they breathed in. The top of the tow er exploded like earthenware left too long in a kiln, stonework thrown out in all directions. The lucky ones were ripped apart in the detonation, heads and bodies crushed by hunks of superheated stone, but those that w ere not killed instantly were hurled into the air, their flesh burning as they plummeted hundreds of feet to their deaths.

Molten, burning chunks of rock crashed down into the buildings within the castle w alls, smashing through shingled and thatched roofs, and a dozen of them w ere instantly ablaze.

The w alls of Castle Lyonesse had stood resolute in the face of the restless dead of cursed Mousillon, and had repelled more than one large-scale assault by the dark elven kin from across the seas. They had w ithstood stones hurled by catapults, had defied battering rams, and even held firm against the cannons of the Empire navy.

Yet even after just minutes of this barrage, it w as clear that Castle Lyonesse was doomed unless the enemy artillery was neutralised.

A red-hot piece of stonew ork the size of a man's head spun end over end down tow ards Calard. He shouted a w arning and dived to the side as it arced tow ards him.

It took a peasant w arden standing nearby squarely in the face, taking his head clean off.

There was an almighty crash, and Calard looked up to see the upper half of the tow er, or at least the half w hich had not already been destroyed, collapse and fall, its structural integrity shattered. Once again the earth shook as hundreds of tons of stonew ork smashed to the ground, causing a great cloud of dust to rise.

'By the blood of the Breton,' sw ore Calard, seeing the terrible destruction that had been w rought.

'Not even the cannons of Nuln are so potent,' said Dieter, his face red from the exertion of racing dow n the stairs.

'If this continues, Lyonesse will be a molten ruin in hours,' said Reolus, his eyes blazing w ith rage.

The snap of timbers heralded the re-commencement of the firing of trebuchets. The Norscan longships were drawing close once again. Hundreds of knights and men-at-arms w ere racing towards the battlements of the curtain walls, and Calard was about to join them, to aid in the defence, when Reolus spoke once again.

'The enemy artillery must be silenced,' said the grail knight grimly.

'Laudethaire's knights?' said Calard, and Reolus shook his head.

'The Parravonians are too few .'

'What then?' said Calard, feeling a deep sense of foreboding and helplessness. 'They are out of range of the trebuchets. And it is not like we can sally forth and ride across the ocean.'

'This w as not always an island,' Reolus said thoughtfully 'Back in the times of Gilles le Breton, there w as a spraw ling tow nship below this hill. It w as the greatest city in Bretonnia, the envy of all, before it was drowned by Manann's w rath. The main entrance to the castle ran along a ridge - you can still see w here that ridge is. It forms a causew ay beneath the w ater,' he said.

Now that it w as pointed out, Calard could vaguely recall seeing a cobbled road leading from the eastern gate into the ocean. He had thought nothing of it, but now that it w as draw n to his attention, he could well imagine the sunken land beneath the w aves, picturing the sprawling township in his mind's eye. He could w ell believe that a road had once run along the ridge from the tow ering wooden palisade of the castle that w ould have stood w here Castle Lyonesse now did.

Another fireball roared into the air, and Calard dragged himself away from his musings.

He could not fathom w hat possible relevance the grail knight's random lesson in history had. And unless Reolus w as proposing to sw im across the strait, he saw no possible w ay of nullifying the enemy w ar machine, other than Laudethaire and his kin. He felt the grail knight's impenetrable gaze boring into him, and he shrank beneath it ever so slightly.

Reolus cocked his head to one side, his brow creasing as if hearing a voice that Calard could not. The young lord of Garamont shuffled restlessly, his hand clenched around the hilt of his sword. Again he glanced tow ards the eastern walls, seeing the archers atop the battlements preparing to loose their arrow s. Calard was impatient to join the defenders. He knew that his brother and his cousins were there, for he had left them there w hen his presence had been requested in the duke's chambers.

Barbarian horns and drums could be heard now , and Calard w as about to abandon the grail knight and run towards the curtain wall w hen Reolus snapped out of his reverie.

'Get your steed saddled,' ordered the grail knight, swinging south tow ards the stables.

'What?' said Calard, his desire to fight alongside his brother urging him to run w estw ard with all haste. 'Why?'

Reolus stopped and rounded on Calard, w ho quailed under his fierce glare. The grail knight seemed to shine with a potent light from within, his eyes blazing with holy fervour and Calard took an involuntary step backw ards. What had possessed him to question the holy paladin?

He dropped to one knee, bow ing his head, unable to hold Reolus's terrible gaze.

'I'm sorry, my lord,' he mumbled. 'It shall be as you command.'

Reolus merely nodded in response, before turning away from Calard and striding tow ards the stables. Calard had to jog to keep pace w ith the paladin.

A section of the eastern wall was struck by a fiery inferno as Calard jogged along behind Reolus, and screams of pain and fear echoed through the night as a fifty foot section exploded inwards, as if it were made of sodden timber, not thirty feet of solid rock. The war machine had struck high, taking off the top tw enty feet of the high w all. A full breach had not been smashed through the immense barrier, but Calard had no doubt that the next shot w ould be recalculated to be more damaging still.

He looked back over his shoulder as he ran, and w hispered a silent prayer to the Lady that Bertelis and his cousins were all right.

Scores of buildings w ere ablaze now , and while teams of peasants were running back and forth from the harbour, hefting barrels of w ater to throw over the raging inferno, Calard could tell that it w as a useless endeavour; those buildings already burning w ere lost. All that could be done w as to try to contain the blaze.

Amid the mayhem, Calard noticed that the grail knight had a scarf w rapped around his upper left arm a token of affection, gifted by a noblew oman. He realised that he recognised the mauve, silk scarf as belonging to his sister.

'Your sister is far more pow erful than you give her credit for,' said Reolus. 'By the Lady's grace, Lyonesse may yet survive the night.'

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

ANARA STOOD PRECARIOUSLY atop the battlements of the eastern gatehouse, arms lifted to the heavens and her head thrown back as she invoked the power of the Goddess. If she slipped, she would fall more than a hundred feet to her death, but she had no fear. Her black hair w hipped around her w ildly like the serpentine locks of a gorgon as the fierce winds buffeted her. She stood barefoot, unmindful of the ice and snow turning her toes blue, and her wispy, sheer dress fluttered around her like a shroud. Nothing mattered but the rush of pow er surging through her.

The men-at-arms stationed atop the gatehouse eyed her w arily, making warding motions w ith their hands, for even they could feel the gathering energy being channelled through the damsel. Knights kissed tokens of the Lady as they felt the presence of the goddess manifesting within Anara.

Below her, the Norscan longships were just reaching the island, horn-helmed w arriors leaping the gunwales into the shallows in their eagerness to take the w alls.

Thousands of arrow s sliced through the night, cutting down the first wave of Norscans onto the beach, but as before, there w ere more enemies than archers, and countless hundreds of the northern barbarians, bellowing war cries and w aving axes, w ere streaming towards the wall sections damaged by the devastating barrage.

The clouds roiled above as Anara continued to draw the winds of magic into her, and her limbs began to shudder. It threatened to consume her, and she clenched her hands into fists, but her concentration was solid, and a slight smile played at the corner of her lips as she slowly gained mastery over the power she was attempting to control.

Her eyes began to glow as if there was a light burning within her, and as she moved her lips, speaking in the language of the fey, blinding light billowed from her mouth.

Wisps of ethereal fog rose from her skin, and her hair played out around her as if charged w ith static energy. The air crackled with intensity and an electric tang could be tasted upon the air.

Waves crashed furiously against the shore, and Norscan longships rose and fell as the sw ell intensified. Walls of water crashed over the sides of several, and one was smashed against the rocks as it w as turned sideways by a tow ering wave, its hull splintering like matchwood. Men were dragged screaming into the icy waters which churned as frenzied sharks feasted, turning the waters red and the foam pink with blood.

Still Anara continued to call upon the power of the Lady, and a trickle of blood ran from one nostril. Her legs were quivering now, threatening to buckle, but no man stepped forw ard to support her, fearing that to do so w ould break her concentration, dooming them all. A thick fog began to form across the raging strait, hanging low over the w ater and grow ing thicker with every passing moment.

The ocean continued to heave, rising and falling with increasing fury. The Norse strained at the tillers of their longships, desperate to keep their vessels astern of the heaving surf, for if they were turned even slightly when a w ave hit them they would be lost. Few civilisations were as skilful as the Norse at navigating treacherous seas but, even so, more longships w ere being overturned and smashed against the rocks as the surging ocean swell continued to build.

Within minutes, the unnatural fog surrounding the island fortress was so thick as to be utterly impenetrable, sw allowing all sound. The shouts and roars of the Norse became dim and muted, and even the pounding of the waves was now faint. The fog rolled up the beach, obscuring the rocks and the Norse until it caressed the castle w alls. Looking down from the battlements, it looked as though an ethereal ghost sea surrounded the fortress.

Dimly, Anara registered intense heat on her face as a roaring inferno screamed over her head, passing no more than tw enty feet above her. The searing heat that radiated from the fireball made the snow and ice atop the castle gatehouse melt, and steam rose from Anara's clothes. The war machine's fiery missile came dow n inside the castle compound, fifty feet behind the gatehouse. It smashed down through the roof of a w ell-to-do inn, and the whole structure, and the stables and blacksmith attached to it, w as instantly a hellish inferno.

Still the seas rose and the fog thickened, forming an impenetrable, heavy soup, and Anara pulled herself out of her incantation for the briefest of moments.

Now , she pulsed.

* * *

'NOW!' ROARED REOLUS, and the mighty, thirty-foot high doors of the gatehouse groaned open. The w all of fog beyond the gate rolled through the portal as it opened, creeping across the cobblestones like a living, amorphous beast. It coiled around the legs of the grail knight's destrier, making the paladin and his steed appear like some vengeful, holy manifestation; a supernatural avatar of the Lady's w rath. Calard shuddered, seeing again the Green Knight closing in on him, sword drawn, but he shook the disturbing vision off.

Anara's voice ghosted dow n from the top of the gatehouse overhead, musical and otherw orldly. His flesh tingled and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as the air filled with expectant energy, and Calard lifted a devotional pendant carved in the likeness of the Lady to his lips, invoking her protection.

Calard could feel the blessing of the Lady upon Reolus, radiating from him like the heat from a forge. A vaguely shining aura surrounded the holy knight, a luminous glow that seemed emphasised by the fog billowing around him.

In one hand the grail knight held aloft his silver lance, Arandyal, its length shining w ith holy light; in his other hand he held its twin, the sacred sword Durendyal. Both holy w eapons were of immense cultural significance, and even the lowliest inbred peasant had heard the tales of the terrible foes Reolus had vanquished with them.

The paladin's face was hidden behind the visor of his tall helm, topped w ith a gleaming heraldic unicorn of silver surrounded by a crow n of lit candles, but his eyes blazed w ith the Lady's favour. His intricately-worked, ornate armour reflected the light of those candles and the roaring flames of the buildings burning within the castle w alls. The silver edging of his regal blue tabard glow ed.

Reolus's unicorn heraldry was emblazoned proudly upon his chest, the design mirrored on the flanks of his steed's matching caparison. That destrier was large, pow erful and as black as pitch, and it bore the w eight of Reolus and the heavy chain and plate barding beneath its flow ing caparison effortlessly.

The thick, reinforced gates groaned fully open, and Reolus gestured forward with his blessed lance.

'To victory!' he roared, his voice infused with the power of the divine, filling the fifty knights gathered behind Reolus with fiery passion.

'To victory!' they echoed, and Calard's chest swelled with pride to be part of such an august company, to be riding behind such a holy knight.

As one they kicked their steeds forward, galloping out through the gates and into the fog beyond.

Calard could not see more than ten feet in front of him, but he felt no sense of fear or doubt as they thundered out of the castle, galloping directly towards the sea across the sand-sw ept cobbles on the ancient roadway. The Lady w as with them, and they w ere led by one of her greatest champions - nothing in the world could stand against them.

They came upon the Norscans suddenly, and judging by the expressions on the barbarians' surprised faces, they must have appeared like ghostly apparitions, galloping out of the fog and led by a faintly glowing demigod of w ar, his helmet ringed w ith candles. Still, the Norscans were a w arlike people not given to fear, and they responded w ith admirable courage, dropping ladders and leaping forward with axes raised, w ar cries on their lips. Yet for all their bravery they w ere smashed aside by the tight w edge of knights, crushed and broken beneath the hooves of the mighty destriers.

The causew ay dipped as its angle increased and they ploughed through the fog tow ards the sea. Reolus did not slow his charge, and none of the knights riding behind him faltered. A voice in Calard's mind was urging him to pull his steed up, telling him it w as utter foolishness to continue this mad ride through the fog and into the sea, but he grinned fiercely, rejoicing in the feeling of freedom that riding a w arhorse at full gallop allowed.

A dragon-prow ed longship appeared out the mist, driving a furrow through the sand off to the right of the causew ay as it slammed into the beach. Calard saw Norscans leaping over the gunwales gaping in astonishment at the formation of knights riding at full gallop along the causeway tow ards the ocean, but then they w ere past them and Calard turned his attention back to the fore.

Impossibly, he heard Anara's voice in the fog all around him. Other voices joined hers, and Calard felt an aching pang in his heart at the beauty of the half-heard song.

The knights galloped down the causeway. It extended out into the strait further than the beach itself, and Calard could see the waves lashing the shore off to either side.

The stones were slick with sea water beneath the hooves of the warhorses, and seaw eed w as clumped in stinking piles. Crabs as large as a man's head skittered sidew ard off the causeway, waving their oversized claws, their armoured shells covered in spikes.

Suddenly the ocean could be seen before them, dark and threatening. Black fins cut through the w ater no more than fifteen feet out, and yet on the knights galloped, guiding their steeds straight tow ards the sea. There was a great sucking sound from up ahead, and Calard saw the icy w aters of the ocean surge aw ay from the tip of the knightly formation, as if being drawn back to form an immense w ave.

They rode forward for another dozen yards or so, and still the waters retreated before them. The causeway continued to descend at a steady angle, and he saw fish and eels flopping uselessly upon the ground, gasping for breath. He glanced to the side and saw the ruined corner of an ancient building protruding from the rock bed, the crumbling stone w alls covered in weed and barnacles.

They w ere underneath the heavy fog that blanketed the sea then, and the path before them w as suddenly clear. Calard took a sharp intake of breath as he saw the w alls of w ater to either side of them as they continued to plough down the causew ay, galloping deeper even as the waters continued to draw back aw ay from them.

They drove a w edge through the ocean waters, which parted before them like enemy soldiers before the charge. The ruins of more buildings could be seen off to either side of w hat Calard realised must once have been a thriving thoroughfare. He gaped in astonishment at the sheer walls of water to either side of the lance of knights; it looked like they would come crashing down on top of them at any moment. There w as nothing physical holding them back, but hold they did, and the knights galloped on, still riding downhill, moving ever onwards.

Finally the causeway levelled out and they w ere galloping along the flat. The sheer w alls of w ater on either side were over thirty feet high here, tow ering cliffs that loomed over them threateningly. The sea spray w ashing over their edge was blinding, and Calard looked up, open-mouthed. The fog blanketing the ocean w as falling over the edge tow ards them like a gaseous w aterfall. So strange was the experience of looking up at the ocean from its floor, w ith the fog cascading over the w alls of w ater, that Calard w ondered if he might be dreaming.

All manner of hateful ocean-dwelling creature w as stranded upon the ground around them, flopping back and forth impotently. He saw all sorts of fish, many of which had gaping mouths filled with razor-sharp teeth. He saw a shark easily three times the size of his horse, and it thrashed back and forth furiously. It was no natural beast, that, and he recognised the touch of Chaos upon it - dozens of grabbing tentacles surrounded its tooth-filled maw, and clusters of hate-filled eyes glared at him from the side of its broad head.

The bodies of Norscans were there too, the corpses of those that had been dragged to the ocean floor by the w eight of their iron armour. Many of them w ere missing limbs and great chunks of flesh, clearly having been partially devoured by the sharks and w hatever other flesh-eating creatures dwelt in the depths. Crabs sw armed over these bodies, obscuring them in a cluttering blanket of chitin, tearing strips off their flesh w ith barbed claw s.

Calard heard shouting overhead and glanced up to see the prow of a Norse longship balancing precariously on the edge of the oceanic cliffs. The raiders were frantically row ing backw ards, trying to pull themselves back from the brink, but the ocean sw ell buffeted them, pushing them further over the edge. He urged his steed on, casting a nervous glance back up tow ards the teetering longship.

It tipped over the cliff of water and began to fall. Men tumbled from the ship, arms and legs flailing. Calard leant forward over the neck of his steed, kicking his heels into its flanks.

A Norscan fell on top of a knight behind him, knocking the Bretonnian from the saddle, and making his horse stumble. An oar smashed down onto the rump of another destrier, making its back legs give way and sending its rider flying. That knight plunged into the wall of water and was instantly set upon by the sharks lurking on the other side.

There was an almighty crash as the prow of the longship smashed down onto the ocean bed behind the knightly formation. The draconic figurehead ploughed into the causew ay, and there w as a sickening sound of splintering timbers as the weight of the ship crashed down behind it. Its mast broke, crushing a pair of knights at the back of the lance formation as it smashed dow n onto the rocky ocean floor.

Turning in the saddle, Calard w atched as the longship splintered. Men continued to fall, bones breaking as they hit the ground. He saw that the long chasm-like corridor of w ater behind them w as closing, and in another moment it daimed the shattered Norscan vessel, which was crushed by the pressure of the water rushing in upon it.

That frantic ride through the valley of water was the strangest experience of Calard's life thus far, and as they galloped up the causew ay and onto the mainland itself, he marvelled at the pow er that w as his sister's to command. Parting the ocean itself - he w ould never have believed such a things was possible.

The fog above continued to obscure their progress, so that the Norse had no warning of the attack they w ere about to face. With Reolus riding at the fore, the lance of Bretonnian knights galloped out of the ocean, angling their ride across the hard packed sandy beach that led around the bay tow ards the emplaced, infernal war machine of the enemy on the hillock protruding into the ocean half a mile to the north.

The enemy were completely unprepared for such an assault, and before they had even registered the presence of the enemy in their midst, the Bretonnians were cutting a sw athe through them, galloping along the hard packed wet sand around the edge of the bay They passed scores of longships, many of w hich were being pushed into the sea by w arriors. Some of these marauders saw the Bretonnians behind them, and their voices rose in shock and alarm.

Calard's lance took a surprised Norscan in the face, the tip of his weapon punching through the man's eye-socket and smashing out the back of his skull. Releasing his hold on the w eapon, he drew the blade of Garamont in a smooth motion and hacked dow n another enemy w arrior, cleaving deep into flesh.

Horns of w arning sounded, and Reolus pushed the knights on. They were not far from the w ar machine's emplacement now, but Calard knew that there were tens of thousands of Norscans all around - it w as only a matter of time until they w ere surrounded and overw helmed.

A sound like the roaring of a thousand lions echoed out across the land, and an immense ball of red flame shot into the air from up ahead, arcing above the strait tow ards Castle Lyonesse. Flames dripped like molten rock from the immense, deep red missile as it hurtled though the air, and the heat that came off it w as intense.

Choking black smoke blanketed the area w here the shot had come from, upon the hillock jutting into the bay up ahead, and Reolus guided them tow ards it.

Norscans ran into their path, screaming in fury, but the Bretonnians carved through them like a scythe through w heat. Reolus fought with incomparable skill, killing with every strike. Dozens had already fallen beneath his blade and lance, and no enemy had even looked like landing a blow upon him.

They sw ung westward, hugging the sweeping bay and rising out of the fog that blanketed the w ater and beachhead, closing in on the enemy artillery.

They could see more clearly now, but as they climbed out above the fog they w ere themselves revealed to the enemy. Countless fires dotted the darkness in the east, and thousands of Norscan w arriors yet to take part in the siege snatched up their w eapons and began racing through their camp tow ards them.

The desolation of the mainland could be seen clearly. The burnt-out husks of buildings stood like blackened skeletons. It would take many years to rebuild the tow n back to w hat it w as, for the taint of the Norscans to pass and for the scars of this destruction to fade.

At a curt gesture from Reolus, half the knights riding behind him peeled off to the east. If the Norse overw helmed them from the rear before they had a chance to destroy the enemy artillery then this whole gamble w ould be for nought, and so those knights that w heeled off from the main formation would hold them off as best they could.

Calard felt a pang of sadness and pride as the formation split. Those knights peeling aw ay w ere forming a long line to protect their rear, and every last one of them must have know n that he would likely not survive, yet not one of them baulked in the face of their duty. Part of Calard w ished that he was riding at their side, for their names w ould surely be remembered in the pages of history, their noble sacrifice honoured for all time. It w as only by chance that he was positioned on the left side of the lance formation, and so w as not part of that group riding off tow ards certain death and eternal glory.

Calard snorted. There w as no certainty that any of them w ould make it back to Castle Lyonesse from this risky sortie, and he realised that the sacrifice of those knights w ould be meaningless if they did not succeed in destroying the enemy artillery.

They w ere climbing steadily now, rising off the hard packed sand lining the bay and joining a rough roadw ay leading up tow ards the headland, where the emplaced war machine w as located. A low, crumbling wall separated the promontory from the town, and as the knights rode through a shattered gate, he realised what this area w as set aside for; it w as a cemetery, a sacred garden of Morr.

Of course no noble w ould ever have been buried here; this was a graveyard reserved for the peasant dead. As such there w ere few individual gravestones scattered across the snow -covered hill, for the vast majority of those buried here w ould have been packed into mass pits, their graves unmarked. Only the wealthiest peasant merchants could have afforded their own plots. Clumps of skeletal rose bushes protruded from the snow , though few of the trademark black roses that could be seen in the gardens of Morr all across the Old World were in flower.

Calard focused his gaze upon their target, squinting towards the infernal war machine that w as smashing apart Castle Lyonesse with its relentless barrage.

Hulking, ape-like creatures attached to each other by chain could be seen hard at w ork around the machine, being whipped by squat, barrel-chested figures, but he paid them little thought, his eyes widening as he looked upon the hulking metal construction.

It w as partially obscured by steam and acrid black smoke exhaled by the hellish machine as if it w ere alive and breathing. It was something akin to the cannons of the Empire that Dieter had described to him, but he had never imagined one to be this size. Its huge barrel must have been tw enty feet in diameter, and it squatted upon huge bronze w heels filled with clockwork mechanisms. Glowing runes were engraved upon its brazen body, and Calard felt his eyes sting just looking upon them.

The bulk of the creation shuddered, swelled and contracted, as if its hide was organic, not unliving bronze and black iron. Curiously, the machine was staked dow n, with giant chains hooked to its form and hammered into the ground, as if it w ere a w ild beast its captors feared and not an inanimate cannon.

The image of the w ar machine seemed to shimmer as if in a heat haze, and he saw the squat figures tending it shovelling what looked like body parts and coal into a gaping metal funnel upon its back as they rode closer. In disgust, Calard realised that many of the mass graves of the peasants w ere even now being dug up, w ith scores of w hat must have been slaves w orking to exhume the bodies of the dead. For a moment Calard had the impression of a huge, insatiable beast being fed by its caretakers, but he discarded the thought as the product of an overactive imagination.

He realised that the slave-creatures were orcs, though they were larger and darker-skinned than the ones he had fought in Bordeleaux. Their heads hung low beneath their massive shoulders, and their flesh was covered in scars and burns. They cringed as their squat captors w hipped them, each lash of the barbed leather lengths flaying skin from muscle.

None of them registered the Bretonnians' presence until they were almost upon them, so intent w ere they on their work. A hulking orc w orker looked up at the knights bearing dow n on them as it dragged a frozen corpse up from one of the pits, and it blinked at them dumbly w ith beady red eyes.

Then the creature bellowed, its massive tusked jaw opening wide, and its comrades lifted their heavy heads towards the knights.

Calard saw w hat he presumed to be the leader of the w ar machine's crewmen swing tow ards them, and grow l something in a strange, grating tongue. The creature - it w as certainly not a human, but neither w as it a greenskin - w as a stunted thing, w earing an outlandish high helm and clad from head to toe in heavy plates of overlapping armour.

Its broad chest w as covered by a thick black beard tied into tight coils, and stubby tusks protruded from its mouth. Calard realised it was one of the dwarfen-kin said to inhabit the mountainous reaches of the Old World. He had always been led to believe that they w ere honourable and doughty allies, even if they were greedy and stubborn, but there w as nothing good in this w arped creature; it had clearly been twisted by the malignant forces of Chaos. It shouted something in its strange, deeply resonant language, and the black-skinned orc slaves were whipped into the path of the Bretonnians.

The slaves needed no encouragement, scrambling out of the grave pit, hefting their tools and launching themselves towards the knights. Behind them the stunted w orker-creatures continued to toil aw ay at ''feeding' the monstrous w ar machine. The slavemaster itself lifted a w eapon from a stand at its side. That w eapon vaguely resembled Dieter's repeater handgun, but w here the Empire ambassador's w eapon had five thin barrels, this arcane construction had just one barrel, though it w as flaring and w ide at its end.

The black orcs w ere hampered by the chains welded around their necks, but they attacked the knights without fear. Perhaps they longed for death, Calard thought.

Each of the beasts w as huge, w ith densely muscled arms tw ice as thick as a man's thigh. Reolus took the head off the first of the beasts w ith a sweep of his dimly glow ing sword and ran another through with his lance. Two other orcs were raised into the air, half-strangled by the chains around their necks as Reolus lifted the spitted orc high, before hurling it away from him w ith a flick.

Several of the hulking beasts used the chains binding them as a w eapon to take out the legs of the horses, showing a glimmer of bestial intelligence. Several steeds were felled as the black orcs pulled the chains taut, muscles straining and the knights riding these unfortunate horses were catapulted from their saddles.

