Hammer and Bolter 9 Page 5

  II

  It was cold inside the chapel, colder that the misty autumnal day beyond its walls, but the knight cared not.

  ‘That which is sacrosanct I shall preserve. That which is sublime I will protect.’

  The words spilled from his lips in what was little more than a whisper. The sound of the water escaping the mouth of the stone lion above the font was a soothing counterpoint to the knight’s vow.

  ‘That which threatens I will destroy, for my holy wrath will know no bounds. That which is sacrosanct–’

  Hearing the chapel door groan behind him the old man faltered, but only for a moment. The only indication that he was irritated by the interruption was a tightening of his jaw.

  ‘That which is sacrosanct I shall preserve.’

  First there had been the squeaking of hinges, now came the sound of clumsy footsteps and a rough cough as the intruder cleared his throat. The peasant would have to wait; the old knight was at prayer.

  ‘That which is sublime I will protect. That which threatens I will destroy, for my holy wrath will know no bounds.’

  Only then, with his pledge complete did the knight open rheumy eyes, blinking against the rainbow of sunlight that fell through the small stained glass window above the font. The painted panes were an inspiration to him, depicting the moment the Goddess had appeared to Dagobert and offered him the Grail, that he might drink of the restorative waters of the spring and be healed of the mortal wound he had suffered in battle with the dragon Crystophrax, the monstrous wyrm that had razed the Castle Perillus to the ground and made its lair within the ruins.

  Putting his weight on the pommel of his sword he eased himself up from his genuflection, old joints and weary muscles protesting as he did so, a twinge in his back making him catch his breath.

  The grimace of rheumatic pain on his face became a twisted scowl of annoyance. He did not need to lay eyes upon the one who had disturbed his vigil to know who it was. When he turned he would see the one who, for no obvious reason, had taken it upon himself to speak for the rest of the oafish rabble that dogged his every move, following wherever he led, although he had never asked them to and would have preferred to have been left alone.

  But the pilgrims’ adoration was just another duty that fell to a knight who had been blessed by the Lady, and in the old knight’s opinion there was no duty more onerous. But bear it he did, for the sake of the Lady.

  The Lady called men from all ranks of society to fight for Her – to defend Her fair fields and meadows, woodlands and babbling streams – and so the old knight tolerated them too. But of all the oafish rabble, the one he found hardest to abide was their pompous, self-appointed leader.

  ‘My lord,’ the ugly, gap-toothed oaf began. ‘Much as it grieves me to disturb you whilst you are at your vigil–’

  ‘What is it?’ the old knight snapped. He was too old and life was too short for him to have to put up with another obsequious monologue from this jackanapes.

  The man blinked in surprise. He appeared almost affronted. His mouth gaped open, affording the knight an unpleasant view of his appalling teeth. A moment later the pilgrim recovered himself.

  ‘My lord, I thought you should know…’ He broke off again, suddenly hesitant.

  ‘Come on, man! What news could be so important that you broke my vigil to impart it?’

  To his credit, the man remained firm in the face of the old knight’s simmering anger.

  ‘There is talk of ratmen in the region, the Lady curse them!’

  ‘Rumours of ratmen? You disturbed my vigil to tell me this?’

  ‘There is talk down in the village at the bottom of the valley, my lord. Word is that the vermin have crawled from their holes once more and are spreading like a plague across Vienelles, blighting crops and slaughtering livestock as they come.’

  ‘You do not need to tell me the ways of the rat-kin,’ the old knight muttered. ‘And where did you hear these rumours?’ he growled. ‘At the bottom of a keg of beer, I’ll warrant. By the Lady, I can smell it on your breath from here!’

  ‘Are you saying you don’t believe me?’ the peasant railed.

  The guardian of the grail shrine pulled himself up to his full height. He still cut an imposing figure in his chainmail and tabard, despite his age. His muscles were taut, his body made strong through a life of service to the Lady, and not one driven by the appetites of lesser men like the one before him now. He took a step forward and as he came between the pilgrim and the stained glass window, he was surrounded by a nimbus of radiant light.

  ‘You forget yourself. You forget your place!’

