ANTHONY REYNOLDS

To the beautiful and talented Serena, for your boundless love and for helping me battle through the Realm of Chaos...

PROLOGUE

A CLAMOUR OF rooks erupted from the branches, filling the air with raucous cries.

Unnerved, the destrier tossed its head, snorting.

The knight calmed the warhorse with a w ord and guided it deeper into the forest.

Tw igs like talons scratched against his heavy plate armour, and an icy breeze made the skeletal limbs of the trees shiver.

A second horse w hinnied, stamping its hooves. The knight turned in the saddle to regard his hooded companion. With a sharp jerk on the reins, the man brought his steed back under control.

'I'm sorry, my lord,' the hooded figure breathed.

Without a w ord, the knight turned and continued on. He cast his eyes heavenward, peering through the thick mass of branches overhead. Darkness was falling swiftly, and the first stars could be seen flickering in the deepening colour of the sky. There w ere scuffling noises in the undergrowth from unseen creatures, and a fox, startled, turned its sharp features tow ards the knight. It froze for a moment, its nose tw itching before it disappeared into a thick tangle of brambles. Wolves howled in the distance as, somew here, a new hunt began.

The eyes of small, scurrying creatures glinted in the dim light as the riders guided their horses ever deeper into the forest. This was not a place w here men were common, and the trees groaned and creaked as they leant over these intruders into their ancient realm. The knight stared resolutely forward, one gauntleted hand resting upon the pommel of his sword.

As the last colour in the obscured sky succumbed to darkness, the pair entered a small clearing. The rotting swollen bole of a tree lay uprooted on the soil, exposed roots hanging heavy w ith dirt. The fallen tree had created a small glade, and an abundance of new plant life strained up tow ards the gap in the canopy.

'This should be far enough, my lord,' said the hooded figure, eyeing their back trail, ensuring that they had not been followed.

The knight nodded curtly, and lowered his armoured w eight from the saddle. He crushed a tiny sapling underfoot as he stepped down onto the wet earth. The plaintive cry of a newborn came from the sw addled shape bundled against his breastplate.

His face grim, the knight stepped tow ards the bole of the fallen tree. Its bark w as rotten, and clusters of mushrooms clung to its moist sides like limpets. Insects rustled through the rotting leaf-litter, and worms writhed in the rich soil.

As his hooded companion looked on from horseback, the knight unhooked the sling from around his shoulder and lifted the newborn aw ay from his chest. His expression hard, he placed the swaddled babe upon the ground before the fallen tree. It was tightly w rapped in linen, its round face all that was exposed to the chill air.

In one sw ift motion, he drew his sword.

The newborn cried out once more, and the knight closed his eyes tightly against the sound.

'Lady, give me strength,' he w hispered, his voice hoarse and strained. He lifted his sw ord before him, gripping the hilt with both hands, and placed a kiss against the cold metal blade.

Reversing his grip, he stepped towards the newborn. Holding the sword downwards like a dagger, he placed the tip of the blade against the babe's sw addled breast. His armoured fingers flexed on the hilt, and he looked down into the face of his son.

The babe gurgled up at him, and he felt his heart w rench. Steeling himself, he lifted the blade up, ready to plunge it dow n in the killing blow. There the sword hung poised, trembling slightly. A tear ran dow n the knight's cheek, and he clenched his teeth.

'Do it,' urged his hooded companion.

With a violent surge, the knight plunged the blade down.

He sank to his knees, shoulders slumped. The sword was embedded deep in the earth, the babe unharmed.

'My lord, you must finish it,' snapped his hooded companion. 'It must die, you know this.'

Opening his eyes, the knight looked into the angelic face of his child.

'No,' said the knight forcefully.

'But...' began his companion, but the knight turned and silenced him with a glare.

'Forgive me, Lady,' the knight whispered, standing and pulling his sword from the ground.

All semblance of purity w as sloughed off as the babe's face tw isted into a sudden snarl. Its lips parted, exposing an array of tiny, barbed teeth, and it hissed up at its father like a feral w olf cub.

The knight turned away from the newborn, full of revulsion. Walking to his warhorse, he remounted. Without a backw ard glance, he rode away, his hooded companion behind him.

In the darkness of the trees, hateful eyes watched the departing figures. Only when they w ere long gone, leaving just a lingering scent on the air, did the eyes flick tow ards the tiny, abandoned newborn.

Then the beasts of the forests crept from the darkness and moved towards the infant.

CHAPTER ONE

CHLOD BLINKED THE sleep out of his eyes and sat up. He w as beneath a rotting w agon, his companions sprawled around him, clustered together for warmth under the damp blanket they shared.

He looked around the small clearing, seeing it in daylight for the first time, for they had hauled the w agon here the previous evening. A low fog hugged the ground, and long stems of grass glistened with the heavy morning dew.

Chlod grinned as he pulled a small, squirming shape from within a deep pocket.

Lifting it to his misshapen face, he smiled as the w hiskers of the scrawny black rat tw itched in the cold air.

Producing a small piece of stale biscuit from his pocket, Chlod took a bite before offering the crumbling remains to the rat. It eagerly grabbed the food in its paw s, and began gnaw ing at it frantically. Chlod grinned again.

'You feeding that damn rat again?' said a muffled voice from beneath the blanket.

Chlod held the half-starved creature protectively to his chest.

'He's mine,' he grunted, too loudly. 'There is enough food.'

Muffled protests came from under the blankets as Chlod's harsh voice disturbed the others' slumber.

He made a face in the direction of the voices, and turned his attention back to the rat. It had finished its meal and its head was lifted high, nose twitching as it sought more sustenance, making Chlod grin once again. He twitched his own nose in imitation, puckering his lips and showing his crooked, yellow teeth. He extended one stubby, dirty finger to the animal, and it gripped his short-bitten nail, sniffing.

Finding nothing edible, it w riggled free of Chlod's grasp and leapt from his hands. He frow ned, and snatched at it, but it w as quick, and burrow ed beneath the dank blanket. Chlod's pink, slug-like tongue emerged from the corner of his mouth as he struggled to grab it.

There was an irritated groan at the sudden movement, and an elbow jabbed into Chlod's ribs, making him scowl darkly. He balled his thick sausage-fingers into a fist and thudded a punch into the shape beside him in retaliation, which was met w ith more protests from the others as they w oke. They shifted their positions, and pulled the blankets tightly around them against the cold.

Having regained his hold on the rat, Chlod shoved it roughly back into the deep pocket on his stained tunic front, and craw led aw kwardly out from the tangle of bodies. Curses and groans emerged from under the blanket as he made his ungainly progress out from beneath the rotting w agon.

Blinking against the dull predawn light, Chlod blew out a long breath that fogged the air in front of his face. He shoved a hand dow n the front of his patchwork trousers and scratched at the lice in his nether regions.

He stamped his feet against the icy cold. A thick mist surrounded him on all sides, so that he could see barely ten yards. Ghost-like trees loomed like wraiths through the w et fog and Chlod limped over to check on Beatrice.

'How are you this fine morning, my beauty?' he grunted as he approached Beatrice.

She lifted her heavy head in response, her beady eyes fixing on the approaching peasant. Seeing nothing that interested her, her head slumped back dow n into the w et earth.

Chlod bent dow n and scratched her betw een the ears. She endured his attention, studiously ignoring him. The swine wore the peasant group's best blanket over her back, and Chlod gave her one final, solid pat before rising once more.

He limped tow ards the still-smouldering fire pit, over which was spitted the remains of the previous night's feast. Chlod's belly was fuller than he could ever remember, and he patted it contentedly. Life was good, he decided.

He opened up the flap of his trousers and sighed contentedly as he emptied his bladder onto the smouldering ash. Steam rose from the thick yellow stream, and the fire pit hissed. Chlod hummed tunelessly and passed wind loudly.

He froze, the tune dying on his lips as he heard the jangle of a horse's bit behind him.

He spun around, his uneven eyes bulging in their sockets as he focused on a pair of knights sitting astride massive warhorses. He swallowed heavily, his heart lurching, as his eyes flicked from one to the other, like a cornered animal.

Fully armoured in gleaming plate, the knights stared down at him disdainfully.

Neither wore helmets, and a flash of envy and aw e overcame him as he saw that their youthful faces w ere free of disfigurement and their shoulder-length hair w as free of tangles or burrs. One, the taller of the pair, had hair the colour of dried wheat; the other had hair as dark as pitch, and wore a serious, grim expression. Neither looked as though they had seen more than tw enty winters.

Both w ore brightly coloured shields upon their left arms, proudly displaying their heraldry and colours. The caparisons of their steeds also bore their heraldic colours, and each of the knights held a lance upright in their gauntleted right hands.

Chlod saw that there w as someone else w ith the pair of knights, a hunched peasant w ith a squint, w ho was trying to hide behind the nobles. Chlod focused on the man, w ho low ered his head, pulling his hood down low under the scrutiny. Chlod's eyes narrow ed.

'Nastor, you squint-eyed bastard,' spat Chlod. 'You sold us out.'

'Silence, you,' snapped the fair-haired knight, who w as bedecked in black and red.

His voice w as cultured and noble, each word clearly enunciated, and far from the crude accents of the low er classes. 'And make yourself presentable!'

Chlod glanced down and realised that his trousers w ere still undone. Hurriedly, he did himself up again.

The fair-haired knight nudged his steed, and the warhorse stepped obediently forw ard. Chlod flicked a glance tow ards the wagon where the remainder of the peasant band slumbered, unaw are of the danger they were all in.

The knight moved his warhorse tow ards Chlod, and he instinctively edged backw ards. The beast w as massive, powerful muscles rippling up its legs and chest, and he flinched as it snorted loudly. He had never been so close to a noble mount, and he kept his arms stiffly at his side. For a low born to touch a knight's w arhorse unbidden w as a punishable offence, and he wanted to keep his hands.

'Low er your gaze, w retch,' snarled the knight. Chlod dropped his eyes, feeling the hot breath of the immense horse on his face. 'Low er,' said the knight, and Chlod prostrated himself on the ground, pushing his face into the mud. This was the end, he thought.

The other knight then spoke, his voice loud enough to carry across the clearing.

'I am Calard of Garamont,' he said, 'first born son and heir of Lutheure of Garamont, Castellan of Bastonne.'

Chlod pushed his face deeper into the mud. 'And you, peasants, are trespassing on Garamont land.'

CALARD'S FACE WAS dark as he surveyed the effect of his words. Panicked voices rose from beneath the rotting w agon, accompanied by frantic scrabbling. A dull w ooden thump w as followed by a curse, as one of the peasants sat up too quickly and struck his head. A putrid, dank blanket was thrown aside, and Calard's nose w rinkled in disgust as he w atched the wretched peasant outlaws begin to crawl out from beneath their crude shelter, their eyes wide with fear.

His brother, Bertelis, gave a snort of disbelief.

'By the Lady, look at the number of them,' he said, 'huddled together under there like vermin.'

Calard had to agree w ith his half-brother. The peasants must have been practically sleeping on top of each other to have all sheltered beneath the wagon. They stood up, glancing nervously at each other, scratching themselves.

They truly w ere a pathetic-looking bunch of individuals. Encrusted with filth, they w ere uniformly scrawny, malformed and wretched. Several had pronounced limps and tw isted legs, while others had grotesque protruding foreheads, lazy eyes, and teeth that stuck out at all angles from lips blackened with dirt. As far as Calard could make out, at least one of their number w as a w oman, though she was no less filthy than the others. The peasants squinted around them w ith slack-jaw ed nervousness.

Calard's gaze sw ept around the makeshift encampment, and fell on the blackened, skeletal carcass spitted over the fire-pit. It w as clearly the remains of a young deer, w hich it was illegal for a peasant to hunt and kill, let alone eat. He sighed, and turned back tow ards the peasant rabble.

'You are illegally encamped on Garamont lands, and are accused of poaching Castellan Garamont's stock. The proof of this claim is there in front of me. More than this, you are accused of avoiding taxes levied by the Marquis Carlemont, a vassal of lord Garamont. It is also claimed that one of your number killed a yeoman of the marquis in cold blood and stole his truffle swine. As such, you are outlaw ed, and will be accompanied to Castle Garamont, w here you w ill face the penalty for such crimes.'

Several of the peasants broke into tears at the pronouncement, while others dropped to their knees. They all knew that the pronouncement was as good as a death sentence. Shouts of protest and despair erupted from coarse throats. A scuffle erupted, and tw o of the peasants fell on another, grabbing him forcefully.

'It w as Benno, here, milord what done the yeoman in! It w as him! We done nothin'!'

Bertelis, w ho had circled around behind the wagon, gave a derisive snort, and answ ered before Calard could respond.

'Did he force you to flee the service of your lord? Did he force you to poach, and eat of Lord Garamont's venison? No, I think not. You w ill all hang.'

'Have mercy, young lords!' one of the peasants cried, before collapsing sobbing into the mud.

'Warden! Take them into your custody,' Calard ordered.

A small regiment of peasant men-at-arms w alked out of the mist, carrying tall shields painted in the red and yellow of the Castellan of Garamont, his father. They carried simple staves, topped w ith curved blades and hooks. One of them held an old sword proudly in his hand, and nodded his head at the young knight's command. The men-at-arms began trudging tow ards the peasants. Lowborn themselves, the men-at-arms w ere only a little less pathetic in appearance than the outlaw s. They w ere peasants too, after all, thought Calard.

'You there!' shouted Bertelis, seeing movement beneath the wagon. His warhorse snorted and stamped its hooves, sensing the tension in its young rider. 'Come out now !'

Calard stood in the stirrups, trying to see w hat w as happening. There w as a flash of movement, and Bertelis's steed reared. A sharp crack resounded as the flailing hooves connected, and a body fell heavily to the ground. Shouting erupted anew from the peasants, and they broke into movement.

'Hold!' shouted Calard, his young voice full of authority. 'Any man that runs w ill be assumed guilty and cut dow n! Warden! Take them!'

The men-at-arms tried to restore order, pushing several of the peasants roughly to their knees with the butts of their polearms.

'They've killed Odulf!' shouted one filthy man, w ho had clumps of hair missing from his head. He slammed his fist into the face of one of the Garamont soldiers, and Calard cursed. Others cried out, either in protest or fear, and Calard could hear Bertelis sw earing.

'Stupid w horeson!' shouted Bertelis. 'The vermin came at me!' His voice sounded incredulous.

A peasant outlaw grabbed one of the men-at-arms' w eapons, struggling against him.

At a barked order from their w arden, the other soldiers began laying about them w ith impunity, knocking peasants down into the mud w ith fierce blow s. Calard swore again, and muscled his massive warhorse into the fray. He slammed the butt of his lance onto the head of one struggling peasant, and the man collapsed unconscious into the mud. Benno, the man accused by his comrades of murdering the yeoman, broke free of the restraining grip on him and bolted for the trees.

Kicking his spurs into the side of his horse, Calard broke free of the scuffle in pursuit, forcing men to leap out of his w ay, lest they be trampled. Hooves pounded up the muddy ground as he closed quickly on Benno. Calard thundered past him and pulled his steed sharply into his path. Benno, breathing hard, halted, eyeing the knight w arily, and holding his hands up in front of him.

'I w arned you not to run,' Calard said, glow ering with outrage, 'but I w ish to see no more blood spilt here today. Get back w ith the others before I change my mind,'

Calard said, indicating sharply with his beardless chin. The man's shoulders slumped, and he turned back to w here the men-at-arms w ere finally restoring order.

A flicker of movement attracted Calard's attention, and he saw a roughly clothed shape clamber atop the rotting w agon, a bow in his hands.

'Ware the w agon!' he shouted, even as the man drew back the bow string, an arrow nocked. Calard could not believe what he was seeing; for a peasant to draw arms against a noble or one of his retainers w as almost beyond comprehension.

Calard kicked his horse forward, shouting. The bow man spun around at Calard's cry, his bow sw inging in the young knight's direction, and loosed his arrow.

It slammed into Calard's shoulder, and he reeled in his saddle. It felt like he had been kicked by a stallion, but he did not fall. He felt no pain, merely the shock of the impact, and he looked dow n incredulously at the shaft of the arrow protruding from the hole it had punched in his armour.

The bow man lowered his weapon, his mouth gaping wide as he registered the foolish, hasty act that had certainly doomed him. There was a shout of outrage and disbelief from Bertelis and the men-at-arms. The bow man half-jumped, half-fell from his position on the w agon, and began racing aw ay tow ards the mist shrouded trees, panic lending him speed.

CHLOD LIFTED HIS face out of the mud, and his eyes w idened as he saw the arrow protruding from the knight's shoulder. They had done it now. A peasant attacking a knight! Now, they were certain to hang.

Slow ly, so as not to draw attention to himself, he began to craw l away through the w et earth, elbow over elbow . He glanced behind him, expecting someone to see him escaping at any moment, and shout out.

Once at a distance he judged safe, he rose to his feet and began running low, as fast as his clubfoot w ould allow him, loping off into the trees, his heart pounding.

He shoved a hand into the deep pocket on his jerkin, hoping that he had not crushed his rat. It bit him hard, and he jerked his hand back out, w incing.

With a final glance behind him, Chlod disappeared into the mist.

CALARD TOUCHED A hand to the arrow , still in shock at the peasant's action.

Bertelis pounded across the ground, quickly closing the gap w ith the fleeing bow man, his lance lowering expertly before him. Several men-at-arms also broke into a run in pursuit of the fleeing man. The lance took the peasant in the lower back, punching through his body, and he fell with a cry. Bertelis rode past him and pulled his steed around sharply.

The man's piteous cries were ended as the men-at-arms reached him and slammed their polearms dow n onto his head, smashing his skull.

'My lord, are you hurt?' asked a voice at Calard's side. He looked dow n into the concerned, coarse face of the warden at his side.

'I have an arrow in my shoulder, Guido,' he said dryly. The man reddened, but Calard w aved him aw ay. 'I'm fine.'

Sw inging his shield over his back, he gripped the shaft of the arrow tightly. It had punched under his pauldron, breaking several of the chainmail links beneath, before sinking into the thick padding he wore beneath his armour, though it had not reached his skin. Thankfully, the shot had been taken in haste; a fully-drawn Bretonnian longbow fired at such close range could easily have killed him. He pulled the arrow free, tossing it to the ground.

The other peasants had ceased their struggles, and knelt compliantly in the mud w hile the men-at-arms stood over them grimly. Several of them were whimpering and all looked blankly around, their faces pale, shocked by the actions of their comrade.

Bertelis, his face thunderous, rode back to the peasants, his steed stamping and snorting. He reversed the grip on his lance, and thrust its point forcefully into the ground before sliding from the saddle. He drew his sword from its scabbard w ith a metallic hiss, and advanced on the closest of the kneeling peasants, who stared up at him in numb horror. The men-at-arms flicked glances between them, but none of them w ould dare to step in the path of the enraged young noble.

'Brother,' said Calard, a w arning tone in his voice. The younger man ignored him, striding purposefully towards the group of peasants, the sword held firmly in his hand.

'Bertelis!' he said more forcefully, finally giving his brother pause. The younger knight sw ung his head tow ards Calard, his wavy fair hair flicking. 'Hold your arm. I w ill not see these people killed in cold blood.'

Bertelis gaped at Calard in bew ildered astonishment, as if he had suddenly sprouted horns.

'Brother,' he gasped, 'you have been struck by a cow ardly arrow fired by one of their number, you, a noble son of Bastonne! An example must be made of these w retches.'

'Just punishment has been meted out to the offender. Sheath your sword.'

'But-' began Bertelis.

'Sheath your sw ord, brother,' said Calard forcefully, cutting him off. Reluctantly, Bertelis did so. He stormed aw ay from the peasants, glaring at Calard, and remounted. He pulled his lance free from the earth.

'Are you all right?' he asked, his scowl fading. 'My heart skipped a beat w hen I saw the peasant loose that shaft.'

'It is nothing,' replied Calard. 'It didn't even scratch the skin.' He smiled broadly and shook his head, exhaling slowly. The years slipped aw ay as his strong face relaxed, and, for the first time that morning, he looked his tw enty-one years of age. 'The Lady w as looking over me. I thought Morr w as going to claim me, for a moment.'

Bertelis grinned back at him, his dark mood forgotten.

'He w ouldn't w ant you. Too ugly by far.'

Calard snorted, and turned tow ards the peasant men-at-arms, a serious expression falling across his face like a mask.

'Warden,' he said, 'w e are done here. My brother and I w ill return to Castle Garamont.'

The peasant touched the brim of his helmet respectfully. 'I w ill bind 'em, lord, just in case any of 'em try to make a run for it.'

'Do as you must,' Calard replied, waving a hand dis-missively. He turned his steed aw ay, his heart still racing.

A w retched, squinting peasant stood before him, clutching a cloth cap in his hands.

It w as the man w ho had guided Calard to the outlaw s. He was a w easel, but at least he knew his place. The young knight raised an eyebrow.

'Well?' he asked.

'Young lord,' the peasant began, 'since I led you here faithfully, I w as hoping that, if it is not too much of an inconvenience, that perhaps I could... My family is poor, lord, and I have no food for my little ones. That is to say, I...'

The greed of the lower classes was without bounds, thought Calard. They tilled the lands of their lord faithfully, and in return were allowed to keep up to a tenth-share of their produce, and w ere protected from harm.

'You w ill be recompensed for this duty, peasant,' Calard cut in.

The man dropped to his knees in the mud, bow ing and scraping.

'You are too kind, young master,' said the peasant, though Calard found it almost impossible to understand his words, spoken out of the side of the mouth and thickly accented.

'Warden,' said Calard, 'see that this man is recompensed. I think a half-copper would be more than generous.'

'Far more than generous,' said Bertelis darkly.

'Thank you, lord! Thank you,' said the peasant, lowering his head to the ground once again.

'I am sorry to detain you, my lord,' said the w arden, 'but the truffle swine? Shall I have it returned to the marquis?'

'Have it given to this man here,' said Calard, feeling generous, 'in lieu of his payment.

If that suits you, peasant?'

'Oh yes, lord! You are most generous indeed!' said the kneeling man.

'Fine. See it done,' said the young knight, before w heeling his horse around and exchanging a glance with Bertelis.

'Come now Gringolet,' he whispered, leaning forward in the saddle and patting his steed's dappled grey neck. 'You can beat him this time.'

With one final grin tow ards his brother, he shouted and kicked his destrier into a gallop.

Giving their powerful steeds their heads, the pair of young knights raced through the mist-shrouded trees, rejoicing in the feeling of freedom and pow er. The icy wind pulled at their hair, and they urged their steeds on, faster.

They rode w ell, completely at ease in the saddle. Indeed, they had been placed in the saddle even before they had learnt to w alk, and it was as natural to them as breathing as if the horses were merely extensions of their own bodies. The brothers w ere evenly matched in horsemanship, and their steeds too w ere close in strength, pow er and endurance. Nevertheless, Bertelis's chestnut steed w as fierier in nature, and the tenacity of the beast w ould more often than not mean that he w as the victor of their races.

Gringolet leapt a fallen stump, and Calard laughed out loud as he pulled briefly into the lead. He heard Bertelis urging his palomino steed on, and he grinned. They pounded up the earth as they galloped tow ards the edge of the trees marking the northern extent of the grand forest of Chalons.

No steed of the Empire, nor of Estalia or Tilea, could match the strength and power of a pure-bred Bretonnian horse. None of them were the equal in sheer speed, and the Bretonnians were rightly proud of them. Protected in thick layers of plate barding beneath their flowing cloth caparisons, and carrying the weight of a fully armoured knight, the noble steeds could outpace any horse in the Old World.

Sighting the edge of the trees, Calard kicked Gringolet forward, riding hard. He flicked a glance sideways, and saw that Bertelis was alongside him, the two horses neck and neck. With a last burst of pow er, Bertelis pulled ahead, and he shouted in victory as they broke from the tree line.

Laughing, the pair reined their steeds in. Their warhorses w ere lathered in sweat, and their massive chests heaved in great gulps of air. Calard patted Gringolet's neck fondly. He had raised the destrier from a foal, and he was a fine, strong and noble beast.

They w ere on a rise, overlooking verdant rolling hills of grassland. Sheep were clustered in fluffy white clumps across the hills, accompanied by hunched peasant shepherds, and the sun was just starting to break free of the clouds, making the w hole region glow with early morning light.

A mess of small, rude hovels in the dip of a small valley marked a peasant settlement, and they could see dozens of dirty men and women shuffling about their duties. As far as they could see, from horizon to horizon, and beyond, was Garamont land, a fiefdom that had been in the family for nine generations, bequeathed from son to son. The Duke of Bastonne had gifted the land to Gundehar, the first lord of Garamont for acts of chivalry and honour on the field of battle.

Calard and Bertelis had grow n up on the land, and they knew it as w ell as anybody could claim to. As boys, they had ridden and played from one end of their father's lands to the other. It took almost a full day to ride from Castle Garamont to the eastern border of his lands and back, and as youngsters these lands seemed impossibly vast and filled with adventure.

They w ould often purposefully lose their chaper-ones, much to the distress of those bidden to see them safe, and embark on quests and crusades against imaginary foes.

How many fair damsels had been rescued from the maw s of monstrous beasts, and evil knights bested in those childhood years? Certainly the number of punishments they suffered at the hands of the old chamberlain, Folcard, was legendary, as w as the number of w itless peasants who sported bruises and bumps w hen set upon by the w ooden sw ords wielded by the pair.

Those days w ere long gone, however, and the lands of Garamont no longer seemed vast. The pair of young knights had insisted they would ride out to find the peasant outlaw s, merely for something to do. Calard's usual, serious expression fell back into place over his features as the thrill of the race wore off.

'You know that the taxes levied on that peasant for becoming the ow ner of that hog w ill make him poorer than he is now,' said Bertelis finally, breaking the silence.

'I know , but he deserves no more. He's a treacherous swine. He and the pig will be good together.'

Bertelis grinned in response. His skin was a healthy bronze from the sun, his body tall and strong from years of w eapons practice and riding. His eyes were dark, his face lean and handsome, and his hair the colour of the sand that was said to lie upon the beaches on the coast. He looked every inch the epitome of Bretonnian knighthood.

'Come, brother,' said Calard, 'let us go home.'

CHAPTER TWO

THE SUN WAS shining brightly as the pair of knights rode towards Castle Garamont.

Pennants flying Castellan Lutheure's colours whipped in the wind from atop the parapets. It w as a fine, strong fortress, built in the time of the first ruler of Garamont, nine generations earlier. Constructed from locally-quarried pale stone, the castle glow ed a w arm rose colour in the rising, morning sun.

Perched atop a rocky bluff, the castle w as the highest visible structure for miles around. The location of the fortress had been carefully chosen, both for its defensive value and for the dominating aspect it held over the surrounding countryside. The approach from the south w as gently sloping, though the northern side of the castle dropped aw ay sharply, falling hundreds of feet down to the spraw ling village of peasant hovels clustered in the shadows beneath it. To those lowborn and living w ithin the squalid abodes, the castle looming over them was an ever-present reminder of the strength and power of the lord of Garamont.

The w alls of the castle were tall and thick, and scores of men-at-arms stood sentry upon the battlements, day and night. Seven tall towers w ere interspersed along the crenellated walls, three of them topped by sharply tapered spires. An eighth tow er, grimly dubbed Morr's Rest, had been part of the original construction, but its upper section had collapsed some five generations past. Though the repair of the tow er had been started on separate occasions by tw o successive lords of Garamont, fatal accidents among the w ork crews had postponed the work indefinitely, and now it was part of the local superstitions of those too simple to know better. The fact that for five generations the ruined tow er had been the roost of countless ravens merely added to the superstitions, and it w as perhaps for these creatures that the tow er was named.

The pow erful gatehouse that led into the castle faced to the south, looking out tow ards the Forest of Chalons in the distance, and it was from this direction that Calard and Bertelis approached. Peasant militiamen doffed their caps and iron-rimmed helmets as the young nobles cantered past, ignoring them. Other peasants, bearing goods and produce on their hunched backs, scurried off the muddy roadw ay leading to the castle, bobbing their heads respectfully. Mangy dogs, emaciated and gaunt, trotted behind them, sniffing around the cuts of meat that w ere being delivered to the castle kitchens.

The brothers cantered across the thick wooden drawbridge spanning the deep ditch below . At the base of the ditch w as a muddy mire of reeds, and pools of stagnant w ater. A decade earlier, Calard and Bertelis had played there, catching tadpoles and frogs, ambushing and challenging startled wayfarers attempting to cross the bridge and enter the castle.

Cantering beneath the mighty portcullis, they passed through the arched gateway and into the dimly-lit passage leading through the gatehouse. Murder holes and arrow slits eyed their progress. The gatehouse was probably the most defensible part of the castle, and it doubled as the barracks for those peasants given the honour of becoming Garamont's men-at-arms.

Passing back into the light on the far side of the gatehouse, the knights errant angled their steeds across the muddy expanse towards the stables. The area w as teeming w ith activity, hundreds of peasants rubbing shoulders with each other, and bustling about w ith livestock and carts piled high with freshly harvested crops. The air was filled with their crude shouts, mixing with the din of braying animals. The stink of the peasants and the animals w as strong.

Men caked in mud and other more offensive substances pulled their donkeys and bovine charges out of the w ay of the young knights. Dirty children laughed and chased a group of piglets through the crowd, followed by a red-faced man w ho was sw earing loudly. He apologised profusely when he saw Calard and his brother, bow ing his head, before resuming the chase.

'I loathe harvest-tide,' said Bertelis, his noble face tw isted in a grimace as the sounds and smells of the unw ashed peasants surged over them. 'Get out of the w ay, peasants!' he shouted impatiently.

The pair entered the stables, and young stablehands rushed to take their reins. The lads w ere peasant-born, but their faces w ere at least marginally cleaner than those outside, and their backs w ere straight; only the best w ere chosen to tend to the horses of Garamont. The knights handed their lances to waiting servants and dismounted. Before the armoured horses w ere led aw ay, Calard removed his right gauntlet and w alked around the back of Gringolet, running his hand down the destrier's right, hind leg. The horse obediently lifted the long limb, and Calard poked at its hoof.

'Have the farrier come up and see to this shoe,' he ordered, stepping away from the horse. One of the peasants nodded his head in response and sent a stable boy running out to the blacksmith's w ith a curt command.

Calard found Bertelis smiling slightly when he turned around.

'What?' he asked. Bertelis shook his head.

'You, dirtying your ow n hands. That's w hat these are for,' he said, indicating the stablehands w ith a w ave. Calard slapped his brother across the shoulders.

'A knight of Bretonnia must know how to take care of his steed,' he said.

'I know how to take care of a horse: tell a peasant to do it,' countered Bertelis.

Calard's face w as serious as they stepped back into the sunshine, and looked up at the high w alls of the eight-sided keep that functioned as the family living quarters.

'Come. We must see how father fares.'

LORD LUTHEURE OF Garamont, Castellan of Bastonne, coughed heavily. Fluid rattled deep in his chest, and his whole frame was rocked by the hacking cough, his expression pained. A serving maid held a silk handkerchief to his lips, and when it w as removed there w ere flecks of blood upon it.

'You should be in bed,' scolded Lady Calisse gently, placing her hand upon her husband's shoulders. 'The drafts down here do you no good.'

Lutheure pushed aw ay his breakfast plates, his meal unfinished. Hovering servants instantly cleared them aw ay.

'I am the lord of Garamont. I w ill not huddle under the covers in my bedchambers during the daylight hours being spoon-fed by servants,' he said darkly.

His w ife sat quietly, her delicate hands folded on her lap, but he could feel her eyes boring into him. A pretty young serving girl entered the room bearing a steaming goblet upon a silver tray, and Lutheure w inced as an acrid, foul stench reached his nostrils.

Without a w ord, she placed the tray upon the table.

'Thank you Annabelle,' said Lady Garamont, and the girl curtseyed in response before making her exit.

Lady Calisse stared at Lutheure frankly for a moment, her face immaculate and pale.

She w as a handsome w oman, despite her years. 'Drink your remedy,' she said finally.

Lutheure sighed, eyeing the goblet filled with the stinking concoction with distaste and resignation. Under the stern, watchful gaze of his wife, he lifted it, staring at the sw irling cluster of bark, herbs, and the Lady knew what else, w ithin the muddy, stinking concoction. His wife raised one perfectly plucked eyebrow, and Lutheure sighed. He raised the goblet to his lips and gulped down a mouthful of the foul brew .

He choked it dow n, his eyes watering.

'She is a good servant, that one,' said Lady Calisse, rising from her plush seat.

'Aye, a fine gift she was,' said Lutheure. The girl had entered his service the previous summer, a gift from one of his vassals, the ageing Lord Carlemont.

'If you w ill not rest, just promise me that you w ill do nothing to exert yourself today,'

said Lady Calisse.

'For you, anything, my love,' said Lutheure, closing his eyes in contentment as his w ife began to toy w ith his hair.

'Thank you,' she said, and planted a kiss upon his sunken cheek.

Goblet in hand, Lutheure got up from the table and moved to the w indow. The last six months had seen a dramatic change in the castellan. Though he w as still tall and broad shouldered, the sickness had robbed him of his muscle. His barrel chest had been reduced to a frail cage of ribs, and his arms and legs, once so strong from years of riding, sword practice and war, were wasted and thin.

It w as in his face, however, that the most dramatic transformation had taken place. It w as as if he had aged tw o decades in the space of two seasons. Last summer his face had been strong, broad and noble, and, though he was in his middling years, he had radiated a pow erful aura of strength, virility and command. Now his face was pale, and his eyes flashed with a feverish light. His fair hair was streaked with silver, as w as the long moustache that hung dow n past gaunt cheeks. His cheeks were sunken, his cheekbones protruding sharply, and his eyes were set deep in hollow sockets.

He knew how he looked, but steadfastly refused to accept his deteriorating health. To please his w ife, he had allowed himself to be poked, prodded and bled by a stuttering chirurgeon w ith a strange penchant for leeches, after the rotund priestess of Shallya had throw n up her hands, unable to determine the cause of the sickness. The chirurgeon had consulted with the castle's apothecary, and, together, they had concocted the foul remedy that he w as to drink twice daily, morning and night.

Nevertheless, his health continued to decline, much to the grief of his family and his loyal knights.

Lutheure stared out through the tall, north facing, arched window, revelling in the feeling of warmth as the sun touched his lined skin. For a moment, he felt like his old self, but a hacking cough suddenly rose in his chest, and he w inced as he clutched his chest, the pain fierce. His wife's cool hands took the goblet from him lest he spill it, and she looked up at him w ith eyes full of concern.

'I'm fine,' he w heezed, giving her a w eak smile.

The doors to the private dining chamber w ere slammed open, and Lutheure turned to see his sons enter the room, the tall, smiling Bertelis in the lead.

'Breakfast!' declared the young, sandy-haired knight, sending servants scuttling out of the room.

Lady Calisse moved across the room, her long flowing dress trailing behind her.

'My son,' she said w armly. She drew him down to her height and kissed him on each cheek. Calard stood somew hat stiffly behind.

'Mother,' said Bertelis, before extricating himself from her grasp and moving to his father. He dropped to one knee before the lord of Garamont, bow ing his head low.

Lutheure smiled w armly at his son, who w as the spitting image of himself, some tw enty-five years earlier, and lifted him to his feet, a hand on each of his thickly armoured shoulders.

Calard bow ed to Lady Calisse, w ho studiously ignored him, and the young knight moved to his father. He too low ered himself to one knee, and bow ed his head.

Lutheure slapped Bertelis on the shoulder, sending him tow ards the table as servants entered bearing fresh bread and w ine. Lutheure turned to regard his firstborn son and heir, his eyes hardening.

'Did you find them?' he asked.

'We did, my lord,' said Calard, rising to his feet and standing to attention, one hand resting on the pommel of his sword. 'They resisted, and two were killed before order w as restored. The remainder are being led here for trial.'

Lutheure nodded his head, and turned aw ay from his dark-haired son. Calard bow ed again, and moved to join his brother at the table. Lutheure took his seat at the head of the table. His w ife sat opposite him, doting on Bertelis, who w as digging into the food w ith gusto.

Calard took his place opposite his brother, and broke a loaf in tw o. More food was brought in, game birds and venison, delivered by the pretty serving girl, Annabelle.

She blushed as Bertelis gave her a solicitous w ink. The young knight's eyes followed the retreating figure of the girl as he sipped from his wine goblet, and Lutheure chuckled. Another serving girl deflowered by the lad, he thought.

'How are you faring this day, my lord?' asked Calard stiffly.

'I am w ell,' he replied, barely registering the question. 'Bertelis,' he said, smiling at his other son, 'Gunthar tells me that you could be the best he has ever taught, if you dedicated yourself more to your training. You are missing too many of his classes.'

Bertelis sighed. 'I would make more of an effort to attend the old man's classes if he could make them more interesting father,' he said.

'Old man,' scoffed Lutheure. 'Watch your tongue, Gunthar is not much older than I am.'

'Calard is more suited to his classes than I, anyway,' said Bertelis. 'He has a mind like a sponge. He learns much faster than I, and is far more dedicated.'

'I have to train hard. I have not your natural talent,' said Calard humbly.

'Nonsense. You are clearly the better swordsman, though I am certainly far superior in the saddle,' said Bertelis, flashing a smile at his brother.

'And it is in the saddle where a knight is rightly judged,' said Lutheure.

THAT NIGHT, AS the castle slept, Calard dreamt. He had fallen asleep quickly, his body exhausted after spending much of the day in the saddle, practising his jousting technique under the watchful gaze of the w eapon master, Gunthar. Time and again, he had kicked Gringolet into a gallop and struck the stationary training target, bracing himself for the impact as his lance-tip made contact. The heavy wooden target w ould teeter and fall to the ground only against the finest of knocks, w hereupon peasant servants would scramble to right it, ready for his next pass.

For hour after hour he had charged the heavy target, until his shoulder and arm w ere bruised a dark purple from the lance. Over and over, he heard his father's w ords as he slept.

And it is in the saddle where a knight is rightly judged.

In his dream, he w as astride his powerful destrier once more, charging the practice target. He struck his lance against it, but it w as as unyielding as stone, and his arm w as jarred as his lance shattered against it. He turned his steed, another lance having appeared in his hands, and charged again. As he closed on the wooden target, he saw it change shape, turning into a tow ering dark figure with massive horns curling from its shadowy head.

He struck a mighty blow , but again it w as like striking stone, and his lance splintered and broke. The monstrous dark creature turned tow ards him, and he threw the broken lance to the ground in desperation, drawing his sword. As his hands closed on the hilt, however, his blade changed into a hissing serpent that turned and struck tow ards his face, fangs bared in its overextended mouth.

He felt the prick of its teeth against his cheek and cried out, pulling his head aw ay sharply. Instantly, the snake was gone, and there w as nothing in his hand but his sw ord.

His surroundings had changed again, and a child walked through the mist that now surrounded him.

'Who goes there?' he shouted, his voice muffled by the sudden fog.

He gasped as he made out the face of the child. He had not dreamt of his sister for many years, though she w as often in his thoughts. As dark-haired as him, they had been inseparable as children, and it was as a child that she appeared to him now, for that is how he remembered her, before she was taken.

His tw in looked at him w ith deep, soulful eyes that spoke of mysteries and secrets.

She looked at him sadly, and he w anted to go to comfort her, but then she turned aw ay. She began to fade, and he found that he could see through her body, as if she w ere as insubstantial as a spirit. He cried out, but in an instant she was gone, sw allowed by the mist. He tried to follow her, kicking Gringolet forwards, and they plunged blindly into the fog. He found his way barred by branches and tw igs that snagged at him, scratching his face, and he hacked wildly at them w ith his sword.

He heard a roar, a deep rumbling bestial sound that filled his ears and made his head spin w ith its power. Then something struck him solidly across the chest, and he w as throw n from the saddle. He hit the ground hard, and came aw ake instantly, his heart pounding, and his bedclothes saturated w ith sweat.

CALARD GRITTED HIS teeth as he attacked, his blade swinging in hard tow ards his opponent's head. It w as parried with ease, as he had expected, and he swiftly w hipped a second attack low er, into the body. His blade w as knocked aside, and he took the return blow on his shield. His riposte was quick and strong as he saw an opening, forcing the weapon master back a step.

'Good,' said Gunthar, putting up his sword. The ageing knight's skill w ith blade and lance w as unparalleled in all of Garamont, indeed, in all of eastern Bastonne.

The w eapon master w as armoured in simple, old-fashioned, functional armour. It w as battered and dull w ith age, though it was meticulously cared for, and was as strong as it had ever been. Still, it looked ancient to Calard's eyes, a relic from a time long past. Fashion changed quickly in Bretonnia, and he and his brother w ore gleaming fluted armour in the modern fashion.

'Now you,' said Gunthar, nodding his head towards Bertelis, who w as reclining on a nearby bench. Bertelis lifted himself languidly to his feet, a bored look on his face, and drew his own blade.

The sandy-haired youth rolled his armoured shoulders, and advanced on the weapon master, w ho stood w aiting for him. Calard moved to the side to w atch.

The training session was taking place on one of the many terraces on the north face of the Garamont keep. It w as ringed in low shrubs, and the sun w as shining on them w eakly.

He had spoken the truth the previous morning. Bertelis was more talented than him, as he w as in most of their physical contests. He w as taller and swifter, and he had a relaxed suppleness to his movements that Calard w ould never be able to emulate.

Gunthar and Bertelis raised their blades up to the sky in honour to the Lady, the protective goddess of Bretonnia. Then they bent their arms, bringing their swords dow n before their faces, and kissed the flats of the blades. Then, in one swift movement, they sliced the air before them, completing their salute, and took up a ready stance.

Calard w atched w ith open admiration as his brother began to trade blow s w ith Gunthar, his every movement balanced, poised and controlled. If he applied himself fully, Calard w as of no doubt that Bertelis w ould become one of the finest swordsmen in Bastonne. He himself was good w ith the blade, better than Bertelis, but he had to w ork hard at it, and he found it both galling and irritating that his brother took to it w ith so little effort.

Nevertheless, as he watched his brother and the weapons master begin to spar, he could see that his brother's technique had room for improvement. He relied on his natural ability too much, and though this alone made him superior to most, he w ould be undone against a more talented opponent, and he would certainly lose against a knight of similar ability who had a more rigorous attitude to his training.

Bertelis sliced left and right with powerful swift blows, but Gunthar turned them aside w ith barely any effort. Getting frustrated, Bertelis began to attack more w ildly, putting more strength than necessary into his attacks. He feinted high and w hipped his sw ord down to strike low, but his effort w as deftly turned aside, and he found himself with the weapon master's blade at his throat.

Bertelis threw his sword dow n in frustration and disgust.

'I'm not getting anyw here with this,' he said. 'Give me a horse and a lance any day. I am just more suited to them!'

'No, you are not,' said Gunthar evenly. 'You are as gifted a sw ordsman as I have seen.

How many hours have you spent practising your jousting technique this past w eek?'

Bertelis shrugged in response.

'Take a guess,' said Gunthar. 'Maybe tw o hours a day?'

'And w ith the sword?'

'You know the answer,' said Bertelis.

'I do,' agreed Gunthar. 'An hour, perhaps, over the last w eek.'

'A knight's place is in the saddle! Why must I practise fighting on foot like a peasant?

I do not plan on trudging through the mud to w ar like a commoner.'

'A knight does not alw ays have the luxury of choosing the circumstances he fights in.

What happens if your horse is slain beneath you?'

Bertelis rolled his eyes in response. 'I'll get a new horse!' he shot back, making Calard smirk.

'What if the battle takes place upon a muddy mire, and your lord orders you to fight on foot?'

'Then my lord w ould be a damn fool for choosing such a ridiculous battlefield!'

snapped Bertelis.

Gunthar stared at the young man w ith cold, humourless, grey eyes. His moustache tw itched in irritation.

'Pick up your sw ord,' he ordered, his voice cold.

'I am done w ith training today,' said Bertelis arrogantly.

'You are done w ith your training when I say you are done,' grow led the grizzled veteran.

'I w ill not be ordered around like a servant,' said Bertelis haughtily.

'In my training area, I am lord and master,' said Gunthar. 'You may be the son of my lord castellan, but here you are nothing more than an arrogant, undisciplined child.

Pick up your sw ord.'

'I w ill not be spoken to like that,' said Bertelis hotly, snatching up his blade once more.

'What are you going to do about it?' asked the w eapon master. Calard saw Bertelis's face darken.

With a snarl, Bertelis attacked, his blade a blur through the air. The clash of steel on steel rang out, and the pair moved around each other, blades flashing. They parried and blocked each other's attacks, and Bertelis let his anger flow down his arm, pow ering each blow . He was clearly stronger than the ageing weapon master, and each of his blow s was fuelled with rage, driving the older man back.

Bertelis overextended on one of his attacks, too eager to land a blow on the older knight, and he found himself off-balance. Gunthar stepped in close, slamming his shield into the taller youth. The young knight reeled backw ards, losing his footing on the flagstones, and fell w ith a crash to the ground.

Gunthar sheathed his sword, and with a smile, offered his hand to Bertelis. With a dark look, Bertelis took the proffered hand, and allowed himself to be hauled to his feet.

'Why did I w in?' asked the w eapon master.

'You are more skilled,' Bertelis replied.

'Yes, I am, but that is not w hy I w on.'

'You made him angry,' said Calard. Gunthar nodded.

'Exactly. I deliberately baited you, to explain this lesson.'

'I don't understand,' said Bertelis.

'He made you angry,' said Calard. 'Your anger gave you strength, but it also made your attacks more w ild, less controlled.'

'A knight must alw ays be in control of his actions,' said the weapon master. 'Once controlled, anger can be used to your benefit. It w ill give you strength, as Calard rightly points out, but if that anger is controlled, you do not lose your focus.'

Bertelis glowered, still angry. Gunthar smiled in response, and slapped the young knight on the shoulder.

'It is not easy,' he said, his voice softening. 'It comes w ith age, and with practice. I w as young too once, as impetuous and quick to anger as you.'

Bertelis grinned impishly, his foul mood evaporating.

'I find it hard to imagine that you w ere ever a young man,' he said. Gunthar snorted.

'Now you are trying to make me angry. It's not going to w ork.'

'Are you never angry then, Gunthar?'

'Of course I am, but I keep that anger controlled. I do not let it control me. Enough, today's lesson is over. Now get aw ay w ith you both.'

They heard a sudden blaring of horns, and Calard's head shot up. He exchanged a look w ith Bertelis, and the pair were off and moving as one, racing from the training terrace, their armour clanking.

Gunthar chuckled, watching them go. On the cusp of manhood, they appeared so like the boys he had grow n to love as his ow n at that moment, racing through the castle as they had done w hen they were children, terrorising the servants and disrupting the serene calm. The smile faded from his face.

They w ould not have the luxury of being boys for long and they w ould have far harsher lessons to learn than he could teach.

CALARD AND BERTELIS burst into their father's audience chamber, slamming the door w ide open before them. Folcard, the household's fierce chamberlain, shot a look of dark reproach in their direction, and they instantly composed themselves.

Standing tall and regal, they walked with stately calm to join him in awaiting the lord castellan.

Calard bristled w ith impatience. The grand double doors that w ere the main entrance into the audience chamber w ere sealed. The portal w as guarded by a pair of men-at-arms, w ho stood motionless with their long pole arms crossed in front of the massive doors. They w ould not open until the lord of Garamont w as seated in his tall throne carved of dark w ood.

The seat had alw ays fascinated Calard, and, as a child, he had occasionally sneaked into the room to test it, his legs dangling above the ground. It w as a beautiful, ancient piece of furniture, its high back carved w ith miniature scenes that recreated the tw elve great battles of the founder of Bretonnia, Gilles the Uniter. It w as a source of pride that Gilles had been borne of Bastonne, just as his ow n family was, though his step-mother, Lady Calisse, held closer ties to his direct lineage than had Calard's ow n mother. A feeling of melancholy descended on Calard as he looked at the throne, w ondering how long it w ould be before he w ould sit there as the lord of Garamont. He knew he was not ready for such a heavy burden of responsibility, and he whispered a silent prayer to the Lady for his father's good health.

Courtiers, advisors and knights were slowly filtering into the chamber through side doors and partitions. The chamberlain sent servants scurrying in all directions, and the room w as filled with a gentle murmur of speculation.

'Who do you think it is?' whispered Bertelis. Calard shrugged in response. 'Please let it be an emissary from the king announcing a new errant war,' said Bertelis.

The room hushed, as the black and gold door in the back w all of the audience chamber w as opened and a rotund, bearded man, dressed in the red and yellow of Lutheure's livery stepped forth.

A blare of horns echoed deafeningly through the chamber, causing the doves roosting in the upper beams of the lofty expanse above to take flight.

'The Lord and Lady Garamont,' bellow ed the rotund crier.

As one, the gathered knights and nobles dropped to one knee, their heads bow ed, and the ladies of the court dipped low in delicate curtsies.

Lord Lutheure, resplendent in a fashionable tunic and robe that w ould have cost more than a peasant could hope to see in a lifetime, walked across the dais with his w ife on his arm. Lutheure wore his coat of arms embroidered upon his chest, but he w as far outshone by his w ife, wearing a velvet dress of deepest crimson that trailed behind her. Her fair hair was hidden beneath her velvet headdress, over which she w ore a glittering circlet of silver. Lutheure led his wife to her luxuriously padded chair, before taking his own seat upon his massive throne. He did well to hide his illness, though, to Calard's eyes, it w as obvious that his gaunt frame no longer filled the throne as once it had.

The lord of Garamont nodded regally to his chamberlain, who signalled the men-at-arms at the door.

They stepped back, uncrossing their long ceremonial weapons, and the doors w ere throw n open.

Having hurried across the room to the doors, his face red with the exertion, the rotund court crier announced the newcomer.

'Sigibold of Bordeleaux, Knight of the Realm and Equerry of Duke Alberic of Bordeleaux,' he thundered.

'Not from the king then,' muttered Bertelis, for w hich he received a sharp glare from the chamberlain, Folcard.

There was muttering as the knight entered the court, striding purposefully tow ards the seated lord of Garamont. He w as fully armoured, and his cloak was tattered and w orn. He carried his helm beneath his left arm, and his hair was wet with sweat and plastered across his head. He tracked mud and dirt into the audience chamber, and there w as tutting amongst the gathered nobles.

Reaching the dais, the knight dropped to one knee and bow ed his head.

'The Duke of Bordeleaux sends his warmest regards,' replied the knight. Lutheure bow ed his head, accepting the courtesy.

'You honour my household w ith your presence, sir knight. Can I have a room readied for you? You have the look of one w ho has travelled far, and you may, if you w ish, refresh yourself before we address the purpose of your visit.'

'Alas no,' replied the knight with a bow , 'time does not permit me to accept your noble offer.'

'No? Speak then,' said Lutheure.

'My lord, I bring grim new s. The south-eastern lands of Bordeleaux are overrun. I come to seek your aid in its retaking.'

The court erupted in gasps and muttering. Calard flashed a glance at his brother, his eyes lighting up. A slight smile touched Bertelis's lips. Lutheure lifted a hand for silence, his rings of office gleaming and the hubbub died aw ay.

'This is grim news indeed,' agreed Lutheure. 'What enemy besieges his fair lands?'

'Greenskins,' replied the knight bitterly. This w as met with curses and dark mutterings, w hich Lutheure allowed to continue for a moment before he lifted a hand again for silence. The castellan thought on this for a moment, a deep frow n upon his face.

His eyes turned skyw ards, as if seeking divine communion, staring up tow ards the high arched windows replete with stained glass, where images of his ancestors stared dow n at him. The courtiers looked expectantly to their lord. There was no particular love betw een the people of Bastonne and Bordeleaux, but in times of strife they had alw ays united against a mutual foe. At last, he low ered his gaze, and looked again at the knight aw aiting his answer.

'You have already sought the aid of other knights of Bastonne?' he asked.

'I have, my lord. I have received pledges of more than two thousand knights of your most esteemed land.'

'You have already spoken to the lord of Sangasse, a days ride to the w est?' asked the castellan, his eyes glittering. At mention of the name, Calard stiffened. The Sangasses had been the mortal rivals of Garamont for nine generations.

'I have, my lord,' said the knight, oblivious to the tension in the room. 'The noble lord of Sangasse has pledged his knights. They are to be led by Maloric, his son, the young Earl of Sangasse.' Calard scow led.

The castellan's expression was unreadable as he digested this information. At last, he turned his eyes in Calard's direction, and there was a silent communication betw een them.

'Bertelis, Calard,' said the lord of Garamont, 'come forw ard.'

Bertelis ascended the steps of the dais, his head held high. Calard followed, his heart hammering. They took up positions on either side of their father, standing alongside his throne.

'Sir Sigibold, these are my sons and my rightful heirs. They will ride for Bordeleaux, to aid your duke's knights against the hated enemy. The knights of my household will ride at their side.'

Calard could not help but let the joy he felt erupt in a broad smile that he saw w as mirrored on Bertelis's face.

'The Duke of Bordeleaux w ill be honoured by their presence,' replied the knight, 'and I convey his thanks for your commitment to his cause.'

Lutheure rose from his throne, and Calard tw itched as he saw his father wobble slightly. Still, he did not step forward to give his father support, knowing that to do so w ould be to emphasise his father's w eakness in front of his court. Recovering the lord castellan steadied himself and addressed the gathered nobles.

'Let the w ord be spread, that the sons of Garamont w ill ride for Bordeleaux on the morn. Tonight the lord of Garamont shall host a banquet, w ishing them victory and glory on the fields of battle.'

A cheer rose from those gathered below the dais.

'Sigibold, w ill you do us the honour of dining with us this evening?' asked Lutheure.

'Alas, I cannot, noble lord,' replied the knight. 'I must be on my w ay to secure more knights for the duke's cause.'

Lutheure nodded.

'My lords and ladies,' he said, 'w e prepare for war.'

CHAPTER THREE

'LET US DRINK to my sons! Let the Lady guide their lances, and let them return to my side in glory and triumph!'

There was a cheer around the assembled revellers, and Calard and Bertelis clinked their goblets heavily together. They each took a long swig of wine. Their cheeks were already glow ing, and their bellies were full of food.

The detritus of the vanquished meal lay before the gathered nobles, strewn across the spraw ling expanse of tables in the banquet room. Bones w ere thrown onto the straw-covered floor, w here they were fought over by Lutheure's hunting dogs, and, when no one w as looking, the peasant servers. Carcasses of roasted boar and deer, stuffed w ith herbs, garlic and sweetmeats lay stripped of flesh upon giant platters, and the bony remains of quail and hare lay discarded on plates of lead and silver, swimming in thick, creamy sauces of mushroom and cheese. Extravagant dishes, upon which had lain the grilled forms of the large carnivorous fish that swam the River Grismerie to the north, lay cast aside. Only the luminous w hite bones and massive gaping jaw s of the creatures w ere left, with the remnants of w hite wine sauce sw illing around them.

The w ine was flowing freely, for the lord castellan had opened up his cellar, wishing to toast his sons off to w ar in style. The nobles supped at the exquisite fare of Bordeleaux and Aquitaine, extolling their various virtues as they sw irled them around their goblets and sniffed at their aromas. Calard and his brother, knowing little of fine w ine, swigged exorbitantly expensive, hundred-year-old vintages as if they w ere w ater.

Bertelis grinned, feeling content, full of food and well on the way to drunkenness. He looked across the tables to his father, who w as smiling proudly at him, and he raised his goblet in response, smiling. Folcard stood behind Lutheure, looking for all the w orld like a fierce bird of prey. His thin shoulders were slightly hunched, though he stood taller than any knight present, and his hooked nose protruded sharply from his gaunt face. As if feeling Bertelis's gaze, the chamberlain turned his cold, dark eyes tow ards his lord's younger son. Even after all these years, the chamberlain still made him feel like a naughty child, and Bertelis quickly looked away.

His eyes darted to his mother, w ho sat deep in conversation with Tanebourc, a tall, ginger-haired knight who w as one of his mother's favourites. He saw the light touch that his mother laid upon the knight's forearm, and frowned, but w as instantly distracted as an army of servants descended on the banquet room at a clap from the castle's chamberlain. He leant politely out of the w ay as a serving girl bent over him to collect his plate, exposing a not inconsiderable amount of her bosom as she did so.

'Sir Bertelis, I think you might be dribbling,' someone teased, and he turned sheepishly to face Lady Elisabet of Carlemont. An attractive young noblewoman with a delightfully devilish gleam in her eye, she sat beside a doting Calard. She wore a stunning dress of deepest purple, and a shimmering, diaphanous shawl was wrapped around her pale shoulders. The eye was draw n to her cleavage by a large, star-shaped pendant that hung low around her neck. Calard was beaming at her side, no doubt at least partly due to that cleavage. They made a good couple, Bertelis thought, and he w as certain that one day they w ould wed, for their affection for one another w as w ell known and easy to see. His brother w as distressingly loyal to her, refusing to lie w ith any of the servants, claiming that Elisabet w as the only one for him. She w as certainly a desirable woman, but sometimes he just did not understand his brother.

'I fear you may be correct, my lady,' he replied, theatrically w iping at his chin and flicking his hand tow ards the ground. 'I am but a knight of w eak morals, easily won over by a pretty face and a bounteous bosom. Not like noble Calard at your side. He is girded of firmer stuff.'

'I should hope so,' said Elisabet, turning her seductive dark eyes tow ards the older of the brothers, giving him a playful pout. Calard blushed, making both Elisabet and Bertelis laugh.

'Brother,' declared Bertelis, indicating to a servant for more w ine, 'a toast.'

With their goblets filled, the brothers raised them.

'To glory and honour!' said Bertelis.

'To glory and honour,' said Calard, and the pair clinked their goblets together once more.

'And to conquests in the bedroom as w ell as on the field of battle!' added Bertelis as Calard w ent to drink. The older sibling snorted, the ruby-coloured w ine spilling from his nose and mouth.

Elisabet burst into very unseemly and unladylike laughter. The dour-faced w ife of one of Lutheure's knights shushed her, as the lord castellan lifted his goblet high.

Calard held his hand to Elisabet's mouth, as she looked fit to explode into further giggles.

'To Bertelis,' their father declared, 'w ho I am sure is destined to become one of the finest knights of Bastonne.' This was met w ith cheers, and the sound of Elisabet's contagious giggling made Bertelis smile. The lord castellan's face turned serious.

'Bertelis, you are the finest son a knight could wish for. Come back alive.'