Calard slammed the blade of Garamont dow n onto the head of another of the dark-hued greenskins. It was like striking rock, sending a jarring shudder up his arm, but his blow shattered its skull and hacked deep into its miniscule brain, blood spurting.

The creature didn't register it was dead right away, and it snarled and swung a w ild blow , forcing him to sw ay to the side to avoid it.

Calard saw the dw arf slavemaster heft his heavy w eapon to its shoulder, and he gave a shout of w arning. There was a tremendous boom, and fire billow ed from the widely flared barrel of the blunderbuss. A sw ath of death ripped through the Bretonnians and four knights were killed instantly, flesh and armour shredded.

There was a sound like some infernal giant beast sucking in a great intake of breath, making the air reverberate, and then the war machine fired again, sending a roaring fireball skyw ard.

At this range, the heat w as nigh on unbearable, and Calard's vision wavered before him. A black orc made a grab at him but he severed the creature's arm at the w rist, leaving its immense hand locked around the reins. Another knight was thrown from the saddle as one of the greenskins w rapped its ape-like arms around the forelegs of his steed, getting trampled in the process but managing to drag the destrier down to the ground. The knight directly behind tried vainly to haul his steed out of the w ay, but there w as not enough time or room, and the legs of his horse were broken as it slammed into the fallen steed in front.

Calard struck another orc a glancing blow , his sword rebounding off its thick skull, making it reel. It stumbled and disappeared under the flashing hooves of another knight, and they were through.

Reolus galloped hard, steering them tow ards the snarling, stunted dwarf slavemaster.

The heavily armoured creature had discarded its blunderbuss in favour of a heavy axe, its blade gleaming black obsidian. Its companions had joined it now, hefting heavy spiked tools in their thick, gloved hands.

Each of the dw arfs w as no more than four foot high, but built like oxen. Each had a thick beard that fell dow n over their leather and iron aprons, and their arms w ere almost as thick as their bodies.

Behind them the immense enemy w ar machine lurched, seemingly moving under its ow n impetus, and Calard recoiled in the saddle as he saw clawed legs of living bronze at the front of the w ar machine's carriage ripping up the ground as they dragged its w eight around to face the knights.

Choking black smoke w as exhaled from the barrel of the infernal machine, and Calard saw the entire thing writhe as it turned, metal flexing like living flesh.

Daemonic faces appeared in the brazen sides of the giant weapon, pressing outw ards from w ithin, snarling and hissing. He saw that the rim of the gaping barrel w as lined w ith tusks and fangs. The inside of the barrel w as lined with concentric circles of teeth, thousands of them, and volcanic fire raged deep within, making Calard's eyes w ater and his armour heat up unbearably.

The barrel snapped shut as the living war machine lunged forward, straining like a w ild bull at its restraints. Hellish runes glowed white-hot as it pulled against the chains. The steeds of the knights, as w ell trained as they w ere, refused to continue the charge tow ards the infernal daemon engine, baulking and fighting against their riders.

The knightly formation fractured, some horses rearing and bucking while others came to a dead halt. Others swung to the side, flattening their ears and galloping at full speed, w hile some tried to throw their riders.

Calard's steed reared, pulling against him, and he fought to regain control.

The dw arfen slavemaster stepped forward and hacked his obsidian axe into the chest of one bolting horse, and it screamed in a disturbingly human manner as it collapsed to the ground, throw ing its rider. The knight w as instantly set upon by a pair of brutish black orcs, w ho slammed his head into a rock, crumpling his helmet like paper w ith a sickly, metallic squeal.

Only Reolus continued the charge, and he cut dow n two of the Chaos dwarfs with slashes of his blade. The immense daemon engine ripped free of several of its chains, tearing the links apart in its fury, and it lurched towards Reolus, brazen fore-claws ripping up great sods of earth in its eagerness.

Calard cried out as the immense, sentient engine lunged for the grail knight. With masterful control, Reolus forced his steed to back up, and the huge maw of the hellish cannon snapped shut just feet in front of him. He drove his silver lance into the machine, and smoke rose from w here its point entered the beast, as if it w ere a heated poker being plunged into w ater.

Reolus ripped his lance free as the daemon engine thrashed in pain or anger, and red fire spouted from the puncture w ound.

Calard w as throw n from the saddle of his steed as his destrier bucked again, and he landed hard. He heard again a deep sucking intake of breath, and gasping for breath he pushed himself to his knees, turning towards Reolus.

The grail knight was seated defiantly in the saddle before the immense daemon engine, a glowing aura surrounding him. Calard shouted in denial as the machine belched volcanic red fire tow ards the grail knight.

Reolus w as completely hidden from view, lost w ithin the hazy inferno that consumed him, and Calard pushed himself to his feet. The blade of Garamont w as in his hand, and bellow ing in outrage, horror and despair, he charged tow ards the hellcannon.

The dw arf slavemaster was suddenly before him, snarling hatefully as it sw ung its black-bladed axe in a murderous arc. Calard managed to get his shield in the path of the blow , but the axe sheared through it, knocking Calard to the side but saving him from harm. He slashed w ith his own blade, but the dw arf turned it aside easily. This w as a foe of considerable skill, Calard realised.

The hellfire spewing from the maw of the daemon engine ceased, and the young lord of Garamont risked a quick glance tow ards Reolus, expecting to see nothing but a charred corpse. Miraculously, the grail knight appeared unharmed, sat aback his night-black steed, and the aura around him glow ing almost painfully bright. The Chaos dw arfs axe almost took off one of Calard's legs as he gaped at the holy knight, but he managed to step back at the last second, though the axe grazed his armour, cutting through it w ith contemptuous ease.

The glow surrounding Reolus began to fade, and he urged his steed towards the giant hellcannon, brandishing his weapons. The infernal daemon engine snapped at him, but he ducked beneath its gaping maw and drove his blade into its side, tearing a gaping rent in it as he rode by. The machine thrashed, and flames the colour of blood roared from w ithin its body.

It rounded on the grail knight, clockwork wheels grinding and bronze forelimbs scrabbling, and dozens of reaching talons extended from the machine's sides, grabbing for him. He evaded their grasp with ease, severing several of them with cuts of his blade. They fell to the ground, hunks of lifeless, inert metal, the life infusing them gone, and he plunged his lance into the beast again.

It w as clearly in pain now, and the runes binding it blazed w ith heat. Another slash of his sw ord carved through one of the binding hoops of iron that ringed the engine's barrel, and its runes disappeared w ith a hiss.

Pegasus knights suddenly descended from the low clouds. A lance sliced towards the dw arf that Calard w as frantically defending against, and the stunted creature sw atted the w eapon aside with a sw eep of his axe.

Laudethaire himself swooped down low and struck the hellcannon with his ow n blade. It did little real harm, his sword merely ringing off its barrel w ith a hollow metallic ring, but it distracted the daemon engine, which swung at him, jaw snapping. That was all the opening that Reolus needed, and he leapt from his saddle, driving his sword down into the hellcannon like a dagger, using both hands to push it home.

Again the metal hide of the beast parted like yielding flesh beneath his sword, tearing a gaping hole in its side. The grail knight leapt backw ards as lava and red fire spewed from the horrendous w ound. The runes binding the daemon hissed and disappeared, and the entire engine began to melt beneath the heat contained within it. Its metal-cogged w heels began to sag, and its brazen forelimbs dripped like syrup.

Calard saw the surge of rage in the dw arf slavemaster's eyes, and he smiled.

Then, there was a primal scream of victory as the daemons that had been bound w ithin the machine were released from their imprisonment. For a second Calard saw their true form, standing amidst the fiery destruction of their hellcannon prison. They w ere black-skinned creatures three times the height of a man, w ith shadowy bat-like w ings extending from their shoulders. Fire burnt in the cluster of eyes set into their foreheads, but their screams of victory turned to one of outrage and fury as their bodies began to turn to smoke. With a final bellow of pure hatred that echoed for a hundred miles in every direction, the daemons were sent roaring back to the infernal plane from w hence they had came as the material form that had bound them to the real w orld w as destroyed.

A blast of superheated air exploded outw ards, knocking everyone w ithin fifty yards to the ground, and Calard closed his eyes against the furious light that surged into the heavens as the daemons w ere banished.

It w as perhaps thirty seconds later when Calard's senses returned to him and he registered the shape of Reolus, once again in the saddle, looming over him.

'Take my hand, Calard,' ordered the holy paladin.

In aw e, Calard accepted the proffered hand, and he swung up behind the grail knight. Then, together with the last of the knights that had accompanied them, they turned back tow ards Castle Lyonesse.

HIGH JARL EGIL Styrbjorn stood motionless, his face unreadable as he surveyed the carnage unleashed as Zumarah's hellcannon was destroyed. Bjarki paced back and forth like a caged animal, snarling, his hands clenching and unclenching.

'Why is it that the enemy seer is able to part the sea, and yet you are not?' said Styrbjorn mildly, though there was a dangerous edge to his voice.

Bjarki spat a curse in response, and continued his restless pacing.

'Is her pow er so much greater than your ow n?' continued Styrbjorn.

'I'll rip her heart from her chest before this siege is done,' snarled Bjarki.

'You say the bitch goddess of this land is weak, so w hy is it that her seer continues to shame me?' said Styrbjorn. 'Is their goddess stronger than you say? Or is it my seer that is the w eak one?'

'Insult me and you insult the gods themselves,' snarled Bjarki in a w arning tone.

'The gods rew ard those who are strong and fearless, and punish those who are useless and w eak. I have long been in the gods' favour.'

'Things change, mighty jarl,' said Bjarki, his tone mocking and derisive. 'The favour of the gods w axes and wanes like the green eye in the night sky.'

The seer began pacing again.

'Calm yourself, little bear,' said Styrbjorn in a steady voice. The unnatural fog blanketing the turbulent strait w as dissipating, blown clear by the icy gale, and he saw the ocean closing behind the enemy. He w atched as a handful of knights rode tow ards the distant gatehouse, and dimly heard the cheers that w elcomed their return.

'That hellcannon was our best chance of breaching the cursed fortress,' said Bjarki.

'It is a setback, nothing more,' said Styrbjorn. 'And the enemy has revealed something to us this day.'

Bjarki looked to his jarl questioningly.

'The w aters of this strait are not so deep,' said Styrbjorn. 'The roadway is perhaps thirty feet beneath the w aves at most.'

'Thirty feet or three hundred feet, what difference does it make?' said Bjarki.

'Your eagerness for blood is clouding your mind, little bear,' said Styrbjorn. 'Think!'

The seer's face tw isted in outrage, and his hand flashed for the dagger at his side. For a moment it looked as though he w ould draw it and stab his jarl, but the moment passed, and his expression changed to one of introspection.

'Thirty feet,' he said, his hand rising from the hilt of his dagger to the braided goatee beard hanging from his chin, which he scratched at absently. In the distance, the heavy gates leading inside the enemy fortress slammed shut behind the handful of knights that had managed to escape the Skaelings' wrath, and the heavy portcullis crashed to the ground, sealing the entrance way.

Realisation daw ned, and Bjarki flashed a smile at his jarl. Styrbjorn grinned savagely in return.

'Thirty feet is not so deep,' said Bjarki.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

ELISABET'S ARMS AND legs were bound to the four corners of the bedposts and her mouth gagged. She fought against these restraints w ith possessed fury, muscles straining, and blood flowed from her wrists and ankles. Her flesh was lathered in sw eat and her long dark hair plastered against her skin. Her eyes w ere completely black, and she thrashed w ildly as Anara continued to speak the w ords of banishment, standing at the foot of the bed.

Calard w atched on in horror as the thing inhabiting Elisabet's body struggled to maintain its hold. The air was chill in the room despite the roaring flames of the fireplace, and shadows danced at the edges of his vision.

Elisabet's heavily pregnant body w ent into spasms, her back arching and lifting her off the bed as Anara's voice rose in intensity. The shadows all around seemed agitated, and Calard could hear a faint w hispering in his ears, and his hand closed around the hilt of his sword.

Anara had assured him that the daemon-shades w ere unable to manifest within the room - she had sanctified and blessed it in the name of the Lady - but Calard w as still uneasy.

With a shout, Anara completed her ritual, and Elisabet w ent into a final, shocking paroxysm, her eyes rolling back in her head and her limbs going rigid. Spasms w racked her frame, throwing her around on the bed, w hich shuddered under her exertions. Then, the girl was suddenly still.

Calard moved to Elisabet's bedside. She w as breathing shallowly, for which he was grateful - he had thought for a moment that her heart might have given out altogether.

Anara slumped backw ards into a padded chair. She was pale and drawn, with dark rings around her eyes as if she had not slept for a w eek. The exorcism had clearly drained her.

The young castellan of Garamont w as exhausted as w ell, though his was a physical tiredness. It had been tw o days since the enemy daemon-engine had been destroyed, and the Norscans had been attacking the walls since then non-stop. Calard had managed to snatch a few hours of rest betw een attacks, but even then his sleep had been haunted by visions of the Green Knight, and he had aw oken feeling more tired than before. His armour w as dented and splattered with gore, and his once pristine blue and red tabard w as torn and smeared w ith blood and mud.

'Well?' he said. 'Is Elisabet herself?'

Anara opened her eyes and looked at him with exhausted eyes. The damsel nodded her head.

'When w ill she w ake?' he said. 'Will she recover?'

Anara merely shrugged in response. In the distance, Calard heard horns sound.

Another assault w as about to commence. He sw ore, and gave Elisabet one final look.

Her breathing seemed regular, if shallow. Anara curled her legs up beneath her like a little girl, and was instantly fast asleep.

More horns blared, and Calard turned and w alked wearily from the room. He closed the door softly behind him.

Calard's cousins w ere waiting for him outside, but they did not immediately register that he had emerged from Elisabet's room.

'You know w hat must be done, Tassilo!' Baldemund w as saying, his voice low and threatening.

'I'm just not sure any more that this is the right path,' said Tassilo, shaking his head.

'It is too late for second thoughts now, cousin,' said Huebald fiercely. 'We gave our oath to Folcard. He is relying upon us.'

'Why are you arguing? Folcard is relying on you for w hat?' said Calard, frowning. His cousins froze, then turned slowly to face him. Tassilo dropped his eyes to the floor.

'Nothing that need concern you, cousin,' said Baldemund. 'You have enough on your plate already.'

Calard w anted to press the point, but found he simply did not have the strength. He w as so tired.

'Is Elisabet...' said Huebald in concern. 'Is it done?'

Calard nodded, too w eary to speak.

'Are you all right, cousin?' Baldemund asked him in a quiet voice.

'Let us get back to the w alls,' said Calard, ignoring the question.

HAEGTESSE JOLTED, FEELING a horrible sense of vertigo as her spirit slammed back into her aged, decrepit and cancer-ridden body.

The w itch tried to scream in outrage and denial, but a leather gag ensured that nothing but a w eak, gargled cry passed her lips. Opening her eyes, she could see little. Once again she was practically blind, cataracts filling her milky orbs, and her heart fluttered w eakly within the fragile cage that w as her ribs. Her hands were tied tightly behind her back. Rats squeaked and rustled through the mouldy straw that littered the dank ground.

In the deepest oubliette beneath Castle Garamont, w ith her hands bound and her mouth gagged, there w as nothing for the witch Haegtesse to do but w ait for death.

CHLOD WAS RIPPED from his restless, haunted sleep as a heavy boot kicked him hard in the side. Horns were sounding from the towers all around, and he groaned.

The enemy had been coming at them relentlessly for almost three days now. The defenders had repelled wave after wave of attacks.

Everything hurt. His body w as a mass of bruises upon bruises, and his limbs ached.

Breathing in deeply was painful, and he was certain that at least one of his ribs was broken. He'd tw isted his left leg badly the day before, and throbbing pain emanated from his knee. The little finger of his right hand had been severed by an enemy axe, and w hile he knew that he had been lucky - had he not slipped on a pool of blood and fallen on his arse, then the axe would have taken his head off - that thought did little to alleviate the pain.

Chlod had thought he w ould have been able to slink aw ay from the front line at some point during the battle, or in the lapses between assaults, but so far he had been allow ed no such opportunity. The yeomen wardens were as w atchful as eagles, and they guarded all the stairw ays leading from off the walls. He had already seen them kill half a dozen would-be deserters, the screams of the dying men ringing out sharply as they w ere hurled over the battlements. He had considered leaping off, but his legs had begun to shake even just looking down tow ards the courtyard inside the curtain w all. It was perhaps thirty feet to the ground, and he was certain that he w ould break both his legs upon landing on the unforgiving stones below, if he survived the fall at all.

So exhausted had he been after the last assault that he had just slumped dow n in a heap w here he had been fighting, huddling up against the battlements to escape the penetrating w inds. He had fallen into a dreamless, exhausted sleep almost immediately.

It seemed as though he had only just closed his eyes, but already the next assault w as about to begin.

'Get up, you dogs,' barked a grizzled man-at-arms, jabbing the butt of his halberd into peasants still lying on the ground. One of them didn't move, and Chlod realised the man had died in the interim betw een the last assault, having either frozen to death or succumbed to injury. He didn't look older than fifteen.

'Get rid of him,' snarled the man-at-arms, and Chlod w as pushed roughly from behind. Together with two other peasants, he manhandled the already ice-cold corpse over the crenulations, pushing it over the edge to join the growing pile of bodies at the base of the w all.

Snow w as falling once again, blanketing everything in an ever-deepening layer, and Chlod stamped his feet in an attempt to get some feeling back into them. He had cheered as he saw the holy paladin Reolus riding back into the castle, jumping up and dow n and hollering loudly, hoping that the grail knight w ould acknowledge him as one of his pilgrims. He had hoped that if Reolus saw him, he might be allow ed off the w alls in order to go to the grail knight, but if he w as heard, the knight gave no indication.

Chlod had tried to convince the yeomen guarding the stairways that his master needed him, but they had laughed in his face. One of them pushed him backw ards hard w ith his polearm, and Chlod had fallen on his backside, staring up at the man hatefully.

In truth, Chlod had felt considerable joy that Reolus still lived. Though he cared not a jot for the nobility, he found himself pleased that the grail knight was not yet numbered among the casualties. There was something special about him, that much w as obvious, and Chlod felt somehow that w hile the knight lived they still had hope.

It mattered not that he w as just one man. While the grail knight lived, Chlod felt confident that the enemy w ould be repelled.

He pulled off his helmet and scratched his head. A peasant nearby w as staring slack-mouthed at the shaved circle on the crown of his head.

'What are you staring at, gimp?' said Chlod.

'Are you really his pilgrim?' asked the man. He w as a solidly built simpleton with one shoulder hanging half a foot low er than the other.

'Yeah,' he said.

'You an abbot or something?' said the man.

'That's right,' said Chlod, puffing out his chest. He looked around him as if checking to see if anyone else was within earshot, then beckoned the big man tow ards him.

'Tell you w hat,' said Chlod. 'You guard my back in the next attack, and if we are both livin' at the end of it, I'll make you my novice.'

'Would you?' said the man, his eyes widening. Chlod nodded gravely.

'What's your name?' he asked.

'Otho, father abbot.'

'Brother Otho. It sounds good, dunnit?' said Chlod. The big man nodded his head.

Chlod produced a small bone from his tunic pocket w ith a flourish, and held it out to the man, w ho took it in his hands reverendy.

'What is it?' he said breathlessly, staring at it as if it w ere made of solid gold. 'The finger of a saint?'

'Better,' said Chlod in a hushed voice. 'It's a chicken bone.'

'A chicken bone,' said Otho with reverence in his voice.

'A chicken bone gnawed on by none other than Reolus the... the Oh So Mighty and Grand,' said Chlod, affecting a dramatic voice that elicited an exhalation of wonder from the big peasant. 'It w ill protect you. But only - only - if you make sure that I, his holy abbot, am kept from harm. If even one heathen lays a hand upon me, the bearer of that sacred bone w ill be struck dow n. You understand?'

The big man nodded his head solemnly.

Other horns blared, and w arning shouts announced that the enemy longships were draw ing near. Trebuchets began firing, and Chlod pulled the broken sword from the loop of leather around his w aist, feeling quietly smug at having tricked the big peasant into protecting his back. Perhaps he would survive a little longer than he expected.

Otho dropped to his knees before Chlod, bow ing his head. After a moment of staring at the man in incomprehension, Chlod chuckled to himself and stepped tow ards him.

What matter did it do to push the charade a little further?

He made a w arding sign in the air, imitating a benediction that he had once seen a priest make, and placed his hand on the man's head.

'Bless me too, father abbot!' shouted another peasant, dropping to his knees.

Other men pressed in, reaching for Chlod with outstretched hands. Others pushed themselves to the ground before him, heads bow ed to receive his benediction. They w ere not just peasant archers and men like he, drafted hastily into service, either; a number of men-at-arms w earing the duke's w hite and red tabards w ere among their number. Chlod shook his head at the absurdity of the situation.

His pet rat squirmed under his shirt, and he patted it absently, a gormless smile on his face.

'Here they come again!' came a shout.

'Bless you all, sons of Reolus!' shouted Chlod.

The peasants gathered around him roared their approval, and hefted their weapons in their hands as the first arrows began to fire upon the enemy storming up the beach.

CALARD PLUNGED HIS sword into the neck of another Norscan as he tried to clamber over the battlements. Blood spluttered from the barbarian's lips, yet the dying w arrior gripped Calard's blade w ith one hand, trapping it.

As Calard struggled to free his w eapon, a man-at-arms to his right fell backw ards, a spear jutting from his chest, and a w hite-bearded, heavily muscled Norscan leapt over the w all, howling like a blood-maddened w olf. The veteran enemy warrior swung to his left, slamming his axe into a knight's neck, shearing through metal. As the knight fell, the Norscan ripped his axe free and swung tow ards Calard, who was still struggling frantically to free his trapped sword. Seeing Calard's predicament, the w arrior w ho had a hold of his sword grinned, blood dribbling from his mouth.

Calard grow led in frustration, using all his strength trying to rip his sword loose, but to no avail. Still, he had no intention of releasing his grip on the Garamont heirloom, for he knew that as soon as he let go the Norscan would fall backwards to his death, taking the sw ord with him.

Bertelis slammed into the white-bearded Norscan from the side, driving him into the battlements. Losing his grip on his axe, the old warrior hammered his elbow into Bertelis's helmet, snapping his head backw ards. Bertelis reeled, and Calard saw his brother's blade embedded to the hilt in the Norscan's gut.

Huebald and Baldemund stepped protectively in front of Bertelis as the Norscan pulled the bloody sw ord from his flesh and hurled it aw ay from him. Blood was gushing from the mortal w ound, but the Norscan merely roared in fury and hurled himself at Calard's cousins.

Calard placed one foot upon the edge of the crenulations and heaved with all his might, and finally tore his sword free, severing the Norscan's fingers in the process.

The man dropped backw ards, still grinning, and was gone.

The young lord of Garamont sw ung around to see w hite-beard w ith his paw -like hands w rapped around Huebald's neck, throtding the life out of him even as Baldemund stabbed him repeatedly.

Calard bellow ed w ordlessly as he launched himself to the aid of his cousins, and the Norscan looked up at him, still howling, just a fraction of a second before the blade of Garamont carved into his skull. Blood and brain matter splattered over Calard's face and chest, and the Norscan finally fell.

'Breach!' shouted Tassilo, leaping past Calard as giant, black-armoured w arriors heaved themselves onto the battlements behind them. A knight fell, hacked from collarbone to sternum by a sickeningly powerful axe blow , and his companion butchered a pair of men-at-arms, black-bladed tw in swords flashing.

Tassilo barged into the first of them w ith his shield. The Norscan was a head taller than the young Bretonnian nobleman, but the icy stonew ork w as slippery underfoot, and he lost his balance. The Norscan barked a curse and dropped his axe, black-armoured fingers scrabbling for a handhold as he fell back over the battlements.

The second Chaos warrior took a step tow ards the w all's defenders, pale eyes burning w ith cold intensity within the shadowy depths of his helmet. Almost as an afterthought he lashed out w ith one of his swords, and Tassilo fell with a gasp of pain as the tainted w eapon carved through the plate armour encasing his forearm. Tassilo dropped to his knees, grasping his w ounded arm, and Calard saw his cousin's vambrace blacken and corrode.

The Chaos w arrior's broad shoulders w ere hung with wolf pelts, and he towered over Calard and his companions. Black smoke rose from the deadly, jagged blades of his w eapons, and Calard knew that this must have been one of the enemy chieftains.

More enemy w arriors leapt over the walls behind him, but Calard's gaze w as fixed on the giant w arrior closing tow ards him. This was a w orthy foe, he knew, and he relished the opportunity to prove himself before the Lady and his comrades - and to himself.

'This one's mine,' he said, though Baldemund and Huebald w ere already stepping aw ay, leaving him at the fore, alone and exposed, though Calard noticed not at all.

Tassilo managed to scramble back before the chieftain's advance, still clutching at his w ounded arm in obvious agony.

Calard gripped the hilt of the sword of Garamont tightly, and whispered a sw ift prayer to the Lady of the Lake as he stepped forw ard to meet this enemy champion.

A shadow fell over him and he ducked involuntarily as a w inged shape swooped low over his head.

The enemy champion took a step back, raising his swords up before him, but before he could w ard off the blow , a lance was driven into his chest, punching though his armour and impaling him on its length. The lance tip burst out through the back of his body, transfixing him, and then the pegasus mounted knight was past, banking sharply off to the right.

A cheer rose up from the defenders as Laudethaire flew over their heads, drawing his sw ord and brandishing it in salute. Calard realised that scores of men had seen the Parravonian strike dow n the enemy chieftain, and he had no doubt that all those who had not w ould know of it before the day w as out.

'Bastard,' said Calard. Once again Laudethaire had claimed the glory, and Calard and his ilk were left to clean up the remnants.

The Norscans came at them in a rush, and Calard only just managed to get his shield up in time to turn aside a sw inging axe. He was knocked to his knees by the force behind the blow , and he slashed desperately with his sword. The blade sank deep into his attacker's calf. The Norscan fell with a curse and w as finished off by a peasant, w ho hammered the spiked tip of his polearm dow n into the man's face.

