[Knights of Bretonnia 02.1] - Rest Eternal Read online

  A WARHAMMER STORY

  REST ETERNAL

  Knights of Bretonnia - 02.1

  Anthony Reynolds

  (A Flandrel & Undead Scan v1.0)

  The knight’s heavy plate armour, once flawless, was now dented and worn. Once it had shone like a mirror; now it was dull with grime and wear, and awash with fresh blood.

  Some of that blood was his, but most of it belonged to the beast.

  “Lady, give me strength,” said Calard. His breath was coming in short, sharp gasps, and his heart was hammering in his chest.

  As if in response to his prayer, the beast roared, the sound reverberating off the dank walls of the cavern. Calard’s bearded face was splattered with the vile beast’s stinking spittle. He gritted his teeth and tightened his grip on his weapon, a bastard sword with a blade four and a half feet long. Blood dripped from the tip.

  The icy mountain winds outside howled. The claws of winter tugged at Calard’s tattered woollen cloak and ruffled his unwashed hair, but he kept his eyes fixed on the beast. He had pledged his oath—his questing vow—to see this monster dead, and he would not falter. Either it would die, here and now, or he would.

  The cold winter light outside was quickly swallowed by the darkness of the cavern. The shape of the beast could only be dimly discerned, but its breathing was loud. The close walls further amplified the rumbling sound, giving the impression that it was the cavern itself that was breathing.

  Nevertheless the darkness could not hide the sheer size of the beast. Its reptilian, horned head was massive. Its eyes—or rather the one eye that Calard had not yet put out—glinted reflectively, filled with murderous hunger as it focused on him.

  The beast’s tail was poised behind it, curved over its body like a scorpion’s, ready to snap forward and impale him. Its barbed tip dripped with noxious venom.

  The wyvern—for it could be nothing else—was the grey-green colour of mountain rock, and the heavy blows that Calard had already landed upon its toughened hide oozed crimson. The foetid odour of the beast was strong.

  Lowering its head, the wyvern bared its array of tusk-like teeth, each as long as Calard’s forearm. A bruised purple tongue, split at the ends, darted forth to taste the air. Calard saw the beast’s muscles tense as it prepared to launch itself at him. The knight lowered his centre of gravity, ready to spring.

  The wyvern’s growl rose to a bloodcurdling roar, and its jaws yawned open as it lunged.

  Calard threw himself to the left, moving towards the wyvern’s blind side as it bore down on him. Its jaws slammed shut behind him with force enough to snap a tree trunk. Calard uttered a wordless battle cry as he came to one knee and brought his sword around in an arc that connected solidly with the beast’s skull, snapping one of its tusks and digging deep into its reptilian flesh. It was like striking the mountain itself. The blow jarred up his arms painfully, and while blood gushed from the wound and he had undoubtedly chipped bone, Calard knew he had done little real damage.

  Bellowing in pain, the beast swung its heavy head around, hooking one of its immense curving horns underneath Calard and hurling him into the cave wall ten feet away.

  The air was blasted from his lungs as he hit first the wall then the ground, and he struggled for breath as he scrambled unsteadily to his feet. The wyvern’s barbed tail speared towards Calard’s face, and he swayed to the side at the last moment to avoid being impaled. The poisoned tip slammed into the wall, and cracks spread across the rock face.

  Grunting with the effort, Calard brought his sword down on the wyvern’s tail. Even with all his strength, he was unable to hack through it, dense muscle and vertebrae stopping him from completely severing it. Hissing in pain, the beast pulled its tail back sharply, and Calard saw with grim satisfaction that the sting was hanging limp at its end, held on by gristle and skin.

  The wyvern snapped at him again and Calard, his back to the wall, had little room to move. He threw himself desperately to the side, and though he avoided the deadly bite, it caught his trailing cape in its maw. With a wrench of its head it tore him from his feet, slinging him up towards the cave roof.

  He hit the rock face first, breaking his nose with an agonising crack before dropping back to the floor. He crashed down onto his back and lay there unmoving for a moment, dazed, his sword slipping from numb fingers. Blood was smeared across his face, and he blinked, struggling to focus.