  The vassal bowed low, though he didn’t once avert his beady stare from his master.

  ‘No, my lord, never,’ the pilgrim protested. ‘It’s just that a band of refugees arrived in Baudin last night. They had fled in advance of the horde reaching their doors. They said that Castain has already fallen.’

  ‘I see,’ the knight said levelly, ‘and what would you have me do?’

  ‘Lead us to war against the rat-things,’ the pilgrim faltered, the look in his eyes making it clear that he wasn’t sure if he was being tested.

  The knight said nothing.

  ‘Meet the abominations in righteous battle and soak Bretonnian soil with their vital juices.’

  Still the knight made no comment.

  ‘It is an affront to allow these vermin–’ He spat the word, saliva flapping from his lips as he did so. ‘–to despoil the Lady’s fair lands a moment longer.’

  ‘You doubt my sworn duty to the Lady?’ the old knight queried, taking another step closer to the pilgrim, raising the tip of his sword to point at the man’s chest as he did so.

  The other took a step back. ‘No, my lord, I…’ For once, the babbling wretch was lost for words, instead dropping to his knees before the knight, casting his eyes at the floor. ‘I beg your forgiveness if I said anything that might have offended you,’ he spluttered as he found his tongue again.

  The knight stopped in front of him. ‘And I grant it,’ the knight growled, suggesting that it was not given willingly.

  ‘My first duty is to the Lady,’ the knight intoned, as if reciting another prayer. ‘My second is to this holy place that I raised from the stones of fallen Castle Perillus with my bare hands.’ At this declaration the old knight’s voice began to crack, not with age but with raw emotion.

  ‘I swore to protect this holy place and I have not forgotten the vow I made in all the years since the Lady deigned to appear to me…’ The knight broke off, no longer able to speak.

  He took a deep breath, his left hand bunching into a fist as he fought to compose himself.

  ‘...since She appeared to me here. This is hallowed ground and I will defend it until the Lady sees fit either to release me from my solemn duty or send me a vision that she wishes me to fight upon another field.

  ‘My third duty is to the people of these lands.’

  He turned back to the gurgling font, the water droplets cascading from the font head into the catch bowl below, glittering like rubies, emeralds and sapphires in the light of the stained glass window.

  ‘So, until the Lady wills it otherwise, I shall remain here and defend this shrine with my life’s blood.’

  An unaccustomed smile split his dry lips as he knelt once more before the shrine’s simple altar, the silvered fleur-de-lys that stood upon it having once adorned the lance that now stood propped in the corner, before he earned the right to bear the image of the grail itself upon his coat-of-arms.

  ‘After all, if she needs me, she knows where to find these old bones.’

  ‘Yes, Sir Dagobert,’ the vassal said getting to his feet and bowing once again as he left the shrine.

  III

  ‘Do you remember that time Sir Dagobert – thrice-blessed be he – purged that nest of corpse-eating ghouls in La Fontaine?’ Arnaud demanded, his beery tones rising above the slurred conversations of his brother pilgrims.

  The hu
bbub of other voices dropped to a murmur.

  ‘Aye, Brother Arnaud,’ said the gangly pilgrim whose name was Ambrose. The man had even less hair and fewer teeth that the brawny former blacksmith. ‘That was a great day indeed, praise be.’

  ‘And do you recall the expression on the baron’s face when he discovered his own father was one of them?’ Arnaud gave a bark of laughter.

  The pilgrims were virtually alone at their makeshift table now, with only a pair of desultory maidens still waiting on them. The day was drawing on and the villagers had left them to their feast, having no stomach for food themselves, and taking the opportunity to tend to those who had been injured during their encounter with the goblins, and to take care of the dead.

  Bonfires had been raised at the edge of the village, those who had fought greenskins and their kind before knowing from bitter experience that their corpses should be burnt, lest their pernicious spores settle in a dark, damp hollow and give rise to another harvest of death.

  One of the girls was tying a strip of cloth from the hem of her skirt around Groffe’s arm. Odo was muttering something through a mouthful of pork fat to Jules, who was slumped across the barn door-table, looking like he had already passed out. None of them were paying Arnaud much attention.