As Calard rose back to his feet his shield was knocked aside by a heavy hammer, the blow designed to leave him unprotected. A boot struck him full in the chest, sending him crashing backw ards, his breastplate groaning under the force and the wind driven from his lungs.

He hit the ground hard, flat on his back, and his head struck the stone. Had he not been w earing his helmet he might have been killed. As it w as he was merely stunned, though he w ould have a headache for a few days if he survived this latest assault.

Winded, he struggled to rise, though he saw that the Norse who had managed to storm onto the ramparts had been killed, their ladders pushed from the walls.

The Norse champion, impaled upon the length of Laudethaire's lance, w as still alive, though he w as clearly mortally wounded. The blood that dripped from his wound was black and hissed as it struck the stonework, melting shallow pits in the rock where it fell.

He stared up hatefully at Calard as he stepped forw ard to finish the warrior. Calard's blow shattered the Norscan's helmet and took half his head aw ay, but still he did not die. The shattered pieces of the w arrior's helmet fell aw ay from his face, exposing a mass of skinless flesh. Maggots w rithed through the fibrous muscles of the champion's face, and his lipless mouth w as studded with rotting fangs. A single large horn protruded from the Norscan's forehead. Calard had thought that horn but part of the brutal ornamentation of the Norscan's helmet, but he saw now that it w as part of the champion's ow n flesh and bone.

The chieftain spat a gobbet of phlegm up at Calard, w hich splattered against his helmet, just below his eye-slit. He could hear the foul acidic sputum eating through metal, and he ripped his helmet off his head, dropping it at his feet.

The enemy chieftain chuckled, his ice-white eyes filled with dark humour, and Calard struck him again, this time hacking his putrid head from his shoulders. A rancid stink rose from the corpse, and Calard gagged.

Several men-at-arms w ere w ith Tassilo, helping remove the armour from his arm, and Calard saw that the w ound w as already festering with poison. Calard barked an order, demanding that the champion's fell, black-bladed sw ords be w rapped in blankets and hurled from the w alls. He ordered the rancid corpse of the Norscan throw n over the battlements, and half a dozen men lost the contents of their stomach at the repulsive stink of the rapidly decomposing body.

Bow men stepped lightly through the knights and men-at-arms at a shout from a yeoman w arden, and they began firing betw een the crenulations once again; another enemy assault w as about to hit home.

Bone tired, Calard leant against the wall, his back to the battlements and closed his eyes, breathing hard.

It seemed like only moments passed before he heard ladders slam up against the w alls as the next enemy assault struck. Weary beyond w ords, he opened his eyes and pushed aw ay from the battlements, turning to w ait for the enemy to appear.

AS WEARY AS he w as, Chlod was starting to enjoy the level of respect and deference he w as receiving from the soldiers fighting around him. In truth, he had begun to believe his own rhetoric; he had started to believe that he was the prophet of Reolus's glory, and that in his exalted position he was afforded a certain amount of holy protection.

So it came as a considerable shock when a hulking Norscan berserker, his red hair and beard a tangle of braids and dreadlocks, tore through his fanatical devotees like a maelstrom of death and grabbed him by the shirtfront. Chlod's eyes bulged and he scrabbled to free himself from the man's grip.

A mailed fist smashed into his face. Then he was lifted off his feet and tossed over the battlements. He w as unconscious before he hit the ground.

ELISABET AWOKE TO sharp pain, gasping. It took her a moment to realise that she could see clearly and that she w as no longer curled upon the rotting pallet in the dank dungeon cell. She was lying in a soft bed, and she stared up at the rich velvet draped above the four-poster bed, not know ing if she was dreaming, or if this was reality and being trapped in the body of the old crone had been the delusion. The sheets under w hich she lay were drenched in sweat and she doubled over in agony, groaning, as shooting pain again lanced through her.

Her hands clutched at her belly, and horror rose within her as she felt the swelling there. She threw off the covers and stared in incomprehension at her heavily pregnant young body.

Had she escaped one horrific nightmare only to find herself in another?

'Your contractions are close,' said a voice from nearby, and she turned her head to see a slight, waifish young w oman with a distant expression on her face. She recognised her as Calard's sister Anara, and she gaped at her in horror as she digested the damsel's w ords.

'Contractions?' she breathed.

'The child is ready to enter the world,' confirmed Anara.

'Tell me this is a nightmare,' said Elisabet in desperation. 'Tell me this is not real!'

Anara held a w et cloth to Elisabet's forehead as fresh pain made her double up in agony. She called for w ater and towels over her shoulder, and as she shook her head in the negative, Elisabet cried, wailing in fear, incomprehension and pain.

'How ?' she managed. Then another thought struck her, and she leant towards Anara, clutching at her in desperation. 'Who is the father?'

'The enemy,' said Anara.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHLOD AWOKE TO darkness. He could hear shouts and screams in the distance, but they w ere muffled and faint. I am dead, he thought, and I am hearing the echoes of the living seeping down into Morr's underworld.

He realised dimly that the reason he could not see was because he w as lying under something. Another thought struck him then; maybe he w as not dead, but rather w as buried alive.

The thought w as horrifying and with a strangled cry he fought to w riggle and squirm to the surface. His eyes registered firelight, and he saw that he was half buried beneath a pile of corpses. He panicked. In desperation and terror he struggled to escape the morass of dead bodies, fighting to free himself. The stink of death, a vile mixture of blood and excrement from loosed bow els, was heavy in his nostrils.

His head spinning, Chlod crawled out from under the bodies beneath w hich he was pinned, stumbling over the uneven mound of corpses as he pushed himself to his feet. He tried not to look at their blood-smeared faces or their hideous w ounds. His eyes w ere w ild and slightly unfocused, and he could feel that the left half of his face w as slick with blood. His helmet w as gone, and his body w as aching all over.

A body slammed dow n next to Chlod, and he stared at it in mute incomprehension.

The man w as a pow erfully built Norscan and he wasn't dead yet, though blood w as pumping from a horrible throat w ound. The bodies had cushioned his fall, as they had doubtless done for him. He w as trying to scream, but all that came from his mouth w as a gargle of blood. The Norscan reached a hand towards Chlod, though he could not tell if it w as a silent appeal for aid or a threatening gesture.

Chlod lifted his gaze, following the direction from where the man had come, and only then did he register that he was at the base of immense castle w alls. He was confused for a moment and he stared up stupidly. Wasn't he meant to be up there?

Had he fallen?

Sound came crashing in on him suddenly, as if stoppers had just been removed from his ears, and he staggered under the aural assault.

Men w ere roaring in pain, anger and challenge, and the sounds of w eapons clashing rang out sharply. He heard the unmistakeable sound of steel hacking into flesh and bone, and heard the snap of timber and leather as trebuchets fired. Arrows sliced dow nwards, loosed from the ramparts as w ell as from slits in the walls and tow ers, and one of them grazed his w rist, eliciting a gasp of pain and shock from his lips.

Ladders crashed against parapets, and w ar cries were belted out at the top of w arriors' lungs. Feral drums echoed across the battlefield, bouncing back off the castle w alls, and horns rang out.

Chlod pressed his hands to his ears and stumbled backw ards, his eyes wild as he saw the carnage and mayhem unfolding all around him. There was movement everyw here, and hundreds of enemy w arriors were pushing and shoving as they climbed the ladders nearby or hauled themselves up thick ropes. No one seemed to register his presence, though there were hundreds of Norscans only yards aw ay.

Then war horns were sounding the retreat, and the enemy began streaming back tow ards the longships half hidden in the blinding gale of wind and snow.

A Norscan leaped off the ladder he was climbing, landing heavily in front of Chlod. He staggered back aw ay from the blood-smeared w arrior. The man snarled at him and lunged forw ards, grabbing him by the front of his tunic. He raised his axe for the killing blow , and Chlod cringed, whimpering like a babe as he w aited for death.

Another Norscan barked something in their crude language, and Chlod saw his w ould-be killer scowl and lower his axe. He was shoved backw ards, and he tripped over a headless corpse. The Norscan gestured angrily with his axe, shouting at Chlod.

He stared up at the brutal w arrior, not understanding his meaning, and received a boot to the head that sent him spraw ling backwards.

Spitting out a couple of teeth, Chlod pushed himself to his feet as the Norscan shouted again, gesturing tow ards the ocean with his axe. Chlod turned his head to look w here the warrior was pointing. He could see Norscans pushing longships back into the ocean. The Norscan stepped forward to strike him again, and like a dutiful dog, Chlod began scurrying tow ards the ocean.

Hundreds of enemy w arriors were running down the beach and throwing their weight against the ships, pushing them into the furious ocean. Chlod staggered down the sand in their midst, being shoved along by his Norscan captor.

Arrow s cut dow n dozens of men as shafts struck them in the back and in the legs.

Bodies w ere floating face down in the ocean, being tossed to and fro by the surf and banging up against the sides of the longship. Their comrades ignored those that fell, or w ho w ere already dead. Breathing hard, Chlod was pushed tow ards one of the longships, which was already putting to sea.

Chlod splashed into the ocean. The water was freezing, instantly numbing his feet.

He sucked in a breath and stepped back sharply as he saw black fins cutting through the w ater only ten yards out. A boot in the small of his back shoved him forward, and he fell to his knees in the icy waters. A breaker crashed over him, and he came up spluttering.

Arrow s sliced into the water around him, striking several Norscans wading out to the departing longships. He saw a shark lurch out of now here and clamp its jaw s around the leg of one w arrior as he hauled himself over the side one of the ships, taking it off at the hip. Screaming and with blood pumping from the stump, he was kicked into the sea by his comrades, w ho clearly had no mercy or time for a w arrior unable to stand.

A spinning hunk of masonry hurled by a trebuchet came crashing dow n through the hull of another longship a dozen yards out into the strait, instantly killing several men. The others were forced into the shark-infested waters as the ship was split in tw o, and the ocean turned red and turbulent as the voracious carnivores feasted.

Chlod floundered in the whitewash as a w ave hit him. He jerked as the frantic rat hidden inside his shirt front bit his chest in its fear. He swung around, desperate to put as much distance betw een himself and the cold-blooded killers circling nearby, but w as met w ith a solid fist to the jaw . The blow laid him out cold. He didn't feel a thing as his lifeless body w as hefted onto the Norscan's shoulder, nor when he was throw n over the side of the longship like a sack of w heat and kicked into the iron cage, alongside a score of other prisoners.

He came aw ake instantly as strange, pungent herbs were shoved under his nose. A savage tattooed face framed by matted dreadlocks and braids w as just inches from his ow n. The figure squatting over him grinned down at him, exposing teeth that had been filed to points, and a hand slapped him hard across the side of the head. Chlod found that his hands w ere bound behind his back, and he w as dragged to his feet by a pair of unseen figures. Then the flat of a blade smacked across the back of his knees, forcing him to kneel.

Chlod's eyes flickered around him, taking in his surroundings. He was in the middle of w hat he guessed w as the Norscans' encampment. Two pyramids of severed heads, each easily tw enty feet high, were behind the barbarian holding Chlod immobile.

Crow s and ravens hopped over the grisly shrines, pecking at eyeballs and tearing tongues from mouths, and as he looked upon them, he began to shake uncontrollably.

'It is good you are aw ake,' said the barbaric figure, and it took Chlod a moment to realise that the man w as speaking Breton, though it w as with a brutal accent. The man clamped a hand around Chlod's jaw , holding his head steady. 'Gods hear you scream w hen you aw ake.'

He registered the w ooden block that w as before him. He saw the marks w here an axe had bitten into the w ood repeatedly, and he saw blood - some fresh, some dry and old

- that had stained the chopping block almost black. He started blubbering like a teething babe, tears and snot running down his bloody, dirt-smeared face.

'No, please, no, no,' he said, closing his eyes tightly against the foul image.

Chlod w as grabbed by the hair from behind, and forced forward. His arms w ere reefed up behind his back painfully, and the side of his face slammed into the wood of the chopping block. He could taste fresh blood on his lips.

'You w ill not die just yet. I'm going to cut you first,' said the Norscan seer, whispering in Chlod's ear. 'Just enough to make you scream. Your cries w ill get the attention of the gods - only then will your death come.'

Chlod w as crying like a bairn, his eyes clamped tightly shut. He felt the cold touch of a blade upon the back of his ear and he screamed. Hands held him immobile, pressing his head hard into the chopping block.

BJARKI GRINNED AS the prisoner screamed beneath him. He could feel the presence of daemons nearby, just beyond the veil separating the real world from the blessed madness beyond, and knew that they were savouring the pain he would unleash upon this one.

'Wait!' screamed the Bretonnian. 'I can help you!'

Bjarki ignored him.

'I... I know a w ay into the keep!' screamed the Bretonnian. 'A secret way! Unguarded!

Please don't kill me!'

'Stop,' ordered a voice. Bjarki sw ore. The Bretonnian continued to scream, w ailing like a beaten dog.

'I said stop, little bear,' grow led the voice again, more forcefully this time, and Bjarki's head snapped up. He glared angrily at his jarl, who was standing flanked by his two daughters. Each of them had their hands on the hilts of their blades. The jarl had his arms crossed over his broad chest.

'Why?' said Bjarki.

'What did he say, just then?' demanded the jarl.

'He's pleading for his life,' said the seer. 'Pathetic, really.'

'Did he not say anything else,' said Styrbjorn, eyes narrowed.

Bjarki licked his lips, wondering if he could get aw ay with lying to his jarl. He dismissed the idea; he would not risk further distancing himself from Styrbjorn over the life of one Bretonnian dog.

'He claims to know a w ay into the keep. An unguarded w ay, he says.'

'Let him up,' said Styrbjorn.

'He's lying!' stormed Bjarki. 'He'd say anything if he thought it would give him a few more seconds of life!'

'Let him up, I said,' grow led the Skaeling jarl.

'They are offerings to the gods, my jarl,' snarled Bjarki. 'You risk offending the great pow ers by intervening.'

Styrbjorn levelled a finger threateningly at the seer, and Bjarki shook his head, muttering under his breath.

He glanced dow n at the pitiful wretch still held immobile beneath his knife. The Bretonnian had stopped screaming now, and was merely whimpering, tears mixing w ith blood and mucous. Then in one sharp, angry movement, he sliced aw ay the Bretonnian's ear. The wretch screamed in agony, and his squeals increased as alcohol w as splashed onto the wound.

'Fine,' said Bjarki, and he shoved the bleeding wretch to the ground at Styrbjorn's feet. He tossed the man's ear to one of the w arhounds lurking nearby, which caught it deftly in its mouth and sw allowed it in one gulp.

It did not take long to w rangle the information out of the w retched Bretonnian. Bjarki found it disgusting at how quickly the man betrayed his comrades. Still, he was a cunning one - he kept the exact location of this supposed secret entrance into the keep to himself, clearly trying to keep himself alive. In truth, had he coughed up the location of the entrance, he would already be dead, so perhaps he was not as stupid as Bjarki first thought.

'He w ill not keep it from us for long,' said Bjarki w ith not a small amount of relish, brandishing his serpent dagger.

'No,' said Styrbjorn. 'I don't w ant to hear any more of his pathetic screams. He'll lead us to it.'

'You w ill accompany this raid yourself?' said Bjarki.

'Gods no,' said Styrbjorn w ith a laugh, shaking his head, and his daughters smirked.

Sensing there was something he was missing, Bjarki brisded, narrowing his eyes.

'It w ould take a w eek to get the smell out of my nostrils,' said Styrbjorn, and an evil grin appeared on his face. 'No, dear Bjarki, you w ill lead it.'

'What do you mean about the smell?' said Bjarki, still wary. Styrbjorn laughed again, as did his daughters.

'I think I already know what this ''secret entrance' is. You'll see,' said the jarl with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

BJARKI SCOWLED UP at the latrine chute some tw enty feet up the north side of the keep's w all.

It had taken the better part of tw o hours to navigate their w ay around the rocks to this position unseen, and Bjarki was in no mood to see the humorous side of the plan.

Half a dozen men had been chosen to accompany him. All were slightly built w arriors, smaller than their brethren. At first Bjarki had thought this was some implicit insult, but now he understood. The latrine chimney was narrow; only the slimmest Norscan would have any hope of fitting inside.

They had w aited until the white moon had slunk over the horizon before setting off, moving stealthily and keeping to the shadows. Weapons had been wrapped in furs, and jangling buckles and armour stripped off them so that they could move in silence. For most of the w ay they had been forced to w ade through w aist-deep water, alw ays keeping a w ary eye out for sharks, and trying to keep their bodies low, so as to ensure that w herever possible the rocks were betw een them and anyone who may have been looking dow n from above.

The w all beneath the chute was slick with excrement, and it coated the rocks at the foot of the w all. At any rime other than extreme low tide the waves would be lapping up against the base of the w all, washing aw ay the foulness. Already the tide was beginning to turn, and Bjarki realised that there was no chance of getting back around to the east of the island before the rising waters forced them to sw im. He did not relish the idea of that, giving the dark fins of the ever-present sharks a glare.

They w ere true beasts of Kharnath; fearless, indiscriminate killers, and driven mad by the merest w hiff of blood in the water. He knew they would take him as w illingly as any other Norscan or Bretonnian that fell into their domain - that he w as a seer of the gods mattered not at all.

Bjarki still didn't see the need for this far-fetched ploy, and he suspected that Styrbjorn insisted on it merely because it amused him to think of his seer climbing a filth-smeared chute. He was certain that the direct attack Styrbjorn planned w ould be enough to take the castle w alls, but seeing that there was no turning back now, he sighed and nodded to one of the warriors accompanying him, Eilif.

Eilif was Styrbjorn's nephew, and the slender young warrior had his blond hair pulled back in a single thick plait that hung down past his w aist. He nodded back at Bjarki and began picking his way over the rocks to the base of the w all. He had a length of rope looped over his shoulders, knotted every couple of feet, and after pausing to look up for a few moments to pick out his route and memorise the location of handholds, he began his ascent.

Eilif climbed sw iftly and surely, and Bjarki cast a look up tow ards the battlements atop the keep. If anyone looked down now, they would see the Norscan clearly, but thankfully the arrogant Bretonnians seemed not to expect any attack from this quarter - there w as no room to land a ship, and the keep was too high for ladders or grappling hooks. The Norscan continued climbing hand over hand, digging his fingers and toes into the gaps betw een the stones.

At last the young Skaeling reached the toilet chute and he jammed his feet into crevices and pulled a hammer and a six-inch iron spike from w here they had been tucked into his belt. Waiting until a w ave crashed against the rocks to help disguise the sound, Eilif struck the spike sharply, driving it into the mortar betw een two stones, before pressing himself hard up against the wall and freezing. He was concealed from above by the jutting chimney of the latrine shaft itself, and Bjarki and the others ducked back behind the rocks, lowering themselves into the black w aters as the heads of several sentries up above peered over the edge.

After a minute or so, Bjarki risked a glance upw ards, and saw that the sentries were no longer visible. He signalled to Eilif, who quickly unlooped his rope and tied its end to the piton. He let the rope unfurl, and Bjarki grabbed it as it fell dow n to the base of the w all.

The iron bars that blocked the latrine chute w ere corroded and crumbling, and it took little effort for Eilif to rip the latticework free, though Bjarki w inced at the sound, ducking back behind the rocks. When no sentry seemed to have heard the sound, the bars w ere dropped from above and deftly caught by a w arrior below . The young w arrior climbed sw iftly back dow n the rope.

'Bring him,' said Bjarki in a low voice, and the Bretonnian prisoner was shoved forw ard. His head w as bound in cloth, and blood soaked the area w here his left ear had been. His mouth w as gagged so that he did not shout out and alert the guards.

His eyes w ere wide with fright and pain, and filled with tears. Still, having someone that knew their way around the inside of the castle would be useful.

'You first,' grow led Bjarki.

He w as a hunchbacked w retch, and the seer looked at him critically for a moment.

Though he w as certainly stronger than he looked, the malformed Bretonnian peasant might have trouble climbing the rope, let alone the vertical latrine chimney. And if he slipped and fell while half-way up, he might ensure those behind him fell as w ell.

'No,' said Bjarki, changing his mind. 'I am first.'

The Bretonnian nodded his head, clearly just grateful to be alive. Still, Bjarki knew that given the briefest opportunity, he would try to run. He dipped a finger into a pouch, and leant tow ards the wretch, who drew back aw ay from him in fear.

'Give me your hand,' said Bjarki, imparting a portion of his power into his voice.

Unable to resist the seer's order, the Bretonnian held out his hand, palm up. Had Bjarki told him to slit his own throat he would have done so, and the terror in the man's eyes show ed that he understood that.

Bjarki took the man's hand in his and closed his eyes, muttering arcane phrases.

After a moment he opened his eyes and turned the peasant's hand over. There was a black mark upon his w rist, and the wretch's eyes widened as he looked upon it.

'This is the mark of Drazh'la'gha the flesh-eater,' said Bjarki in a low, menacing voice that made the peasant w ince. 'It is a curse, and I am the only one that can remove it.

Attempt to escape, shout a w arning to any defender, or try to trick me in any w ay, and Drazh'la'gha w ill consume you from the inside out. Do as I say, and I w ill remove it. You understand?'

The peasant clenched his eyes tightly shut, and tears w ere once again running down his face. It w as disgusting and shaming, and Bjarki felt nothing but loathing for this pathetic creature.

'You understand?' he said again, and the man nodded his head. 'And do not think that death is an escape. If you die w hile the curse is still in place, your soul shall never have rest. It shall be the plaything of Drazh'la'gha for all eternity. You do not w ant to fall to your death w hile climbing Bretonnian filth.'

Satisfied, Bjarki nodded to the young Skaeling w arrior, Eilif.

'See that he follow s close behind me,' the seer ordered. Then giving the latrine chimney one last, sour look, he began the climb.

'WHAT WAS IT?' said Duke Adalhard, speaking to one of his knights who had gone to look over the edge of the keep, having heard a metallic sound from below .

'Nothing, lord,' said the knight. 'Perhaps a trick of the w ind.'

Adalhard nodded vaguely, turning his mind back to the task at hand. From atop his tow ering keep, Duke Adalhard was organising the defence of his castle, communicating w ith those below with flags and runners. He saw hundreds of longships ploughing through the seas towards the western battlements, the longest stretch of w all within the castle, and the least heavily defended. It w ould be difficult for the enemy to gain a foothold upon the narrow strip of land beneath the western w alls, and the approach was treacherous, with many hidden rocks and the surging w aves.

Still, a foothold w as possible, and he could ill afford to leave those walls undefended.

With some reluctance he ordered them bolstered, sending the last reserve companies of men-at-arms and knights tow ards them. The eastern walls had taken the brunt of the assault and w ere in desperate need of reinforcement, but there w ere no more men to spare. Ideally, the defenders w ould be rotated on shifts, in order that weary men w ere able to get some decent rest and food, but that w as a luxury that the duke w as unable to afford.

The Norse assault w as now hitting Castle Lyonesse from all angles. The heaviest concentration of enemy forces came at the eastern w alls, but longships were being row ed at speed tow ards the island from every quarter in an effort to ensure that the Bretonnian's defences were spread as thinly as possible; and it was working. Only the north w as not suffering attack - the keep took up most of the northern tip of the island, and it was simply too tall, and the ocean's currents north of the island too fierce, for an attack to have any attempt of success from that quarter.

Thankfully the enemy artillery had been silenced. Adalhard was under no illusions as to w hat w ould have happened had it not; he would have gone down in history as the only duke to allow Castle Lyonesse to fall to the enemy.

Damaged crenulations and battlements had been barricaded w ith sacks of grain, barrels filled with water and hastily nailed together planks of w ood. One wall section fifty feet w ide had collapsed, killing three knights and scores of peasants, leaving the w all only half its original height.

That w as the biggest chink in the castle's armour, and the enemy had hurled themselves against it, clambering eagerly up the loose stones and chunks of masonry, screaming w ar cries and bellowing praise to their infernal gods. It was only because the grail knight Reolus had taken it upon himself to stand there, atop the crumbling w all, defying the enemy, that the section had not yet been overrun. His presence inspired those around him to great heights of bravery and courage, and it w as there that the fighting had been the fiercest.

Betw een attacks the duke ordered w ine, bread and cheese distributed amongst the defenders, and he had opened up his storehouses, seeing to it that even the lowliest peasants drafted into service - those of them that w ere left alive at any rate - w ere supplied w ith blankets, replacement w eapons, adequate arrow s and shields.

Had this been any other enemy, Duke Adalhard would have felt confident that he w ould be able to hold almost indefinitely, or at least long enough for aid to come from Couronne, if not from his eastern neighbour, the bastard Duke of L'Anguille. His greed-sick rival was doubtless enjoying hearing of his misfortune, already plotting how he could move against Lyonesse and extend the borders of L'Anguille.

With all the reserve companies committed to action, there was little more that Adalhard could do. He ordered a manservant to bring him his shield and helm.

'You cannot be considering fighting on the walls, my duke?' said one of his nobles, the stick thin Baron Broussard, aghast at the notion.

'I am. And you w ill be fighting alongside me, my dear baron,' Adalhard said w ith some relish. 'Every man able to w ield a sword is to fight.'

The man blanched. Inwardly, Adalhard was pleased to see the man squirm. He had little time for those w illing to send honourable men to their deaths but w ho w ould not face the same dangers themselves. Broussard w as a political animal - Adalhard had alw ays been sure to keep the man onside for he would have made a deadly political opponent - but in truth he loathed the man, and he was certainly no warrior.

'But if you w ere to fall, my lord, surely that w ould be a terrible blow to morale?' said Broussard smoothly, though Adalhard noted that a sheen of sweat glistened on his brow .

'And w hat does it say to the men if I w ere not to fight? It w ill give heart to the men to see me face the same dangers as they,' replied Adalhard dismissively.

