A tale from the Twilight War.

                                                         CHAOS RISING    

                                                              PROLOGUE

Alain De Montgallion was tired. Bone tired. He couldn’t remember when last he had slept. Was it two nights ago, three, was it more? He couldn’t quite remember. His memory seemed fuzzy, events were blurring into one another in his mind. He suddenly shook his head and took a deep breath. His concentration was wandering again. He had to pull himself together and stay focused. He stared down again at the map in front of him. All around him in the battle tent was hectic activity. Knights coming and going, squires and retainers rushing about carrying messages and reports, questions being asked, arguments about deployments and orders being barked.

This was a fine map he had been given by Narmo Eressea and his Hunters of Kurnous. The wood elf scouts had produced an exquisitely detailed map of central lumbria which he had found invaluable in planning his campaign.

Alain de Montgallion swayed on his feet slightly and cursed under his breath. His mind was wandering again! “Come on”, he thought, “this is ridiculous”. He had to focus, concentrate!”

He looked at the map once more, his finger stabbing at Littleton, tracing the path of the north road from the town towards Brightwood.

Littleton was falling, that was now obvious and inevitable. The battle here was no longer a defence, but an evacuation. The north road was the last remaining open route from the town. Somewhere along this road the hordes of darkness would strike to cut off any retreat. If this happened it would be a massacre. He could not let that happen.

Alain had already deployed his Templars in small screening forces at intervals along the road to scout for any signs of enemy action. Once he had confirmation it was his intention to rush his forces to that area, confront and defeat the flanking force and hold the road open to let the survivors of the sack at least have a chance of escape.

Suddenly there was a flurry of activity at the opening of the large tent. Two muddied knights burst in supporting a third between them. His armour was dented and blood stained and he carried a deep gash down one cheek which was bleeding freely.

As they approached the map table Sir Alain recognised Sir Godfrey Hotspur, Knight of the Realm Gallant commanding one of his far flung screening squadrons.

Sir Godfrey slumped against the table, gasping for breath as he clutched his chest, wheezing slightly. He coughed painfully and a fleck of blood splattered the maps surface.

“Sir Godfrey, report”, barked Sir Alain.

“My Lord”, he gasped, “Khornate cavalry, two miles north of Littleton....here”, his bloodied finger stabbed the map indicating the location of his encounter, smearing a bloody fingerprint onto the indicated spot. “We dealt with them Sire” he wheezed, “but they were just a probing force”. He looked up at Sir Alain, his eyes glazed slightly, “they are coming my L....” Suddenly he groaned and swooned. He would have fallen, but for his two companions who grasped him gently but firmly, supporting him between them.

“Get him to the healers at once” ordered Sir Alain. Then, as Sir Godfrey was led from the tent, he turned to his retainer. “To the Herald. Order the muster to be sounded. We ride at once!”

Turning back to the map he started issuing marching orders to his lieutenants’.

Moments later as he headed for the tent flap, clutching his helm, the flap burst open again and he found his path barred. Blocking his way was a young warrior, his blonde hair, unkempt falling across his face. His piecing blue eyes fixed upon Sir Alain, who halted, glaring with indignation.

“What is the meaning of this?” he growled. “We do not have time for such foolishness Sir Parsifal, step aside at once!”

“My Lord” retorted the young Knight unabashed, “we are coming too! We have been here a week Sire and have not been permitted to see any action. We want to fight my Lord, not act as dry nurses for peasants!”

Sir Alain felt anger rise within him, and as suddenly it was quelled. He smiled inwardly to himself. It was like it was yesterday that he remembered himself as a brash impetuous youth impatient for battle and glory, irreverent and disrespectful of authority. How could he be angry with a Bretonnian for acting like a Bretonnian? The corners of his mouth curled ever so slightly as he suppressed the smile. It had only flickered there for an instant, but Sir Parsifal had spotted it. His face broke into a wide grin. He was going to ride to battle and glory after all.

“My Lord, with your leave I shall go rouse my companions” he said as excitement sparkled in his azure eyes. He turned on his heel, reaching for the tent flap.

“Not so fast Sir Knight” growled Sir Alain. “You and your companions may come, but only on two conditions”.

“Anything Sire” grinned Sir Parsifal. He was riding to war, that was all that mattered. Glory lay before him.