  One of the wyvern’s winged forelimbs slammed down onto his breastplate with enough force to break bones, and he gasped as his armour strained beneath the weight. The beast lowered its head towards him, growling, and a thick rope of drool dripped from its maw. The stink of the beast’s breath was overpowering, like rancid meat and offal. It was all Calard could do not to gag.

  Turning his head he saw his sword lying nearby, and he reached for it desperately. His fingers touched the pommel but it was just out of reach. All he succeeded in achieving was pushing it farther away.

  The beast’s serpentine lips rippled, and its tongue darted forth to brush Calard’s face. He grimaced at its cold, repellent touch, sickly mucus smearing his cheek.

  The wyvern stared down at him hungrily, its one good eye blazing with rage. That eye was the colour of an unfanned ember, glowing with dark intensity, and its pupil was nothing more than a sliver of blackness bisecting it. Calard could see himself reflected in the monster’s gaze.

  “Finish it,” snarled Calard.

  A sudden gust of wind brought a flurry of snow into the cave, and the wyvern’s attention was momentarily distracted, perhaps as fresh scents were carried to its nostrils on the wind. As it turned its head, Calard’s hand slipped to his belt, and he dragged his knife from its scabbard. The wyvern felt the movement and pressed down upon Calard harder, the metal of his breastplate groaning under the pressure, and swung its head back towards him. Calard rammed his knife into the claw pinning him to the ground, embedding the six inches of metal into the wyvern’s flesh, slicing through sinew and lodging it between bones.

  Calard had been gifted the blade over a year earlier after saving a rich merchant and his daughter from the bloodthirsty intentions of an ogre in their employ. The blade was not of human origin, that Calard knew for certain; it was like no metal he had seen before. He suspected it had been crafted by the fey folk of Athel Loren.

  The beast roared in agony, its flesh smoking from the wound as if the glittering blade were aflame, and it pulled away sharply. The pressure was released from Calard’s chest and he rolled towards his sword, fingers closing around its hilt.

  The wyvern snarled as the flesh around the knife blistered, giving off a horrible stench of burning meat. It was shaking its foreleg, trying to dislodge the gleaming blade from between its metacarpals, having seemingly forgotten Calard.

  The knight rose to his feet, hefting his bastard sword in front of him, and flicked his wet hair out of his eyes. Ignoring him, the wyvern gripped the knife between its teeth and pulled it free, tossing it away.

  Calard darted forward, hefting his heavy blade over his shoulder, mouthing a prayer to the Lady. With a grunt of effort, he slammed it into the wyvern’s neck, striking with all the force he could muster. The blade hacked deep with a sickening wet sound, and the beast screeched as hot blood gushed from the wound, spraying across Calard and painting the cavern in a red torrent. The beast reared up on its hind legs, head thrashing from side to side, almost wrenching the sword from his hands.

  As the beast staggered, its head collided with the cave wall, bringing down a tumble of rocks and dust, and Calard only barely managed to avoid being knocked from his feet by its wildly th
rashing tail. Stepping in precariously close to its heaving bulk, he slashed a deep cut into its pallid underbelly, unleashing a flood of grotesque intestines. The unmistakeable shape of half-digested human bodies could be seen within the beast’s semi-transparent tract. Calard swallowed back his revulsion, stabbing into the wyvern’s stomach again and again.

  The wyvern scrambled backwards, hind claws ripping up the cave floor, and snapped at Calard, who lurched out of the way and slashed with his sword. He severed the beast’s tongue, and it gave out a piteous yelp. Blood was still gushing from its neck in rhythmic spurts. There was so much blood on the floor and walls now that the cave resembled a slaughterhouse.

  “For the love of the Lady, just die!” shouted Calard, lashing out at an open claw that reached for him, hacking deep into flesh and bone.

  The beast was backtracking frantically now, dragging its thick intestinal ropes across the floor. It sounded like a wounded bear, a growling whine rumbling within its chest as it staggered farther back into the cave, but Calard had no intention of letting it escape. He followed it mercilessly, cutting and hacking with his blade.