'It is foolishness, my lord!' protested Broussard. He turned tow ards his companion, the porcine Marquis of Carabas, looking for support, but the man avoided his gaze.

'We must hand the young w oman over to the Norscans! Any other path is folly, my lord duke!'

'I have already made my mind up, baron. See that your man brings your w eapons and armour. I expect to see you garbed for w ar in ten minutes time. A second late and I w ill have you branded a cow ard and turncoat, and I w ill see you sw ing. Am I understood?'

'I alw ays knew that you w ere a fool,' said Broussard bitterly.

'If I am to die,' said Adalhard, 'then I will do so w ith honour, defending the realm I w as sw orn to protect. I w ill not cow to the demands of any Norscan whoreson, even if it does mean certain death.'

'There is no honour in death, however it comes,' said Broussard. 'The notion of honour is a convenient fiction, and every Bretonnian with half a brain know s it. It means nothing!'

'You are w rong baron,' said Adalhard.

'I should have allied myself w ith L'Anguille long ago,' said Broussard. 'At least then I w ould still be alive on the morn.'

The duke said nothing, merely regarding Broussard w ith the expression of one who unw ittingly steps on a slug w hile walking barefoot.

'None of us are going to survive this!' said Broussard, an edge of hysteria entering his voice. 'We are all going to die here if you don't hand the w itch over to them! What does she matter to you, anyw ay? She's just some Bastonnian w hore! Can you not see that?'

'What I see,' said Adalhard, 'is a man w illing to hand a w oman of noble birth over to blood-drenched savages in an attempt to save his ow n pathetic, worthless, honourless life. What I see is a man unw illing to take up a sw ord and fight the enemies of his lord. You disgust me, Broussard. I should have disposed of your services long ago.'

Broussard's face tw isted in fury, and he scrabbled for the dagger sheathed at his w aist. Before any of Adalhard's bodyguards could react, he pulled the blade clear and lunged at the duke.

Adalhard sw atted the dagger aside with the flat of his hand and backhanded the baron in the side of the head. Broussard w as knocked to the ground, and before he could rise the duke's men w ere upon him, pinning him down.

The Duke of Lyonesse drew his sword. Elven runes engraved upon the blade glittered, and he took a menacing step forw ards. The baron struggled, his eyes wide with terror, but he w as held firmly.

'You condemn every man in this castle to death if you do not hand her over,'

Broussard said, breathing hard.

'And I condemn every man to live in shame if I do,' said the duke.

Broussard licked his lips, and a spark of hope appeared in his eyes as the duke sheathed his ancestral sword.

'You are not w orthy of dying a w arrior's death by this sw ord,' said Adalhard, shattering that fleeting hope. 'It w ould be a dishonour to the memory of my forefathers to stain its blade w ith your blood. Hurl him over the battlements.'

The baron began screaming and fighting, and Duke Adalhard turned away as Broussard w as manhandled tow ards the crenulations atop the keep. The man w as bustled over the edge, and his screams grew faint. A moment later they stopped altogether.

The duke's manservant returned, bearing Adalhard's gleaming, golden helmet and w hite shield, with its red lion's head heraldry protruding in relief from its surface.

'What of you, Carabas?' said the duke as he pulled his helmet onto his head. He looked tow ards the overweight noble.

'I'm no w arrior,' said the marquis, 'but I w ould be honoured to stand at your side and do my part.'

There was fire in his voice, and Adalhard believed him. As porcine and gluttonous as Carabas w as, he had alw ays known there was a certain strength in the man, and he felt admiration for him at his w ords. For a w arrior, his body and mind trained for w ar, it still took great courage to w alk onto the battlefield. To walk onto the field of w ar know ing that you w ere unskilled, unfit, and that the first enemy you met w ould most likely kill you took courage beyond w hat Adalhard believed he himself possessed.

'The honour w ould be mine, Carabas,' he said, w ith feeling.

'Can't say I ever liked that bastard,' said the fat marquis, gesturing over the ramparts w ith his thumb. 'About time, I'd say. But I fear I w ill make you w ait longer than the ten minutes you gave him. It w ill take me that long to get to the bottom of the stairs, let alone have my man stuff me into my armour.'

Adalhard smiled.

'I'll w ait,' he said.

In the distance there came a horrible trumpeting sound that Adalhard had heard before, and the smile dropped from his face.

'What in the Lady's name w as that?' said Carabas.

THERE WAS LITTLE room inside the latrine chute, yet Bjarki climbed steadily and easily, using his back, knees and elbow s to w edge himself in the shaft and shimmy his w ay up. He slipped once or tw ice on the faeces-slick walls of the chimney, but did not panic, and caught himself each time before he had fallen more than a yard or tw o. A little light filtered down from the various latrines that joined the chute; just enough to see by.

The progress of the Bretonnian captive below him, however, was painfully slow and halting, and Bjarki snarled in frustration as he looked down at the shadow of the man, w illing him to hurry up. The noise the man made as he climbed made him cringe, and with every passing moment he was certain that they w ould be discovered.

The peasant's breathing was heavy and laboured, and he had wedged himself inside the shaft as he tried to catch his breath. Bjarki could just make out the w retch's arms and legs shaking with fatigue, and he cursed again.

'You fall, and eternal torment awaits,' Bjarki said in a hoarse, low w hisper, his voice ghosting dow n to the Bretonnian's one good ear. He heard the man sw allow thickly, and start climbing again, and Bjarki smiled grimly in the darkness.

It had been such a simple thing to trick the peasant into believing he had placed a curse on him. Curses w ere tricky things, requiring considerable preparation and not a small amount of risk - much more trouble than one ignorant w retch was w orth. He smirked again as he thought of the black mark of Drazh'la'gha upon the man's w rist; nothing more diabolical than powdered charcoal mixed with spit.

Hearing the man coming up behind him, Bjarki recommenced climbing, shimmying easily up the chimney until he came to an angled pit that entered the shaft.

Flickering candlelight could be seen betw een the cracks in the planks that sat on top of the latrine, and Bjarki manoeuvred himself so that he could push himself up tow ards it w ith his feet against the far w all.

Praying that the Changer of Fates w as smiling upon him, Bjarki pushed the cover up an inch and hooked his fingers around the rim of the latrine. Then, hearing nothing in the room beyond, he pulled himself up, pushing the cover back w ith his head.

The room w as small and square, w ith a slit window set in its back w all. Its door w as pulled closed, and seeing no one, Bjarki hauled himself fully out of the latrine chute.

He had left his thick fur back at the camp, and his sinewy bare arms and tattooed torso w as smeared w ith stinking effluent. His dreadlocked hair had been pulled back into a ponytail and it too w as covered w ith the noisome filth.

Turning, he could see that the Bretonnian was struggling. Reaching down, Bjarki grabbed the man by the scruff of his tunic, and hauled him up and into the room.

Chlod flopped, stinking, onto the floor and Bjarki curled his lip in disgust.

'Where are w e?' he said. The Bretonnian looked at him stupidly, and Bjarki tore the gag from the man's mouth.

'Where are w e?' he repeated.

'In the keep?' said the Bretonnian slowly.

Bjarki sw ore in the Skaeling dialect, shaking his head at the man's staggering stupidity.

'Where in the keep?' When no answer was forthcoming Bjarki narrowed his eyes.

'You've never been in the keep, have you?'

'Please don't kill me, lord,' wailed the man, throwing himself to the floor before Bjarki.

'Quiet, fool!' hissed Bjarki, hearing footsteps outside the door, but there w as no placating the bubbling peasant. Bjarki drew his dagger, its blade undulating like a serpent's body, and he tensed himself as he heard the footsteps halt beyond the door.

The door w as pushed inwards and Bjarki saw a man bedecked in a w hite and red tabard, his face framed by a chain coif. His eyes registered his surprise as Bjarki leapt forw ards and rammed his dagger up under his chin, the blade sinking to the hilt. Seeing another figure in the hallway stiffen in shock, Bjarki sidestepped the first man, dragging him inside the small room as he did so.

Bjarki reached out tow ards the man that w as about to raise the alarm, his fingers stabbing forw ard like claws and he barked a single guttural w ord in the Dark Tongue.

Sw irling ribbons of energy leaped from his fingertips and struck the Bretonnian in the head. Blood burst from his ears, nose and eyes and he fell to the ground without a sound.

Moving to the body, Bjarki cast a quick glance along the corridor to ensure he was unseen. Thankfully, it seemed that the tw o soldiers had been alone. He grabbed the body by its shirtfront and dragged it out of the hallway.

Eilif had emerged from the latrine, his face and hair smeared with foulness. He was crouching over the body of the first man that Bjarki had killed, blood pooling beneath him. The Bretonnian peasant was pressed back against the w all, shaking in fear and exhaustion from the climb. Bjarki retrieved his serpentine dagger and cleaned its blade upon the quaking peasant's shirt front before re-sheathing it at his waist.

The Norscan seer stepped back out into the corridor, checking for guards. He gestured, and Eilif joined him, dragging the Bretonnian peasant along with him, and the other Skaelings began emerging from the latrine.

When they w ere all out, Bjarki led them silently down the western corridor, judging that one w ay w as as good as another. They all moved quietly, hugging the shadows.

He signalled that he, Eilif and the Bretonnian would take the lead, while the others w ere to keep some distance back.

They moved forw ard warily. Bjarki cautiously tried the first few doors they came across, w hich opened into rooms filled with rich furnishings - tables, couches and sumptuous carpets. Moving on, they came to a staircase, and Bjarki led his companions dow n four flights, at last coming to the ground floor of the keep. Two other staircases also descended from the upper levels here, all three of them emptying into a broad hall lined with ancient suits of armour. Torches burnt in dozens of sconces, lighting up the cavernous expanse.

Bjarki, Eilif and the Bretonnian peasant were cautiously descending the stairs w hen the sound of voices and marching feet reached their ears. Bjarki waved a w arning to those behind, who melted into the shadows without a sound. He and Eilif backed up, dragging the Bretonnian with them, and they dropped behind a thick stone balustrade.

Peering around the corner, Bjarki saw a middle-aged man in golden armour appear, descending the grandest of the three staircases alongside a grossly overweight man w ho looked vaguely comical in his oversized armour. Twenty knights marched behind them.

There were too many of them to be taken by force, and Bjarki and his comrades remained motionless, all but invisible in the gloom as the enemy knights marched across hall. A huge pair of doors w as thrown open, and the sound of battle beyond entered the hall. Then the enemy were gone, and the doors slammed shut behind them.

Moving sw iftly, Bjarki moved tow ards those same doors, accompanied by the other Skaeling w arriors. Opening the doors, he peered outside, looking across the small inner courtyard of the keep, tow ards its gatehouse that led out into the castle proper.

There were few soldiers outside - they w ere all defending the outer w alls. Pockets of archers patrolled the keep's walls but none of them w ere looking down into the courtyard - none of them expected an enemy from w ithin.

'Eilif and I w ill make for the harbour as planned. We raise that gate and this siege is as good as over,' snarled Bjarki. 'We'll take the Bretonnian with us - he may prove useful.'

Bjarki's gaze passed over the gathered w arriors.

'Raising the portcullis is all that matters,' he said. 'Once the enemy sees us, it is your role to draw the attention aw ay from us.'

Each of the w arriors understood what it w as he was asking, and their chests puffed out in pride.

'We go,' Bjarki said 'Now !'

The Norscans slipped out into the courtyard and made a dash for the keep's gatehouse, Bjarki in the lead. Eilif was a step behind him, half dragging the Bretonnian along with him, and the other warriors moved swiftly behind them. There w ere no cries of alarm, and they managed to move into the cover of the gatehouse unseen. Silently, they padded beneath a hanging portcullis as they proceeded through the tunnel-like corridor tow ards the other side of the gatehouse.

Murderholes and arrow slits glared at them, and Bjarki knew that taking this gate by force w ould have been costly indeed. He was thankful it w as open. They passed beneath another portcullis, and then they were out into the square beyond the keep.

Enemy soldiers ran to and fro, reinforcements streaming towards breaches in the w alls. At first, no one seemed to register that the enemy were amongst them, and Bjarki darted tow ards a side-alley.

The Norscans were halfway across the square w hen there was a shout, and Bjarki saw a shaven-headed Bretonnian pointing in their direction. A group of w arriors began running towards them.

'Take them!' the seer shouted, and the Skaeling warriors, bellowing war cries at the top of their lungs, threw themselves into the path of the enemy. Bjarki darted tow ards a side-alley, Eilif and the Bretonnian peasant at his heels.

They ducked into the shadows of the alley, and Bjarki paused, looking back to see if they w ere being pursued.

It appeared that they w ere not. The Skaeling warriors that had accompanied him w ere carving into the enemy, axes and swords hacking into flesh, but already they w ere being surrounded.

'Die w ell, warriors of Norsca,' said Bjarki, and he turned away, continuing south tow ards the island fortress's harbour.

It took them the better part of five minutes to w ind their way down to the harbour unseen, and a further five to pick their way around its edge to the immense gatehouse that spanned the harbour entrance.

The only entrance they found was locked and barred.

'Might I try, my lord?' ventured the peasant. Bjarki raised an eyebrow , and gestured for him to go ahead.

The Bretonnian peasant stepped forward and rapped on the heavy door. Bjarki stepped to the side, and pulled Eilif with him. He heard a w ooden panel slide aside a moment later.

'What?' demanded a voice.

'Rations,' said the peasant. 'Bread and w ine.'

'We've already got ours,' said the voice, w ith a hint of suspicion and w ariness.

'I'm just follow in' orders. But if you don't w ant 'em...'

'I didn't say I don't w ant 'em. Hold on a minute,' said the voice, and Bjarki heard the sound of bars being removed, then a heavy key turning in a lock. Eilif readied his knife.

The door w as thrown wide.

'Where are these rations then?' said the voice. Eilif stepped around the corner and plunged his knife into the speaker's throat.

They bustled inside, and Eilif finished off the warden with half a dozen stabs to the chest, before low ering him in a corner and covering him with empty sacks. Then they began to climb the stairs of the gatehouse.

Moving as quickly as possible, they climbed a steep staircase that spiralled up and up, and at last came upon a landing. A heavy, locked door barred their progress. The peasant grinned at Bjarki and lifted his eyebrows questioningly, but the seer doubted the charade w ould w ork a second time, and he knew that his time was drawing short.

Bjarki gathered himself, closing his eyes and sucking in a deep breath. He gestured sharply, and the door w as smashed inwards as if struck by a battering ram.

Eilif was through in an instant, and by the time Bjarki had entered the room, tw o of its occupants w ere already dead. Eilif tackled the last to the ground and slit his throat.

The room w as large, with arrow slits in the southern wall looking out to sea and large arched stained glass windows in the north wall looking down over the harbour and across the castle itself. They were located directly above the harbour entrance itself, Bjarki realised.

In the centre of the room there w as an immense circular wheel embedded in the floor, w ith a number of w ooden spokes protruding from its sides. A pair of mules were hitched to these spokes, and the stone under their hooves was covered in sand and hay. They stood immobile, disinterested in the killing that had occurred around them.

Bjarki studied the w heel for a moment. It w as not dissimilar to a millwheel, and he guessed that it w as connected to gears and turning mechanisms underneath the floor. He reached out and pulled dow n a lever, and nodded in satisfaction as he heard disengaged gears clamp together beneath the floor.

'Bar the doors,' he ordered. The Bretonnian backed aw ay into a far corner, out of the w ay, and Bjarki ordered him to stay put. Eilif positioned himself atop the staircase that they had just climbed, w eapon in hand.

Bjarki moved to one of the arrow slits looking southward. He could not see the longships lurking out there in the gloom and the snow, but he knew they were there, w aiting for his signal. With a muttered incantation his left hand erupted into blue fire. He saw a single torch flare briefly in response out there in the darkness, eight hundred yards out.

Bjarki w atched closely, biting his lip as he waited for the ships to appear. The minutes dragged by, but then he saw them, a score of dragonships ploughing swiftly through the ocean sw ell on a direct course for the gatehouse. Judging by the shouts he heard from atop the gatehouse, he guessed that the enemy too had sighted them, and he could hear grinding as the giant trebuchets above w ere levered around into position to target them.

Gauging the distance and speed of the dragonships, Bjarki left it another thirty seconds before running back from the w indow and slapping the rump of one of the mules. It dutifully began trudging around in a circle, as did its companion, and the sound of grinding gears could be heard. A rumbling could be discerned underneath the floor, and the sound of chains tightening around pulleys. Then those pulleys began to turn, and the chains began to be reeled in, locking around the teeth of immense cogs concealed within the walls, and the dual portcullis began to open; one latticew ork descending into a slot carved into the rocks twenty feet beneath the w ater, and the other lifting up into the gatehouse itself. From the outside, it must have looked like the mouth of some giant beast opening.

The mules continued to trudge around in their monotonous circle, and the grinding of gears and chains echoed loudly, making the whole gatehouse shudder.

There were shouts of alarm and shock from outside, and there came a pounding at the doors. A moment later, heavy w eights began slamming into those doors, making the w ooden braces barring them groan.

Moving back to the south-facing w all, Bjarki looked out to see the dragonships no more than fifty yards out. This was going to w ork, he thought, with a grin. Then one of the doors gave w ay, its timbers splintering inwards, and enemy soldiers bundled inside.

Still grinning, Bjarki turned tow ards them, the power of the gods flaring in his eyes.

Blue flames sprang up over both hands as he called upon great Tchar. With a roar, he thrust his hands towards the enemy, and they w ere instantly consumed in a roaring conflagration. The faces of daemons could be seen in that billowing blue fire, and those caught w ithin the inferno screamed in torment as their bodies were twisted out of shape, remoulded into a form more pleasing to the Great Changer.

Fifty feet below , a score of Skaeling dragonships ploughed beneath the open portcullis and into the harbour. Each of the ships was packed with blood-hungry berserkers, the most rabid, unhinged warriors in the entire Skaeling war host.

In the distance to the east came the sound of deafening trumpeting.

CALARD WAS STARING in mute horror tow ards the south as he saw the enemy ships slipping into the harbour inside the curtain walls.

'How ?' he breathed, feeling all hope fade.

The flagging spirits of the defenders had lifted as the Duke of Lyonesse joined the fray. The lord of Lyonesse had moved along the walls, speaking to the knights, offering words of praise and encouragement, and to have him amongst the fighting had made morale soar.

Much to Calard's surprise, the duke had even spared a few w ords for the peasants defending his walls, praising their efforts and promising them a feast w orthy of the king himself once the enemy had been seen off. Calard saw the effect such a simple gesture had on the defenders, knight and peasant alike. He saw shoulders that had been slumped in defeat and despair straighten, and chests puff out as the duke rekindled their sense of pride. These were the actions of a true leader, Calard recognised, and as lord of Garamont, he pledged to remember these lessons. Whether he lived long enough to put them into practice was another thing completely however

- and all the good that the duke's presence had done was now shattered. Every Bretonnian fighting on the walls saw that all their dogged resistance had come to naught, for the enemy w as now sailing right into the heart of the fortress so many of them had already died to defend.

Calard saw the duke in the distance shouting orders and barking commands as he attempted to redirect defenders from the w alls tow ards this new threat. He was sending one out of every three men down to face the enemies within the castle, and although Calard saw this risked losing the walls to the enemy, it w ould not matter if the enemy took the castle from w ithin. More enemy longships were ploughing through the gatehouse into the harbour, and Calard knew that if the great portcullis w as not closed, then the castle w as lost. He saw the duke gesturing tow ards the arched gatehouse that spanned the entrance to the harbour, and saw a trio of w hite w inged shapes begin hurtling tow ards it; Laudethaire and the last of his companions.

Sw earing, Calard chopped his sword into the neck of a Norscan as he scrambled over the ramparts, and he kicked the man's body off the w alls as he slumped forward.

'Let's get off these damned w alls,' he called to his brother, who nodded. They made to move tow ards the stairs, but a deafening trumpeting sounded, painfully loud, and Calard froze. Turning he peered out through the driving snow and wind beyond the castle w all.

He saw a giant shape in the ocean that he at first mistook for just another longship, packed w ith warriors. It was moving inexorably tow ards the island, though it w as rolling steadily from side to side, and for a moment Calard stared at it, uncomprehending as he saw it had no sail.

Feeling a sense of rising dread, Calard moved to the battlements and narrow ed his eyes, shielding them from the biting wind with one hand. His breath caught in his throat as he realised that it w as not a ship at all; it was the wooden fortress strapped atop one of the giant, hateful mammoths that had w reaked such havoc three weeks earlier. The beast w as fording the strait, battling against the pounding surf as it trudged along the same causew ay that Calard had himself ridden two days earlier. It w as no more than fifty yards from the beach.

The w ater washed over the beast's shoulders, so that only the top half of its dome-like head could be seen. Its trunk w as lifted up out of the w ater, and the great w ooden fortress chained upon its back heaved from side to side as the behemoth strode through the heavy sw ell. Waves crashed over the top of the battlements of the mobile fortress, but the berserkers clinging there merely howled in defiance, their cries sounding barely human at all. Calard caught sight of the other two giant beasts w ading through the swell behind it.

Horror filled Calard as he realised that if the mammoths w ere large enough to w alk along the causew ay then they were large enough to allow those riding upon their how dahs to leap directly onto the walls, as if they were living siege engines.

Behind him, blood curdling roars echoed throughout the castle as the enemy longships inside the harbour w ere driven up against the shore, and the merciless w arriors w ithin leaped over their gunwales, intent on the slaughter.

Calard felt utterly torn, not know ing where his sword was most needed. 'Lady protect us,' he breathed.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CALARD AND THE other defenders upon the eastern walls stared in mute horror as the first of the mountainous w ar mammoths rose from the ocean like some infernal beast emerging from the depths. Its matted, thick fur hung in sea-drenched ropes and steam rose from its flanks. Its massive head w as protected by plates of black iron hammered into its skull, and giant bands of metal studded w ith spikes as long as a man's arm encircled its four sweeping tusks. Overlapping links of black iron protected its trunk, forming a flexible carapace like the shell of a beetle, and its large, flapping ears w ere pierced with dozens of hooks and rings each as large as a man's head.

The beast lifted its heavy head as it trudged out of the ocean, and it trumpeted deafeningly, the sound making Calard's ears reverberate painfully. The waves crashed around its tree-trunk legs, and the ground shook as it strode out of the breakers and onto the beach.

The w arriors riding within the fortress upon the giant beast's back roared in eagerness and bloodlust, driving themselves into a berserk fury. They clashed their w eapons against their shields and the sides of the great howdah holding them, and a hugely muscled Norscan pounded upon a pair of huge drums, human skin pulled taut across their tops.

Banners of flayed flesh covered in Norscan runes and symbols of infernal deities hung from tw isted icons of dark metal, flapping in the fierce gale. Easily a hundred Bretonnian heads were impaled upon spears and metal spikes protruding from the sides of the w ooden howdah. The bodies of a score of knights had been pushed onto lances, and they rose in a grisly fan from the back of the how dah.

The second and third mammoths following behind the first could be seen clearer now , battling through the fury of the breakers amid the driving snow and wind, and Calard saw that the enemy w arlord himself was accompanying this latest assault. He rode upon the back of the second w ar tusker, seated in a high-backed w ooden throne, arrogantly prominent upon the forecastle of his howdah, clearly disdainful of the Bretonnians' arrow s.

A spinning hunk of masonry hurled high into the air by a trebuchet crashed dow n onto the head of the third mammoth, striking it a glancing blow , and it bellowed in rage and pain, shaking its head from side to side. The heavy iron champron hammered into its skull w as dented inwards by the blow , and hot blood began to stain the w aters around it as it floundered in the surf. It stumbled, and Calard could see the fins of fifty or more sharks circling wildly, the taste of the blood in the water driving them into a frenzy that mirrored that of the Norscans themselves.

A larger shape scythed through the breakers suddenly, scattering the sharks before its bow w ave. It pow ered into the shallow water with powerful flicks of its tail, and Calard saw that its hide w as black and w hite. Its mouth gaped w ide, exposing hundreds of razor-like teeth, and it hit the mammoth hard, knocking it sideward and ripping a great chunk of flesh from its body.

The mammoth bellow ed again, and the warriors upon its back jabbed dow nwards w ith spears, trying to fight off the monstrous attacker. Calard saw several of the fearless w arriors leap over the sides of the howdah, dropping onto the back of the thrashing black and w hite beast and driving spears deep into its body.

The mammoth sw ung around and struck its attacker w ith its tusks, lifting it out of the w ater and hurling it aw ay, sending the foolhardy Norscans upon its back flying.

The killer whale plunged back into the w ater thirty feet aw ay, only to be turned upon by the sharks and other killer whales lurking in the deeper water. The Norse warriors that had been sent flying were ripped apart by the voracious ocean predators, shredded in an orgy of bloodlust.

The mammoth regained its footing and charged up onto the beach, blood streaming from its w ounds. A huge chunk of flesh was missing from its shoulder, and the flesh w ithin was pink and wet.

'Shoot them!' screamed Calard in desperation, seeing that the peasant bow men all around w ere frozen, staring in gormless horror at the three mammoths that w ere now charging tow ards the castle walls. With those monstrous beasts outside the w alls, and the enemy inside the walls, Calard knew that the resolve of the peasants was about to snap. All it w ould take was for one of them to turn and ran and the w hole stinking rabble w ould throw down their weapons and stampede from the walls.

The rising panic and desperation was palpable as the courage of the defenders faltered, and he knew that the next few moments were critical to forestall a complete rout. His old w eapon master, Gunthar, had taught him that in moments of indecision it w as the nature of men, particularly peasant inbreds, to w ant someone to step to the fore and give them direction. If no one did so, then they would become a mindless rabble.

'In the name of the king, hold!' Calard roared in his loudest and most authoritative voice. He registered that men, even knights, were turning towards him, looking to him for direction and perhaps reassurance.

'Aim for their eyes!' he shouted. 'Now!'