  ‘Eh? Do you remember?’ Arnaud laughed, louder this time.

  ‘We remember,’ Brother Hugo replied with less enthusiasm.

  ‘I remember the time that wyvern almost did for us in the Pale Sisters,’ Waleran muttered.

  ‘And what about the time Sir Dagobert led us to the Sisterhood of Saint Salome?’ Arnaud went on, ignoring Waleran’s doom and gloom recollections. Arnaud was never one to tire of the sound of his own voice. ‘I’d never seen so much sin in one place.’

  ‘Yes, plenty to go around,’ Groffe chuckled crudely, putting an arm around his nurse’s waist and spinning her unceremoniously onto his lap. The girl gave a half-hearted squeal of protest, and when Groffe pulled her chin round to plant a beery kiss on her pretty mouth, she kicked him in the shins and pulled herself of his lecherous grasp.

  At this, Arnaud burst out laughing again, spiteful mirth shaking his corpulent frame.

  There was little left of the suckling pig now other than bones and grease. Tearing off a hunk of gritty bread from a hard end of loaf, Arnaud used it to mop up the congealing pork fat and stuffed the whole lot into his mouth.

  ‘So where do you think Sir Dagobert will lead us next?’ one of the others asked, indicating the garland-decked reliquae outside the shrine with a casual wave of a gnawed rib bone.

  ‘Where the Lady wills, Brother Gervase. Where the Lady wills,’ Arnaud replied, a thoughtful look on his face.

  ‘Praise be!’ piped up Brother Ambrose.

  ‘But not for a while, I think,’ Arnaud added, his gaze roving from the food on the table and the drink in his hand to the rolling hips of Groffe’s failed conquest. ‘No, not yet. I think Sir Dagobert – thrice-blessed be his name – likes it here.’

  Reynard missed the boy’s cries at first, what with all the noise coming from the pilgrim’s table.

  It was Fleur, who was fetching water from the well to wash the bodies of the dead in preparation for their journey into Morr’s kingdom, who heard the child first.

  Hearing her call his name, Reynard ducked under the lintel and into the street. Fleur pointed.

  The boy was pelting across the field, the forest that bounded its edge spread out across the horizon, an impenetrable darkness lurking between the trees. Dusk had already fallen within that primal woodland.

  It was Tomas, the woodcutter’s son. As he came closer, not slacking off the pace for a moment, Reynard understood the look of blanching fear on his face. ‘Greenskins!’

  ‘More of them,’ Reynard muttered under his breath. He turned to his wife. ‘Get the children back inside and warn the others.’

  He was running too now, joining the other men who had heard the boy’s fearful warning, gathering up what weapons they had and what could be turned to the defence of the village.

  ‘What was that?’ the leader of the pilgrim band demanded, rising unsteadily to his feet and moving to join Reynard at the periphery of the village.

  ‘There’s more coming,’ Reynard informed the pilgrim dejectedly, the fight all but gone out of him already.

  ‘More you say?’ the pilgrim railed. ‘More of the heathen abominations?’

  The pilgrim turned, shouting to his brothers who were already rising from their seats at the makeshift table.

  ‘To arms!’ he shouted. ‘To arms! Ready yourselves, brothers! The bastards are coming back for another taste of our lord’s fiery zeal, and we wouldn’t want to disappoint them now, would we?’

  ‘Praise be!’ his gangly companion declared, leaping for the sword he had left propped beside a barrel.

  Others moved to raise the reliquae upon their shoulders, ready to carry the dead knight into battle once more.

  IV

  Dagobert slowly opened his eyes. His eyelids were sticky with rheum. Something had brushed his cheek, something as light and as soft as goose down. He looked down at the inlaid marble tiles of the sanctuary floor.

  There it was: a tiny thing, nothing really, just a single curled white petal.

  He blinked himself alert, startled by the presence of the flower. He inhaled sharply as he caught his breath in surprise–

  –and suddenly the chapel was filled with the heady scent of apple blossom, petals falling like snowflakes all around him – on his head, his outstretched arms, his open palms – as moisture filmed his old eyes.