People w ere unsure if that w as a toast or not, and continued to hold their glasses in the air.

'Honour and glory!' shouted Bertelis to break the unease, lifting his goblet high. His w ords w ere echoed around the room, and everyone drank and went back to their conversations. He noticed vaguely that Elisabet w as no longer laughing, and that his brother's face w as dark.

Regardless, Bertelis clinked goblets w ith his brother, and again they drank, tension evaporating. Jesters came out to entertain the crowd, tall gangly jugglers and capering dw arfs, and Bertelis laughed loudly at their somersaults and antics.

Castellan Lutheure took his leave, retiring to his bedchamber w ith his wife and, with the official duties concluded, the real drinking began.

CHAMBERLAIN FOLCARD STOOD motionless in the shadows beneath the archway, haw k-like eyes glinting fiercely. He receded further back into the darkness as he spied a hooded figure turn into the corridor, a shuttered lantern in hand. The figure moved softly dow n the cold hallway, casting a conspiratorial glance behind it. In that moment, the light caught on the figure's face, and Folcard saw the Lady Calisse's proud features.

The lady slipped through the doorway opposite the chamberlain's concealment, closing the door softly behind her. Folcard ignored the discomfort in his arthritic joints as he felt the cold seeping into his body. He did not have to w ait long.

Less than tw o minutes after the lady of the household's appearance, a second figure entered the hallway, striding purposefully down the corridor. He made no attempt to conceal his appearance, and Folcard felt his anger rise at the man's arrogance.

Tanebourc smiled as he paused briefly outside the door through which Lady Calisse had entered, and then he knocked softly. A moment later, he pushed the door lightly open and slipped within.

Folcard shifted position, his anger simmering.

He loved Garamont fiercely, and he chafed at the shame being done to his noble lord.

He knew the castle better than anyone, and his eyes and his ears saw and heard all that occurred w ithin its walls. He alone knew of all the secret passages that riddled the fastness, ones that even the Lord Garamont and his sons were unaware of.

He w aited no more than five minutes before the door opened and the Lady Calisse slipped out into the corridor once more, pulling her hood up over her head. At least she had enough respect to conceal her appearance. After she had been gone for some minutes, the door opened again, and Tanebourc emerged. He was flushed, and Folcard saw frustration and impatience etched on his face. Good, he thought. His carnal urges had clearly been unsatisfied. That w ould work to his advantage.

'Tanebourc,' said the chamberlain, slipping out of the concealing darkness. He took perverse pleasure in the way the knight paled at his sudden appearance.

'Lady above!' gasped Tanebourc, his eyes wide and fearful. 'I thought you w ere an apparition!'

'I bear a message from the lady of the house,' said the chamberlain, his voice deep and sepulchral.

Recovering, Tanebourc's gaze flashed down the hallway, though Calisse was long gone. 'Oh?' he said, feigning disinterest.

'She w ants you to know that she would be best pleased if the boy did not return to Garamont from this endeavour. You know of w hom I speak.'

Tanebourc's eyes w idened as he absorbed w hat the chamberlain was saying.

'What? She never said-'

'The lady w ould favour any w ho achieved this task. She would freely give him that w hich he desired, if he but did this small thing for her,' said Folcard, his eyes boring into the ginger-haired knight.

'It is no small thing-' began Tanebourc, but Folcard interrupted him again.

'Such are the lady's terms,' said the chamberlain. He saw the lust in the man's eyes, and knew that he had him.

'Think on it,' he added, before turning away.

CALARD WOKE WITH a groan. The pounding on the door of his chamber w as incessant, and he rolled over, trying to ignore it. It felt like someone was smashing a hammer into his head, over and over, and his mouth felt like some foul creature had craw led in there and died while he slept. The pounding on his door continued unabated, giving him no peace.

'I'm aw ake!' he shouted. 'Go aw ay!'

He closed his eyes in relief as he heard whoever it was move aw ay, though he heard the banging begin anew further down the corridor. His brother's door, he realised.

With a moan, he rolled over on his pallet, and lifted himself to a sitting position.

Sw inging his legs to the flagstones, he realised that he was still wearing his high leather boots. Indeed, he was wearing the entire outfit he had worn the previous night. He had no memory of getting to bed, though he had a vague recollection of being helped up the tw isting stone stairs to the eastern wing of the castle to his chambers. He groaned again and rose unsteadily to his feet, moving to the w indow.

He poured a jug of ice cold w ater into the stone basin there, and washed his face. He drank deeply.

Looking out of the w indow, blinking against the painful light, it took him a moment to register that the sun w as high in the sky. He swore colourfully, his language more fit for ribald commoners than for the son of a noble castellan. He tore his shirt from his muscled body and pulled on a freshly laundered tunic.

Sw earing never to drink again, he pulled open his door and stepped into the corridor.

He saw a flustered servant banging on Bertelis's door. With another self-pitying groan, he began staggering dow n the hallway. The man tried to say something to him, but he w aved him aw ay as if he was an irritating insect.

Without ceremony, Calard pushed Bertelis's door open. It caught on something on the floor, and he looked down. It w as a w oman's dress, a simple piece of clothing with little ornamentation. He gave the door a more solid push and w alked into the room.

The stink of sweat, w ine and sex assailed him, and he blinked in the dim light.

Bertelis w as sprawled naked on the bed, the nubile form of a young w oman nestled against his chest. She turned as the door opened, pulling the sheets up over her body, modestly, her eyes filled with the w ild fear of a rabbit caught in the open.

'Wake up,' said Calard. 'It's late.'

Bertelis squinted up at him, opening and closing his mouth as if tasting something foul upon his tongue. He dropped his head back dow n onto the goose feather stuffed pillow.

'Come on, get up,' said Calard more insistently. Bertelis sighed in resignation, and stood, stretching, without a thought for modesty.

'Get out,' he said casually to the girl. She stared at him blankly for a second, and he turned tow ards her. 'I said get out.'

The girl, the sheet wrapped around her, retrieved the clothing that w as scattered all over the room, doing her best not to catch Calard's eye. She fled the room, and Calard could hear her soft steps as she ran up the hallway.

'Who w as that?' he asked.

'Who?' asked Bertelis as he took a long sw ig from a w ater jug. 'That girl?'.

'Oh, I don't know . Just some...' said Bertelis vaguely, one hand flapping as he sought the w ord. 'Some... girl.'

Calard snorted, shaking his head, and immediately regretting it as his vision spun.

'That w as quite a night,' said Bertelis, dressing quickly.

'My memories of it are somew hat... vague,' said Calard. Bertelis snorted.

'After the speeches, the dining and the dancing, after father and mother had retired, you spent most of it declaring how you w ould slay a hundred orcs, and drooling into the cleavage of the young Lady Elisabet of Carlemont.'

Calard groaned and slapped a hand to his head. It w as starting to come back to him.

'Oh, Lady protector, tell me I did nothing to embarrass myself in front of her,' he said.

'Well, the last thing I saw was her and that young serving girl, Annabel, helping you to your room. What happened after that, I know not,' said Bertelis with a lascivious grin. He dunked his head into a basin of w ater and flicked it back, spraying water across the room behind him. Wet, his golden hair seemed darker, and hung in long strands dow n his back.

'Come on then, w e'd better get going,' said Bertelis brightly, stepping out into the corridor. Calard could have strangled his brother. Somehow, he always seemed to avoid the after-effects of overindulgence, which was perhaps why he indulged so often. In the light streaming through the arched windows, Bertelis looked over at him w ith a critical, pitying expression.

'You look tw ice as bad as I feel,' he said, eliciting another groan from Calard. 'Let's go armour up. Father w ill skin us alive if we keep him w aiting.'

THE KNIGHTS OF Bastonne sat astride their warhorses on the grassland beyond the tow ering walls of Castle Garamont, their armour shined to perfection and colourful banners w hipping in the stiff breeze. Each proudly bore his colours and heraldry, and each carried his helm in the crook of his left arm, his lance held vertical in his right, and his shield thrown over his back. Their number had been carefully chosen so as to outdo the Sangasse contribution, and only a handful of knights would remain at Garamont.

Hundreds of men-at-arms stood in the mud behind them, straining to see and hear the goings on, w earing tabards of red and gold, the lord castellan's colours, and holding polearms and tall shields in their muddy fists. A further contingent of peasants stood alongside the men-at-arms, a muster of bow men drafted into service from amongst the populace, each holding a longbow of yew in his labourer's hands.

Fully armoured and w earing flowing cloaks that mirrored the colours of their livery, Lutheure's sons knelt before their father, the lord castellan of Garamont. Calard could still smell the delicate scent of Elisabet's perfume in his nostrils, and he breathed in deeply. Moments before, he had shared a delicate farewell with her, and he had almost been overw helmed by his love for her as he saw tears w ell in her soulful eyes.

'I shall return in glory, and then we shall be w ed.' He realised that he had spoken w ithout thought, and his face reddened. 'If you w ill have me, I mean,' he added.

Despite her tears, Elisabet had laughed, her pale cheeks blushing the delicate colour of roses. In answ er, she had loosened a violet silk scarf from around her head and tied it around the steel rarebrace that protected his left upper arm. He had been speechless, drinking in the sight and scent of her closeness.

'Be safe, Calard,' she had said, and the young couple embraced. Too soon, she pulled aw ay from him. Turning as her tears threatened to flow anew, she fled into the protective arms of her father, w ho was smiling broadly at Calard. He had w atched her go, feeling exultantly happy, but sad at the same time. He dragged his mind forcefully back to the present.

His heart pounded w ith barely restrained excitement as he knelt before his father, though he felt a tinge of unease. On one hand, this was his chance, at last, to prove himself on the field of battle, and he was full of noble confidence in his own abilities and those of his brother. He could not deny, however, that his father's health was w orsening despite the facade that he presented to the court. He knew that just to be standing outside, fully decked in his gleaming armour, w ishing his knights well, w ould tax him dearly, and that he would most likely spend the rest of the day abed, exhausted. He prayed to the Lady to see his father safe, but he had a sickening feeling in his stomach that he would not see him again.

He pushed these morbid thoughts from his mind as he lowered his head to accept his father's blessing.

'Lady, may your w isdom and care protect these noble knights from harm, and inspire in them the strength and courage necessary to return home in triumph. Embolden them w ith your divine light, and in your name, let them cleanse the lands of Bordeleaux of its evil taint, and do Garamont and Bastonne proud. Lady, bless them that they may uphold your name w ith virtue. Honour is all. Chivalry is all.'

The tw o kneeling knights repeated these last two sentences, intoning them quietly.

'Rise, my sons,' Lutheure said, and the tw o young knights errant rose up to their full heights to look dow n upon their lord and father. Lady Calisse swept past the castellan in a w ave of flowing silk and scented perfumes to embrace Bertelis, leaving Calard standing aw kwardly before his father. The older knight's expression w as distant.

'I w ill make you proud, my lord,' he said softly.

'Your mother w as from Bordeleaux,' said the castellan softly, ignoring his son's w ords. Calard's eyes w idened. In all the long years since his mother's death, his father had spoken of her perhaps twice. As if realising he had spoken aloud, the castellan frow ned, and his usual, cold mask dropped over his face once more.

'Keep your brother safe,' Lutheure said brusquely. Calard sw allowed, and bow ed his head.

Lutheure embraced Bertelis, and Calard bow ed graciously to his stepmother, though the Lady Calisse turned her head aw ay from him, and spoke to a handmaiden.

With a cheer, the two young knights mounted their massive destriers. Squires passed them their w eapons and shields, and Calard felt trembling excitement at the prospect of w ar. They joined the ranks of knights, drawing their steeds alongside their grim w eapon master, Gunthar, who was to accompany them to battle.

'How are you feeling?' Bertelis asked in a low voice, throwing his brother a sideways glance.

'Like a horse is kicking me repeatedly in the head,' said Calard, though he maintained his smile. His brother smirked.

The lord castellan's ancient sword was brought forth, borne upon a cushion by his chamberlain, and Lutheure lifted it into his trembling hands. The sword of Garamont had been handed dow n to each of the successive rulers of Garamont, and it w as an heirloom of priceless value, said to have been blessed by the kiss of the Lady of the Lake. Its scabbard w as inlaid with spiralling designs picked out in gold, and the pommel of the sw ord w as shining blue steel forged in the shape of a fleur-de-lys, the symbol of the blessed Lady. The lord castellan pulled the blade free, the sound of the blade ringing out over the gathered knights.

For a moment, as he lifted the sword high into the air, its blade shimmering with silver, fey light, Lutheure resembled the powerful knight that he had once been, strong, fearless and full of implacable courage.

'To victory!' he shouted, his voice deep and strong. This was met w ith another cheer, and the host of Garamont lifted their lances high in salute to their lord. Calard caught Elisabet's tearful eyes through the crow d of w ell-wishers, and he kissed the silk scarf w ound around his arm w hile he maintained eye contact. She blew him a kiss in return, her eyes welling with tears. Then his eyes flicked to his father once more, settling on the powerful, distant man that he knew not at all.

'I w ill make you proud of me, father,' promised Calard. Then he wheeled his horse and joined the column of knights as they turned to the w est, towards the distant sea and the lands of Bordeleaux. Blushing ladies threw flowers before the resplendent knights, and peasant children and dogs ran alongside them. Trumpets blared as they rode aw ay from Castle Garamont, and Calard gave the castle that had been his home these last decades a final look, before kicking his spurs into Gringolet's flanks.

Bertelis w hooped in excitement, and Calard laughed at his brother's exuberance as he felt his own excitement rise.

CHLOD SQUINTED AS he surveyed the distant castle and the parade of knights that rode from it. He felt his pet, nestling against his scabrous neck, squirm and w riggle.

'Do you see them, my beauty?' he asked the mangy rat. It tw itched its nose, unimpressed.

Chlod had laid low these last days, keeping to the forest. In the distance he could see the limp forms of his former comrades, hanging from the gallows erected alongside the approach to the castle, testament to the justice of the Bastonnian lord.

His stomach grow led loudly, and he thought w istfully of the roasted venison that he had enjoyed some four days earlier. It had been so tender that it had almost melted on his tongue. Just thinking of it made his mouth begin to w ater, and he wiped a long string of drool from his chin with the back of his hand.

He w as sure that there w as abundant food all around him, but he w as no huntsman, and had not the know ledge or means to catch any of the sw ift hares that he glimpsed sometimes at daw n and dusk. He had picked a handful of mushrooms from the base of a tree the day before, praying that they w ere not poisonous, but had not yet plucked up the courage to eat them.

No, foraging in the w ilderness was not for him. A shepherd by birth, he had been kicked out of his home by his mother for his laziness, and had made his way in the w orld by scavenging on the outskirts of villages and tow ns, taking what he could lay his hands on when he could. He had received countless beatings from irate farmers over the years, but he never complained. Better to be beaten than to be hanged.

His small, piggy eyes watched the departing army intently. He knew that an army on the march w ould have countless hangers-on, and that there would be an abundance of food and game needed to supply the knights and their peasant militia. His stomach rumbled again, and his mind was made up.

'We w ill have food aplenty soon enough, my beauty,' he said, and he set off in the direction of the departing army, limping unsteadily through the fields.

CHAPTER FOUR

CALARD'S EARLY ELATION to be bound for glorious battle w as soon replaced with mind-numbing boredom as the monotony of the journey ground home. He didn't know w hy he had expected anything different, for Bordeleaux was hundreds of miles to the w est, but this did nothing to improve his foul mood.

The first day had seemed like the daw n of some grand adventure, and as soon as he had throw n off the worst effects of his hangover, Calard had felt his spirits soar. The sun w as shining, he was w earing a token of his love's affection on his arm, he had his brother at his side and he was riding to w ar with a grand company of seasoned knights.

The lands of Bretonnia w ere not without peril, for, despite the rigour with which the realms w ere protected, it was well known that all manner of foul beasts dw elt within the great tracts of forest and w ithin the high mountains. Outlaws preyed upon travellers, and even this far from the cursed lands of Mousillon, commoners barred their doors at night against the horrors of the night. Nevertheless, the knights of Garamont w ere unconcerned. Travelling in such force, few enemies would dare to strike against them.

The first night had been fine indeed, the knights swapping exaggerated stories of their heroics in battle as they ate, drank and made merry. Calard and Bertelis listened intently, hanging on every w ord spoken by the veterans. The night was glorious, unseasonably w arm and clear as autumn deepened, and the brothers had felt a thrill to be encamped in the wilderness, their minds filled with tales of heroism and glory.

Even the next day, which was overcast, and with a sullen wind whipping at them, Calard's spirits had been high. It w as only that afternoon, as the rains had begun, that his elated mood began to evaporate. It seemed somehow appropriate that, as they passed into Sangasse lands, the weather was turning. Knights of Garamont had rarely entered these lands peacefully, and the gathering black clouds mirrored Calard's darkening mood.

For generations, Garamont and the Sangasse had been fierce rivals, and though it had been nearly half a century since blood had been spilt betw een the families, Calard w as uneasy travelling through their realm. He knew that his brother felt likew ise, as did all the knights of Garamont, but it w as necessary, for it would have taken them hundreds of miles out of their way to circumvent Sangasse's borders.

The contingent from Garamont had linked with the knights and foot soldiers of neighbouring Montcadas, travelling to Bordeleaux beneath the shining white banner of Baron Montcadas, emblazoned w ith its fiery red heraldic sword. The baron led his knights, himself. He was a squat, broad-shouldered w arrior w ith a booming voice and a massive beard. Calard had met the man on several occasions. Indeed, the baron had briefly hoped to marry his plain, big-boned daughter into the Garamont line, and for a few months the previous year Calard had been terrified that his father w ould accept the offer on his behalf. Thankfully, nothing had come of the pairing and the girl w as married off to some other unlucky noble's son to the north.

As w as the Bretonnian way, the knights of Garamont allowed Baron Montcadas command w ithout question, for he w as the most highly ranked noble present.

A strange figure accompanied the Baron of Montcadas, a man dressed outlandishly in the strange fashion of the Empire, far across the Grey Mountains that marked the border of the tw o mighty lands. He wore silk stockings beneath his knee-high riding boots, and bizarre slashed, puffy sleeves billowed around his arms. A black lacquered breastplate protected his body, in the centre of which was the gold emblem of a tw in-tailed comet. Calard dimly recalled from his schooling that the insignia represented the barbarian Sigmar, w ho had founded the Empire, and who had, in time, been deified by his followers. The Cult of Sigmar w as apparently the official religion of the lands of the Empire, which Calard found unfathomable. Sigmar had certainly been a mighty w arrior, but to w orship him, a mere mortal, as a god seemed ridiculous.

A black lacquered sallet helmet sat upon the man's head, a long red feather bobbing from its rim, and he rode a horse of Empire stock, neither as pow erful nor as regal as one of the pure Bretonnian bloodline. Calard w as intrigued by this strange man and the strange land he hailed from, and he stared in fascination at him as he w as introduced.

The Empire soldier, for it was clear that he was a soldier, despite his bizarre and faintly ridiculous dress, was young, perhaps no more than five years Calard's senior.

His cheeks were shaved smooth, as was his chin, but upon his upper lip he sported a prodigious moustache, the points of which were tw eaked and waxed into tight curls.

The effect was humorous to Bretonnian eyes, though it w as clear that the man took his appearance very seriously. Indeed, he seemed to be fastidious to a fault, brushing off any speck of dust from his clothes, and ensuring that his every buckle and bootstrap w as shined and untwisted, and that everything was placed correctly about his person.

His name w as Dieter Weschler, and Calard had spoken the name aw kwardly, trying and failing to pronounce it correctly. The man had corrected his attempt, his voice guttural and clipped to Calard's ears. He spoke Breton better than Calard had expected, though his accent w as strange. He had strength in him, Calard had decided as he had gripped forearms with the man and looked into his eyes.

Bertelis had appraised the Empire man w ith a critical eye, sizing him up, and he was clearly unimpressed. There was no doubting that he w as wealthy, for his outlandish clothes w ere richly made, and he wore rings and earrings of gold, but, to a Bretonnian eye, he appeared more like a lowborn peasant merchant that had come into money than one born to it through noble bloodline.

He had a sw ord strapped at his side, but it w as his other weapons that w ere making Bertelis w rinkle his nose in disgust. A long-barrelled handgun was strapped over Dieter's shoulder, and a brace of three pistols hung loosely at his side. In Bretonnia, w eapons that caused death from afar w ere regarded as cow ardly, and no knight w ould dream of sullying himself by making use of a bow or crossbow , outside of the hunt. To use such missile weapons on the field of battle marked one as a peasant, for there w as no glory to be had in defeating one's enemy from a distance. A noble w arrior's w eapons were the lance and the sword, the mace and the morning star. It w as only those w ho lacked honour, bravery and self-respect that resorted to the use of such w eapons as the bow .

Black pow der w eapons were all but unheard of in Bretonnia, but Dieter explained w ith dignified pride that they were commonplace in the wealthier Empire states, apparently oblivious to the less than enthusiastic response of his audience.

It w as w ith some shock that Calard learned that Dieter was a blood relative of the ruler of the Empire, and thus of the noblest stock of the land. He could tell that Bertelis too w as stunned by this revelation. The Baron of Montcadas said that Dieter w as a guest in his household, come to Bastonne to learn more of Bretonnia and strengthen the bonds betw een the tw o great lands. His own son, he proclaimed proudly, w as currently a guest of the Empire, living in a far off city called Altdorf, housed w ithin the Emperor's palace.

'I don't like him,' declared Bertelis when they were out of earshot. 'The people of the Empire must be w eak indeed if their nobles dress in the manner of merchants and carry peasant w eapons to w ar.'

'Perhaps,' said Calard noncommittally. 'I w ould like to speak to him more though,' he added after a moment of silence. His brother raised an eyebrow .

'Why?' he asked.

Calard shrugged.

'To learn of his lands, their customs, their way of doing things. It interests me.'

Bertelis snorted, shaking his head.

The rains had increased in intensity, turning the trail into a quagmire of clinging mud. Water ran uncomfortably dow n the inside of Calard's armour. The horses plodded on through the w orsening weather until a halt w as finally called. The knights sat astride their horses in silence as peasants scrambled through the mud to erect their tents and get cooking fires burning.

Sitting beneath a canvas aw ning, Calard and Bertelis w atched as the rains redoubled in strength, and it w as not long before booming peals of thunder echoed across the heavens, making the picketed horses whinny in fear. A table had been set up before the pair of young knights, and upon it were scattered the remains of their meal.

Calard fingered his goblet thoughtfully, watching the peasants scurrying back and forth through the dow npour on errands and duties.

Lightning flashed across the sky in a stunning display, followed seconds later by thunderous crashes that resounded across the bleak landscape. Bertelis wore a sour expression on his noble face as he watched the rain come dow n. He w as gnawing on a bone, and hurled it out into the dow npour in frustration at being held up.

Calard w atched dispassionately as a pair of peasants scrambled through the mud tow ards the discarded bone. One of them w as hunchbacked, and had a pronounced limp, w hile the other was smaller and weasel-like.

'A gold crow n says the small one gets it,' said Bertelis.

'You're on,' replied Calard. The hunchback w as closer, but he stumbled, and fell heavily in the mud as he closed on the prize. Bertelis laughed in victory as the smaller peasant sw ooped in and grabbed the scrap of food, and he held out his hand to receive his gold crown from his brother.

'Wait,' said Calard, as the hunchback picked himself up off the ground and dived on the smaller figure, tackling him into the mud. Bertelis guffawed and yelled encouragement as the pair rolled over and over in the mud, fighting for possession of the food scrap. He threw his hands up into the air in disappointment, as the hunchback rolled on top of the smaller figure and began pounding his fists into its face. At last, he stepped aw ay from the body, picking up his prize.

'You there! Peasant!' shouted Bertelis, standing up. The hunchback froze. 'Yes, you!'

Bertelis hollered over the downpour, 'Come here!'

The hunchback glanced around furtively, shoving his prize into a deep pocket on his tunic. For a moment, it looked like he w as going to run, but he clearly thought better of it, and began to approach the knights errant.

He limped heavily tow ards them, pulling his hood down low over his face. Behind him, the beaten figure of his rival pushed itself groggily to its feet and staggered off though the rain. With shock, Calard realised that it w as a w oman, and he shook his head in disbelief.

The hunchback stopped just outside the canvas aw ning that protected the knights, standing in the rain, his head low.

'Yes, my lord?' said the man humbly.

'Take off your hood,' ordered Bertelis. Somew hat reluctantly, the man did so. He was an ugly brute, thought Calard, thick jaw ed and caked in mud, and his lowered eyes w ere uneven.

'You just lost me a gold crow n, peasant,' said Bertelis imperiously. The man glanced up fearfully at the young knight tow ering above him, before his gaze flicked down to the ground once more.

'I'm sorry, lord,' he mumbled, clearly having no idea what was going on.

'Well, w hat are you going to do about it?'

'Um,' stuttered the man, shifting his weight nervously. 'I... ah.'

Calard narrow ed his eyes as he looked at the man. There was something familiar about him, but he couldn't put his finger on it.

'I'll tell you w hat you can do. My brother and I are in need of entertainment, and you certainly have the look of a clown about you. Dance.'

The man blanched, opening and closing his mouth soundlessly. He threw a glance tow ards Calard, w ho was still regarding him closely, and quickly turned his gaze aw ay.

'I... I don't know how, my lord,' he stammered.

'Well, just give it a try, hmm? Dance for us.'

'Oh, leave him alone,' said Calard.

'No, brother,' replied Bertelis. 'I would have him dance for us. Well, come on then!

Dance!'

The hunchback began to hop from foot to foot, and Bertelis howled in laughter, clapping his hands. Apparently encouraged by this, the man began to hop more energetically from foot to foot, and began to lift his arms up and dow n.

'That's the w ay! You've got it now !' laughed Bertelis, and Calard found himself snorting in pitying amusement. The w retched peasant grinned stupidly, and turned an ungainly pirouette on the spot, w hich was greeted with more laughter. Calard w as w ell used to the tortures his brother inflicted on the lowborn at every opportunity, but he had to admit that the sight of this w retched creature capering in the pouring rain w as funny. A rat poked its black furred head out of the peasant's tunic, w hich elicited further laughter from the brothers.

Tears streaming from his eyes, Bertelis w aved for the peasant to stop, his body still shuddering with amusement. He picked up another discarded bone from his plate, and held it out to the peasant. The man eagerly reached for it, his crooked eyes lighting up, but Bertelis retracted it just before the peasant could close his grubby hand on it. He extended it once more, again pulling it back just before the peasant could grasp it. The peasant grinned stupidly at Bertelis's jest, and the third time the young knight offered it and retracted it, he slapped his leg and laughed out loud.

Finally, Bertelis hurled the bone aw ay from him. The man followed its arc carefully, but did not chase after it immediately.

'Well, go,' said Bertelis finally.

'Thank you, young lord,' said the man, turning away from them. The stupid grin dropped from his face, replaced with a scow l of anger and humiliation, and he loped tow ards the discarded tidbit, shouting and w aving his arms as other peasants moved tow ards it.

Still chuckling Bertelis watched him go.

'Did you recognise that man from somew here?' asked Calard, still troubled that he could not place the man.

'Who, the hunchback? I don't know . Maybe. They all look the same to me.' Calard grunted and pushed the thought from his mind.

'How far is it to Bordeleaux?' asked Bertelis.

'Five days' ride, Gunthar says,' replied Calard.

'We had better pray to the Lady that the battle is not over before w e get there,' said Bertelis. A flutter of concern passed through Calard at the thought.

That night, with the rain lashing down on the tent he shared with his brother, Calard lit fourteen candles, each one representing one of the Dukedoms of Bretonnia. He carefully unfolded the hinged wooden triptych that served as his shrine to the Lady.

Humbly, he touched his fingertips to the centre of his forehead, his lips and his heart in turn, before kneeling.

The central, arched panel held a portrait of the Lady painted in oils and protected w ith thick lacquer. It w as a delicate image that seemed to glow from within, showing the Lady holding her holy, golden grail before her.

In the left-hand panel was a finely detailed painting of Gilles the Uniter, the founder of Bretonnia. He knelt humbly w ith his head bow ed, his famous dragon-skin cloak throw n over his shoulders. Gilles had slain the malevolent great w yrm, Smearghus, w hen he was little more than a boy, and had cut the cloak from its flesh. The revered artefact hung in the duke of Bastonne's castle, and every year thousands of knights made the pilgrimage to stand beneath it in awe.

The right-hand panel showed the fabled Green Knight, the unearthly guardian of Bretonnia's sacred places. Pictured as a fey spirit of aw esome power and majesty, the Green Knight wore ancient armour, and w as surrounded by coiling mist and ivy.

It w as the central image, that of the Lady of Lake, that Calard focused on. Her deep eyes that the unknow n artist had captured so skilfully, full of motherly love, but also w ith profound strength and mystery, captivated him, and he stared longingly at the golden chalice clasped in her delicate hands.

To be visited by the image of the Lady, and to sup from the grail w as the ultimate aim of every knight of Bretonnia, and only the most determined, pure and w orthy knights w ould ever achieve this goal. It w as said that only the truly pure of heart survived drinking from this hallowed chalice, and any that had even the smallest hint of corruption or flaw w ould be instantly killed. Calard longed for the day when he would be able to take up the quest and go out into the w orld in search of the Lady. She w ould only appear to one w ho had travelled far, embarking on a great journey, and w ho had fought against all manner of beast and injustice. Such an event w as many years off, and Calard sighed in impatience, longing for that time w hen he attained the honour and glory needed to take up the questing vow .

Pushing such thoughts from his mind, he focused on the image of the Lady before him. She w ore a garland of flowers and ivy around her head, and her long hair flowed freely around her. She was the very epitome of noble beauty and chastity.

In a soft, humble voice, he prayed firstly for the king, Louen Leoncouer, the Lionhearted, that he may reign long and true. Then he prayed for the health of his father, and for his sister, Anara, long lost, asking that the Lady look over her w herever she might be. He prayed for his brother Bertelis, that he might gain much honour and renow n in the battles to come, and that he w ould live a long, fulfilling life. Lastly, he prayed for himself, though he felt a tw inge of guilt to pray for selfish means. Still, he pushed these thoughts aside, and prayed fervently.

'Lady of Chivalry let the battles in Bordeleaux be glorious and noble, and let the forces of the king prove victorious against the evil that defiles your realm. Lend me strength, Lady, and let my faith in you be the armour of my soul. Let me prove my honour before all on the field of battle, and let me return to Garamont victorious.

Lady of the Fair Isle, I sw ear it, I shall not rest until I have proven myself worthy in your eyes,' said Calard, taking a deep breath before he continued. 'And I shall not rest until I have proven myself w orthy in the eyes of my father.'

In the darkness, Bertelis lay aw ake in the darkness, listening to his brother's solemn and puritanical w ords.

At last, the fourteen candles were snuffed out, and the tent was plunged into darkness.

CHAPTER FIVE

CALARD RODE AT the head of the column of knights snaking across the verdant landscape, savouring the feeling of the sun on his back. It had seemed that the entire host had been galvanised by the same concern that plagued Calard: that they w ould arrive in Bordeleaux too late to make a meaningful contribution in the war against the greenskins, and so the nobles had pushed on with renewed vigour. They aw oke before daw n, peasants quickly striking the tents, and the entire force was moving before the first rays of the sun speared over the horizon from the east.

They pushed on at a formidable pace, eating up the miles as they crossed farmland, keeping the forest of Chalons always within eyesight to the south, following the curve of the great expanse of trees. They passed through countless peasant villages and by a dozen fortified stately homes and castles, and, at last, the plains of southern Bastonne rose into the undulating hills of Bordeleaux.

They maintained their relentless pace into the night, leaving the footslogging men-at-arms and the rabble of bow men commoners far behind, before camp w as made. The colourful tents of the nobles w ere hastily erected by yeomen, and the knights' horses w ere brushed dow n, fed and w atered. It was long after midnight, after all but a handful of nobles had eaten their fill and retired for the night, when the peasant soldiers arrived in camp. They collapsed to the ground exhausted, choosing to cluster together under filthy blankets rather than expend the energy needed to erect the crude mass aw nings that served as their shelters.

They kept up the mile-eating pace for five days. The rains had passed, but the days remained dull and grey. Miserable, cold peasants in the fields leant on their hoes, w iping hands across their brow s as they watched the parade of knights pass. Some of them w aved, but not a single knight so much as acknow ledged their existence. Only the taciturn Empire noble, Dieter, gave the workers a response, nodding curtly to them as they stared at him in curiosity.

'What crops are being tended?' Dieter asked, gesturing to the endless rows of tall, gangly plants, his voice clipped and heavily accented. Stakes connected with twine had been driven into the ground along the perfectly straight lines of cultivated plants to keep them upright, and fruit hung in dense bunches from the spindly limbs.

Calard laughed out loud, looking at the Empire envoy to see if he was making some joke that did not translate. Seeing nothing that would suggest humour in the man's serious face, he shook his head slightly at Dieter's ignorance. He seemed so learned in some areas, but, in others, his lack of knowledge was astounding.

'This area is renowned throughout the Old World for its vineyards,' said Calard.

'These are grape vines you see stretched out before you.'

'Ah!' said Dieter, w agging a finger in the air in pleasure and excitement, as if he had uncovered some great hidden knowledge. 'This is where your w ine is made!'

'Well, it is where the grapes that make w ine is cultivated, yes,' said Calard, amused at the usually reserved man's obvious excitement. 'Do you not have vineyards within the Empire?'

'Oh yes, some, but not in Reikland.'

Calard frow ned. 'So, w hat do you drink?'

'Beer, predominantly, strong, full flavoured and invigorating. Some of the w ealthy drink w ine, but it is not common.'

'In Bretonnia, even the lowliest peasant drinks wine,' said Calard proudly, 'and none more so than those of Bordeleaux, hence the expression, ''the sober man of Bordeleaux' .'

Dieter frow ned. 'I do not understand,' he said.

'If something is unusual, or unexpected, it is said to be as rare as the sober man of Bordeleaux.'

Dieter repeated the phrase quietly, committing it to memory as if it w ere of great import.

'It's a jest,' prompted Calard. 'In Bordeleaux, there is such an abundance of readily accessible and cheap w ine that the inhabitants are jokingly regarded to be constantly inebriated.'

'Yes, I understand the humour. It is most amusing,' said Dieter seriously. Calard rolled his eyes as the Imperial envoy turned away. If all the people of the Empire were as humourless as Dieter, it must be a grim place indeed.

There was a shout of alarm, and Calard turned in the direction that some of the knights w ere pointing, seeing wafts of dark smoke rising into the sky in the distance.

'It's probably just peasants burning off refuse,' said a knight, but there w as little conviction in his voice.

'Men are riding towards us,' said Dieter suddenly. His accent made his pronunciation amusing to the ears of the Bretonnians, and Bertelis, riding just behind the pair, sniggered.

'Zey are peasant scouts,' said Bertelis, imitating Dieter's accent. Calard smirked, and flicked a sidelong glance at the Imperial noble. His face was impassive. If he realised that he w as being made fun of, he made no acknowledgement of the fact.

Four outriders rode tow ards the column of knights, crude spears in their hands.

They rode draught horses more generally used to pull hoes and wagons. It was a rare honour for any peasant to be allow ed to ride a horse, and a great sign of status among the unruly commoners, though the heavy steeds were utterly outshone by the noble w arhorses ridden by the nobility.

Gunthar pulled his steed up alongside Calard, and addressed the dirty peasants as they drew their horses to a halt alongside the column.

'What new s, yeoman?'

The leader of the motley horsemen, a stinking man w ith a vicious scar running across his face, nodded his head in deference to Gunthar. He wore a tabard of iron-studded leather over his body, and, bizarrely, had a dead pigeon strapped to his steel-rimmed helmet. His luncheon meal, most probably, thought Calard in disgust.

'A village, m'lord, under attack up ahead.'

'Under attack? Greenskins?' asked Gunthar curtly.

'Aye, m'lord.'

Calard and Bertelis exchanged excited glances.

'How far?' cut in Calard eagerly.

'Not far, m'lord, maybe five miles? Up yonder, in the dip past that hill,' said the scarred yeoman, gesturing w ith his spear tow ards a rise up ahead.

Calard and Bertelis instantly kicked their steeds forward, though they wheeled them sharply around w hen they realised that the other knights were not following their lead.

'Well, w hat are you w aiting for?' asked Bertelis.

'Have some patience, young lord,' said Gunthar darkly. 'It is foolish indeed to rush off to battle w ithout knowing first what one faces.'

'What one faces?' asked Bertelis. 'The peasant said it himself: greenskins.'

'But how many, and from w hich direction? These are questions that a knight must ask before he charges off to battle.'

Calard huffed in impatience. His steed, sensing its rider's excitement, was snorting and stamping its hooves as it turned on the spot.

'Ah, the lads are just eager to w het their blades,' said the deep booming voice of the Baron of Montcadas as he rode to the front of the column. 'I can't say I blame them, either,' he added. 'The last week has been a drain on my patience.' Calard gave the broad shouldered knight a grin.

The baron's bushy beard parted in a broad, toothy smile, and he pulled his morning star from his side, the heavy spiked ball falling to hang alongside his horse as the chain w as released from its leather binding.

'Let's go get 'em, eh lads?' said the baron, w inking towards Calard.

The young knights errant whooped in anticipation, and the baron sw ung his bulk around in the saddle to address the knights behind him.

'Knights of Bastonne!' he roared w ith the thunder of an angry bear. 'We ride to battle!

Form up!'

With that, the baron kicked his steed forward into a trot.

'Stay close to me lads,' he rumbled to Calard and Bertelis, and they fell in alongside the stocky knight of Montcadas. Gunthar pulled his steed alongside them, his moustache tw itching in irritation.

'Don't tense up, and don't break formation w hen the charge is launched,' he said.

'Keep tight, and don't lose your momentum.'

'We know how to fight, old man,' retorted Bertelis, but the veteran knight ignored him.

'Follow the lead of the baron. He w ill be the point of the lance, and you must ride close. We must be as one, for if w e become splintered w e will lose our advantage.'

Bertelis groaned in exasperation, and Calard too felt his frustration and embarrassment rise.

'We are not children,' Calard snapped, feeling a blush on his cheeks to be spoken to in this manner within earshot of the more senior knights.

'That w ill be determined shortly,' said Gunthar. 'Just remember w hat I have taught you.'

CALARD'S HANDS WERE sw eating within his gauntlets and his throat w as dry, as the knights crested the hill.

The buildings of the village were crude dwellings, constructed from a latticework of sticks, and covered in a thick gruel of straw, mud and manure. Such w attle and daub lodgings w ere common in Bretonnia, for it was illegal for a peasant to make use of stone in the construction of their own dwellings. The streets were filled with screaming peasants, w ho ran in all directions.

Several of the hovels were ablaze, and black smoke rose, in billowing clouds above them.

Calard's eyes, how ever, were drawn to the enemy. He had never seen a live greenskin before, though he had stared for hours on end at the massive stuffed head of one of the brutes, mounted in the castle banquet hall, marvelling at its savage, thick features and gaping, tusk-filled maw . That severed orc head had always made him shiver, but it w as as nothing compared to w itnessing the brutal creatures in the flesh.

Each of them w as as tall as a man, though they w ere hulking monsters of muscle, far broader and heavier than the peasants they were slaughtering. The air was filled with their savage roars, and they hacked around them w ith heavy cleavers and cudgels, butchering everything in their path.

The ground reverberated w ith the pounding of hooves as the knights of Bastonne galloped tow ards the beleaguered villagers, and Calard felt his breath catch in his throat. He saw one roaring greenskin slam its crude w eapon into the shoulder of a screaming peasant, blood spurting from the mortal blow as it drove deep into the man's body. An axe slammed into the neck of another, nigh on severing the peasant's head, and the greenskin monster roared its pleasure as hot blood sprayed into its face.

Scores of peasants had already been massacred, and the few that tried to fight their attackers w ith pitchforks and hoes were cut dow n mercilessly. Calard saw a man's head rupture as it w as slammed violently into the doorframe of a barn, and heard the cries of peasants that had chosen to die in the flames consuming their homes rather than be torn apart by the animal ferocity of the greenskins.

The village was a scene of nightmarish brutality and horror, with screaming peasants running in every direction, seeking escape, and dozens of hulking, green-skinned creatures revelling in the panic and slaughter. Calard saw a child impaled upon a spear hurled through the maelstrom of battle, and, as he w atched, he saw a w oman hurl herself from the upper storey of a barn, desperate to escape the flames threatening to burn her alive, only to be leapt upon and ripped apart by a pair of massive green-fleshed brutes.

'For Bastonne and the King!' bellow ed Baron Montcadas, swinging his spiked morning star over his head, and the knights kicked their steeds into a gallop. The baron formed the apex of the charge, pulling ahead of the line of knights, and the other nobles of Bastonne formed a tight w edge behind him. Calard guided his steed expertly w ith his thighs and spurs, and lowered his lance before him as he had been trained, and the knights of Bretonnia thundered into the main street of the village.

A greenskin raised its thick head from the struggling peasant it had just clubbed to the ground, its small eyes glinting with savagery. The spiked metal ball of the baron's morning star sw ung into its head with brutal force, and the creature w as sent flying backw ards, its skull a shattered ruin, before it was trampled beneath the hooves of the knights' steeds.

Everything was happening in a blur. The riot of noise was overwhelming as screams of pain and anger mingled with animalistic roars and bellows above the pounding of horses' hooves and the clanking of plate armour. The heat of the flames washed over Calard like a w ave, the hot air scalding his lungs with each breath. Burning buildings flashed past as the knights pounded into the village, and peasants dived out of the w ay, frantic to escape being trampled to death. The stink of blood, death and burning human flesh filled Calard's nostrils. His heart w as pounding and his breath w as coming in short, sharp gasps.

'Keep tight!' shouted Gunthar, and Calard snapped back into focus. His w hole existence seemed to become suddenly centred on the tip of his lance, and he levelled it at the barrelling chest of a greenskin brute that roared its defiance as he bore down upon it.

The creature leapt forw ard to meet the knights head-on, and Calard followed its every move w ith the tip of his lance. He took in every detail of the barbarous creature: its foul hide, w hich was the colour of rotting vegetation; the assortment of rusted armour plates that covered its broad shoulders; its malicious red eyes filled with bloodlust and bestial hatred. Gore dripped from the heavy bladed cleavers clasped in its massive fists, and thick tusks extended from its lower jaw . Its heavily scarred arms w ere immense, easily as thick as his thighs.

The lance tip smashed into the orc's chest w ith a shuddering impact, and Calard tensed his muscles as he drove the lance through the creature's ribcage, as he had been taught on the practice fields of Garamont. The power of the blow shuddered up Calard's arm and into his body, as the vamplate of his lance was driven back into his breastplate, and his body rocked backw ards in the saddle. The lance drove clear through the creature's body, impaling it, and the w eapon was ripped from Calard's hands.

The fallen orc was trampled beneath Gringolet's hooves, its bones crushed as it w as kicked and stamped by the knights close behind. Then Calard was past the orc, his sw ord hissing from his scabbard in a flash of silver. In what seemed like a fraction of a second, he had been blooded in battle, and had made his first kill with the lance.

Calard's blade flashed out, glancing off the skull of an orc as he surged past, and other greenskins were lifted into the air as they were impaled on the lances of the other knights.

Calard's earlier nervousness w as replaced by an empow ering surge of adrenaline, and he w hooped savagely, voicing his enthusiasm and excitement as the formation of knights thundered through the village, running down and slaughtering the greenskins. Nothing could stand against them, and the feeling of power and speed w as intoxicating.

CALARD'S HANDS WERE shaking as he dismounted, and he took a deep racking breath, exhausted and exhilarated. His body w as tense, and it felt like he had been fighting for hours rather than the scant minutes that had actually passed.

Kneeling, he w iped the dark blood from his sword on the tunic of a peasant lying face dow n and unmoving in the mud. The image of the orc as his lance had impaled it kept flashing into his mind, and he clenched his fist, feeling again the killing blow .

Bertelis w hooped as he dropped from the saddle alongside him, and Calard beamed at him as the brothers clasped forearms.

'Our first battle a noble victory!' said Bertelis. 'I saw your strike, brother, a fine blow it w as.'

'As w as yours,' said Calard. Bertelis's lance had taken an orc in the throat, ripping its jugular free in a spurt of blood.

'And the baron!' exclaimed Bertelis. 'He w as like the spirit of Gilles reborn! He must have killed, what, five of them?'

'It w as truly a sight to behold,' he said, nodding in agreement, aw ed by the prow ess of the knight.

'You did w ell, young lords,' said Gunthar gruffly, pulling his horse alongside the pair of knights errant. 'You remembered your training in the chaos of battle. More than a few knights have stumbled in their first engagement, freezing up or becoming overw helmed by their fear. I am proud of you both.'

Calard beamed up at Gunthar, feeling a surge of pride at the rare praise.

Peasant w omen wailed over the mutilated corpses of fathers, husbands and sons, w hile others struggled to contain the fires that still raged, but Calard w as oblivious to their suffering, focused completely on his own victory. He had been tested in the forge of battle and had proven himself w orthy.

'This w as but a skirmish,' said Gunthar. 'The enemy w as unprepared for our attack, intent on the slaughter of the defenceless, but it is good that your blades have been w hetted in blood. Remember this day, for things will never be the same again. Today, you have become men.'

With a curt nod, the w eapon master w heeled his horse around, and began barking orders at the men-at-arms bearing the colours of Garamont, w ho w ere just now arriving in the village, organising them into work teams. A pit was dug on the outskirts of the village, and the corpses of slain peasants were hurled unceremoniously into the shallow grave. The bodies of the greenskins w ere dragged onto the smouldering remnants of a hovel gutted by fire, and the air was soon filled w ith a nauseating stink as their flesh was consumed in the flames. More than half the village had been levelled by fire, and peasants poked through the ruins to salvage anything of value.

'Knights of Bastonne! The armies of Bordeleaux are near!' bellow ed Baron Montcadas.

'We push on!'

Calard pulled himself into the saddle once more, feeling older and more self-assured than he had only an hour earlier. He accepted a new lance offered to him by a soldier, bearing the colours of his father, and at the sound of a horn blow n by one of the knights the nobles of Bastonne rode from the devastated village. The men-at-arms and bow men trudged along in their w ake, stomping and slipping through the mud.

The peasant villagers watched them go, their faces pale, and streaked with blood and filth as they stood despondent amid the scene of destruction all around them.

The w arriors of Bastonne did not look back.

CALARD'S JAW DROPPED as he drew to a halt atop the rise and looked dow n upon the seething battle underway below .

They had ridden for half a day before encountering the scouts of Bordeleaux.

Clarion horns sounded, and thousands of knights churned up the earth as they thundered across the field, lances lowering as they smashed into the massed ranks of the enemy. The greenskins surged like an overwhelming tide, their numbers inconceivable. Dim roars and screams carried up to the knights of Bordeleaux, and barbarous drums echoed across the battlefield. The greenskins pounded weapons against their shields, creating a resounding din, like the beating heart of some infernal god of war.

The earth w as littered w ith the dead and dying hundreds of broken figures that tw itched and moaned in pain. Horses with legs broken beneath them screamed in inhuman agony. Dark clouds of arrow s descended through the air, killing hundreds w ith each volley.

'Ah, w hat I w ould give to have a handful of cannons from Nuln here, now,' said Dieter, to no one in particular. Bertelis flashed a look of disgust at the Empire soldier.

Thousands of men-at-arms and greenskins were locked in brutal combat, and Calard could see the line of the Bretonnian forces begin to buckle against the strength and ferocity of the foe. Even as he watched, he saw a heraldic black and w hite banner fall amidst the mayhem, and a few men-at-arms broke ranks, fleeing aw ay from the foe.

These men were like the first rocks that started an avalanche, and soon hundreds of men-at-arms w ere streaming back tow ards their own battle lines. Scores of them w ere cut dow n by the enemy that surged forw ards as they fled, and hundreds more w ould have been slaughtered were it not for the knights that pow ered into the greenskins, stemming the gap in the line. They ploughed through the undisciplined enemy ranks, felling dozens with lance and sword, and scattering the survivors before them.

The greenskin lines parted, and rattling chariots of crude design were dragged through the breach by giant w ar boars, murderous scythes spinning from their axles.

Calard cried out as he saw a trio of these machines of war smash into a phalanx of knights. Nobles fell heavily as their steed's legs were cut from beneath them, while other knights were lifted from their saddles by the thick spears thrust by the orcs riding upon the backs of these w heeled constructs. The gigantic war boars, bristling w ith blood lust, gored and ripped with thick tusks capped w ith iron, and noble w arriors of Bordeleaux were crushed beneath the metal studded rims of chariot w heels.

The carnage w as breathtaking. This was war, with thousands of men and beasts clashing in mortal combat.

A formation of knights, its momentum lost, became mired in combat, deep w ithin an enemy formation. Their horn blower sounded his instrument frantically, as the greenskins surrounded them on all sides and began dragging them from the saddle, cleavers hacking at the knights savagely.

A lance of knights, hearing the distress call, wheeled their steeds around to aid their comrades, and it w as then that Calard saw a fresh line of orcs erupt from the tree line, riding upon the backs of hulking boars. The powerful beasts hurtled across the ground, angling towards the flank of the knights w ho were oblivious to the threat.

The knights of Bordeleaux overlooked the field from a vantage point, and only they could see the danger. The boar riders w ould slam into the flank of the knights, and more proud Bretonnians w ould be slaughtered.

'Ride!' shouted Baron Montcadas, kicking his steed onwards, and the knights of Bastonne pow ered down the grassy hill to intercept the threat. Calard, his face flushed w ith anger, shouted a w ordless war cry, which w as lost amongst the cacophony of w ar, as he urged Gringolet on, willing the stallion to gallop faster.

Too late, the boar riders realised this new danger, and tried to haul their bulky steeds around to face the knights' charge. The creatures were stubborn, obstinate beasts, and they snarled and slavered as their riders pulled brutally at them. Several of them threw their riders, bucking and spinning, and the massive tuskers gored each other in the confusion. The scent of blood drove them to madness, and they ripped at each other, as their riders tried frantically to control the wild beasts. Then the knights of Bastonne slammed into them.

Calard's lance glanced off the armoured shoulder of an orc, throwing it off balance, and Gringolet's armoured bulk smashed the creature aside. It lost its precarious balance upon the ridged back of its mount, and fell beneath the flashing hooves of the w arhorses, even as the boar w as impaled upon the lance of another knight, spitting and snarling as it fell.

There was a sharp crack from nearby, followed by an unfamiliar, acrid smell, and an orc w as felled as a lead shot punched through its thick, bony forehead. Calard glanced to his side to see the Empire soldier, Dieter, with one of his long ornate pistols extended, smoke spilling from the barrel.

A knight alongside Calard was thrown from the saddle as a spear struck his breastplate, and he saw his brother's lance break as it sank deep into the body of another boar. Tucking his own lance tightly under his arm, he drove its point into the face of a savagely painted greenskin, feeling the satisfying impact as the long weapon drove through its eye socket and brain, before punching through the back of its skull.

Then the knights were free, having smashed through the flank of the boar riders, splitting them.

'Wheel right!' roared Baron Montcadas, sw inging his gore splattered morning star above his head, spraying blood all around him. In perfect unison, the knights of Bastonne pulled their steeds around to the right in a w ide arc, wheeling to face the remnants of the boar riders.

'For the glory of Bastonne!' roared the baron, echoed by the shouts of the knights riding behind him, and charged into the confused enemy.

Calard screamed in savage fury as he killed. His lance was wrenched from his hand, so he drew his glittering sword and split the helmet and head of another greenskin.

Within the hour, the field had been won, and the remnants of the greenskin army w as fleeing back into the trees, pursued by small regiments of knights and mounted yeomen.

Calard reined his steed in, breathing heavily. His immaculate blue and red tabard w as splattered w ith blood, and ripped where a cow ardly arrow, fired by the enemy, had glanced across his chest. His shield, bearing his white dragon rampant upon a blue and red field was battered and scratched.

In one hand, he held the delicate material of the scarf given to him by Elisabet, and he lifted it to his nose, inhaling the perfume that clung to it, feeling comfort in the familiar scent. He tucked the silk cloth beneath his breastplate, and bent forw ards in the saddle to pat Gringolet heavily on the shoulder, whispering to the powerful destrier.

'You did w ell, boy. You did w ell.'

CHAPTER SIX

THE BLARING OF horns and the roar of cheering greeted the victorious knights as they rode into Duke Alberic of Bordeleaux's camp. The smell of roasting meat all but concealed the stink of bodies, sweat, horses and the open pit latrines. Heralds shouted the names and deeds of nobles as they approached, and groups of young knights, flushed with victory, were already celebrating loudly, toasting their success and boasting of their exploits.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Calard gestured to his ow n shield.

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

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

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

Dieter frow ned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Green is also the colour of the fey.'

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

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

'They sound dangerous.'

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

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

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

When they had passed, Bertelis drew alongside his brother.

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

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

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

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

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

Dieter raised an eyebrow .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Calard blinked and pulled back, reaching for his goblet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Wenches,' said Bertelis disparagingly.

'I thought you liked them,' said Calard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How touching.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

One of the heavyset men behind Maloric smirked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Calard felt the colour drain from his face.

'You lie,' he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Calard grinned. It certainly had felt satisfying.

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

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

'What?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER SEVEN

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'You took your time,' the veteran said.

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

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

'What?' asked Calard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The smile slipped from Gunthar's face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'No, you didn't,' said Calard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That got Calard's attention.

'Anything else?'

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

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

'Yes! It is him!'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Raising his gaze and standing once more, Calard felt exhilaration fill him, as the grail knight dipped his lance in salute to the knights, bow ing his head ever so slightly.

Then he was past them, and the world seemed to grow a little dimmer. The clouds closed ranks once more overhead, and the radiant brilliance that had bathed the grail knight faded.

'The grail knight Reolus,' w hispered Bertelis, shaking his head in wonder. 'Did you see the size of him? I had thought that the legends of his exploits may have been exaggerated, but seeing him here, I doubt them not at all.'

'We have been blessed indeed to have stood in the presence of such greatness,' said Gunthar as he pulled himself back into the saddle. Minutes later, distant cheering and the blaring of trumpets announced Reolus's entrance into the duke's camp.

'Remember this moment, knights of Bretonnia. Through courage, devotion and duty, you too may one day achieve such lofty heights.'

Calard's eyes misted over as he imagined people cheering his name, proclaiming his deeds and being aw ed in his presence. Gunthar's voice cut through his daydream.

'That isn't going to happen standing around like a bunch of dullards. To become a grail knight, one must display utter devotion to one's lord and the Lady, and perform all one's duties, how ever mundane, with pride and honour. Right now, our duty is to enter the forest and scare out the enemy. So let's not linger here any longer.'

Calard sw ung into the saddle, still amazed and honoured by having been so close to a grail knight: the mighty Reolus, no less. Faced against such a w arrior, the enemy had no chance. The mere possibility of seeing the knight riding into battle w as a thrilling thought.

The forest loomed like a malevolent beast in the distance. He shivered, scanning the tree line for movement. Gringolet snorted uneasily, and Calard gave the destrier a comforting pat, staring darkly tow ards the looming trees. It felt as though hateful eyes w atched their progress.

Pushing such childish thoughts from his mind, he concentrated on envisaging his triumphant elevation to the heady ranks of the grail knights, and smiled.

CALARD'S UNEASE RETURNED as they pushed into the forest of Chalons. The outskirts had been open and filled with light, the coppiced trees young and w idely spread, allow ing the knight easy progress. Late-blooming bluebells spread beneath the shadow s of the trees, creating an otherworldly vision of remarkable beauty.

Bones and the occasional grinning skull, the remains of some long-forgotten battle, peeked from beneath the softly lilting purple-blue flowers.

Sparse w oodland had slowly given way to denser, darker tracts, where the trees were older and more tightly clumped, and the knights' progress slowed. The ground was thick w ith fallen, rotting leaves. The light that pierced the thick canopy of twisted branches diminished, and the shadows deepened, becoming more menacing. Calard's eyes darted around, jumping from shadow to shadow , feeling eyes upon him and glimpsing flickers of movement out of the corners of his eyes.

After hours of travel, they w ere pushing into the dark, old forest, untouched by human hand. Thick oaks, gnarled like tw isted old men, leant over the knights as they progressed, creaking and groaning.

Moss and lichen clung to the trunks, and toadstools and fungus grew in abundance.

Mighty trees of ash and beech grew thick and tall, and small creatures rustled through the leaf litter and danced through the branches overhead. Leaves and sticks fell upon the knights, and they eyed their surroundings warily. The paths worn through the trees by boars or deer w ere tw isting and convoluting, and the branches of trees pressed in on all sides, making the knights duck and shield their eyes against tw igs that clawed at their exposed faces.

This was not a place for a knight of Bretonnia, and Calard imagined that the ancient forest w as resisting their presence, resentful of the intrusion into its dark heart.

Again, he felt eyes boring into him, and he swung in the saddle, casting his gaze around, trying to pierce the gloom, but seeing nothing untoward.

There were dozens of other groups pushing into the wilds, spread w ide like a net, scouring for signs of the enemy, and driving the greenskins ever closer to the forest's edge. Most w ere young knights errant, like Calard, and he still chafed at w hat he saw as a task better suited to peasants.

A shout from up ahead pulled him from his morose thoughts, and, as he pushed through a mass of tw isted bracken, he saw one of the yeoman scouts kneeling over several corpses sprawled upon the dark earth.

'There are more of them over there,' said the yeoman to Gunthar, gesturing vaguely to the east.

The knights errant crowded in, and Calard caught a glimpse of green flesh. The dead creatures w ere small, no more than four feet in height, and their skin was covered in barbaric piercings, raven feathers and black tattoos.

'More goblins,' said Gunthar. The veteran had dismounted, and pushed one of the corpses onto its back w ith his foot. The creature's face was frozen in a leering rictus that might have been terror, though it w as hard to discern. The goblin's lips were draw n back, exposing an array of sharp, yellow teeth, and its beady eyes w ere wide and surrounded by smudges of coal. A large black tattoo dominated the creature's face, a barbaric and crude depiction of a spider, its barbed legs spreading out over each side of the goblin's face, and its bulbous body on his forehead. The image had been tattooed in such a w ay that the goblin's eyes filled in for the eyes of the arachnid, and its oversized fangs framed the greenskin's mouth. Bones and fraying, black feathers had been pushed through the flesh of its drooping ears. It w as a feral, loathsome creature, and Calard found it morbidly fascinating and repulsive at the same time.