Generations of enforced servitude ensured that the peasants responded to Calard's order w ithout question, and as one they lifted their bow s and launched a shower of arrow s tow ards the charging mammoths.

Countless shafts rained down upon the titanic creatures. Many ricocheted off the thick armour plating of the beasts, but hundreds more embedded themselves in flesh and muscle, until the lead creature's forelegs resembled pin cushions. The warriors upon the back of the beasts ducked behind their wooden battlements and held their shields high, and hundreds of arrow s sank into the woodwork, but some w ere struck, screaming in pain as arrow s thudded home into their flesh.

A pair of arrow s struck the lead beast in its left eye simultaneously, sinking deep into the rage-filled orb and instantly flooding it with blood. It bellowed in agony and reared up onto its hind legs, ceasing its thunderous charge. Men fell from the how dah as it tipped precariously backw ards, while others clung on desperately.

More arrow s thudded into the mammoth's underbelly as it reared up, and as its forelegs came crashing back dow n to ground, it turned aw ay from the castle walls.

Enraged and in pain, it struck out at the Norscans racing up the beach alongside it, smashing them aside with a sw eep of its tusks.

Scattered cheering rose from the defenders, but it sounded strained and w eak, for the other tw o mammoths came on at full speed, lowering their heads like charging bulls.

The handler of the enemy warlord's mammoth tugged on his crude reins, dragging on the vicious barbed hooks driven though the tusker's sensitive ears, turning it directly tow ards the w all section only thirty yards from Calard's position. The other beast thundered headlong tow ards the immense gate leading into the castle itself.

It struck w ith the elemental power of an avalanche and the metal lattice-work of the first portcullis buckled inwards with a sickening shriek. The heavy reinforced gates beyond w ere smashed apart, and the sound of w ood splintering echoed sharply as the dozen immense bars that sealed the gate, each as thick as a tree trunk and bound in iron loops, were sundered.

The other beast struck the w all like a living battering ram, and hundreds of men staggered as the w hole wall section shook. Large hooks of black iron attached to chains w ere hurled over the battlements, and then the first of the enemy w ere over, leaping onto the w alls and laying about them w ith huge, jagged axes and swords, killing with every stroke.

These warriors w ere the enemy warlord's elite bodyguards, each of them a mighty champion in their own right, massive warriors clad in black plate festooned with unholy fetishes and icons. They were unlike anything that the Bretonnians had yet encountered, men whose lives had been extended by the Dark Gods; they w ere faster, stronger and more deadly than any mortal man.

With contemptuous ease they killed everything that stood before them, hacking through armour, flesh and bone, but they w ere as children next to the enemy w arlord w ho stepped onto the walls in their wake, hefting a massive axe in each hand. Red gems embedded in the axe blades blazed w ith fiery power each time the fell weapons claimed a life, as if pleased with the slaughter they enacted.

Scores of knights roared w ar cries and ran forward to stem this breach, only to be hacked apart by the enemy w arlord and his unholy bodyguard. More ladders slammed against the castle w alls and scores of grappling hooks were hurled over the battlements. Calard and his kin tried to fight their way tow ards the enemy warlord, but it w as like trying to battle against a raging flood. For each step they took tow ards the brutal giant of a man, they w ere forced back three paces by the sheer weight of the enemy. Norscans were streaming over the now undermanned walls, hacking dow n men-at-arms and knights left and right, and Calard roared in fury as he and his kin were driven back.

The enemy warlord fought like a bloody demigod, his twin axes wailing as they sliced through the air, hacking limbs and heads from bodies with every swing. He laughed as he killed, revelling in the screams of the dying, the geysers of blood fountaining from neck stumps and the sound of bones shattering beneath his axe blades.

Seeing the brutal w arlord carving effortlessly through the defenders upon the wall, Reolus moved to intercept him, but there w ere a score of enemies betw een them. The grail knight fought with a burning intensity that was terrifying to behold, killing with every strike of his holy blade, Durendyal. Norscans fell before him as he rampaged along the w all. He carved his sword through the neck of one enemy and lopped off the arm of another w ith the return blow as the Norscans came at him. He spun, avoiding a sw ord thrust and rammed his blade into the guts of his w ould-be killer, before ripping the blade clear in a spray of blood and decapitating another man as he continued to turn.

The grail knight swayed to the side and a massive spiked mace missed his skull by scant inches, and he kicked the legs from beneath the off-balance Norscan before smashing his blade down into his head, splitting it to the neck. A jagged sword stabbed tow ards his unprotected back but he sensed it coming and whipped around, deflecting the blade w ith his armoured forearm, and punched the man square in the face w ith the hilt of his sword, his whole body w eight behind the blow as he turned.

The man fell back w ith a cry, spraying blood and teeth, and Reolus lashed out w ith his blade, the tip nicking the Norscan's neck with all the precision of a surgeon, and arterial blood spurted from the w ound.

The black-armoured elite bodyguard of the enemy w arlord came at Reolus, and he ran forw ard to meet them head-on.

He traded blow s w ith the first, glittering silver-steel clashing with tainted black-steel, and he w as forced back a step by the sheer brutal pow er of the Chaos w arrior. The fully armoured Norscan w as taller than Reolus, and his shoulders a foot w ider, but as fast as he w as he could not match the grail knight's sublime grace.

Reolus ducked in beneath the Chaos w arrior's defences as an axe sliced through the air w here his head had been a fraction of a second earlier and slammed his blade into the Norscan's side. The blow sundered his heavy armour, buckling it inwards and carving a bloody rent that shattered a dozen ribs. Before the Chaos w arrior could react, Reolus had w hipped his sword back for a blinding return blow that struck the Norscan in the side of the head, carving through his helmet and skull. With a heavy clatter of armour the enemy w arrior fell.

The next died in a heartbeat. Hefting an immense, double-handed spiked hammer as he charged tow ards the grail knight, the Chaos warrior did not even have a chance to bring it crashing down before Reolus's blade had penetrated the eye slit of his helmet, sinking deep.

The holy paladin of the Lady killed another two of the huskarls, sustaining only a few scratches himself, draw ing ever closer to the enemy w arlord. Perhaps recognising the presence of one worthy of facing him, the Norscan turned towards Reolus, and their eyes met across the mayhem of the brutal melee.

The tw o began moving tow ards each other.

'Lady of grace, grant me, your servant, the strength to defeat this enemy' breathed Reolus. He clenched Durendyal tightly in both hands, and the fury of the goddess infused him.

THE INSIDE OF the gatehouse spanning the entrance to the castle harbour had been transformed into a scene out of a nightmare, and Chlod stared around him in abject terror.

Men w hose bodies had been remoulded into obscene, unrecognisable forms by the Norscan seer's dark magic flopped upon the ground, bellowing in agony and torment, the sound torn from bloody throats that opened up at random across their bloated flesh.

Their bodies were in constant flux and they continued to mutate w ildly, bones cracking and reforming in random and bizarre forms, their flesh rippling and bulging w ith new, unholy life. Spines burst from the backbones of some, w hile gibbering, mouthed tentacles burst from the flesh of others, cackling and waving wildly. Human skin changed texture and colour, becoming scaled and dark on some, w hile others sprouted thick, brightly coloured fur and feathers. Worm-like appendages appeared w ithin the flesh of others, making skin bulge grotesquely as it struggled to contain these new growths, and blood splattered as they burst forth.

Useless flaps of membrane-skin with a glistening sheen grew betw een the random, gristly protuberances that sprouted from one man's arms, w hile the head of another w as ripped apart from crow n to chin, exposing hundreds of savage teeth. A revolting, fleshy tongue emerged from w ithin the exposed skull, and it began probing the ground until it w as severed by the gaping skull-mouth slamming shut. Chlod stared in horror at the severed tongue as it flopped back and forth on the ground. Its tip peeled back to reveal a snapping mouth, and it proceeded to devour itself, even as it bulged and mutated into a new and wild form, sprouting legs and wings.

Several of the men had merged together, and this vile amalgamation of flesh and muscle screamed incoherently as its body mass bulged and grew , and turned upon its horrified companions. Limbs of glistening, wet muscle sprung from its body, spikes of bone protruding from club-like appendages, and the monster dragged itself tow ards its erstw hile allies, half a dozen once-human faces screaming insanely. It lashed out w ith its ever-changing limbs, smashing knights and men-at-arms into the w alls, pulping their flesh.

One knight was speared through the midsection by three lengths of bone that had grow n from w hat was once a human leg, and as he bellowed in agony, he was dragged in close to the hideous creature that the seer's magic had spaw ned. Ribs cracked as the creature's chest tore open in a vertical slit, flesh and muscle ripping apart. The broken stubs of ribs resembled vile teeth, and the knight w as pressed into this new ly formed, mouthlike cavity. The creature's chest slammed shut, locking the knight w ithin its body, and his flesh became one w ith the growing beast.

A thick appendage of blood-slick muscle shot from w ithin the chaotic creature's body and w rapped around the arm of another knight, who struggled to free himself. A circular lamprey mouth appeared upon the tip of this rope of muscle, and it burrow ed up into the knight's armpit, squeezing through a gap in his armour and biting through his chainmail. The knight began to scream as it burrow ed into his flesh, consuming the man from the inside out.

The tw o mules that w ere hitched to the w heel mechanism used to raise and lower the portcullis w ere whinnying in fear and straining to escape their traces. The monstrous spaw n tore one of them loose, lifting it up into the air before ripping it in two. One half it devoured, w hile the other half it hurled at the knights w ho were bringing their sw ords to bear on it, smashing several of them backw ards as the bloody corpse struck them.

Behind all this, the Norscan sorcerer was striking down more Bretonnian warriors, clearly revelling in his power.

Chlod backed aw ay from the horrors being unleashed, his sanity fraying, and found himself up against the large stained glass windows in the north w all that looked out over the harbour and island.

Seeing a bloody knife that a dead Lyonessian soldier had used lying on the floor nearby, Chlod half-considered grabbing it and plunging it into his own breast; better to die than be consumed by that hulking spaw n creature and become part of it. Then he recalled the sorcerer's words: If you die w hile the curse is still in place, your soul shall never have rest. It shall be the plaything of Drazh'la'gha for all eternity.

Chlod looked dow n at his wrist again, staring at the daemonic black mark there, and began to w eep.

Then there was an ear-splitting crash as the stained glass windows exploded inw ards.

Chlod fell forward to his knees as shards of coloured glass rained down around him, cutting his hands and face, and he felt strong winds buffet him.

Something large and w hite hurtled over the top of him, and there w as a clatter of hooves on stone.

Gaping up from the ground, Chlod saw a knight riding upon a pristine white pegasus plunge his lance into the heavy mass of flesh that was the Chaos spawn. Black blood spew ed from the w ound, hissing and burning, and a dozen mouths opened and screamed in pain.

Tw o other pegasus knights crashed through the stained glass windows, and Chlod pressed himself flat to the floor, making himself as small as possible, praying that he w ould not be trampled.

Through his fingers Chlod saw the first knight, Laudethaire, plunge his lance into the spaw n again, and for a moment he thought the Beloved of Parravon was going to slay the beast, adding to his already impressive tally of heroic feats.

Then the throat of Laudethaire's pegasus was torn out by ripping teeth, thick bloody cords of muscle, ligaments, arteries and flesh torn free in a torrent of blood. Its virginal white fur was splattered with gore, and the noble beast reared and fell, throw ing Laudethaire from the saddle.

One of Laudethaire's companions was killed, the Chaos spawn impaling him and tearing him from his saddle. His steed reared, kicking out w ith its hooves, but w hipping tentacles studded with barbs w rapped around its neck and bore it to the ground.

The thrashing beast had its noble flesh subsumed into the spaw n's bulging mass, before the creature consumed Laudethaire's dying pegasus noisily. Twisted, befouled w ings sprouted from the beast's back in mockery of the pristine white wings of the noble creature. The Parravonian noble himself staggered to his feet but w as struck bodily by the young blond-haired Norscan who had accompanied Chlod and the seer.

The Norscan strained to ram his knife into the knight's throat. Laudethaire managed to catch hold of the w arrior's wrist before the knife plunged home, and the pair struggled, locked together, shards of coloured glass crunching beneath them. They reeled around, almost as if they w ere locked in some macabre dance, and then toppled out through the smashed w indow.

There was a horrible screech as the third knight rammed his lance into the monstrosity's head - or at least one of them. A large flipper-like appendage slammed into the knight that had wounded it, breaking his steed's w ings like tw igs and sending nobleman and pegasus smashing back through the stained glass windows, falling to their deaths.

Chlod backed further aw ay from the thrashing monster. It might have been in its death throw s, but he could not be sure. A lance still protruded from it and black blood w as oozing from the w ound. The Norscan sorcerer was nowhere to be seen.

Backing up against the smashed w indow, Chlod looked down and saw Laudethaire clinging desperately to the ledge just below , hanging by one hand. If he fell, his plate mail w ould certainly drag him to the ocean floor.

Hundreds of black crow s and ravens were circling around the gatehouse outside, filling the air with their ugly cries, sensing death.

'Help me!' urged Laudethaire, his voice filled with panic. 'For the love of the goddess, help me, damn you!'

Chlod licked his lips. He didn't want to risk getting pulled out of the w indow himself; even if he survived the fall, which was doubtful, he w as a poor sw immer. Still, having the vaunted Beloved of Parravon in his debt w as a tempting proposition.

'I'll make it w orth your w hile, damn it!' begged Laudethaire. His fingers were beginning to slip on the stonework.

Greed outw eighing self-preservation, Chlod went to reach for the knight. Laudethaire slipped suddenly, his finger losing their hold, but he managed to catch himself just before he plunged to his death, grabbing another ledge just below the first.

Chlod sw ore. There was no chance of him reaching the knight from his position now and so, trying not to look dow n, he climbed out onto the first ledge. Keeping one hand holding tightly to the w indowsill, he stretched his hand down tow ards the Parravonian knight, tongue sticking out the side of his mouth in concentration.

'Quickly, you foetid little peasant bastard!' snarled Laudethaire from betw een clenched teeth.

Chlod's expression darkened and he froze, just inches from grabbing hold of the knight's forearm.

'What are you doing?' gasped Laudethaire, his eyes filled with fear and indignant outrage. 'Help me, damn you!'

Chlod snorted, and stood upright. 'I'll see you hang for this!' snapped Laudethaire.

'Don't you know w ho I am?'

'You're dead,' retorted Chlod, and slammed his heel down into the knight's face.

Laudethaire lost his hold on the ledge and he was gone, dropping like a stone tow ards the ocean, falling to his death. Chlod watched the knight plummet, arms and legs flailing w ildly, until he hit the water. Then he was gone, disappearing into the black ocean w aters, the weight of his armour dragging him down. Chlod spat after him derisively.

Something fleshy and stinging touched his neck, and Chlod almost fell himself as he sw ung around to see a pinkish, lumped tentacle squirming over the windowsill from inside. He gave a girlish screech of shock, and brushed it aw ay with the back of his hand, shimmying along the ledge as he did so to escape its touch.

More tentacles appeared, flowing over the windowsill like a living waterfall, and Chlod knew that there was no escape from their numbing touch.

Without giving himself time to rethink the idea, Chlod closed his eyes and let go, falling backw ards off the ledge.

DUKE ADALHARD DEFLECTED an overhead blow with his shield and slashed open his attacker's throat. Blood fountained from the fatal w ound, and Adalhard stepped back, his blade flashing down to deflect a spear that w as stabbing tow ards his groin, and w ith a roll of his wrist he struck upw ards, the tip of his sword crunching up into the chin of another Norscan, shattering bone and teeth.

At his side, the corpulent figure of the Marquis of Carabas stabbed another berserker in the belly. The baron's w ide eyes betrayed his fear, but the duke w as proud of the fighting spirit of the man. An axe blade sliced through the air to take the baron in the neck, but Adalhard struck out, knocking aside the killing blow and plunged his sw ord into the Norscan's chest, sliding the blade betw een the ribs to pierce the heart.

There was a moment's break in the fighting and Adalhard gazed dow n towards the harbour. The cobbled road he stood upon w as slick with the blood of the dead and dying, and from the top of the hill leading down to sea level he could see hundreds more Norscans leaping ashore. He had seen Laudethaire's noble attempt to retake the ocean gatehouse, and the Parravonian might yet succeed in closing the portcullis, but the damage w as already done.

'We can take them, my lord,' urged one of his knights, but Adalhard shook his head.

Behind him, the enemy w ere streaming through the shattered main gates, while a black w edge of enemy warriors had taken up position upon the east w all, where hundreds of Norscans were pouring in over the breach. The eastern gatehouse too w as lost to the enemy, the entrance smashed asunder by one of the Norscans'

immense tuskers. Thousands of enemies were streaming through the gap.

The castle was lost.

Adalhard w as so tired. A part of him wanted nothing more than to charge dow n into the enemies before him, to go dow n fighting, here and now; get it over w ith. But he knew what had to be done. He w ould make the enemy bleed for every inch of ground they took, to make their progress as painful as possible. That w as his duty; to the Lady, to the king and to himself.

'Back!' roared the Duke of Lyonesse, though it left a bitter taste in his mouth. 'Fall back to the keep!'

* * *

REOLUS PAUSED AS frantic horns sounded the retreat. He glanced down and saw hundreds of knights and men-at-arms streaming back tow ards the keep.

The grail knight pulled his gaze back tow ards the enemy w arlord, who was moving purposefully tow ards him, spinning his tw in axes. Every instinct screamed for him to engage the enemy leader, to smite him in the name of the Lady, for his presence in this holy land of his ancestors was an affront, a cancer that needed to be cut out, a boil that needed to be lanced.

He glanced dow n again and saw the Duke of Lyonesse in the centre of a block of knights, prominent in his golden armour and helmet. They were falling back in steady order, the duke hollering orders over the din of battle. The enemy w ere surging up the streets from the harbour like a dark tide, and Reolus knew that his place w as dow n there, protecting the duke's retreat.

He turned back tow ards the still advancing enemy w arlord, and gritted his teeth in frustration.

He knew it w as only his pride that made him want to defeat this enemy rather than aid the fallback of the duke and his men. As if sensing his decision, the enemy w arlord ceased his advance.

'As the Lady is my w itness, w e shall face each other soon,' promised Reolus, though he doubted w hether the enemy could understand his words. The Norscan said something in reply, a guttural utterance that might have been acknow ledgement.

Reluctantly, Reolus backed aw ay, moving tow ards the stairs descending down the inside of the wall. Enemies moved to intercept him, but they w ere w aved back by the enemy w arlord, and he realised that the Norscan had understood his intent, if not his w ords.

Eyes blazing w ith the white heat of righteous fury and frustration, Reolus nodded his head tow ards the tow ering enemy leader. It was not a gesture of respect, merely an acknow ledgement that they would meet again. The Norscan inclined his head in response.

Yes, they w ould meet again, Reolus thought. And when they did, one of them w ould die.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

THE KEEP AT the heart of Castle Lyonesse, its donjon, was a strongly defensible structure built of the same gleaming w hite stone as the outer w alls. It was in essence a fortress in its ow n right, w ith five tall, cylindrical towers at its corners and walls almost eight feet thick, topped with crenulations and dotted with arrow slits. An impressive gatehouse was the sole entrance into the keep, complete with a pair of portcullises and massive, barred iron-bound doors.

The castle now belonged fully to the enemy, and they swarmed over the abandoned w alls and up the streets from the harbour. So many longships had by now passed beneath the still-open arched gatehouse and entered the harbour that there w as no room for them to beach; the Norscans merely lashed them together and clambered from ship to ship onto the land, streaming up to surround the keep. They ransacked, smashed and torched every building within the curtain walls, and choking black smoke filled the air.

The main gatehouse in the eastern wall was a shattered ruin, having been smashed almost to the ground by one of the w ar mammoths, and thousands of Norscans surged through the breach now that there was no one to stem the tide.

Cheers had risen from the keep as one of the giant war mammoths w as felled. Barrels had been fired by the great trebuchets atop the keep, and a handful had smashed dow n upon one of the great beasts, dousing its matted fur and how dah with oil.

Hundred of arrow s lit in flaming braziers had been fired from the tops of the tow ers, and the beast had roared in pain and fear as it w as consumed by fire. It had rampaged through the enemy ranks, killing hundreds as it smashed them out of its w ay w ith its spiked tusks. Nevertheless, it was but a small victory amid the darkness, and the cheers quickly died aw ay.

In the distance, a handful of hermit knights had defended the temple of Manann upon the south-w estern island headland until the last, and the Bretonnians within the keep had w atched mournfully as the last of them had been cut dow n in the distance. With their protectors slain, the old priests of the sea god had been dragged outside and sacrificed, their heads hacked from their shoulders and impaled on spears. Ropes w ere tied around the mighty bronze statue of Manann atop the temple, and it w as brought crashing to the ground. Peasant archers and men-at-arms upon the w alls of the keep moaned in horror and whispered prayers of appeasement at this sacrilege.

Untold thousands now surrounded the keep, and there was not a knight or low born w ithin with any doubt that it w ould fall. It was not a matter of if the keep fell, but of w hen.

Thousands of crude skin drums pounded a relentless tattoo, and the enemy warlord strode through the ranks of his horde, an unmistakeable figure that tow ered over his minions. He was surrounded by a coterie of black-armour elites, and Calard stared dow n at him in hatred from the crenulated keep walls.

The enemy gave the defenders no chance to rest or recoup their strength, and Calard knew that every one of the Bretonnians was as exhausted as he. He'd never felt as tired in all his life. He felt numb, and yet sore all over, and his thinking was vague and hazy, as if his head was stuffed w ith wool. Every movement was an effort. Still, there w as no opportunity to close his eyes and fall into the sleep he so desired.

With a gesture from the w arlord, thousands of screaming Norscans launched themselves at the keep, streaming past their black-armoured leader, who stood with arms crossed, an implacable rock amidst the dark tide of chaos. Hundreds were cut dow n by w ave after w ave of arrow fire.

Under the cover of shields, the Norscans reached the foot of the gatehouse, attaching thick chains to the portcullis by hooks. These chains had been hitched around the shoulders of the largest of the enemy war mammoths, the one that had borne the enemy chieftain onto the walls just hours earlier, and its handlers urged it forward, striking it with barbed sw itches. The immense long-furred beast bellow ed and lurched forw ard, chains snapping taut behind it. The portcullis groaned and held for a moment. The mammoth bellow ed again and its titanic muscles strained. With a tortured groan of protesting metal, the portcullis was ripped free, and it was dragged fifty yards across the ground, carving a furrow through the snow before the mammoth w as halted.

More Norscans w ere killed as they charged through the now open, arched gateway tow ards the second portcullis. Scores were killed in the arched passageway leading through the gatehouse as arrow s w ere fired at close range through narrow slits, and the tortured screams of hundreds more echoed loudly within the enclosed space as boiling oil poured from murder holes in the walls and ceiling. Men screamed in agonising torment as their flesh was scalded red raw, eyeballs hissed and smoked as they boiled in sockets, and the Norscans fought each other in their desperation to escape.

Those that did manage to reach the portcullis at the end of the murderous passage w ere met by polearms and spears thrust through the latticew ork, and dozens were impaled as they ran headlong into the wall of steel. More archers stood on the other side of the portcullis with the men-at-arms and knights, and they fired their deadly shafts into the Norscans straining to hook their immense chains onto this second barrier. No armour w as protection against fully draw n longbow s at such close range, and arrow s punched through helmets and solid iron breastplates w ith ease.

Still, the Norscan warlord sent wave after wave of his warriors into the deadly passage, uncaring of the mounting casualties, so intent on taking the keep was he.

When the oil ran out, the Bretonnians pumped boiling water through the murder holes and dropped rocks dow n upon them, while their arrows continued to cut dow n the Norscans in their scores.

More than a thousand men must have died w ithin the space of some fifteen minutes, and the scale of slaughter w as aw esome and terrible to behold. Still the enemy came on, charging into the corpse-filled passageway, clambering over the dead and dying in their desperation to reach the portcullis at the far end and earn the approval of their lord and gods.

For more than an hour the enemy continued to storm the gatehouse, w ith little success. Even w hen the great chains were secured upon the portcullis, the Bretonnians on the other side were able to unhook them, dislodging them and slaughtering the Norscans beneath their withering hail of arrows.

The enemy chieftain paced back and forth. He seemed determined to take Lyonesse in the shortest time possible regardless of the cost, and the Bretonnians were shocked and horrified at how much the barbarian had achieved in such a short space of time.

Everything Calard had ever learned of siege warfare from Gunthar and his tutors spoke of how they w ere generally long, drawn out affairs that might last half a year or more. The great siege of Carcassone, some two hundred years earlier, had lasted over three years. Generally, he had been taught, an adequately manned castle facing odds of ten to one or less w ould fall only w hen the defenders were starved out, had succumbed to disease, or w ere betrayed from w ithin. Walls sometimes collapsed w hen tunnels were dug to undermine them, or fire used to destabilise supports and make stone crack, but such tactics w ere slow and plagued by failure.

When a siege reached a point of stalemate betw een rival noble houses of Bretonnia, the outcome w as often decided by a duel. That w as often preferable to a long, protracted siege, w hich was costly both monetarily and in manpower.

This, however, was not a w ar being waged betw een honourable Bretonnian families.

Nor w as there a stalemate here; the enemy w as winning this war, swiftly and surely, and Calard w as still staggered that an ignorant savage, a bloodthirsty raider of the northern seas, had been able to take Lyonesse w here so many had failed before, and at a speed that w as almost unfathomable. And once the second portcullis was torn dow n, the keep had an hour, perhaps two, before it was overwhelmed.

From w ithin the keep, Calard heard the cry of a w oman in pain - Elisabet, in the midst of labour.

'This is no natural pregnancy,' Anara had told him that morning, stating the obvious.

'Of course not. A month from conception to birth? It is an abomination,' Calard had said, shaking his head in horror.

'There is no guarantee w hat the child will be,' Anara had said.

'What do you mean?'