Sir Alain scowled. “Firstly you and your companions will obey EVERY command to the letter. Do I make myself clear?”

Sir Parsifal looked seriously towards his commander, “perfectly clear Sire”.

“Secondly” stated Sir Alain, “I am assigning Sir Robert to lead your unit”.

Sir Parsifal was outraged. “My Lord, I must protest! This is my squadron! These are my men! Sire this is an insult!”

Sir Alain looked impassively at the glaring, red-faced youth. “Those are my terms young Sir Knight, take them or leave them.” Sir Parsifal glared angrily at Sir Alain for a moment longer, then his face broke out into that confident, mischievous grin. “Agreed my Lord”. With a flourish he rushed from the tent to assemble his knights.

Sir Alain sighed and stepped from the tent, almost colliding with the beautiful young lady who was just hurrying to enter.

Sir Alain groaned inwardly, he knew what was coming.

Smiling politely he raised his hand as the girl opened her mouth to speak. “Miranda, I know what you wish and the answer is no. We ride to face a Khorne army and that is no place for a young Damsel”.

The defiant look in her eyes told Sir Alain he had already lost this fight also. Facing all the ravening hordes of Chaos was far less difficult than restraining an eager Knights Errant and a stubborn Damsel of the lady.

“My Lord”, she said, “you also said that facing the undead was no place for me as well, yet I rode to honour with you that day. It is my duty to face the enemies of the Lady. Will you deny me?”

Sir Alain sighed again. “Nay my lady, I shall not deny you, this time. But you will stay close to me as you did then. The Grail companions will protect you”.

Miranda gave a little girlish squeal and clapped her hands as she ran off to ready her horse.

Sir Alain donned his helm as he stroke towards Sperran, his steed, already made ready by his squire. The knights were forming up, making ready for the march. Grail knights, Knights of the realm, and now Sir Parsifal and his Knights Errant were assembling into formation.

Miranda galloped up upon her own warhorse, its barding clanking against its flanks.

There would be no peasants accompanying this march. Speed was of the essence if they were to reach Littleton in time to prevent the North Road from being sealed and the fleeing townsfolk and defending soldiers from being slaughtered.

As the Standard Bearer raised the banner of the Templars aloft he cried “Templars....we ride!”

The Templars du Lac thundered forward and galloped southwards into the night.

                                                     CHAOS RISING

The sun was just creeping over the Eastern horizon. The road was full of shambling refugees trudging in silent lines away from the stricken town of Littleton. Mothers carried exhausted infants who had finally cried themselves to sleep. Children clutched the hands of their parents tightly as they shuffled along, stepping aside to allow his galloping Knights to pass. Some carried little bundles, all that remained of their worldly possessions.

Amongst the straggling line of miserable humanity trudged soldiers. They slumped, demoralised as they made their way slowly north. Exhaustion was etched in their faces, their eyes hollow, telling of the horrors they had witnessed. Men, dwarves, even Lizardmen, trudged along the road, mingling with the shattered civilians. Only the Elves showed any semblance of order. Remnants of once proud High Elf armies marched in orderly ranks along the roadside, giving way to the advancing Templars. Wood elf bowmen and warriors flanked the road, alert for any trouble. The fiery look of defiance burning still in their bright eyes.

Sir Alain scanned the mass of retreating refugees and soldiers, no Bretonnians. He sat up in the saddle and looked south. An orange glow lit up the lightening sky from the south. Tall columns of inky black smoke could just faintly be made out in the fading gloom of the retreating night. Littleton was burning. Faintly, in the distance could be heard the sound of screams. Sir Alain gritted his teeth. His Bretonnian countrymen were not amongst the retreating mass. They had remained in Littleton to hold back the hordes and provide a rearguard for the evacuation.

Their sacrifice would not be in vain. Sir Alain and the Templars were here. They had bought him time with their lives, but they would be avenged.

Urging Sperran on, the Templars galloped south, towards the burning glow of the dying town.

Less than two miles from Littleton they intercepted the Chaos host riding hard northwards. They rapidly formed a line of battle, deploying efficiently as Sir Alain took up position north of the river which blocked their path.

The bridge was the key. He had to hold it at all costs to buy time for the townsfolk to escape. The only other passage over the river was a shallow ford on his left flank.