Dark blood leaked from a large gash in its head, where the skull had been caved in.

The other diminutive, vicious creatures had been just as brutally slain, and bore deep w ounds caused by strong, savage blow s.

This was the second group of slaughtered greenskins that they had encountered in the last hours.

'Infighting?' Calard had suggested w hen they had come across the first corpses.

Gunthar had shrugged.

'Possibly. Perhaps a pow er struggle betw een rival tribes in the aftermath of battle.

Who know s.'

'Gunthar,' said Calard. The w eapon master grunted in response, probing at the goblin's w ound w ith the tip of his sword. 'If this wasn't the result of infighting, then w hat killed these things? A scouting party like ours?'

'No, these are not blow s caused by Bretonnian hands,' said Gunthar. 'None of these creatures w as slain by lance or arrow , and, as far as I can determine, no other scouting party has come this w ay.'

Occasional distant blasts from horns sounded through the trees as other scouting groups sighted the enemy.

'At least w e know we are behind them,' said Gunthar. 'They are moving before us tow ards the edge of the forest, as w e had hoped. Either they keep moving and break from the forest, or they turn to face us.'

'Or w hatever else it is that hunts them,' said Dieter thoughtfully. 'Could w e perhaps be betw een tw o enemies?'

'Nonsense,' said Bertelis dismissively. 'The greenskins are little more than animals.

Their pack leader was probably killed in battle, and they are now fighting each other to claim dominance. They hear us closing in on them, and run like deer before us.'

Gunthar shrugged his shoulders.

'You could be right,' he said.

'Listen,' said Calard, and the knights fell silent. The only sound was the dry wind rustling through the trees and the occasional whinny from a horse.

'I don't hear anything,' said Bertelis.

'Exactly,' said Calard, 'not even the cry of a bird, or the scuffling of a w ood mouse.'

'You're right,' said Gunthar. 'There is something unnatural in the air. Come, let us push on. The sooner w e are out of this forest, the better. It feels like we are being w atched.'

The other knights muttered in agreement, staring around with wide eyes. Only Bertelis seemed unconcerned.

Calard started as he heard a shout from deeper in, his heart lurching. Bertelis smirked, and Calard reddened.

'Lord Gunthar, you'd better come and see this,' called a yeoman.

THE TREE WAS immense, an ancient and contorted oak that must have been old w hen Gilles the Uniter walked the earth, over a thousand years earlier. It would have measured more than fifty feet around its massive trunk, and twisted roots spread around it. The thick roots had grown over a stand of giant boulders, and, in places, had cracked the stone after centuries of relentless pressure.

Immense branches like the powerful arms of a w restler reached up into the air, and from these ancient limbs hung dozens of bodies.

'Lady, lend me strength,' w hispered Calard as he gaped in horror up into the canopy overhead.

The corpses swung gently from the boughs, hanging from ropes and chains. Others had been nailed into the trunk of the tree, their blood mingling with the sap that leaked from the w ounds. Heads impaled on wooden stakes protruded from the ground, and dozens of corpses, many little more than crumbling skeletons, were piled up around the base of the mighty oak, along w ith rusting weapons, scraps of armour and shields. Calard w as shocked to see more than one Bretonnian helmet and shield amongst the pile, and many of the skeletons were clearly of human origin.

The bodies of recently slain goblins and orcs hung alongside withered skeletons, and fresh blood dripped from the horrendous wounds that many of them bore.

Hundreds of black carrion birds w ere perched in the branches of the horrendous, deathly oak tree, and they stared accusingly down upon the intruders. Many of them paused mid-feast to glare at the knights, while others continued to gulp dow n eyes, like peeled grapes that had been plucked from sockets, and tear strips of flesh from bones w ith w ickedly sharp beaks.

A yeoman hurled a rock at one of the bloated birds, and it fluttered its heavy black w ings, issuing a harsh, hateful, accusatory cry.

Bertelis dismounted and began approaching the base of the tree w arily, drawing his sw ord.

'Bertelis,' hissed Calard, eyes darting around nervously. His brother ignored him, advancing slowly forward.

'Let us not tarry here,' said Gunthar, his voice strained.

Still, the younger Garamont brother w alked towards the grisly oak tree. He pushed aside a goblin corpse w ith his foot, and bent dow n, peering at shapes almost completely hidden beneath the tangle of roots.

'Bertelis,' hissed Calard again.

The sandy-haired knight flashed an irritated look at his brother, and reached a hand betw een the dark roots of the tree, biting his lip. He couldn't quite reach w hatever it w as that glinted in the darkness, and he bent lower, straining, and groping deeper beneath. It looked like the tree would come to life and swallow the young knight at any moment. Calard knew such a notion was foolish, but he felt anxious and uneasy nonetheless.

'Come on, brother!' he snapped.

He saw Bertelis stand, hefting something from beneath the twisted roots. He turned it over in his hands, and Calard saw that it w as a helmet, old and rusted. A skull slipped from w ithin it, falling at Bertelis's feet, and the young knight jumped, and then laughed out loud at his ow n foolishness.

'This helm bears the heraldry of Walden of Lyonesse,' Bertelis called out. Walden had been a knight engaged on the holy quest for the grail, and rumour had it that he had suffered a mortal blow from a dark knight of cursed Mousillon. His retainers had claimed that the Lady had appeared upon a ghostly ship, powered by neither sail nor oar, and had borne him to her immortal realm. 'It w ould appear that he did not join the Lady on her misty isle after all.'

Bertelis shook his head sadly and dropped the helmet to the ground. Somew hat reluctantly it seemed to Calard, he w alked aw ay from the tree and mounted his horse.

'Let us be aw ay from this cursed place,' said Gunthar.

Dieter stared long at the grisly tree, his brow furrowed, his expression serious. He had heard of such things before, deep in the darkest reaches of the sprawling Drakw ald forest, in the realm of his homeland. He shook his head, dismissing the notion. No, it was surely as the young knight had said: the greenskins were probably leaderless and barbarically preying on each other. He could not, however, fully shake the notion that there w as something else within the forest, something hateful and jealous, something that w atched them even now.

He glanced around once more, sw allowing heavily, his mouth suddenly dry.

CHAPTER EIGHT

WITH THE SOUND of straining timbers and the sharp snap of leather and rope, the massive trebuchets fired. Leather slings, filled with great chunks of masonry, were w hipped through the air behind the long rotating arms, as the massive counterw eights descended. As the groaning long arms were flung past the vertical position, the masonry was hurled high into the air, spinning end over end.

The massive blocks of stone and mortar seemed to hang in the sky for a moment of w eightlessness as they reached the apex of their trajectory, before plummeting tow ards the ground.

With pounding thuds that rocked the earth, the colossal missiles slammed dow n into the massed ranks of the greenskins, embedding themselves deep into the ground and crushing scores of the enemy.

Other blocks skidded and bounced before coming to rest, crushing and killing dozens more.

The Bretonnians had scoured Chalons for tw o weeks, driving the greenkins before them. Hundreds of knights and peasants had worked in concert to push the greenskins out into the open, so that a decisive battle could be w on against them.

This was that battle. The sheer number of greenskins that Chalons had harboured w as staggering. A victory would be had, here, that w ould clear the area of the greenskin menace for decades, or the armies of Bordeleaux would fail, and the dukedom w ould burn.

At a shouted command, hundreds of bow s w ere raised to the heavens, arrows nocked to strings. At another command, the bow men loosed, and the air was filled with a dense cloud of deadly arrow s that hissed as they sliced through the air. High into the sky they arced, and, as they began to fall tow ards the earth, a second volley was fired.

It w as ducal law that every able Bretonnian peasant boy learnt to fire the longbow , though in truth the law was rarely upheld. Few peasants had the means or skill to purchase or craft a bow , and few er still had the strength needed to draw one. Still, those peasant families that w ere blessed enough to ow n a longbow , which was often passed dow n from father to son, pushed their sons to practise with it, building their strength, for the coin earned through going to w ar, though so miniscule as to be nigh-on ridiculous, was, to most peasant families, a princely wage.

Calard hissed in frustration and shook his head, bristling with impatience as he w atched the enemy being mercilessly cut dow n by the missile weapons of the duke's peasant militias. Scores of peasants strained as they rotated the pow erful winches that low ered the arms of the trebuchets, readying the powerful weapons for another shot. Further volleys of arrow s descended into the enemy massing on the field before them, and Calard sw ore as hundreds were cut dow n.

'Where is the honour in this?' he snarled from his position w ithin the massed line of knights arrayed against the foe. The nobles of Bastonne were gathered together, and knights w ho owed fealty to his father surrounded him. The intimidating bulk of Baron Montcadas and his knights were nearby, the bearded baron toying w ith his spiked morning star as he glared at the enemy.

A little w ay off, Calard could see Maloric and those warriors sworn to Sangasse. He w as pleased to see the ugly bruising that marred the young knight's face, and, as if sensing Calard's gaze upon him, Maloric turned and glared hatefully across the line in his direction.

'I'd say you've improved his looks drastically,' said Bertelis. Calard chuckled as his brother made an obscene gesture at Maloric, w ho bristled in anger.

Casting his gaze further along the line of Bretonnians, Calard could see more than three thousand knights arrayed for battle. Banners and pennants, proudly displaying the heraldry of the most pow erful nobles, whipped in the wind, and his eye was draw n to the duke's banner, held aloft in the centre of the knights. He could make out the vague figure of the grail knight Reolus in the distance, sitting tall in the saddle among the duke's entourage.

Some ten thousand men at arms stood in ragged lines behind the resplendent ranks of the nobility.

They w ere arranged in deep blocks of troops, bearing shields and pennants in the colours of their lords. Their number w as prodigious, but Calard had little faith in their strength. The battle w ould be w on or lost in the charge of the knights.

'How can w e hope to prove ourselves when the enemy is cut dow n by mere peasants?'

asked Bertelis.

'Compose yourself,' snapped Gunthar, his eyes alert and piercing. 'Your time w ill come. The duke w ishes their lines to be thinned before we engage.'

'There w ill be nothing left alive for us to engage,' replied Calard sourly. 'This is not how battle is fought, to stand idly by w hile the enemy is slaughtered by bow and w ar machines.'

'Quiet, both of you!' snapped Gunthar. 'Have some patience, and learn from the duke's strategy. This battle w ill still be w on by knightly charges, but the duke w ishes to ensure a complete, resounding victory, w ith minimal losses. See how he has sent the knights of southern Bordeleaux out to the north to flank the enemy? He w ants the enemy to charge straight tow ards his bow men. When they are nearing we will charge into their front, while the flanking knights charge their exposed side. At the same time, a force of some fifteen hundred men-at-arms is encircling the enemy through the forest to the south, cutting off their escape. If we charge ahead now, the duke's plan w ould be ruined.'

'Charging straight into the foe would be more honourable than hiding behind peasants w ith bow s,' said Bertelis sourly. Gunthar sighed and gave him a long look.

'In the pages of legend? Yes, you are right, but this is reality, and the duke's strategy has merit. He w ill win a great victory here today, and that is w hat w ill be remembered. Have patience, young lords of Garamont. You w ill be in the thick of the fighting soon enough. There will be plenty of time for you to earn your honour this day.'

The knights had harried the enemy w ithin the woods, engaging them in running battles and skirmishes, driving them alw ays towards the w est, towards the edge of the forest. Regiments of yeomen peppered their ranks with bow fire, galloping aw ay from them w hen the enraged greenskins sought to engage them, drawing them slowly out into the open. Sorties and attacks from lances of knights had killed hundreds of the greenskins, retreating once more when the enemy gathered in strength. Like sheep being herded by dogs, the greenskins were bunched together in a mass, and driven beyond the reaches of the forest, out into the open fields, where the thunderous charge of the Bretonnian knights would dominate.

The enemy was a seething roiling mass of bodies, and they roared as they surged across the open ground, uncaring of the terrible toll that w as being inflicted upon them by w ave after w ave of arrow s and hurled stones. Poles hung w ith skulls, bones and feathers w ere waved above heads, and the brutal creatures bellow ed like animals as they ran, cleavers and axes in their crude hands.

Calard saw a miniscule goblin clamber atop a chunk of rock, embedded in the earth, that had been fired by one of the trebuchets, climbing above the surging sea of greenskins that broke around the chunk of masonry. Despite the distance, Calard could see that this creature had a crow n of black feathers embedded in its scalp, and that it carried a staff that looked like a fused spine.

Its eyes rolled back in its head as the creature began to shudder and leap, froth bubbling from its mouth. Its bizarre capering seemed to fill the surging greenskins w ith fervour, for they began chanting a grunting, repetitive mantra, striking their w eapons and shields against each other in time to it.

'Sorcery,' spat Bertelis.

Calard w hispered a prayer to the Lady as the shaman continued to caper and scream.

Whatever foul magicks the diminutive creature was attempting to unleash were, how ever, forestalled. It paused midstream in its summoning of pow er, looking up into the sky. A massive block of masonry w as hurtling tow ards it, spinning end over end as it dropped through the air.

It slammed into the shaman, crushing it to pulp. The chunk of masonry split into two as it slammed into the rocky outcrop the goblin had been perched upon, and the two halves bounced into the press of green-skinned bodies, crushing limbs and flattening bodies.

Bertelis gave a barking, short laugh in surprise.

The enemy was less than two hundred paces from the Bretonnian line, and closing fast. Calard could make out individual, savage faces, covered in black tattoos depicting spiders, skulls and geometric shapes. They were big brutes, the smaller greenskins being thrust out of the w ay and trampled underfoot, as the largest and strongest pushed their way to the front, roaring and bellowing.

'Hold!' roared Gunthar fiercely, eyeing the line of young knights, sensing their impatience and tense eagerness. He flicked a glance up the line of Bretonnians, w atching for the duke's signal.

Calard licked his lips, and gripped his lance tightly, as the wall of greenskins surged tow ards them. A bugle sounded, and the first line of peasant bow men turned and fled, running lightly back through the ranks of the knights, slipping betw een the formations, their arrow s spent. Upon the slopes behind the knights other peasants continued to launch their deadly missiles, clouds of black arrow s arcing overhead and falling amongst the packed enemy ranks.

Calard tensed, tightening his grip on his lance, as the horde of greenskins streamed forw ards. He felt Gringolet's muscles bunching, the destrier's ears flat against its skull, eager to charge forw ards.

Gunthar raised his lance high into the air, and Calard's heart w as beating wildly in anticipation.

Finally, all along the line, trumpets and horns sounded.

'Charge!' roared Gunthar. As one, the knights errant rammed spurred stirrups into the flanks of their warhorses, and charged, forming a thick wedge behind the weapon master.

Hundreds of knights kicked their steeds forward, and the entire line surged into motion. They started slowly, and the ground began to thunder as their momentum picked up. The field was churned to mud in their wake, and lances began to low er as the pace of the w arhorses increased. Less than fifty paces out from the enemy, the knights kicked their steeds into the charge.

Thousands of peasant men-at-arms took up the cry of battle, and they too surged forw ard like a living tide, running at full pace tow ards the foe in the wake of their mounted lords and masters.

'For Garamont!' roared Calard. The ground w as a blur beneath him as Gringolet leapt forw ards, and he shouted into the wind as the knights errant thundered across the field tow ards the enemy. Bertelis was at his side, a look of exhilaration on his face as he echoed Calard's battle cry.

The sound of three thousand charging knights was unlike anything that Calard had ever experienced. The rumble of crashing hooves was deafening, and the ground reverberated as if shook by an earthquake.

Three thousand couched lances were lowered, and it seemed to take an age to cross the open space betw een the two forces, though it must have only been mere seconds.

Then the forces collided with a colossal impact, their lines blurring together as flesh smashed against metal w ith bone-crushing force.

Calard's lance took a snarling orc in the throat, the tip exploding through the back of the creature's neck, and impaling another close behind, taking it in the face. Others w ere smashed aside by the sheer weight and power of the knights, limbs shattered and skulls crushed beneath flashing hooves.

His lance gone, Calard's sword was instantly in his hand, and he hacked at the blur of enemies as the knights errant surged forwards.

The screams of pain and anger were deafening but the knights maintained their momentum, ploughing deep into the enemy formation. Calard's blade cleaved down, carving through flesh and bone. A spear glanced off his breastplate, and he thrust the point of his sword into the gaping mouth of another orc, blood gurgling from the fatal w ound.

Kicking Gringolet fiercely, urging the powerful beast to continue its charge and not slow , Calard saw Bertelis deflect a blow on his shield, the force of the attack nearly knocking his brother from the saddle.

A hulking orc roared, and hacked the forelegs from beneath a w arhorse nearby, and the steed screamed as it w as felled, ploughing a furrow in the earth. The knight w as hurled from the saddle, smashing into the rabble of orcs in front, and metal w as bashed out of shape as spiked clubs and cleavers hammered into the fallen warrior.

Then both the knight and his murderers were overrun and crushed into the mud, to be left bloody and broken in their w ake.

Gringolet stumbled, and Calard struggled to keep his balance. A blade was thrust tow ards his chest, and he reeled back from it, deflecting it with a desperate sweep of his sw ord. Then his attacker w as smashed to the ground by the bulk of Bertelis's w arhorse, disappearing from view.

From the saddle, Calard had a good view over the sea of enemy warriors, and he could see formations of knights to the east charging across the ground, crushing enemies beneath them, before they too ploughed into the flanks of the main enemy battle line. All across the battlefield, the knights w ere riding through the enemy ranks, smashing aside all resistance.

'Pull to the east!' roared Gunthar, driving his warhorse with his thighs, and the knights errant maintained their formation close behind him, cutting and slicing with their sw ords. Calard w inced as a blade struck his thigh, denting his armour, and sent a return blow that shattered the cheek of the snarling orc.

Then they were free of the engagement, breaking from the side of the enemy formation. Calard w as shocked to see that less than half their number still rode at their side, and he could see pockets of the knights all across the battlefield still engaged in frantic combat, mired deep in the heart of the enemy formation. With a barked order, Gunthar had the knights wheel sharply, and they thundered back into the heavy press.

Before long, their momentum had been lost, and they found themselves surrounded on all sides. Men cried out as they w ere dragged to the ground and slaughtered, and all order to the battle became lost. Horses reared, screaming in inhuman pain as they w ere pierced by dozens of spears and blades.

A blow glanced off Calard's shield and grazed his temple, and he was thrown from the saddle. There was a moment of w eightlessness as his arms and legs flailed uselessly in the air. The ground seemed to rise towards him with shocking speed, and he slammed into the muddy earth w ith jarring force.

He felt impossibly heavy, and blood w as pumping from his head wound, flowing down his face, though he felt no pain. He lifted his head, and saw a knight no more than a metre aw ay rising to his knees. Calard tried to shout a w arning, but the din of battle sw allowed his cry, and he watched in anguish as an orc smashed a heavy blade down into the knight's head, splitting it from crown to jaw .

Calard pushed groggily to his feet, and he thought he heard someone call his name.

He barely had time to raise his shield as he saw a flash of movement coming at him, and he w as driven to his knees by the force of an attack delivered by another orc.

Pain shot up his left arm and shoulder, and he struggled to find the strength to stand. The creature tow ered above him, a mountain of muscle and brutish strength, and it roared in bloodlust, spraying spittle from its gaping, tusked maw .

A sw ord sliced down and hacked into its neck, and dark blood pumped from the w ound. The orc's head lolled to one side, hanging loosely by muscles and tendons, all but decapitated, and the creature slumped into the mire.

'Calard!' someone shouted again, and he looked up to see Gunthar looming above him, blood dripping from his sword. Calard nodded his head, and swung around to find Gringolet, praying that the noble steed had not fallen.

A blade flashed tow ards him, and he ducked beneath the blow , letting it slide off his shield. Then he lunged forward, driving the point of his sword into green, tattooed flesh. He stumbled as he lunged, and fell atop the orc, his armoured w eight driving the blade home.

Even in death, the creature refused to back dow n, and it roared in his face and clubbed him aside w ith a meaty fist that w as almost the size of his head. His vision sw am, and he staggered to his feet to deliver the killing blow , but flashing hooves caved the creature's head in. Gringolet stood there, nostrils flared and chest heaving, and the destrier shook its head, stamping.

'Get in the saddle!' hissed Gunthar, as he and another knight moved their steeds to intercept a pair of greenskins that launched themselves tow ards Calard. Needing no prompting Calard put his foot in the stirrups and hauled himself, with some difficulty, up onto the destrier's back.

The enemy was crushing in against them from all sides, and, every second, more knights w ere falling, dragged down into the mud and butchered. He saw a flash of w hite, and his anger rose as he saw the figure of Maloric through the press of bodies, cutting around him, his blade streaming with blood as he killed.

Refusing to be outdone by the Sangasse noble, Calard kicked Gringolet forward again, pushing into the enemy, his blade singing through the air.

How long the battle lasted, he could not later recall, but his arm w as leaden, and he w as splattered w ith blood w hen he heard trumpets blaring. He looked around to see fresh lances of knights smashing into the foe, their weight and momentum splintering the orc ranks and driving through their midst.

A w ave of panic surged through the enemy ranks like a raging wildfire. Where, moments before, there w as nothing but savagery and a lust for battle, now there w as the shadow of doubt, and, as the first greenskins turned and fled, the enemy resolve w as shattered.

With a shout, Calard felt his limbs invigorated w ith renewed strength, and he fell upon the panicked foe ruthlessly. The enemy retreat soon turned to a rout, and they streamed tow ards the forest. Contingents of knights and peasants that had been sent by the duke to outflank the enemy w ere already blocking the retreat, and thousands of greenskins were cut dow n as they became caught betw een the Bretonnian forces.

Calard felt a w ild euphoria descend over him as he ran dow n the fleeing enemy. His sw ord hacked into the neck of one creature as it fled, and he saw Bertelis kill another w ith a pow erful downward swing.

Pockets of resistance still held out, w here the biggest and darkest-hued greenskins refused to abandon the field, and the men-at-arms w ere directed against them, while the knights ran down those fleeing tow ards the safety of the trees. Five or more peasants w ere hacked apart for each of the brutish creatures that fell, but slow ly the enemy w as enveloped and brought dow n, and the duke's banner was planted in the middle of the battlefield amid a great pile of the dead.

From somew here behind, Calard heard Gunthar barking for the knights of Garamont to reform their ranks, but he ignored the weapon master, intent on cutting dow n the panicked enemy. He saw Maloric ahead of him, butchering the greenskins, and he kicked Gringolet forward to overtake him.

The field was strewn with the dead and dying and men-at-arms moved across it, dispatching those not yet dead, and dragging back the bodies of injured knights.

Horses w ith broken legs and shattered spines screamed as their throats were cut, and fallen banners were lifted free of the mud and blood, recovered to be reunited w ith their owners or sent back to their castles in mourning.

Knights thundered through the mud in front of the forest, running down fleeing greenskins, and splintered groups of the enemy cut left and right as they sought the safety of the trees. Calard smashed his sword onto the head of another enemy, and sw ung Gringolet around, seeking more enemies to kill.

The knights guarding the retreat of the foe were too few to contain the sheer number of the greenskins, and hundreds were swarming back into the safety of the trees.

Scores of knights, mostly young knights errant like himself, streamed tow ards the trees in pursuit, and he urged Gringolet on, eager not to miss out on the slaughter.

Bertelis w as at his side, and he saw Maloric kick his black charger forward, casting a hateful glance at the brothers.

'For Garamont!' yelled Bertelis, and the brothers thundered through the trees as they entered the forest of Chalons. Bodies of orcs and goblins lay spraw led on the ground.

Bertelis kicked his steed hard as he sighted a fleeing goblin, and Calard sw ung his sw ord around as he closed on a w ounded orc that w as clutching at its bleeding, limp arm as it tried to escape. The greenskin turned as the sound of pounding hooves drew near, and swung its cleaver blindly up at him.

Gringolet shied away from the attack, and Calard met the blow w ith one of his own, the tw o w eapons clashing with the ring of steel. Then a sw ord sliced into the greenskins back, dropping it to the ground, and Calard sw ore as Maloric swept past.

He kicked Gringolet into pursuit.

They pursued the last of the enemy deeper into the forest, ducking their heads beneath w hipping branches, and leaping over fallen logs. Almost a hundred knights thundered dow n into a shallow natural gorge, galloping through the low ferns and passing sw iftly by moss covered rocks.

There, they came upon a scene of slaughter.

Knights, horses and greenskins lay sprawled together, scores of them lying bloody and broken, their lifeblood leaking out onto the forest floor. Calard and the other knights dragged their horses to a halt, staring around w ith horrified, wide eyes, their hearts pounding.

Calard w heeled Gringolet in a tight circle, eyeing the surrounding trees fearfully. The destrier snorted, and its ears flattened against its head, nostrils flaring. Rocks covered in moss and fern ringed the gulley, and, as he scanned the undergrowth, Calard once again felt as if someone, or something, was watching.

There was no sound beneath the dark canopy far overhead, except for the clank of armour, and the w hinny and stamp of horses.

'I don't like this,' hissed Calard softly. The silence beat dow n on him like a hammer, unnatural and oppressive.

Every pure-bred Bretonnian steed was reared to be accustomed to the din and chaos of battle, of w eapons clashing and the screams of the dying. They were trained to be inured to the scent of blood, and to respond instantly to the directions of their rider.

They w ere strong-willed and aggressive beasts, for a horse too sedate in nature w ould not have the necessary spirit in the heat of battle, and Bretonnian steeds were trained to kick and bite the enemy. Through long and extensive training regimes, Bretonnian w arhorses were not easily panicked.

When the gentle wind changed direction, however, gusting into the gulley from the south-w est, suddenly every horse went w ild, rearing and whinnying in fear. Several knights w ere thrown to the ground, and Calard clung tightly to Gringolet's saddle as the destrier bucked and kicked, his panicked eyes showing as his orbs rolled in the sockets in abject terror.

The sudden blare of crude hunting horns echoed deafeningly close, and dark-furred shapes appeared atop the gorge, bursting from the undergrow th in a violent explosion of movement, roaring and braying for blood.

Calard caught a glimpse of bestial faces, mockeries of humanity twisted by hate, before the beasts hurled themselves from the moss-covered rocks, smashing into dozens of the knights, and tackling them from their saddles.

Most had curving horns spiralling from their foreheads and temples, and their heavily muscled flesh was covered in fur. The fur was short upon their massive, naked chests and stomachs, though it was thick, long and matted on their backs and shoulders, and dow n the backs of their powerful arms. Their legs w ere like those of a stag's, or a goat's, w ith powerful bunched muscles around the thighs and an additional joint that gave them an odd, backw ards-jointed leg ending in cloven hooves.

The attack w as so sudden and so sw ift that the knights were able to form little defence against it, and they fought not only this deadly foe, but for control of their steeds, w hich were terrified by the sudden appearance of the predators.

There was a bestial roar to Calard's side, and he swung around to see one of the beastmen kick off from a rock tow ards him. Its strongly muscled arms w ere thrown back over its head, and it sw ung a massive double-handed axe back for the killing blow as it hurtled through the air tow ards him, eyes filled with hate locked to his ow n.

Calard recoiled from the beast, lifting his shield before him, and the axe slammed into it, splitting it down to his arm. The blade wrenched his vambrace out of shape, and he w as hurled from the saddle by the pow erful blow , falling heavily.

Gringolet bolted, hooves flailing as he raced free of the gulley, and Calard dimly w atched him go. His kite-shaped shield was useless, and he ripped it from his arm as he struggled to his feet, dazed from the fall.

The beast that had struck him w as crouched low to the ground, and it snarled at him. It stank like rancid meat, rotting vegetation and faecal matter, and launched itself tow ards him, swinging its heavy axe in a lethal arc.

Calard stepped forw ards quickly with a shout, and, with both hands, he rammed the point of his sw ord into the beast's gut before the blow could fall. The blade sank deep, and hot blood w ashed over Calard's gauntlets, even as the axe dropped from the creature's fingers. With a backhanded blow , it sent Calard spraw ling backwards, his head ringing and sank to ground.

The beasts w ere butchering the knights, ripping into them w ith terrifying savagery.

One knight was killed as his head was rammed repeatedly into a sharp rocky outcrop, and others w ere literally hacked apart by axes as they lay prostrate on the earth, having been tackled from their saddles.

From the ground, Calard saw his brother Bertelis struggling against a pair of beasts, the flashing hooves of his steed keeping them at bay. Calard lurched to his feet, and staggered forw ard to pull his sword from the body of the dead beastman. 'Bertelis!' he roared. 'Ride!'

One of the beastmen landed on the ground in front of him suddenly having leapt from the rocks above. It rose up to its full height, muscles tensed, its thick chest rising and falling rhythmically. It tow ered over him, standing some six and a half feet in height, and its lips drew back to reveal the mass of yellowed, savage teeth of a predator. Its massive arms w ere ringed w ith tw isted bronze tores, and thick rings of dull metal pierced the flesh of its nipples and cheeks. A brand had been burnt into the centre of its broad head, the mark having seared aw ay fur and skin. It was a crude, eight-pointed star, and the flesh around it was red and sore.

It surged tow ards him, a curved scimitar cutting though the air. Calard lifted his blade to defend himself, meeting the blow with a clash of steel. The strength of the attack drove him backw ards, jarring his arm. The creature realised his weakness, and its eyes, like those of a goat, glinted with feral amusement. Behind the beast stalking tow ards him, Calard saw more knights being butchered, ruthlessly cut down and murdered. He glimpsed the white tabard of Maloric, w ho was battling w ith a pair of the pow erful creatures. He prayed that the Lady w ould spare the young noble of Sangasse, so that he could cut the bastard w horeson down, in the future.

The beast attacked again, striking high for Calard's head, and the young knight lifted his sw ord to protect him. The blow drove him to his knees, and the beast, seeing him vulnerable, leapt forw ards and slammed its knee into Calard's face.

He fell back against the rock face, struggling to get to his feet, lifting his sword w eakly in his hand.

Another beast ran at him from the left. The creature was smaller and more sinewy than the first, and its face was perhaps more human, w hich made it seem all the more horrific. Its horns were short, stubby nubs that protruded from its brow , and it jabbed a spear tow ards him, but its progress w as halted by a bark from the larger beast. The smaller creature turned away w ith a snarl to find another victim.

With a contemptuous kick, the pow erful beast that had claimed him as its ow n sent Calard's blade flying from his hand, and placed the tip of its scimitar against his throat. He w eakly pushed it aw ay, but the creature merely placed it there again. Once more he pushed it aw ay, but again it returned the sharp w eapon tip to his throat, and a trickle of blood ran dow n the inside of his breastplate.

The creature w as toying with him, and Calard felt rage swelling up w ithin him. He screamed in anger and pain, and swatted the blade aw ay from his throat w ith the flat of his hand, before launching himself at the beast, hands clutching for its throat.

It seemed to give a braying laugh, and made no move to step aw ay. Rather, it moved into Calard's path and slammed its w ide forehead into his face, felling him instantly.

His vision swimming before him, Calard w as kicked onto his back, and he felt a cloven hoof press down upon his chest. He dimly registered the figure of the beast above him, and saw it draw back its scimitar for the killing blow.

Calard prayed that his brother had escaped the ambush as he w aited for the blow to fall, but it never came.

There was the pounding of hooves, and Calard thought he felt warm light upon his skin. Then the beastman w as sent spinning aw ay from him, falling heavily to the ground. Calard stared numbly at the headless corpse as its hot lifeblood gushed out onto the forest floor, and then the head of the creature hit the ground, rolling end over end.

Calard tried to rise to his feet as the armoured shapes of knights charged by, but his strength abandoned him, and he slumped back to the ground. He saw a knight bedecked in blue and silver carve his way through the fray, surrounded by a hazy shimmering light.

Then Calard's vision swam before him, and he fell face down onto the ground.

REOLUS TORE THROUGH the fern gulley, smiting the enemy like the avenging paladin of the Lady he w as. In his right hand, he wielded the silver lance, Arandyal, shining in the dimness of the forest with a glimmering light, and in his left, he held the lance's mate, the glow ing sword Durendyal. Both holy weapons were said to have been blessed by tears shed by the Lady, and only one of pure heart w as able to hold them. Blood slipped off the weapons like oil, and they struck with the speed and potency of enraged serpents.

Reolus tore through the beastmen, impaling them on Arandyal's length and cutting heads from shoulders w ith each swing of Durendyal. He lifted one struggling beastman high into the air, watching dispassionately as it slid down his lance, before he hurled the creature aw ay from him w ith the flick of his wrist. It slammed into the rock face, broken and dying.

Fey light shone in the grail knight's eyes as he killed. Nothing could stand against this avatar of the Lady's fury. Horns blared, and the beastmen slipped like ghosts back into the deep forest, leaving a scene of destruction and violence in their wake.

Defiant and burning w ith holy passion, Reolus watched them flee.

The grail knight lifted his gaze, and scanned the trees. His eyes locked onto a distant, motionless figure overlooking the carnage.

He sensed the burning hatred within the creature, and felt his pride and anger rise as he registered the power it wielded. Tall and filled with incredible strength, it held a tw isted staff of gnarled heartwood, and three pairs of horns rose from its head. It bared countless sharp teeth at him as he began to advance cautiously tow ards it, guiding his pure white steed w ith his knees.

Pale eyes the colour of a frozen lake stared back at the advancing grail knight. Set w ithin a different face, those eyes might have been considered noble, but in this inhuman, bestial face they were horrific and disturbing.

Its face w as criss-crossed with stitches and scars, a mask of flesh that w as pulled tight across its features. Thick ropes of matted hair and fur hung dow n its back, and it hissed a taunt as the knight approached.

The horrific beast slammed the base of its staff into the ground w ith a snarl. Tendrils of roots unfurled from the tw isted wood, probing the earth like skeletal fingers. They burrow ed into the ground, and Reolus felt a w rench within him as they began draw ing power from the land. Ferns withered and turned black, all moisture drained from their leaves, and worms and beetles in the earth writhed and contorted as the life w as sucked from them. The beast quivered ecstatically as black, pulsing veins appeared upon the surface of the staff.

With a movement both elegant and menacing, the creature lifted its other long arm, and planted its spider-like, taloned hand upon the trunk of the tw isted oak tree.

A knot on the bole of the tree split open w ith a painful tearing sound, and dark fluid that stank of rotting meat ran from the w ound. The rent gaped wider and wider, opening like a dripping, foul orifice, and the beast stepped w ithin. Reolus urged his steed forw ard, asking the Lady for strength, but the rent w as instantly sealed. He stared at the tree before him and sw ore.

Thirty miles aw ay, a tree w as ripped open, and the beast stepped forth.

CHAPTER NINE

ANNABELLE POURED THE boiling w ater into the goblet, wincing at the acrid stench that rose w ith the steam. Pieces of bark and herb floated around in circles within the steaming liquid. The serving girl looked around, ensuring that none of the kitchen staff of Castle Garamont w ere nearby. Then she drew a small pouch from w ithin a fold in her dress, and carefully loosened its ties.

She w ithdrew a heaped amount of pow der from w ithin with a small wooden spoon, careful not to breathe in any of the potent mixture. The powder was the colour of congealed blood, and she tipped it into the steaming brew . It dissolved into the mix instantly, and she slipped the wooden spoon back into the pouch, fastened the ties and concealed it once more w ithin the folds of her dress.

She lifted a w ooden pot from a shelf, and opened its lid, breathing in deeply of the sw eet scent within. Stealing a glance around her, she dipped her finger into the thick syrup, and closed her eyes in contentment as she sucked the honey from her fingertip.

As a pair of haggard old servants shuffled into the kitchens, carrying cane baskets filled with dirt covered vegetables, Annabelle busied herself, spooning out a generous portion of the fresh honey and mixing it into the steaming goblet, before putting the pot back on the shelf.

Moving to the basin, she w ashed her hands thoroughly and wiped them dry on her apron front. Then she removed the apron, and hung it from a w ooden peg. With the flat of her hands, she smoothed back the simple cloth shawl that covered her head and straightened her clothing.

Satisfied w ith her appearance, she lifted the silver tray on w hich the steaming goblet stood, and began to make her w ay sw iftly through the castle, heading tow ards the lord of Garamont's chambers.

Annabelle did not know what the powder was that she mixed into her lord's draught each day. The lady w as insistent that she not be observed adding it to the hot w ater, w hich had made her uneasy and reluctant, but the lady had made her sw ear on her life that she w ould do as she w as bidden and speak not a w ord of it to anyone.

In recompense for her silence and duty, the lady gave her a copper coin with each turning of the moon.

For Annabelle, who had two young children to care for in the hovel-town at the base of the castle, that coin meant the difference between them eating or going hungry, and the unspoken threat in the lady's eyes made her fear to refuse.

The side door reserved for servants was pushed open by a guard stationed there, and Annabelle nodded her thanks. The entrance room w as stuffy and dim, the drapes draw n across the w indows.

Lady Calisse of Garamont w as there, bedecked in a flowing dress of deep purple, her hair held up in tw o coils inside her veiled, rich headdress. She talked in a hushed voice w ith a black-clad, elderly physician, who w as a frequent visitor of late. They spoke out of earshot of the lord of Garamont, w ho w as dozing in his bedchamber beyond, and, as Annabelle drew near, intending to scurry past them and leave the steaming goblet upon the side table beside her lord, she overheard their words.

'I fear Morr is calling him,' said Lady Calisse, her face drawn and pale, her eyes red-rimmed and filled with sorrow. 'Please, in the name of the blessed Lady, you must be able to do something.'

'I cannot understand it,' said the bent, elderly physician, shaking his head w oefully.

'We should have seen improvements by now . This... this is beyond my skill, I regret to say, my lady. It is as if some unholy malady is eating aw ay at him from w ithin, and I am at a loss as to its cause.'

'He is drinking the draught you ordered to be prepared for him, every day,' said lady Calisse, her face drawn, pale and full of lamentation and despair. Annabelle lowered her head and made to scurry past the pair.

'You girl,' said the physician, and Annabelle froze, raising her eyes like a startled rabbit. 'Come here.'

Bending her knees in a slight curtsey, careful not to spill the steaming goblet, Annabelle approached the physician. The elderly man lifted the goblet from the silver tray w ith withered hands covered in liver spots, and held it under his nose. His sharp eyes seemed intense and cruel to Annabelle.

'What are you adding to this draught?' he asked, his voice tense. The lady Garamont looked at her sharply, her immaculate face and plucked eyebrows making her appear cold and unforgiving. Annabelle cringed beneath their withering gaze.

'My lord?' she stammered.

'It is a simple question, girl. What are you adding to this draught? You are putting something else in it.'

The lady Garamont leant forw ard and sniffed. 'Honey,' she said.

'Yes, my lady,' said Annabelle in a rush. 'I have been adding a spoon of honey to my lord's draught each morning. I had hoped that it might make it more palatable for my lord.' Her w orried eyes flicked to the glowering physician. 'I hope that I have not done w rong.'

The physician's harsh glare softened, and he smiled, placing the goblet back upon the silver tray.

'No, you have not done w rong, girl. Lord Garamont is blessed indeed to have servants that clearly love him.'

Avoiding their gaze, Annabelle blushed deeply and curtseyed once more. She hastily backed aw ay from the nobles, and entered the lord of Garamont's bedchamber.

LUC SIGHED INTO the darkness. He was unable to sleep. His mind was restless, thoughts of the w earisome duties and tasks of the day ahead intruding on him.

Tomorrow w as the start of the annual maintenance of the dry-stone walls of the southern hill, a dreary task that w ould take the better part of tw o w eeks to complete.

The southern hill, a mile from the village, yielded the sweetest grapes in the area, and it w as of paramount importance that the fields were tended with diligent care.

Though the hill had the best drainage and sunlight in the area, relentless winds battered the slopes, and so hundreds of low, curving walls w ere constructed around the precious plants, to protect them from having their soil stripped from their roots by the w inds.

Those w alls had been in existence for dozens of generations, yet after harvest time each year the entire village gathered to rebuild w alls that had fallen, and to extend them further up the slopes. It had been this way for hundreds of years, and now the vineyard spraw led as far as the eye could see. It was a source of constant pride to the villagers that the grapes that made the region's finest w ines were grown here, though of course none of them had ever been allow ed to sample the fine vintages.

Their work had been deemed of such importance that the village had been exempt from sending any of its men to join Lord Sagremor's gathering army. Luc did not know w hy an army had been mustered, but w ord had come of a great victory in the north. There had been other mutterings since then, though, of villages burnt to the ground, their inhabitants slaughtered.

Such rumours made the villagers nervous, and some had even spoken of fleeing to the w est. Luc had poured scorn on those who repeated such gossip. The lord of Sagremor had long been good to them, and he w ould certainly protect them if there w ere any threat. Luc's family had tilled the soil here for five generations, and he w ould not bring shame upon their memory by fleeing his responsibilities. The gossipmongers w ere most probably speaking falsehoods anyway, he had assured his frightened wife.

With another sigh, Luc carefully slipped from the rough pallet, careful not to disturb his w ife. She moaned in her sleep and rolled over but did not w ake, and, in a moment, her breathing had become deep and regular once more. Luc moved across the cramped, simple room that w as his home, stepping over the sleeping forms of his w ife's sister and husband, huddled together under a blanket. He crouched down beside the cot w here his two children slept, curled up w ith their cousins. He listened to the sounds of their rhythmic breathing and smiled. I am truly blessed, he thought.

I have a w onderful w ife, a pair of beautiful children, and shelter over my head. He prayed to Shallya, goddess of mercy, that the tw ins would survive the coming winter, and brushed the yellow hair from his daughter's forehead.

Luc had fathered five children in his twenty years, but the tw ins were the only ones to have survived longer than three summers. His first child had been stillborn, and its mother had died during the difficult birth. Luc had remarried, and his new wife had borne him a daughter, w ho was sickly and had not lasted a w eek. Then, she had borne him a son. He had seemed strong and healthy, despite his malformed arm, but he had succumbed to the w asting cough, and died just days before his third birthday.

These tw o, his twins, were his pride and joy. With hair the colour of corn and eyes that sparkled w ith mischief, they were the sunshine of his life.

Standing carefully, so as not to disturb anyone, Luc moved to the single window in his home, and drew the wet-smelling blanket that served as a curtain aside. Peering out in the night, he glanced up at the moons. They were low in the sky. It w as three hours until daw n.

Know ing that he had only an hour before he had to rise for the day's w ork, Luc was about to move aw ay from the w indow back to bed, but a movement in the corner of his eye drew his attention. A shape was moving in the darkness, and he paused, w aiting for the sliver of the white moon to come out from behind a cloud to light the figure.

He heard the clomp of hooves, and, as the clouds parted, he saw the shape of a man slumped in the saddle of a horse. As he watched, the man fell forwards, sliding from the saddle, and dropped heavily into the mud of the main thoroughfare through the village.

Luc dropped the blanket curtain back over the w indow, with quiet movements, and left his home, closing the swollen wooden door behind him. The air was chill, and he w alked w arily tow ards the horse and its fallen rider. One of the man's legs was caught in the stirrups, and he was being dragged through the mud. It w as a commoner's draught horse, not a pure-bred, and yet to be allow ed to ride a horse at all spoke of this man's exalted position. He was a yeoman, the highest status that a commoner could attain, and, as such, he w as a w ealthy and esteemed individual in Luc's eyes.

Raising his hand, Luc spoke soothingly to the horse, and it halted. It w as lathered in sw eat, and its eyes w ere wide with fright. Moving carefully, ensuring he made no sw ift movements, Luc drew closer, his eyes flicking down to the fallen rider.

The yeoman w ore a tabard of yellow and red, and had a shield strapped to his arm.

He had carved a furrow through the mud w here he had been dragged, and his face w as obscured. He w ore a pot-helmet on his head, and Luc saw quivers of arrow s and a bow strapped to the horse's saddle.

'Bertrand!' called Luc, shouting out for his brother-in-law, asleep in the family home.

He stepped cautiously to the side of the large horse and unhooked the yeoman's foot from the stirrup. Kneeling Luc rolled the man over. His tabard w as aw ash with blood, and he saw a broken spear shaft imbedded in the yeoman's stomach.

'Bertrand!' he shouted again, more urgently, and he saw the glow of pig-fat fuelled lanterns being lit in nearby hovels as the village awoke to his cry. Pressing his thick, calloused fingers to the man's neck, he felt a w eak pulse.

The yeoman's eyes flicked open, and he cried out in pain and fear.

'They are coming!' he w hispered hoarsely.

'Hush,' said Luc, trying to calm the man as he struggled w eakly to rise to his feet.

Villagers, woken from their slumber, crowded around, their voices fearful and questioning.

'Help me get him inside,' ordered Luc, and the yeoman was carried into his home and laid upon his pallet. His wife's face was full of concern and fear, and the tw ins began to cry.

'No!' cried the man, fighting against them. 'They will eat our flesh and grind our bones!'

The yeoman fell unconscious, suddenly going limp, his eyes rolling back in his head.

The w ords he had spoken were lifted straight from a common children's tale of the terrible creatures dw elling in the dark depths of the wild woods, but to hear a soldier speak them w ith such conviction made the villagers whimper in fear.

'I told you w e should have fled,' w ailed a voice, and others voiced their agreement.

'Be silent!' thundered Luc. A w ell-respected man in the village, his commanding voice cut through the hysteria. 'He is delirious. We must tend his wounds.'

Luc w as w ell aw are that if the man died in his home he w ould be held accountable, and he had no intention of letting such a thing come to pass. He pulled the man's shield from his arm, and laid it to one side. His eyes lingered on the red and yellow design upon it, of a rearing dragon with flames spewing from its maw . He did not recognise the heraldry, and it was forgotten in an instant as his brother-in-law, Bertrand, cut open the man's tabard w ith a knife to expose the horrible wound.

The spearhead was embedded deep in the man's stomach, and blood covered the area. Even if he somehow survived the deadly injuring, a secondary infection would probably claim him.

That w as w hen he heard the first horn.

Within minutes, every villager was dead.

THE WARGOR KNELT over the bodies, its nostrils tw itching. Gore dripped from its scimitar, and it licked the blood from the fur around its mouth.

The slaughter had been brief and frenzied. None had escaped the wrath of the beastmen.

Rising up, the w argor was forced to duck its horned head to keep from hitting the ceiling of the hovel, which made a grow l of anger rise from its chest. It hated such unnatural structures created by the hands of men, and its desire to destroy flared pow erfully. The stink of humanity was strong, further fanning the fires of hatred.

It kicked out at a small w ooden table, smashing one of the legs and sending it crashing to the hay-strewn floor. It stamped a cloven hoof down upon the wreckage, splintering the wood and smashing it to pieces. It moved around the room w ith sharp movements, smashing clay pots with its blade, spilling seed and grain, and it slashed at the pallets strew n across the floor. Steam rose in the cold air as it urinated on the blankets that w ere thick with the stench of humanity.

Discovering a leather flagon tucked in a corner, the wargor ripped the lid off it, sniffing. Lifting the flagon over its head, it poured the alcohol into its mouth, the fiery liquid sloshing over the fur of its chin and down its chest. Draining the flagon, the beastman hurled it aw ay.

Feral black eyes spied a shield leaning against the wall, and it snarled, thick fingers tightening around the hilt of its scimitar. It stalked across the room, and lifted the shield up, gazing intently at the red and yellow design.

The w argor snarled again and defecated, its foul-smelling spoor thudding to the floor, before it stalked out of the hovel, roaring to its kin. Many of the buildings w ere ablaze, and the heat of the flames made the beast's heart race. The herd was busy slaughtering the last of the villagers and smashing down the hovels in which they lived, trampling them into the ground. They lived to tear dow n civilisation, and nothing fired their blood like wanton destruction and butchery. Nevertheless, in its brutal, violent mind, the wargor knew that the shield was important, and that the Gave w ould be pleased w ith its discovery. It roared again, and raised its bloody scimitar high in the air.

Within minutes, the bray herd was on the move once more, the beastmen running sw iftly as a pack through the night tow ards the welcoming darkness of the forest.

THE KNIGHTS RODE in silence. They passed knocked-down, ancient dry-stone walls, and fields of dead sheep and cattle. Most of the butchered animals were clustered in the corners of their paddocks, where they had huddled in panic and been viciously hacked apart. Many had broken their legs in futile efforts to leap the fences, and countless others had been trampled beneath the hooves of the terrified flock, before brutal blow s to skulls and through necks had killed them.

The cold light of predawn was grey and lifeless, and mournful trails of smoke rose from the burnt-out cottages in the dip below . Bodies lay strewn around the crude buildings. The carrion birds were already at w ork upon them, and their calls were harsh as they squabbled and burrow ed their heads into the carcasses.

The stench of burnt flesh reached Calard's nostrils as the patrol entered the ravaged village. Men and women lay sprawled in the mud alongside children, dogs and livestock, all killed by savage blow s, their flesh hacked apart and heads caved in.

It w as the same all across the east of Bordeleaux: villagers and towns sacked, their occupants butchered. It w as clear now that the greenskins had been driven out of Chalons by the beasts of the w ild woods, and, though the knights had yet to sight the full force of the enemy, much less face it in open battle, an enemy that could force the brutish orcs and goblins from the forests w as one surely to be respected.

It w as only an hour past daw n, and the ground was still covered in dew. A low mist hugged the dips in the landscape, and there was an icy chill to the air.

The knights were all tired, having been out on patrol since midnight. They had just been returning to camp near the grail chapel of Theudric, the night having passed w ithout major incident, when they had seen smoke rising in the distance.

'Dismount and look for survivors,' ordered Gunthar, his voice impassive.

'Survivors?' baulked Bertelis. 'They don't leave survivors.'

Gunthar gave the knight errant a hard look. With an exasperated sigh, Bertelis sw ung his leg over his saddle and slid to the ground. Calard and the other knights of Bastonne did likewise, and they began to search through the ruination wrought only hours earlier.

Tw o w eeks had passed since the destruction of the greenskins and the night of butchery that had follow ed.

As if the ambush against the knights by the creatures of the forest had been a signal heralding the commencement of slaughter, thousands of corrupted beasts burst from the forest of Chalons, descending upon Bordeleaux with hatred and savagery.

As darkness fell across the hills and fields of Bordeleaux, hundreds of scattered bands and raiding war parties had emerged, intent on bloodshed and mayhem. They fell upon unprotected villages, towns and isolated castles, killing and burning. They slaughtered men, w omen and children, livestock and dogs. Those that were not butchered w ere dragged screaming and kicking back into the forest to face w hatever vile fate aw aited them before they too w ere killed.

They smashed down hovels, and tore dow n the walls of inns and homesteads. They had rampaged through the night in a fury of destruction, butchering and tearing dow n any vestige of civilisation they came upon. Windmills were toppled and crops trodden into the earth, sheep and cows slaughtered, and bales of hay and homes w ere put to the flame.

Terrified peasants blockaded doors and windows, but such meagre defences were useless against their hateful murderers. With violence almost beyond comprehension, the beasts smashed their way into homes and food-stores, and, though the low born inhabitants defended themselves with pitchforks and hoes, they w ere hacked down and butchered in front of their children and wives. Babes w ere slain w ithout mercy, their heads dashed against walls, and the elderly and crippled w ere ripped apart in an orgy of death.

Hearing the blare of horns from all around, and seeing the flames of burning villages in every direction, the duke had ordered his knights and their indentured men-at-arms out into the night. Hundreds were killed as the beasts ambushed them en route to the beleaguered villages, and a desperate night of bloodshed had ensued.

The beasts displayed a low cunning, avoiding the strength of Bordeleaux and striking only against the w eak and vulnerable. When they did strike at the forces gathered by Duke Alberic, they targeted isolated groups of knights, setting on them from all sides.

Nothing but corpses remained, testament to the sudden violence done to them.

How ls and braying roars had echoed through the night. The beasts had chosen the time of their attack w ell, for the silver moon of Mannslieb w as new in the sky and cast little light through the massed clouds. The baleful eye of Morrslieb w as fuller, an insidious half crescent of glowing green, but it did little to light the fields, even w hen the clouds parted and it peered malevolently down upon the horror being wrought.

When the sun at last rose, and the night of blood w as ended, Duke Alberic's knights found the countryside in ruin. Black smoke rose in the distance to the north, west and south.

Word had filtered into the camp of scores of other massacres further afield, leagues to the north and south. Outriders and yeoman rode in, bearing the grim news, having seen w ith their own eyes the butchery meted out across the fair land.

As the tally of destruction grew, the duke reluctantly ordered his forces to be split, to protect a w ider area from attack. With no knowledge of where the beasts w ould strike next, he spread his forces wide in preparation for further incursions.

Calard and the other knights of Bastonne had ridden to the south. They were some thirty leagues from Duke Alberic's camp, and only half a day's ride from the broad river of Chalons, which formed the natural border betw een the lands of Bordeleaux and the dukedom of Aquitaine.

They had been patrolling the area for tw o w eeks, and, in that time, they had seen more than a dozen villages razed to the ground, every inhabitant slaughtered or dragged into the w ild woods. These, thought Calard darkly, looking at the dead peasants lying in the mud, had most probably been the lucky ones.

The knights fanned out and began to enter the burnt out peasant homes, sifting through the rubble and detritus, seeking any sign of life. The thatched roofs of many of the hovels w ere still smouldering.

'Why did these people not flee?' asked Dieter Weschler, his foreign accent clipped as he stared around at the brutality of the carnage. As ever, the Empire soldier's appearance w as immaculate, his black breastplate highly glossed, and his moustache carefully oiled and upturned.

'And become outlaw ?' asked Calard. He looked dow n in distaste at the corpse of a man lying face first in the mud, a sickle clutched in his pale, lifeless hand. The back of the man's head had been smashed open like a nut, and he sported a horrible w ound in his back that had severed his spine. He had probably been trying to run, w hich would account for his wounds being on his back.

They do not understand honour, he thought in disdain and pity. He could not expect anything else of the lower classes, but he still found it galling that a man w ould rather flee in dishonour than face his enemies. Not that there is anything honourable about the enemy, he reminded himself.

'I do not understand,' said Dieter, frowning. He looked at his host, Baron Montcadas in confusion.

'The life of a commoner is forfeit if he leaves the lands he is bonded to w ork upon w ithout the express permission of his lord,' said the baron, his broad, bearded face serious.

'I see,' said Dieter. 'A sad day this is. The Emperor would be grieved to hear of this tragedy. As an envoy of the Empire, I express my heartfelt condolences to the people of Bretonnia,' he said, bow ing stiffly.

'Bretonnia thanks you for your gracious w ords,' the baron replied, inclining his head,

'and I am sorry that you have chosen such an ill time to journey to our fair lands.

Now , please excuse me, Dieter.'

'They are only peasants, Empire,' said Bertelis scornfully, as the baron w alked to speak w ith Gunthar, looking like a bear decked in armour.

'They are people, like you or I,' observed Dieter. He was a diplomat, and though his face w as expressionless and his words carefully chosen so as not raise the ire of his hosts, Calard observed that he w as irritated by Bertelis's words.

'They are not,' said Bertelis hotly. 'They are a breed apart, vermin born to serve.'

'Only by chance of birth are men like you and I born into privilege,' said Dieter.

'Bah!' snorted Bertelis. 'Sometimes I envy the simple lives of the peasants. They do not realise how good they have it.'

'Oh?' asked Dieter coldly. 'How so?'

'They have homes to live in and food on their tables. They can marry w homever they w ant w ithout the concern of politics, and they live under the protection of their lord.

They have not a w orry in the world, and no responsibilities. They work, they eat, they sleep and they rut. It doesn't sound like a bad life to me.'

Dieter glanced down at the corpses around them. As one, they were gaunt to the point of starvation, and stunted by malnutrition and inbreeding.

'Indeed. They seem very lucky indeed.'

Calard snorted, and ducked his head to enter a hovel. Its door had been smashed dow n, and he blanched as the stink from inside assailed him. It smelt like the lair of some foetid, w et animal.

There were several corpses here, all very dead. He felt a tw inge of remorse as he looked upon the bodies of tw o children that w ere so similar in appearance that they must have been tw ins.

He thought then of his ow n twin, Anara. He had not been much older than these tw o butchered children when last he had seen her.

Sickened, he moved back into the fresh air, and breathed deeply. A shout drew his attention. A ginger-haired knight of Garamont, w hom Calard recognised as Tanebourc, w aved to him. The man was good company. Quick to smile, w itty, and alw ays w ith a ribald tale to tell, he was popular amongst the knights of Garamont.

Nevertheless, his face was uncharacteristically grim as he stood over a corpse.

Looking dow n, Calard saw that the corpse was a man-at-arms, bearing the red and gold livery of Garamont.

'Who is he?' he asked, not that he knew any of the men-at-arms by name.

'He w as assigned to a scouting party that never returned last night.'

'A deserter?'

'Perhaps,' said Tanebourc, 'but I w ouldn't think so. A deserter would have discarded his tabard, but he might have been too stupid to think of that,' said Tanebourc w ith a grim smile. Then the smile dropped from his face. 'I w ould expect that w e will find the rest of his scouting party somew here around here, butchered by the beasts.'

Tanebourc had been correct in his evaluation. Fifteen Garamont yeomen w ere found some tw o miles distant, slaughtered along with their steeds. Calard sighed.

'Build a pyre,' he ordered his men-at-arms.

THE GAVE FELT the tentative approach of the wargor as it picked its way past the moss-covered rocks and skulls. He could feel the creature's animalistic, destructive urges, the primal savagery of its nature. Its heart burned hot w ith hatred, but it w as cow ed and fearful as it drew near the holy gibbet tree. Though it hated the Gave with all its being, as the Gave hated himself, it knew who was the master, and slunk forw ards full of respect and fawning submission. He could sense the wargor's fear as its eyes flicked warily betw een the immense, sleeping forms of the giants, the twins of one flesh. Had they been awake, the w argor would already have been dead.

The Gave's blue eyes flicked open. All was darkness around him, and he felt the w arm, rotting heart of the tree against his body, clutching him like a child to its bosom. Grubs and w orms burrow ed through the soft flesh of the tree, and they craw led over him as he breathed deeply the musty scent of rotting wood. He felt the blood of the sacrifices offered to the tree upon his skin.

The gibbet tree opened w ith a sickly, wet tearing sound like muscle being ripped apart. Like a ribcage being torn open, the rotting wood of the tree parted and the Gave stepped from w ithin. His twisted staff w as held in long, spider-like hands, the roots of the staff imbedding themselves into the earth every time the Gave slammed it into the ground.