'There is power in it,' Anara had said, ominously. 'It is no normal offspring of man and w oman.'

I truly am cursed, thought Calard bitterly. And perhaps my curse is such that it lays low all those that I care for.

Unbidden, a vision of the Green Knight flashed into his mind, staggering in its intensity.

'Face me!' the vision boomed, its voice hollow and full of potency. Once again Calard's terror overw helmed him. He fell back from the supernatural apparition that was bearing dow n on him, blade draw n. The Green Knight tow ered above him, eyes blazing w ith iridescent light.

'I cannot!' he w himpered.

'What?' said Bertelis, standing alongside him on the wall, and Calard snapped back into reality. His brother was looking at him in concern.

'Nothing,' he said with a forced smile.

ELISABET GROANED IN agony, her teeth tightly clenched. She was lying back upon the four-poster bed, her body lathered in sweat. Basins of water were nearby, blood-soaked cloths lying over their edges.

'The child is close,' said the Damsel Anara, her voice vague and distant even at such a time. Elisabet cried out, tears running down her red, sweat-streaked face.

'I can't do it,' she sobbed. 'I don't w ant it!'

Anara shrugged. 'The child will come whether you w ant it or not.'

Elisabet screamed in agony, exhaustion and anger.

BJARKI WAS STANDING alongside his jarl when the newborn's birth scream echoed out over the din of battle. The sheer, unfocused power contained in that scream made him stagger, intense pain stabbing into his mind. The sound was excruciating, tearing through both the real w orld and the insubstantial realm of Chaos, existing in both realms simultaneously.

Even as he w inced, a trickle of blood running from his left nostril, the Skaeling seer grinned fiercely; never in his life had he felt such pure, raw power as was present in that scream. The daemon-child was even more puissant than his divinations had foretold. Even those with no affinity for the winds of magic, blissfully unaw are of the ever-present and potent energies swirling around them, felt an uncomfortable w rench in the pit of their stomach as the daemon-child announced its arrival.

Warriors on both sides that had been battling furiously a moment before backed aw ay from each other, know ing that something momentous had happened but unsure as to w hat. The sound of swords clashing grew more sporadic, then stopped altogether. An unnatural silence descended over the entire castle.

'My son,' said Styrbjorn in aw e. 'My son!'

The jarl took a few steps tow ards the enemy held keep, pushing his black-armoured huskarls out of his w ay.

'Make them understand my w ords, seer,' ordered Styrbjorn over his shoulder.

'What?' said Bjarki, recovering himself and wiping the blood from his nose.

'Make them understand my w ords,' said Styrbjorn, flashing his seer a glare. 'Or is such a thing also beyond your pow er, little bear?'

Bjarki glow ered at his jarl.

'Fine,' he said at last, and centring himself, he began muttering an incantation.

Draw ing his knife, he cut a slash across the palm of one hand. With a flicking motion, splatters of blood struck the ground before him, and as he completed his rite, he nodded to Styrbjorn.

Waving his huskarls back, Styrbjorn strode forw ard into the open killing ground before the keep, w ith Bjarki at his heel. The strings of hundreds of bow s were draw n as he moved into range, but no arrow w as loosed. Fifty paces from the keep, Styrbjorn came to halt, staring dismissively at the defenders.

Styrbjorn's eyes, as pale as the frozen pack ice that ringed his homeland in the w inter months, searched the faces of the keep's defenders. He picked out the one bedecked in gold that he had judged to be the jarl of this stone fort, but his eyes continued scanning the ramparts.

At last he found the one he sought: the swordsman in white and blue; the one that he had hoped to cross blades w ith upon the castle walls. That one w as perhaps the only w orthy opponent amongst the enemy, and he could not understand why he was not the jarl of this stone fort, for he w as clearly more deadly than the one armoured in gold.

'I am Egil Styrbjorn, High Jarl of the Skaelings, slayer of souls and butcher of immortals,' roared Styrbjorn, his booming voice infused with the power of the gods.

'Hear my w ords!'

CALARD JOLTED WITH shock as, a fraction of a second after hearing the warlord's indecipherable challenge, a second voice whispered in his mind, translating his w ords. That voice spoke Breton with a thick, Norse accent, but it w as understandable.

The knights around him glanced around them in shock, muttering, shuffling their feet, and invoking the protection of the Lady, and Calard knew that they too heard this unholy voice. His eyes drifted towards the smaller figure at the w arlord's side, and he realised that the w hispering was issuing from his lips and being projected through some diabolic sorcerous means into the minds of all the defenders.

'THE BLOOD OF ten-thousand slaughtered enemies stain my blades,' roared Styrbjorn, hefting his twin axes, Garmr and Gormr, into the air. 'I have bested nameless horrors in the northern wastes and walked free to speak the tale. Alone, I speared a great w yrm of the undersea, battling it for a day and a night before dragging it ashore and cutting its head from its neck. I have walked the smoking paths of the nightshades and emerged unharmed. I have strangled ice trolls with my bare hands. I have run w ith the ulfwerener, hunted with the ymgir and feasted with the bloodbeast. I have stood upon the Knife Peaks as the gods threw jagged bolts of lightning down upon me, and defeated one of the great dragon-kin wakened by the storm, cutting its still beating heart from its chest. This and more have I done, I, Egil Styrbjorn of the Skaelings! Never have I asked for quarter from an enemy, and never have I offered it. Until now.'

Bjarki's voice faltered as he completed the translation, and his jaw dropped. What madness w as this? Muttering rippled through the Skaeling war horde.

'My jarl?' Bjarki questioned.

'They have my son, little bear,' said Styrbjorn.

'The keep w ill be ours w ithin the hour!' said Bjarki. 'We do not need to debase ourselves by seeking terms w ith these weaklings!'

'They have my son!' hissed Styrbjorn. 'Who is to say they w ill not smother him before the fort falls? That they will not hurl him from the ramparts as soon as w e take it by force? It is w hat I w ould do in their position.'

'If they w ere intending to kill the child, they would have done so by now ,' reasoned Bjarki, his voice angry.

'This is my son!' bellow ed Styrbjorn, and Bjarki took an involuntary step back from his jarl's rage. The power of the gods radiated from Styrbjorn as his fury rose to the surface, making Bjarki's skin tingle. 'I have w aited this long for one to carry my name; I w ill not risk losing him now!'

'Honourless dog! Lickspittle! Cow ard!' bellowed a voice that sounded like rocks grinding against each other and Styrbjorn sw ung tow ards his own lines, eyes blazing w ith fury.

The Chaos dw arf, Zumarah, stepped forward, pushing Norscans out of his w ay.

'Oathbreaker!' roared Zumarah, his tusks quivering in rage.

Bjarki could feel the Chaos dw arfs words resonate with the Skaeling horde, and he saw many of the Norscan w arriors shifting uneasily. They had come this far, and had lost many of their sw ord-brothers in taking this castle. Not a one of them w ould be content to w alk aw ay now, with the destruction of the enemy w ithin their grasp, and the fiery w ords of the dwarf were striking a chord w ith them.

Styrbjorn pointed one of his axes at the bristling dwarf.

'You dare insult me, Zumarah?' he roared in outrage.

'I do and I do so again. I call you cow ard and oathbreaker, Styrbjorn. I w ill not be cheated of my dues!'

'You mouth is still flapping, stunted wretch,' Styrbjorn bellow ed back. 'Quiet your yapping, or I'll beat you like the dog you are.'

'You're w elcome to try, oathbreaker,' snarled Zumarah, unshouldering his obsidian greataxe. 'I'll carve your flesh and grind your bones.'

Bjarki licked his lips. Styrbjorn had no choice but to face this challenge or risk losing face in front of the entire horde.

Styrbjorn brandished his twin axes, and began marching towards the dwarf, his face a mask of fury. Zumarah leered at him and set his feet wide, hefting his double-bladed axe. The Skaeling jarl broke into a loping run, and w ith one quick glance up at the Bretonnians, w ondering what they must be thinking, Bjarki turned to w atch the outcome of the challenge.

Ensorcelled obsidian met hellforged steel, and the two warriors traded a score of blow s w ithin the space of a few heartbeats. Nearly seven feet tall, the Norscan tow ered over Zumarah, but the dw arf w as like a rock, unyielding and immovable.

Zumarah fought w ith a rabid fury, spitting and growling like a beast as he hacked and chopped.

Zumarah turned his shoulder into a sw inging axe blade, taking the force of the blow w ithout flinching, and met a strike from the Norscan's other blade head-on w ith one of his ow n. The Norscan hammered the flat of his foot into Zumarah's chest, but it w as like striking a mountain and the dw arf remained unmoved.

Zumarah sw atted aside a blow that arced tow ards his thick, bull-like neck, and hammered his greataxe into Styrbjorn's side.

The blade tore through the Skaeling's black armour and bit deep into his flesh, breaking ribs. Grow ling in pain, Styrbjorn dropped his axes and grabbed the haft of the dw arf's w eapon, locking it in place. The blazing red wolf eyes of Styrbjorn's axes faded to darkness now that they w ere separated from their master's touch.

Zumarah hissed and spat as he tried to free his greataxe from the grasp of the Skaeling. Keeping hold of the axe shaft with his left hand, Styrbjorn slammed his gauntleted right fist into the dwarfs face.

The black armour that encased his fist was spiked and barbed, and the Skaeling struck w ith enough force to crack stone. Indeed it was like striking stone, but Zumarah merely laughed maniacally even as blood began to stream dow n his broad face.

Again and again Styrbjorn pounded his fist into the Chaos dwarfs face. One of Zumarah's tusks snapped under the onslaught, but the dw arf did not weaken, and continued to fight to free his w eapon. Styrbjorn struck the dw arf another half dozen blow s around the head, each more pow erful than the last, but they seemed to be having little effect other than breaking the skin. The dwarf's skull was like iron.

Perhaps it w as iron, thought Bjarki.

With a surge, Zumarah threw Styrbjorn off, w ho spun and stumbled to one knee, facing aw ay from the Chaos dw arf. Zumarah grimaced in victory and stepped forward to finish the jarl. The Skaeling war horde stood immobile and silent, the only sound the w hip of banners and the howling of the wind.

One of Styrbjorn's axes, Garmr, w as lying in the snow before him and Styrbjorn launched himself at it even as Zumarah came at him, sw inging his greataxe back for the killing blow. Styrbjorn's fingers closed around the haft of his axe and its blood-ruby eye flared into life.

Rolling onto his back and w ith a grunt of effort, Styrbjorn hurled his hellforged axe at the Chaos dw arf. It spun end over end and took the dw arf square in the face.

Zumarah's charge faltered, and the dwarf stood there for a moment, the axe buried deep in his skull, before he fell to the ground, dead.

The blood ceased streaming from Styrbjorn's w ounded side as his god-touched body began to heal, and he rose to his feet. Growing stronger with every passing heartbeat, the Skaeling jarl retrieved his weapons and swung towards his warriors, his face angry. Behind him, a host of crow s and ravens descended on the dwarf, almost completely obscuring him.

'Is there anyone else?' he roared, his voice infused with the power of the gods, echoing painfully loudly around the castle. 'Is there anyone else that would dispute my w ill?'

There was no movement and no sound from the Skaeling war host, and Styrbjorn continued to stare challengingly across their ranks for long moments. Satisfied at last, he turned back tow ards the Bretonnian keep.

The figure in gold was standing atop the ramparts, his cloak flying behind him.

'I am Duke Adalhard of Lyonesse,' he shouted, his voice echoing out over the silent Norscan hordes. 'Speak your terms, Norscan.'

SILENCE GREETED THE Norscan's demand.

Duke Adalhard turned to look along the ramparts, and his eyes met those of Reolus.

The grail knight nodded his head almost imperceptibly, and the duke turned back tow ards the enemy.

'It shall be so,' hollered Duke Adalhard. 'One hour's time.'

REOLUS WAS KNEELING in silent communion within the duke's private grail shrine w hen the door slammed open. The grail knight recognised the distinctive perfume of the Damsel Anara; a mixture of rose petals, lilies and pine needles.

'What do you think you are doing?' Anara said, coldly.

Reolus finished his prayer and opened his eyes. The pristine features of the Lady gazed dow n upon him, the statue's eyes full of love and sympathy. Kissing the golden chalice icon he held in his hands, he rose to his feet and turned to face his lover.

'My duty,' he replied in a soft voice.

'The child is not yours to barter,' said Anara, her eyes full of anger. 'And yet you offer it to the Norscan butcher?'

'The Norscan challenged me,' said Reolus. 'I was honour bound to accept.'

'You did not need to accept his terms,' said Anara.

'You w ould have preferred to see Lyonesse reduced to a smoking ruin?' said Reolus, more sharply than he intended. 'For every man here to be offered to the Dark Gods as sacrifice? The duke, your brother, the Lady Elisabet? Yourself? Me? Everyone would have been butchered. You know that as w ell as I.'

'The child is important,' said Anara.

'And the enemy w ill take it only if I fall beneath the Norscan's axe. I do not intend to do so,' retorted Reolus.

'The child is not yours to use as a bargaining tool like some prized sow,' said Anara.

'The child is a Norscan half-breed!' said Reolus, his voice rising in pitch.

'That child is promised to the Enchantress!' shot back Anara. Reolus stared at her in silence, his anger fading.

'Of w hat do you speak, my love?' he said, his voice soft.

'The reason I am here. The reason we are here. I am to deliver the child to the Enchantress. She sensed the pow er in it as soon as it w as conceived. It cannot be allow ed to remain in the world. The Enchantress shall take it into the realm of the fey, w here its power can be controlled.'

Reolus's shoulders slumped, a haunted look appearing in his eyes as he contemplated this new information. He fell to his knees before Anara, his head hung low .

He knew that he had w anted to test himself against the Norscan warlord. He wanted the glory of defeating him. Had he allowed his pride to blind him? Had he angered the goddess by his actions?

'I did not know ,' he said finally. Anara regarded him coldly.

'You did not need to know ,' she replied. The only sound was the howling wind outside, w hich beat upon the small shuttered window high in the shrine's back w all.

Hundreds of candles flickered as a slight breeze managed to creep through the cracks in the w indow.

'It is foolish to think that the enemy w ill depart after you kill the Norscan. They have no honour,' said Anara.

'But I do,' said Reolus. 'It w ould have been beneath me to refuse the challenge just because I believe they w ill not honour their promise.'

The damsel sighed, her cold mask slipping. She embraced him, pulling his head to her bosom.

'You are a fool, Reolus,' she said.

'I cannot go back on my w ord, Anara,' said the grail knight.

'I know ,' she said, and a single tear ran down her cheek.

THE COUSINS, BALDEMUND and Huebald, stood at Tassilo's bedside, their faces grim. The injured knight's sickness w as worsening. Wounded by the tainted blade of the corrupt enemy champion, Tassilo's body w as lathered in sweat, and he was shivering violently. The flesh around the w ound had turned black and stank like rotten meat, and all the ministrations of the duke's overw orked surgeons had been for naught; the sickness continued to spread.

'We must do it tonight,' said Baldemund fiercely. 'Before the duel. While his guard is dow n.'

'I had hoped that he w ould fall in battle,' said Tassilo weakly. 'At least then he would have had an honourable death. And our hands w ould not be stained w ith blood.'

'But he did not,' said Baldemund. 'And this war is all but over. What w e do is for the good of the Garamont line. Remember that.'

'We w ould be betraying Garamont if w e did not act,' said Huebald.

'I just don't know anymore,' said Tassilo miserably. 'What if Folcard was wrong?'

'Folcard is not w rong. None of us takes pleasure in what must be done,' Baldemund hissed. 'But it is our duty. Calard's blood is unclean. His mother was fey-touched.

His sister's a freak, and his brother was... well, we all saw w hat his brother w as. We cannot risk the Garamont bloodline being forever tainted.'

'Calard must die,' said Huebald. 'We do it, now .'

CHAPTER TWENTY

CALARD WAS SLOUCHED on a simple bench in one of the keep's kitchens, weary beyond w ords but unw illing to allow himself to fall asleep. The kitchens were not an area often frequented by nobles and the furniture in the room w as simple and functional, with little thought for comfort or aesthetics. Still, just to be sitting dow n felt like luxury, even garbed in full armour as Calard w as.

His sw ord w as upon the thick wooden table in front of him, and he was chewing on some salted meat that Bertelis had discovered in one of the clay pots in the adjoining w alk-in larder. He, his brother and the Empire ambassador, Dieter Weschler, were sharing a jug, and even though it w as just cheap cooking wine - all the good vintages w ould be stored in the no-doubt cavernous cellar beneath the keep - no w ine had ever tasted finer to Calard.

They sat in silence. Calard's mind was a jumble of turbulent emotions. He replayed his vision of the Green Knight over in his head, trying to decipher its meaning, but the thought of Elisabet, nursing her Norscan-fathered child upstairs, kept intruding.

He w as also excited by the prospect of seeing Reolus meet the barbarian w arlord in challenge. He was certain that the duel would be recounted all across Bretonnia in years to come, and he felt privileged to be present at such an august event.

'He w ill win, won't he?' said Bertelis.

'The Lady is w ith him,' replied Calard by w ay of answ er.

'I have never seen a better sw ordsman,' said Dieter, 'except my Emperor's personal champion, Ludw ig Shwarzhelm. And even then, it would be a close thing.'

'You think your Emperor's man could beat Reolus?' said Bertelis, doubtfully.

'I w ould not w ager my entire fortune on it,' said Dieter. 'Perhaps just a portion.'

'I'd happily w ager my fortune on Reolus,' said Bertelis. 'Had I a fortune to w ager.'

'By Sigmar's grace, such a w ager w ill only ever remain theoretical,' replied Dieter.

'Long have the bonds betw een our realms been strong, and long may that continue.'

'I'll drink to that,' said Calard. 'We have plenty enough enemies around us than to draw w eapons against friends.'

The door to the kitchen was pushed open as Calard and Dieter clunked their goblets together in salute, and Huebald and Baldemund w alked in, looking grim and tense.

Calard's brow creased in concern. 'Tassilo?' he said.

'Worsening,' said Huebald, coming to stand opposite Calard. Baldemund sat dow n at the table, sliding the sword of Garamont aside.

Calard and Bertelis stood instantly, intending to go to their cousin's side, but Baldemund held up a hand to forestall them.

'He is w eak. The surgeon says he should only receive one visitor at a time,' he said.

'And he has asked to see Bertelis first.'

'Really?' said Calard, w ho had always been closer to Tassilo than his brother.

Baldemund nodded.

Calard looked at Bertelis, who shrugged.

'Well, he has asked for you, so go,' said Calard, and Bertelis left the room.

Huebald, sharing a glance w ith his conspirator, cleared his throat and turned tow ards Dieter.

'Could you give us the room, ambassador? There is a family matter that my cousin and I w ould like to discuss with Lord Garamont.'

'Of course,' said Dieter, w ho stood up and gave a curt bow of the head to Calard before taking his leave.

Huebald and Baldemund w ere left alone in the kitchen with Calard, who offered them the jug of w ine. They made no reaction to his offer, and he frowned as he placed the jug back onto the table.

'What is it?' he said, a feeling of dread descending over him. Was Tassilo dead? Had something happened to Elisabet?

'You know that w e are loyal to Garamont, don't you cousin?' said Huebald.

'What are you talking about?' said Calard in confusion. 'Of course I know that.'

'And you know that if anything were to threaten the Garamont line, we would do w hatever it took to preserve its integrity, yes?' said Huebald.

'What is your point?' said Calard.

Baldemund stood. Calard stared up at his tw o grim-faced, silent cousins.

'By the love of the goddess, spit it out,' Calard said.

'I'm sorry that it has to go this w ay, cousin,' said Baldemund. Then he and Huebald slid their swords from their scabbards.

'What is this?' said Calard, suddenly conscious of the fact that his own sword was beyond his reach.

'Something that should have been done a long time ago,' said Huebald, moving around the table tow ards Calard, blade draw n.

'I'm sorry, Calard,' said Baldemund, circling around his other side. 'The purity of the Garamont line must be preserved.'

Calard stood up sharply, knocking over the bench on which he sat. Huebald picked up the sw ord of Garamont and hurled it across the room. It clattered on the stone floor and slide to a far corner, beneath the great arched oven built into the wall.

'Your bloodline is cursed; you know that as w ell as w e do. It cannot be allow ed to bring Garamont to ruin.'

'This is madness,' snarled Calard, still backing away from the tw o armed knights.

'No,' said Huebald. 'It w ould be madness for us to ignore the oath w e swore to your father and stand by and allow his house to fall to damnation.'

'You sw ore the same oath to me,' snapped Calard. 'Where is your honour?'

'You should have stood aside and let your brother rule, Calard,' said Baldemund.

'You could have avoided all this.'

'Enough talk,' snapped Huebald. 'It is time the taint that besmirches Garamont's honour w as removed once and for all.'

Calard backed up against the w all. There was nowhere to run.

* * *

'PLEASE DON'T HATE me for my part in it,' said Tassilo, his eyes feverish.

'Hush,' said Bertelis. 'Calm yourself. You need your rest, cousin. Lie back.'

'You don't understand,' said Tassilo, fighting off Bertelis's mothering attentions. 'It had to be done! For the good of the Garamont line!'

'Sleep, cousin,' said Bertelis. 'You'll feel better once you have had some rest.'

Tassilo was burning up, sweat pouring off his body and his skin radiating heat. He reached out and grabbed Bertelis by the arm.

'Listen to me! His blood is tainted,' said Tassilo. 'It had to be done. Do not hate me.'

'What are you talking about, cousin?' Bertelis said warily, wondering if Tassilo was delirious.

'You w ill do Garamont proud, Bertelis.'

Bertelis felt a sense of foreboding descend over him, and he stared at Tassilo with haunted eyes, fearing the answer to his next question.

'What have you done, Tassilo?' he said.

'Do not hate me,' said the feverish knight. He coughed, splattering blood and mucous dow n his shirt front.

'You are talking about Calard, aren't you?' said Bertelis w ith some urgency. 'What have you done, cousin?'

'For the good of Garamont,' Tassilo managed, in-between wracking coughs.

Bertelis stared at him in horror. Could this merely be some fevered delusion? In his heart he knew that it was not.

'Oh mother, no,' he breathed. Long had his mother, the Lady Calisse, hated Calard; long had she desired to see her own son take up the rulership of Garamont. Bertelis had been convinced that she had been behind the attempts on Calard's life six months ago, before the death of their father, but his mother had vehemently denied that.

Bertelis had even gone so far as to keep the identity of one of Calard's w ould-be killers from his brother, in an attempt to save his mother from shame and retaliation.

It had been Tanebourc, a favourite of his mother's, that had tried to kill Calard on the field of battle in Bordeleaux, and had his identity been made known, then the finger of blame w ould surely have settled upon Bertelis's mother, the Lady Calisse.

Still, his mother had denied it so vociferously that he had almost believed her, for all that he knew she was capable of such a thing. Almost.

'Lady of grace, let it not be so,' breathed Bertelis, and he spun to leave.

He paused in the doorw ay and looked back tow ards the sick man, who was staring at him w ith dark ringed eyes.

'If any harm has befallen my brother, I w ill return here and kill you myself,' promised Bertelis. Then he drew his blade, and ran from the room.

'Forgive me,' breathed Tassilo.

MALORIC YAWNED AS he strode along the corridor, heading tow ards stairs that w ould lead up to the ramparts atop the keep. He came to a fork, and glanced dow n the shadow y side-passage. He did a double-take w hen he saw a pair of men-at-arms dressed in the red and blue livery of Garamont standing guard outside a door halfway dow n the corridor. At a w him he changed his course, turning to w alk tow ards them.

The pair of guards w ere talking in low voices, but they fell silent as they saw him approach. They stared resolutely ahead as he stopped in front of them, w isely not looking him in the eye. Their polearms were crossed over the door, barring the way.

'What is in there, peasant?' Maloric demanded of one of the men.

The man-at-arms stuck out his unshaved chin. 'Kitchen, my lord.'

'Very important duty, guarding a kitchen,' said Maloric. 'Stand aside.'

'We cannot do that, my lord,' said the man-at-arms.

'The lord of Garamont is having his way with a serving girl inside, is he?' sneered Maloric.

'I w ouldn't know, my lord,' said the peasant, shifting his feet aw kwardly.

'Of course not,' said Maloric. 'Stand aside.'

'We cannot do that, my lord.'

Maloric stepped in close, staring into the peasant's eyes. He could smell the cat's piss stink of the man's sw eat, and his lip curled in disgust.

'I am going through that door, peasant,' said Maloric in a low voice. 'And if you attempt to stop me I shall see you both hang.'

Maloric put a finger upon the blade of the man's polearm and pushed it out of his w ay, staring at the man the w hole while, daring him to resist. Cowed, the man shifted his feet and looked down, but did not make a move to stop him. Maloric turned to stare at the other man, w ho, after glancing at his companion, moved his ow n weapon out of Maloric's w ay.

'That w asn't so hard, w as it?' he said, and pushed through the doors, a half-smile on his face.

UNARMED, CALARD KNEW that he had no chance against both Huebald and Baldemund. Both w ere skilful swordsmen and he had no more room to back aw ay from them, nor w as there any form of w eapon nearby.

'The Lady curse you,' he snarled.

'You are the cursed one here,' returned Huebald.

The door to the kitchen opened inwards suddenly, and the traitorous cousins w ere momentarily distracted.

Calard moved sw iftly, stepping in close to Huebald and slamming his fist into his cousin's face.

Huebald managed to turn his head, so that Calard's gauntlet glanced off his cheek rather than breaking his nose. Still, the blow was a pow erful one, and Huebald's head snapped back.

Before Calard could w rest the sw ord from Huebald's grasp, how ever, the tip of Baldemund's sw ord w as at his throat, and he froze. More pressure was applied to the sw ord tip, and Calard w as backed up against the w all. Only then did he notice who the intruder w as.

'What in the name of the Lady is going on here?' said Maloric in amusement, a sardonic half-smile on his face.