Sir Alain surveyed the enemy arrayed against him. South of the Bridge were the Chaos Knights, eight of them led by a Knight in crimson armour. Sir Alain could make out his features. His Parchment white face was lined with thick blue veins which sat out thickly, writhing across his cheeks and forehead. Piercing blood red eyes glared towards him and as he opened his mouth to snarl, he bared his sharp yellow fangs. This was a worthy foe. A pale banner flapped above their ranks displaying the symbol of the eight-pointed star of chaos and the mark of Khorne. Sir Alain’s blood chilled as he realised the banner was made out of flesh, human flesh he had no doubt.

The Khornate knights were flanked on either side by Chaos Warriors and something worse! Bloodletters! Fell daemons from the pits of hell itself. Like devils, their skin red like blood, black horns jutting from their foreheads, their ravening maws filled with razor sharp black teeth. They clutched wicked looking blades which promised dire potentialities.

On Sir Alain’s left flank were eight monstrous hounds, red and green in colour, as big as small calves, their backs ridged with bony plates, brass colours on their necks. These Fleshhounds would threaten the ford, but not right away. He did not have to concern himself with them immediately. The bridge was where the main danger lay.

Close to the hellish Fleshhounds something was moving, shuffling slowly forward…a thing! He could barely describe it even though he was looking at it. It defied description. Slug like, yet as big as a Bretonnian warhorse. Without legs it pulsated and squirmed its way forward. Instead of slime it oozed blood, smearing the ground where it had wriggled past. Writhing tentacles sprouted from its front and each seemed to have a tooth filled mouth which snapped at the air around it. Sir Alain had never encountered such a nightmare before but he had no doubt he was witnessing a horror called a Chaos Spawn. Old Knights had recounted tales of such creatures round the fires in the Great Hall, paling as they recalled old memories and past nightmares. So this was a Bloodbeast. A Spawn of Khorne. He would do his best to stay out of its way.

Sir Alain looked at his own pitifully small force. His Grail Knights were deployed to the Right of the bridge and somewhat back. His Knights Errant were deployed on the left side and close to the ford. The Knights of the Realm were positioned by the Ford to guard it against any attempt to flank his force that way. This was all he had to face this bloodthirsty horde. He galloped towards Sir Robert and Sir Parsifal, bringing Sperran to a skidding halt before them.

“Sir Knights, listen”, he said urgently. “here is what I want you to do. When the Chaos Knights reach the bridge I want you to advance to within charge range. When they attack, I want you to flee before them”.

“My Lord no Sir I won’t!” stormed Sir Parsifal. “I shall not run from the foe! Never!”

Sir Alain glared at Sir Parsifal, “I do not have time for this nonsense. You will obey orders or I will have you sent home to Bretonnia in irons, do I make myself clear!”

The bristling, red-faced youth mumbled agreement as he took up his position again, while Sir Alain galloped rapidly back to his men.

Suddenly the Crimson Knight raised his axe and roared in a guttural booming voice “Blood!”

 The response from the horde answered him, resounding round the battlefield, “BLOOD!”

Again the Knight bellowed, “BLOOD!”

Again the reply, “BLOOD!”

Then louder than ever he cried, “BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!”

The host, their fury rising to frenzy cried the response,

“BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!

BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!

BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!”

As one they surged forward to the attack.

Sir Alain watched calmly as the enemy surged forward, the hooves of the Chaos Knights steeds thundering across the bridge. Then he gave the signal to Sir Robert to advance towards them. As they galloped towards the enemy Sir Robert had to almost physically restrain the headstrong young Knights from charging suicidally into the dangerous Khorne cavalry.

As the Bloodletters and Chaos Warriors hurled themselves towards the bridge Sir Alain stole a quick glance over the river. The Fleshhounds were bounding along the far bank towards the ford, but they were some way removed from it yet. His Knights at the ford held steady. “Where was that foul Bloodbeast? Ah there it was on that distant hill. It was no immediate threat”.

With a bellow, the Crimson Knight suddenly charged towards the Knights Errant, his crazed battle lust blinding him to the obvious trap. The Knights Errant turned and as one retreated before the onslaught. Sir Alain felt a pang of pity for them. They would feel humiliated, but they would live. Had they been fully fledged knights of the realm he would not have ordered, nor expected them to turn their backs on the foe deliberately, but they were brash and reckless youths. A little taste of humility would bring them one step closer to true knighthood if they survived…if they survived!