He moved w ith a gangly intensity, each movement sharp and stilted. He looked upon the tw ins of Chaos, their titanic, fifty-foot frames reclining amongst the roots of the great tree. The bones of countless meals were piled around them, and their immense chests rose and fell in unison as they slumbered.

The w argor cowered before him, an object clasped to its chest. It inclined its neck, exposing its jugular in an act of utter subservience.

The Gave tow ered a full head and a half taller than the powerfully built beastman. He gazed w ith icy blue eyes at the w argor, and there was more than a hint of madness lurking w ithin their pale, liquid veneer. They stared from within a grotesque mask of stitched together human skin. Only the Gave's mouth and chin could be seen beneath this mask of flesh. That mouth looked almost human, until the pink lips parted, exposing hundreds of tiny, razor-sharp teeth embedded in rows w ithin blood-red gums. An eight-pointed star was cut into the skin-mask of the creature's forehead, and dark blood oozed from the incisions.

Matted clumps of dark hair hung in thick ropes from the Gave's head and shoulders, and three pairs of horns rose from his skull. One pair jutted from his forehead and w as tall, straight and spiralling, rising several feet above its head; the second pair w as thick and tightly curled like those of a mountain-ram, and protruded from the Gave's temples. The third pair emerged from the centre of the curled horns and swept dow n, jutting like tusks to either side of his chin.

The Gave w as unclothed, and thick fur covered much of his body, though his chest and inner arms w ere bare. This exposed skin was smooth and translucent, as pale as the moonlight of Morrslieb, and the muscles were lean and taut. Runes of the dark gods pulsed beneath the flesh like angry welts, and veins and arteries could be seen pumping blood through the Gave's body in rhythmic surges.

Why do you disturb my sleep of ages, w help? roared the Gave, though no sound issued from its throat.

The w argor staggered beneath the mental onslaught, and blood began to seep from its ears. Reeling, it fell to its knees, and threw off the fur that covered the shield clasped to its chest. As blood dribbled from its nostrils, the beastman pushed the red and yellow shield towards the cloven hooves of the Gave.

His pale blue eyes w idened, and a hiss issued from his throat. He slammed his staff into the earth, and its roots burrow ed into the moist soil. Then he knelt down and lifted the shield. Running his hand over the design on the shield, fingers lingering on the dragon heraldry, the Gave licked at his human lips and gave a barking laugh of triumph.

The w argor began to go into convulsions at its feet. It would be devoured as soon as the giants aw oke.

The Gave placed the shield upon a tw isted, bleeding root, and lifted his piercing eyes to the tw isted branches of the great tree. Black carrion birds regarded him with hungry eyes.

Barking a savage w ord in the Dark Tongue, the birds erupted into flight, as one.

Skeletal branches unfurled from the tip of the Gave's staff, sprouting outw ards like the petals of a deathly flow er, and the black birds landed among them, filling the air w ith their harsh, piercing cries.

Amid the raucous din, the Gave extended one hand and uncurled his long, spindly fingers, holding his palm upw ards. With his other hand, he drew a long, cracked talon across the pale palm of his hand. Dark blood pumped from the w ound, and he closed his hand into a fist.

The Gave plucked the first of the black birds from the branches grown from the staff, holding it in a crushing grip.

The bird cried out and struggled, clawing and biting, but it w as held fast. Turning it on its side, the Gave lifted his wounded hand over the creature's face, and let a single drop of its dark blood fall into the raven's eye.

The effect was instantaneous. The bird's beady black eye blinked and turned blood red. A black sliver appeared in the orb, like the pupil of a serpent. The flesh around the eye began to throb and peel aw ay, and the bird thrashed and struggled in agony, w hile the other ravens looked on impassively. The bird's orb sw elled, wider and wider, w eeping pus and foulness, until fully half the bird's head w as nothing more than a pulsing bulging red daemonic eye. It blinked, and as the Gave's eyes narrowed, so too the bulging red eye narrow ed.

The bird w as thrown into the air, and it flapped its way clumsily through the tangle of branches overhead, seeking the open sky. The Gave snatched another bird from its perch.

As the first red rays of daw n rose across the land, a dozen black birds w ere flying to the w est. Once they cleared the forest they spread out in different directions, scouring the land below.

The Gave saw all that they saw, and licked his lips in anticipation.

WEARY AND GRIM, and w ith the stink of burning human flesh in his nostrils, Calard looked tow ards the dark shadow of the forest on the horizon. It crouched like a malignant beast, making ready to pounce. Chalons had become a looming spectre of dread in the Bretonnian camp: an impenetrable bosom from w hich the enemy erupted and w reaked havoc in the dark hours, before retreating as dawn surfaced.

More, the forest itself was the enemy.

Each night it encroached further into Bordeleaux, creeping forwards like a giant, leafy beast, overtaking fields and swallowing villages close to its borders.

After that first night when the beastmen had revealed themselves, the duke's camp had aw oken to find that the tree line had advanced some tw o hundred yards in the dark hours of night. Twisted briars and thorns had clawed across the earth in advance of the trees, w hich loomed dark and foreboding.

It w as almost as if the trees had uprooted themselves in the night and crept across the ground. Like the questing tendrils of some monstrous, blind beast, the trees had pushed forth in uneven spurts, reaching out and reclaiming fields that had been tilled for generations, and though they were now once again inert, riding near them w as eerie and disquieting. Ancient dry-stone walls had been engulfed by the trees, torn dow n by pow erful roots and branches, as if a hundred years of wild growth had occurred overnight.

Nor w ere the trees in their prime of health; they were twisted, as if in pain, their roots contorted. Sap ran like blood from their limbs, and their branches were malformed, locked in crooked positions, reaching up to the sky as if in silent agony.

Corpses of greenskins, slain only the day before, w ere crushed beneath the thick roots of trees that should have taken decades to grow . Broken lances and shields had been sw allowed by the grasping roots, and they stuck up betw een contorted limbs, like relics of ancient times, like tombstones marking the burial places of ancient w arriors, not the debris of battle from the day before.

Even the fields of grass that had not yet been claimed by the forest w ere covered in tiny, tw isted saplings, the smallest sticking no more than an inch from the churned up earth, but many reaching the height of a horse's shoulder. Twisted briars and thorns had claw ed their way across the open ground, and hedges, dutifully trimmed and pruned for decades, had erupted in uncontrolled life.

The armaments and bodies of knights that had fallen in the night w ere pulled from this tangle of grow th, as best they could, and prepared for return to their ancestral lands, though many w ere never recovered. Peasants strained to retrieve the bodies of their lords from beneath the strangling roots and limbs of trees that had taken root over them, but many had to content themselves with bearing merely a battered shield or helmet back to their lord's estates, the bodies of their masters forever trapped beneath the deathly grip of the trees.

No one could comprehend the sudden advance of the wild wood. On the duke's order, brush fires had been lit, and teams of loggers were brought in to force the w oodland back to its earlier boundary. This, however, proved to be folly. The fires failed to take, and the loggers made laughably slow inroads. If anything, their shows of defiance merely seemed to encourage the forest, and at night it burst forth in w ild growth w herever an axe had felled a tree. Halting the relentless advance of the forest was quickly deemed to be a hopeless endeavour, and the efforts were abandoned.

As the sun dipped below the horizon each night, branches and leaves began to rustle and shiver, even on nights when there was no wind. It was as if the forest was waking from slumber and stretching. Wary and tense, knights were posted to stand vigil against the forest each night, and men-at-arms w hispered prayers and made signs to w ard off evil spirits. As darkness, cold and hostile, descended, the forest sprouted forth, an unholy cancerous growth that pushed ever deeper into Bordeleaux lands.

Where w ould it end? thought Calard, staring with horror at the dark shape on the horizon. Each night it advanced a hundred, two hundred yards. How long would it take to claim all of Bretonnia? A few scant years? The thought was horrifying.

He saw a lone black bird circling high overhead.

Somew here, wolves began to how l.

CHAPTER TEN

CALARD ROLLED OVER w ith an angry grunt. He pushed one ear into the stuffed, goose feather pillow, and threw an arm over the other, trying vainly to block out the sound of his brother's enthusiastic lovemaking. He didn't know who it was that Bertelis w as coupling with, nor did he care. All he knew was that he w as exhausted, and that sleep w as eluding him.

Whoever the girl was, she seemed to be enjoying herself, for her gasps and moans w ere getting louder, joining Bertelis's animal grunting and the repetitive thumping of his pallet.

Unable to stand it any longer, Calard threw off the covers and got up. Quickly and w ith angry, sharp movements he dressed, throwing his blue and red tabard on over his underclothes. Hearing the movement, Bertelis, covered in a sheen of sweat, looked up from atop the panting form of a naked, dark-haired girl.

'What?' he said, pausing his action as Calard threw him a thunderous look. The girl w as moaning like a banshee beneath Bertelis, and Calard swore under his breath, shaking his head, and stormed out of the tent.

The pair of men-at-arms stationed outside sw iftly rose to attention from their bored slouches as Calard sw ept past them. He stamped aw ay from his tent, not caring w here he was going, just w anting to be aw ay. His hands were clasped into fists at his sides, and peasants scurried out of his w ay as they saw the look on his face.

It w as perhaps three hours past daw n, and he had only returned, tired and weary, from the patrol half an hour earlier. The revolting stink of burning human flesh still clung to him, but he had gone straight to bed, exhaustion driving him. Haunting images had rushed through his weary mind whenever sleep came close, and he was jerked back aw ake. He saw circling black birds and the menacing forest. The pale face of his long-lost tw in sister emerged from the mists that encircled the trees, appearing as the child he remembered, though she would have been twenty years old by now . She spoke to him, though her lips did not move, and he could not understand her w ords. It w as if she was whispering, just too faintly for him to hear, and he aw oke, feeling frustrated and irritated. In truth he doubted that he w ould have been able to sleep even if Bertelis had not been rutting within earshot.

His brother could not understand w hy he had not taken any woman to his bed since he had begun courting Elisabet.

'You truly love her, then?' Bertelis had asked, somewhat bew ildered.

'With every fibre of my being,' he had answered.

'I still don't see w hy that changes anything. It's not as if you are already w edded to the girl. Enjoy yourself while you still can!'

'That w ould bring dishonour on her, and me!' said Calard hotly.

Bertelis had shaken his head in bew ilderment and wonder. Calard kicked at a scabby camp dog, and the creature yelped and ran from him, its crooked tail between its legs.

GUNTHAR SIGHED. HE was not as fast w ith the blade as he used to be, and he found himself exhausted when a decade ago he w ould have felt nothing. Of course, there w ere still few who could match his blade-w ork, but w ithin a few years, perhaps half a decade at most, they too w ould fade.

Without a son to carry his name, he w ould be forgotten. For a moment, he regretted having never wed, and this brought back painful memories. He was haunted by the question of w hat might have come to pass if he had met her first, but she had already been betrothed to the dashing young Lutheure, Gunthar's closest brother-in-arms.

He had never spoken a w ord of his love for Yvette of Bordeleaux to any living soul, and it w as a secret he w ould carry to his dying day. He would never have dishonoured himself, or them, by voicing his feelings. Instead, he had pushed them deep inside. It w as a source of much rumour and gossip as to w hy he had never w edded, but only Gunthar knew the true reason.

He had been distraught w hen Yvette had died, no more than fifty miles from w here Gunthar now stood.

He had w ept for her, and it was out of love for her that he had stayed w ithin the Garamont household to oversee Calard's training.

He pushed these thoughts aw ay, as he saw Calard storm from his tent and stalk off through the camp, his every movement tense and angry.

He had tried to get the boy to talk through w hat it w as that w as frustrating him so much, about the raging anger that burnt w ithin him, but it had ended badly. He realised that it w as always going to. He had cursed himself for a fool afterw ards.

Young men alw ays believed that they saw things so clearly. It w as one of the quirks of being young. They always felt that the things they experienced had never been experienced by anyone before them, that the emotions they felt w ere more intense than those any other person had ever experienced.

Why w as it, Gunthar mused, that it w as only when the body began to ache and fail you, as old age began to creep up, that one started to gain some w isdom, some understanding of the world? He chuckled to himself. You really are getting old, he thought.

The boy had lost his mother at a tender age, and w ithin the year his tw in sister, his constant companion and shadow, was taken by the Enchantress. Thinking of her, Gunthar made a sign to w ard off the fey. Gunthar loved Lutheure of Garamont like a brother, and knew that, in his heart, he was a good man, but w hen Yvette had died, something w ithin him had died as w ell. All warmth tow ards the young Calard had been sucked aw ay, and Lutheure had said barely a civil w ord to him in all the years since. Gunthar could understand it. Calard w as the spitting image of his mother, and it must have caused Lutheure pain to look upon the boy.

Gunthar loathed the new lady of Garamont w ith a silent passion, seeing her as a cold, jealous w oman. He w as honest enough with himself to know that part of his dislike stemmed from the fact that she w as, in his eyes, replacing Yvette in the household, but he believed that he w ould have disliked the woman even if circumstances had been different. She was cruel to servants and peasants to the point of maliciousness, a trait she seemed to have sadly passed on to her son Bertelis, and she had made life for Calard growing up in the castle a misery.

With a father w ho was cold and distant, and who had eyes only for his second son, and a vicious stepmother w ho derided him at every chance, it was no wonder that Calard struggled w ith issues of anger and self-doubt. He just w ished that he could help somehow .

Trumpet horns sounded, and Gunthar craned his neck to see a troop of knights riding up the hill into camp, just back from a further patrol. Beastman heads w ere impaled on lances, and there was cheering as the knights rode through the camp displaying the grisly trophies proudly. They were the knights of Sangasse, he noticed.

At least someone had been successful in their hunt, thought Gunthar.

ANGRY AND TIRED, Calard walked blindly through the camp that the knights of Bastonne w ere using as a base for their patrols. It w as a good defensive position, for the tents had been erected on a w ide, flat-topped hill named Adhalind's Seat, and the land w as clear for miles around. A small patch of verdant w oodland hugged the base of the hill to the w est, fed by a bubbling natural spring, and it was tow ards this patch of serenity that he now w alked.

Hearing the blare of trumpets, he turned to see the victorious knights return.

Jealousy stabbed at him.

His mood darkened as he saw Maloric riding with the group, holding a massive shaggy head aloft in one hand. Sw earing, he swung around and stormed aw ay from the victorious Sangasse knights. He knew that it was not honourable to give in to his anger, but at the moment, he just w anted to break something.

The camp w as far less grand than the duke's in the north, consisting of no more than three hundred tents, and it took only a minute to reach its perimeter. Standing at the edge of the table-topped hill, he stared down at the small copse of woodland that hid the revered grail chapel. There w ere countless numbers of these holy shrines dotted around Bretonnia, and each w as a site of pilgrimage and holy significance. This particular shrine was said to heal wounds of the heart, and hundreds of jilted and spurned lovers made the long journey to it each year to pray and make offerings.

It is said that Theudric, a questing knight from Carcassonne, was visited by a vision of the Lady here, and that it w as in this location that he supped from her chalice and became a noble grail knight. In honour of this holy visitation, he had funded the construction of the small shrine built w ithin the copse.

As he descended the hill and entered the trees, Calard felt his anger subside. The air w as cool and fresh, and he passed his hand through the soft fern fronds that blanketed the earth. The trees were sparse and thin, far from the tw isted, oppressive trees of Chalons. Breathing deeply, Calard wound his way through the ferns, the soft sunlight dappling the undergrowth.

The mausoleum that housed the body of Theudric was small and humble, made of pristine white marble that had been overgrow n with ferns. Its sides were arched and open, and creepers had begun to claim the small structure.

Theudric had, if the stories were to be believed, been in love with a renowned beauty, Adhalind, a w oman of unsurpassed grace and virtue. However, a hag, jealous of her beauty, had cursed Adhalind, so that if she were ever kissed, both she and the object of her affection would perish instantly. Fearing not for herself, but for the noble Theudric, she spurned his advances, but he w as vociferous in his pursuit of her hand, for he knew that she loved him too. Determined to free her, Theudric set out to break the curse. Every day that he w as aw ay, Adhalind came to the shrine that he had built, seated atop the hilltop, watching and waiting for her love to return to her.

For forty long years she w aited for his return, and it was during this time that the hill w as named Adhalind's Seat.

At long last, Theudric returned, kissing his love for the first time, now that the curse had been lifted from her. His life had been prolonged by the mystical properties of the Lady's grail, and he appeared as he had w hen he had left, but the years had been harsh to Adhalind, and she was an old woman, her face lined and her hair grey.

Nevertheless, the couple were wed, and lived in joyous happiness until Adhalind passed aw ay, a smile of contentment upon her face, a year later.

Theudric lived out the rest of his years as a hermit, tending the shrine, and only leaving it w hen the call to w ar came. He lived to one hundred and ninety years, and w hen he passed from the world, he was interred alongside his beloved Adhalind.

Calard stepped lightly up the mausoleum steps, looking in awe upon the stone sarcophagus that housed the body of the revered grail knight and his lady. It had been carved in the likeness of the knight and his beloved, lying side by side with their hands held clasped over their chests, as if in prayer. A marble sw ord lay by Theudric's side, and a carved marble shield acted as the couple's pillow. Theudric's feet rested upon a coiled dragon, w hile beneath Adhalind's carved feet was a resting unicorn. The white marble carving was perfect in every detail, even dow n to individual strands of hair, and Calard marvelled at the skill of the workmanship. The knight's face w as strong and noble; his lady's young and virtuous. Calard stared into the carved likeness of Theudric's face, trying to perceive what it w as that had made the man great.

Stepping dow n the steps on the other side of the mausoleum, Calard's breath caught in his throat as he glimpsed the glowing pale shape of a lady standing looking at him from the other side of a small pond. It took him a moment to realise that this was not a vision, but a statue, carved of the same clean marble as the mausoleum, and that the glow ing intensity of the ghostly image w as created by the sunlight dappling upon the stone.

He stepped tow ards it in aw e, and dropped to his knees before the lily covered pond, gazing upon the pristine face of the Lady of the Lake. Divine hands must surely have guided the sculptor, for the representation was breathtaking in its detail and the incredible impression of life that had been attained.

The Lady w as tall, slender and full of grace. One leg was slightly bent and her arms w ere held before her, as if she were stepping forward to embrace Calard. Her dress seemed diaphanous, flowing and almost translucent, as if it were delicate, impossibly fine silk, wafting in a slight breeze, rather than solid, cold stone. A jewelled grail hung from her w aist upon a string of beads and entw ined vines, and her flowing hair w as filled with tiny, delicate flowers and leaves.

It w as the Lady's facial expression, however, that was the sculptor's true w ork of artistic genius, and Calard felt tears on his cheeks as he gazed upon it. With beautifully carved, high cheekbones and lips that looked as soft as velvet, the Lady stared dow n at him w ith an expression of infinite compassion. The feeling of love and motherly devotion that exuded from the statue w as almost palpable, and Calard sw allowed heavily, enraptured by the divine vision that the sculptor had created.

Calard had only dim memories of his mother, for she had died when he w as a young boy, but seeing this expression on the statue of the Lady brought those vague memories back into sharp focus.

Calard low ered his eyes, and looked down into the pond. Catfish w ith long w afting w hiskers swam too and fro beneath the mirror surface of the w ater, sifting through the leaves that had settled upon the bottom.

The reflection of the Lady shimmered like a holy apparition upon the pond, and Calard closed his eyes in prayer, feeling a great sense of calm and serenity descend over him.

He did not know how long he knelt before the statue, but w hen he at last opened his eyes, the sun had shifted. It was almost overhead, and no longer made the statue glow . He felt refreshed and cleansed, as if his act of prayer had w ashed away his ill mood.

He stood, w hispered one final prayer, and made his way back into the camp, climbing the grassy slope of Adhalind's Seat. He felt calmer than he had done for weeks.

With some shame, he recalled the heated conversation he had had with Gunthar on the ride back to camp just hours earlier.

'You seem angry, frustrated,' the w eapon master had said softly. 'Is it something that you w ould like to speak of?'

Calard had glared at the older knight. 'I'm not angry,' he said hotly. Gunthar raised an eyebrow .

'If you say so,' he said. They rode alongside each other in silence for a moment, each lost in his own thoughts.

'Are you still thinking of how you w ere unhorsed when ambushed by the beasts?'

Gunthar asked at last.

Calard's face darkened. 'It w as shaming,' he said, keeping his voice low so that none of the other knights heard his words. 'The beast could have killed me, but it w as enjoying toying with me. I could see it in its hateful eyes. I w ould rather have been killed in battle than suffer being at the mercy of that creature.'

'And never see your fair Elisabet again?' asked Gunthar softly.

'I do not deserve her affection,' said Calard bitterly. Gunthar laughed out loud, and Calard glared at him in outrage.

'Ah, the foolishness of youth,' said the weapons master. 'Do you have any idea the number of times that I have been unhorsed in battle? How many times I would have been slain, but for the intervention of another, or a lucky tw ist of fate? Don't dw ell on it. You are alive, and your honour is untarnished.'

Calard had glared at the w eapon master, and pulled his horse away from him. He had ridden the remainder of the journey back to camp in silent brooding. Only now did he see that he had been foolish. True, the shame of having been at the mercy of the creature stung him still, but far better men than him had died that day in battle.

He felt like a foolish child.

Feeling calm and humbled, Calard w alked back into the camp, smiling to himself as he thought of Elisabet, his earlier dark mood shaken off.

'Ah, Garamont!' said a snide voice. Calard looked up, the smile slipping from his face as he saw Maloric standing with his hands on his hips before his tent. The young knight w as still armoured, and his white tabard w as splashed with blood. Behind him, a peasant rammed a beastman's head onto a spear embedded in the ground, alongside half a dozen others. 'What do you think of my latest adornment?'

'It's quite charming,' said Calard mildly. 'A relative of yours?'

Maloric chortled, and smiled at him. 'Ah, so witty. I heard that you had another unsuccessful night's hunt. It's almost as if you are trying to avoid the beasts. Is that it, Garamont? Have you found a local stable in w hich to cow er each night, while real men go out to fight? Perhaps with a w arm young stable boy to hold you tight?'

Calard felt the peace he had achieved in the grail shrine shred away. Other Sangasse knights stopped what they were doing smirking, to see the young noble of Garamont's response. He saw one particular man, a slim young knight of the realm, perhaps in his mid-tw enties, step close to Maloric, a hand resting lightly on his sword hilt, a half smile on his lips.

Calard sensed that this situation could rapidly deteriorate, but his pride was flaring.

He thought of the cool, pale face of the Lady, and his anger subsided somewhat. He forced himself to smile.

'I congratulate you on your successful hunt. I shall take my leave of your presence now , for I w ould not w ish to have to break your nose again. I fear your mother w ould be most displeased if your noble profile was permanently damaged,' said Calard amiably. He turned aw ay, and under his breath he muttered, 'And I hear the wrath of the w hore is impressive indeed.'

'What did you say?' asked Maloric.

'I said your mother is a fine w oman,' said Calard loudly over his shoulder.

'And yours is dead and rotting in the ground,' snarled Maloric. 'Best place for her, mind. I heard tell that she was a w itch.'

Calard froze in his tracks, the colour draining from his face.

'Wasn't your bitch tw in sister a w itch too?' continued Maloric. 'That was why she was taken aw ay, w asn't it?'

Calard spun around and stormed tow ards the Sangasse noble, his face thunderous.

Maloric smirked at him, and flashed a smile at the slim knight at his side.

Without ceremony, Calard slammed his fist into the noble's face, breaking his nose once more. He stood over him, his breathing heavy.

'Don't you ever speak of my mother or sister again, you w horeson,' spat Calard.

From the ground, Maloric held one hand to his bleeding nose, but he looked up at Calard, his eyes blazing in triumph.

'I accept,' he snarled.

'What?' snapped Calard.

'You have struck me dow n in front of all the knights gathered here. I accept your challenge, and I nominate Sir Ganelon here as my champion.'

The slim knight bow ed his head, his half-smile mocking.

Calard sw ore.

He recognised the knight, now: Ganelon, champion of Sangasse; Ganelon the butcher.

A slim man of below average height, he looked more like a boyish libertine than the deadly w arrior he was said to be. His hair was scented and brushed, and hung past his shoulders, and his fluted armour w as ornate and highly shined. He wore a half-smile permanently affixed to his face, but his eyes were cold and dead, like those of a fish.

Ganelon w as the victor of a score of duels, and it was said that he was more than a little unhinged in the head. If the rumours w ere true, he had a particular fondness for inflicting pain, be it on his opponent in a duel, or on a w oman in the bedchamber.

'Fine,' he said at last. 'Name the time and place.'

'Noon,' said Ganelon, looking up into Calard's eyes. 'The west field beyond the camp.'

'I shall be there,' said Calard.

'I look forw ard to it,' said Ganelon. Beside him, Maloric did not even attempt to conceal his pleasure.

'No! I CAN fight my ow n battles!' said Calard.

'You cannot match him!' said Gunthar hotly, rounding on the young knight. Calard w as being armoured by a servant, arms outstretched as the last pieces of his armour w ere fastened. 'The man is a cold-hearted murderer,' continued Gunthar, 'and his skill is beyond your ow n.'

'I w ill not let you fight for me!' protested Calard.

'I made a promise to see you safe,' the middle-aged knight said. Calard snorted in derision.

'To my father? He w ould not have asked to see me safe. The man hates me.'

'He does not hate you, Calard,' said Gunthar w ith a sigh, 'but it w as not to him that I made the promise.'

'Oh? Then who w as it to?'

'The Lady Yvette, your mother.'

Calard blinked in shock, the angry words he was about to speak frozen on his tongue. He dropped his arms to his sides, and ordered the servants to leave the tent.

'She made me promise that I w ould see you and your sister safe,' said Gunthar w hen the servants had departed, his voice soft and his eyes hazy as he recalled the conversation. 'She feared for you both. It w as only a day before she... died. She was heavily pregnant, and wracked w ith pain, but her concern was only for you and your sister.'

'Pregnant?' asked Calard in confusion, his anger forgotten.

Gunthar realised he had said too much.

'Yes,' he said w ith resignation. 'The birth was difficult. It claimed both mother and child.'

Calard stared blankly into space.

'I never knew,' he said at last. 'No one ever told me how she had died.'

'I am sorry to have spoken of it. It w as not my place to do so. Anyw ay,' said Gunthar, clearing his throat, 'w ithin the year Anara w as taken. I could do nothing, despite the promise I had made, but here and now , I can. To fail her with both her children... I could not live w ith that dishonour.'

'I do not w ish to see you die on my account,' said Calard.

'I have no intention of dying, my boy,' said Gunthar. 'Let me do this. Let me honour your mother's w ish.'

At that moment Bertelis entered the tent, his face grim. He looked upset and worried, biting his lip.

'It is time,' he said.

WORD HAD SPREAD, and all the knights in the camp w ere gathered to w atch the contest. Men-at-arms and other peasants crow ded around the roped off open area of the field, jockying for position.

A murmur ran through the crow d as Calard approached, flanked by Bertelis and Gunthar, and a path w as cleared for them.

The knights and peasants of Garamont cheered as he marched into the open area in the centre of the gathering, though there were shouts and jeers from the Sangasse camp. Maloric and Ganelon stood side by side in front of the Baron of Montcadas, w ho w as to act as the official judge for the contest. Calard's face darkened as he saw them. He marched tow ards them, and halted a few steps aw ay. Ganelon was still smiling his cold half-smile.

'I thought you might not have show n,' said Maloric. 'I am glad. At least you w ill die w ith some honour remaining.'

'I shall be fighting on behalf of Calard of Garamont,' said Gunthar firmly, before Calard could speak.

Maloric raised an eyebrow , smirking. Ganelon shifted his cold dead eyes to Gunthar, looking him up and dow n appraisingly.

'You w ould have an old man fight for you?' laughed Maloric. 'Ah, this is too good.'

'Calard of Garamont has named a champion!' boomed Baron Montcadas, his pow erful baritone voice sounding out across the gathered crowd.

'Long have I yearned to cross blades w ith you,' said Ganelon mildly, locking eyes with Gunthar. 'It w ill be an honour to be the one to kill you.'

'In your dreams, boy,' said Gunthar.

'May the Lady bless you both,' said the baron.

'Oh, she does,' said Ganelon. Gunthar w as silent.

The Baron Montcadas lifted up an ornate hourglass for all to see. 'The contest shall begin w hen the last grain of sand falls!' roared Baron Montcadas, turning on the spot as he spoke so all could hear his words. He turned the timer over and slammed it dow n onto a table draped w ith silk.

The tw o combatants turned aw ay from each other, and strode to opposite ends of the roped out arena. A peasant brought Gunthar's horse forw ard, and others appeared bearing his shield and weapons.

'You do not have to do this,' Calard said, his voice thick with emotion.

'I do,' said Gunthar, 'if I am to honour the pledge that I made to your mother.' He smiled suddenly. 'Have courage, boy. I w ill not be killed by some Sangasse w help.'

'Try to finish it from the saddle,' said Bertelis. 'He is better on foot than he is on horseback.'

Calard felt sick to his stomach, but he could not find the words to express his feelings. Bertelis w as at his side, his face pale and tense. Gunthar knelt, bow ing his head in prayer to the Lady.

Standing, he embraced both Calard and Bertelis, before pulling himself into the saddle of his pow erful, armoured destrier. It snorted and tossed its head, and Gunthar slipped his shield over his arm. Lastly, he reached for his lance. Calard handed it to him.

'Fight w ell,' said Calard. Gunthar smiled in response. Then he lowered his visor, and turned tow ards the figure of Ganelon. The wait for the remaining sand in the hourglass to fall seemed to Calard to take an age, and he jumped w hen the horn was finally blown.

Without ceremony, the tw o knights kicked their steeds into a gallop, and thundered tow ards each other across the grassy field. This was no fancy tournament ground.

There was no fence dividing the jousters, little fanfare and a distinct lack of the panoply that generally surrounded such an event: just tw o knights who w ould fight until one yielded, or one was unable to continue.

They thundered across the turf tow ards each other, and Calard found himself holding his breath. They came together w ith bone crushing force. Both knights took the blow s on their shields, and they reeled in their saddles from the force of the impact. Neither man fell.

'Gunthar made the better strike,' said Bertelis. 'That will have weakened Ganelon. He can w in this.' Calard did not answer. He felt ill.

The tw o knights trotted their steeds to opposite ends, shaken by the blow s they had taken. They wheeled around sharply for another pass.

Spurring their w arhorses on, the tw o slammed together once more. This time, Gunthar moved his lance tip just before it impacted w ith Ganelon's shield, and it took the younger man in the shoulder. A great cheer rose from the knights of Garamont, and Calard punched the air. Ganelon's lance shattered on Gunthar's shield.

Gunthar rode past his opponent, and wheeled his horse around for another pass.

Ganelon hurled his shattered lance to the ground angrily and drew his sword. Seeing this, Gunthar dropped his lance to the grass, and slid his blade from its scabbard.

Then the pair were charging at each other once more. They came together hard, and the ringing of steel sounded as their swords clashed. They made another pass, this one slow er, and traded blow s at close quarters, guiding their steeds expertly with their knees. Ganelon's blade w as fast, his sword darting in and out w ith astonishing sw iftness. Gunthar defended himself with great skill, and his sword flashed back in deadly ripostes that the younger man turned aw ay at the last second.

Ganelon slashed tow ards the older knight's chest, but at the last moment he pulled the blow , feinting, and the blade sliced towards Gunthar's head. The older knight anticipated the strike, and took it on his shield. His ow n sword stabbed out tow ards Ganelon's breast.

The younger knight swayed in the saddle and lifted his left arm slightly, opening his shield guard. The point of Gunthar's sword blade scraped across his breastplate before passing under the younger man's armpit. Clamping his arm dow n sharply, Ganelon trapped Gunthar's blade. Feeling his weapon trapped and useless, Gunthar slammed his shield hard into the smaller man, knocking him from the saddle.

Ganelon fell hard, but came sw iftly to his feet. Gunthar's steed tossed its head, and the older knight stared down at his opponent. Then he swung one leg over his saddle, and dropped to the ground. He sent his horse running clear with a smack on its rump, and peasants ran forw ard to lead both horses aw ay.

Ganelon lifted his helmet aw ay from his head, and tossed it arrogantly to the side, confident in his abilities. 'A fine, if somewhat unconventional move,' he remarked.

Gunthar w as silent as he circled, his sword and shield raised. Ganelon's stance was relaxed to the point of cockiness, his arms hanging loose at his sides. He jumped lightly from foot to foot, taunting his opponent.

'The arrogant bastard,' hissed Bertelis, at Calard's side.

Gunthar sw ung in with a pow erful blow to the neck. Ganelon's blade flashed up from his side, sweeping the attack aside, before slicing back w ith a vicious riposte that Gunthar w as hard pressed to deflect w ith his shield. Ganelon did not follow up the attack, but merely w aited for Gunthar to attack again.

The w eapon master stepped forwards and struck, a strong overhead slash that w as taken on the shield. Ganelon's blade darted forward, but it w as pushed aw ay harmlessly by Gunthar's blade, and he stepped in close and bashed the smaller man w ith his shield. His sword followed the attack, and Ganelon was forced to back aw ay from his opponent's blade as it slashed in, left and right. His cocky showmanship evaporated as he saw his opponent's skill, and what followed was the most dazzling display of sw ordsmanship that Calard had ever witnessed.

The tw o men fought toe to toe, each blow snapped with astonishing swiftness, each displaying remarkable skill. The swords crashed together time and time again, and the dance of blades as they thrust, struck, parried and riposted was dizzying to w atch. The entire crowd was silent, enthralled by the contest playing out before them, aw are that they w ere in the presence of two masters.

After minutes of frantic swordplay, the pair stepped away from each other, breathing heavily. Gunthar's helmet was dented in tw o places, and he had suffered a pow erful blow upon his left rarebrace, w hich had sheared through the plate metal and the chain links beneath, and bitten into his arm. Ganelon's shield was bent out of shape from the heavy blow s he had taken, and he bore a cut across his cheek that w as bleeding profusely, though it was not deep.

Gunthar w as the larger and stronger of the pair, and arguably more skilled, but Calard had never seen a man as fast w ith the blade as Ganelon. Added to this, the man w as more than three decades younger than the ageing weapon master, and, as the fight w ore on, Calard could see that Gunthar w as tiring. His heart began to sink.

'He needs to end this quickly,' said Bertelis.

Ganelon too could see that his opponent was tiring and his cocky strut w as returning. Gunthar's attacks grew slower, until it was clear that exhaustion w as getting the better of him.

With pained, helpless expressions on their faces, Calard and Bertelis watched as Ganelon stepped around their w eapon master, leaping forward to strike a flurry of lightning blows, before leaping back once more. More blow s struck Gunthar, denting his breastplate and helmet, and his left pauldron was hanging uselessly from his shoulder. Ganelon pulled the battered shield from his arm and hurled it away.

Gunthar follow ed his every move with his shield held before him, his sword poised.

Calard had seen a similar battle played out once before. As a boy, he had w atched from a distance as an ageing stag still strong but past its prime, w as harried by a pack of w olves. The w olves were respectful of the power of the stag knowing they could be impaled on its antlers or crushed by its hooves, but they w ere also confident in their speed. Their jaws snapped each time they darted in, causing dozens of w ounds on the noble beast, and it gradually began to tire. Grow ing bolder, the w olves darted in w ith growing confidence, until the stag w as dead on its feet, exhausted beyond its ability to defend itself any longer. Then the wolves had leapt in, tearing out its throat, and the proud beast had died.

Another flurry of attacks, and Gunthar suffered a fierce blow to his head that w renched his helmet half off. He pulled it free and dropped it to his side, blood flow ing from his temple.

Darting forw ard again, his blade flashing dangerously, Gunthar defended himself w ith deft skill, despite his exhaustion. His sword flashed towards Ganelon's neck, but there w as little power behind the blow , and it was swatted aside easily, leaving his body and throat horribly exposed. Calard held his breath, w aiting for the fatal blow to fall.

Ganelon could have easily killed Gunthar then, but he did not. He stabbed his blade into Gunthar's thigh, the blade punching through his armour and sinking deep into the muscle. Gunthar roared in agony as the tip of the sw ord scraped his thighbone, and the leg collapsed beneath him.

The younger knight twisted the blade, before withdrawing it and stepping back, the half-smile still frozen on his face. He was toying w ith Gunthar now, drawing out his death before the gathered knights of Bastonne.

'Dear Lady above,' said Calard hoarsely. 'Let him die with dignity, you bastard.'

Somehow , Gunthar pushed himself back to his feet to face his opponent, grimacing in pain. His shield slipped from his arm, and he clutched his blade in both hands.

'I salute you,' said Ganelon. 'Never have I faced such a skilled opponent.'

'And you never w ill again,' said Gunthar, spitting blood.

'I think it is time for you to die, now. I am getting hungry,' said Ganelon demurely.

'Killing always gives me such an appetite.' He stepped towards Gunthar, his sword held poised.

Gunthar stumbled suddenly, and Ganelon surged forwards, his sword lancing for his enemy's throat. He realised, too late, that the slip was nothing more than a convincing feint, and he tried desperately to reverse his movement, but he w as already committed, his w hole body moving forwards. As his blade w as turned aside by Gunthar's armoured forearm, the tip of the older knight's sw ord drove low into his body, slipping through the weak joints in his armour around his groin. The force of his momentum drove him further onto the blade, and he gasped in pain as the major artery in his groin was severed, and the blade sank deep into his flesh.

Ganelon stumbled backw ards, and the blade slipped from his body. Blood spurted like a fountain from his fatal w ound, the colour bright and vivid against the gleaming silver of his armour. He stared in disbelief at the gushing blood, and fell to the ground.

There was not a sound from the gathered onlookers. Ganelon looked around numbly, his expression one of shock, his mouth opening and closing like that of a fish stranded on land. The colour drained from his features as his lifeblood pumped from his body, pooling around him and soaking into the earth. In moments, he was dead, falling back against the ground, his eyes staring blankly at the grey sky.

Maloric turned aw ay w ith a snarl, and began pushing his w ay through the frozen crow d. Gunthar fell face first to the ground, blood running freely from the deep w ound in his thigh.

Shouting for aid, Calard ran to the w ounded w eapon master.

CHLOD'S EYES LIT up as he saw the coins. Haifa copper crown! It w as more money than he had seen for many moons, and far more than could be earned through honest w ork.

He reached across the table greedily, and snatched at the proffered coin. The solidly built w arden pulled the coin back before he could grab it, and Chlod scow led darkly at him.

The last month had been tough. Twice he had been beaten: once by drunk, young knights merely for sport, and once by men-at-arms, w ho had caught him stealing from a knight's tent. He w as lucky in the latter case that a beating had been all that he had received.

Just minutes ago, he had been sleeping, but had w oken instantly as the first kicks slammed into his body. He guessed that at least one rib w as broken.

Dragged through the mud like a sw ine being led to the slaughter, he had been brought before the w arden, who was now leering at him. He knew the man by reputation: a black-hearted murderer and thief. He w as clever, though. In front of the nobility he w as all sunshine and roses, obliging and dutifully subservient. It was only amongst the peasantry that his brutality came to the fore.

The bastard charged a tax of his ow n, though of course the nobility w ere unaware of it. Safety tax, he called it. As in, if you pay it, you are safe, and if you do not, then you are beaten and punished for some fabricated crime. Being a yeoman w arden, at the top of the pecking order of the peasantry, the bastard could torture and punish men and w omen as he saw fit without any intervention from the nobility. In fact, in Chlod's experience the nobility were pleased to see such acts, for it made them feel as if order w as being kept.

He had seen men around the camp missing their hands, and he had learnt that this w as the w arning for failing to pay your safety tax. Your hand w as hacked off with an axe and the stump shoved into burning coals to cauterise the wound. A second w arning was never given, since few people asked questions about peasants that disappeared.

Chlod had heard that those w ho had in the past tried to bring his corruption to the aw areness of the nobility were brutally murdered, along with every member of their family.

Not having had the coin w ith which to pay the w arden the tax he demanded, Chlod w as beaten w ith sticks, and kicked till he pissed blood before being dragged here.

Happily, though, things had not gone the way he had expected, and he still had both of his hands.

'You understand w hat it is I am telling you to do?' snarled the big w arden.

'Yes,' said Chlod. 'You w ant me to help kill some knight.'

For a peasant, even to utter w ords of dissent against a noble w as a punishable offence, usually resulting in the loss of fingers and ears, or a w eek in the stocks. For a peasant to lay hands on a noble, or even on his horse, accidental or not, was a far more serious offence, which often resulted in hanging. If a peasant physically harmed a noble, something that few would even comprehend, let alone premeditate, the punishments were of the utmost severity. On the rare occasion that such a thing came to pass, a peasant could expert agonising torture and slow dismemberment.

His family w ould suffer a similar fate, and his friends and associates would be tortured and maimed. Such w as the severity of the crime that the nobles made a brutal example of any w ho dared to assail them.

Chlod, how ever, had no family or friends. He had killed before, and had no qualms about doing so again, and the coin was enough to outw eigh the dangers. He was no fool, and w ould do all that he could to make sure that no retribution w ould come his w ay, but he w as w ell aware that things often turned out in ways that could not be foreseen. Plus, he was desperate.

'Kill some knight, that's the gist of it yeah,' said the warden, leering at him w ith his gapped teeth spread w ide in a predatory smile. 'Two hours before daw n. The noble's on the early patrol, and is due back at midnight. Don't even think about making a run for it. My men w ill be w atching over you from the moment you leave this tent. If you make any move to speak to anyone or leave the camp, you are dead, but not before you experience the most exquisite pain imaginable.'

Chlod believed he had a fairly vivid imagination, but he nodded and reached again for the coin. This time the warden allowed him to take it, and it disappeared instantly into a hidden pocket in Chlod's stinking clothes. He felt his scrawny, black-furred pet squirm against his skin, and he patted it roughly through his jerkin.

'Who's the knight, anyway?' he asked as he stood and made to leave.

'What?' asked the w arden.

'The knight, who is he?'

'Why? Does it matter?' asked the w arden.

'No,' said Chlod. The w arden grunted.

'Garamont,' the w arden said. 'Red and blue shield with a w hite dragon on it.'

Chlod's one good eye w idened, and he grinned stupidly.

'Shame he didn't fight Ganelon today,' said the hunchbacked peasant. 'You could have saved yourself some coin.'

'Remember,' grow led the warden, levelling a meaty finger at Chlod, 'the brother ain't to be hurt. Touch so much as a hair on his head, and we are all dead men. Now, piss off.' He inclined his head to a pair of brutes standing in the shadows, and Chlod was physically lifted and tossed into the mud outside.

Still grinning, he picked himself up and w iped the worst of the mud from his face.

Then he moved off, a spring in his ungainly step.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

THE CAMP WAS sleeping, and there w as no movement w ithin it. The hour was late.

The last patrol had come in hours earlier, and the next one was not due to return for some time.

On the outskirts of the camp, men-at-arms patrolled in groups of three. They fought off their tiredness, talking softly amongst themselves. The hours before daw n w ere the w orst time, the time w hen sleep beckoned most strongly, but they knew that they w ould be w hipped till their backs w ere bloody strips if they were caught resting while on guard. For men like them, such a beating w as often a death sentence. The open w ounds w ould likely fester and become infected, which was a slow and painful way to die.

There were fewer guards inside the camp, and they were less vigilant. No one expected an enemy w ithin the camp, and their presence was more a reassurance than anything else. Most slept at their posts, enjoying what rest they could steal.

One guard, dressed in the red and yellow tabard of Garamont, w alked betw een the dark, silent tents. He yaw ned and looked up at the silver moon. One more hour, and he w ould w ake one of the others to take over, he thought.

His yaw n w as cut short as he spied a dark, hunched shape limping through the mud.

Peering through the darkness, he tightened his grip on his polearm, and moved to intercept the figure. He stepped in front of it, and relaxed a little as he saw it was just some hunchbacked peasant, one of the scores of menial hangers-on that cooked and cleaned for the nobles.

'Cold night,' w hispered the man, grinning inanely up at him. His eyes were uneven and he had clearly suffered a recent beating. He had probably failed to clean a spot of grease from his master's cloak, or some such minor offence.

'It is,' said the guard, his voice quiet. 'What's your business here?'

'Been sent by one of yer men,' w hispered the hunchback. 'He said you might like a drink.' He held up a half-empty w ineskin.

The sentry's eyes widened, and he hurriedly leant his polearm against a w ooden crate and took a long draught. He sighed in appreciation. The wine was bad, tasting like vinegar, but it w as greatly w elcome. His eyes flicked back to the hunchback.

'Who sent you?'

'Oh, I don't know his name, sir.'

'Was he a blond-haired young man? On the eastern perimeter?'

'Yeah, that w as him.'

'My brother,' said the sentry. 'I ow e him one.'

'Generous of him to think of you,' said the hunchback, his eyes flicking over the sentry's shoulder. A dark shape was moving through the shadows betw een the tents.

The sentry reached into his pocket and rummaged around. 'Here,' he said, producing half a small, bread roll from w hich weevils and moth-maggots hung. 'Have this for your troubles.'

'You are most generous, good sir,' said the hunchback, pocketing the bread in an instant and bobbing his head in gratitude.

The sentry lifted the wineskin over his head to drain it, and Chlod motioned with one hand. Shadow y forms slid out from betw een the tents, moving unseen past the distracted sentry.

'What's that over there?' asked Chlod suddenly, his voice low but filled with alarm.

The sentry dropped the wineskin to the ground, and spun in the direction that Chlod w as gesturing tow ards, turning his back on the hunchbacked peasant.

Chlod clamped one thick, hairy hand over the man's mouth and dragged his blade across the sentry's neck, severing the jugular. The man twitched in his arms, and Chlod felt hot blood gushing over his hands. He dragged him awkwardly back into the darkness, and pushed the man to the ground in the shadow of a tent. He held his hand clamped over his mouth until his twitching stopped, and then stood upright.

He grinned as he saw more shapes moving stealthily through the night. With sudden inspiration, Chlod bent dow n and roughly pulled the red and yellow tabard from the dead sentry's body. With aw kw ard movements, he pulled it over his hunched frame, and planted the fallen man's iron-rimmed hat on his head. Lastly, he lifted the polearm from w here it leant, and then he began to nonchalantly walk towards the tent that bore the red and yellow of the lord of Garamont. This was going to be too easy, he thought.

CALARD WAS DREAMING of Elisabet, and he smiled in his sleep as he breathed in her intoxicating scent. They were lying together in the long grass overlooking Castle Garamont, enjoying the heat of summer, the sound of insects, and each other's body.

This was paradise, he thought, and Elisabet kissed his naked chest, nuzzling against him.

A voice w as trying to intrude, but he pushed it aw ay, not w ishing the vision to break.

It became more insistent, and in his dream he sat up, staring around him in confusion. Bees heavy w ith pollen flew ponderously from flower to flower, and tiny crickets clicked and leapt aw ay from the sudden movement.

'What is it, my love?' asked Elisabet sleepily.

The voice was getting louder, more insistent.

'Anara?' he said, looking around in confusion.

Wake, said the voice, jolting him w ith its power.

He came aw ake instantly, and saw a flash of movement above him.

Throw ing himself to the side, the knife stabbed dow n into his pillow, and Calard rolled from the pallet.

'Take him!' hissed an urgent voice, and dark shapes loomed tow ards him. His eyes flashed across the tent, and he saw his thrashing brother pinned down on his pallet by other shapes, a rough sack over his head.

A knife stabbed tow ards him, and he turned the blow aside as Gunthar had taught him, using his forearm to force the attacker's arm aw ay. He thundered his elbow into the man's hooded face, and the attacker reeled backw ards, falling heavily over the small chest that housed Calard's clothes.

Calard threw himself to his side as he sensed movement behind him, and he hissed as a blade that had been aimed at his neck slashed across his shoulder. Another attacker came at him, blade flashing and Calard launched himself forwards, his hands reaching for the man's w rist.

His momentum made him slam into the attacker, w ho tripped backw ards over the pallet w ith a curse. Going with him, Calard fell on the man heavily with his knee, driving the air from him. Sw eeping up the attacker's knife, Calard rose sw iftly to his feet, slashing around to keep the assassins at bay.

Three of them circled warily. He stole a quick glance tow ards his brother, who was still struggling against the men pinning him dow n. One of the men flicked a glance behind him, to see w hat w as transpiring and he swore. His accent w as crude; a peasant's accent. Even had he not spoken, the stench of the assassins betrayed their low born status.

'Garamont!' roared Calard at the top of his lungs, and his brother began to fight anew , throwing off the men pinning him dow n.

The three attackers moved in on Calard. He swung to the right and grabbed one man's arm as it slashed tow ards him, knife gleaming. He pulled the attacker off balance and huded him into one of the others, but cried out in pain as the third man's knife plunged into his side.

Dropping to one knee, he punched up, ramming his knife into the man's throat.

He stood upright, w incing at the pain in his side. Then he heard the hiss of a sw ord being draw n, followed by a horrible, pained scream, and Calard felt the presence of his brother at his back.

Faced w ith the two brothers, one armed w ith a sw ord, the assassins faltered.

'Garamont!' Calard bellow ed once more.

CHLOD, STANDING WATCH outside the tent, flicked his glance left and right, biting his fleshy lip. Things were going horribly wrong, and the image of him hanging from the gallow s flashed through his mind.

With a quick glance through the tent flaps, he saw the two nobles standing back to back, and he made up his mind. He could hear the approach of running men, and he stepped out into the thoroughfare.

'Over here! Our lord is attacked!' he shouted, as he saw several men-at-arms w earing the red and yellow of Garamont. 'Get in there!' he shouted as they raced past him.

More people w ere appearing, knights emerging from tents in their bedclothes, roused from their slumber by the noise.

Glancing down, Chlod realised that the front of his stolen Garamont tabard w as covered in blood from the murder of the sentry. Sw earing, he ducked his head and shuffled quickly through the growing crowd.

There was more shouting inside the tent, and the sound of w eapons clashing, but Chlod did not look back. There was a crash that sounded like a suit of armour being knocked over, and he heard one voice shout: 'Take them alive!'

He sw ore again. None of the others in the murderous group knew his name, but they could certainly describe him.

His misshapen face was covered in a sheen of sweat as he pushed his way frantically through the grow ing press of people gathering around. Pushing free of them, he broke into an aw kw ard, loping run. He still clung to the polearm, and he almost tripped over it as he ducked betw een a pair of tents. He kicked something and tripped over it, falling to his hands and knees. The metal-brimmed helmet on his head fell forward to the ground and he dropped the aw kward weight of the polearm.

He struggled to push himself upright, and found his hands on a body.

He looked dow n into the face of the murdered sentry. He had not realised he had retraced his steps in his panic.

'You there! What are you doing?' someone shouted, and Chlod froze. He fought his instinct to run, and turned to face the speaker. It was a knight, standing half-dressed, a sw ord in his hand. Chlod licked his lips.

'Why w ere you running?' asked the man, stepping forwards and peering at him closely. Chlod gaped at him stupidly, his mind blank.

'Is that blood on you?' asked the knight.

Chlod nodded slowly. The knight furrowed his brow . 'Are you injured?'

'No,' stammered Chlod. Draw ing closer, the knight's eyes widened as he saw the body on the ground. The peasant slipped a hand inside the tabard he w ore, fingers closing on the knife at his hip.

'Did you kill this man?'

Chlod tensed, making ready to draw the knife. He nodded slowly, keeping his eyes locked on the knight.

'One of the assassins, was he?'

That gave Chlod pause, and he almost laughed out loud. Then he gave a demented, lopsided grin.

'Yes, my lord,' he said. 'I saw him run from the tent. I gave chase.'

'I see. Bring the body,' he ordered. 'It w ill need to be identified.'

With a nod, marvelling at his good fortune, Chlod bent dow n and began to drag the dead body out into the open.

'SANGASSE,' SPAT BERTELIS. 'It had to have been.'

Calard nodded, and then w inced as the alcohol w as poured onto the wound on his side. He screwed his eyes shut against the lancing pain.

'I'm sorry, my lord,' said the aged servant. Baron Montcadas had sent him to the Garamont tent.

'Glad to see you still alive, lad,' the baron had boomed, giving Calard a hefty pat on the shoulder that made him gasp in pain.

'The man might be a peasant, but he is the best damned healer of battle-w ounds I've met.'

Calard w aved aw ay the old servant's apology.

The w ound was dabbed dry, and Calard looked over his shoulder at the injury. It didn't look like much, but blood w as leaking from the puncture w ound, and it hurt like hell.

'Any more stitches, brother, and you w ill look like a scarecrow,' remarked Bertelis.

Calard snorted. It w as true, his body w as criss-crossed with w ounds and stitches.

The servant pressed a sw addling of cloth to the w ound, and with the aid of another man, w rapped bindings of cloth around Calard's chest.

The man produced a clay jar, and placed it on the pallet next to Calard.

'This is honey, my lord,' said the man. 'Have a servant smear it on the w ound twice a day, morning and night. As far as I can tell, the knife did no serious internal damage, though you w ill be sore for some time. The biggest risk is from infection, and the honey w ill help fight that. The wound must be dressed and cleaned daily. I w ill check on you tomorrow , my lord.'

Calard nodded, and the elderly man stood to leave, his knees creaking alarmingly.

'Give my thanks to the lord baron for your services,' said Calard. He turned to his brother as the servant left the tent, and he waved the other hovering servants to leave. They scooted out through the servants flap in the rear of the tent, passing through the press of men-at-arms stationed outside.

'Peasants!' spat Bertelis as he paced back and forth. 'Whoreson peasants sent to kill us! I w ouldn't have thought even Maloric would stoop so low !'

'The man is a snake,' said Calard. 'It seems that nothing is beneath him.'

'I say w e head to the Sangasse's now , and finish this once and for all.'

'No,' said Calard firmly. 'We need proof first.'

A serving boy pulled aside the main tent flap and stepped lightly inside, standing motionless and head bow ed as w as proper.

'What is it?' snapped Bertelis.

'Noble lords, Baron Montcadas and Lord Tanebourc w ish to speak w ith you,' said the boy.

'Then don't leave them waiting outside like paupers!' snapped Bertelis. 'Stupid boy!'

The servant ducked back outside, and the broad figure of Montcadas entered, a deep frow n on his bearded face. Such was his size that the interior of the tent seemed to shrink in his presence. Tanebourc w as at his side, tall and lean, his face a mask of concern and controlled rage.

'You all right, Garamont?' asked Montcadas.

'I am,' said Calard.

'I thank the Lady that your injuries w ere not more serious,' said Tanebourc.

'Had I not w oken, my throat w ould have been cut.'

'Then it must have been the Lady that stirred you,' murmured Tanebourc, and Calard thought again of the voice in his dream, his sister's voice.

'Tw o of the men w ere taken alive, yes?' asked Bertelis.

'They w ere,' replied Montcadas. 'Tanebourc here has offered to oversee their...

questioning.'

'Good,' said Bertelis. 'Make sure they do not die easily.'

Tanebourc bow ed his head to the younger of the brothers.

'Find out w ho sent them, Tanebourc,' ordered Calard, his w ords burning w ith anger.

'It w ill be done,' said the knight, giving a gracious bow , 'and, once again, may I say how relieved I am to see neither of you more seriously harmed from this despicable attempt on your lives.'

The tall ginger-haired knight bow ed once more, and turned to leave.

'It w as Maloric,' said Bertelis to Montcadas, his eyes burning w ith anger.

'I do not believe so,' said the baron softly.

'What?' asked Calard. 'Who else w ould it have been? Regardless, Maloric is cunning.

Doubtless the attackers w ill not be traced back to him.'

'I have already spoken w ith him,' said the baron. 'He denies he had any involvement.'

'Well, of course he w ould deny it!' said Bertelis, outraged.

'Be quiet!' stormed Montcadas, his voice booming. Silence followed, and when the baron spoke again, his voice w as softer. 'Maloric denied any involvement, and I believe him.'

Bertelis scoffed, but Calard w as silent, thinking. 'One of his knights, then?'

'Perhaps,' said Montcadas noncommittally.

'I w ill challenge him,' said Bertelis suddenly.

'No,' said Calard firmly, thinking of Gunthar, lying wounded in his tent, half dead.

'Never again w ill I allow any man to fight my battles, never.'

'I w as attacked as w ell, Calard! I w ould be w ithin my rights to call him out!'

'I w as the target,' said Calard. 'They had you pinned down. They could have killed you, but they did not. No, it was me they w anted dead. I shall challenge him myself.'

'No, you w ill not,' said the baron, his face stern. 'I will not allow it, and, as the most senior knight in the camp, my w ord is final.'

Calard gaped at the baron, and Bertelis's jaw dropped.

'This is outrageous!' the younger brother stormed.

'There w ill be no challenge!' bellowed the baron, his eyes glowering with anger. 'We are assailed by a devious foe that threatens the land, and this petty rivalry you have w ith the Sangasse family has gone far enough! One noble is already dead, and Gunthar, a finer knight than any us, is fighting for his life. Even if he survives, he may never ride again. No, there will be no more of your petty squabbles! Once this w ar is over, and you have returned to your lands, then you may do as you w ish, but there are more important concerns here than a centuries-old feud.'

There was silence in the tent. Both Calard and Bertelis were looking at the floor, w hile Montcadas's furious gaze flicked from one to the other.

'I have spoken to Maloric of this as w ell, and I have made him sw ear on his honour that neither he nor any of knights will continue the feud until this war is over. I will have your w ord as w ell, brothers of Garamont.'

Calard glared at the floor and shook his head slightly. How had it come to this? he thought.

'Fine,' he said at last. 'On my honour, I sw ear it.' Bertelis mumbled his own oath.

'Good,' said Montcadas. 'Your attackers w ill be questioned, and if it comes to light that they w ere paid to carry out the deed, and they name their employer, then action w ill be taken. Now,' he said, 'get some rest. We have a long day tomorrow . There have been reports of the enemy moving in the daylight hours, some tw enty miles to the south, and w e are riding out to scour the area. I w ish you good night, and may the Lady look over you.'

Unseen, Tanebourc stood in the shadows, having overheard the exchange. His face w as thunderous.

AS THE FIRST rays of daw n rose, another struggling peasant w as wrenched into the air, his legs kicking uselessly beneath him as the rope tightened around his neck.

Fourteen other bodies hung limply from the boughs of the trees.

Bertelis glared at the dying man, watching as he turned a deep shade of purple. With his hands tied behind his back, the w ould-be murderer kicked and struggled vainly, eyes bulging. A stink rose into the air as the man lost control of his bodily functions, and Bertelis shook his head in disgust.