'This is none of your concern, Sangasse,' snapped Huebald. 'Walk aw ay. Now!'

'I don't take orders from the likes of you, Garamont lapdog,' replied Maloric, casually w alking further into the kitchen. 'Think I'll stay aw hile.'

'I'm telling you, Sangasse; turn around and w alk out of here,' growled Huebald. 'This is nothing to do w ith you.'

In response, Maloric turned a chair around so that its back w as facing the Garamont knights. He sat dow n, straddling it, an amused expression on his face.

'Tw o armed knights against one, unarmed. Not very sporting,' he commented. 'But please, don't let me stop you.'

Calard tensed himself, about to risk trying to overpow er Baldemund, who still had him pinned to the wall, a sword at his throat.

'Don't,' w arned Baldemund, sensing his intention. The sword tip pressed harder against his neck, breaking the skin.

'Do as he says, Maloric,' said Calard. 'Get out of here. This is a family matter.'

'Your family really is not normal, Garamont, you know that?' replied Maloric, smirking. 'Inbred lunatics, all of you.'

'I told you to leave, Sangasse,' Huebald said, taking a threatening step towards Maloric.

'Take one more step tow ards me w ith that draw n sword,' said Maloric, still looking at Calard and still smiling, 'and it w ill be your last.'

'Kill the Sangasse bastard!' shouted Baldemund, and Huebald stepped forw ard, his blade flashing for Maloric's head.

The Sangasse noble stood quickly, stepping back, draw ing his blade and kicking the chair he had been sitting on into Huebald in one smooth motion. Huebald stumbled as the chair struck him in the mid-section, and Maloric's blade slashed through the air.

Huebald dropped his sword, which fell with a clatter to the floor, and lifted a hand to his throat, w hich had been neady sliced open from left to right. He lifted his hand, covered in blood, up before him, and his eyes goggled in shock and his mouth gaped open soundlessly. Then Huebald fell, first to his knees, then face first onto the floor.

Calard felt Baldemund tense for the killing thrust, and he grabbed the blade in his hands, dragging it to the side. The tip of the blade sliced across his throat and blood began to run freely from the w ound, but it w as just a shallow cut, and he managed to w rest the blade to the side. Throwing himself forwards, he smashed into Baldemund, knocking them both off balance.

Of the pair, it w as Baldemund who recovered the quickest, and he thundered an elbow into the side of Calard's head. The young lord of Garamont hit the ground hard. He tried to rise but fell back onto the floor, struggling to maintain consciousness.

Baldemund stood over him, blade poised to finish him off, but he turned w arily tow ards Maloric as the Sangasse noble stalked tow ards him, blood dripping from his sw ord.

'I have no argument w ith you, Maloric,' said Baldemund, but the Sangasse noble snorted in derision.

'I believe your w ords w ere ''kill the Sangasse bastard' . That's good enough justification for me. It's not every day I get to kill lackeys of Garamont,' said Maloric, and their blades came together.

It lasted no more than a few heartbeats. After trading several blows, Maloric parried a desperate attack and sent a lightning riposte that clipped Baldemund in the temple.

The knight staggered as blood w elled up from the scalp w ound, and he fell to one knee. Maloric stepped forwards and ran Baldemund through.

Bertelis came crashing through the kitchen door, blade in hand. Seeing Maloric standing over his brother, bloody sw ord in hand, he let out a roar and charged tow ards him.

Maloric tw irled his blade in his hand, the half-smile returning to his face, and he stepped forw ard to meet Bertelis head-on.

'No,' said Calard, pulling himself shakily to his feet.

Bertelis's and Maloric's blades came together, their deeply ingrained enmity lending their attacks venom. Bertelis's blows were swift and powerful, but they w ere all turned aside by Maloric's flashing blade, which seemed to tw ist through the air like a silver-scaled serpent, awaiting the perfect moment for a fatal strike.

'Stop!' bellow ed Calard.

'Why?' grow led Bertelis, keeping his eyes on his opponent.

'Don't stop on my account,' sneered Maloric.

'If he had not arrived, I w ould now be dead,' said Calard.

'Don't flatter yourself that it w as intentional,' retorted Maloric.

Bertelis lowered his sword, glancing down at the lifeless bodies of his cousins, Baldemund and Huebald. He shook his head in disbelief.

At that moment a horn sounded, joined instantly by the brutal pounding of human-skinned drums. A great roar erupted from beyond the keep's w alls, and thousands of w eapons began clashing against shields in time with the drums, a deafening, barbarous din.

'Reolus,' said Calard.

The outcome of the w ar w as about to be determined.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CALARD, BERTELIS AND Maloric burst out onto the top of the keep. The ramparts looking dow n over the square w ere packed, with the majority of the surviving defenders crowding in to get a clear vantage. The battlements and tow ers were thronged w ith men, and peasants clung to flagpoles and took up precarious positions atop the crenulations in order to get a clear view dow n below.

Maloric spun to leave them, to find his ow n way through the press of bodies. He turned and looked back over his shoulder, as if feeling the looks of hatred he was receiving from the brothers. He stared hard at Bertelis.

'We have unfinished business, you and I,' said Maloric, before shoving a path through the heaving pack of humanity aw ay from the brothers.

Bertelis spat upon the ground in the Sangasse noble's direction.

'Our ow n cousins,' Bertelis said bitterly, shaking his head. 'I can still not believe it.'

Calard grunted in response. In truth, he was still in shock himself, and gnawing doubt w as churning his insides. What if Huebald and Baldemund w ere right?

'Out of the w ay, peasants!' said Bertelis in a large voice, barging his w ay through the press in a different direction. Calard shook his head, trying to dispel his anxiety.

The Garamont nobles pushed their way through the unwashed masses, bustled from side to side as the crow d surged. The knights tow ered over the vast majority of men-at-arms and bow men, hundreds of generations of malnutrition and inbreeding ensuring that few of low birth stood even to a knight's shoulder.

'Get out of the w ay, damn you,' snarled Bertelis, brutally shoving men out of his path. Those he deemed too slow received a hard clip over the back of the head for their troubles, despite the fact that there was nowhere for them to go.

They barged their w ay through the stifling crowd, both of them turning their noses up at the ungodly stink of the peasants, until they finally stepped up onto the battlements. With much cursing and shoving, they finally neared the crenulations. A pair of Lyonessian knights errant turned as they were jostled from behind. Their harsh w ords died on their lips as they saw that Calard and Bertelis w ere of higher status, and grumblingly vacated their position in deference.

Their position gave them an unrestricted view of the square below . They could see the vast sea of Norscans arrayed in a semicircle around the keep, a seething mass of barbarians. They maintained a distance of some two hundred paces from the base of the keep's w alls, leaving the square below - the agreed location for the forthcoming duel - clear.

A roar rose from the throats of every Norscan as the enemy w arlord stepped out of the ranks of his barbaric countrymen, and Calard squinted as he took in his appearance.

The Norscan was an absolute beast of a man. By his silver-streaked beard and craggy, w eather-beaten face, Calard judged that he w as in his middling years, but he w as no less impressive for that, and he looked to be in the prime of his strength.

Bedecked in heavy armour of dark metal, the barbarian w ore a thick w hite fur of some unknow n beast over his massive shoulders. Curving horns emerged from his dark helmet, their tips encased in beaten bronze. His thickly muscled upper arms w ere tattooed and encircled with iron tores; his forearms and hands encased in black plate gauntlets.

An immense pair of tw in axes, blades fashioned to resemble wolf heads were strung over the Norscan's back, and a smaller pair of single-headed axes were strapped to his armoured thighs. Threaded onto strings of sinew, the teeth of sharks, wolves and other larger and more unfamiliar predators hung alongside engraved bone-fetishes around his neck.

In the centre of the Norscan's breastplate w as a large jew el of pale blue that resembled a great, unblinking eye, and it made Calard feel vaguely uneasy even to look upon it.

The barbarian chieftain's face, framed by his helmet and its vertical nose-guard, had been daubed w ith blood or paint, every inch of exposed skin coloured a bright red, giving him a daemonic appearance. Charcoal had been rubbed into his eye sockets, making his eyes stand out dramatically.

Turning towards his own lines, the Norscan lifted his clenched fists, encased in black, segmented armour, above his head and the cheering intensified. Then the w arlord began striding out into the open area betw een his lines and the Bretonnian keep. His head w as held high, and his walk was of one supremely confident in his ow n ability.

Half w ay to the keep he came to a halt and stood there, gazing contemptuously at the defenders. Then he bellowed a challenge, his voice deep and reverberating, and though the Bretonnians could not understand his words, his tone w as an unmistakeable challenge.

In answ er, the great oaken doors of the keep's gatehouse groaned open, and its one remaining portcullis rose. Reolus walked out, alone, to face the Norscan warrior, and the gates sealed behind him, echoing with finality.

The Bretonnians' voices rose as one as they cheered their champion, who was striding in a direct line towards the tow ering Norscan, his head held high. He was fully bedecked in his ancient, ornate plate mail, and the unicorn crest atop his helmet w as surrounded by candles. His pristine regal blue cloak rippled out behind him, and the silver edging of his tabard seemed to glow w ith reflected moonlight, for all that it w as daytime, and the noon sun hidden behind the mass of clouds overhead.

The revered grail knight seemed calm and relaxed as he marched forward to meet his enemy. His w eapon was sheathed and he carried no shield - indeed Calard had never seen the paladin use one.

When Reolus w as forty paces from his enemy, the Norscan unhooked one of the handaxes strapped to his thighs. The grail knight's holy blade, Durendyal, was instantly in his hands, the movement so fast that Calard had not even seen it drawn, and Reolus broke into a run tow ards the Norscan.

The black-armoured w arlord hurled the axe at his closing attacker, eliciting an angry murmur from the Bretonnians. Duels were meant to be fought hand to hand, face to face; it w as dishonourable to utilise missile weapons on the field of battle, let alone in a formal challenge. Peasants were allowed to use bow s and man trebuchets, for they had no honour to lose, but no knight of noble birth w ould ever sully himself by using a ranged w eapon outside of the hunt.

The axe w as hurled with incredible power, and it spun through the air, end over end, tow ards Reolus's head. He sw ayed to the side as he increased the speed of his run, and the throw ing axe hissed by him, missing him by scant inches.

Less than tw enty paces now separated the two paragons of w ar, and the Norscan had his other throwing axe in his hand. He w aited for the grail knight to draw closer -

fifteen paces, ten - then hurled the missile at Reolus w ith even more pow er than the first.

The grail knight swatted the axe aside with his sword and sprinted towards the Norscan, his blade clenched in both hands. The enemy w arlord drew his twin battleaxes and stalked forw ard to meet Reolus head on. With a roar they came together.

Reolus ducked beneath a sw inging axe and sliced his blade across his opponent's side as he surged by him, his gleaming sword carving through armour and flesh.

Still, there was no great cheer from the Bretonnians as their hero took first blood -

the onlookers w atched on in tense silence. The blood on Reolus's blade danced and spat, like fat on a hot skillet, leaving its surface spotless.

The w ound did not appear to slow the Norscan, however, and he swung towards the grail knight, twin axes carving murderous arcs through the air, forcing Reolus to duck backw ards and sw ay his body to the side to avoid their touch.

The Norscan went after him, axes cutting left and right, and Reolus w as forced to his knees as he blocked a heavy overhead strike. The barbarian w arlord kicked the grail knight hard in the chest, sending him crashing onto his back, eliciting a deafening roar of approval from the Norscan host.

Reolus w as back on his feet in an instant, and again the combatants hurled themselves at each other. Reolus's blade w as a blur of silver that w eaved a deadly pattern through the air as the grail knight ducked and spun, in constant motion, as he avoided the Norscan's brutal attacks.

He could not match the Chaos lord's sheer pow er and risked having his sword knocked from his hands by meeting the Norscan's blow s head-on. Nevertheless, his sw ord mastery w as beyond compare. With the most delicate of touches, he ensured that blow s that w ould have shorn his head clear of his shoulders and severed limbs w ere deflected, just missing their mark and leaving him unscathed. He deftly turned aside axe blow s that, had they connected, would have hacked him in half, and his blindingly fast ripostes sliced through the Norscan's armour, scoring several wounds w ithin the first minute of the duel, splattering the snow underfoot with blood.

The spectacle of the tw o champions doing battle, both displaying skill and strength far beyond normal men, w as breathtaking. Several times Calard felt certain that Reolus w ould be caught by the Norscan's devastatingly powerful strikes and slain, only for the grail knight to sw ay out of the w ay at the last moment, or knock the axe head off target, before spinning away and launching a series of attacks that had the w arlord frantically defending. More than once a cheer lifted in Calard's throat as he w as certain that Reolus w as about to land the killing blow , but each time the cheer died aw ay before it sounded, w ith the Norscan battering the Bretonnian's sword aside just before it plunged into his throat, or forcing the grail knight to pull the blow before it landed by launching a deadly attack of his ow n.

Axe and sw ord came together with a clash that echoed through the castle, neither w arrior backing dow n. Reolus ducked under his enemy's guard, even as the Norscan sought to drive his knee up into the Bretonnian's midsection, and the grail knight carved his sw ord into the warlord's side as he moved smoothly past the bigger man.

The w ound was deeper this time, and blood began to run dow n over the Norscan's hip and leg, staining the ground underfoot.

The Norscan turned, roaring in anger, swinging his axes in a pair of lethal arcs.

Reolus stepped forw ard and dropped to one knee, the axes slicing the air above his head, and thrust his blade into the warlord's stomach.

The gleaming silver blade of Durendyal drove through his foe's gut, melting through the thick plate armour smoothly. Lunging forward, Reolus wrenched the blade sidew ard in a disembow elling cut. Blood erupted from the terrible wound, and a deafening roar erupted from the Bretonnians. Calard punched the air victoriously, screaming at the top of his lungs, ignoring the pain in his neck, and Bertelis howled in approval.

How ever, the Norscan w as not yet done. He backhanded Reolus, putting all his strength and bodyw eight behind the blow. His armoured fist caught the grail knight under the chin and snapped his head back. Reolus w as lifted off his feet and thrown backw ards, his back arching, and came crashing down onto the hard packed snow ten yards aw ay.

The Norscan swayed and dropped to one knee, grimacing in pain, blood streaming from his stomach like a w aterfall. His twin axes dropped from limp fingers. Blood pooled beneath him, melting the snow, and his head drooped.

Reolus's gleaming sw ord was still protruding from the Norscan's gut, impaling him, and blood spat from the w ound as if the blade w as white-hot. Calard held his breath, w illing the barbarian to fall, aw are that he was watching the death of a mighty foe.

Reolus picked himself groggily up from the ground, visibly unsteady on his feet, and turned to w atch the Norscan die. His helmet had been w renched out of shape by the Norscan's fist. He pulled it off and hurled it away from him, shaking his head to clear it. Blood w as on his lips, and he wiped it aw ay with the back of his hand.

The sight of that blood filled Calard with disquiet. It seemed to bring the revered grail knight dow n to earth, emphasising his mortality, making him seem vulnerable and human. Calard had alw ays regarded Reolus as some eternal saint of the Lady, ageless, immortal. He had never considered that he was a man of flesh and blood, a man that could be killed, just like any other.

Still, he had bested this mighty enemy, and Calard w ondered if there was any living being that could possibly defeat the holy paladin. At this moment, he believed not.

Surely, only a god w ould have any chance.

Calard's eyes w idened in horror suddenly, and a hushed silence fell across the ramparts.

In defiance of death, the Norscan dragged the hissing blade slowly from his body, and dropped it to the ground.

The torrent of blood flow ing from the Norscan's gut w ound had slowed to a trickle, and then it stopped altogether. Calard shook his head in horrified wonder as the tow ering barbarian pushed himself to his feet, in defiance of Morr's claim upon him, in defiance of rational thinking.

No man should have still been standing after such a dismembering cut, nor after losing so much blood.

The Norscan picked up his axes as he rose, and he rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck from side to side, as if he were merely w arming up rather than having just received w hat should have been a mortal w ound. He sucked in a deep breath, and Calard felt his skin prickle, as if there were unholy forces at play here that he could not perceive. Then the Norscan breathed out, and a cloud of black smoke emerged from his lungs. The barbarian's eyes locked onto Reolus with icy intensity. He flashed the grail knight a predatory smile, white teeth contrasting sharply with his red painted face, and Calard felt his blood run cold.

Was the Norscan not a man at all, but rather some immortal daemon in human form? Had Reolus been tricked into fighting a being incapable of being killed?

The Norscan spun his axes in front of him, rolling his wrists. The blades w ailed as they cut glittering arcs before him, as if the air itself cried out in pain as they sliced through it.

'He can't lose,' said Calard. 'He can't.'

'He w on't,' said Bertelis, though Calard thought he could detect a hint of doubt in his brother's voice.

Grail knight and hellspawned Norscan warlord stood staring at each other in hatred, one armed, one not. Reolus's sw ord, Durendyal, lay upon the ground in front of the barbarian lord. The blade of the hallowed weapon w as glowing fiercely, as if reacting to the proximity of this ancient, ancestral enemy.

Surprised murmurs rippled along the battlements as the Norscan kicked Reolus's w eapon over to him. Bertelis smiled in wonder and Calard blinked in disbelief. He w as shocked to see such an honourable move from an accursed Norscan child-murderer.

The immense warrior gestured for Reolus to pick up his sword and continue the battle. Reolus stared at his sacred blade for a moment, then knelt to retrieve it. He turned it around in his hands, so that he held its blade point dow nwards like a dagger. He leant his head against its crosspiece, eyes closed as he prayed to the Lady. The Norscan began to pace back and forth like a caged beast, clearly impatient but graciously allow ing his opponent to finish his entreaty to the goddess.

After a moment, Reolus opened his eyes, and w hite holy fire burnt there, furious and intense. He saluted, his sword leaving a faint glowing after-image hanging in the air for a moment, and nodded to the Norscan. The barbarian w arlord ceased his restless pacing and strode tow ards the grail knight, axes bobbing up and dow n in his hands in eagerness.

They came together w ith a brutal clash of w eapons, trading blow s back and forth w ith such speed and skill that it w as impossible for the eye to follow.

Calard found himself virtually unable to breathe, so focused w as he on the struggle betw een these two aw esome w arriors. Never would he see their like again, he knew.

Each w as a champion that rose but once a century, and both w ould doubtless be remembered long into the future, their deeds recounted for generations to come.

Reolus stepped around his larger opponent, every movement in perfect balance, his glow ing blade flashing back and forth to turn aside the Norscan's furious attacks. For long minutes the tw o battled, each straining to land a killing blow, yet they were so evenly matched that few hits found their mark at all, and none of those were fatal.

They stepped apart after a brutal passage of attacks, and both men w ere breathing hard. The Norscan was bleeding from a dozen w ounds, and parts of his armour w ere hanging loose from his body. Reolus w as bleeding from a cut to his head w here he had suffered a glancing blow, and his armour w as rent in two places, with blood seeping from w ounds to his thigh and shoulder.

Still, neither warrior was about to relent, and after no more than a few heartbeats rest, they closed the distance separating them, grunting with effort as their blades came together.

The Norscan snarled and brought one axe crashing down in a pow erful blow, intending to cut Reolus from crow n to sternum. The grail knight whipped his sword around in a circular double-handed parry, and the axe blade slid down his sword to slam into the ice-hard ground. The Norscan's second axe wailed as it hammered around in a vicious arc, slicing towards Reolus's hip, and Calard tensed.

Rolling his wrists deftly, Reolus continued the movement of his circular parry and his blade flashed up, slicing cleanly through the Norscan's wrist even as the axe screamed tow ards him. The Chaos warlord's hand was completely severed, and it fell to the ground, axe still clutched in its grasp. The move had been so perfectly executed, so perfectly timed, that it took Calard a moment to register w hat had just occurred.

The barbarian bellow ed in pain and rage, blood pumping from the stump of his arm, but still managed to get his other axe blade in the way of a savage strike from Reolus that w as arcing in tow ards his groin. The Norscan deflected another two lightning attacks, staggering backw ards in an effort to put some room betw een him and his furious attacker.

A w ild swing forced Reolus to jump backw ards, giving the Norscan some much needed breathing space. The bloody stump at the end of his left arm w as dripping into the snow , and he was hissing in pain and rage.

Reolus circled the Norscan warily, the blood that had splattered his silver and blue tabard sliding off it like water off oiled leather, leaving it pristine and unspoiled. The Norse w ere chanting a w ord - a name? - over and over, stamping their feet and clashing weapons against shields in time to the pounding rhythm.

'Styr-bjorn! Styr-bjorn! Styr-bjorn!'

The sound echoed relentlessly around the castle, rebounding back off the curtain w alls, reverberating maddeningly. The sound drowned out the shouts and cheers of the heavily outnumbered Bretonnians, and the Norscan warlord seemed to find strength in the sound.

'Styr-bjorn! Styr-bjorn! Styr-bjorn!'

With a roar, the Norscan launched himself towards Reolus, slashing his axe towards the grail knight's neck. Reolus turned the blow aside and struck for the throat, but the Norscan caught the blow on his armoured forearm, knocking it aside. The grail knight deflected two more slashing axe blows, each one knocking him back three paces, and the Norscan kept coming after him, roaring in fury.

Reolus sw ayed aside from one of the frenzied attacks and the Norscan's arm flicked out as they came close together, bloody stump hooking around the back of the grail knight's neck. Before he could slip free, Reolus was pulled into a rising knee, the blow striking him in the sternum w ith sickening force. His breastplate buckled inw ards, and the Norscan drove his knee up into the smaller man again, wrenching his armour further out of shape.

The grail knight managed to tw ist free of the Norscan's grasp, his blade slashing a bloody gash across his enemy's face.

Reolus ducked beneath a hate-fuelled strike, the axe slicing a hair's breadth past his face, and stepping to the side, the grail knight slashed his blade across the barbarian's thigh. The blade sliced through armour and iron-hard muscle and struck bone. The Bretonnian paladin tore his sword free, and as the Norscan swung at him w ith his bloody stump, he impaled the limb on its length. The sword passed through the w arlord's forearm and slid clear though the other side.

With a tw ist of his arm, the Norscan disarmed Reolus, leaving the fiercely glowing blade Durendyal jutting from his arm, and w ith astonishing speed, the warlord backhanded his opponent, the hallowed sword plunging into Reolus's neck.

The grail knight staggered back a step, gasping in shock as blood sprayed from the fatal w ound. Using his body's momentum, the Norscan's axe w ailed through the air and hacked Reolus's head from his shoulders.

Calard reeled as he saw the grail knight's head sail into the air, blood spraying out in fountain as it spun. It hit the ground and bounced and rolled, finally coming to rest staring up at the keep, eyes w ide and staring and mouth fixed open in an expression of surprise. The fey white flames in Reolus's eyes spluttered and died.

His body w as on its knees, blood pumping from his neck like a geyser, then it fell forw ards into the snow, lifeless.

The Bretonnians had fallen into deathly silence, staring in disbelief and shock at the headless corpse of their defeated champion. Calard groaned in horror, shaking his head in denial, his eyes w ide w ith shock.

'Lady of grace, no,' breathed Bertelis.

'Styr-bjorn! Styr-bjorn! Styr-bjorn!' came the relentless pounding chant of the Norscans, the sound increasing in volume.

The Norscan warlord turned and struck the grail knight's corpse, leaving the blade embedded deep in his flesh in the manner of a w oodsman leaving his axe embedded in a log. Then the tow ering warrior limped over to Reolus's head, and bent to retrieve it. He hefted it into the air by its hair, and Calard groaned again as the w arlord raised it high for all to see. Throwing his head back, the Norscan roared his victory to the heavens.

As if in response, lightning crackled through the dark clouds overhead, lighting them from w ithin, followed a moment later by rolling thunder.

For a fraction of a second Calard saw a second image superimposed over the body of the Norscan, a black-fleshed daemon of incalculable power. It w as larger than the Norscan by a good four feet, cloven hoofed, and its eyes blazed w ith hellfire. Shadowy w ings were furled behind its back, and black smoke billowed from its fanged mouth.

Tw o pairs of horns curled from its head, and its pitch-black muscles rippled with pow er. Before the image flickered and disappeared, Calard saw that it had but one hand, and in its other it held a familiar, wolf-headed axe, its ruby eye burning red.

The image w as gone in an instant, and he blinked, unsure if he had truly seen it or not. Was it a glimpse of w hat the Norscan was becoming? Was it the Norscan's true form?

'Styr-bjorn! Styr-bjorn! Styr-bjorn!'

Calard sw ayed as the sound pounded against the keep, and he saw the enemy w arlord turn and bark an order, beckoning w ith his bloody stump of an arm.

The Norscan sorcerer strode forward, a grin on his savage face, and rammed a spear into the snow , its tip pointing towards the sky. Then the savage w arlord rammed Reolus's head onto the spear, and fresh roars erupted from the barbarian horde as thunder rolled ominously across the heavens.

The sorcerer slashed his hand and began to chant, and the warlord turned back tow ards the keep.

'Bring me my son,' he boomed, his voice stabbing into the mind of every man present.

'CALARD!' SAID ELISABET as the doors to her chambers w ere thrown open. Her haunted face lit up momentarily to see him, but the young lord of Garamont's face w as a grim mask and he avoided looking at her. The Duke of Lyonesse entered behind him, accompanied by the sw eating, fat Marquis of Carabas.

The young lady of Marlemont w as propped up in her bed, w ith her swaddled babe asleep in her arms. Her face was flushed, and the Damsel Anara sat in a high-backed plush chair nearby, her tiny frame dwarfed by the massive chair.

'He is dead, then,' said Anara flatly.

Calard nodded curtly in reply, and he saw tears in his sister's eyes before she dropped her head.

'I felt it w hen he passed over,' she said, 'but I hoped that I had been mistaken.'

'He fought bravely,' said Calard, his voice cracked. He still could not believe Reolus w as dead.