The young knights outran the rampaging Chaos knights and suddenly the rear of the enemy cavalry was exposed to his Grail Knights. The trap was sprung as the Grail Knights lowered their lances and charged.

They smashed headlong into the rear of the unsuspecting foe, smashing riders from the saddle as they ploughed deep into their ranks. The Chaos knights balked and broke, fleeing before the irresistible charge, only to be cut down by the pursuing Grail Knights.

Sir Alain wheeled Sperran about to face the furious Bloodletters and Chaos warriors as they stormed across the bridge. He felt a moment of sadness for the once proud and fell Chaos knights lying broken and bloodied on the grass.

They were worthy foes, dark alter images of his own Grail Knights. They had a nobility and honour after a fashion. Yes they were warped, twisted and evil. Corrupted by the whisperings of their dark Master. But they had courage, they had unwavering faith in their God and they faced the foe in open and honest battle, eschewing the incomprehensible forces of magic. They had fled before his knights and been cut down from behind. He had sent them to their dark Master to explain to Him how this had befallen them. He doubted He would be as forgiving as the Lady.

Sir Robert pulled the Knights Errant together into battle order again as Sir Alain once again lowered his Lance, charging the rapidly approaching Chaos Warriors who had now crossed the bridge, with the fearsome Bloodletters close behind. The Warriors were no match for the irresistible fury of the Grail Knights as they smashed and hacked their way through the foot soldiers of Khorne, the handful that survived the initial onslaught ridden down to their deaths by the banks of the river.

As Sir Alain turned his cavalry about to face the hellish Bloodletters, he cursed loudly. Sir Parsifal had lowered his Lance and with a roar was charging recklessly towards them, his Errant companions alongside him! Sir Robert impotently screamed at them to halt, before furiously galloping after them. “No you fools!” roared Sir Alain, but he knew it was already useless. They were lost in that rush of euphoria that accompanied the adrenalin rush of the charge.

By the ford he also noticed the Knights of the Realm charging to meet the Fleshhounds as they rushed to cross. They were too far away for him to help, and even if he could, he had to somehow save these impetuous young knights before they were annihilated.

The Knights Errant crashed into the Bloodletters, cutting a swathe through their ranks. However, as Sir Alain readied his knights for yet another charge, three young knights were hacked from their saddles, as they fell, both they and their steeds were slashed and mauled by the merciless daemons.

Sir Alain charged once more as the Knights Errant were being pressed back by the snarling, slashing fiends, his knights barrelling into the rear of the beasts with such fury, the mystical bonds holding them to reality snapped! Howling insanely they disappeared like wisps of smoke vanishing in the breeze.

Sir Alain gasped for breath and looked towards the ford. His Knights of the Realm were finishing of the last of the Fleshhounds, and with relief he saw that all of them still stood.

Scanning the field of battle he searched for the hideous abomination that was the Chaos Spawn. It was nowhere to be seen. Maybe its dark Master had summoned it back, who knows, but it was gone and that was enough.

Lifting his helm he sucked in a deep breath. It was over.

                                                           EPILOGUE

Sir Alain looked about him. He and his little band of knights had vanquished the foul chaos horde for the loss of only three Knights Errant. Sir Parsifal was laughing wildly and punching Sir Robert playfully in congratulations. He would deal with that idiotic young knight later. This should be a cause for celebrating, for recounting by the campfires and toasting with flagons of ale. But Sir Alain did not feel like celebrating. He felt so sense of victory.

He looked northwards towards distant Brightwood. The road was empty now. He had bought time and the refugees and retreating troops would now reach the forest and safety. Safe? yes, for now. But the storm was coming.

As he turned his horse northwards he inhaled deeply. The cool fresh morning air was tainted with the faint smell of smoke. Behind him the town of Littleton was dying. Faintly he could hear the distant sounds of screams, and something else. He strained his ears to catch that dim and distant sound. Gradually it grew in intensity until he could identify the sounds. It was a distant chant, a mantra being repeated over and over, louder and louder….

Blood for the Blood God!

BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!

BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!

The End