  He peered beyond the drifting petals to the stained glass window above the altar. A blaze of light shone through the painted panes as the first rays of morning touched the shrine. The image of the Lady realised in glass and mineral pigments was shining like silver moonlight, her hair like spun gold ablaze with holy light, her eyes sparkling like stars in the night sky.

  And at the edge of hearing he caught the lilting melody of angel voices singing.

  As he stared at this radiant image of beauty divine, he fancied the Lady turned to him, reaching out to him from the glass. But it was no longer the grail she was holding in her lily white hands, but his blessed blade.

  He reached for the sword with shaking hands, clutching at the blade with trembling fingers, the tears coursing down his cheeks. But the blade dissolved like mist at his touch and he stumbled forwards, putting out a hand to stop himself from falling.

  And there was his sword before him, the polished metal alive with myriad rainbow colours, light picking out the letters inscribed upon it. The letters that spelt out the blessed blade’s name: Deliverer.

  Sword in hand once more, Dagobert rose stiffly to his feet.

  The door to the chapel burst open and a panting pilgrim entered the shrine at a run. He skidded to a halt on the stone flagged floor, struggling to catch his breath. Before he could open his mouth to speak, Dagobert fixed the man with his sapphire stare, silencing him.

  ‘It is time,’ the knight said. ‘The Lady calls.’

  They came to him then, the penitent, the faithful, those who had given up everything to follow him, that they might receive the blessing of the Lady and, in return, purge the land of all unholy things that would despoil its sacred groves, its fertile fields, its abundant pastures and clean wells.

  As the words of the grail vow spilled from his lips in a ceaseless declaration of honour and duty and love, the pilgrims helped him don his armour, and hand him his holy weapons of war.

  And so, when all was ready at last, Dagobert stepped through the chapel door and out into the world once more.

  There stood his charger, Silvermane, eighteen hands high, the magnificent white warhorse also ready for battle. His steed’s barding draped with the knight’s personal colours, the horse was champing at the bit, impatient to be about the business of killing vermin.

  Stepping up into the stirrups, the old knight swung himself up into the saddle wi
th the grace and ease of a man half his age.

  The mists crept through the knots of grey trees, their roots worming between the tumbled stones of the tower that had once stood at this spot.

  ‘The rat-kin are that way?’ Dagobert asked, taking his lance from a retainer and pointing through the cloying fog towards the spot where the village of Baudin nestled at the foot of the valley.

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ the gap-toothed pilgrim confirmed, making a respectful bow.

  ‘Then to battle,’ the old knight said.

  ‘That which is sublime I will protect!’ Sir Dagobert bellowed, his declaration of duty a furious battle-cry. Silvermane whinnied, the stallion bringing its hooves crashing down on the armoured head of another of the black-furred vermin. The blow from the mighty warhorse caved in the mutant’s bladed helm and splintered its skull. The ratman gave a brief tortured squeak which abruptly cut off as soupy brain matter bubbled from its ears.

  ‘That which threatens I will destroy!’

  As the horse wheeled and turned, Dagobert swung the morning star clutched tight in his right hand again, deft flicks of the wrist sending the spiked metal ball whirling in a killing arc. Silvermane pounded towards the scrabbling rat bodies, the air thick with the reek of the musk they involuntarily sprayed in fear as the pack broke. But they couldn’t outrun Silvermane.

  The morning star found its target, smacking into the back of another rat skull as the snivelling creature bounded from the knight’s charge at a hunched run, practically moving on all fours. The blow sent the thing flailing into the dirt, to be trampled by the rest of the pack, their only concern saving their own flea-ridden hides as they poured over one another in a rippling torrent of greasy fur and scabrous flesh.

  Yeomen fought side by side with Dagobert’s followers, fending off the serrated blades of the vermin-kin, matching them in ferocity if not in number, and they were slowly gaining the upper hand. Bowmen stuck the ratmen with arrow after arrow.

  Bodies lay all around him, the corpses of downtrodden peasants as well as the carcasses of the rat-kin.