The five surviving assassins had been questioned for hours. They had suffered all manner of pain before they had been brought here and strung up. Bertelis thought it too lenient. In his opinion, they should have been kept alive, to experience far more suffering before they journeyed on to Morr's eternal halls.

Tanebourc had been thorough, though. The man had extracted confessions and accusations from the men, hence the other bodies that w ere swinging in the breeze from the boughs. Bertelis stared at one of the corpses: a heavy set man, a yeoman w arden no less. This was the man that the accusations had led back to. Tanebourc had interrogated the man; of course he had not sullied his own hands w ith the grisly task, for such a thing w as beneath a knight of honour, but if the w arden had been employed by one of the nobility, he had died with the secret.

He shook his head. You give peasants some responsibility, put some trust in them, and this is how they repay you, w ith treachery and attempted murder.

The w arden gave a last shuddering kick of his legs, and hung limply, swaying slightly from the branch overhead.

THE RIDE TO the south w as long and sombre. Calard rode much of the time in silence, lost in thought, thinking of the attack, and of Gunthar. He had spoken to Baron Montcadas's surgeon before they had left.

'He w ill live,' the small man had said, 'and he may yet keep the leg. But even if he does, he w ill never ride again. His days of fighting in the saddle are over.'

Calard shook his head, guilt weighing heavily upon him. He should not have allowed Gunthar to fight for him. Had he not, said a voice inside him, you w ould be dead. He pushed aw ay the voice, and scowled up at the heavy clouds. A single black bird circled overhead.

The attack in the night had left all the knights in the camp feeling sour and uneasy, and there w as little talk as the column rode through the south of Bordeleaux. There w ere tw enty-five knights, led by the Baron Montcadas, and ten peasant outriders w earing the yellow and red of Garamont.

The baron w as w atching over Calard and his brother like a haw k. Whether he was concerned about a further attempt on their lives, or w as merely ensuring that the brothers did nothing rash, Calard knew not.

The Forest of Chalons crouched on the hills to the east, everpresent and threatening.

He could see evidence that the forest w as expanding here as elsewhere. A peasant village in the distance seemed in the process of being swallowed whole, half the buildings already hidden by the trees, and Calard could see a tw isted, disease-ridden oak that had somehow sprung up w ithin one of the hovels, ripping its sodden turf roof off.

The dark shape of a modest castle loomed on a hilltop a mile aw ay. To Calard, it seemed like a brave knight standing alone and defiant against the monstrous forest draw ing forward to besiege it. How long before the trees overran it? A week? Perhaps a month?

Something about the castle seemed oddly familiar, and he frowned at the sense of deja vu. It w as an unsettling sensation, but he could not shake it.

A horse of purest w hite ran on the slopes beyond the castle, tossing its head, and Calard felt rejuvenated just w atching the majestic beast. It seemed so free and full of life, running across the grass without saddle or bridle.

As they drew nearer, they saw that the castle was lifeless, abandoned perhaps a decade earlier. A tattered flag blew in the wind from atop its highest parapet, but the design upon it w as impossible to discern. Ivy had crept up the walls of the small castle, w hich were blackened with fire. Perhaps that had been w hat had forced its occupants to abandon it?

'We w ill stop there for half an hour to feed and w ater the horses,' said Baron Montcadas. The yeomen of Garamont rode ahead to prepare for the arrival of the knights. Calard watched them gallop across the grassy slopes towards the blackened castle, a slight frown on his face. He could not shake the idea that he had been here before.

They reined their warhorses in on the grassy flat before the modest gatehouse to the castle. There must have been a w ooden bridge that crossed to the gate once, but it had evidently rotted and fallen onto the rocks below. The gatehouse was open, the heavy w ooden doors hanging loose from their hinges.

Calard felt draw n to the abandoned, eerie castle, as if something was calling to him.

Handing his reins to one of the Garamont peasants, he walked towards it, a frown on his face. He had been here before, he was certain of it. Perhaps as a child?

He looked dow n into the rocky dip that must once have served as a moat, trying to see a clear w ay across to the castle gate. There were patches of stagnant water there, but it w ould not be difficult to cross.

'Calard?' called Bertelis, but he w aved him back.

Stepping carefully, steadying himself with one hand, he descended the steep slope.

Avoiding the stagnant pools of water, he crossed the rocky moat, and pulled himself up the incline on the other side, wincing at the pain that flared in his side. Another w ave of deja vu w ashed over him as he paused at the shattered gate, gazing through to the small courtyard w ithin the castle walls.

He shivered as a cold w ind howled through the gatew ay. I should go back, he thought, but he w alked forward, his brow furrowing in confusion. Half-remembered images flickered through his mind: running through the gateway past bemused guards, giggling chasing his sister.

His sister...

He w as draw n further into the courtyard. Stables and barracks, long abandoned, lay in disrepair along the inside of the southern walls, but it w as tow ards the main keep that he found himself walking. He looked down at the w ater lilies that clogged the circular fountain in the centre of the courtyard. Water overflowed down the sides of a stone grail carved atop a pedestal in the centre of the pool. It clearly tapped into a natural spring beneath the ground, but the effect w as magical nonetheless.

Climbing a set of w ide stone steps, he entered the lonely, lifeless keep. He walked, like a ghost, through halls filled with cobw ebs and dust. The interior had been gutted by fire, and no evidence of furniture or paintings hanging upon the walls remained.

Draw n on inexorably, he climbed up a grand, spiralling staircase, to the top floor, and then he w alked down a long passageway, passing countless empty, dim rooms and lifeless, cold bedchambers.

At last, he came to an archw ay, and there, he halted. He was sweating though the air w as chill. The door set into the archway was intact, and w as drawn almost fully shut.

Not know ing what to expect beyond the doorway, and his heart beating w ildly, Calard pushed the door open. It creaked loudly on rusted hinges, and swung w ide. Ducking his head, he entered the room.

It w as dark, but he could see that the fires that had ravaged the rest of the castle had barely touched this room. Arched windows covered the north wall, wooden shutters rattling in the howling w ind. A large bed w as set in the middle of the room, its mattress sunken and its pillows moth-eaten and covered in mildew. A chamber pot sat in the corner of the room, and a small chest sat against the wall.

Turning around, his heart lurched as he saw movement in the shadows. His sword hissed from its scabbard, and he saw a flash of metal in the gloom.

'Who goes?' he asked, his voice sounding too loud in his ears as it broke the silence.

There was no response.

The w ind howled through the castle, sounding like the moaning of a tortured spirit.

Stepping forw ard, he saw movement in the gloom once again. A bead of sw eat ran dow n his back, and he swallowed heavily.

Did restless spirits of the dead haunt the place? He took another step forwards, and then stopped short.

Against the far w all, hidden in shadow, was a tall mirror. It had a long crack running dow n its surface, but it had been his ow n reflection that he had seen. He let a deep breath that he did not realise he had been holding. You fool, he thought.

Beneath the mirror w as a vanity chest and a small, three-legged stool topped with a moth-eaten velvet cushion. Perhaps the room had belonged to a daughter of the lord of the castle.

Calard, someone w hispered in his ear, making his hackles rise. He swung around, his sw ord raised. There was nothing there. The room w as empty.

Calard, said the voice again, and he spun once more, eyes flicking around the room.

The only movement came from the single loose shutter that w as rattling in the wind.

There is nothing here, Calard thought. You are imagining things. He moved tow ards the w indow to close the banging shutter, for it was unnerving him. Sheathing his sw ord, he leant out of the w indow, reaching for the shutter. It caught the wind just as his fingers touched it, and whipped open out of reach, slamming noisily against the stone outer w all. He cursed and glanced down.

This is where she fell, said the voice in his mind.

A w ave of vertigo w ashed over him, and his breath caught in his throat. He pulled himself aw ay from the window quickly. Was he losing his mind? He shook his head, as if trying to shake it free of some enchantment. He would ride aw ay from this place and forget it.

'Calard,' said a voice behind him, and he froze. This was no w hisper of the wind, but a voice spoken from a living, human throat.

He spun around, ripping his sword from his scabbard once more.

The pale figure of a w oman surrounded in shimmering w hite light w as standing in the doorw ay. It is a restless spirit, he thought, reeling backw ards.

'I am no spirit,' said the woman as she glided forwards into the room. The voice was hauntingly familiar, yet not. The halo of light surrounding her seemed to flicker and disappear, and he saw that she was flesh and blood. Had the halo merely been a trick of the light?

She w as as delicate as a flow er, little larger than a child, and wore a w hite flowing dress made of a material that shimmered like water. It w as held tight around her petite body, billow ing below her tightly corseted waist in flowing waves that trailed behind her. The sleeves of the dress were long and tapered to points that w ere fixed to a pair of silver rings that the woman w ore, one around each of her slender index fingers.

Her face w as obscured by the gloom, but he could see that her hair w as long and dark, and that she w ore a tiara of silver. A silver necklace in the shape of a fleur-delys shimmered against her skin, and Calard's breath caught in his chest.

'A damsel of the Lady,' he breathed in aw e, dropping to his knees in respect. Never had he encountered one of the esteemed handmaidens of the Lady. They were priestesses and protectors, blessed by the Lady herself. Seers and augurs of great pow er, many of them had been granted the gift of future sight, and w ere among the most respected of the king's advisors. Mistresses of fey, mystical powers, they commanded the forces of nature, and w ere the devout protectors of the sacred places of Bretonnia.

'That w indow is where she fell to her death,' said the damsel, her voice fey and distant. With her long dress trailing across the flagstones of the floor, she seemed to glide forw ard like an apparition.

Calard could see her face now , and he stared at her in confused awe. Her face was heart-shaped and youthful, w ith high cheekbones and a pointed chin, and her eyes w ere large and striking. Her skin w as smooth and pale, and make-up had been applied sparingly and artfully around her eyes. Those eyes were wide, and seemed to float around the room, as if the damsel w as following the movements of things that Calard could not see.

'She stood at the w indow. Blood. There was so much blood,' breathed the damsel.

She w as looking at her hands in horror, as if she could see blood on them too, though they w ere pale and clean. 'She w as ashamed, so ashamed. She threw herself from the w indow.' The damsel smiled suddenly, her face lighting up w ith childlike pleasure. 'For a moment, it felt like she was flying.' Then the smile dropped from her face, and she looked sad, so infinitely sad that Calard w anted to stand up and go to her, to hold her and give her comfort. 'And then... she died. Like a w hisper in the w ind, she was gone.'

Calard stared at her in confusion. Had she not been a damsel of the Lady, he would have assumed she w as touched in the head. She was so familiar, too, that it felt like he knew her, just as he felt that he knew this place.

'Who?' he asked at last, his voice a hoarse whisper.

The damsel looked at him, and he was jolted by the sheer depths of power he saw in her grey-blue eyes.

'Our mother,' breathed his tw in sister, the damsel Anara.

CHAPTER TWELVE

BERTELIS GLANCED SIDEWAYS at Anara, his eyes guarded. That she was Calard's tw in was obvious, for the similarities between them were striking; they shared the same eyes and the same colouring. She was short and petite where Calard was broad and strong, but even small gestures betrayed the kinship between them: the way she unconsciously brushed a lock of hair from her eyes, and the way they seemed to mirror each other's movements.

This was his sister, too, he reminded himself, his half-sister, as closely related to him as Calard w as. Of course he had heard his brother speak of Anara much w hen they w ere children, and though he had spoken of her less as the years passed, he knew that she had never been far from his mind. He heard him call out her name in his sleep, and though in the last few years he would not be draw n into conversation regarding his mysterious tw in, he knew that Calard thought of her often, and had long dreamed of finding her.

She is not dead, he remembered Calard saying once. Anara had been missing for years, but he w ould fiercely rebuke anyone that suggested he let her go. I w ould know it if she had been claimed by Morr, Calard had said, bristling in anger. Bertelis had long believed that it w as a forlorn hope that Calard clung to, to be reunited w ith Anara, but here she w as in the flesh.

This, however, was not the carefree child that Calard had w istfully spoken of. She w as clearly touched by the fey, and everything about her resonated w ith otherw orldliness. She spoke in a soft, distant voice, and her eyes often grew unfocused. Her movements w ere calm and full of grace, as if time slowed in her presence.

Bertelis w as certain that she was mad, but he had no doubt of her pow er.

She seemed to radiate an elemental strength that Bertelis found unnerving.

Strangely, it reminded him of a journey he had made once as a boy, to the famed port-city of L'Anguille in the north. He had stood upon a high cliff and stared out across the endless, glittering ocean depths. There had been no wind that day, and the deep green of the sea w as sublimely beautiful, calm and tranquil. The following day a storm had blow n in, and the ocean had turned into a raging tyrant, destructive and aw esome in its strength. Although it had been serene and comforting the day before, now it smashed against the cliffs with such power that it made Bertelis feel insignificant and small.

It had frightened him then, and this was the sense that he got from Anara. She w as like the sea becalmed, serene, beautiful and peaceful, but beneath the surface, deep w ithin, Bertelis sensed that there lay a similar power to that of the sea: destructive, dangerous, and somehow ageless.

As if sensing his eyes upon her, the damsel turned towards him. It felt as though her gaze pierced his soul, seeing every shameful act and hidden secret, and he quickly dropped his gaze, his face paling.

Clearing his throat, he moved stiffly aw ay. That she was devoted to Bretonnia and the Lady w as w ithout doubt. She w as a damsel of the Lady, and hence was one of Bretonnia's most fervent servants, but she made him feel uneasy and more than a little fearful.

A shiver ran dow n his spine, and he moved aw ay from the others. In the distance, he w atched, as a pair of yeoman attempted to catch the w hite horse they had seen earlier, running on the field beyond the castle. They were not having any success; indeed, the horse seemed to be toying w ith them, riding close to their ropes before darting just out of reach as they tried to throw the loops over its broad neck.

Other yeomen w ere laughing at them, shouting jibes and taunts tow ards the men w ho w ere getting increasingly frustrated. Bertelis rebuked them harshly, and they fell silent.

ANARA FELT A tw inge of sadness as she recognised Bertelis's discomfort, but she repressed it instantly. She had come, as her increasingly vivid dream-visions had urged her. It had taken her three w eeks to journey here, and for an hour she had paced the halls of the burnt out castle, remembering, before her tw in had arrived.

She had know n that he would. In the scheme of things to come, the unease she caused in the others mattered not at all.

She felt the emotions and thoughts of the knights swell around her like a rising tide.

She had no w ish to intrude upon their privacy, and she gently allowed herself to rise above the unfocused sea of thoughts.

When this talent had first manifested in her as a child, she had been unable to control it, and had been terrified by the endless barrage of thoughts that had intruded into her mind. She had learnt things that a child should never know, having inadvertently eavesdropped on the darkest thoughts of everyone she had come into contact w ith. It had been maddening.

One day she had begun to cry, for she could hear the thoughts of the young maid that delivered her meal.

'I am sorry that your baby died,' Anara had said, and the maid had stared at her in horror. Witch, she heard the maid think, which had confused her.

Around that time, she had first begun to see glimpses of events that had not yet come to pass. They had scared and confused her.

'Don't ride the big grey horse tomorrow ,' she had begged one of her father's knights at a banquet feast on the night before a tournament, 'you w ill fall off it and you w ill die.'

The knight had laughed at her fear, as had the gathered host of courtiers, but Anara w ould not be consoled.

'Have no fear, little one,' the knight had said, propping her on his knee and looking into her serious face. 'I have ridden Proudheart a thousand times, and he has always borne me w ell. I w ill not fall from him, I promise.'

It w as not, how ever, a promise that he could keep. The powerful grey had been spooked by a sudden movement in the crowd, and had reared. The knight had fallen backw ards and struck his head against a rock. He had died instantly. Anara's father had turned fearful eyes tow ards her when he learnt of the incident.

Freak.

The thought had stung her, and she had begun to cry. Calard had hugged her tight.

She endured his embrace, for she knew that it gave him comfort.

Her father had been relieved w hen the Enchantress had come for her. She had felt the fear emanating from her father and his knights as the Enchantress strode into his hall unannounced and unchallenged, and she had secretly revelled in seeing the men cow ed so.

That first meeting was forever ingrained in her mind's eye. Ethereally tall and as slender as a branch of w illow, yet radiating such power that the breath w as stolen from Anara's lungs, the Enchantress was at once the most beautiful and the most terrifying creature she had ever seen. She was the highest authority in all of Bretonnia, greater even than the king, for she spoke w ith the voice of the goddess.

Their eyes had met across the hall and in that instant the Enchantress had known her: everything that she w as and everything that she could be. Anara's fear had dissipated like a fog in the rising sun. It was replaced by joy and yearning, for in those moments she realised that she was no freak and no w itch, and that her powers w ere not a curse; far from it, they w ere gifts from the Lady. It seemed as though she stared into the Enchantress's almond-shaped eyes for an eternity, sharing a silent communication, before the silence had been broken.

'I am taking the girl,' she had said, turning her ageless gaze tow ards the Lord of Garamont. 'From this day forth she is no longer your daughter. She is a child of the Lady. It may be that you w ill never see her again.'

Lutheure had nodded his head, unable to form w ords, as if stricken mute. Then the Enchantress had extended one graceful hand to Anara, and she had heard her voice, though her lips did not move.

Come w ith me, Anara. Become that w hich you are destined to be. You are not alone any more.

Anara heard Calard speaking to her, and she focused on him, drawing her mind back from the past. They seemed like memories that belonged to someone else, for she was no longer the same little girl she had been.

'...you doing here alone?' he was saying. She did not need to be able to read his thoughts to recognise the awe, and the fear, in his eyes as he looked upon her.

She ignored his question, eyes narrowing as she felt... something. Her gaze drifted up into the sky, searching. Something was w atching them. She could feel its rage, its need for vengeance. At last, her roving gaze focused on a single black bird that circled low above them.

CALARD STARED AT his sister blankly, and then followed her gaze. He saw the carrion bird circling overhead.

'What is it?' he asked, seeing a look of horror come over his sister's delicate features.

'The beast w atches. It hungers,' she breathed, her voice fey and distant. Calard's brow creased in confusion. What w as she speaking of?

'The bird?' he asked slow ly, not understanding.

'It must be brought dow n!' she said, more urgently. Her voice was strained, and something in it made Calard feel suddenly fearful. He swung around, shouting to the yeoman nearby.

'Half a copper-crow n to the man that brings dow n that bird!' he hollered. The men stared at him blankly for a second as his w ords sunk in, and then they scrambled to retrieve their bow s.

'What's going on?' asked Baron Montcadas, throw ing a quick glance tow ards the damsel Anara.

'I don't know ,' said Calard. Anara was staring intently up at the carrion bird.

The first arrows sliced through the air, missing their target. The bird continued to circle, oblivious to the threat, and one peasant gave a shout as his arrow clipped the raven's w ing. It dropped in the air, and black feathers began to spiral tow ards the ground, but it did not fall. At last, an arrow slammed into the creature's body, and it plummeted tow ards the ground like a stone.

Whooping and yelling, the yeoman ran to w here it fell, and the bew ildered knights follow ed after Anara, who hurried across the field in the wake of the bow man. The man's triumphant cries stopped short, and he froze as he stood over the dying bird.

The arrow head had passed clean through the raven, which was impaled upon the shaft of the arrow . It w as not dead, and was trying to right itself, flapping its wings uselessly, its cries piercing.

The bird's head w as cocked to one side and dominated by a bulbous, pulsing bloodshot eye that w as far too large for its head. The pupil was like that of a cat's or a serpent's, and the flesh around the orb w as blistered and bare of feathers. It w as a loathsome mutated thing, and Calard felt his gorge rising. The repulsive eye flicked around, rolling in its fleshy socket, focusing on each of the figures surrounding it in turn.

'Kill it,' ordered Baron Montcadas. Nobody moved. 'Now !'

The yeoman, his face a mask of revulsion, brought his foot down heavily on the dying raven, cutting its cries off abruptly. Delicate bones crunched under his foot, leaving a bloody smear on the ground.

'What w as it?' Calard breathed, horrified.

'The eye of the beast,' said Anara. 'It has been here before, long ago.'

'What?' asked Montcadas. 'The beasts of the forest?'

'It comes for us now !' said Anara, her voice suddenly urgent. 'We must aw ay!'

'Aw ay?' asked Montcadas. 'If the beasts come, then w e shall fight them, lady.'

'Too many,' she breathed. 'It is draw n here like a moth to a flame. Hatred burns w ithin its breast, and it has turned the full force of its herd here. They are approaching even now.'

Montcadas sw ore, and the knights glanced around uneasily. None doubted the w ord of the damsel.

The baron turned tow ards the yeoman, who was trying to w ipe the filth of the dead bird from his foot.

'Ride for the camp,' he ordered. 'Take tw o of the others, and go at once. Darkness is falling, so be sw ift.' The Garamont yeoman looked to Calard, w ho nodded. 'Kegan!'

called Montcadas.

'Yes, my lord,' answ ered a knight w earing a yellow tabard that bore a black cockatrice upon it.

'Ride w ith them. Ensure that the camp is ready for an attack. Allow no more patrols to leave, and send riders to gather those already out.'

'It w ill be as you w ish, my lord.'

'May the Lady be w ith you, Kegan.' Then the baron sw ung towards Anara, 'you w ill honour us by riding at our side, lady?' She nodded absently, her head cocked to one side as if listening to a faint voice. 'I shall ensure there is a steed readied for you.'

'That is not necessary,' she replied. Turning, she let out a high-pitched, ululating cry.

In the distance, the w hite mare pricked up its elongated ears and began to gallop tow ards her.

She w as a beautiful, pow erful creature. Her coat gleamed like silver, and her limbs w ere long and slender, though filled with vigour, speed and power. The horse nuzzled at Anara's outstretched hand, and the damsel leant forward and whispered into the animal's ear. It w as tall, perhaps seventeen hands at the shoulder, and standing next to it, Anara looked like a child. Calard shook his head. Everything was happening so fast.

'Do you know how close the enemy is, sister?' asked Calard.

'I cannot see,' she said, not looking at him, focused as she was on her steed. Her voice w as tense, instilling a sense of urgency in the knights. 'They are closing fast.'

Calard sw ore. Montcadas roared for the patrol to mount up, and a frenzy of activity erupted, as the knights made ready to leave. The trio of yeomen and the knight Kegan galloped aw ay, thundering off to the north.

Calard licked his lips, wondering w here her sister's tack and saddle w as... probably in the stable at the deserted castle; the castle of his mother's family, he reminded himself. It was all too much to take in. He w as about to ask her w here her saddle was located, but the w ords died in his mouth.

The proud, pure w hite horse was kneeling down in the grass, lowering its massive shoulders and bow ing its head. Standing on tiptoe, Anara reached up and grabbed a handful of the mare's spotless mane. With a deft leap, she threw one leg over the mare's broad back, and the horse stood upright.

An old and unenforced law within Bretonnia stated that ladies must ride side-saddle on the occasion that they ride at all, and, even had it not been the law, no noble w oman w ould dream of riding like a man, for one w ho did so would be deemed a harlot. How ever, the damsels of the Lady existed outside traditional laws and values, and there w as not a man in all of Bretonnia, not even the king, who would dare to invoke their ire by reproaching one of them.

Anara smiled dow n at Calard like the little girl he remembered. Her elegant dress was certainly not made for riding a horse bareback, and many of the knights averted their eyes from the exposed flesh of the damsel's toned lower leg. Calard found himself smiling back at his sister, and Montcadas gave a deep belly laugh at the unconventional sight.

The damsel's youthful smile faded, her face turning grim.

'They are here!' she w ailed.

Ghastly, blaring horns sounded in the distance, and Calard ran for his mount. More horns sounded, and he hauled himself into the saddle, and accepted his lance and shield from a nervous-looking peasant.

'Get to your horse, now !' Calard ordered, nodding his thanks to the man.

The knights formed up protectively around Anara. A pair of yeomen rode ahead of them as scouts, and the remainder rode to either side of the knightly formation.

Giving the signal, the baron ordered the men forward and as one they began to canter aw ay from the castle, eyes scanning the area for any sign of the foe.

They did not have to w ait long.

One of the yeomen shouted out, and Calard sw ung his gaze to the east, tow ards the forest in the distance. A group of fur-clad riders had emerged from the tree line, and w as galloping across the fields tow ards the Bretonnians. They leapt dry-stone walls, and another piercing horn sounded.

For a moment, Calard thought they w ere reinforcements coming to their aid, but the riders carried no pennants or standards, and did not appear to be armoured. Peasant outriders? He dismissed the idea almost instantly, for they wore no tabards displaying the colours of their lords.

'The enemy is swift,' said Anara, and Calard squinted at the riders.

As they drew closer, he saw that they w ere around thirty in number, and hounds ran alongside them. Sighting the knights, the dogs erupted into a frenzy of barking and deep-throated grow ls that carried across the undulating hills. Then the riders split abruptly into tw o groups. One group continued riding directly tow ards the knights, w hile the other peeled off to the north, clearly intending to cut them off. He saw a handful, perhaps five riders, split aw ay from this group, and they took off in the direction that Kegan and the yeomen had ridden.

Horns blared once more, and Calard glanced in concern at his twin, as Montcadas picked up the pace. His w orry was unfounded, for despite lacking a saddle and stirrups, Anara rode upon the back of her w hite mare easily, her slight body crouched over the horse's neck.

'Lady above,' said Bertelis. 'What manner of beast are they?'

As the enemy drew nearer, Calard could see that he had been wrong. These were not riders at all. They were twisted creatures of Chaos. Their lower bodies were like those of shaggy oxen, though their legs ended in taloned claws that tore up the turf, rather than cloven hooves. Where the creatures' heads ought to have been there w ere instead muscled torsos, complete with thick, human-like arms, and topped by heavy, horned, bestial heads.

They w ere like the beastmen of the forest that Calard had fought before, but melded, somehow , w ith a massive quadruped to create this bastard hybrid. Long, matted braids of hair and fur streamed behind them, and they hefted crude spears and axes in their hands. One lifted a horn to its bestial mouth as it ran, blow ing a long note that w as echoed by a blare from the other group.

Nor w ere the hounds running at their side natural beasts. As large as ponies, they w ere slavering creatures covered in thick fur, and spines ran down their backbones.

Their jaw s w ere heavy, and filled with teeth and tusks, and their tongues lolled from their mouths as their red-rimmed eyes locked onto their prey.

The group riding directly at the Bretonnians was draw ing close, and the roars and braying cries of the pack could be heard, along w ith the growls and barks of the massive w ar hounds. Up ahead, the other group w as angling into their path, to block their progress to the north.

The mounted yeomen, riding alongside the knights, nocked arrows to their bow s and, rising in the saddle, they began to fire into the enemy. Calard saw an arrow slam into the heavily muscled chest of one of the enemy centaur-creatures. It threw it off balance, and it stumbled. With a snarl, it snapped the arrow -shaft off, leaving the point embedded in its flesh, and continued its w ild charge across the grassland.

Another arrow took one of them in the throat, and it fell with a gargled scream. It struck the ground hard, and rolled, legs snapping beneath it. Its companions ignored it, trampling it into the earth in their eagerness to close with their enemy.

Tw o of the massive hounds, driven mad by the scent of blood in the air, leapt on the fallen creature. They tore it apart in a gory feast, clamping their vice-like jaw s onto its body, and shaking their heavy heads wildly from side to side, ripping flesh and muscle.

With perfect discipline, the knights formed into a tight fighting wedge, with the Baron Montcadas at its tip. Anara rode in the middle of the lance formation, protected on all sides by the armoured bulk of knights.

When the enemy to their flank w as no more than a hundred yards distance, Baron Montcadas abruptly sw ung to the right. The knights followed his move closely, and the formation w heeled around to face the enemy head-on. Baron Montcadas lifted his morning star high, and began to sw ing it above his head. The knights kicked their steeds into a charge in perfect unison.

'For Bastonne and the Lady!' roared Montcadas, and Calard and the other knights echoed the w ar cry.

The enemy roared and leapt forwards to meet them, unflinching, the massive w ar hounds running hard at their sides. They lifted crude spears up high; they did not couch them like the Bretonnians did with their lances. The lead creature hurled its spear like a javelin, the full weight of its body behind the throw. The spear lanced through the air, and a knight w as ripped from the saddle as the weapon punched through his breastplate. Other spears were hurled, but they w ere battered aside by shields.

There was a deafening crack, as Dieter Weschler, riding within the formation, fired one of his w heel-lock pistols. A cloud of acrid smoke rose from the long barrel of the w eapon, and Calard saw one of the beasts stumble and fall, the shot blasting out through the back of its head w ith a spray of blood.

The knights lowered their lances, and the two forces struck. The impact was immense, and the lead creature fell beneath the spiked ball of Montcadas's morning star, its skull smashed asunder. A spear thrust skidded off Calard's shield, and he plunged his lance tip into the neck of one of the beasts, using the full force of his momentum to drive it through the enemy's flesh. It sheared through the creature's body like a hot knife through a w ad of butter, and the beast fell, blood spurting from the fatal w ound.

War hounds snarled and grow led, and jaw s snapped at Gringolet's neck, but the pow erful destrier trampled the beasts beneath its hooves. An axe slammed into the head of the knight at Calard's right, shearing through the metal of the man's helmet and shattering bone. The man swayed in the saddle for a moment before falling beneath the thunder of hooves.

The w edge of knights drove through the middle of the enemy, smashing them aside, and striking out w ith lances and swords. The bellows and roars of the enemy were deafening but the knights fought ferociously. A serrated blade struck Calard's breastplate, and he w inced from the force of the impact, though it could not penetrate his thick armour. He lashed out w ith the butt of his lance, smashing it into the snarling bestial face of his attacker, before Bertelis sliced open its throat with a deft sw eep of his blade.

With a roar, a massive, tusked hound w ith four eyes leapt, its weight dragging one of the proud Bretonnian w arhorses down. The steed screamed horribly as it fell, and jaw s closed around its neck. The knight bome by the destrier fell with a curse, but there w as no time to aid him, as the Bretonnians thundered clear of the melee.

Ranging out on the flanks of the knights, Garamont yeomen fired their bow s smoothly, sinking arrow after arrow into those beasts that had survived the knightly charge. Three arrow s pierced a centaur-beast, and it collapsed to the ground, its legs giving w ay beneath it. A war hound dropped with a yelp as a shaft drove betw een its vertebrae.

The knights wheeled around sharply. They had lost five of their number, and had killed perhaps tw elve of the enemy, and a half dozen or so hounds. They charged back into the reeling enemy, slaughtering the remainder.

The second group w as closing on them from the north, and Montcadas shouted for order, w heeling the lance formation around tow ards the threat. Pain flared in Calard's w ounded side, and he could feel blood running down his torso. He had clearly ripped open the assassin's wound during the fight, though at the time he had felt nothing.

He knew that the next charge would prove more costly, but he felt a fierce sense of pride w ithin him. He would not allow anything to harm his sister now that he had found her after so many years.

'Hold,' called Anara, her voice full of authority, all hint of otherworldliness gone. 'Do not charge them.'

Obediently, the knights reined in their steeds, and the damsel pushed betw een them to gain a clear view of the closing enemy. They were no more than eighty paces aw ay, and closing fast, and Calard's anxious gaze flickered betw een Anara and the enemy.

Apparently defying logic, Anara slipped from the back of her mare.

'Sister, w hat are-' began Calard, but he w as silenced by a raised hand.

The knights shuffled in unease as the damsel bent down and removed the soft slippers from her feet. She wiggled her toes, and cold, wet mud oozed betw een them.

Calard looked uneasily tow ards the closing enemy. They were less than forty paces aw ay.

Anara began to chant, her voice low, moving to rhythms that w ere alien to the ears of the gathered knights. The warhorses of the knights, perhaps sensing the tension in their riders, began to stamp their hooves into the wet earth, and shake their heads.

Calard patted Gringolet heavily on the neck, whispering calming words to the destrier, though his eyes were locked on the enemy that w as so close that he could pick out individual details. He could see the jangle of bones and infernal bronze icons looped through holes in the beasts' horns, and the hellish symbols carved into their flesh and hides.

Calard licked his lips, and clenched his fist around his weapon. The enemy were closing fast, and the knights would be slaughtered if they were caught motionless.

Their charge began to falter, however. Though they fought wildly to maintain their momentum, they w ere slowly sinking into the water-soaked earth.

In amazement, Calard looked at Anara, w ho w as continuing her incantation unabated. The ground around her feet had dried up, the mud hardening to a rock-like crust.

Slavering w ar hounds snapped and growled as they clambered over each other, frantic to escape the sinking mire. The beast-centaurs roared and bellow ed in rage and frustration, thrashing frantically as they tried to free themselves from the marsh.

With each violent movement, they sank further into the clinging mire. One of them roared and hurled its spear tow ards the knights, but it fell ten yards short.

Several of the Garamont yeomen rode in close to the edge of the sw ampy area, and fired into the helpless creatures. They killed several, before Montcadas ordered them to stop in order to conserve arrow s. The baron stared in wonder at the diminutive damsel, w ho was continuing her incantation, her eyes having rolled up into the back of her head.

Her lips w ere turning blue, and she began to sw ay slightly. Calard dropped from his saddle and w ent to her, but w as unw illing to lay hands upon her, for fear of w hat might happen if he interrupted her spell.

Within minutes, the creatures of Chaos had disappeared, bellowing defiance as they w ere sw allowed by the mire.

Anara finished chanting, and swooned, falling forwards. Calard caught her in his arms.

Her eyes flicked open, blazing w ith sudden anger. 'Don't touch me!' she hissed, her eyes flashing with fey light. She pulled free of Calard's arms, and he gaped at her.

She quickly recovered her composure, and colour began to return to her face. With an imperious glance at Calard, she mounted her w hite steed.

'Come, brother,' she said, her voice soft and distant once more, the sudden anger of a moment before forgotten. 'We must be aw ay. The beast is draw ing near.'

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

THE RIDE BACK to camp w as like a hellish nightmare. Horns pursued the knights, and as the last of the sun's rays dropped over the horizon, they saw dark shapes emerging from the forest of Chalons. Howls and roars echoed around them, and the Bretonnians held flaming brands high to hold back the darkness that threatened to close around them like a death shroud.

Tw ice they were attacked, set upon by packs of beastmen that erupted from the darkness, leaping from ambush and setting about them w ith axes and curved sw ords. Five knights and a pair of yeomen were dragged from their saddles and butchered in the first attack before the knights rode free, speaking prayers to the Lady for those that had fallen.

There was no w arning of the second attack, and it had been led by a monstrous creature that stood some ten feet tall, a behemoth of flesh and muscle. The massive head of a raging bull topped its pow erful, hunched frame, supported by a neck thicker than the body of a horse, and its w ide horns spanned almost six feet from bronze-encased tip to tip.

It pounded out of the darkness w ith its head lowered, and slammed into the knights, sending several of their steeds flying. It lifted a w arhorse on its horns, flicking it over its shoulder as if it w eighed nothing at all, sending the knight in the saddle of the horse crashing to the ground ten yards aw ay. It w ielded a massive spiked club in each hand, and rusted chains locked the weapons to its arms, so that it w as unable to discard them. It smashed the skull of another horse w ith a blow that fell w ith the force of an avalanche, and roared, spittle flying from its bovine lips.

Smaller beastmen sw armed in its w ake, and a frantic combat had erupted. Seven knights w ere killed before the massive bull-headed beastman slumped to the ground, pierced by more than a dozen sw ords and lances. Its lesser minions, seeing the great creature topple, took flight, and the weary Bretonnians pushed on, leaving the dead w here they lay.

Sounds of pursuit dogged them, and unnatural roars and cries echoed through the darkness.

They found their path blocked by tw isted branches and briars, and there were raised voices as a tense argument erupted. The yeoman scouts w ere accused of leading them astray, but Calard defended them, spying a small roadside shrine that he had noticed earlier that day w hen they had passed this way. The forest w as interposing itself in their path, seeking to slow and block their passage, and Calard had been surprised to see tears glistening on Anara's cheeks.

'They are in pain,' she said mournfully, laying a slender hand upon the trunk of one contorted tree, its boughs dripping with red sap. Branches creaked and groaned alarmingly, and leafless limbs shivered and strained. Eyes filled with malice glinted in the orange light of the torches, and Calard shivered.

No man had any w ish to pass beneath the tw isted branches of the unnatural trees, and so they set off to the w est, seeking to circumvent the disturbing woodland that blocked their w ay.

The ride took them hours longer than it ought to have, for they were forced far to the w est by the sudden grow th of the forest, though thankfully the sounds of the pursuit had faded. It w as nearing midnight w hen they finally rode towards the camp, on the flat-topped hill of Adhalind's Seat. The night was eerily silent as peasants ran to greet them, and they slid wearily from their saddles. Looking around, Calard saw that, of the knights who had set out that day, less than half had returned. Still, for all that, he knew that they had been lucky. Had it not been for Anara's w arning, he was certain that none of them w ould have returned.

Kegan had clearly arrived back at the camp some time earlier, and preparations for an attack w ere under w ay. Braziers had been lit around the perimeter of Adhalind's Seat, and men-at-arms and peasant bow men stood ready. Sentries patrolled the low lands around the flat-topped hill, wary for any sign of the enemy. The majority of the knights in the camp w ere fully armed and armoured, and sat in their saddles, ready for battle. The remainder w ere also fully armoured, and their horses were tethered nearby. It w ould take but a shout from a sentry for them to be ready to face the hated foe.

Calard's w ounded side pained him, and he knew that his dressing needed changing, but he follow ed Baron Montcadas to his war tent, leading Anara gently by her arm.

She seemed in no w ay adverse to the contact now, and Calard w alked with his chin held high, hearing the awed whispers of the gathered knights as they saw the revered damsel of the Lady on his arm.

Montcadas called the senior knights of Bastonne to him, and Calard felt a flush of pride that he w as included in their mix, though he knew that this was more to do w ith his kinship with Anara than anything else.

Calard glanced around the ostentatious tent, looking upon the faces of the powerful nobles. There were ten men gathered, all nobles of Bastonne, except for the empire envoy, Dieter Weschler, who had graciously been allowed to attend this war-meeting and the aw e-inspiring figure of the questing knight, Gundehar of Raisol, who stood leaning upon the pommel of his massive two-handed sword. Two of the knights were vassals of his father, and three were sworn to Sangasse. The remainder were vassel lords of Montcadas. With a stab of guilt, he realised that Gunthar should have been present, being one of the more respected knights in the camp.

'First, let me introduce and w elcome the lady Anara of Garamont, damsel of the Lady,' said the baron. The knights bow ed to her respectfully, and Calard smiled inw ardly at the look the Sangasse lords shared betw een them. 'I give thanks to the Lady that she has come.'

Anara accepted the bow s of the knights without expression. 'Of Garamont no longer,'

she said. 'I am a handmaiden of the Lady, and to her alone am I tied.' Calard looked at her, aggrieved, but she ignored him.

'My apologies,' said the baron. His broad face w as serious as he stared around at the gathered knights, looking at each man in turn. 'The Lady Anara has seen that a great force marches against us. Even now, it gathers in the darkness, readying to descend upon us.'

'Good!' said one man forcefully, echoing the thoughts of all the knights. 'The enemy has avoided pitched battle for too long.'

'Indeed,' boomed Montcadas. 'How ever, the force that marshals against us is pow erful, and it is not an honourable foe. We will be heavily outnumbered, and they are certain to attack under the cover of darkness.'

'Bah!' said one knight. 'We have nothing to fear from the darkness! We are knights of Bretonnia! Each knight is more than a match for five of the enemy.' Murmurs of agreement met this statement, and Calard felt his chest swell.

'They are a cunning enemy,' said the questing knight, Gundehar. They were the first w ords that Calard had heard the lean, unshaven knight speak, and his voice was deep and strong. 'They are not to be underestimated.'

'With respect, lord Gundehar, are they not merely beasts?' asked one of the Sangasse knights. 'They will not attack a pow erfully defended position in a pitched battle, surely?'

'If there are enough of them, and they are confident of victory, they will, Beldane,'

said Gundehar, 'and w e know not w hat they seek to achieve here.'

'Achieve?' laughed the knight, Beldane. 'They do not think like you or I. They are driven to kill and destroy, nothing deeper than that.'

'In my experience, they are not an unthinking enemy,' said Gundehar coolly. 'They are more subtle than the greenskins, who I agree, seek nothing more than bloodshed and battle. No, there is something at w ork here, though I am not w ise enough to see w hat it is.'

Montcadas frow ned. 'What do you mean?' he asked.

'The enemy has been attacking, apparently at random, all across the eastern edge of Bordeleaux. In doing so, they forced the duke's hand, making him split his forces to cover a w ide area. Their attacks have been unfocused and chaotic. No pattern could be read in their movements, but now , their entire attention has been drawn here. For w hat? It seems to me that their previous attacks have not been random. It is more like they have been searching for something, and they have found it, here.'

'Searching for w hat?' asked Calard, speaking before he could stop himself. All eyes in the tent turned tow ards him, and he reddened, dropping his gaze to the floor. He felt Anara's eyes burning into him.

'I don't know ,' admitted Gundehar.

'It matters not at all to me w hat they are doing here,' growled Montcadas. 'All that matters is that they are coming. We are faced w ith a deadly foe, and I have gathered you here to plan how to fight it.'

'How do w e know they are massing against us?' asked Haydon, one of the Garamont knights, a broad-shouldered, balding noble. 'Could this not just be another feint?'

'The beast is w atching us, even now,' said Anara suddenly, her voice vague and distant, her eyes misted. Calard felt the temperature w ithin the tent drop sharply, and he could see his breath in the air before him. It continued to drop, and he saw beads of condensation form upon the sides of a goblet of w ater that sat upon the circular table that dominated the tent.

'The forest is alive with movement,' said Anara in a ghostly, unnerving voice. Ice was forming on the surface w ater within the goblet. 'I see children of Chaos beyond number. Their lust for violence is great, but the beast holds them in check, restraining their urges. Sacrifices are being prepared. The beast is calling more of its dark kin to its side.'

Anara blinked, as if waking from a deep slumber, and the temperature in the room began to return to normal. Her eyes came back into focus, and she looked Montcadas squarely in the eyes. 'The attack w ill not come this night. It w ill come tomorrow , at dusk.'

The silence in the tent w as stifling, and the knights shuffled their feet, their faces pale.

Montcadas cleared his throat. 'Thank you, lady,' he said graciously, bow ing his head to Anara.

'We know that they are many, and w e know when the attack w ill come. All w e can do is make ready for it. Kegan, w hat preparations have you made?'

Clearly still discomforted by Anara's display of power, the knight swallowed thickly.

'The men-at-arms and peasants of Garamont, Sangasse and Montcadas are all standing at the ready. They are posted around the perimeter of the camp, and I have ordered braziers lit. Sentries patrol the fields below Adhalind's Seat, to forew arn us of an attack, though it seems that tonight they are unnecessary,' he said, with a nod tow ards Anara. 'There is one patrol still out there, accompanied by the young Earl of Sangasse, Maloric. Outriders are seeking them. They are due back by midnight. I have also sent a request for aid to the duke's forces in the north: five men, riding the camp's sw iftest steeds.'

'They are already dead,' said Anara. 'The message will not be received.'

'We can expect no aid in this battle, then,' said Montcadas.

'That is not quite correct,' said Anara.

'No?'

'I visited the grail knight Reolus as his body slumbered. Even now, he is leading a force to us. They will arrive before sunset tomorrow .'

'Reolus? He comes here?' asked Calard.

'He does, brother,' said Anara.

'Well, that is w elcome news,' said Montcadas. He turned his broad, bearded face tow ards Kegan. 'You have done w ell. Go now, and relieve the foot soldiers from their state of readiness, and pass the word for the knights to stand dow n. Let them get some rest. By the sounds of it, w e shall be in for a long night tomorrow .'

The knight took his leave, and Montcadas cleared the circular table in the centre of the tent. He produced a scroll of rolled, faded parchment and spread it out across the table. The gathered knights closed around it, and Calard saw that it w as an intricate map. Villages, w oodland and castles were painted in minute detail, and illustrations of dragons and other beasts decorated the edges of the parchment. Its colour had long since faded, but the details w ere mostly clear. Calard could see Adhalind's Seat marked upon it, and a small grail icon marked the position of the nearby shrine.

'The Forest of Chalons, marked here,' said Montcadas, indicating the area of faded green on the eastern edge of the map, 'is obviously now inaccurate. However, the remaining details are accurate as far as I can make out, and the scale is true.'

He turned and called for a servant. 'Bring us food and w ine,' he ordered, before turning back to pore over the map.

'Now ,' he said, 'w e must discuss our strategy.'

CALARD YAWNED HEAVILY. The night had been long and the discussions of strategy and tactics had raged back and forth for hours. Anara had excused herself and retired to the Baron of Montcadas's personal tent, for he had graciously given it over to her use. Much of the discussion had gone over Calard's head, and he found his thoughts drifting to his sister, and to Gunthar. Gundehar's words haunted him, and he turned them over in his mind again and again. The beasts w ere searching for something, the questing knight had said.

At last, a plan of action had been agreed, and the meeting concluded. Glancing up at the sky, he saw that Mannslieb w as sinking towards the horizon, and he estimated that it w as around tw o hours past midnight. He yaw ned again, but did not move tow ards his tent, though his pallet w as calling to him.

Instead, he made his w ay through the quiet camp. Knights, unable or unwilling to sleep, nodded to him as he passed by their fires.

Word had come to the baron's w ar tent that Maloric and his knights had returned from their patrol, though they w ere bloodied and more than half their number had been lost in an ambush by the beasts of the forest. Calard w as glad that the young Sangasse nobleman had not fallen. They would need every man capable of w ielding a sw ord in the battle the next night, and besides, he would have felt cheated if Maloric had been slain.

Picking his way betw een the tents, Calard came to the one he sought, and slipped inside quietly.

Strong smelling herbs w ere burning in a small brazier in the corner of the tent, but they could not fully mask the foul scent of sickness that assailed Calard as he entered.

A single candle burned w ithin, and it took a moment for Calard's eyes to adjust to the gloom. Moving as quietly as he w as able, he moved to the bedside and looked dow n upon the sleeping form of Gunthar.

The w eapon master had aged dramatically in the days since his injury. His face was gaunt and pale, etched w ith heavy wrinkles and lines, and his eyes were sunken and hollow . A sheen of sweat covered his brow , and his breathing was almost imperceptible.

Several basins of bloody w ater stood beside the pallet, and rags w ere soaking within them.

Gently, so as not to w ake the injured knight, Calard lifted the blankets covering Gunthar to look at the w ound, wrinkling his nose against the foul smell. Ganelon's sw ord had stabbed deep into his thigh, and it was clear that it w as not healing well.

It w as open, w eeping pus and blood, and the flesh around it w as a bruised, angry colour. Calard placed the blankets back dow n gently, his heart heavy.

His ow n wound was healing well, but it had been far less serious than Gunthar's.

'You are a young man, strong and healthy,' the diminutive surgeon had said. 'Your body w ill heal quickly.' Gunthar, however, was not a young man.

Wringing out a cloth, Calard dabbed the sw eat from Gunthar's forehead. The weapon master's skin felt hot and feverish to the touch. The injured knight stirred, and opened his eyes. He looked up at Calard, standing over him, and he smiled.

'Well met, Calard,' he breathed.

'How are you feeling?' asked Calard.

'Good,' replied the ageing knight, his voice weak. 'Give me a day, and I w ill be back in the saddle, as strong as ever.'

Calard smiled sadly, but did not refute the w eapon master.

'I hear tell that you found your sister,' said Gunthar.

Calard nodded, smiling. He pulled up a chair, and turned it around before sitting himself down. 'She is a damsel of the Lady now.'

Gunthar smiled sleepily. 'Your mother would have been proud, proud of you both.'

Calard looked dow n. 'I do not feel proud of myself,' he said. 'You shouldn't be lying here.'

'I w ill be fine. I've suffered worse wounds.'

'They say that you w ill not... not ride again, Gunthar,' said Calard, his voice full of sadness. Gunthar scoffed at his words.

'I w ill ride again. What sort of knight w ould I be if I could not ride into battle for my lord? Or for my lord's son? I w ill be fine, Calard. You w ill see.'

Calard smiled at the w eapon master's certainty.

'Don't be too hard on yourself,' said Gunthar. 'You are young, and all young men are eager and rash. It is their nature to act in such a manner, convinced of their ow n immortality. I w as young too once.'

'Never!' said Calard, gently mocking. Then his face grew more serious. 'There will be a great battle tomorrow . The enemy is gathering against us.'

'So I hear,' said Gunthar, 'but the Lady is w ith us. We w ill be victorious, or w e will not.' He shrugged. 'In the big scheme of things, it matters little. The mountains will still exist long after we are forgotten by history. Ah, listen to me, I am old, and getting morbid in my dotage.'

'You are not so old, Gunthar.'

The w eapon master smiled. 'And you are a bad liar, for w hich I am pleased.'

Calard stared into the candle flame, and the silence deepened betw een them. 'It is strange to see Anara again,' he said at last.

'Oh? How so?'

'For almost fifteen years I have prayed to the Lady to bring her back into my life, and now that she has, I find that she has... changed. She is not the girl I remembered.'

'And you are no longer the boy that you w ere.'

'I know , but she is... different. There is a distance betw een us that I do not think can be bridged. I do not understand the pow ers that she w ields. She... she frightens me.'

'I w ould call any man a liar that claimed not to be afraid of such a one.'

'She said some strange things,' said Calard after a time, staring vacantly into the candle, w atching the perfect tapering flame flicker ever so slightly. He sighed and looked dow n, his thoughts confused and jumbled. 'I visited a castle today. I do not even know its name. I visited it once when I w as a very small child. I remember it faintly now. Mother was heavy w ith child, though it is only now that I realise it. That w as w hy we travelled there, I suppose, so that my mother w as close to her family and in familiar surrounds when the baby's time came. Perhaps they already knew that it w as going to be a difficult birth. I remember she travelled in a grand carriage, pulled by four w hite horses. Anara travelled in the carriage with her, and I did too for some of the w ay, w hen I was not sitting in my father's saddle, his arm around me.'

Calard gave a dry, humourless laugh. 'I think that may have been the last time my father embraced me, on that journey. I remember now , running through the castle of my mother's family, and I remember being terrified as my mother screamed in agony.

' They are hurting her!' I cried, but Anara quietened me. ''A baby is coming out of her' , she said to me. She w as so calm, and matter-of-fact. Anara! The fey child that lived in a fantasy w orld that only she could perceive, w hom the servants were afraid of, and she w as speaking to me like an adult!' He smiled w istfully at the recollection that, until today, had been lost to him, but it faded quickly.

'I never saw my mother again. I guess the babe died in the birth. You said so yourself, although I can now remember its birth screams.' He shuddered. 'They were horrific. Anara and I w ere ushered away by servants. We left the castle the next day.

Mother w as not w ith us, and I did not know where she was. It w as only years later that I learnt she had died, in childbirth, as you had said. Today, though, Anara said some things... things I cannot explain. She said that my mother did not die in childbirth at all, but rather threw herself from a w indow, and was dashed upon the rocks below . I don't understand. I don't know what this all means.'

Looking up, his eyes haunted, he saw that Gunthar was asleep. He didn't know how much the w eapon master had heard, and he snorted without humour. Gathering his thoughts, he stood up.

'Lady, please protect him,' he w hispered, and silently left the tent.

CALARD WOKE TO the sound of tense voices. Stumbling out into the cold half-light of predaw n, he saw peasants running through the camp, their faces w orried and pale, and he could hear knights talking together in strained voices. Walking through the milling crowd standing on the edge of Adhalind's Seat, he gazed out over the surrounding fields to the east.

The day before, the forest of Chalons had been a distant shadow on the horizon. It had already broken its former borders, and extended far beyond its natural range. Its arms had spread out to the north and south like a crescent, arcing around Adhalind's Seat, where it had been at least five miles away at its closest point.

Now , the forest was no more than a mile in the distance.

'Lady above,' breathed Calard, his eyes w ide in horror.

Calard pushed his w ay through the press of gaw king onlookers, and ran through the camp, heading tow ards the other side of the table-topped hill. He dreaded what he w ould see there. Gaining a clear view across the fields to the w est, he sighed in horror.

The forests of Chalons were only a mile away. It w as the same to the north, and to the south.

The forest had completely surrounded them. They were in the belly of the beast, trapped deep w ithin its heart of darkness, and it was surely only a matter of time before they w ere completely engulfed.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

DREAD AND NERVOUS anxiety churned within Calard's stomach. Black birds, the eyes of the enemy, circled high overhead, out of bow range.

'I w ill be glad w hen night comes, just so w e won't have to see those hateful things any longer,' said Bertelis.

The glare of the sun was harsh, burning an intense, blazing orange. The sky was red, fading to purple and dark blue in the east. It w as less than an hour until dusk.

According to Anara, the beasts w ould begin their onslaught an hour after sundow n.

'Not long now ,' said Calard. He too w ished the time would pass quickly. He hated the hours before battle w as met.

The day had been one of frantic activity as the camp prepared for attack. Orders w ere given, and men-at-arms formed into fighting echelons that were spread around the hill, facing out in all directions.

Fletchers and blacksmiths worked hard through the day, and hundreds of new arrow s w ere made and distributed amongst the five hundred peasant archers and bow -armed yeomen of Garamont, Sangasse and Montcadas. Iron braziers w ere positioned around the perimeter, and peasants gathered additional firewood to ensure that none of them w ould burn low throughout the long night ahead.

A team of some three hundred men had marched out before daw n, under the w atchful gaze of Baron Montcadas, heading towards an isolated copse of beech trees half a mile from Adhalind's Seat. Nervously eyeing the unnatural, tortured forest of Chalons, w hich had completely surrounded the camp in the night, the peasants set about lopping these tall, straight, grey trees. The branches and twigs were shorn from the trunks, and they w ere hauled back to the camp, w here they were hewn into lengths around ten feet long. The tips were sharpened with axes, and hardened with fire. Over the course of the day, several thousand stakes were cut, and these were set into the ground around the base of Adhalind's Seat, forming a ring of spikes facing outw ards. The overlapping lines of stakes allowed for sorties of knights to charge through them, w hile ensuring that an enemy trying to storm them w ould have to fight hard for every inch of ground they took.

The archers stood on the hillsides behind the stakes, each man w ith dozens of arrows stuck into the soft earth in front of him, and carrying a pair of quivers. Calard did not, of course, approve of the use of missile weapons, but he respected the tactical use of the peasants. Besides, the peasants had no concept of honour, too ignorant to understand that it w as shaming to kill from a distance.

More sharpened stakes had been sunk into the earth around the sacred copse that butted up against the north-w est hillside, and hundreds of archers stood behind them, supported by large blocks of men-at-arms.

The archers were under orders to fire upon the foe until they were within a hundred paces, at w hich point they w ere to pull back onto the slopes of Adhalind's Seat, joining the bulk of the archers there, and allowing the men-at-arms to step forw ard and hold the line. It was here that the men of Garamont w ere stationed, here that they w ould face the enemy.

Half a dozen knights, all vassals of Calard's father, had nobly volunteered to fight on foot and lead the peasant rabble. They knew that holding the line against the enemy w as of paramount importance. If the line broke, and the beasts w ere allowed to despoil the sacred shrine, then the good name of their lord w ould be sullied, for it w as Garamont's responsibility to see it protected. With their line bolstered by the presence of the stern knights, Calard w as more confident that the men-at-arms w ould hold.

There were gaps in the wooden stakes, to either side of the shrine's edges, through w hich the Garamont knights could sally forth to attack the enemy directly, if they managed to w eather the storm of arrow s. Many of the nobles were confident that the unruly rabble of the enemy w ould not be able to advance beneath the clouds of arrow s that w ould descend among them, but Baron Montcadas w as not convinced.

Indeed, many of the nobles in the war tent on the previous evening had argued long and hard for the knights of Bastonne to ride out and meet the enemy head-on, on the flat fields around the hill, for they were unhappy with the idea of hiding behind walls of stakes and relying on peasant archers. Where was the honour in that they questioned?

Montcadas had not entertained these considerations, dismissing them too quickly in Calard's eyes, but he had held his tongue, letting the more experienced knights argue their cases.

To his surprise, Montcadas had even draw n Dieter Weschler into the discussion, asking him how an Empire army w ould mount a defence against this enemy. The other knights had murmured their discontent, but Montcadas had silenced them w ith a fiery glare.

'In my land, w e would hold the high ground with our heavy infantry battalions,'

started Dieter. 'We w ould pound the enemy w ith cannon and mortar, and lines of arquebuses w ould fire as the enemy came into range. These handguns have not the range or rate of fire of your long bow s, but w ithin tw o hundred yards they are devastating. We w ould funnel the enemy towards our strongest positions, tow ards the true strength of our armies, its infantry.'

Several of the gathered knights scoffed at this, laughing under their breath at the foolishness of their neighbours. Ignoring their snide remarks, Dieter had continued w ith dignity.

'Our knightly orders would be held back to counterattack against enemy cavalry, or w herever the line began to falter. Regiments of halberdiers and spears would be held in reserve under the command of a senior captain, who w ould order them forwards into any breaches. Victory w ould come as the enemy broke against our infantry battalions, for there is not a more disciplined force in the Old World.' The small captain stood proudly, his chest puffed out like a cockerel's as he went into further detail about the disposition of the armies of the Empire, and their tactics. He quoted from tactical manuals that Calard had never read, and spoke of battles that he had never heard of. At last, Montcadas thanked the Empire captain, who nodded curtly in response, clearly pleased at having been given the opportunity to speak of his homeland.

'Our knights,' Montcadas had said, 'are our most potent w eapon. No better knights can be found in the Old World or beyond, and they are rightly feared by all w ho oppose us. Given more knights, this battle w ould be w on easily, for nothing can stand against our charge. How ever, as the noble damsel has foretold, we will be facing an enemy ''beyond number' . I fear that if w e ride forth from Adhalind's Seat and engage the enemy on even ground, we will be surrounded and slaughtered to a man. Our charge w ill falter, and, as soon as w e have lost our momentum, our advantage has been lost.'

'We w ill not be able to make use of our greatest advantage if w e hide behind walls of stakes and peasants,' countered Kegan, spitting out the last w ord as if it tasted bad in his mouth.

