Knight of the Realm (Warhammer Fantasy) by Anthony Reynolds

Author:Anthony Reynolds [Reynolds, Anthony]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Black Library
Published: 2011-03-14T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve

The interior of the despoiled chapel was filled with wood smoke and the smells of sweat and cooking meat, and the sounds of drunken revelry rose to the rafters. Warriors shouted, clinked drinking horns and laughed as a young skald recounted the gore-soaked adventures of Knut the Bloody, a Skaeling berserker who had fought alongside the ever-chosen Asavar Kul.

This revered hero had taken part in the sacking of the Kislevite city of Praag two hundred years earlier, before, glutted with blood, he ventured northward, journeying into the heart of the god-touched lands, there where dreams and nightmares become reality. The Skaelings were enjoying the tale, roaring their approval as the skald re-enacted a battle fought between Knut and a mighty bloodthirster of Kharnath that ended with him breaking the back of the monster over his knee, and the powers that be granting him daemonhood and eternal life as a reward for his tenacity.

In one corner of the chapel a fight was underway. More warriors were sent sprawling and tables overflowing with food and drink were sent smashing to the stone floor as a massive, bearded huskarl laid around him in a drunken fury. He had already sent one man crashing through a stained glass window, an axe buried in his back, and half a dozen others were strewn around him, bloody and broken. Another was felled, bellowing as the huskarl shattered his forearm with a hammer-blow of his fist.

Styrbjorn reclined in his throne atop the stepped dais at the end of the chapel, only half listening to the ranting Chaos dwarf, Zumarah, who was speaking angrily, standing one step from the top of the dais, spitting his words out as he addressed the Skaeling jarl.

‘…promised me slaves, manling,’ the dwarf was saying. ‘And here we sit on this Hashut-forsaken rock, doing nothing!’

‘Patience, Zumarah,’ said Styrbjorn, waving away the words of the infuriated dwarf. ‘Once the witch bears my son, then we shall take the fight back to the southlanders.’

‘You speak lies and poison, manling,’ said Zumarah, placing a foot on the top of the dais. Styrbjorn’s warhounds were instantly on their feet, baring their teeth and snarling at the dwarf. Unfazed, the dwarf merely snarled back at them, though he did not move any closer to the Skaeling jarl. Styrbjorn barked a command, and his warhounds dropped to their haunches, tails between their legs, though their unblinking eyes remained fixed on Zumarah.

‘Once the bitch spawns the child, you will be taking it back to Skaeling lands, mark my words,’ said the dwarf. ‘If you do not deliver on your promise to me, I shall take my slaves from amongst your own people, starting with your bitch daughters.’

The shield-maidens Fraygerd and Hrefna, standing to either side of their father’s throne, bristled. Hrefna half-drew her sword from her scabbard, her face twisted in anger. The dwarf, standing only half the height of the tall, blonde warrior woman but easily three times her weight, snarled and reached for the double-headed axe strapped to his back.

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