'You have come for the child, then,' said Anara, and Elisabet glanced sharply at the damsel.

'I do,' said Calard coldly, answering his sister.

'The babe w as promised to the Enchantress,' said Anara, rising to her feet.

'Of w hat do you speak?' Elisabet breathed, clutching her child protectively to her chest.

'It is nothing but a Norscan bastard,' snapped Calard, looking at Elisabet for the first time since entering the room. She recoiled from his anger and hurt, tears coming unbidden to her eyes. The baby w as w oken by Calard's sharp tone, and it began to cry.

Calard sw ore, and his gaze quickly shifted, moving back tow ards his sister. Anara had a determined look upon her face, chin jutting forward. He remembered her w earing the exact same stubborn expression as a child. His expression hardened.

'We have to give them the child,' he said coldly.

'You cannot take him,' said Elisabet. Calard saw that her face was unnaturally pale and draw n, and there was a feverish light in her eyes. She was rocking back and forth, her son baw ling in her arms. 'He speaks to me, speaks right into my head. He doesn't w ant to go w ith you. You cannot have him.'

'She is not in her right mind,' said Anara. 'She has been through much.'

Calard stared at Elisabet in horror and pity.

'Will she recover?' he said.

'Perhaps,' said Anara. 'Given time.'

'Reolus gave his w ord,' Calard said in a low voice. 'I have to take that child.'

'It w as already promised to the Enchantress,' replied Anara.

'It w ould besmirch Reolus's honour if w e did not give it to the Norscans,' hissed Calard, not taking his eyes off Elisabet, who was still rocking back and forth, muttering to herself.

Calard realised that if his sister decided to put her foot dow n and refuse to hand the child over to the Norse, there was nothing that he, or the duke for that matter, w ould be able to do to contradict her. As all damsels, Anara operated outside of the structured, hierarchy of order in Bretonnia, having the power to overrule knights and dukes alike, though they rarely chose to enact that pow er in practice. Only the king held more sw ay than they, and even he could be overruled by the Enchantress.

'The young castellan of Garamont speaks the truth, Lady Anara,' said Duke Adalhard. 'As much as it pains me, w e must. It w ould make a mockery of Reolus's memory if w e did otherwise.'

Anara continued to stare at Calard, and he could see that she w as divided. Her eyes filled with tears once again, and she dropped her gaze.

'Why did you leave me?' she w hispered. 'Foolish man.'

She blinked aw ay her tears and lifted her head.

'The consequences of this act will lie upon you tw o, and you tw o alone,' she said finally, staring first at Calard, then at the Duke of Lyonesse. 'Whatever evil befalls Bretonnia as a consequence of this child living - and evil will befall Bretonnia because of this child - you w ill be the blame and cause of it.'

'Agreed,' said Calard.

'Agreed,' said Duke Adalhard after a moment of thought.

Anara stepped aside, shaking her head, and Calard hardened his heart as he w alked to Elisabet's bedside.

'He doesn't w ant to go w ith you,' said Elisabet. She screwed her eyes shut tightly, and began shaking her head from side to side. 'He's hurting me! He says he will stop hurting me if you all go aw ay! Go aw ay! Don't take him from me. He needs me!'

Elisabet w as in obvious pain, and she clutched her wailing child tightly to her body.

'Give me the child,' he said in a low voice.

Elisabet continued to cry, shaking her head.

'Elisabet,' said Calard, his voice cracking as he reached for the swaddled babe.

'Elisabet, you have to give him to me.'

She w ailed, crying out in denial and pain as her child was taken from her. Calard turned his back on her, head bow ed, holding the child in his arms. Elisabet screamed and sobbed, claw ing at him as he w alked aw ay.

Calard looked dow n into the baw ling child's face. He looked like any other babe, w ith nothing to hint at any inherent evil lurking within. A tuft of pale hair topped his head, and his eyes were a startling silver-grey. He w as a big baby, strong and healthy, and his cries came from pow erful lungs. Calard tried to shut out Elisabet's frantic cries as he walked from the room.

Bertelis and Maloric stood outside, and the passageway was lined with knights, their faces uniformly sombre.

Dow n the grand marble staircase he descended, the only sound his own footsteps echoing sharply, the cries of the child in his arms and the ever more frantic screams of Elisabet, echoing through the passages behind him.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, he began to cross the broad chamber tow ards the keep's inner courtyard, flanked by Duke Adalhard and the Marquis of Carabas.

Scores of knights w ere gathered as w itness in the great hall, as silent and respectful as if they w ere attending a funeral procession. The Empire ambassador, Dieter Weschler, bow ed curtly as they passed.

Halfw ay across the hall, Calard heard a strangled cry and turned to see Elisabet, dressed in her nightclothes, struggling to chase after him. She was being held back by Bertelis at the top of the stairs, and Anara hovered in the shadows behind her.

'Please, Calard, don't!' Elisabet w ailed. 'He is scared, my love, and he is hurting me!

He doesn't mean to. Give him back to me and the pain w ill stop. He needs me!'

Elisabet struggled against Bertelis, and her nails dug into the younger Garamont noble's face. He cursed, and released her. Bertelis pushed her away from him, positioning himself to block her progress.

'Calard, please!' begged Lady Elisabet.

'Quiet, w oman!' barked Bertelis. 'Poisoner! Deceitful slattern! Murderess! All of this is your fault! Every knight that died here is on your head! Every one! Reolus died because of you!'

Lady Elisabet slapped Bertelis across the face, the sharp sound echoing throughout the hall.

Blood w as seeping from the corner of his mouth, and Bertelis's eyes blazed in anger.

He slapped Elisabet back, striking her w ith the back of his hand, perhaps harder than he had intended. The young Bastonnian noblewoman reeled back from the blow , losing her balance as her bare feet slipped on the smooth marble surface at the top of the stairs.

Calard sucked in a breath as he saw Elisabet fall. Bertelis reached for her in desperation, trying to grab her, but he w as too slow , and Elisabet tumbled backw ards dow n the staircase. Her head cracked sharply on the corner of one of the steps, and she came to rest half w ay dow n, broken, lifeless.

Bertelis took a few steps dow n towards her, his eyes w ide in horror. Anara pushed by Bertelis and descended swiftly, kneeling besides the fallen girl. She felt for a pulse, and looked Calard in the eyes. She shook her head.

Calard halted, a w racking sob making his body shake. The child in his arms continued to baw l, his cries echoing through the expanse of the hall. Bertelis looked dow n at his brother, his eyes filled w ith despair and horror.

'I... I...' said Bertelis, shaking his head in denial.

'Come, lad,' said Duke Adalhard, placing a hand upon Calard's shoulder. Calard stared at his brother for a second, then turned and strode from the hall.

He exited the great doors and w alked down the steps into the small courtyard beyond. Snow crunched underfoot, and the sky above w as filled with the ugly cries of carrion birds. Calard w alked across the courtyard, his expression hardening with every step.

As he w alked towards it, the great doors of the keep's gatehouse w ere swung wide, and the one remaining portcullis lifted with the clanking of chains. Only half an hour earlier, Reolus himself had walked out through those same gates.

The duke w as a reassuring presence at his shoulder, and he kept his head held high as he w alked through the devastation of the killing ground. Untold hundreds of bodies w ere strewn within the passage passing through the gatehouse, killed by arrow and scalding hot oil. They lay, contorted in their twisted death throes, many of them w ith their skin blistered and peeling from their bodies. The stench was repulsive.

Calard's eyes fixed onto the figure waiting beyond the gatehouse; the enemy sorcerer.

The w iry man grinned like a fox, peering hungrily towards the child held in his arms, and Calard felt his hatred swell within him.

The immense figure of the enemy w arlord stood tw enty paces back from the keep, arms folded across his broad chest. He looked even larger than Calard had remembered, and he clenched his jaw together tightly, wanting nothing more than to see the Norscan dead. A young w oman stood at his side, garbed for w ar in the manner of a man, and the resemblance betw een her and the warlord was so strong that there could be no doubting that she w as his daughter.

A black-armoured Norscan w as dragging Reolus's body through the snow by one foot, and he dumped the holy knight unceremoniously before the gatehouse.

The Norscan warlord bellowed something in his indecipherable tongue, the words sounding harsh and mocking to Calard's ears.

The sorcerer translated, speaking Breton with a heavy accent.

'The High Jarl of the Skaelings says that you may keep the body,' said the sorcerer, grinning, exposing teeth that had been filed to points. 'The head he will keep, so that his enemy's pow er will be his, now and forever.'

Calard bristled but bit his lip to keep quiet.

'Take the child and be gone, Norscan filth,' said Duke Adalhard.

'Yes, the child,' said the sorcerer, eyes lighting up covetously. 'Give it to me.'

Calard's jaw tw itched, and he looked to the duke. Adalhard nodded, somewhat reluctantly, and Calard stepped w arily tow ards the sorcerer.

As he drew near, he realised he could smell the man. It w as the smell of a predator's den - a mixture of rotting meat, w et fur and sw eat - though there w as something else there as w ell, an oddly metallic tang that made his skin crawl.

Every instinct screamed to draw his sword and run this foul creature through, but Calard pushed the urge back. His eyes flashing with the desire to do violence, he held out the w ailing boy-child to the enemy.

The sorcerer snatched the babe from him, sneering at Calard victoriously. Then the sorcerer spat, and Calard felt the Norscan's hot saliva strike him in the face. He snarled and reached for his sword, taking an aggressive step towards the sorcerer, but Duke Adalhard w as at his side in an instant, a hand on his arm. Cursing under his breath, Calard slid the half-drawn sword of Garamont back into its scabbard.

The enemy sorcerer snorted derisively and barked something in the Norscan tongue that w as clearly an insult, then turned his back on Calard, striding towards the tow ering warlord.

The barbarian lord took his child in his arms, and its crying ceased instantly. The brutal Norscan, his face still painted a terrifying, daemonic red tone, smiled down at his son and the babe gurgled and smiled back.

Then the Norscan lifted the child in one hand, and turned to face his army. He roared tw o w ords at the top of his lungs, words that could only have been ''my son'', and the Norscan army roared.

'WE HAVE THE child,' gloated Bjarki. 'Let us finish the horsemen bastards off. Great Kharnath w ill rejoice as their blood flows and his throne is garnered with their skulls.'

'I agree,' snarled Hrefna. 'Let us bleed them all for the death of my sister.'

Styrbjorn's elder daughter, Fraygerd, had died beneath the blade of the gold-armoured enemy jarl, and Hrefna w as still feeling the loss keenly.

'No,' said Styrbjorn, smiling down at the gleeful face of his son.

'No?' said Bjarki. 'Why in the name of the true gods not?'

'I defeated a w orthy foe this day,' replied Styrbjorn, 'a mighty champion the equal of any that I have ever battled. I gave my w ord that if I defeated him I would leave these shores once my son w as delivered to me. I w ould honour his memory by holding to my w ord.'

'Honour his memory?' spat Bjarki. 'He w as a soft, southern w horeson! He deserves no such honour!'

'I said no, Bjarki. For now .'

Styrbjorn turned tow ards the gatehouse of the enemy stone fort, seeing the enemy jarl, armoured in gold. Another man stood at his side. This one had dark hair, and w ore a tabard of blue and red over his armour. A silver dragon was emblazoned on his chest. A good symbol that, he thought. To the Norse it represented power, martial strength and passion. That w arrior was young, he saw, and bristled with hatred. That w as an emotion Styrbjorn understood, and knew that had this angry young knight been born of a Skaeling w oman he w ould have been blessed by great Kharnath and become a mighty w arrior indeed.

'Translate for me,' he ordered, and began to speak.

'I shall honour your dead champion, and hold to my promise. I leave these shores, but I shall return. On that day my son w ill stand at my side. Together we shall lay w aste to your lands. We shall kill every man, woman and child that w e find, and shatter every last one of your stone forts to rubble. There shall be no quarter given then. There shall be no bargaining for your lives.'

The young, angry knight dressed in red and blue snapped something in reply as Bjarki completed his translation.

'What did he say?' he asked.

'He said ''I w ill be w aiting' , my lord,' replied Bjarki. Styrbjorn smiled, nodding his head tow ards the young knight.

'I believe that he w ill,' he said. Then he turned and walked away, barking orders.

Within two hours the Norscans w ere gone, dragonships heading back out to sea, turning northward once at the horizon. They left their dead where they lay, thousands upon thousands of corpses left to rot, and the shores of Lyonesse were littered w ith shattered ships. 'I w ill be w aiting,' repeated Calard.

CHLOD WOKE WITH a start as his rat bit him hard on his one remaining ear. He cried out, feeling constricted, unable to see, and shivering uncontrollably. He w as soaked to the skin and half frozen, and bizarrely, the smell of apples was strong in his nostrils.

It took a moment to remember w hat w as going on. He was not dead; not yet, at any rate. He w as inside a barrel in the storeroom at the bottom of the harbour gatehouse.

He'd spent almost an hour and half in the freezing waters feigning death, trying to appear as nothing more than another floating corpse, before an opportunity to escape had arisen. He had slunk out of the harbour like a half-drow ned rat, his limbs numb w ith cold, and had managed to evade detection as he crawled his way into the storeroom. Once there, he stowed himself inside a half-empty barrel, climbing in and pulling his legs up to his chest, sitting on top of a pile of rotting apples, before pulling the lid over its top.

He pushed up that lid now and peered out, his tongue sticking out the side of his crooked mouth. Seeing no one, and hearing nothing, he climbed w arily out, and stretched his aching back.

He moved to the entrance of the tow er, keeping to the shadows and ready to duck back into his hiding place at the slightest sign of trouble, and looked out across Lyonesse harbour. There was not an enemy in sight; even their longships were gone.

He saw figures moving through the streets, and ducked back until he realised they w ere men-at-arms, sorting through the dead.

The Norscans were gone. It was a miracle!

He w as alive!

Chlod looked dow n at the scrap of regal blue cloak still clutched his hands. He rubbed the inside of the scrap against his face, liking the sensation of the mink-fur against his skin. Placing it on his lips, he kissed it. Did it truly have protective pow ers? Had his prayer to Reolus truly been answ ered?

He pondered the notion for a moment, and came to the conclusion that Reolus must have protected him; there was no other explanation.

'I truly am his pilgrim,' he said in wonder.

It took him the better part of an hour to make his w ay up to the keep, and by the time he got there his stomach w as full of food looted from abandoned houses, and he w as dressed in clothes that w ere almost completely free of bloodstains that he had stripped from a corpse. He w ore a pouch bulging w ith coin, and upon his fat, sausage-like fingers he had pushed several copper and bronze rings, which he had hacked from the bloated fingers of the dead.

All in all, Chlod was feeling mightily pleased with himself, but that new found sense of w ell-being was shattered when he came upon the corpse of Reolus. The headless body of the grail knight lay atop a stone altar in the middle of the square before the keep, surrounded by flow ers and candles. Hundreds of mourning nobles were trailing past the body, paying their last respects, and Chlod wordlessly joined the peasant queue.

For six hours he waited, kept tw enty paces back by stern-faced w ardens, but at last the queue began to move. No low born w as allowed within a dozen yards of the holy paladin's body how ever, and Chlod stamped his foot in frustration - he had been hoping to garner a holy keepsake from the grail knight's corpse, just in case the protective magic of his scrap of Reolus's cape ran out. He had a knife in his hand, hidden in a deep pocket, ready and everything; he had thought to perhaps get himself a finger.

Chlod stuck his lip out in a pout as he stood on tiptoes to see the corpse. There were too many guards around for him to have any hope of sneaking past them to get his relic; he'd just have to w ait until the knight was interred. He'd been a grave robber before, and had no qualms about desecrating one of Morr's gardens again.

He w as about to turn aw ay w hen he heard a voice.

'Stop that peasant! Yes, that one!'

A hand grabbed Chlod by the scruff of his neck, and he was dragged backw ards, w incing.

'The w retch stole something from you, did he?' said the warden who had a hold of him, and Chlod squinted up to see a young knight w alking towards him.

He recognised him as the lord of Garamont, and he swore under his breath. He'd run into the man several times over the last year; he'd narrowly escaped a hanging after poaching on Garamont lands, and had even been employed to kill the knight once.

That had been a narrow escape. He tried to keep his head dow n, praying to Reolus that he w asn't recognised, else he would hang for sure.

'Release him,' ordered the knight, and the warden did so. The man-at-arms gave him a cuff over the head for good measure, and Chlod glared at him.

'I know you, don't I?' said the lord of Garamont, eyes narrow ed.

'I don't think so, my lord,' said Chlod, his eyes downcast.

'No, I do know you. You w ere one of Reolus's pilgrims, weren't you?'

'Um,' said Chlod, not sure the best w ay to answ er.

'Answ er the question, scum,' snapped the w arden, cuffing him hard over the head once again.

'Enough of that, w arden,' said the knight sharply, his tone icy.

'Sorry, my lord,' said the soldier, glaring at Chlod as if the rebuke w as somehow his fault.

'Were you or w ere you not one of Reolus's grail pilgrims?' asked the noble once again.

'Yes?' ventured Chlod finally.

'What w ill you do now ?' said the noble, and Chlod tensed.

This was a dangerous question, and he licked his lips as he tried to concoct an answ er that w ould not condemn him. All peasants within Bretonnia owed fealty to a lord or landow ner; they were bonded to them as serfs, and they could not as much as pass w ind without their say-so. Those engaged in holy pilgrimages were sometimes allow ed a modicum of freedom, but since Chlod's benefactor w as now nothing more than food for w orms, he had no right to claim being on a pilgrimage any longer. If it w as made know n that Chlod had run away from his lord's service he would be flogged, castrated and left to rot in a cage hanging from the castle walls.

'I, ah...' he said.

'I think he's an imbecile, my lord,' offered the w arden, but he promptly shut his mouth w hen the knight glared at him.

Before Chlod could fashion a plausible story, the noble spoke again.

'Can you cook?' he said. Chlod blinked, surprised by the question, and then nodded his head vigorously.

'Clean?'

Again he nodded his head.

'Good. If you are no longer bonded to any lord, I offer you employment,' said the lord of Garamont. 'Out of respect for your former, now deceased benefactor, may the Lady bless his soul, you w ill be my manservant. Is that agreeable?'

Chlod nodded his head enthusiastically once again. He clutched the scrap of Reolus's cloak tightly in his hand. Once again, the grail knight had smiled upon him. Things w ere looking up.

'CALARD,' SAID BERTELIS, pushing through the crowd to reach his brother's side.

The younger son of Garamont's eyes w ere red-rimmed, and his lip w as trembling.

'I... I'm so sorry,' he said, unable to look Calard in the eyes. 'It w as an accident. I didn't mean...'

Calard stared at him coldly.

'You killed her,' he said, accusingly.

'Brother, please...' breathed Bertelis, a pained expression on his face. Calard's voice, devoid of emotion, interrupted him.

'From this day forth I have no brother,' said Calard. He turned his back on Bertelis, and w alked aw ay, a hunchbacked peasant loping along behind him.

EPILOGUE

CALARD STARED GRIMLY at the tw o bodies hanging from the walls of Castle Garamont; a traitor and a w itch.

After the death of Reolus back in Lyonesse, three months earlier, he had gone to his cousin Tassilo's side. He had been horrified and disappointed to learn that the dying knight had been a party to the plot against him, and the young noble begged for forgiveness. With his dying breath he had confessed to Calard from w hom the order had originated.

He stared coldly at the corpse of the old chamberlain, Folcard, as it swung in the breeze.

In truth, he had been surprised that the plot had originated from Folcard, for he had suspected that the Lady Calisse, Bertelis's mother, had been responsible. Calard felt a momentary tw inge of guilt for how he had treated Bertelis, but hardened his heart against it. Since he returned to Garamont, the Lady Calisse had confined herself to her quarters, w hich suited Calard just fine.

Even if she was no murderess, she was a still a viperous serpent and he had no w ish to look upon her.

The w itch had been a surprise. Left to rot in the deepest oubliette of Castle Garamont's dungeon, she had been dragged out on Calard's order, and w ith a shock he realised that he recognised her. Not her physical appearance - he was certain that he had never clapped eyes on the hideous crone before - no, it w as by her hate-filled eyes that he had recognised her.

He had ordered her tongue cut from her mouth on the spot, and had not felt happy until he had seen her last tw itch of life as she w as hung.

'Cut the hag dow n,' Calard ordered. 'Have the body burnt.'

The hunchbacked manservant nodded his head.

'The other one?' the peasant said.

'It can serve as a w arning to all traitors,' said Calard. 'Leave it where it is.'

With a bow , the hunchback limped off and Calard, castellan of Garamont turned on his heel and strode through his castle. Servants and bondsmen curtsied and bow ed as he passed them by. He climbed a staircase, his footfalls ringing out sharply, and marched dow n corridors lined with portraits of previous lords of Garamont.

He stepped out onto an east-facing balcony. The early morning sunshine was bright, and there w as not a cloud in the sky.

A table w as set for breakfast here in the sun, and his guests sat there, dining.

Baron Montcadas, a strip of folded silk covering his empty eye sockets, was snorting into his food at some jest made, no doubt, by Calard's young cousin, Orlando.

Opposite the boy sat Montcadas's niece, Lady Josephine. She smiled warmly at Calard as he approached the table.

Montcadas turned his head in Calard's direction, hearing his approach.

'That you, boy?' boomed the baron, and Calard shook his head slightly, a ghost of a smile on his lips.

'I'm no more a boy than you are the Fay Enchantress,' replied Calard.

'Bah,' said Montcadas, w aving a hand dismissively. 'When you get to my age, everyone is young. Will you join us for breakfast?'

'No,' said Calard, and he saw the disappointment on Josephine's face. He felt a certain amount of regret; he had come to truly care for the girl, and he believed that had his heart not been so damaged, he w ould have come to love her. She w ould have made a fine w ife, but his path w as set.

'You intend to go through w ith this, then?' said the baron, all levity gone from his voice.

'I do,' said Calard.

The castellan of Garamont turned tow ards his young cousin, who w as sulking. The boy didn't w ant him to go, he realised.

Calard placed the scabbarded sw ord of Garamont upon the table before the seven year-old Orlando.

'Until the day comes that I should return, victorious, you are now the castellan of Garamont, young master knight,' Calard said.

No one said anything, and with nothing more to be said, Calard bow ed and w alked aw ay.

Calard's heart felt lighter than it had done for what seemed like an age, he realised. It w as as if a burden had been lifted from his shoulders. He knew that he left his realm in good hands. Baron Montcadas had promised to stay w ith the boy, to govern in his stead until such a time came as Calard returned to claim his position, or Orlando came of age - w hichever came first.

He had a spring in his step as he strode through Castle Garamont, the home that he w as about to leave behind for the Lady knew how long. It w as highly likely that he w ould never live to see its halls again, but even that thought did not dampen his spirit.

Quickening his pace, Calard hurried to the small shrine to the Lady on the ground floor of his castle. Outside its entrance was his lance, and he took it his hands, bearing it before him as he entered his family's humble chapel, where countless Garamont lords before him had prayed.

Once inside, he placed the lance reverently upon the altar. Hundreds of candles lit the chapel, lending the space a serene glow. Kneeling Calard bow ed his head.

'Lady of grace and beauty,' he began, speaking the ritualistic vow in a hushed, reverential tone, 'I set dow n my lance, symbol of duty, upon your shrine. I spurn those w hom I love. I relinquish all, and take up the tools of my journey. No obstacle w ill stand before me. No plea for help shall find me w anting. No moon w ill look upon me tw ice lest I be judged idle. I give my body, heart and soul to you, oh Lady, and I shall seek w herever thou might be found. This is my questing vow, and I swear it before you, mistress of mercy, and beg that you shall strike me dow n should I falter.'

He felt the spirit of the Lady infuse him, warming him from w ithin, and he knew that he had made the right decision.

This was the only way that he w as ever going to prove his purity, to his knights and to himself. This was the only way that he w as going to be free of the recurring nightmare of the Green Knight. It was time for him to face his fear, to stand and defy it.

It w as time for Calard to take up the quest, never to rest until he was visited by a vision of the Lady of the Lake herself and offered a draught of her sacred grail. For many knights such a journey took decades, though most w ere slain long before their goal w as fulfilled.

Many of those knights w ho succeeded in their search and drank from the holy grail died as a result, found unw orthy; only those pure of heart, with not a hint of taint w ithin them, survived imbibing that divine nectar.

Calard smiled. He w as now embarked on the Long Journey; he w as now a Questing Knight of Bretonnia.

IT WAS NEARING midnight and Bertelis was huddled before a spluttering fire, miserable and soaked to the skin. He sat in the lee of a dark ruin. Once it had been a sacred grail chapel, but it had long been abandoned to nature and the w eather, its crumbling w alls overrun with ivy and moss.

The younger son of Garamont raised his head as he heard the sound of horse's hooves on the road, and w atched as a knight garbed in w hite plodded through the rain tow ards him. As he got closer, Bertelis recognised the knight's heraldry; a distinctive black fleur-de-lys. His jaw dropped in wonder. This was none other than Merovech of Arlons, the albino knight who had bested him in the tournament before w ord of the Norscan invasion had come. He stood to w elcome the swordsman to his camp, suddenly embarrassed at his pitiful fire.

'Ho the camp,' called Merovech from tw enty paces distance. 'May I approach your fire?'

'Please do, my lord,' called Bertelis.

The knight reined in and looked down at the youngest son of Garamont. He raised the visor of his helmet, exposing his face, as pale as w inter snow.

'Bertelis, isn't it?' said Merovech, taking in his host's heraldry.

'I am honoured that you remembered me, my lord Merovech,' said Bertelis with a bow .

'I said that w e w ould meet again,' replied Merovech. 'I was impressed with your sw ordsmanship. It showed potential.'

'I fear that my humble skills pale in comparison to yours, my lord,' said Bertelis.

'Ah, but skills can be learnt,' said Merovech, exposing sharp canines as he smiled.

'And I am a very good teacher.'

Table of Contents

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

EPILOGUE