'Quite true,' replied Montcadas. 'The enemy w ill break against Adhalind's Seat, and w e shall charge forth and drive through the enemy where it threatens us most, before pulling back. This will not be the glorious battle that many of you noble knights wish it to be. It w ill not be the glorious battle that I w ould w ish it to be. But there w ill be no glory if every man here is slaughtered, and I w ill be damned if I let such a thing come to pass under my leadership.'

At the end of the discussion, as the knights moved off to begin preparations and steal a few hours rest, Calard had seen Montcadas sit dow n heavily, looking tired and strained. This shocked Calard more than anything else he had seen or heard that night, for he had believed that the massive baron w as utterly indefatigable, an elemental force of battle that never tired, nor ever even considered losing.

'I w ish that Lord Gunthar w as with us, lad,' he had said, and Calard had hung his head in shame. 'I am a leader of men, and I like to think a fine one, but I prefer to lead from the front. I am no master of strategy. I prefer to leave that to more learned men. I suppose that the Lady tests us all, and one can only hope to live up to the challenges she sets.'

'I think the strategy is sound, baron,' said Calard.

'Good,' said Montcadas w ith a smile. 'I've never lost a battle in my life, and I don't intend to start now .'

The tents in the camp had been mostly dismanded so that reinforcements could cross the hilltop unimpeded, and so that messages could more easily be passed w ith flags and banners. A few tents remained, connected by aw nings of canvas, to act as a field surgery, and hundreds of pallets were laid out. Water w as collected from the spring that fed the grail shrine's serene glade, and peasants were organised into small groups to transport the w ounded from the main battle lines.

No peasant w as spared a duty, and non-combatants w ere organised into teams to aid the battle, either as aides to the few surgeons in the camp, as labourers to bear arrow s, w ater and fresh lances, or organised into lightly armoured skirmish echelons to support the men-at-arms and dispatch injured enemies with knives and cudgels.

Calard took a deep breath, trying to calm his frayed nerves. The sun was sinking ever nearer to the horizon. The attack w ould come at any minute. Even the knowledge that the holy paladin Reolus w ould fight at their side did little to curb the feeling of dread rising w ithin him.

The grail knight had arrived at the camp hours earlier, emerging from the unnatural forest to a great cheer. Knights and peasants had stopped their work to w itness the arrival of the grail knight and his entourage. The knight's self-appointed heralds ran before the resplendent knight, exhorting his exploits in loud voices, and blowing long notes on trumpets and horns.

The revered knight rode his massive midnight black stallion at the head of some fifty knights, but they seemed to pale beside him, and all eyes w ere locked on the renow ned champion of the Lady.

He had looked like a hero of legend, plucked straight from the illuminated pages that chronicled the exploits of Gilles the Uniter. He could have been one of the companions, one of the near-mythical paladins that rode at the side of the Uniter and freed the lands of the Bretonni from darkness.

In the dull, overcast afternoon light, the holy knight seemed to glow like a beacon.

The visor of his full-faced helm was lowered, and he rode with his head held high.

Candles surrounded the silver, heraldic unicorn atop his helmet, and the light they created shone a halo around the knight, and gleamed off his highly polished and ornate armour. The lance Arandyal was held vertical in one hand, and his shield was slung over his back. His deep blue cloak fluttered in the breeze behind him.

To his right, a knight bore the grail knight's personal standard: a majestic, rearing unicorn of shimmering silver upon a field of blue. The bearer's face shone with pride at the honoured duty.

'Hark ye, knights of Bastonne!' hollered one of the pilgrim heralds. 'Witness the approach of Saint Reolus the Wise, beloved of the Lady! Saint Reolus the Bold, paladin of Quenelles! Saint Reolus the Valiant, who slew the blood-beast of the Orcals!'

'Blessed are ye to look upon his holiness! Give praise, for he has come to fight the beasts! Victory is certain, for the Lady will not allow any harm to befall her favourite, and never shall his standard fall w hile he doth take breath!'

Tw o hundred pilgrims had marched behind the hallowed knight, shouting of his deeds in loud voices, and holding aloft scraps of armour, food and clothing that had been cast off by the object of their devotion. The ragtag bunch of peasants w ore a motley collection of armour scavenged from battlefields, over which monkish robes w ere pulled. Many w ore high gorgets of stiffened leather to protect their necks, and most had shaved the tops of their heads as a mark of their devotion. They carried w ooden shields, upon which w ere nailed parchments and scraps of beautifully illuminated holy works, and in their rough, calloused hands they carried rusted blades, clubs and daggers.

As the holy entourage came closer, Calard noted the heraldry of the knights accompanying Reolus. They hailed from all four corners of Bretonnia, and it was obvious that they had recently seen battle. The knights' shields were chipped and battle w orn, and their cloaks were bloodied and tattered. Their armour w as dented, and many bore injuries. Some of the pilgrim zealots were limping, leaning heavily on w ooden crutches, while others had arms in splints and were w rapped in bloodied bandages. Nevertheless, they bore their wounds proudly, not wishing to show any form of w eakness in front of the grail knight.

Calard had felt the spirit among the knights of Bastonne soar as the grail knight drew near. Truly they were favoured, knights whispered. Calard almost laughed out loud. They w ere surrounded on all sides by a hateful, cunning and unnatural foe, but w ith the presence of a grail knight and a sacred damsel of the Lady, how could they possibly lose?

Black birds circled overhead, higher than an arrow could reach, and, despite the arrival of Reolus, the sense of foreboding and dread would not leave Calard.

CHLOD'S STOMACH GROWLED noisily. When had he last eaten? He couldn't remember. He had not dared to go looking for food, fearing capture. His rat companion squirmed and climbed up his arm. It nuzzled at his ear, its mangy w hiskers tickling him. 'Food is coming, precious,' he whispered.

Chlod sat among the pilgrims, grinning like a simpleton and licking his lips as he w atched the stale loaves being dealt out amongst them.

'Break bread w ith us, brother!' said one of the devout followers of the grail knight.

'You have been blessed!'

'I have,' agreed Chlod. The itinerant vagrants had embraced him into their fold, fooled by his act, and now they would feed him as one of their own. His own cleverness astounded him. He took the proffered food, gratefully, and began stuffing it into his mouth w ith gusto. He held a crumb to his rat, w hich snatched it from his fingers eagerly.

He had been hiding out for three days and tw o nights. He'd seen the bodies of the others, hanging from the trees, their faces purple, their eyes plucked from their sockets by carrion birds. He didn't know if any of them had spoken before they had died. They might not have known his name, but they knew his face. Were the yeoman w ardens looking for him even now? Did they know that he was one of those who had tried to kill the Garamont noble?

When the order had come to dismantle the camp, he had been almost paralysed w ith fear. There would be nowhere to hide once all the billets and tents were pulled down, and he thought he w ould surely be identified when all the camp followers had been rounded up and gathered into groups.

Keeping his head down low, he had stood w ith a group of other bedraggled peasants, labourers all. He did not know what lord they were in the service of. He tried to make himself as inconspicuous as possible, as the yeoman assigning the various peasants to w ork groups stalked past. The labourers had been assigned to chop down trees, and Chlod had tried to hide among their number, moving off with them as they shuffled aw ay.

If they thought there w as anything strange about the extra number in their group, they said nothing, and a flicker of hope sparked inside him. If he moved off with them to collect lumber, then surely he w ould be able to slink off w ithout anyone noticing.

Then he could get as far aw ay from the camp as possible, and he would never be incriminated in the attempt on the life of the young Garamont lord. He w ould travel to the w est, perhaps, towards the great port city of Bordeleaux. There, he was certain that he could lose himself in the warrens around the docklands.

He had even grinned lopsidedly, thinking that perhaps the trickster god Ranald was smiling down on him.

A meaty finger had prodded him in the chest.

'Not you,' snarled a yeoman. 'Whose man are you?'

Chlod had gaped stupidly, his mind w hirring.

'Who is your lord and master?' the yeoman had asked, more forcefully. There were no free men in the camp. Not even the villeins w ho led the ragged groups of longbow men w ere truly free, for they still paid taxes and dues to their noble lord. Any peasant w ho did not belong to a lord w as an outlaw , and outlaw s w ere hanged.

'Garamont,' Chlod had lied. The yeoman frowned and looked at him doubtfully, but did not refute his claim.

'Well, w hat are you doing standing over here, fool?' snapped the man, cuffing him hard over the back of his head. 'Get over there with your fellows,' he said, pointing tow ards a small group of men and w omen, who w ere being led to the north.

Chlod hurried tow ards the group of peasants, praying that none of them would say that they did not know him. He kept his head down low as he shuffled past dozens of other peasants, trying not to catch the eye of any of them, but as he moved, he felt someone staring at him, and he looked up, straight into a face that he recognised.

It w as another of the w ould-be assassins that had somehow escaped the hanging.

The man began to push through the crow d of peasants tow ards him, and Chlod sw ore under his breath. He tried to ignore the man, dropping his head and moving as quickly as his clubfoot w ould allow, but the man drew alongside him. Chlod saw that his face w as pale, and his eyes were filled with fear.

'They are going to hang us,' hissed the man, and Chlod looked around in alarm to see if any yeoman w as nearby.

'We w ill die like the others!' the man w ailed, clutching at Chlod's clothing, and he cursed. He saw a yeoman turn in their direction, alerted by the sound.

'Be quiet!' snarled Chlod dangerously, his hand closing around the dagger concealed w ithin his tunic. 'Get aw ay from me, now, or we will both be dead by sunset!'

The man continued to w ail, clutching at him desperately.

'You there!' called the yeoman, stalking towards them, making the peasant wail even more. Chlod sw ore.

'What's going on here?' demanded the yeoman.

'We are dead men, dead!' w ailed the man clutching at Chlod's jerkin.

'What's he on about?' asked the yeoman suspiciously. Chlod flashed him a lopsided, idiotic grin.

'My cousin,' he said, his voice thick with feigned stupidity. 'He is afflicted.' Chlod leant forw ard, and spoke his next words in an over-exaggerated, conspiratorial stage w hisper. 'Maybe plague.'

At the w ord, the yeoman stepped back, one hand flying up to cover his mouth and nose.

'Get him aw ay!' said the yeoman, w aving his hand.

Chlod grinned stupidly and nodded, leading the peasant away.

Once clear of prying eyes, Chlod stabbed the man six times in the gut, and let him fall to the ground beside a pile of grain sacks.

He had not know n what to do next. There were few places to hide, and there was no w ay that he could escape the camp w ithout being seen.

His salvation had come in an unexpected form.

Maybe he w as blessed.

He had grinned from ear to ear as he saw the approach of the grail knight and his pilgrims. In the pilgrims, he saw a refuge, and an idea formed in his head. He had scrambled tow ards them, bustling through the press of bodies to look upon the great knight.

'My eyes!' he had screamed, falling to his knees before one of the pilgrims.

'My eyes are healed!' he had lied, yelling at the top of his lungs. 'It is a miracle! I w as blind, but now I can see! Lord Reolus has healed my sight!'

He had been surrounded by the dirty pilgrims, who lifted him roughly to his feet.

'Witness the healing powers of our great lord!' bellow ed one them. 'This man was blind, but now his eyes are clear! He hath looked upon the greatness of lord Reolus, and his sight has been returned to him!'

'A miracle!' shouted Chlod, and he had been embraced into the fold of the pilgrims, cloistered w ithin their number.

One of the pilgrims leant in close to Chlod, his eyes glinting with more than a touch of madness. He carefully unravelled a cloth, his face lighting up w ith fanatical devotion and aw e.

'Look upon this holy artefact, brother,' said the buck-toothed pilgrim. In his hands, he reverently held what looked like a rotting lamb joint, rancid flesh still clinging to the bone. 'The hallowed Reolus did eat of this bone,' said the man in a hushed voice.

'His teeth did tear at the meat, giving him sustenance, and now I am its bearer. It protects me,' he w hispered, 'for the glory of the great man w as imparted unto it w hen he did touch it w ith his healing hands.'

Chlod gazed at the bone in feigned aw e. It stank, the rotting meat filled with squirming maggots, but he did not let his disgust show on his face.

Truly he w as blessed, he thought to himself. He had food in his belly and was, for now , safe from prosecution. Life truly was grand.

THE BURNING RED orb of the sun dipped over the horizon, setting the sky on fire, and silence descended across the flat-topped hill of Adhalind's Seat.

Hundreds of knights were gathered there, and they stood in serried, concentric ranks, surrounding an open area in the centre of the circle. Every noble that w ould fight this night w as there, to join together in prayer and receive the Lady's blessing before battle commenced.

Hundreds of yeomen and servants stood a respectful distance away from the knights, holding the destriers, lances and shields of their lords. They would not take part in the blessing, for the cult of the Lady was restricted solely to the nobility, on pain of death, and they dutifully faced away from the proceedings.

A cool w ind whistled over Adhalind's Seat, and Calard shivered involuntarily. He w as at the forefront of the Garamont contingent, and his brother Bertelis stood at his left.

'Where's Tanebourc?' w hispered Calard, glancing sideways. Without Gunthar's reassuring presence, he had come to rely on the tall, easy-natured knight, and it was unusual for him not to be at his side.

'I don't know ,' said Bertelis, glancing around. He shrugged. 'He will be here somew here.' Calard nodded, frowning, but drew his gaze back tow ards the empty circle in front of him. He took a deep breath, and tried to clear his mind. Staring resolutely forw ard, he sought the peace that he had experienced within the serene grail shrine, but it w as elusive, and thoughts kept intruding into his calm.

The gathered knights dropped to one knee as Anara w alked serenely up the aisle that had been left in their ranks, her movements regal and calm, projecting purity, serenity and gentleness. She wore a dress of palest blue, and her hair was covered in a matching headdress. The sleeves of her dress were long and flowing, with streams of material hanging from the cuffs to the ground. Her silver fleur-de-lys pendant shone upon her pale neck, and a matching icon was set into the delicate silver belt that circled her slim w aist. The belt had been beautifully crafted to represent entw ined strands of ivy, each silver leaf perfect in every detail. A matching garland of silver ivy circled her headdress.

Anara's head w as held high, and her face was emotionless. She had applied delicate make-up to her face to accentuate her beauty, and the effect w as stunning. Her lips w ere the colour of pale rose, and delicate lines of coal surrounded her eyes.

As she held a heavy silver chalice in her slender, pale hands, she was the very image of the Lady of the Lake herself, and Calard felt the intake of breath as the knights gazed upon her.

The Baron Montcadas and the grail knight Reolus walked a step behind Anara. Their sheer size and the masculine strength they projected made Anara appear even more delicate and fragile, like a single w hite rose. Montcadas, almost as broad as he w as tall, w alked slowly, his bearded face serious. He moved like a bear, his gait rolling and pow erful. Reolus, almost tw o heads taller than the baron, w alked with the grace and languid pow er of a lion.

Anara stopped in the centre of the circle of knights, her gaze sw eeping over the gathered w arriors. She gave no flicker of recognition as her eyes passed over Calard.

The baron and the grail knight dropped to one knee respectfully before Anara, and she lifted her chalice up high before her, like an offering to the sky. Lowering the grail, she dipped the fingers of one hand into the cool water within, and stepped tow ards the tw o kneeling men.

With soft w ords, she flicked the water over their bow ed heads, before steeping back.

Montcadas rose, and turned around on the spot to address the gathered knights.

'I am not one for speeches,' he boomed, his voice carrying easily over the gathered knights, 'so I shall keep this brief. We face a terrible foe, my brothers. They are many, and come at us w ith hatred and jealousy in their twisted hearts. We are like a beacon in the night, surrounded on all sides by darkness, and yet, with faith in the Lady, we shall defeat that darkness, and it w ill come to fear us.'

The baron prow led around the circle.

'Each man here is a knight of Bretonnia. Whether a young knight errant,' boomed the baron, giving Calard a slight smile, 'or a revered knight of the grail,' he said, bow ing tow ards Reolus, 'you are all knights of chivalry and honour. I know that you w ill fight w ith all your heart and all your valour. I need not implore you to do so, and so I shall not. For the honour of our noble land, of the Lady, of our valiant king of our lords, and in honour of each other, I know that each man here w ill give his all. I am proud to fight alongside you. I could not w ish for a finer group of knights. It is humbling to have the honour of fighting alongside you, and so for that I thank you, and I thank the Lady, for she has truly blessed us by sending the damsel Anara and the noble grail paladin Reolus to us in our time of need.'

The baron slid his sword from its scabbard, and raised it high in the air before him.

Over five hundred knights stood and mirrored the action, the hiss of steel resounding across the hilltop.

'For the king, the Lady and Bretonnia!' roared the baron, and the cry w as echoed by the gathered knights.

'Let us pray,' said the grail knight Reolus as the cry faded. He did not raise his voice, but it carried easily to every ear. The grail knight turned tow ards Anara, and dropped to one knee. His sword was held in a dow nward grip in his hands, its point in the soil, and he bow ed his head until his brow touched the pommel of the legendary w eapon.

In turn, the circular ranks of knights dropped to their knees, bow ing their heads to their sw ords. Anara stepped to Reolus, w etting her fingers in the chalice. Speaking softly, she pressed her hand to the grail knight's crown. At a w ord from her, he rose to his feet and sheathed his blade. Then he took the grail from the damsel's hands, and w alked behind her as she began to move along the ranks of knights, blessing each man in turn.

Calard closed his eyes, feeling the cool metal pommel upon his skin. His lips moved silently as he recited prayers and mantras long ingrained in his memory. He lost all concept of time passing, until the scent of lavender and rose filled his nostrils, and he breathed in the heady aroma.

'Lady of grace and beauty,' spoke Anara softly, 'protect this knight as he does battle in your name. Protect him from cow ardly blow s, and guard him from evil. Protect him, oh merciful Lady, and guide his lance and blade against your enemies.'

Her cool, w et fingers pressed lightly against his crown, and he felt warmth and calm w ash through him. Now he felt no unease, and none of the dread he had felt earlier.

It had been cleansed from him by the healing power of the goddess.

As he opened his eyes, blinking as if waking from a long, refreshing slumber, he saw that darkness had almost completely descended over the land.

'Go now , my brother knights,' boomed Montcadas, 'and fight w ell.'

CALARD SAT IN Gringolet's saddle as the sun finally dipped over the horizon. Anara w as alongside him, sitting casually upon the back of her w hite mare. They were scanning the distant tree line, w hich was getting harder to see as the sun descended.

'Where w ill you stand?' he asked at last.

'Where I am needed,' replied Anara, her voice vague and distant.

The knights were gathering into formation, and final orders were being bellowed to the men-at-arms as they moved into position. He had to join his own formation. All the young knights errant had been drawn together into w edges of thirty men, each led by an experienced knight of the realm, whose job it w as to keep the eager young knights in line.

'Will w e be victorious?' he asked softly. Anara w as slow to answer.

'It is... unclear.'

The black birds circling overhead erupted in a sudden cacophony of raucous cries as the last vestiges of the blazing orange sun disappeared. The cries were joined by hundreds of hunting horns that blared hatefully from w ithin the corrupted forest encircling them. Pounding drums began to beat savagely, until the whole area resounded w ith the hellish sound. Roars and braying bellows echoed across the sky, and the w asted, tortured trees began to shudder and groan.

'I have to go,' said Calard, seeing the formation he was to join w heeling into position upon the hilltop, facing tow ards the west. He looked at his sister, his twin whom he had spent so many years seeking w ord of. Now that battle w as to commence, he was concerned for her safety. It w as a ridiculous notion, considering the power she was able to w ield. He had not the words to express his feelings.

'Be safe, my sister,' he said at last. She made no reaction to his w ords, merely staring into the distance, her eyes clouded and vague. Calard pulled his noble destrier Gringolet around sharply, and kicked his heels into its sides, cantering towards his allocated position.

Anara shivered, feeling the malevolent hatred of the enemy wash over her like a w ave.

'And so it begins,' she breathed.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

IT SEEMED AS though the corrupted Forest of Chalons w as ablaze w ith fire.

Thousands of torches flickered betw een the dark forms of the trees, and dark shapes moved w ithin the twisted woodland as the massed forces of the enemy drew nearer.

The entire forest was alive with movement.

There was to be no escape. The enemy had completely encircled the Bretonnians, and they massed beyond the tree line, snarling and braying in eagerness for the coming bloodshed.

The first beasts broke from the trees, holding torches aloft, hefting spears and sw ords, axes and spiked clubs. Many carried foul, totemic standards of tw isted w ood and rusted iron, from w hich were hung severed heads and hands, as w ell as battered Bretonnian helmets. They were lean, sinewy creatures, twisted mockeries of humanity, w ith small horns protruding from their scalps and evil expressions upon their hateful faces.

Many of them ran forw ards, snarling and waving their weapons, before turning and slinking back to the forest's edge. Thousands of the creatures moved within the concealing darkness of the trees. Horns blared and drums of taut human skin w ere pounded. Several of the creatures strode forw ard and turned their matted, furred backs tow ards the Bretonnians, cocking their legs to defecate and urinate. They flicked their cloven hooves backw ards, kicking their foul spoor and clods of earth in the direction of the defenders, accompanied by braying barks that might have passed for laughter.

Calard tensed in the saddle, his eyes blazing with anger.

Massive w ar hounds prowled through the darkness, growling and snapping at each other, sniffing the air. Several of them began to how l, as the clouds parted and the green glow of the Chaos moon, Morrslieb, radiated down from the heavens.

Larger beastmen began to emerge from the trees. Massively muscled and with thick horns curling from their temples, they pushed their smaller brethren out of the w ay, their thick lips curling back as they snarled and spat. Many of these creatures bore evidence of sickening mutations; some had spiked ridges of bone that erupted from their spines and elbows, while others had an additional arm protruding aw kwardly from their shoulders, or a single, w eeping eye in the centre of their foreheads. These, it seemed to Calard, w ere given additional respect, and the smaller beastmen slunk around them w arily.

Several herds of the centaur-like beasts emerged, roaring loudly and kicking at any of the lesser beastmen that came near them. Each of the groups held aloft a totem, upon w hich horrifying, skinless bodies were nailed, the muscles glistening wetly.

Calard w as horrified to see that not all of the men w ere dead, and he watched, aghast, as one skinless man writhed in agony, fighting against the iron spikes that had been driven through his hands and feet. His tongueless mouth opened in a silent scream of torment. He might w ell have been a knight of Bastonne, for all Calard knew , kept alive for the amusement of his tormentors. Even as he watched, he saw one of the beasts poke at the man's exposed muscles w ith the barbed tip of his spear, laughing uproariously as the man thrashed and struggled.

As he w atched the enemy gather, Calard began to see w hat he took as barbaric tribal distinctions. He saw one dominant group of beasts w ith black-painted arms, as if they had dipped their limbs in pitch. Another group had entwined briars and branches of thorns through their horns, and they snarled at any that came near them. Another group w ere daubed all over w ith blood. Their fur had been draw n into spikes, perhaps with lime and congealed blood, giving them a daemonic appearance.

This red-furred tribe w as highly aggressive, and, even as he watched, he saw them surround one smaller, isolated beastman of another grouping and smash it to the ground w ith blow s to the head and shoulders. The pack descended on the fallen creature, ripping and tearing, fighting each other in their eagerness. Calard saw the beasts feasting on the entrails of the unfortunate creature, pulling on intestines w ith their teeth and claws, and fighting over the organs. When they stepped back, mere moments later, they left a trampled, bloody and mutilated corpse, and they smeared the creature's fresh blood across their chests.

There were clearly rivalries and blood feuds betw een the different groups of creatures, and members of the herds fronted up to each other, snarling and smashing weapons together, trying to prove their dominance over each other. Calard saw several violent clashes, as beasts slammed their horned heads together w ith bone-jarring force.

Most of the creatures w ore little more than straps of leather across their bodies, though others w ore scraps of armour that had clearly been scrounged from fallen enemies. One group wore thick plate armour that had been blackened w ith fire and beaten to fit their bodies. Plates of metal had been hammered into their heads, roughly hew n and cut to fit around their curling horns. These creatures bore immense, long-hafted axes and blades that they carried on their shoulders.

Even larger creatures stalked through the milling press, hulking monsters with blood-shot eyes, standing over eight feet tall, and with the heads of bulls. The smaller beasts hissed at them behind their backs, but scurried out of their paths w herever they w alked.

Other nameless and formless horrors crashed through the trees, hauled into the clearing by giant chains and hooks that tore at their flesh. They were sickening, mutated mounds of fur, muscle and bone, and they screamed and how led in agony and mindless fury from mouths that opened up across their skin, and emerged from the tips of w rithing tentacles. They were horrid amalgamations of torsos, heads, horns and limbs that seemed to protrude at random from their flesh, and Calard felt horrified loathing as he looked upon them.

Dozens of straining beastmen dragged one of the massive beast-spaw n monstrosities forw ards. Thick rings of iron pierced its flesh, and its skin was pulled taut, like canvas sails, by the black chains attached to them. It screamed and roared as it fought against its captors. Spines of bone and horn erupted from its back, and it sw ung its crab-like claws at any w ho got too close. Another of the creatures was covered in open sores that w ept pus and blood, and maggots w rithed beneath its skin, making it ripple like a pennant in the wind. It had a pair of conjoined horse's heads, though spines had erupted above and below their eyes, and long, barbed tongues flashed from their toothy maw s.

A massive, toothed orifice gaped open in the chest of another monster, displaying thousands of inw ard curving teeth and an array of barbed tentacles that w aved blindly. A distressingly human head emerged above this foetid, circular maw , a single blinking, red eye peering out through the crooked teeth of its slack-jawed mouth.

One of the beastmen pulling the creatures forwards stumbled and fell, and was instantly lifted up into the air by a pair of malformed flipper-like appendages. It w as stuffed into a flapping mouth that w as too small to contain its oversized teeth. The beastman bellow ed as it w as devoured. Additional mouths opened up upon the spaw n's body, and slug-like tongues lapped at the blood upon its flesh.

All the w hile, more of the beastmen massed along the tree line, and the blare of horns and beating of drums rose to a chaotic, jumbled cacophony of tortured sounds.

Calard saw the men-at-arms below the hill shuffle and glance around at each other, their fear palpable. The knights leading the cohorts shouted encouragement to the soldiers, but their voices were tense and strained. Gringolet w hinnied nervously as the scent of the beasts carried to him on the w ind.

'Easy,' said Calard as he patted the destrier's neck in reassurance. The steeds of the knights around him flattened their ears against their heads, and one of them reared, hooves flailing out blindly, but the knight quickly regained control of his mount.

A tall, hellish creature stepped from the forest, surrounded by heavily armoured beastmen. It clearly commanded respect from its minions, and silence descended around the clearing. The pounding of drums stopped mid-beat, and the horns were silenced. The braying and roaring of the beasts dropped aw ay, and even the massive w ar hounds slunk low to the ground, snarling, their tails betw een their legs, as the creature stepped forw ards.

Its face w as a mass of stitches, fur and skin, and three pairs of horns erupted from its head. It drew to a halt just metres from the forest edge, and stared up at the Bretonnians before it balefully. Thorns and briars flowed across the ground around it, erupting from the soil wherever the unnatural creature trod. Calard jerked as he felt the creature's eyes upon him, though that w as surely impossible, for the beast w as many hundreds of yards aw ay.

It slammed its tw isted, branch-like staff heavily into the ground, where it took root, bony tendrils penetrating the earth. The black birds overhead dropped like stones from the sky, sw ooping low over the battlefield to come to rest upon the branches of the staff, turning their malevolent, burning red eyes tow ards the defenders on the hill.

Lifting an arm, the creature extended a long, multi-jointed finger. It looked like the slender leg of a monstrous spider as it pointed tow ards the Bretonnians. To Calard, it felt as though the creature w as pointing directly at him.

A mighty roar echoed across the clearing. The cacophony of noise began anew, and the beastmen began loping tow ards the hill in the centre of the clearing.

From every side they came, like a w olf pack moving in for the kill.

GUNTHAR JERKED AWAKE, the sound of horns filling his ears. He reached for his sw ord, but hands held him dow n. He swore, fighting against them, kicking and thrashing. He almost passed out from the pain, but struggled to maintain consciousness.

'Leave him be,' said a voice, and the bodies pressing down on top of him eased aw ay.

Breathing heavily and covered in sweat, Gunthar swung his legs over the side of the pallet, and staggered to his feet, eyes darting around. His vision swam, and he reeled, his left leg giving way beneath him. He caught himself, and stood straight once more, though his left leg was shaking and unsteady.

His feverish eyes darted around, looking at the anxious faces of the peasants that had been holding him dow n.

'What in the Lady's name is going on?' Gunthar managed. In the distance, he could hear the hellish sounds of the enemy. 'The camp is under attack!' he said in shock, as realisation began to sink into his feverish mind.

'You must lie back, my lord!' said a small, middle-aged man emphatically. Gunthar recognised him as Montcadas's surgeon. The ageing man had a small saw in his hand, and w ore a dirty apron over his slight frame.

'Damned if I w ill,' snarled Gunthar. The peasants looked nervous and scared. He shouted for his arms and armour, and they jumped, but did not move to enact his order. Pain shot down his leg, and he was falling once more. He sat dow n heavily on the pallet. His brow was covered in sweat, and his vision blurred before him. He shook his head, and wiped a hand across his brow .

'The w ound is festering, my lord!' said the surgeon.

'You w ere going to take my leg, damn you!' raged Gunthar, realisation clawning on him.

The little surgeon guiltily placed the saw on a small table, upon w hich was laid all manner of knives and other implements. They looked like the tools of a torturer. The little man w rung his hands in front of him. 'It is the only way to save your life, my lord!'

'What a life that w ould be! No, I w ill not face that dishonour.' He licked his lips. His throat felt dry and thick. 'Bring me w ater!' he ordered one of the men, and a w ooden goblet w as pressed into his shaking hands. He put it to his lips, not caring that it was a crude drinking vessel fit only for a peasant. The w ater was cool and soothing, and he knocked it back in one long swig.

'You w ould be alive,' said the surgeon softly.

'I w ould rather be dead than live like that,' spat Gunthar. He realised that he was dressed in nothing more than a gow n over his underclothes, and he gingerly pulled back the cloth to look upon his w ound. He bit his lip as the material tore aw ay from the w ound, and he tasted blood in his mouth. His vision swam once more, but he blinked quickly, trying to focus his mind.

Around three inches above his knee, the injury he had sustained was angry and red, w eeping a sickly looking fluid, the flesh around it rotting and festering. He gagged at the stink of the w ound, despite the honey smeared over it.

He had seen enough w ounds in his time as a knight to know that if the leg was not removed the w ound w ould kill him. He stared at it in shock for a time, and sw ore under his breath. He heard men shouting orders outside in the gloom, and the roar of the enemy.

Gunthar's gaze hardened, and he turned tow ards the surgeon's underlings. They w ere still standing around awkwardly, unsure what to do. 'My arms and armour, damn you!' he shouted, making them jump again. 'Go and get them now ! And bring me my horse!'

The men looked to the surgeon nervously.

'What are you looking to him for? I am a knight of Bastonne, and you w ill obey me, or I shall see you hanged! Go! Now !'

The men fled, running to fulfil Gunthar's orders.

'You are in no state to fight, my lord!' the small man said w ith serious conviction.

Gunthar sw ung his fevered gaze back tow ards the diminutive surgeon, bristling in anger. The man's face w as lined with concern, and he felt the anger seep from him.

He w as so tired. It felt like he had been kicked and trampled by a w ild stallion.

Everything hurt. He sighed, his shoulders sagging.

'I know ,' he said finally, 'but I w ill not lie here while others are dying.'

'I w ill not lie to you, amputating a leg is not w ithout its risks,' said the little surgeon softly. 'I have performed the procedure tw enty-three times. Seven of those men died through loss of blood, and your age w ould count against you, but if the limb is not amputated you w ill die, no question. This I know with certainty. What good w ill you be to Bretonnia then?' He looked at Gunthar w ith weary eyes.

'You are right,' said Gunthar w ith resignation. 'My death might well mean nothing.

Whether I fight or not w ill not alter the outcome of the battle.' He sighed wearily, talking more to himself than to the surgeon. 'Fighting Ganelon was humbling. Fifteen years ago, I w ould have bested him w ithout breaking a sw eat. That duel made me feel old.'

'You still w on,' said the surgeon softly.

'Yes, and a skilful young knight of Bretonnia died,' said Gunthar. 'Who is to say w hat great things he may have achieved had he lived? We will never know.' Gunthar laughed softly and w ithout humour.

'You could have many more years ahead of you, my lord. Who is to say w hat great things you may achieve?'

'Perhaps, but I have no w ish to live out the remainder of my years as an invalid, an embarrassing cripple unable to fight for my lord w hen the call to battle is sounded. I could not live like that.'

'So you choose to die?'

'I choose to die as a knight of Bretonnia,' Gunthar said weakly. 'I will ride to battle, w ith my sw ord in my hand and with the enemy in front of me, and, if such is to be my fate, I w ill die.'

The surgeon sighed, looking exhausted and dejected.

'I am no w arrior,' said the little man. 'I abhor violence in all its forms. I believe that life is a precious gift, and that it should not be set aside lightly. I have held the hands of hundreds of men as they died in torment from sickening wounds. I have seen countless young knights screaming in agony, tears of shame rolling down their faces as they lose control of their bodily functions. I have seen knights weep like babes as they try to hold their insides from spilling from their bellies. I see no pride in their deaths. I am not of noble birth, and as such perhaps I am incapable of understanding such things. Despite all of that, I will respect your w ish, even if I disagree w ith it. A man should always be allow ed to make his ow n choice of how he lives. Or dies.'

'Good. Now help me up,' said Gunthar.

A SINGLE ARROW w as loosed, soaring high into the air. 'Hold, damn you!'

The arrow arced high into the air before reaching the top of its trajectory. It seemed to hang in the sky for a moment, defying the forces that w ere pulling it back to earth, before hurtling dow n into the ground, sinking into the earth several hundred yards in front of the advancing mass of bodies.

Giant hounds, mutated far beyond their natural size, pounded across the grass, their tongues lolling from slavering mouths. They streamed out in a w ave before the beastmen running swiftly behind them. Like a deadly tide, they swarmed tow ards the Bretonnian lines.

Calard had to restrain his urge to drive his heels into Gringolet's sides, and charge out to meet them head-on. He could see that Bertelis was struggling w ith the same internal urges.

'I hate letting them come to us,' his half-brother said. 'The peasants will break and flee. Mark my w ords.'

'There is nowhere for them to flee,' remarked one of the knights at their side. Bertelis grunted in response.

More of the enemy w ere streaming from the trees on all sides, spilling out like arterial blood from a slashed vein.

'Lady above, but there are a lot of them,' said Calard.

At the base of the hill, stray arrows were being loosed by the Garamont bow men, despite the shouted orders to hold. Calard swore, and kicked his steed forward, leaving the formation.

He thundered dow n the hill, and rode along the front of the lines of peasants. He sw ung his horse around, his face angry.

'The next man that looses an arrow before he is ordered to w ill be cut dow n, here and now !' he roared. 'You w ill wait for the order!'

He turned to face the enemy, w hich was racing across the field in a solid mass, and lifted his lance high in the air. The night was lit with hundreds of torches and braziers, and though the moons had not yet risen, the numberless horde of the enemy could be easily picked out.

'Hold!' he shouted, his voice carrying over the righteous din. The open ground before the archers had been paced out, and Calard had memorised the distances. The closest enemy w as still almost three hundred and fifty yards aw ay. Though an exceptionally strong bow man may be able to fire such a distance, it was too far for the shot to be effective. 'Hold!'

The enemy closed with sickening speed, far quicker than a man could run, and Calard felt a bead of sw eat run dow n the side of his face. The slavering hounds in front began to outdistance the beastmen behind, racing over the grass with bounding leaps.

Calard blinked the sw eat out of his eyes, still holding his lance aloft. The enemy leapt the low scrub bushes that roughly marked three hundred yards distance. He resisted the urge to drop his lance and order the attack. He could see more details on the creatures now : the angry brands that had been seared into the flesh of the monstrous hounds, the bronze-covered tusks that sprouted from the massive jaw s of the largest beasts.

'Draw !' roared Calard, and the archers drew back their bow strings, lifting the long w eapons high.

The lead w ar hound, a monster of immense size with a row of horns sprouting from its head, passed a stand of low rocks that marked the tw o hundred and fifty yard mark.

'Now !' he roared, low ering his lance in the direction of the enemy. As one, the bow men loosed, and hundreds of arrow s hissed into the air. It looked like a dense flock of birds streaking high into the sky. Before they reached the fullness of their flight, a second volley w as loosed. The third was fired just as the first cloud of arrow s struck home.

There were roars of pain as the arrows sliced down into the massed enemy with lethal force. Scores fell as the arrows slammed home, driving through muscle and flesh. The enemy w as too far distant for the archers to pick out individual targets, but it didn't matter. They w ere so densely packed that almost every arrow found a mark.

The second volley struck, and Calard saw more beasts stumble and fall as the lethal shafts slammed into unprotected necks, heads and shoulders. A pair of arrow s had driven into the thick neck of the hound leading the pack, but it w as barely slow ed.

All around Adhalind's Seat, thousands of arrows were loosed in those first moments of battle, and countless hundreds of the enemy were felled. Those that did not die w ere trampled into the ground by those behind them.

Still, on the enemy came, charging through the devastating volleys tow ards the Bretonnian lines. As the distance closed, the bow fire became even more effective, and innumerable foes w ere cut dow n by the relentless storm of arrow s. Beasts w rithed in agony, pulling themselves forwards with their hands, desperate to be part of the carnage that w as about to erupt. The ground w as littered w ith thousands of tw itching bodies that struggled to rise, only to be crushed by the hooves and claw s of those pressing forward behind them.

Then the first wave of the enemy struck the Bretonnian lines, and the real bloodshed began.

RADEGAR'S HEART WAS beating fiercely, his breath rapid and shallow as the tw isted beasts of the forest screamed tow ards him. He clenched his hands around the rough-hew n shaft of his polearm, and licked his cracked lips, determined not to show his fear.

It had been a fine day w hen he had been chosen to join the Garamont soldiery. He didn't know how old he was, perhaps fourteen, and he had lined up alongside two hundred other young men, trying to stand tall and straight. He had been in awe as he stood beneath the shadow of the grand castle of his lord, and had gaped open-mouthed at the figure of Lord Lutheure, flanked by a dozen knights of the realm, fully garbed in their battle armour.

His heart had raced then as w ell.

'Don't slouch,' his father had said to him before he had left his home that morning, tw o hours before daw n, 'and if you are not chosen, do not return, for we cannot feed you.'

He had travelled by w agon that morning, along with the other hopefuls. Once a year, all the eligible peasants under Garamont's protection travelled to the castle in the hope of being picked to join the men-at-arms. The wagon had been filled with other boys his age, each one of them dreaming of joining the esteemed ranks of the soldiery.

He had puffed out his chest as the giant, scarred yeoman had stalked in front of the long line of hopefuls, a deep scowl upon his face. Fully half the gathered peasants he had dismissed instantly for being too small or w eak from malnutrition. Others were dismissed because of their hunched backs, or because one of their limbs w as w asted and useless. Others were sent home because their club-like hands were incapable of holding a w eapon, and others because they w ere plainly simple in the head, drool dribbling from their slack lips.

Unlike his younger brother, w ho had passed into Morr's care the previous winter, Radegar w as lucky enough to have been born w ith tw o arms and tw o legs, and his hands w ere fully functional, even though he had six fingers on his left. He was broad-shouldered, though when relaxed they tended to slump inwards, and his arms w ere strong from hard labour.

Every time the brutal yeoman stalked past, Radegar w ould pull his shoulders square and stand tall, trying to look as strong and capable as possible. Nervousness had claw ed at him as the group w as w hittled down, and his heart had soared as he w as chosen to pass through to the next round of cuts.

The remaining boys had been given wooden staves, and organised into pairs. Radegar had been paired up w ith a boy from his ow n village, who was tall for his age. In the bout that had follow ed, Radegar had knocked the boy senseless. He did not feel any remorse.

He had grinned like an idiot when he had been chosen to join the ranks of the men-at-arms, and he had w illingly sworn his oath before the castellan with eleven others that had been deemed w orthy.

He had been given five copper coins, and his hands had shook as he held them. He had never even seen such a princely sum of money, let alone held it in his hands.

One of the coins was taken from him instantly, to pay for the costs of his burial should he fall in battle. Three others were used to pay for his weapon, his tabard, his leather cap and his board. He had felt seven feet tall when he had first worn the tabard, after he had scrubbed out the blood of its previous ow ner.

It w as Castellan Lutheure's duty to provide protection for those in his service, and he had fulfilled this commitment by presenting each of the recruits with a long, rectangular shield bearing the Garamont colours and heraldry. They had seen much service already, but Radegar didn't care. Of course, if he allowed the shield to be damaged or, Shallya forbid, he lost it, he would be taxed accordingly, but Radegar had been too thrilled at receiving his post to be concerned. His final copper coin had gone to pay for training though he had received two copper bits after his first six months of service. Proudly, he had organised one of them to be given to his family, and the other had gone tow ards his board.

It had been such a proud day for him, receiving his first pay. Four years had past since then, and now at around eighteen, he was regarded as a veteran. He had fought in tw o battles, and killed three of his lord's enemies. In the second battle, he had almost been killed but he had defied death and recovered from his wounds. But he had never had to face a foe such as he faced this day.

The big, scarred yeoman that had selected him four years earlier stood nearby, his perpetual scow l stamped on his face. The man seemed undaunted by anything, and he stood glaring at the approaching enemy, his thick-bladed sword held in his right hand. Even though the weapon was missing its tip and bore more than a hint of rust, that the yeoman w as allowed to bear a sw ord at all w as testament to the level of trust placed in him. Radegar would not allow himself to show any fear in front of the man, w ho he still regarded w ith a mixture of respect and fear.

More than the presence of this brutal yeoman, how ever; it was the fact that a knight of the realm stood w ithin their ranks that made Radegar sw ell with pride and push his fear deep w ithin him. The knight's helmet was high and had a miniature heraldic dragon upon its crest, and his armour gleamed in the flickering light given off by the braziers nearby. Radegar w as deeply honoured to be standing alongside one of the nobility, and he swore that he would not fail in his duty. No, it w ould be a fate far w orse than death to quake in fear in front of such a noble knight. Surely, as long as the regal knight stood against their fore, they would hold.

The enemy bore dow n on mem, screaming and roaring, even as hundreds of flights of arrow s continued to pepper their ranks from the hillside behind.

'This is it, boys,' bellowed the yeoman. 'Don't you shame me now , or I'll cut off yer ears and eat them for breakfast! For Garamont!'

Radegar braced himself. He leant his left shoulder forwards, so that his shield protected him, and the man to his left, just as the man to his right protected him.

Each of the men-at-arms carried a long polearm, and the spikes of the unwieldy w eapons w ere lowered to create a nigh on impenetrable w all of death.

The first of the gigantic hellhounds leapt betw een two of the heavy wooden stakes that had been driven into the ground in front of the men-at-arms. Its immense shoulders w ere covered in mangy, matted fur, and its eyes reflected the flames of the braziers.

It hurled itself at the dragon-helmed knight, and its massive paw s slammed into his armoured chest, bow ling him backw ards even as his sword blade penetrated the beast's chest. With one savage bite, the knight's head, helmet and all, was ripped from his shoulders, and blood sprayed out like a fountain. The beast's thick body was impaled by polearms, but it had done its w ork, and Radegar felt panic begin to rise w ithin him. It had happened so fast.

He had no time to think, as scores of the massive hounds struck the line. Radegar thrust his polearm forw ard, taking one of the beasts squarely in the chest. The force of the beast's momentum knocked him back a step, into the men behind him, and his feet slipped in the mud.

He saw his scowling yeoman hack his blade into the side of the head of another beast, the sw ord biting deep. Radegar pulled his weapon back, and w ith a shout he thrust again, feeling his weapon bite into flesh.

The man to his right dropped to his knees as a massive w eight dragged his shield low , and in the next instant a snarling beast tore his face off w ith a snap of its jaw s.

The axe-head of a polearm slammed dow n onto the beast's skull, cracking it like a nut, and it died instantly, blood and brain splattering. Men were shouting in fear, panic and anger, and order began to be lost. More holes w ere made in the shield-wall as men died, some as their arms w ere savagely ripped from their sockets by the monstrous hounds and others as massive jaw s ripped at their throats, spraying blood w ildly.

Radegar shouted w ordlessly as he struck. A heavy weight slammed against his shield, and he was pushed backw ards again. In that moment, Radegar knew that the line w as going to break, and that he w as going to die.

A hulking, goat-legged creature appeared before him, its snarling face that of an animal's, though its eyes burned w ith feral intelligence. It held a curved blade in one hand, and leapt tow ards him. Radegar thrust his polearm desperately towards the creature. It sw ayed aside from the point, grabbed the haft of the polearm in one thick hand and pulled it violently towards it. Radegar was jerked forwards, stumbling off balance tow ards the beastman.

The beast's blade flashed, and Radegar screamed as it sliced deep into his shoulder, cleaving muscle and flesh, and striking the bone w ith crippling force. His weapon dropped from fingers that he could no longer feel, and he fell to the ground before the massive creature. Its stench was overpowering like rotting meat and urine, and it loomed above him, sw inging its murderous blade.

I am dead, thought Radegar. Cloven hooves pounded as the enemy drove over the top of him. He w as kicked in the head, and felt one of his legs break as a heavy cloven hoof stamped dow n upon the limb. Moaning in agony and fear, he waited for the fatal blow to fall, praying to Shallya that it w ould be sw ift.

Rough hands gripped him around his armpits, and he cried out in pain. His eyes lolled around in their sockets, and his body w as slick with blood, but, for a moment, he thought he w as being rescued, carried free of the battle. A glimmer of hope flickered within him.

That hope w as dashed as his eyes came into focus. He was being dragged aw ay from the Bretonnian lines.

An animal groan of panic escaped his lips, and he began to fight against the stinking creature hauling him aw ay. He kicked out and thrashed around. Hands slick with his blood slipped, and Radegar was dropped heavily to the ground. There was an angry snarl, and a hoof struck him in the side of the head. He tasted blood in his mouth, and spat out shattered teeth.

The beast grabbed him around his broken leg and began dragging him backw ards through the mud, and he screamed again. His shield, the precious shield bearing the honourable heraldry of Garamont, w as still attached to his arm, and it carved a furrow in the earth behind him.

Then, blessedly, he was released from his torment as he slipped into unconsciousness.

'WHAT IN THE Lady's name are they doing?' breathed Calard in horror. Scores of men-at-arms w ere being hauled aw ay from the front line by the beastmen. They were being dragged kicking and screaming back tow ards the distant tree line, where the monstrous tall beast stood pacing back and forth like a caged animal, surrounded by its heavily armoured guard.

He had no time to consider the grim fate of these men, however, as trumpets blared, and the order to charge w as declared.

Calard slammed dow n the visor of his simple, unadorned helmet and kicked Gringolet into a gallop.

All around Adhalind's Seat, knights charged.

The ranks of the men-at-arms opened up before the knights errant, and they charged through the gap. They covered fifty yards in seconds, and Calard felt the thrill of battle w ash over him.

Beastmen streamed into the gap created by the parting ranks of the Bretonnian infantry, and lances were lowered. Tensing for the impact, Calard picked his target, a hulking brute w ith horns spiralling from its forehead, wielding a pair of rusted cleavers.

The knights ploughed into the enemy, and Calard's lance took his foe squarely in the chest, punching through its ribcage. It fell to the ground, blood pumping from the w ound, tearing the lance from Calard's hands, and his sword flashed into his hand in an instant.

Sw inging the blade in a low arc, Calard carved a bloody slash across the neck of another enemy, and it fell with a scream, even as another lance tore through its shoulder, smashing it to the ground.

On the knights errant charged, driving through the enemy ranks and smashing them aside. Spears and blades glanced off shields and armour, and dozens of beastmen w ere crushed to the ground, trampled into pulp beneath the hooves of the destriers.

The ground trembled beneath the charge of the knights. Nothing could stand in their path.

Surging through the press, the formation swung to the north, riding hard in front of the line of angled stakes, tearing through the enemy pushing forward there. Faced w ith enemies on two sides, the beastmen fought desperately, many of them turning tow ards this new threat only to be cut dow n by the men-at-arms that, at that moment, surged forw ard through the stakes, stabbing and cutting.

Hundreds more beastmen surged forw ards at the knights, screaming as they ran, covering the ground with swift leaps and bounds. They came on in an endless tide, and the air w as filled with their braying roars.

Calard shattered the horns and skull of another beast w ith a dow nward strike, and reeled backw ards in the saddle as a blade slammed into his shield, almost knocking him from the saddle. He fought for balance, his arm tingling from the impact, but remained in tight formation w ith the other knights. The knights errant swung around in a w ide arc, cutting and killing, struggling to maintain their impetus.

A monstrous form burst through the tide of enemies, tossing beastmen aside in its eagerness to kill. Its immense, mutated form w as covered in spines of bone and snapping jaw s, and rents in its flesh gaped open, exposing countless mouths and tongues that w rithed like serpents. It trailed lengths of chain behind it, and rampaged forw ards, needing no goading now that the scent of blood w as heavy in the air. A myriad of bloodshot eyes on stalks sw ung tow ards the knights, and it screamed in pain and bloodlust, the sound ripping forth from half a dozen throats. With a shout, the knights angled towards the monstrosity, cutting down the savage beastmen in their path.

A thick neck of glistening, exposed muscle burst from w ithin the hulking mass, and snapping jaw s closed around the neck of a horse, even as five lances drove home into the beast. Arms ending in bony spurs punched forward, skewering knights and tearing them from their saddles, and lashing tentacles wrapped around steeds, burrow ing through flesh and eye-sockets, dragging them dow n.

Calard slashed w ith his sword, severing half a dozen eyestalks that spurted black, hissing blood as they w ere cut, and the remaining eyes retracted within the monstrous creature's body. More lances and sw ords plunged into its malformed bulk, and its lifeblood gushed forth in a torrent, spurting from a dozen w ounds.

It flopped to the ground, thrashing madly in its death spasms, killing another pair of knights as it died. A spear smashed into the side of Calard's helmet, and he reeled, his ears ringing, and he saw scores of beastmen closing in around them. He kicked Gringolet forward with a shout, and the knights were then galloping clear, leaving the dying monstrosity behind them.

A horse collapsed as a sw inging axe chopped its legs from beneath it, and it screamed as it fell, the knight borne upon the beast sailing into the air. The knight directly behind the fallen warhorse had no time to react, and his steed broke its front legs as it stumbled over the flailing beast. The fallen knights were set upon instantly by savage beastmen, their helmets caved in with powerful blow s.

Galloping directly towards Adhalind's Seat, the massed forces of the enemy scattering before them, the knights errant urged their steeds on. The men-at-arms again parted before them, and they thundered through the gap. The ranks closed behind them, and it w as only then that Calard saw how many of his comrades had fallen.

Suddenly fearful, he glanced around to see his brother. Bertelis was there, at his side, his armour splattered w ith blood, and he exhaled in relief. Lifting his visor, Bertelis gave him a savage grin.

Bloodied, the knights errant cantered up the hillside, and wheeled around to face the battlefield once more.

Peasants ran forw ard, handing fresh lances to them, and passing them flagons of w ater.

Hundreds of beastmen w ere still streaming from the trees in a relentless, never ending swarm, and Calard felt a stab of panic. He had barely survived the first charge, but it had made virtually no impart on the enemy ranks. Breathing heavily, he took a sip of w ater, before passing the skin back to a peasant and making ready for another charge. It w as going to be a long night.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHLOD SWORE AGAIN, tears of unrestrained terror running down his blotchy cheeks. He w as pushed roughly from behind, and he stumbled forward. There was no w ay he could see that he could get out of this, and he cursed himself for a fool. He had thought he w as so clever in seeking refuge amongst the pilgrims, but now he saw that he had doomed himself.

He w as in the middle of the group of fervent men, being bustled and pushed from all sides. He could not have fought his w ay clear of them if he tried, which in fact, he had.

He had been enjoying the hospitality of the pilgrims and the sudden esteem he had gained since he had been ''healed' of his feined blindness. He had eaten better than he had done in w eeks, happy to speak loudly of the miracle he had received in exchange for food and cheap wine. He had even accepted the heavy, spiked club that he had been given, thinking that, if nothing else, it could be sold or traded at a later date.

He had certainly not expected to be physically dragged into battle by the fervent pilgrims. They were madmen, he had decided; insane, deluded madmen obsessed w ith achieving recognition, however slight, from the object of their idolisation. They w ould gladly throw themselves onto the swords of the enemy if they thought that it w ould garner a nod from the grail knight, and indeed he had seen several individuals do just that.

The pilgrims did everything they could to be noticed by the grail knight. They cooked and cleaned for him, doted on his every word, and spit-polished his armour and boots, under the w atchful eyes of his servants and squires to ensure they did not make off w ith anything. They threw flowers before him, and proclaimed his good deeds w herever he travelled. They immortalised him in song and his every pronouncement, however mundane, was memorised and deemed as sacred testament.

The grail knight tolerated them at best, and did not acknow ledge their presence in the slightest. So, when he had approached the pilgrims and said the words, 'Gather your w eapons. We fight the enemies of Bretonnia this day,' his words were greeted w ith impassioned enthusiasm and fanatical devotion.

Chlod had never been in a battle before, not like this, and it terrified him. The screams of the dying and the brutal clash of w eapons, the roars of the enemy and even the frenzied cries of the pilgrims, all filled him w ith terror.

Short even for a peasant, a fact not aided by his pronounced hump and stooped posture, he could see barely a thing except for the back of those in front of him. Of the enemy he had seen no sign, but he could hear their savage roars and braying shouts, and he w as not ashamed to feel his bladder loosen, and warmth run down his legs.

The pilgrims pushed and shoved, desperately trying to get to the front of the mayhem. Chlod tried to squirm and muscle his w ay further back, aw ay from the front line, but, despite all his efforts, he was carried forwards, driven closer and closer to the terrifying sounds of slaughter.

Blood splattered into his face. The crowd surged forwards again, and Chlod could not help but trample over a fallen man, who screamed and reached out for him. Fearing that he w ould be dragged dow n under the surging crowd, Chlod knocked aw ay the man's grabbing hands w ith the base of his spiked club, breaking his fingers.

Then he saw the enemy, and he thought he w ould die on the spot from sheer panic.

Taller by far than any of the peasants, they had the heads of goats tw isted into hellish, daemonic visages, sharp teeth protruding from bleating mouths.

They slashed with axes and swords, dismembering the pilgrims with savage fury. He saw one of them fall, a shattered sword stabbing into its neck, and blood drenched pilgrims fell upon it in a fury, stabbing w ith knives and hacking with axes.

For each of the enemy that fell, three or more of the devout, fanatical peasants were slain. The enemy was cleaving through the tightly-packed ranks of the peasants like scythes through w heat, and Chlod pushed back aw ay from them w ith all his strength.

Only a few men stood betw een him and the foe, but try as he might, he could not pull aw ay from them. Screaming incoherently, or bellowing the name of Reolus, the peasants surged forw ards once more, and Chlod was driven closer to the enemy than ever.

An axe sang through the air and slammed into the neck of the man in front of him, and arterial blood sprayed across his uneven features. He could taste the hot blood on his lips, and could smell it in his nostrils. Then the man fell. The beastman struggled w ith its axe, the blade lodged betw een two vertebrae, and with a shout, the man next to Chlod rammed his rusted, scavenged sword into its belly. A second blade stabbed into its heavily muscled thigh, and it swung its arm around, smashing its shield into the face of one of its attackers, breaking the pilgrim's jaw and half-ripping it from his face.

A pow erful shove propelled Chlod towards the beast, just as it managed to tear its axe free of the corpse on the ground. With a shout of sheer terror, he lifted his spiked club in both hands and slammed it into the creature's head. It fell to its knees, but w as still alive and dangerous, and so Chlod rammed his club into its face again, knocking it backw ards.

Blood covered his face, and he trembled uncontrollably. Then he was driven forwards once again by the surging crow d, and Chlod's voice joined with the chorus of manic screams.

DIETER WESCHLER, CAPTAIN w ithin the Reikland state army and second cousin once removed from Emperor Karl Franz, had decided that he hated Bretonnia. He had an official function and duty to perform here, however, and was careful to maintain an air of civility. His duty had been given to him by the Emperor, and he w ould not allow his feelings and prejudices to betray him.

'A show of solidarity betw een neighbouring nations,' he had been told.

The nobles of this land were pompous and arrogant, and their peasants were dow ntrodden and lived in despicable, crushing poverty. How a nation could laud itself as being honourable w hile it w as clearly so corrupt w as beyond him. Behind the carefully constructed veneer of honourable conduct, this land was decaying and crumbling, self-centred and self-aggrandising.

What's more, he w ould probably die fighting alongside them. It was a galling thought.

The pistol in his hand boomed as its w heel-lock mechanism created the spark that ignited the black pow der, and the back of a beastman's head exploded outw ards in a spray of shattered bone and gore. Quickly bolstering the precious weapon, he smoothly drew another.

Hundreds of knights were locked in battle beyond the row s of stakes in the ground, and he could see that if they w ere not supported, they would be surrounded and mercilessly cut dow n in moments. Dieter swore at the foolishness and arrogance of the knights. Could they not see that as soon as their momentum slow ed, they were going to be surrounded and butchered?

Battle instincts that had been honed through years of service as an infantry sergeant, before he had been elevated to captain, reared w ithin him.

'Sound the advance,' he ordered the peasant holding a rusted horn in his shaking hands. The man had only just taken on the role, after the head of the previous musician had been hacked from his shoulders only moments earlier. Dieter had slain the offending beast, and handed this witless peasant the instrument.

'Sound the advance,' he repeated. The man just stared at him blankly, and then lifted the horn to his mouth. His face w ent red with exertion, but his enthusiasm did not match the sound coming from the instrument. It sounded like a baby blow ing bubbles of spit.

'Oh, for Sigmar's sake,' snapped Dieter. He lifted his sabre up high in to the air before him. 'Forw ard!' he roared, his voice, honed on the parade ground, easily carrying over the din of battle. He stepped forw ards into the breach as the enemy gathered their strength beyond the w all of deadly stakes.

Nobody follow ed his move, and he cursed himself for a fool. These simple peasants could not understand Reikspiel, the language of the Empire. He repeated his order, this time bellow ing it in the Bretonnian tongue.