  The last of its lifeblood pumping from its neck, the wyvern launched itself at him one last time. Its mouth opened wide, and Calard knew he had not the speed or strength remaining to avoid it. Instead, he stepped forward, directly into the path of the gaping jaws and stabbed upwards.

  The blade pierced the roof of the beast’s mouth as it closed upon him. Calard cried out as tusk-like teeth punched through his armour as if it were paper, but he maintained his hold on his blade, pushing it up into the monster’s brain.

  With a final bellow, blood bubbling up its throat, the full weight of the wyvern’s head bore Calard to the ground. That head alone would have weighed as much as two Bretonnian warhorses and, for a panicked moment, Calard thought that was how he was to meet his fate, ignobly crushed to death by the monster he had just slain.

  At last he dragged himself free and rose shakily to his feet. Breathing hard, he reversed the grip on his sword and dropped to one knee, closing his eyes as he placed his forehead against the crossbar of the hilt.

  “Lady of mercy, I dedicate this kill to your honour,” he breathed, “and pray that in your wisdom you shall show me your favour.”

  He remained there for many minutes, exhausted. After some time, he heard a sound behind him and he surged back to his feet and swung around, his sword at the ready.

  There was a startled screech and his manservant, Chlod, jumped back in fear. The hunchbacked peasant slipped on the blood-slick rock floor and fell heavily.

  “It is just me, master!” Chlod cried.

  “Stupid peasant,” Calard said, shaking his head. “That’s a sure way of getting yourself killed.”

  “Sorry, master,” said the filthy lowborn, dipping his head.

  Calard sheathed his sword across his back and after a brief search he retrieved his knife. The blade was gleaming with a soft, inner light.

  He staggered and almost fell as the pain of his injuries crashed in on him. His wounds needed tending; who knew what vile poisons would have been carried in the wyvern’s claws and bite.

  Wearily, Calard moved towards the cave entrance.

  “Fetch your axe,” he said to Chlod over his shoulder. “I want its head.”

  There were cheers and clapping as Calard approached the snow-topped palisades encircling the mountain village, but he did not deign to raise his hand in response. He had cleaned his armour and skin as best he could in a mountain stream. The icy water had washed away the worst of the wyvern’s blood, but he was still covered in grime and dirt, the result of nearly five years on the road. He was unshaven, his cloak hung in tatters and his armour was in need of urgent repairs, but for all that he rode with his head held high, his nobility plain for all to see.

  Though he was no cleaner than the stinking rabble that welcomed him as their avenger and saviour, he looked down his nose at them. They were classless outcasts, exiles and rascals living beyond the law, while he was a noble of Bretonnia, a questing knight of the Lady.

  If the village had a name, Calard had not heard it, and nor did he care to. Located high in the peaks of the Grey Mountains, the soaring range that divided Bretonnia and the Empire, it overlooked the pass known colloquially as the Crooked Corridor. Calard was not sure if it fell officially on the Bretonnian or Empire side, but it hardly mattered; neither realm cared enough to claim it.

  The people of this village were a bastard mix of intermingled backgrounds. They spoke a pidgin hybrid of Bretonnian and Reikspiel, and Calard was certain that the majority of them were nothing short of brigands. Doubtless they ambushed the caravans seeking to avoid paying the taxes of Axe Bite Pass and risking the Crooked Corridor. Calard did not know which was worse—the smugglers that used the pass, or the cutthroats that preyed upon them.

  Nevertheless, the Lady had led him here and he had sworn to the self-appointed village burgomeister that he would see the beast dead. He felt the envious eyes upon him as he rode through the village gates, and while the wretched curs were undoubtedly pleased that he had vanquished the beast that had been plaguing their lands, he was still wary of the potential for robbery.

  The villagers cleared a path for him, broad smiles splitting their faces as they whooped and applauded. His lip curling in distaste, Calard guided his proud Bretonnian warhorse through the press of unwashed bodies. The highly-trained animal snorted as the villagers pressed in around it.

  “I know,” said Calard, patting its neck.

  Behind Calard came Chlod, riding upon a dejected-looking mule. The malformed peasant waved cheerily and grinned his stupid lopsided grin. Dragged through the mud and snow-slush behind him was the wyvern’s head, drawing gasps and whispers from the villagers.