They w ere the worst soldiers that he had ever led, even worse than the stubborn Middenlanders. At least the northern men could fight, even if they questioned every order he gave them. These men-at-arms w ere ill-disciplined and poorly equipped, and had clearly received only rudimentary training. They were not fit to be soldiers at all, in Dieter's mind, but then he was not surprised. The nobility were utterly obsessed w ith fighting on horseback, and gave little thought to the strategic use of infantry, no matter the fighting conditions or the foe.

'Forw ard, damn you!' shouted Dieter, his generally stoic manner cracking and finally the men-at-arms began to advance.

They marched out betw een the angled stakes, pushing past dozens of impaled bodies.

So thick had been the crush of the enemy charging at their line that scores of them had run blindly onto the fire-hardened spikes. Dieter dispatched a tw itching, goat-headed creature that w as trying to pull itself off a stake w ith a slashing cut that severed its spine.

Some fifty paces ahead, tw o formations of knights were locked in deadly combat as they fought vainly to ride free. They had lost all momentum, however, and were being surrounded by ever more enemy w arriors, who were dragging them from their saddles and butchering them w ith savage, chopping blows.

'Charge them!' roared Dieter, and he ran forwards, praying to Sigmar that the men-at-arms w ere following.

Montcadas had clearly been uneasy w hen Dieter had requested to fight alongside the infantry. In truth, it was clear that the baron had not w ished Dieter to fight at all, for fear of the political repercussions if he died while under Bretonnian hospitality.

'The Emperor w ould wish me to fight alongside his Bretonnian brothers,' Dieter had replied. 'Just as I know that if ever the Empire was in need of aid, Bretonnia w ould support it.'

In truth, Dieter found all the politics wearing and he longed to return to his former, simpler life as an officer in the state army of Reikland. This was certainly a far cry from the disciplined ranks of halberdiers he had commanded, but one could not alw ays choose one's tools.

The simple peasants had been frightened by his wheel-lock weapons, and had recoiled back from him as he had fired the handgun, crafted by the finest engineers of Nuln. The ignorant savages had thought it some form of w itchcraft.

Dieter charged tow ards the swelling mass of unruly creatures surrounding the beleaguered knights. Levelling one of his pistols, he fired, and an enemy w as sent crashing backw ards, its skull pierced by the lead shot. With a shout, he reached the enemy, and slashed his sabre across the chest of one of the hulking beasts.

The men-at-arms struck then, sw inging their polearms into the enemy with more desperation than skill. He saw several beasts go dow n, but many more turned aside the clumsy blow s w ith swords and shields, only to tear into the peasants with brutal savagery, cutting then dow n in swathes.

Still, there were over a hundred peasants in the formation, and they pushed forwards relentlessly, stabbing and cutting. They took down perhaps one beast for every three of their number that fell. It was a staggeringly poor performance, but the charge w as having the desired effect.

With the w eight of numbers supporting them, the knights were finally able to kick their steeds free of the deadly melee, though the ground was littered w ith the corpses of those w ho had not been so lucky.

The men-at-arms w ere left unsupported, and Dieter knew that they would break at any moment. They w ere poor w arriors at best, and w ere being slaughtered by the monstrous beasts. Dieter w as w alking steadily backw ards, his sabre flashing left and right defensively as the enemy surged forwards.

He knew there would be no chance of an ordered retreat, and he saw the fear and panic in the eyes of the men around him. Any moment now, their resolve would be shattered. It w ould start w ith just one man turning and running, and then all semblance of order w ould be lost.

An axe sw ung at his head, and he ducked backwards, stumbling into a peasant and almost falling. A jagged spearhead thrust tow ards his lacquered black breastplate, and he turned it aside w ith a deft parry. His blade flashed back in a lightning riposte that stabbed into the beast's groin, and blood sprayed.

Bellow ing roars echoed deafeningly over the already horrendous din, and Dieter saw massive creatures of muscle and horn rampage tow ards the faltering line of men-at-arms.

Half again as tall as the largest of the peasants, these behemoths smashed aside their smaller kin in their lust to kill. They broke limbs and shattered bones, their giant axes and cleavers cutting through any that w ere too slow to get out of their w ay. Snorting and stamping, the minotaurs low ered their heads and charged through the press, crushing bodies under their cloven hooves, and throwing beastmen over their shoulders with dipping sweeps of their heavy heads.

The resolve of the men-at-arms w as shattered, like a delicate crystal goblet beneath a hammer blow . The peasant soldiers turned and fled, scrabbling over each other in their blind rout.

Dieter w as not a stupid man, and he had no intention of throwing his life away for some pointless show of bravery. While the foolish Bretonnian nobility may have seen it as a gross display of dishonour, Dieter turned and ran for his life.

LORD REOLUS LOWERED his glowing lance and charged. He thundered over the rough ground, eyes blazing w ith holy fury as he focused on the phalanx of rampaging bull-headed monsters.

He aimed the tip of the sacred lance, Arandyal, at the neck of the closest of the hulking creatures as it ploughed into the infantry. It swung its lowered head sidew ays, impaling one man upon its bronze-tipped horns. With a flick of its head, it sent the man spiralling up into the air like a rag-doll. As the peasant came tumbling dow n, the minotaur's giant axe arced up to meet him. The axe cleaved through flesh and spine, hacking the man in two.

Greedily, the towering beast grabbed the upper half of the fallen man in one hand, lifting it up to its mouth to drink of the blood gushing from the terrible wound.

Rivulets of hot crimson ran dow n the beast's neck and chest, its tongue squirming like a monstrous w orm in the entrails of its prey. Engrossed in its gory feast, it saw the approach of Reolus and his knights too late.

Arandyal speared tow ards the minotaur's thick neck, but, w ith inhuman speed, it tw isted, swinging its axe up to shatter the w eapon. Reacting with the speed of a darting snake, Reolus rolled his wrist, and the tip of his lance flicked deftly in a tight circle, avoiding the axe and leaving a lingering arc of light in its wake.

The lance ripped the minotaur's throat out, blood boiling as it came into contact w ith the sacred w eapon.

Arteries pumped blood from the fatal w ound like geysers. It dropped to its knees, hands clutching at the w ound, and Reolus smashed his sword, w ielded in his left hand, through its skull.

The knights thundered on. More of the tow ering beasts turned to face the charge. So tall w ere they that they looked down upon the knights, even though they were sitting astride their massive steeds. With a roar, they leapt forwards to meet the charging knights.

With staggering power, one of them hacked its axe into the neck of a destrier, ignoring the lance that plunged deep into its thick chest. The axe-head tore through metal barding and flesh, severing the horse's spine and sending its head flying. The knight riding the brutally slain horse was thrown sideways, to be crushed by his falling headless, steed.

Another of the beasts stood up to the charge, its massive hand closing around the neck of another steed, which it hurled to the side contemptuously. Then it w as struck by a pair of lances, staggered backw ards and w as instantly lost beneath the thundering hooves of the charging horses.

Tw o more beasts died beneath Reolus's flashing weapons. Gore sprayed across his gleaming armour and tabard, but it ran off him like oil, leaving him unsullied by their foul heart-blood. One by one, the knights around him were smashed from their saddles. Arms w ere cleaved from shoulders, and men fell, screaming. Clubs the size of men crushed heads, and horses screamed as heavy blow s cleaved deep into their flesh.

Still, no w eapon came close to touching Reolus. He was like a god of w ar, cutting dow n everything in his path.

He w as, how ever, but one man.

Oblivious or uncaring of the w ooden stakes before them, consumed w ith bloodlust, a trio of minotaurs ploughed on after the fleeing men-at-arms. Reolus cut one of them dow n, his lance ripping through the tight muscles of its thigh, sending it crashing to the ground. Another of the beasts ran straight onto the wall of w ooden stakes set deep in the ground, impaling itself, while the smaller and more agile humans slipped betw een the deadly spikes. Uncaring, the creature pushed forwards, legs pumping like pistons, and the thick stake drove deep into its gut.

The last of the beasts smashed the stakes aside w ith sweeps of its twin weapons and ran on, revelling in the slaughter as it continued its butchery. Beastmen streamed through the gap, w hooping and roaring as they set about w ith abandon, chasing after terrified men and hacking them down with brutal blow s to the backs of their heads.

Fighting with ferocious passion, Reolus struck dow n everything that drew w ithin range of his deadly w eapons. He fought like a man possessed, but the press of bodies around him w as too great, even for him.

HUNDREDS OF MEN were slaughtered before order was restored. His comrades all slain and his steed dead, pierced by a dozen blades, Reolus stood alone in the breach in the Bretonnian lines, killing everything that came w ithin range of his deadly blade.

Baron Montcadas led the counterattack against the flood of enemies that had broken through, his spiked morning star smashing foes aside desperately. He would have fallen too, his knights surrounded and outnumbered, had not Dieter Weschler rallied the panicked men-at-arms and turned upon their attackers. At last, the enemies w ithin the camp were cut dow n, though the destruction they had w rought in those frantic few minutes was staggering.

With cold efficiency, the Empire captain swiftly reorganised the men-at-arms, and personally led the charge that pushed the enemy back from w here they had surrounded the grail knight Reolus.

Even as order w as restored, the beastmen breached the Bretonnian lines in two other places, streaming through and slaughtering the men-at-arms desperately trying to hold back the tide of enemies.

Baron Montcadas knew that the hill could not be held indefinitely. Already, they had held for far longer than could have been expected, so great w ere the enemy numbers.

The end was not far off.

ANARA LET HER spirit soar free, and relished the familiar sensation as she left her earthly shell behind. She felt the winds of magic buffet her, but focused her mind and regained control, so that she rode the ethereal winds like a bird on the breeze.

The battlefield spread out below her like a map as she soared into the night sky. The combatants surged back and forth like tiny ants, and she watched the mesmerising patterns formed by the ebb and flow of battle.

She felt every death like a stabbing pain in her breast. Emotions flowed through her from below , and she felt keenly the exhilaration, terror, despair and savage joy of the knights as they killed and w ere killed.

With her spirit-eyes she could see the silvery glow of pride and faith shielding them, and she thanked the Lady for her protection. The grail knight Reolus blazed w ith the intensity of the sun, the power of his faith almost blinding and the enemy fell back from him, for even in their mortal, blind states they could sense his power.

From the enemy, she felt only rage, bloodlust and deep, all-encompassing hatred. So overpow ering was the hatred that it struck her like a physical blow , and her concentration wavered for an instant. Her physical eyes flickered, and she saw the battlefield through her mortal eyes for a second before she regained control and surrounded herself with the healing light of the Lady.

She w ept tears of the spirit for the tortured forest that had been corrupted by the enemy, feeling its pain and its despair.

Something drew her attention, and her spirit flew low over the battlefield, dread, loathing and pity mixed within her. She came to the edge of he forest to the w est, w here the enemy leader stood. She flew close, looking upon him with invisible eyes that saw far more than those of flesh and blood.

Its minions w ere bringing men to it, dragging them forward like offerings to some brutal, primal deity. The beast lifted each of the victims to its eyes, gazing upon them intently, sniffing their scent. It seemed, however, that none of the men was what the creature sought, and it angrily stabbed its long, curving dagger into each man's neck, before tossing them aside like refuse. Already, there was a great pile of the dead and dying behind the beast, and scores more sacrifices were being dragged forward.

Darkness sw irled around the creature like a living thing fuelled by the intense hatred that the beast exuded. Anara w as repulsed, and fought the urge to flee, but she peered deeper, though it caused her pain, looking past the wall of anger.

She saw self-loathing disgust and fear there, but there w as something more, something that w as the true essence of this creature's pow er: betrayal, abandonment, and the intense, all consuming need for vengeance.

That w as all it lived for, Anara realised, pitying the creature. Vengeance against the one that had done it w rong w as what drove it.

There was something else too: release. It desired release.

The creature looked up suddenly, and Anara reeled backw ards in shock, for the creature saw her. Its eyes blazed w ith blue w itch-fire, and it extended its will towards her, a w rithing mass of black tentacles invisible to all but those w ho saw with the eyes of the spirit.

One of the oily, black, invisible appendages brushed against her spirit-arm and the ethereal limb w ent numb. It gripped her with immense strength, and she cried out, panic rising suddenly. The mass of black, tentacles surged tow ards her.

Blindly, she struck out, and w hite light flared. The grip on her arm relaxed, and Anara fled, streaming across the battlefield tow ards her body, feeling the writhing black w ill of the creature pursuing her.

Anara gasped, and sucked in a lungful of air as she w as jolted back into the physical realm, almost slipping from the back of her majestic, white mare.

'Damsel Anara, are you all right?' asked Montcadas urgently. She ignored him, and pulled up the flow ing sleeve of her arm. An angry red welt was rising there upon her flaw less, ivory skin, and she hissed with pain. It felt like a scalding brand had been pressed against her skin.

Numbly, she heard the baron shouting for his aides to bring w ater and his battle surgeon.

She knew that the beast w ould not rest until its vengeance was achieved, and such w as its overpow ering will, that it w as able to dominate and control the lesser beasts of the w ild woods. While it lived, the beasts w ould never cease their attacks against Bretonnia.

The creature w as even capable of commanding the woodland, dominating it to its corrupt w ill. It commanded the forests in a w ay unlike the fey that dw elt in the holy forest of Loren. Their magic w as pure and in harmony with the natural w orld. This creature's pow er w as foul and brutal, filled with anger and cruelty.

The vision came to her unbidden. She saw the lands overrun with tortured forests.

They w ere filled with sickness, like pus-filled boils, and the dead were sprawled upon the ground, rotting to feed the agonised roots. She saw castles and the great cities destroyed and smoking, covered in twisted briars and thorns, and skulls w ithin helmets grinned at her. The land w as dead, and the Lady was fading into nothingness.

At last, the vision began to fade, and she opened her eyes. All that she had seen w ould come to pass if the beast did not enact its vengeance. Unless...

'The beast must die,' she breathed.

DONEGAR LICKED HIS lips as he saw the telltale red and blue tabard and shield that marked his target.

'A stray arrow missing its mark in the heat of battle,' the knight had said as he handed Donegar the coin. 'It is a tragedy, but such things happen. No blame w ill befall you, you have my w ord. No one will know from w hich bow the arrow w as fired.'

The knight's face was obscured by his helmet, and he wore a tabard of plain cloth.

There was nothing about the knight that gave any hint to his identity, save his voice, w hich muffled as it w as, held a recognisably Bastonnian accent.

'Blue and red, w ith a w hite dragon,' the knight had repeated, pointing at him with one armoured finger. 'There will be another coin for you once the deed is done. Such a tragedy,' he said mockingly, 'a young knight killed by a stray arrow .'

Then the man had left, and Donegar had stared at the coin. With it, he could feed his starving children for a year.

He had half hoped that the knight with the red and blue heraldry would die in battle.

He w ould not be able to claim the second promised coin, but he w ould not have to live w ith being a murderer. How ever, it had not happened thus far. Perhaps the young knight w as protected by the Lady? Doubt gripped him. He had no wish to be cursed by the goddess of the nobility.

Then the thought of a second coin filled his mind. With it, he could afford to pay the w ise woman to tend to his w ife, who was dying of the wasting sickness.

The villein shouted his order, and the regiment lifted their bow s high into the air once more, fifty arrow s knocked to strings. They were the last of the shafts. Two more volleys, and they would all be expended.

Donegar pulled the string back to his cheek, the arrow knocked and ready to be loosed.

He low ered his aim, sighting on the group of knights errant that were breaking aw ay from the battle and riding back tow ards the hill. He licked his lips once more, feeling sick in his stomach, but thinking only of his family.

BREATHING HEAVILY, CALARD cut his way free of the enemy and rode clear. His armour w as dented and pierced in a dozen places, and he had cast off his helmet after he had sustained a ringing blow to his head that had w renched the helm out of shape and partially obscured his vision.

Parts of his chainmail hung in loose shreds, the links having been shattered by sw ords and axes, and the blue and red shield that proudly bore his personal heraldry w as battered and dented. Gringolet sported dozens of cuts and w ounds, but none of them w ere deep, the destrier's plate and chain barding having taken the brunt of the damage, though the proud red and blue caparison w as torn in dozens of places.

Bertelis too bore similar damage, and blood w as leaking from a w ound he had taken on his upper arm from a blow that had torn through his plate mail. The battle had raged for hours, and Calard had seen dozens of young men slain, never to gain their full knighthood.

No more than half a dozen knights remained in the formation of knights errant that Calard had started the battle fighting alongside, and they had been joined by the shattered remnants of other under-strength regiments. He had not known most of the knights, and one of them, curiously, bore no heraldry. His shield had been painted plain white, and he kept his helmet firmly on his head, even during the short moments of respite. Calard had recognised one of the knights, however, and he had glared hatefully as Maloric of Sangasse had joined their ranks.

The slim young knight w as equally displeased, but neither of them wished to argue w ith their superiors. Much to Calard's irritation, Maloric had acquitted himself well, killing with cold, swift efficiency. The presence of the Sangasse noble had made Calard fight w ith renewed vigour, determined not to be outshone by his pale-skinned rival.

'How pleased I am to see you still alive, Garamont,' said Maloric, flicking up his visor as they broke combat, his voice thick with sarcasm.

'I thank the Lady that you w ere not knocked from the saddle, dear Sangasse,'

snapped back Calard. He tugged on Gringolet's reins sharply, and pulled to the back of the formation, his thoughts dark. Bertelis, riding alongside him, went to drop back w ith him, but Calard stopped him w ith a curt w ord.

He dearly w ished to lash out at the bastard Sangasse noble, and did not trust himself to remain at his side. The Baron Montcadas's orders had been strict, and he was not going to allow his hot-headedness to bring dishonour to his family by breaking his w ord.

He didn't see the arrow as it hissed through the air towards him. It struck him in the shoulder just above the top of his shield and he was knocked backw ards out of the saddle.

He hit the ground hard, and all the air was driven from his lungs. The shaft had punched straight through his plate armour, and he groaned in pain.

Ahead, the knights errant rode on, oblivious to his fall.

THE KNIGHT BEARING no heraldry turned in the saddle and saw Calard lying motionless on the ground. A riderless grey steed was nuzzling at his body. The knight grinned.

She w ould be pleased. He felt suddenly aroused at the thought. Long had he desired her, and long had she teased and taunted him, maintaining a civil distance betw een them. Now , having done as she wished, she would be his. That had been the promise.

His grin faded as he saw the young Garamont noble push himself to his knees, one hand clamped around the arrow protruding from his shoulder. The knight cursed. It had not been a killing blow .

Pulling on his reins sharply, he peeled off from the formation and began riding tow ards the fallen knight. Thinking help was coming for him, Calard lifted his hand in a w ave and struggled to his feet.

The knight snarled, and kicked his steed into a gallop, his fingers clenching hard around the hilt of his sword.

CALARD SAW THE knight riding towards him, and pushed to his feet. The arrow hurt like hell, and he winced.

He looked up at the knight riding towards him. The knight flourished his sword, and kicked his steed into a charge.

Thinking the enemy was closing behind him, he swung around, but there w as no enemy nearby. He turned around and froze for a second, not comprehending what w as happening.

The knight was not slowing down, and Calard felt a chill run down his spine. He threw a glance left and right, seeking cover, but there w as none. He felt helpless, having dropped his sword when the arrow had struck. The thunder of hooves shook the ground beneath his feet.

The sw ord flashed down towards him, and Calard threw himself desperately to the side, w incing at the pain in his shoulder as the arrow still imbedded in his flesh scraped bone. The sword sliced through the air, an inch aw ay from him. The knight w heeled around sharply, and kicked his steed forward for another pass. He knew he w ould be lucky to avoid another attack.

Calard staggered backw ards, keeping his eyes locked on the treacherous knight before him. Some vassal of Sangasse, no doubt, he thought venomously.

Then a pair of knights raced past him, one on either side, galloping hard from behind him. He recognised their heraldry: Bertelis and... Gunthar!

The charging knight pulled his steed to one side, his helmet turning left and right as he sought escape. The enemy was surging forwards once more, racing across the churned up earth tow ards them. There w as nowhere for the knight to flee.

Bertelis and Gunthar bore dow n on him, and he kicked his steed forwards once more, to meet them head on.

His sw ord arced dow n towards the weapon master's head, and Calard saw Gunthar's sw ord flash. Then Gunthar w as past the knight, who w as tumbling to the ground.

Calard had not even seen the blow , so fast had it been performed.

A w et nose nuzzled at Calard.

'Good horse,' he said.

Gunthar rode to Calard's side, and flicked up his visor. His face was pale and w an, but his eyes w ere full of concern. The enemy was no more than a hundred paces distant, and closing fast.

'Can you ride?' he asked quickly, and Calard nodded. He pulled himself painfully into the saddle.

'Bertelis!' bellow ed Gunthar. 'Leave him! We have to ride, now!'

BERTELIS IGNORED THE shout, and slid from the saddle, consumed with rage. He stalked tow ards the fallen knight, who was scrabbling backw ards, leaving a smear of blood beneath him. Gunthar's w ound had been fatal, but the knight w as not dead yet.

'Traitorous w horeson,' spat Bertelis. He kicked the knight's sword away from him, sending it spinning across the ground, and held the point of his blade to the knight's neck.

'Show your face before I kill you, dog,' he spat. When the knight made no move to remove his helmet, Bertelis reversed the grip on his sword and plunged it two-handed dow n into the knight's thigh.

The man screamed in agony, and Bertelis smiled.

As the cry faded aw ay, he heard Gunthar call to him again. Looking up, he saw that the enemy w as closing fast.

Dropping to his knees, he scrabbled at the man's helmet. If it could be proven that it w as one of Sangasse's men, then the baron must surely have to take action against Maloric.

With a w rench, he pulled the helmet free, and gasped as he stared down at the familiar face.

'Tanebourc,' he breathed in shock. He stood up and staggered back a step, confusion and horror on his face.

'Kill me, boy!' said Tanebourc desperately. 'Don't leave me to the beasts!'

Staggering backw ards, his eyes haunted, Bertelis ignored the man's pleas and pulled himself into the saddle.

'Kill me!' roared Tanebourc again.

The horde of the enemies were closing fast, and w ith a final glance Bertelis rode away from Tanebourc. He heard the knights' tortured cries escalate as the hateful tide of Chaotic creatures sw armed over him, and rode hard after Calard and Gunthar.

A lance of knights pounded down the hill past him, charging into the packed beastman forces, but Bertelis barely registered them.

Tanebourc w as his mother's favourite, there was no secret about that, and Bertelis knew that the man w ould do anything for her. If he had succeeded in killing Calard as he had intended, then he, Bertelis, his mother's only son, would have been the heir of Garamont.

His mind w hirled. Surely his mother would never stoop so low ? She could be single-minded, and had a barbed tongue, but she w as no murderer. Was she?

'Who w as it?' Gunthar asked him later, his voice grim.

'I didn't recognise him,' Bertelis said.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

MONTCADAS WAS BLOODY and weary beyond w ords. For three hours, the Bretonnian lines had endured constant attack, and he had no idea how many knights he had lost. More than half, certainly, and the casualty rate amongst the peasants had been even more severe.

They had exhausted their supply of arrow s almost an hour earlier, and the peasant levy of bow men w as now forced to fight with knives and cudgels alongside the decimated ranks of men-at-arms.

The southern half of Adhalind's Seat had fallen, and it was only a matter of time before the hill was completely overrun, an hour at most.

His arms felt leaden, and the spiked head of his morning star w as thick w ith concealed gore.

'Its w ill is driving the beasts,' Anara had said, her voice distant and vague, her eyes fey and lost. 'Kill it and the attack w ill falter.'

'Then w e kill it,' he had replied, wearily. His orders had been passed, and every knight still fit to ride w as gathered together, for one final throw of the dice. They w ould take the fight to the monstrous creature leading the beasts, and see it killed, or die to a man in the attempt.

'Lift the standard high,' said Montcadas. His banner bearer w as as w eary as him, but he nodded grimly. All the knights around him were exhausted. Only the shining, silent figure of Reolus seemed beyond such mortal concerns. Even Anara looked wan and tired, dark circles ringing her eyes.

This is it then, he thought, a desperate last charge to slay the beast leading the enemy. Montcadas snorted. It w as the stuff of legends, and w ith a grail knight leading and a damsel of the Lady w ith them, it seemed like the kind of heroic charge that the bards w ould sing of for generations, if they were victorious. If they w ere not, then no one w ould remember them.

The enemy warlord was out in the darkness, at the fringe of the tortured, unnatural forest to the northeast, the damsel had said. So, it w as in that direction that the knights w ere preparing to make the final charge. Only a skeleton defence would be left to hold against the attacks that continued unabated against the hilltop.

It w ould be a glorious charge, over tw o hundred knights arranged in a solid wedge, w ith he and Reolus at its tip.

Wind w hipped at the heavy fabric of the banner as it w as lifted high. 'Sound the horns,' said Baron Montcadas.

A single note, as clear and sharp as a freshly-forged, virgin sword blade cut through the air.

'May the Lady grant us the strength to finish this,' breathed Montcadas.

CALARD'S HEART RACED as he heard the signal. He was positioned towards the edge of the northern-most w ing of the thick wedge of knights, and, though he bristled that he w as not closer to the apex of the attack, just to be riding in such august company made him sw ell with pride.

'Be strong,' he said to his w eary steed, Gringolet. 'Just one last charge.'

Had it not been nearing midnight and the battlefield swathed in darkness, the charge w ould have been an aw esome sight, every last living knight riding forth in one final, desperate attack.

He prayed that he w ould make a good account of himself, and that somehow his father w ould hear of it.

Calard urged Gringolet forwards with a kick, the mighty grey reacting instantly to his spurs.

His w eariness and the pain of his injuries were forgotten as he rode towards the enemy. Though he knew that he would almost certainly die, he felt suddenly pow erful, invincible, like one of the companions of Gilles le Breton, whose deeds w ere recounted in ballad and song.

The arrow had been painfully drawn from his shoulder, and the wound was heavily bandaged, allow ing him little freedom of movement. Thankfully, it had struck him on his left side, for if it had been his right he would have been unable to couch a lance or sw ing a sw ord. The shaft had pierced the muscle just below the shoulder joint, punching straight through his thick plate armour, and he thanked the Lady that it w as not a more serious w ound. It w as of course impossible to determine who had shot the arrow . A fluke accident perhaps, but a niggling doubt remained. An attempt had already been made on his life, and it made sense that having failed in his first attempt, Maloric w ould make another.

That Gunthar w as riding alongside him filled him with pride, and not a little relief. He had been astonished to see the w eapon master armoured and riding to his aid, for the last he had seen of the man he had been near death, his w ounds badly infected.

The w ounds were healing well, Gunthar said, and Calard had not seen the lie for w hat it w as.

The fact that an unknow n knight had tried to kill him mid-battle w as galling. It must have been one of Sangasse's men, of that he w as certain. One day soon he would have a reckoning with the treacherous w orm.

The thunder of hooves was deafening, and Calard couched his lance tight under his arm as Gringolet galloped at speed across the field that had been churned to mud.

The ground w as littered with corpses.

He had clasped forearms w ith Bertelis before the charge. They didn't speak; there w as no need to. Both understood that they w ere unlikely to survive the night.

How changed he was, Calard had thought, looking upon his half-brother's tired features. He looked older, and his eyes were haunted by the atrocities he had w itnessed. Gone were the last vestiges of boyhood. All that Calard saw was a young knight, hard and tempered in battle. He w ondered briefly if he too had changed so.

They had both seen so much death in the last months. The reality of w ar was far different from what either of them had imagined. Calard felt stupid, for though he did not really expect things to be like the tales they had listened to as w ide-eyed children, he realised that he had not really known what to expect. Certainly not the stench of the battlefield.

Bertelis gave a w ild whoop, and Calard grinned and tightened his grip on his lance.

Not everything about his brother had changed. He was certain that if they survived this night, then they would both get incredibly drunk, and Bertelis would no doubt bed as many w omen as he could before he passed out. For a second, his thoughts drifted to Elisabet, and her face reared in his mind's eye. He saw her seductive, playful dark eyes. The scent of her had all but faded from the silk scarf tied around his upper arm, but its mere presence lent him strength.

Calard low ered his lance, and the wall of knights slammed into the enemy once more.

THE NEXT SACRIFICE was dragged forward, and the Gave gripped the man by the front of his tabard, pulling him close, sniffing at him and peering at him intently.

Again, despite the colour of the man's livery, it was not the one it sought. With grow ing frustration, the Gave rammed his barbed knife into the wretch's neck, and hurled him aside, to join the scores of other bloodied corpses scattered around.

A single horn sounded across the battlefield, and the Gave rose to his full, towering height, staring out across the open ground. The enemy was surging tow ards him in a great w ave, and he bared his teeth, hissing. Reacting instinctively, hundreds upon hundreds of the lesser beasts altered their charge tow ards the hill, leaping across the churned up earth tow ards the charging knights, but they w ere being scythed down like w heat. The Gave cared not.

Responding to the threat posed to their master, the heavily armoured bestigor, w ho had thus far not partaken in the battle, w ere marching forwards to interpose themselves in the path of the enemy, hefting giant axes and halberds. While the rest of the beast herd w as nigh on uncontrollable, surging forth in an unruly mob, the bestigor marched in deep ranks behind icons of black iron, and the earth resounded w ith the stamp of their iron-shod hooves. They smoothly reordered their formation to the beating of drums, w idening their ranks to form a protective barrier around the Gave.

Deep rumbling grow ls resonated from the darkness of the trees behind the Gave. The sound vibrated through the Gave's body, making his organs shudder, and his lips drew back in a cruel smile.

Trees w ere uprooted as they w ere pushed aside by a pair of titanic, dark shapes that rose above the canopy. With a gesture, the Gave directed them forwards.

REOLUS'S EYES BLAZED w ith holy fury as he cut his way through the melee at the point of the Bretonnian charge. His blade carved through the heavy armour of the foe as if it w ere paper, and at his side the Baron Montcadas smashed aside more of them w ith every sweeping blow of his spiked morning star. The questing knight, Gundehar, rode on his other side, and he smashed the enemy aw ay w ith mighty sweeps of his tw o-handed sword, passion and fervour giving him strength.

They w ere no more than a hundred yards from the tree line, and he could smell the foetid decay of the tortured trees in the air. Urging his steed forwards, feeling the malignant presence of the enemy w ar leader nearby, Reolus drove on, hacking his w ay through the heavy press of armoured beastmen.

There was an almighty crash, and his eyes flicked towards the darkness of the looming forest. Trees were being uprooted and smashed aside, and the ground began to shudder w ith titanic footsteps.

A pair of behemoths rose above the canopy, creatures both ancient and grow n impossibly huge by the w arping influence of Chaos. Like men w ading through long grass, they burst from the tree line, smashing aside contorted oaks and elms, their ear-splitting roars sounding like mountains being shattered.

Each of the monsters stood some fifty feet tall, and each thunderous, loping step cleared almost tw enty feet. They were malformed creatures of Chaos, their hulking shoulders covered in fur and protruding spines of bone, their monstrous gait uneven and aw kw ard.

The ground shook beneath them, and Reolus felt the wave of panic that shuddered through the charging knights as they saw the pair of fell giants bearing down on them. He had killed such beasts before, however, and he would do so again.

It looked as though a single, monstrous creature had been sliced down the middle by a searing cut, forming tw o beasts from one flesh. They were perverted mirror images of each other, these Chaos giants, monstrous twins separated by foul magicks.

Each had an oversized arm and a smaller, deformed limb that w as w asted and nigh on useless. One of the legs of each giant w as as thick as a tree-trunk and covered w ith dank fur that hung to the ground like rope, while the other leg was crooked and thin.

Their heads each contained a single, w eeping eye, though each orb contained a pair of pupils, and each beast had a single drooping ear pierced w ith human thigh bones and ribs. The other sides of their heads w ere a loathsome mass of red scar tissue, as if the tw o heads had once been one, but had been ripped apart. A single curling horn emerged from each of their heads, curved downwards from their temples. Lips flapped open to display slab-like teeth and tusks, and the creatures roared with one voice.

Each held a tree-trunk in its massive hands, and these they hefted as if they w eighed nothing at all.

They loped through the press of beastmen, who came barely to their knees, smashing them aside thoughtlessly. Their monstrous cyclopean eyes were fixed on the knights, and the earth vibrated w ith each thunderous step.

The first of the giants struck the line of knights, sweeping its tree-trunk like a club.

The makeshift w eapon slammed into the front rank of Bretonnians, and half a dozen knights and their horses were lifted into the air and sent flying backw ards, their bones and armour crushed. With its return swing, it sent another half dozen hurtling through the air.

The other giant came straight at Reolus, and the grail knight kicked his terrified steed directly tow ards it, making no attempt to move out of its w ay. The giant lifted its club high into the air as it pounded forwards, intending to smash him into the ground.

The heavy tree-trunk came hurtling down tow ards him, and he urged his steed to the side at the last moment. The tree smashed down, slamming into Gundehar, crushing him and his steed into the ground, rendering them into an unrecognisable, flattened smear of blood and armour.

With a roar, Reolus plunged his lance deep into the beast's thigh as he rode past it. It sank three feet into flesh that w as as tough as w ood, and the creature and its tw in bellow ed deafeningly in pain, as if both felt the wound.

Letting go of its club, the giant sw atted at Reolus w ith the back of its hand, which w as the size of a w agon. The blow smashed into him and his steed, sending them flying. His horse crumpled to the ground, screaming in agony, and Reolus rolled from the thrashing destrier.

How ling in savage fury, the armoured beastmen surged forw ards once more.

Dazed and hurting, Reolus struggled to his feet, killing the first ones that sw armed around him.

Dozens of lances plunged into the legs of the pair of giants, and they bellowed in fury and pain. A hand clasped around the body of a horse and it w as lifted high into the air, w hinnying in terror before its head w as bitten off. The headless corpse was hurled back dow n into the knights, knocking another pair to the ground, and hot blood splattered dow n from the monster's flapping lips.

Knights surged around the legs of the beasts, stabbing and hacking, but the charge had been all but blunted. Heavily-armoured beastmen surged into those that got past the pair of giants, smashing them from their saddles and pulling them dow n.

With a shout, Reolus cleaved his sword through the head of a beastman, and broke into a run tow ards the nearest of the tw o behemoths. He ducked a swinging axe and severed the leg of another beast. The closest giant swung around, sending four knights and their steeds flying through the air with a sweep of its arm, and Reolus threw himself to the ground as one horse tumbled tow ards him.

The knight, still in the saddle, sailed over Reolus and was crushed, his spine snapping as the w eight of the horse landed on top of him. Reolus surged upright, and threw his sword with all his might.

The blade spun end over end and drove into the giant's single eye, sinking to the hilt.

The beast and its tw in gave a tremendous roar of agony and rage, and the w ounded creature began thrashing around blindly. Black blood spurted from its eye, and more than one fallen knight was crushed beneath its staggering footsteps. More lances plunged into its legs, and it spun around, arms flailing killing knights and beastmen alike.

Baron Montcadas, miraculously still alive and in the saddle, smashed his ball and chain into the knee of the creature's lame leg shattering the kneecap. As the leg gave w ay beneath it, the monstrous creature teetered and fell.

Its arms sw ung w ildly as it sought vainly to maintain its balance, but its fall w as inevitable. It hit the ground with a resounding boom, crushing a dozen men beneath its bulk, and making others stumble and fall as the ground shook. Unhorsed knights sw armed over it, plunging their swords like daggers into its neck and body, even as others w ere hacked down by beastmen.

The fallen giant's tw in bellowed in pain and rage, and moved to its defence. With a violent kick, it sent three knights flying their horses screaming as they spiralled back into their ow n ranks, bones crushed and armour w renched completely out of shape.

Reolus sw ore. Horseless, and with the havoc unleashed by the giants, there was little chance that he w ould ever reach the enemy war leader. Buoyed by the appearance of the tow ering monstrosities, the enemy w as surging forwards with renewed vigour, and, now that the charge had been stymied, the Bretonnians were being cut down in their hundreds. He prayed that those knights on the flank of the charge were continuing their attack, for, in them, lay the only chance of killing the enemy war leader.

With a grow l of anger, Reolus caught the arms of a beastmen as it sought to cleave him from shoulder to sternum w ith a pow erful axe-blow . Muscles straining to hold back the strike, he leant forwards and drove his knee into the beast's groin. Again he slammed his armoured knee into the same place, and its strength wavered. With a final blow , the beast released its grip on its weapon, and Reolus swung it around in a lethal arc that tore the beast's head from its shoulders.

The sole giant still on its feet w as laying about it w ith destructive power, killing dozens of men w ith every passing moment. A score of swords and lances protruded from its legs, like bristles, and its flesh was slick with blood from the w ounds, but it continued its mad rampage, apparently fuelled by the pain. Setting his sight on the tow ering creature, Reolus barged his way through the maelstrom of battle, the beastman's axe held tight in his hands.

CALARD SLASHED DOWN at the enemy again and again. The beastmen pushed in against the knights, surging forward in a solid mass. There was little room for grace or skill, just a need to kill quickly and efficiently.

Titanic roars echoed across the din. Their charge had swung around to the east as the point of the charge, led by the grail knight Reolus, stalled. How such a thing could have come to pass w as beyond him, for he had believed that nothing in the w orld could stand against the knight, but halted the charge had been. Out on the w ing of the attack, Calard and the knights around him had continued on, facing less resistance than the rest of the force, and they now found themselves occupying the most forw ard point in the attack, and still they pushed deeper into the enemy lines.

The trees w ere close, and they were surrounded and desperate. Calard knew instinctively that they would not last long, but he could not help feeling that they w ere painfully close to the beast leading the enemy forces. They just needed to keep going forw ards.

He desperately parried a blow that stabbed tow ards his chest, and sent a riposte that sliced a bloody line across a beast's face, driving it back for a second. It w as instantly replaced by another foe that roared as it thrust a spear forw ards. Calard swayed to the side, and the w eapon slammed into the face of another knight, punching through his skull and piercing the brain. Gringolet kicked out, flashing hooves breaking limbs.

The enemy fought with savage fury as more of them pushed against the buckling line of knights, and increasing numbers of men w ere being dragged down with every passing moment. Calard struck a beastman on the crow n of its head, splitting the skull, and it collapsed to the ground.

All semblance of order had been lost, and the knights' charge began to falter. Each man fought as an individual now, all sense of formation gone, lost amid the chaos of the battle.

Seeing a gap open, Calard shouted and drove Gringolet on. The powerful grey reacted instantly, leaping forwards.

He didn't see his brother Bertelis knocked from the saddle behind him.

THE ENEMY CLOSED ranks, fighting with frenzied intensity, and Gunthar swore as Calard disappeared from sight. His own steed had fallen, its skull smashed, and he stood protectively over Bertelis's prone figure. Though Calard w as beyond his reach, he w ould die before any further harm came to Lutheure's youngest son.

He ducked and lifted his shield, and a swinging axe head scraped across its surface.

Lunging forwards, he stabbed his blade into the tow ering beast's midsection, the tip sinking deep, before stepping back once more.

Hissing against the pain in his injured leg, which threatened to collapse beneath him at any moment, he slashed his sword across the bestial, hate-filled face of another enemy.

All around him, horses kicked out w ith their hooves, rearing and biting as they had been trained. Gunthar stood over the fallen Garamont noble, fearing that he would be crushed beneath the hooves of the warhorses. Men shouted and screamed, and more of them w ere being dragged from the saddles and butchered. Blades flashed down from those still in the saddle, driving the surging enemy back, lashing out at any that came near.

A blade stabbed tow ards Bertelis, who was groggily struggling to rise, and Gunthar's blade flashed out, deflecting the blow. He snapped off a lightning riposte that tore out the beast's throat. It fell, blood gurgling from the wound, and Gunthar turned aside another blow that sliced towards his neck. His return blow punched through the beast's eye socket, and it fell w ith a roar. More creatures surged forw ards to fill the gap, and Gunthar glanced behind him.

Bertelis had ripped his helmet aw ay, and blood w as streaming from his scalp. He flopped back onto the ground, and Gunthar sw ore. The beasts crow ding around, respectful now of his skill, snarled at him, their fingers clenching and unclenching on the hafts and pommels of their w eapons.

Another knight went dow n, his horse screaming and the beasts leapt at Gunthar.

He smashed a spear dow n into the ground, and turned aside a sw ord thrust w ith his shield. His blade lashed out, scoring a deep wound across the chest of one of the beasts, and then he deftly reversed the blow, hacking his sword deep into the creature's neck. Gunthar spun aw ay instantly, ripping his sword free, even as an axe sliced through the air where he had been standing a moment ago, and hacked his sw ord into the neck of another creature.

He stepped aw kw ardly to the side to better protect Bertelis, feeling his leg shuddering beneath him. He w as breathing heavily, and his arms felt like lead w eights. He was so tired.

Again the beasts came at him, and he sw ayed back from a w ildly slashing curved sw ord that passed by him, a hair's breadth from his head, and his sword sliced across the beast's arm, cutting through sinews and tendons, forcing it to drop its w eapon.

A blade punched through his side, and he staggered. With a sw ing he severed the beast's arm at the w rist, and stabbed the point into its chest. An axe blow smashed into his shield, breaking his arm and making him cry out. His blade slashed across the creature's leg, and it fell with a roar of pain.

Wincing against the grating pain of broken bones grinding together, his left arm hanging limply at his side, Gunthar stood over Bertelis, his heart pounding. His breath w as coming in short, sharp gasps, and it felt like his lungs were on fire. The sounds around him seemed muffled and distant, as if his ears w ere stuffed w ith cloth, and he knew that his end was near.

'Gunthar,' breathed the young knight from the ground.

'I'll let no harm come to you, boy,' gasped Gunthar, eyeing the circle of beastmen closing in around them.

One of them charged, its axe swinging up from the ground in a lethal arc. Stepping to the side, Gunthar avoided the attack and slashed his blade across the creature's back as it surged by. Then he reversed the swing and plunged the point into the stomach of another beast as it surged forw ards.

The flailing hooves of a knight's steed almost struck him, and he staggered back. A curved blade crashed into his shoulder, and he stumbled. His gangrenous leg finally collapsed beneath him, and he fell to one knee. Still he fought on, desperate to protect Bertelis. He hacked his blade into a beast's leg, and it fell with a roar.

A knight's sw ord smashed down, cleaving the head of another creature dow n to its teeth, and blood splattered from the terrible w ound.

Gunthar's vision began to sw im from loss of blood and exhaustion, and he half-craw led, half-stumbled to Bertelis's side, expecting, at any moment, to be crushed or to have the life smashed from him by the enemy. Using his sword like a crutch, he pushed to his feet once more, swaying unsteadily.

'Gunthar,' breathed Bertelis.

'I'm sorry, my lord,' gasped Gunthar in despair. 'I have failed you.'

'No,' said Bertelis, trying to lift himself up, but falling back to the ground.

A pair of beasts rushed at Gunthar. He killed the first, his blade severing its jugular, and blood sprayed out as it dropped to the ground. Desperately, he turned his blade tow ards the second. It slammed into him, bearing him to the ground. Its weight forced Gunthar's sw ord into its body, and it snarled in his face, its eyes yellow and filled with hate as it died.

The w eight of the beast pinned Gunther to the ground, its heavy, muscled mass crushing him, and he felt a moment of panic at his vulnerability. With a surge of adrenaline, he heaved the stinking creature off him, rolling it to the side.

He could barely breathe, and he coughed painfully, blood flecking his lips. He was so tired. Sleep beckoned him. All he had to do w as close his eyes and the pain would stop. His eyelids fluttered.

No! He w ould not allow himself to succumb to the enticing sleep of eternity. Not yet.

Clenching his teeth against the agony, he pushed to his feet once more, and dragged his sw ord from the beastman's body.

BREAKING THROUGH THE enemy's line, not knowing how many knights were with him, Calard's eyes narrow ed as he saw the fell beast that w as the enemy's war leader.

Corpses w ere strewn across the ground around the creature, and, with a shock, he saw that every one of them w ore the colours of Garamont. They looked like the discarded toys of a petulant infant, tossed aw ay in disgust, bloody and broken.

Dozens more men w ere being dragged forwards, all wearing yellow and red, fresh sacrifices to the dark gods.

The creature's head flicked around, its face rotting and covered in stitches, and its piercing eyes locked on him. Calard sw ayed in the saddle at the depths of hatred in its eyes.

It w as a massive creature, standing perhaps seven feet tall, and, though its body w as not heavy like the bull-headed creatures, its long limbs w ere tight with sinewy muscle. Though it was not as large or as physically loathsome as the mutated beast-spaw n creatures, something about it w as utterly w rong, as if such a beast should never have been born into the w orld. Fighting against the unfathomable horror threatening to overwhelm him, Calard kicked Gringolet forwards, angling his charge directly at the foul creature.

It slammed its staff into the ground, and black birds filled the air with fluttering w ings and raucous cries.

Beasts w earing heavy armour and hefting large, single-bladed axes snarled, and leapt forw ards. Calard dimly heard Bertelis cry out, but his eyes w ere locked on the hateful eyes of his quarry. As if the protecting hands of the Lady w ere cupped around him, he rode through the enemy, unscathed, and bore dow n on the creature.

It crouched low to the ground, lips curled back in a feral snarl, its long limbs tensing beneath it. In that moment, it resembled some monstrous spider, making ready to spring.

Black carrion birds, each w ith a single, pulsing daemonic eye, swooped down at Calard, battering him w ith their wings and stabbing at his eyes with hooklike beaks.

He flailed at them w ildly, crushing wings and fragile bones with the hilt of his sword, and knocking them aw ay with his armoured forearm.

Through the blur of feathers and w ildly flapping birds, Calard saw the beast spring, leaping through the air tow ards him w ith spindly fingers outstretched. Gringolet reared, w hinnying in fear, and then it struck, slamming into Calard and tearing him from the saddle. Gringolet was borne to the ground by the w eight of the foul creature, legs flailing w ildly, and Calard hit the ground hard, the creature above him. The wind w as knocked from his lungs, and he lay on his back, gasping for breath.

Stunned by the shocking impact, Calard dimly registered Gringolet screaming in pain, and he knew, in that moment, that his faithful steed must have broken a leg in the fall.

Anger rose w ithin him, and he struggled to stand. His vision swam, but he could see the creature crouching above him, its eyes burning with hatred, though the rest of its body w as a dark silhouette. Miraculously, Calard still held his sword, and, gasping for breath, he mustered the strength to strike.

A hoof slammed dow n onto his forearm, pinning it to the ground.

Gringolet screamed again, and from his prone position, Calard could see the stricken horse struggling to lift itself up from the ground. Its shattered right foreleg could not bear its w eight, and it buckled unnaturally beneath it, sending the horse crashing to the ground w ith a tortured cry that claw ed at Calard's heart.

With a surge of anger, Calard smashed his shield rim into the beast's leg, and it stepped back w ith snarl, freeing his pinned arm. Staggering to his feet, Calard stepped tow ards the beast that tow ered above him, sw inging his sword in a deadly arc tow ards its neck.

The monster's hand flashed out, and it caught the sw ord blade, halting it mid-swing.

Blood began to flow down the blade, running over Calard's gauntlet, but, struggle as he might, he could not free the weapon from the creature's iron grip. With a snarl of anger, it lifted one of its powerful legs and slammed a kick into his chest, sending him flying backw ards.

From the ground, he saw that the beast still held his sword by the blade, and its head cocked to one side, as if the blood dripping down the blade intrigued it.

Gringolet struggled to rise again, and collapsed to the ground once more. Snapping out of its reverie, the beast surged forw ards suddenly and drove the blade into Gringolet's neck. Calard cried out as his sw ord was pushed deep, until the hilt of his w eapon rested against the grey's flesh. A torrent of blood spilled from the mortal w ound, and began pooling beneath it. The steed that Calard had raised from a foal thrashed for a moment, blood bubbling from its mouth, and he cried out to see the noble creature in such pain. Then it lay still, hot blood pooling beneath it.

Grinning, the beast returned its attention to Calard, and as he tried to lift his aching body from the ground, a kick slammed him back dow n. The hissing creature crouched over Calard, one hoof upon his armoured chest, and one hand pulling his head back violently to expose his throat. A dagger flashed before him, the metal blackened and covered w ith vile runes and symbols.

The hiss escaping from the creature's lips stopped abruptly, and it drew its face close to Calard's. Its breath w as hot and foetid. It sniffed at him, as if sampling his smell.

He gagged, trying to pull aw ay, but he w as unable to get aw ay from the revolting creature.

It crouched closer still, though he tried to pull away, revulsion and horror rising w ithin him, and it licked his face, from chin to temple. His skin burned where the hot, w et tongue touched his face, and he cried out involuntarily. He saw the creature's eyes w iden.

Calard cried out again as sudden pain stabbed into his mind like a hot knife, like w rithing tentacles seeking something inside. It felt like worms were burrow ing into his brain, and he screamed in agony, writhing beneath the monster, but pow erless to pull aw ay.

Images, memories and emotions flickered unbidden through his mind: Elisabet's heart-shaped face as she leant in close to him, the touch of her lips, and the surge of love that he felt for her; the sudden reappearance of Anara in his life, and the shock of the change that had been w rought in her over the years they had been apart; he saw again the fight betw een Gunthar and Ganelon, and felt again the shame of his part in Gunthar's injury; he saw him and Bertelis riding out to the outlaw s on the edge of the forest, back in Bastonne, a lifetime ago.

A million images flickered maddeningly through his mind, everything he had ever experienced, and he cried out at the excruciating, writhing pain.

He saw again the battle against the greenskins, and felt the hot surge of adrenaline that he had experienced in his first foray into combat. He saw Anara as a child, and the fearful glances she received from the servants. He saw himself as a child, after his mother had died, crying himself to sleep because he believed that his father hated him. His father...

The probing tentacles dug deeper, and Calard realised that he could feel the creature's excitement rise. Images of the dying lord of Garamont reared up in an overw helming parade: flashes of the family castle in Bastonne blurred w ith visions of his father from years earlier, happier memories of his father laughing, holding hands w ith his mother, and bouncing Calard on his knee.

He felt a surge of triumph from the beast, and he saw , for the briefest fraction of a second, memories that w ere not his.

He saw blood, so much blood, and horrified expressions. He felt pain and fear, and desperation... and hatred. He felt hatred like he had never felt it before, an all consuming need for vengeance, for blood, for death and for release. He saw the leering faces of daemons, and they clawed at him w ith talons of fire, eyes filled w ith the promise of pow er, and eternal damnation.

He w atched through the Gave's eyes at it fought w ith tooth and nail against the other beasts of the dark forest reaches. He felt exhilaration as he stood victorious over bloody corpses that he had ripped apart w ith his bare hands, the sweet, hot taste of blood upon his lips. He smelt the fear that rose from the other beasts as they backed aw ay from him, snarling. He revelled in dominating them, forcing them to his will.

He heard the keening cry of an animal in pain. He hoped he would die, prayed that he w ould, to escape this torment. Then the probing tentacles within his mind retracted w ith a suddenness that made him gasp, leaving him exhausted, and with blood dribbling from his nose and ears, and he realised that the sound of an animal in pain w as coming from his ow n lips.

The creature above him threw its head back and roared its triumph to the heavens, and Calard succumbed to darkness.

REOLUS SLAMMED THE axe into the giant's neck as it struggled to rise from the ground, and a torrent of blood gushed from the fatal w ound. Staggering back, leaving the w eapon imbedded deep in the monstrous beast's flesh, and bleeding from a dozen w ounds, the grail knight heard the keening roar of the beast's w ar leader echo over the battlefield. It w as the sound of victory, and Reolus's heart sank.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

IT WAS LIGHT when Calard woke, blinking heavily. His head was pounding, and he w inced. He heard concerned voices, and he rolled to his side, vomiting up the contents of his stomach. That seemed only to make the pain in his head worse, like stabbing needles behind his eyes, and he was sick once more, his whole body convulsing with the violence of his heaving.

When at last the nausea left him he lay back, exhausted, his body aching all over. He saw canvas above him, and felt a hand on his shoulder.

His memories of the beast came back to him in a rush, and he struggled to rise, crying out, but hands pushed him back onto the pallet. Spots of light filled his vision, and a w ave of dizziness overcame him.

'...over. It's over,' said a voice that he realised was Bertelis's.

'...black tentacles, in my mind, prying, probing. Gringolet...' Calard groaned. He jerked w ith the remembered agony.

'...delirious,' said a different voice, one that he did not recognise. Then everything began to fade once again, and he slipped into a tortured dream. He saw daemonic faces leering at him, blood, and a dark forest canopy overhead. He saw the back of a knight riding away from him, leaving him, and he felt a stab of fear as things began to creep out of the darkness around him.

He cried out in his sleep, writhing beneath sweat-soaked sheets.

'WILL HE BE all right?' slurred Bertelis, looking down at his brother in concern. The ageing physician sighed wearily.

'I don't know . His physical injuries are not severe, and are healing well. The damage seems to be to his mind.' He shrugged. 'Such things are unpredictable. I am sorry, I don't know w hat afflicts your brother. Maybe w ith rest, he will come back. Now , I am sorry, but I have other men that need tending.'

Bertelis nodded numbly, and the physician shuffled away. The cries of the wounded and the dying w ere all around. Hundreds of men lay on pallets and blankets beneath the aw ning and more w ere being brought in every minute. The man had probably not slept at all since battle had begun.

He heard men moaning in pain, and winced at the screams as grisly amputations w ere performed. He took another long draught from the w ineskin in his hand.

The death toll had been high. Barely a hundred knights had survived the night of blood. Of those, perhaps another twenty w ould die of their wounds before the day w as out, and another dozen w ould bear crippling injuries until their dying day.

Bertelis's head w as wrapped in bandages, and his right arm w as strapped and held immobile in a splint. He was told that he would not be able to w ield a sw ord or a lance for months. He had been desperately fighting to reach his brother, and had fallen heavily as his steed had been cut from beneath him, breaking his arm as he hit the ground. As he had struggled to rise, an axe had smashed into his helmet, w renching it out of shape and cutting deep into his scalp. He had been lucky it had been only a glancing blow , else his skull would surely have been smashed. As it was, he had been told that he had received a fracture, and he found that exerting himself in any w ay, even just w alking for more than ten steps, made him feel nauseous and dizzy.

He had managed to pull his helmet from his head, and his face was aw ash with blood. He had been unable to focus his eyes, let alone stand and fight. He dimly remembered the beasts looming over him, and he had thought that, in that moment, Morr had come for him.

Then someone had killed the creatures, and stood sentinel over him: Gunthar.

With hazy, unfocused eyes he had seen the ageing weapon master kill perhaps a dozen of the beasts. With astonishing speed and displaying all his skill, Gunthar had fought furiously to defend him. At last, the knight had fallen, pierced by blades and spears, his armour covered in blood and punctured in a dozen places. Bertelis had cried out as the noble w eapon master w as finally felled, an axe slamming into his neck w ith brutal force. Gunthar had fallen facing Bertelis, and he had w atched the light slip from his eyes.

He had died so that Bertelis might live, for moments later the enemy swarming around him w as pushed back. The young knight swore, and took another swig of w ine. The old man's death haunted him.

The end of the battle w as still a confused blur. There had been a terrible sound, an exultant cry of bestial triumph that echoed across the battlefield. It had pierced his mind. Then the battle had ended.

On hearing the cry, the beasts of the forest had slunk back into the trees, abandoning the field. Those embroiled in combat fought on, and it had taken over an hour before battle had finally ceased, but the fight had been over as soon as that exultant, bestial cry had sounded.

Thousands of peasants had been killed, and the stink of the mass graves w as revolting. Even in death, the peasants managed to sicken him, he thought resentfully.

He looked dow n at Calard's grey-tinged face. For the past tw elve hours he had maintained his vigil over his brother, w atching as he tossed fitfully, moaning and crying out in his sleep. Still, at least he was alive, which was more than could be said for most of the knights that had fought that night.

Garamont peasants had found Calard, lying comatose amid piles of the dead, and at first they had mourned for him. They had borne his lifeless body back to camp, convinced that he had been claimed by Morr. It w as only when one of the duke's physicians had examined him that a faint, fluttering heartbeat w as felt.

There had been no victory celebration, for in truth there had been no victory. They had not slain the beast leading the enemy forces, nor had they sent the creatures fleeing from the battlefield. They had just left.

What w as it all for? It seemed to him that there w as no point to the attack, and no point to calling it off when they had, but then, the creatures w ere little more than beasts, animals driven by the senseless urge to kill, like a fox in a hen house. It was folly to even try to understand their motives.

Grief and black despair gripped him, and he shouted for more w ine as he drained his w ineskin. He kept thinking back to Tanebourc's face, frantic w ith fear, as he begged for death.

He had believed, for a time, that his mother w as sleeping with the man, though he spoke his thoughts to no one, not even Calard. Then, one night, his blood fired with drink, he had confronted her with the allegation. She had slapped him, hard across his cheek, her pale face flushed with anger. The blow had stung him.

'How dare you!' she had snarled, lines creasing her thick make-up.

He had believed her w hen she refuted his accusation, but, even if he had never consummated that lust, Tanebourc desired her, and Bertelis knew that she w as manipulative. He w as certain that she would be able to tw ist Tanebourc to perform any deed she asked of him.

Would she really try to have her husband's first son killed, though? It w as with horrible reluctance that he had to admit that she might. The evidence showed that she must have been the one behind the attempts, but that know ledge was his, and his alone.

A fresh w ineskin was brought to Bertelis, and he snatched it from the hands of the peasant. Breaking the seal, he gulped down the fine wine greedily, seeking oblivion.

CALARD LAY UPON the pallet for four days, tossing and turning, tormented by nightmares and daemons. He woke several times, and the peasants set to w atch over him managed to force some w ater and food on him, but he w as often delirious and confused in these moments of wakefulness. In a drunken stupor, Bertelis verbally abused the peasants and lashed out at them, ranting and stumbling, before he collapsed unconscious in a pool of his ow n vomit, and was carried to his tent.

When Calard finally rose from his fever, he was ravenously hungry and thirsty, and gorged himself. He felt sore all over, as if he had been trampled beneath a herd of cattle, and his head still pained him, though blessedly even that discomfort lessened as he ate and drank.

His brother came to him, looking haggard, and reeking of alcohol. He had been greatly cheered to see Bertelis, though he w as disturbed by his brother's state. The young blond-haired knight w as unshaven and seemed to be fighting his own demons, though he w as clearly relieved and pleased to see Calard lucid and on the way to recovery.

Calard had grieved w hen he learnt of Gunthar's fate, a deep sadness overwhelming him. He had w ept tears for the knight, though he had hurriedly blinked them away, and it w as w ith pride and respect that he heard of the weapon master's last moments. He had died doing his duty, but Calard w ished that he had spent more time w ith the weapon master. He had so much yet to learn from him, and he cursed himself for not being more attentive and respectful to the knight. It w as too late now , and Calard regretted it. He could not have imagined a time w ithout Gunthar's stern presence, and now that he was gone there was a vacuum in his life that he felt would never be filled.

He mourned similarly for Gringolet. It w ould be impossible to replace the noble destrier.

With shock and horror, he learnt of the extent of the losses. So many men had died, the majority of w hom he had got to know w ell over the course of the campaign.

Baron Montcadas had survived, though he had lost his left eye w hen a beast's jaw s had closed around his head. He regaled Calard w ith the account of how he had killed the beast, dislocating its jaw s and beating it to death w ith his fists. In truth, Calard had been unsure w hether the baron w as exaggerating or not, but he suspected not. It seemed that nothing could kill the barrel-chested bear of a man.

The baron had pursued the beasts into the forests, but had called off the hunt, fearing ambush. The beasts had melted sw iftly into the trees and were gone, leaving devastation behind them.

With the departure of the beasts, the unnatural forest that encircled Adhalind's Seat had begun to decay at a heightened rate. The trees rotted aw ay within days, collapsing under their ow n weight and filling the air w ith their putrid stench. Insects and w orms w rithed through the liquefying mass that blanketed the land, and birds sw armed in their thousands to pick through the rotting morass. Within a month, the existence of the vile forest w ould be little more than a memory, though the fields w ould be tainted for generations.

Driven by restlessness, Calard ignored the protests of the baron's little physician and w as soon up on his feet. He moved around stiffly, flexing his tight limbs and stretching bedsore muscles. His wounds were healing w ell, and though it would be many w eeks before his shoulder was healed, where the arrow had struck him, he had retained some movement there.

It w as as he moved through some training exercises with the sword that Anara had come to him, along w ith the grail knight Reolus.

He had never been so close to the revered knight, and he was awed and humbled in his presence. Anara w as coolly distant, not even asking how he fared, much to his disappointment, but the grail knight asked after his health with genuine concern.

Seen up close, it w as impossible to gauge the grail knight's age. His face was smooth and unlined, untouched by any scar, w hich would have been remarkable, even if he had fought in only half the battles it w as claimed he had. Indeed, if the stories were to be believed, he had once borne a horrible scar across his face, from his ear to his lips, but the scar had disappeared w hen he had drunk from the Lady's grail. He was not a handsome man, w hich had surprised Calard, his features evoking power and strength more than manly beauty. His jaw w as square and thick, and his brow s heavy, the nose broad and flat. It w as a w arrior's face, of that there was no doubt, and he w ore his hair clipped short, flecks of silver at his temples.

In truth, he did not look like the romanticised hero sung about in his ballads. There w ere no flowing golden locks or beauty to make married w omen and virgins swoon, but he certainly had an aw esome presence, one that demanded respect. There was something about him that Calard could not put his finger on, something that made him seem just a little larger, a little fiercer, a little more imposing than other men: something a little more... vital.

There was an off-putting, intense burning light in his eyes, a fey potency, otherw orldly and dangerous. Calard found he could not hold the grail knight's gaze.

'I fought alongside your father,' the grail knight said, making Calard widen his eyes in surprise, 'a good man, strong. At Drow ning Man's Moor he led a desperate countercharge against the restless dead that turned the battle.'

'That battle w as more than forty years ago,' said Calard softly, his eyes large. The grail knight smiled back at him.

Calard w anted to ask a million questions, but did not w ish to appear like a gaw king adolescent.

'You fought the beast,' said Reolus, the smile dropping from his face.

'I... I w anted the glory of killing it,' admitted Calard. 'I thought I could best it, but I...

failed,' he said, hanging his head.

'It w as a brave attempt.'

'Gunthar w ould have said foolish.'

'Impetuous, I w ould say.'

'Why did it leave?' asked Calard. The question had been troubling him. 'Why did it not... finish what it started? Surely it could have w on the field?'

'It could,' said Reolus, his eyes burning with witch-fire. 'Had the battle lasted another hour, there w ould have been no Bretonnian alive, knight or otherwise. In truth, I don't know , Calard. We were hoping that you could shed some light on it.'

'Me?' asked Calard in shock.

'It took something from you,' said Anara vaguely, staring around. Her eyes seemed to be follow ing invisible movements through the air. It w as unnerving like the way a cat w ould stir and stare intently at a blank w all, as if seeing something beyond the ken of human perception. Calard shivered. What did she see? In truth, he didn't want to know . Her eyes came back into focus and she stared at Calard. 'It touched your mind. What did it see?'

Calard blanched as he felt a flash of remembered pain in his head of the insidious tentacles pushing into his mind, sifting through his memories like an open book, rummaging through his deepest desires, his hopes, his aspirations. It felt like he had been violated by the hateful creature, and he shuddered, feeling again the tainted touch of the creature inside him.

'It saw everything,' said Calard, his voice thick, his eyes haunted, 'every memory, everything I have ever experienced.'

He didn't say how for a brief moment he had felt linked to the creature, seeing its memories as if they w ere his. In those moments, he had experienced all that the beast felt, and he had revelled in the pow er, the destruction, the taste of blood on his lips. He had felt savage joy as he had relived the killing the destruction that the beast had w rought. He had felt the beast's rage at all things beautiful and peaceful, felt how they mocked him, and he had yearned to see the w orld burn.

Were those just the beast's memories overlaid over his? Or did they reflect the dark desires that he kept hidden even from himself?

Had the beast tainted him in those brief moments when their minds had melded together? Was he now damned?

'It found w hat it w as seeking in you,' said Anara, her eyes burning deep into his soul.

Could she see the taint that he feared w as lurking deep within? 'What w as it? What did it find?'

'I don't know ! It saw everything. Everything that I am, it saw in those moments.'

The air in the tent became icy, and the light seemed to dim. The pain in his head returned. It felt like seething maggots w ere burrow ing through his brain, and he clenched his eyes closed tightly. Images flashed though his mind, images that the beast had seen, felt and experienced, just as he had experienced its memories. He didn't w ant to feel this again, didn't w ant to see it again, and he pushed against it.

'What did it see?' asked Anara again, her voice cold and insistent. It w as she! She w as doing this, making him relive those moments as he lay helpless beneath the beast.

'Stop,' moaned Calard, fighting against her, resisting.

'What did it see?' she asked icily. Unable to hold back the flood of images, Calard succumbed, and it w as like a dam bursting. He w as lost adrift in a sea of images, feelings and memories. They flicked through his mind in a maddening parade, one after another.

Again, he felt the hot surge of savage victory as the beast had found w hat it had sought.

'Father,' murmured Calard, his vision swimming, as he came back to himself. He was on the ground, though he didn't remember falling, and he wiped at the foam that flecked his lips.

'What? What w as it?' asked Anara, peering down at him, her face intense and cold, almost cruelly so. He glared up at her. She had done this to him. She had made him relive those painful moments. The throbbing pain in his head faded, and he pushed himself upright, breathing heavily.

'It saw Castle Garamont. It saw our father.'

Daw ning comprehension fell over Anara's face.

Reolus helped Calard to his feet, his face cold and stern, lit with the same impassioned light that had infected his sister.

'What does it mean?' he asked at last, looking tow ards Anara. He had never felt so distant from her than at that moment, even in all the years they had spent apart. She seemed like someone he didn't know at all, and she looked at him as if he was a stranger.

'I know w hat it is,' she said at last, 'and I know where it has gone.'

CHLOD PULLED HIS eye aw ay from the tear he had cut in the fabric, and backed aw ay from the tent. He limped heavily through the camp, wincing at the w ounds he had suffered. In truth, he had been amazed that he had survived. Only a handful of the pilgrims had, and he had been one of the lucky few.

He had shaved the top of his head, and had strapped a battered breastplate aw kw ardly to his chest. A sword, its blade broken halfway along its length, hung from his belt, alongside various artefacts of holy significance that he had stripped from the dead bodies of other pilgrims. He looked every inch the weary battle pilgrim, and he w as confident that his disguise w ould keep him from a hanging.

He limped back to the fire of the pilgrims, and they clustered around him. A sausage w as pushed into his hands, and he ate it greedily, fat dripping down his chin as the pilgrims w aited on his word with bated breath. It had been easy to dominate the remaining pilgrims, and he had appointed himself their abbot. As such, he had the pick of the food they scrounged, and the least louse infested blanket to sleep beneath. He could get used to this life, he thought.

'Do you know w here w e go?' asked one of the devout peasants, w ho sported a livid, open w ound upon his face. Already it was infected, and flies clustered around the cut.

'Our glorified benefactor is preparing for a journey!' announced Chlod betw een mouthfuls of sausage. 'And so, w e must journey w ith him!'

ANARA WAS SPEAKING in an alien tongue, her voice soft and lilting. The sound was musical and enchanting, and it made the hair on the back of his neck stand erect. He had never heard such beautiful sounds, though something in them w as vaguely unsettling, even frightening. Unbidden, the memory of a childhood rhyme said to w ard off the fey spirits of the woods leapt into his mind.

His steed w hinnied, and he stroked its nose to comfort it. It w as a good horse, a big chestnut w ith a brave heart, but it w as not Gringolet. At Anara's insistence, the eyes of each of the horses had been covered with cloth.

Only tw enty-five knights had been chosen, though Calard still did not understand the nature of the journey. Surely they had no time for this ritual, whatever it was.

The beast w as the better part of a w eek ahead of them, and he had no idea how they w ere to find it, or catch up to it. It w as all too confusing. He didn't understand what w as occurring around him, and it made his anger rise to be kept in the dark so.

He had been surprised and honoured w hen he had been picked to accompany Reolus and the others, though he knew not why he had been chosen.

'It is only right. All will be made clear,' Anara had said, mysteriously. He found such vague statements infuriating, but he had not argued. He had, how ever, expressed his displeasure w hen Maloric had also been singled out to accompany them, but his w ords had been for nought. Reolus had chosen the young Sangasse noble, seeing in him someone destined for greatness, he claimed, though Calard found that hard to believe. Maloric had tricked him somehow, he was certain, though how he had done it w as beyond him.

He w ished that his brother could have joined them, but his injuries were such that it w as impossible. He felt deep unease at the prospect of riding to battle w ithout Gunthar, Bertelis or Gringolet. His brother would remain with the rest of the knights and Baron Montcadas. He prayed that he w ould see them again.

His sister lifted a silk kerchief before her, and delicately unwrapped it to reveal an oak leaf that gleamed of gold. She continued to speak in the beautiful, fey language and the leaf began to shine with a golden inner light.

Mist began to rise from the still pond they w ere arrayed before, as if summoned by Anara's lilting voice. It flowed across the top of the mirror-like pool and coiled around his legs. It billowed upwards, and, with a gasp, Calard saw a ghostly form take shape w ithin the mist. It glided forwards like a spirit, its body transparent, and he saw that it w as a w oman of incredible, haunting beauty.

'The Lady,' Calard breathed in aw e. Her hair flowed around her as if she was underw ater, and her billowing dress rippled like the surface of a lake. Her arms w ere held out to either side, and she glided through the mist like an apparition. She seemed to glow from w ithin, and yet Calard could see the trees on the far side of the sacred pool through her body.

Her lips moved, but Calard heard no sound. Anara answered her, still speaking in that otherw orldly tongue, and the ethereal, graceful Lady gestured with one elegant, slender limb. She inclined her head to Reolus, who bow ed deeply, and then her almond shaped eyes roved over the gathered knights. Calard felt his mouth dry up as he felt the pow er of those eyes turn tow ards him. He lowered his gaze, toying w ith the reins in his hands, unable to meet her stare.

After w hat felt like an age he felt her attention shift away from him, and he sagged, feeling drained.

Billow ing mist surrounded the legs of his warhorse, as if stirred by a grow ing wind, though no breeze penetrated the sacred copse. He lifted his eyes once more, gazing around in w onder. Glowing orbs of light circled through the mist, like will-o-the-w isps from children's tales, and he realised that the trees around him were fading.

He thought he heard high-pitched giggles from the glowing spheres of light as they sw ooped around his head, and he tried to focus on them, to see past their blinding light. He felt his cloak and hair being tugged as if by tiny, mischievous hands, and he almost laughed out loud in w onder.

The mist began to sw irl around the clearing with more vigour, centred on the heavenly vision of w omanhood, and Calard's mouth hung slack in wonder.

He heard haunting music, and a thousand achingly beautiful voices lifted in w hispered song all around. Tears ran down his cheeks. In wonder he glanced towards Reolus. He realised, strangely w ith no sense of alarm, that he could see through the grail knight, as if his body w as as ethereal as the mist billowing around them.

Anara too seemed as insubstantial as smoke, and, w ith a shock, Calard lifted his hands before his face to see that they too w ere transparent and ghostly, like smoke that could be carried aw ay on the w ind. His heart beat fiercely in his chest, and he found it suddenly hard to breathe. His chestnut destrier too w as as insubstantial as a ghost, as w ere the reins in his hand.

He turned his head to the side, and saw that the other knights too w ere gazing in fear and w onder at their ethereal limbs, and he saw the dread in Maloric's ghostly eyes.

Montcadas lifted a hand in farewell. He alone amongst the gathered knights was not insubstantial, his body and limbs as solid as ever.

'Be calm,' said Anara's voice, sounding like a distant whisper. 'No harm shall come to you. Step forw ard into the mist.'

Calard saw that the vision of the Lady was fading, and he cried out to her, not w ishing to be parted from her holy presence. A hint of a smile played upon her lips, and she w as gone. Calard could see nothing of his surroundings now, the mist having sw allowed everything. The other knights were gone, as w as Anara, and he was alone, lost adrift in the mists.

'Step forw ard,' said Anara's w hispering voice, apparently from a great distance, and Calard closed his eyes and did as she bid him, leading his chestnut w arhorse.

BARON MONTCADAS STOOD motionless, watching until the knights and Anara had faded completely from sight. The ghostly mists dissipated, and he was alone in the sacred copse.

He w hispered a final, parting blessing, and walked out into the sunshine. A ragtag group of grail pilgrims was clustered beyond the grail sanctuary, sitting around a small fire over w hich a scrawny hare was spitted. Barely a dozen of them had survived the battle, and they looked up at him expectantly, their faces brightening.

Seeing that he w as not their lord Reolus, their shoulders slumped, and they turned back to their fire.

Montcadas began to w alk back to the camp, but paused, looking back at the w retched little band of pilgrims. Being of low birth, they would be hanged if they were discovered entering the sacred copse surrounding the grail shrine, and doubtless they w ould w ait out here beyond its edges until Reolus emerged. He smirked, thinking that they w ould be w aiting a long time. How long before they realised that Reolus w as not going to return to them? A month? A year? Until death claimed them?

That w as most likely, he thought. They w ould wait like loyal, abandoned hounds for the return of their master, w ho was, even now, hundreds of miles away.

He felt a sudden pang of guilt for them. They had bled to defend Bretonnia from the beasts, just as everyone else had on the field of battle, and he felt he ow ed them at least the know ledge that their master w as gone.

Turning around, Montcadas strode tow ards the pitiful group. They saw him coming and jumped to their feet, lowering their eyes and wringing their hands nervously.

Nobles spoke to them infrequently, and w hen they did it was usually to drive them aw ay or curse them.

Montcadas cleared his throat.

'Lord Reolus has gone,' he said. 'It is pointless for you to w ait for him. He will not come back this w ay.'

The pilgrims traded glances, confused by his words. Montcadas nodded his head, his guilt assuaged, and turned to leave.

'My... my lord?' stammered one of the pilgrims, and the baron turned back tow ards them, eyebrow s raised in question. The one who had spoken was a hunchbacked w retch with an uneven face. The man bow ed several times, and a rat poked its head out briefly from his tunic. The pilgrim bit his thick lip, but did not speak further.

'What is it? Speak, man,' said Montcadas impatiently.

'We... w e are his pilgrims, my lord, and we must follow in his footsteps wherever he leads us.'

'And?'

'We... w e saw him go into the trees, my lord. He has not come out.' The man w as picking his words carefully, trying not to sound antagonistic. 'Is he not, therefore, still inside?'

'I said that he has gone, and so he has. He is gone.' Montcadas turned aw ay and began to w alk aw ay from the pilgrims, tiring of the discussion.

'Please, my lord!' cried the hunchbacked pilgrim, limping after him. 'Where has he gone?'

Montcadas gave a long sigh and paused.

'To Bastonne,' he said over, his shoulder, and marched aw ay.

IT SEEMED LIKE an age had passed before the mists began to clear and Calard began to make out shapes around him once more. Shadow s of trees loomed over him, and he saw the stars overhead, glinting in betw een boughs and leaves. He recognised these w oods, and his brow creased in confusion.

Like ghosts appearing out of the mist, he saw the others w alking alongside him, each one leading his horse, and Anara, walking out in front, leading her snow-white mare.

A chill wind rustled the leaves overhead, and the mists lifted aw ay, dissipating as if they had never been. Calarc saw that his limbs w ere solid once more, and let out a breath of amazement.

It w as night, and Mannslieb w as a glowing disc of light high in the heavens overhead, though it had been the break of daw n but moments before. Anara removed the scarf covering her mare's eyes, and the other knights did likewise. In silence, they followed the damsel through the w oods, gazing around in wondering incomprehension.

Finally, they came to its edge, and again Calard's jaw dropped.

In the distance, out across the rolling, dark fields was his home, Castle Garamont. It w as on fire.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

A MILLION QUESTIONS raced through Calard's mind as they galloped through the darkness tow ards the castle. How had they travelled so far in so short a time? Why w as Castle Garamont besieged? And by w hat manner of foe? Was his father well?

He yearned to ask these questions, but Anara's face w as cold and focused, and she chanted softly. He dared not disturb her thoughts, and the faces of the other knights w ere grim and serious, focused and set.

As they rode closer, he could hear shouts of men and bellowing roars that w ere all too familiar. The beasts had come to Garamont.

The main keep and two of the tow ers were ablaze, fires roaring from w indows and lighting up the night hellishly. They galloped past rundown, peasant hovels, whose inhabitants w ere standing out in the night, wailing and staring at the distant fires in horror.

Anara's voice w as getting louder, and he heard a peal of thunder roll across the heavens. Heavy droplets of rain began to fall, just a few at first, and then more, until the skies erupted in a torrential downpour.

The rain made it hard to see, and it seeped inside Calard's armour, soaking the padding beneath and w eighing him dow n, but he pushed aside these minor concerns.

On they rode, kicking their tired steeds forward. Desperation and panic was growing w ithin Calard.

As lightning flashed, they saw a flood of black figures racing tow ards the castle, streaming through the shattered gatehouse into the courtyard beyond, and Calard gave a cry of despair, kicking his steed on with renewed vigour. In that split second of sudden light, he had seen countless hundreds of beastmen spilling from the forest, and racing tow ards the castle.

They came upon a herd of the beasts, w ho turned and hurled themselves into their path, and Calard's lance rammed deep into the chest of the first of them, lifting it off the ground. Reolus impaled one beast on his lance and killed another w ith a sw eep of his sw ord. One knight fell, but the others continued on, smashing aside the enemy and crushing them mercilessly. Anara rode on in their centre, apparently oblivious to the engagement, as she continued to chant and the rain continued to increase in intensity.

Lightning flashed again, and Calard cried out in desperation as he saw the sheer number of the enemy. They were but a handful of knights, and he saw no hope of stemming the tide of beastmen, especially since the castle had already been breached. He rode on, regardless, determined to die defending his home if such was the Lady's w ill.

They got closer, overtaking scores of beastmen in the race to the castle, and Calard, having discarded his lance, swung a lethal blow into the back of the head of one of the enemy, his strike powered by desperation and rage.

They thundered onto the cobbled road leading into the castle, and tw o more knights fell, one with a jagged spear jutting from his neck, and another as an axe hammered into his steed's chest. Reolus kicked his massive steed into the lead, and carved a path of destruction through the beasts, hacking left and right.

They pounded across the lowered drawbridge.

The portcullis was a shattered ruin, its black iron lattice wrenched completely out of shape by some colossal force. The heavy w ooden doors of Castle Garamont w ere tw isted and contorted completely out of shape, writhing tree limbs and sap dripping roots having sprouted from the ancient planks and torn the gate apart.

They passed scores of bodies, loyal men-at-arms that had died defending the castle.

Their bodies had been viciously hacked apart, their limbs thrown haphazardly across the cobbles. Galloping after Reolus, the knights thundered through the gatehouse. A beast hurled itself from an overhead balcony and tackled a knight from the saddle.

The man w as instantly swamped w ith enemies, who hacked at him with axes and sw ords, rending him limb from limb.

Galloping free of the gatehouse, Calard saw that the courtyard w ithin was teeming w ith the enemy. They were running riot, smashing burning and killing. Through the driving rain, he saw men-at-arms upon the battlements fighting hard against the creatures that sw armed up the stone stairw ays. From atop the tow ers, bow men fired into the heaving mass of beasts w ithin the courtyard, but it w as like spitting into the w ind. Flames licked up at another of the tow ers, and he saw men jump from its top, hurtling dow n to smash amongst the carnage below rather than be burnt alive.

There, standing among the carnage, was the beast, the Gave, revelling in the destruction being w rought. It snarled, and directed its minions tow ards the knights w ith sharp sweeps of its staff. Then it barked, animalistic commands as it stalked up the steps tow ards the keep. Calard raked his spurs into the flanks of his warhorse, urging it tow ards the creature.

At his side, Anara released her grip on the neck of her snow-white mare and spread her arms out to either side, palms open to the heavens. She lifted her head high and cried out in a hiring tongue that Calard did not understand, and he felt the hairs on his arms stand up.

The dark clouds overhead boomed ominously, and then, with a barked command of pow er, lightning flashed down from the dark sky, stabbing into the densely packed enemy ranks like a jagged blade.

Dozens of creatures w ere consumed as the pow erful energy coursed down from the heavens to strike raised weapons and helmets. Arcs of energy coalesced over their bodies, jumping eagerly betw een the beasts, consuming scores of them instantly.

They jerked spasmodically as their flesh was cooked and their blood boiled, sparks and branches of w hite-hot pow er flashing back and forth over their forms.

Another, more pow erful spear of light arced dow n from the heavens and struck the ground in the centre of the courtyard, and the accompanying boom w as deafening.

Scores of beasts w ere slain instantly, their flesh charred and blackened, and all those w ithin twenty yards w ere hurled from their feet, their fur and skin singed.

Calard struggled to remain in the saddle, clinging frantically to his steed's neck as it reared in terror. Several knights w ere thrown, hitting the ground hard as they fell.

Calard w renched on the reins, dragging the destrier back under control, and kicked it tow ards the shattered great doors leading into the keep, galloping over the burning and smoking corpses of those killed by the lightning strike.

An acrid metallic stink rose in the wake of the crackling discharge, mingling with the repulsive smell of burnt hair and flesh.

Calard slashed his sword into the charred head of an enemy as it struggled to rise, and pounded across the smoking courtyard. Other beasts w ere knocked aside by his w arhorse's bulk, limbs broken beneath its hooves. Reolus hacked down more of the creatures, and galloped at his side, as did Maloric and Anara, and the last knights remaining in the saddle.

They rode up the great stone steps leading to the keep. The creature leading the beastmen w as pushing itself to its feet, one side of its body charred and smoking, its skin blistering and blackened from the lightning strike.

Then Calard and his companions were past the creature, riding through the arched entrance, into the keep, the hooves of their steeds slipping on the smooth flagstones, echoing sharply.

The beautifully carved, heavy doors to the keep had been smashed down, and shouts and screams came from w ithin.

The great entrance hall was wide, its walls lined with archaic suits of armour. The enemy w as thick here, flooding the hall, intent on destruction and slaughter. Flames w ere consuming the ancient tapestries hanging on the walls. Priceless depictions of Gilles le Breton's famous tw elve battles, w hich had taken a generation to w eave, were destroyed in moments. The heat inside the keep was almost unbearable. A huge chandelier covered in candles dropped from the high ceiling, the chain clattering loudly as it ran out. It slammed into the floor w ith a resounding clatter, crushing a pair of beasts beneath it.

Clangs rang out as old suits of armour w orn by past lords of Garamont w ere kicked from their pedestals, and Calard saw a servant dragged from a side door and butchered. Another man w as slammed head first into a w all, his skull cracking under the impact. Sounds of fighting echoed up from stone side passages, and he could hear men and w omen screaming as the beasts ran rampant through the keep. The bodies of men-at-arms and knights littered the flagstones.

The knights rode up the hallway, driving the enemy out of their path, cutting them dow n w ith sword and lance. At the far end of the wide corridor, the doors to the audience hall were being forced open, the beastmen heaving a crude battering ram w ith all their brutish muscle against it.

'For Garamont and the king!' roared Calard.

CASTELLAN LUTHEURE OF Garamont sat tall upon his high-backed throne, the unsheathed sw ord of his family across his knees. His right hand w as clasped weakly around the pommel of the revered w eapon, while his left hand held the cold blade itself. His eyes were locked on the double doors that w ere the main entrance to his audience chamber.

Thick beams of w ood had been hefted into position to brace the heavy doors, but they w ere bulging in w ith every shuddering impact. The battering ram slammed into the doors again and again, and timbers groaned in protest.

To Lutheure, the sound w as a death knell. It may as w ell have been Morr knocking at his chamber door, coming at last to claim him.

A handful of loyal knights stood fanned out at the bottom of the dais on w hich Lutheure sat, sw ords in their hands, ready to step into the breach as soon as the doors w ere smashed asunder. It would not be long.

The side doors were similarly barred, and there was crashing against them also, though Lutheure w as certain that the main doors w ould be broken dow n before they w ere breached.

Dozens of elderly courtiers, advisors, servants and ladies were clustered at the back of the chamber. Some of them w ere crying softly, w hile others were praying to the Lady for deliverance. They jerked violently with every crash of the battering ram.

Several of them aw kw ardly held weapons in hands more suited to quills or refined crystal glasses.

Lady Calisse sat at the castellan's side. Her face was pale and drawn, though she show ed no fear, and her head was held high and proud. Lady Elisabet of Carlemont, hovered nearby, visibly shaking her large, doe eyes w ide and tearful.

'Please, my lord,' begged Garamont's aged chamberlain, Folcard. 'The passage is hidden, and the beasts w ill never find it. The tunnel leads deep into the bedrock. You w ill be safe there until the siege is lifted.'

Lutheure turned his rheumy gaze tow ards the fierce old chamberlain.

'One of these days you w ill need to show me all the hidden passages that riddle this place,' he w heezed.

'On my w ord, my lord, but to see that day, you must come, now !'

'I w ill not,' said Lutheure softly.

'My lord, you must!'

'I w ill not hide from my enemies like a frightened peasant,' said the castellan forcefully. 'This is my ancestral home. I shall not be driven from it, and if the Lady decrees that my time in the w orld is past, then I shall die defending it to the last.'

'Then I shall stand alongside you, my lord,' said the castellan.

'Don't be a fool, man,' said Lutheure. 'You have not held a sw ord in your life. Go.'

'I w ill not,' said Folcard, his fierce eyes blazing.

Lutheure chuckled, though it descended into a painful, racking cough. He lifted a goblet from the small table at his side and took a sip of his pungent remedy. It w as truly foul, and, though his health had steadily declined in the last months despite his physician's ministrations, he had continued to drink the brew rather than face his w ife's wrath.

'We are as stubborn as each other,' he said w hen he had recovered, wiping flecks of blood from his pale lips. 'A pair of stubborn old fools.'

'Indeed so, my lord.'

Lutheure turned his gaze tow ards his wife, but she spoke before he could utter a w ord.

'My place is w ith you,' she said, her eyes brooking no argument. 'I am not leaving your side.'

He had never w on an argument w ith her in his life, and he knew that he was not going to start now . Resigned, he turned back tow ards his chamberlain.

'Get the others out,' he said.

The chamberlain bow ed low, and moved tow ards the rear w all. He moved w ith the jerky stiffness of a hunting crane. He pressed his thumb against a small innocuous stone on the w all, and it sank inwards with an audible click. Moving to another place on the w all, he pushed and there was another click, followed by the grating sound of stone on stone. A panel slid aside, revealing a dark hole. A man w ould have to craw l on his hands and knees to enter the hidden passage. Beckoning swiftly, the chamberlain urged the first of the courtiers to enter.

'Craw l through,' he said. 'You can stand after ten paces. Just keep following the passage. Feel your w ay forw ards. Hurry now!'

'You too,' said Lutheure to Elisabet. Tears ran dow n her heart-shaped face, and she nodded numbly.

With a tremendous sound of cracking timbers, the beams barring the doors gave w ay, and the enemy surged in.

With shouts, the knights defending the chamber leapt forwards, killing the first of the beasts that tumbled inside.

'And so the end is here,' said Lutheure.

ELISABET WAS DUCKING down, gathering her long dress in her hand as she prepared to craw l into the hidden passage. The darkness within was complete, utterly sw allowing those that had already craw led within. She was the last person to enter, and the portal w ould be sealed behind her. The thought was terrifying.

'Hurry, girl,' barked the chamberlain.

Steeling herself, biting her lip, Elisabet began to craw l into the darkness. The slipper of the person in front of her kicked her in the face, and she cried out, the sound echoing loudly. She could hear others further along weeping as they crawled into darkness, and some w ailed in fear.

'For Garamont and the king!' came a shout from the hallw ay, and she stopped short.

'Calard!' she called, her voice echoing sharply around the enclosed space, and she began to push herself back the w ay she had came. Despite the chamberlain's protests, she squirmed backw ards, back out into the audience chamber.

'Calard!' she called again as she pushed herself to her feet, oblivious to the dust and muck that coated her knees and hands. With a curse, the chamberlain tripped a sw itch and the hidden passageway was sealed shut.

REOLUS LED THE charge, his flashing blade, Durendyal, striking down into the back of a beast's skull, smashing it into bloody shards. The remaining knights thundered into the audience chamber.

Calard took in the scene in an instant. He saw half a dozen knights in front of him, fighting back the dark beasts of the forest, their swords bloodied. He felt a stab of outrage as he saw a w asted, skeletally thin old man sitting in his father's throne, and it took a moment for him to realise, with a shock, that it w as his father.

Calard w as filled with sudden grief. His father's muscle was all but w asted aw ay and his skin was a sickly grey. His eyes were almost completely lost in the deep recesses of their sockets, and he was dressed in robes. He clearly did not have the strength to w ear his armour, even if it had fitted his gaunt frame. That must have hurt his pride immensely, and Calard's heart w as filled with sorrow.

The Lady Calisse sat at his father's side, and the vulture-like figure of Chamberlain Folcard stood behind them.

'Calard!' someone cried out, and he saw Elisabet, her face streaked with tears. He sw ore. What w as she doing here? Still, the hope and love he saw in her eyes filled him w ith grim determination.

With sudden vigour, he drove the point of his sword into the unprotected back of a beastman that had just felled one of the knights. The thrust skewered the creature betw een the shoulder blades, and it gave out a sickeningly human squeal of pain as it dropped.

'Seal the doors!' ordered Reolus, sliding from his saddle, kicking out and sending a beastman that rushed at him spraw ling as he did so. More of the braying monsters w ere stampeding up the corridor towards the chamber, and Calard pulled his steed around sharply before dropping from the saddle. A spear was thrust tow ards him, but he had no time to raise his defences. A blade knocked the blow aside, and the creature's jugular w as neatly sliced open. It fell, blood bubbling from the w ound.

Calard's thanks died in his throat as he saw who had saved him.

'No thanks necessary,' said Maloric w hen it was clear that Calard w as not going to offer any.

Several knights grabbed the reins of the horses and dragged them aw ay from the main floor of the audience chamber.

Reolus stood alone in the open doorw ay, holding the flood of the enemy back w ith his flashing blade. The grail knight parried blows with consummate ease, sending flashing ripostes that killed quicker than the eye could follow. Behind the surging enemy, the Gave w as stalking up the corridor, eyes ablaze w ith fury.

Maloric and Calard ran to the doors.

'Now !' shouted Reolus, sensing a lull in the attack. He stepped swiftly back into the audience chamber, and the tw o knights errant slammed the doors closed.

The thick timbers that had barred them shut w ere splintered and useless, and Calard frantically looked around for something anything, that could be used to barricade the entrance. He leant his weight against them as the enemy hurled themselves against the doors from the other side, and his armoured feet began to slide across the blood-slicked flagstones.

'Help us!' he cried, and more knights ran forwards to lend their weight. Others ripped long pikes and halberds from the walls of the hall and inserted them into the heavy iron brackets to bar the doors shut, but they seemed pitifully fragile against the force battering from the outside. There was a tremendous crash, and the knights w ere hurled backw ards a step. The beasts had clearly resumed their former tactic, and w ere once again using their battering ram.

'Step back, and make ready,' said Reolus, his voice calm and authoritative. 'The Lady is w ith us.'

As if his words were a charm, the hammering at the door ceased abruptly, and the knights looked at each other in confusion. They backed aw ay, hands clenching around the hilts of their weapons. The tension in the room w as thick, and Calard took the moment of respite to w ipe the sweat from his forehead. The sudden silence w as eerie, and he fully expected the doors to explode inwards at any moment.

He risked a glance up at the dais, and his eyes met Elisabet's.

'I love you,' mouthed Elisabet to him.

His eyes shifted to his father, whose uncompromising visage frowned down at Anara, w ho w as walking slowly up the stairs towards him. With great effort, the castellan pushed himself up from his throne, using the blade of Garamont like a crutch.

THE DAMSEL ANARA climbed the stairs to stand before the castellan. He looked like an animated skeleton, his robes hanging loosely on his emaciated body, and every contour of his skull pushing against his skin. She felt rather than saw Calard follow ing in her wake.

'Who is this?' asked the Lady Calisse as she stood up from her throne, sensing that something w as taking place that she did not understand.

The damsel glanced in her direction, and the lady sat back dow n abruptly.

'The lady Anara,' said chamberlain Folcard, with not a little disdain in his voice.

'Your... your daughter?' asked Calisse.

'I have no daughter,' rasped Castellan Lutheure.

Anara regarded them coldly, no flicker of emotion showing on her face. She had severed her connection with her blood family long ago. Such w as the way of the damsels of the Lady.

Lutheure sw ayed suddenly and one of his legs buckled beneath him. The sword of Garamont clattered as it struck the floor, and both the chamberlain and the Lady Calisse jerked into motion to catch the lord of Garamont, though both w ere too slow.

Anara stepped forw ard quickly and caught the castellan before he could fall. Though he tow ered over her, he was frail and she supported him easily in her arms.

Up close, his face a hair's breadth from her ow n, she could see how sallow and transparent his skin was. She saw the burst blood vessels splashed across his nose and cheeks, and the dark liver spots that marked his flesh. She looked into his yellow ed eyes and saw how close he w as to death.

There was something else in his face, too, some taint. There was a black sickness w ithin him, eating aw ay at him, that no physician would have recognised. Only one such as she w ould have been able to perceive it for what it truly was, for it was necrotic in nature, based on the foul tenets of those schooled in the black arts.

Even as she came to this conclusion, her eyes snapped tow ards the small table at the castellan's side, locking on the goblet upon its smooth surface. Lutheure w as gently low ered back into his throne by his wife and chamberlain, while the Lady Elisabet hovered nervously nearby. Anara lifted the goblet to her nose, sniffing. She recoiled from the noxious, underlying taint within the liquid and cast the goblet aw ay from her. It clattered to the floor, spilling its vile contents upon the stone.

'Who gave him that?' she asked. No one was paying her any mind, intent on the w ellbeing of the castellan.

'What's going on?' asked Calard, coming up behind her. The unearthly silence beyond the doors to the audience chamber still held, as if the enemy had suddenly dissipated into thin air. Anara knew better. She could feel the foul presence of the Gave beyond the portals, gathering its strength.

'Who gave him that brew ?' she asked again, this time imparting a fraction of her pow er into the words.

Lady Calisse stuttered as she w as compelled to answ er.

'It is... it is my husband's remedy,' she said, 'for his illness. His physician-'

'It is poison,' said Anara acidly.

Stunned silence greeted her proclamation. Elisabet paled. The chamberlain's face lit up in alarm. She saw Calard's eyes go cold, boring into the Lady Calisse.

'You bitch,' he said, staring venomously at his stepmother. She looked back at him w ithout comprehension. 'Attempts on my life... Poisoning my father... And for what?

So that Bertelis w ould become the ruler of Garamont?'

Calisse's mouth opened and closed soundlessly, and Anara probed into her mind w ith the powers vested in her by the Lady of the Lake, skimming her thoughts for any sign of guilt.

'I should cut you dow n here and now, you murderous viper!' said Calard. Covered in blood and w ith his sword in his hand, his eyes blazing with fury, he stepped towards the lady of Garamont. She cow ered before him.

'No,' said Anara, 'it w as not her.'

THE WORDS CUT through Calard's rage, and he stared down at his tw in in confusion. What w as she saying? It all made sense!

He looked back at his step-mother. She stared at him w ith murderous eyes.

Surely she w as behind it all?

Wasn't she?

'Who, then?' he asked. He wanted to strike out at someone, anyone, and desperately w anted a target for his w rath. 'Who has been poisoning my father?' he asked again, more forcefully.

Anara's eyes misted over, and then settled on Elisabet. Calard's heart skipped a beat.

'No,' he w hispered.

Elisabet came to Calard's side, pale and draw n, and clung to him like a child.

'Why is she looking at me like that, my love?' she asked, her voice scared.

Calard w as shaking his head.

'Her,' said Anara, staring accusingly at Elisabet.

This was insane! Why in the Lady's name w ould his love w ish to kill his father? No, Anara w as w rong.

'You are mistaken, sister,' said Calard desperately.

'I am not,' she replied, her eyes glinting feyly. 'Ask her, if you w ish.'

Elisabet w as crying, tears running down her face, and she clung tightly to Calard, uncaring of the blood and gore splattered over his breastplate and arms.

'You cannot believe her!' Elisabet said frantically, her eyes wild. She stared up at him w ith imploring, desperate eyes. Her expression would haunt him forever. 'You cannot believe her!'

Calard looked deep into the eyes of the w oman he loved, and saw the ugly truth that lay behind her beauty.

'Why?' he w hispered in horror.

'You cannot believe her!' Elisabet cried again, but Calard stumbled aw ay from her, tears w elling in his eyes.

'Why?' he asked again.

'I did it for us!' w ailed Elisabet finally, moving into him, tears running down her face.

He backed further aw ay, as if she were a plague victim, though it broke his heart to see the hurt in her eyes.

'She w ould have seen you disowned,' cried Elisabet, pointing an accusing finger at Lady Calisse. The smell of her perfume w as intoxicating, confusing and he stepped further aw ay from her. 'She w ould have convinced your father to disown you. You know I speak the truth! He has eyes only for Bertelis! You would have been left a pauper, w ith nothing! We would have been left with nothing!'

Calard shook his head in horror at w hat he was hearing.

'It w as for us', implored Elisabet.

Calard stumbled aw ay blindly, tears running freely down his cheeks.

'Calard,' w ailed Elisabet. She went to follow him, but Folcard grabbed her by the arm.

'Haven't you done enough, girl!' the fierce chamberlain hissed.

'Calard!' she cried. 'I love you! Calard! Please forgive me. I did only what I thought best for us, for our future together! Calard!'

His w orld collapsing around him, Calard stumbled dow n to the bottom of the dais stairs and fell to his knees, his sword dropping from his limp grasp. He ripped the silk token of Elisabet's affection from his arm and let it fall to the floor. He dimly heard a hard slap, and the Lady Calisse screeching like a w ildcat as she threw herself at Elisabet.

'Stop it!' he heard Anara snap, her voice tinged with power. 'The beast comes.'

THERE WAS STILL no sound from the hallway beyond the double doors, but as Anara spoke they heard a new noise. It w as a groaning, creaking sigh, like a house settling in the cool of evening or the sound a ship made as it rolled from side to side in a heavy sw ell. The hairs on Calard's body stood up, as if the air w as charged with static, and he felt an acid tingle on his tongue.

'The door,' muttered Maloric, and Calard looked up through his grief.

The grand w ooden doors were swelling and bulging with sudden, unnatural growth.

Woody tendrils were sprouting from their surfaces, waving like blind tentacles.

Thorns weeping sap pushed out, and the knots on the surface of the doors began to seep w ith more of the sticky fluid, running like blood dow n to the floor.

Branches burst from the w ood as if it w as gifted with sudden, corrupt life. They coiled upw ards, straining against the lintel and cracking stone. Black, foul-smelling buds unfurled, releasing bloated flies that launched into the air. Leaves the colour of rotting vegetation sprouted, only to w aste away and fall to the floor an instant after their had appeared. Roots erupted from the base of the doors, creeping out across the stone slabs of the floor, probing betw een cracks and digging deep into the mortar.

Burrow ing beneath the stonework, they began to push the flagstones up, and spreading cracks ran out in all directions, like a spider's web.

With a tearing sound, the doors w ere pulled apart by the sudden grow th, and there stood the Gave, eyes alight with foetid magic. The doors were wrenched further apart, and a tide of Chaotic beastmen sw armed into the audience chamber around their master.

Knights leapt forwards to meet them head-on, and Calard saw Maloric and Reolus rush into battle, their blades singing through the air. The irony of a noble of Sangasse fighting to save the lord of Garamont w as not lost on Calard.

Finally facing an enemy upon which he could unleash his fury and grief, Calard sw ept up his dropped sword and entered the frantic combat.

He roared w ordlessly as he swung the blade, all thought of protecting himself swept aside as he let his rage overcome him. He fought like one of the berserk warriors of the icy north, venting his anger in the flesh of the enemy. He hacked the arm from the first beastman that he met, shrugging off the hammer blow he received in the chest, and smashed his blade into the beast's head, cleaving through one of its horns and smashing its skull.

Calard allow ed a red mist to descend over his vision, and he slashed around in his frenzy, caring not at all for his own safety. He threw himself deeper into the fray, and blow s rained down upon him, but still he killed, his armour suffering the brunt of the attacks directed tow ards him.

'Protect the lord Garamont! Fall back!' someone cried, and Calard came to his senses.

His father w as still alive, and he had a duty to perform in protecting him. Throwing his life away meaninglessly would be a dishonour to his lord, and he w as suddenly determined to make his father proud, at last, to protect him w ith his dying breath.

A meaty fist slammed into his temple, and he was sent sprawling to the ground.

Dazed, he dimly registered the tow ering Gave as it strode through the melee, its backw ards-jointed legs giving it an aw kward gait. It smashed a pair of knights aside w ith a sw eep of its staff, and stabbed its sacrificial dagger into the throat of another.

Calard cried out as it took its first step up the dais tow ards Lutheure.

Reolus w as advancing into the roiling midst of the enemy, fighting his way to the doorw ay once more in an attempt to stem the flow of beastmen, w hile the other knights fell back to protect the castellan. The Grail knight moved w ith subtle grace and economy of movement, expending no more energy than was required to kill. He had retrieved a fallen sword from the floor, and w as fighting with two blades, spinning them around in deadly arcs.

Calard pushed to his feet, dazed and moved tow ards the towering creature. A beastman threw itself into his path, its face a snarling blend of goat and man, and Calard tried to kill it quickly. His blade flashed for its neck, but it sw ayed back from the blow and hacked out w ith its axe. The blow glanced off his shield, knocking him back a step, agonisingly further aw ay from the beast stalking up the dais steps.

A pair of loyal knights defending his father stepped forwards to slow the towering beast. It ignored them, feral eyes locked on the lord of Garamont, w ho was staring at it w ith eyes filled with horror and loathing. He had pushed himself to his feet once more, supported by his chamberlain, and once more held the blade of Garamont in his hands, its tip shaky and unsteady. His wife w as cowering behind the thrones w here the chamberlain had thrust her.

The tw o knights came at the beast simultaneously. With inhuman speed, it stepped into the attack of the knight on its right, releasing its grip on its staff, which remained upright, rooted upon the steps.

With its free hand, it caught the descending sword-arm of the knight at the w rist, w renching the metal out of shape and pulling him violently off balance. The sacrificial knife stabbed into the knight's neck as the beast spun, punching through metal and chain, and blood gushed from the w ound. Still turning, the beast slammed the knight into its other attacker, sending them sprawling down the steps.

Calard barely avoided another brutal attack from the beastman he w as engaged with.

The beast had put too much strength behind the blow and stumbled off balance.

Calard killed it w ith a thrust.

Anara w as still standing alongside the castellan, looking tiny and insignificant as she faced dow n the beast looming before her. She w as muttering an incantation softly under her breath, and the creature snarled at her, baring its teeth. Then it roared, the pow er and fury in the deafening cry making Anara recoil back a step. It threw its arm up tow ards her, its long fingers splayed out.

The air blurred before its outstretched hand, like a heat haze against the horizon on a hot day, and Anara w as sent tumbling backw ards, as if struck by a heavy blow .

She struck her head against the heavy armrest of her father's throne and fell unconscious to the floor.

Another desperate knight ran at the tow ering Gave, his sword held in a tw o-handed grip. The beast sw ung its staff up, and thrust it into the charging warrior. It struck the knight in the chest and root tendrils writhed over his body. His boots slipped on the smooth flagstones, and he fell heavily down the steps, the staff attached like a leech to his body. The roots of the tw isted stave wriggled madly as they burrow ed betw een gaps in the knight's armour, pushing through chain links and digging deep into muscle and flesh.

The knight screamed, his body w ithering as the hateful staff sucked the life from him. Dark veins pulsed as the knight's blood w as drawn from his body.

It w as all happening too fast. Calard surged up the stairs tow ards the beast, screaming in hatred and loathing. It swung towards him with inhuman speed, and backhanded him across the side of the head, sending him crashing to the bottom of the dais.

A sw ord sliced across its back, scoring a bloody w ound. It bellowed in pain and anger, and lashed out blindly. The sacrificial dagger plunged into its attacker's helmet, sinking six inches of metal into the man's brain.

Maloric, his noble face twisted in disgust, came at the beast from the side, but it kicked one of its hooves hard into his midsection, denting the Sangasse noble's breastplate and sending him reeling gasping for air.

A sw ord flashed tow ards the beast, and it stepped backw ards quickly, its hand flashing down to grip the weapon as it lanced towards its heart. Blood welled beneath its long spider-leg fingers as it turned the blade aw ay, and the knight, off balance, stumbled tow ards it.

Releasing the sword, the beast w rapped its hands around the knight's helmet and tw isted. A sickening crack sounded, and the warrior fell to the ground, his head almost completely turned around.

Nobody now stood betw een the Gave and the castellan.

Calard rose to his knee, his vision blurred, and staggered back up the dais stairs.

ELISABET SHOOK FREE of the chamberlain's weakening grasp and staggered backw ards, half-blinded by tears. She felt cold stone behind her. There was nowhere to run.

Tears continued to run dow n her face, and she sobbed in terror and shame. The look of horror and revulsion that Calard had given her was imprinted in her mind. She hated herself for what she had done, but w hy didn't he understand that she had done it for them?

It had been an easy thing. She had given the servant, Annabelle, to the Garamont household, and the peasant girl had quickly become an integral part of the daily routine in the castle. It had taken her months to build up the courage to seek out the crone, but at last she had done so, and it w as from her that she had obtained the poison.

'It is a slow acting substance,' the crone had told her. 'It will cause a death that w ill not arouse suspicion.'

How w rong she had been.

Annabelle had added the poison to the castellan's remedy each day, though of course the girl knew not what she did. She was paid handsomely to keep her activities secretive, and not to ask questions.

The full understanding of w hat she had done weighed down upon Elisabet. Though the shame and doubt had plagued her, she had overcome them, focusing only on the future that she w ould have w ith Calard. She would learn to live with the guilt. So long as they w ere together and happy then everything she had been forced to do, how ever distasteful, would have been forgotten in time.

She loved him so very much.

Barely know ing what she was doing, she fumbled against the back w all, feeling around the place w here she had seen the chamberlain press. At last one of the stones clicked inwards. She quickly located the other switch, and the gaping black hole was again revealed.

What cursed tw ist of fate had caused Calard's tw in to appear and shatter all her hopes and dreams? And w hy could Calard not see that everything that she had done had been for him?

Crying for all that could have been, and all that w as now lost to her, Elisabet ducked into the craw l space, wriggling into the darkness.

Damn them all, she thought, sobbing tears of anger, bitterness and grief.

GARAMONT'S AGED CHAMBERLAIN stepped in front of his lord, his hawk-like profile defiant and completely lacking fear. He stood, unarmed, before the beast. It w as half-crouching, moving like a stalking w olf, but still it tow ered over the man.

'Move to your right, my lord,' said the chamberlain, not taking his eyes off the creature. Lutheure, his body w ithered and hunched, shuffled to the right as instructed. Wise to their thinking, the beast stalked sideways, cutting off any route of escape.

'A step more,' hissed the chamberlain, and again the beast matched their movement.

Its back w as now to Calard, as Folcard had no doubt intended, and he stepped as softly as he w as able up the steps behind it.

As if suddenly tiring of the game, the beast lurched forwards and grabbed the chamberlain by his shoulder. The elderly man w as hurled to the side. He slammed into a pillar, and crumpled in a heap at its base.

Calard leapt up the stairs w ith a shout, hefting his sword, but the beast w as too fast.

It stepped forw ards, its powerful legs covering the ground quickly, and swatted Lutheure's blade aside w ith a contemptuous sw eep of its hand, the ancient sword of Garamont spinning across the stone floor.

Its hand closed around Lutheure's thin neck, and it lifted him up into the air.

Knocking the thrones out of its path, almost crushing the Lady Calisse in the process, it slammed the castellan against the back w all. Calard cried out. The old lord's feet w ere a good foot off the ground, and he kicked w eakly. The Gave bent forw ard and snarled, its face an inch from the castellan's.

Perhaps hearing or sensing Calard behind it, the beast sw ung its head around and levelled its dagger tow ards him, snarling in rage. Still Calard came on, and the beast bent its arm, placing the tip of the dagger against the lord of Garamont's neck. The old lord, his eyes fearful, swallowed thickly, and a bead of blood ran dow n his throat.

Calard froze, hatred burning w ithin him.

Calard's stepmother w as w ailing from w here she had fallen, tears running down her face. 'My husband!' she cried.

Calard took a cautious step tow ards the beast. It hissed in warning, pressing the dagger deeper into his father's flesh, and Calard froze. He risked a glance down at Anara, w ho was stirring at his feet, a purple bruise spreading across her temple.

Maloric, back on his feet, w as circling around the flank of the beast, his body low , as if he w as stalking game.

'Maloric,' hissed Calard. 'Don't.'

Ignoring him, Maloric stepped lightly up the dais stairs, intent on his prey the beast hissed at him and pressed the dagger deeper into the castellan's neck. Calard saw blood begin to flow more freely.

'Maloric!' barked Calard. The beast, distracted by the shout, turned its head tow ards Calard, w hich was all the opening that Maloric needed.

The Sangasse nobleman leapt forwards, his slim blade stabbing deep into the beast's side. It snarled in anger and pain, and dropped Lutheure. The castellan crumpled to the floor, and Calard cried out, lurching forwards to strike the beast dow n.

With a dow nward slap of its open hand, the creature snapped Maloric's blade, leaving the tip protruding from its body. Maloric staggered back, gazing in horror at his shattered w eapon.

The Gave tore the blade from its side and sent it hissing through the air. It struck Calard in the shoulder of his sword arm as he lunged forwards, shearing through his armour and sinking deep into his flesh. The force of the throw spun him to the ground, and his sw ord flew from his hand.

The beast turned back tow ards Lutheure, w ho was trying to drag himself aw ay, and it stamped tow ards him angrily. The Garamont lord cried out w eakly as the beast's hand clamped around his leg and jerked him back.

Blood w as running from the wound in Calard's shoulder, and his fingers felt numb.

He looked around for a w eapon and saw the revered sword of Garamont lying discarded on the flagstones nearby. Shaking off his shield, he lifted the exquisite blade from the ground. He held it tw o-handed, forcing his numb fingers to close around the hilt.

The beast w as crouching over his father, revelling in his terror. Reaching behind its heavy head w ith both hands, one still holding the bloody dagger in its grip, Calard heard leather ties break, and, for a moment, he could not fathom w hat the wretched creature w as doing.

Calard stared in horror as the beast removed its ow n face.

It claw ed at its features, and like a snake shedding its skin, the stitched, rotting flesh w as ripped aw ay. Even its horns fell away from its head, and, it w as only when they dropped to the floor and he saw the leather ties and buckles, that Calard realised the beast had been w earing a mask.

The creature blinked, and its true features w ere exposed.

Calard's mind baulked as he found himself looking at a broad, disturbingly human face. It w as like the face of a savage, its cheeks and brow heavily scarred from self-inflicted mutilations, and smeared with mud and dried blood, but it w as clearly a human face. Somehow that seemed to make it even more horrific. Ice-blue human eyes darted around before fixing once more upon Lutheure.

Thick ropes of matted hair hung down to its w aist, and a long goatee beard hung from its chin. If one saw just its face, and not its unnatural bestial legs and furred body, it might have passed for human, albeit one that w as feral and barbaric. Its lips drew back, exposing hundreds of small, sharp teeth, and the image w as shattered.

'Abomination,' breathed Lutheure in revulsion and horror.

'What is it?' Calard asked no one in particular, his voice thick with disgust.

'Our brother,' replied Anara from the floor, touching a hand gingerly to her bruised temple. Calard felt his sanity begin to fray.

'Borne by our mother before she threw herself to her death in shame,' continued Anara, 'a creature that should have been killed at birth.'

Looking past the filth that encrusted the beast's face, past the savage scars that crisscrossed its features, he saw his own face looking back at him. It w as like looking in a bew itched mirror, and seeing a corrupted and distorted vision of himself looking back.

No one moved, stricken with the horror of the creature's true nature. None could dispute the familial resemblance. This beast w as of the Garamont bloodline.

'Your line is cursed,' hissed Maloric. Calard w anted to strike Maloric down, but, for all that, he could not argue w ith his words.

The beast snarled dow n at Lutheure. Then, with a movement fuelled by hatred, the beast rammed its dagger into the side of Lutheure's neck. Calard screamed, yet w as pow erless, as the serrated blade sank through his father's flesh to the hilt. The blade w as w renched clear, and it clattered on the stone as it was dropped from long fingers.

Arterial blood pumped from the fatal w ound, and Calard roared in protest and horror, running forwards. The beast lifted Lutheure to its chest, cradling the dying man almost like a mother holding a sick child to her bosom. An anguished howl ripped from its throat.

Calard sw ung the sw ord of Garamont in a pow erful, two-handed arc, blinded by grief and rage. Rather than try to avoid the blow , the creature merely tilted its head back, exposing its neck. In that instant, all the bestial hatred, loathing and rage slipped from its face.

Calard slammed the sw ord into the Gave's neck, the blade hacking deep into its flesh. Rich blood spurted from the shocking wound, and its head tipped backw ards, only loosely attached to its body by tendons and sinews. The beast fell twitching as its blood pooled beneath it, mixing with its father's blood.

Calard dropped to his knees, cradling his father's head in his hands. The life w as slipping quickly from his eyes, and his mouth moved as he tried to speak.

'My son,' he gasped, blood gurgling from his neck.

'I am here, father,' Calard said, tears running down his face.

The dying man's eyes searched past Calard frantically. 'Bertelis,' he gurgled, and Calard felt a pain lance his heart as he realised it was not he that his father sought.

Even in death, his father spurned him.

A deep w racking sob shook Calard's body. The Lady Calisse wailed as she threw herself over her husband's corpse.

The sounds of battle continued unabated as Reolus continued to hold the enemy at bay, but Calard did not register them.

His eyes w ere locked on his father's gaunt, dead face.

EPILOGUE

SPLUTTERING TORCHES MADE shadows leap like capering daemonic figures across the roughly hew n stone walls.

The chamber had been carved from the bedrock beneath Castle Garamont centuries earlier, long before the foundations of the fortress had been laid. In ages past, chieftains of the Bretonni tribe had gathered here for meetings of great import, though this had been long forgotten by all but a handful. For centuries, the meeting place had lain dormant, forgotten and redundant, its very existence known only to the successive chamberlains of the Garamont household, and accessible only by secret passages know n to few .

No one had needed to use the chamber for over five generations.

Now , seven hooded figures were gathered here, hugging themselves against the icy chill permeating from the ancient stone surrounding them. The seven sat in rough stone thrones carved into the walls.

'The Garamont line is tainted,' said one of their number, nothing more than his chin visible w ithin the shadow of his hood, 'and one now rules whose bloodline is cursed.'

There were mutterings among the gathered figures.

'Tanebourc failed. The time for subtlety is passed. We must eradicate this stain upon the Garamont name.'

'You w ould have us act against the lord w e have sworn fealty to?' voiced one of the hooded figures, his voice strong: a knight's voice. 'And betray our oaths of allegiance?'

'We sw ore an oath to protect the line of Garamont!' snapped the first speaker. 'I saw the cursed beast. It w as the blood-brother of our new ly appointed lord, a thing that should not have been,' he said forcefully. 'Our duty is clear. In the Lady's name, we are duty bound to stamp out this... taint, for the honour of the Garamont bloodline.'

'It should have died at birth,' he added, speaking to himself, remembering. If only Lutheure had finished it, so long ago. Who could have predicted that it would survive? He cursed himself for not seeing the creature dead.

'Then w hat?' asked another hooded figure. 'Does not our lord Lutheure's youngest son bear the curse in his blood?'

'It w as not Lutheure's blood that w as tainted,' snapped another. 'His first wife brought this curse upon the Garamont line. Bertelis is not tarred w ith her...

unholiness.'

Several of the hooded figures rose from their seats, their voices angry. Others rose to meet the arguments, and the raised voices echoed maddeningly around the enclosed space.

The first speaker raised his hand for silence. 'Enough!' he barked, his voice authoritative and fierce. The angry din died down, and the hooded figures took their seats.

The first speaker pulled his hood from his face, and glared around, silencing the last of the mutterings.

'This is our duty,' barked Folcard, chamberlain of Garamont. 'As painful as it is, our path is clear. In the name of Garamont and of the Lady, w e must cleanse the taint.'

The chamberlain's fierce gaze settled on each of the hooded figures in turn. 'Lord Calard must die.'

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

EPILOGUE