  Calard guided his steed up towards the high point of the village, winding his way past dozens of shanty houses, all covered in a thick layer of snow. The burgomeister was standing out on the porch of his home, a structure that stood out as rich and ostentatious amongst the other hovels. Still, the house was little more than a shack, and Calard looked upon it with disdain. A hangman’s gallows protruded from the front stoop of the building, a grim reminder that this place was outside of Bretonnian and Empire law.

  The burgomeister was a heavy-set, jowly man, and he stood on his porch with a broad grin on his face as he waited for Calard to draw near. He was surrounded by a handful of richly-dressed individuals, and his fat wife stood at his side.

  “The hero returns!” declared the burgomeister, raising his arms high. “The beast is dead!”

  The rest of the village had followed Calard and Chlod and stood now in a semi-circle around them at the foot of the burgomeister’s stoop. The crowd erupted into further cheering and clapping.

  “We shall have a feast this night in honour of this great deed!” promised the burgomeister, eliciting another burst of applause.

  The man spoke with a strong Parravonian accent, a noble’s accent, and Calard wondered briefly what the man had done to be living out here. Murdered a rival and been cast out? Run up debts from which he had fled? Been dishonoured in some sordid court intrigue? Whatever the answer, the man was an outcast, worthy only of Calard’s contempt.

  The head of the wyvern was manhandled to the foot of the burgomeister’s stoop by five men, and a great cheer rose as ropes hauled it up upon the gallows. The ropes creaked under the immense weight, and it spun there in place, its one remaining eye bulging from its socket.

  “A bed shall be made up in my own house for our brave hero!” declared the burgomeister. “We shall eat and drink well this night!”

  More cheers sounded, but Calard raised a hand. The villagers fell silent.

  “That won’t be necessary,” he said. “I cannot tarry. I must continue on my journey. All I require is a fresh supply of food and some dry tinder.”

  There were mutters amongst the crowd at this, and Calard saw the burgomeister’s grin falter.

&nbs
p; “Night draws in, sir knight,” said the man. He was still smiling but his smile no longer reached his eyes. “Let us show our gratitude. Be our guest of honour this evening. Please.”

  “No,” said Calard, shaking his head. “I must decline. I need only some food and dry tinder, and I shall be on my way.”

  “Is my home not good enough for you, noble sir?” snapped the burgomeister’s wife. “Are you worried it might not be seemly to consort with the likes of us?”

  The burgomeister shushed his wife, and Calard curled his lip, not even attempting to hide his scorn.

  “Regretfully, my vows do not permit me to sleep in the same place two nights running,” said Calard, his voice filled with anything but regret, “lest the Lady judge me idle in my quest. If it were not for my vows, I should gladly take up your kind offer, madam. Alas, it is not to be. I bid you goodbye.”

  He turned his horse around, intending to leave the village and its honourless inhabitants behind him.

  “Come, peasant,” he said to Chlod, clicking his fingers. Calard glanced back over his shoulder as he nudged his steed towards the village gates.

  “Food and dry tinder, thank you,” he said. “I shall wait outside the palisades.”

  With that, Calard rode from the village, uncaring of the venomous glares he was receiving.

  The fire crackled and spat and the damp wood smoked heavily, filling the enclosed shelter with the scent of burning pine needles. It had been some two hours after the sun had set when Calard had called a halt, deeming it too dangerous to continue their descent in the darkness.

  They had taken shelter in the lee of a rockfall just off the main path leading down towards the Crooked Corridor, and Chlod had quickly rigged up some additional protection in the event of the weather worsening. Under Calard’s watchful eye and with his thick tongue poking from the side of his mouth in concentration, the peasant had woven branches together to form a rough framework roof, over which he had laid a blanket of smaller twigs and pine needles. An oiled canvas sheet was strung up to form an entrance, and weighted down with rocks it formed an adequate barrier from the wind. There was enough room within the shelter to house both Calard’s horse and Chlod’s mule as well as the two men, and while the Bretonnian nobleman was not overly pleased at having to be in such close proximity to his manservant, he had a belly full of food and the fire was warm.