Title: Acheron

Author: Spike

Chapter: Seven

The next morning, at the first light of dawn, the army of Knight Errants left Bordeleaux, all heading to do battle with the necromancer Lord Varlak. Their destination was a small village by the name of Breux which was, as all reports indicated, where the fiend was hiding.

The knights all marched out in an extraordinary display of colour and majesty. At their head rode Leon d'Arden, proudly displaying the iconography of a Grail Knight and proclaiming his status as a champion of Bretonnia. Alongside him rode his commanders and lieutenants, each riding under their arrangement of their own unique, bright, heraldry colours. One knight proudly carried the army banner, proclaiming the image of a grail resting upon a pair of upturned hands – thus declaring the everlasting servitude to the Lady of the Lake.

Behind the commanders, marched all the Knight of the Realm in all their splendent glory. They marched with their heads held high, their banners unfurled and the pride of being part of this campaign. They were here primarily to accompany the Knight Errants as experienced allies but some of them were present just because they couldn't resist the prospect of fighting in any battle. But all of the Knights of the Realm looked forward to the campaign ahead and besting such despised foes as the undead, the unholiest of enemies. All thoughts were on victory and their eventual return, where they will be hailed as the heroic figures they are and the champions of justice (or, at worse, an honourable death in battle).

Following on from the Knights of the Realm came the main body of the army: the Knight Errant. They too bore the sense of anticipation but, compared to their older comrades, each of the eyes of the Knight Errant sparkled with high hopes. They were to partake in this glorious campaign and will come back alive and triumphant (hopefully). No doubt for some, playing a part in this campaign will result in being awarded their spurs upon their eventual return to Bordeleaux.

Accompanying the Knight Errant was the campaign baggage train: This consisted of various squires, both on foot and horseback, and wagons containing all the gear required for the campaign. Several of the Knight Errant also had the unenviable task of defending this rabble but they didn't care: Should they encounter any foes on the route to and from Bordeleaux, they will slay them without a second thought or any sign of fear – and hopefully show the older Knights of the Realm a thing or two!

At the head of the knights, Leon rode with an air of confidence. He felt confident that this army will return successful. After all, this was against a single necromancer – what threat could he present? He had an enormous number of knights at his command, each determined to prove their worth, defeat anything the necromancer could throw against them and, above all, defend this realm in the Lady's name.

Besides, Leon had fought against necromancers before. And he knew enough of them to say that they are the main source of the army's power: Kill them and the whole army will crumble into dust!

And there's certainly no one in the Old World willing enough to face an entire charge by a mass of Bretonnian Knights.

That bastard necromancer had no chance. No chance at all!

Just then a voice broke the Grail Knight of his reverie.

"Is something amusing milord?"

Hearing the distinctive voice of Etiole, Leon raised an eyebrow.

"Oh I was just pondering on this little investigation"

"You have nothing to fear milord" the other knight replied "We will drive them from our sacred land and still make good time for the journey back"

"That's good to hear" Leon smiled.

There was slight pause before Etiole cleared his throat.

"Milord, was it wise to let off Etienne like that? People will start to whisper"

"I stand by my decision" Leon said firmly "From what you told me, Roger broke one of the Rules of Honour in challenging Etienne and he got bested for his trouble

"That seems a suitable enough punishment for him"

"Yes but Etienne's reputation amongst his comrades is far from the best" Etiole said "If you keep letting him off in conflicts such as these, suspicions will rise to alarming levels"

"Etienne is my ward" Leon retorted "As such, no one will dare touch him

"And as far as I 'm concerned, Etienne does his job and he does it well. I can't ask any more than that."

Etiole blinked but he said nothing.

A brief silence followed before the Knight of the Realm spoke again:

"Milord" he said "Want a make a little wager?"

Leon raised an eyebrow as the other knight continued.

"Let's see who takes the most heads of the undead dogs"

"An intriguing challenge" Leon grinned "And what at stake?"

"A cask of wine?"

"Sounds good to me!"

The two men laughed out loud. And behind them, the other knights exchanged grins of amusement. The exchange of good humour between their leaders was certainly an inspiring sight: If they were prepared to exchange witticisms prior to combat then they must have absolute confidence in their abilities. This meant for the other knights that they had nothing to fear and inspired flourishes of encouragement within the hearts of all the knights.

And with inspired vigour, the knights continued their proud march, determined to fight for the Lady and eradicate the foul evil-doers who dared trespass on her sacred land.

Further down the column, Artios rode by himself.

Looking around, he saw his fellow Knight Errants all talking about their achievements during the campaign. They bragged about how many heads of the enemy forces they will take, how the young ladies back at Bordeleaux will be awestruck with their achievements and how they will no doubt win approval upon their return.

The Knight Errants seemed terribly excited about the prospect of combat and were already making boasts and friendly challenges

Artios had no time for such thoughts or aimless pursuits. As such, whilst his comrades in arms rode in one big group, Artios rode by himself. No paid him any attention whatsoever and he cared little for it.

All he cared about was waiting for the next mission for d'Arden to send him on. All he cared about was waiting for the next evil to slay.

After all, that's all he was trained to do.

And that's what he is good for.

The truth is he lived for battle. Wielding his sword in battle and feeling of driving those six feet of steel into his enemies made him feel so alive. Perhaps more alive when compared to the various trappings of civilisation: wine, women and living off the fat of the land.

At this thought, Artios' face grew with disgust. He hated that line of thought. He only lived for eradicating evil no matter where it lived or where.

And such was his devotion to this philosophy that he thought his fellow knights could do a lot better than living like lords. Time spent exploiting the hard labour of peasants could certainly be better spent seeking out various forms of evil wherever they hide.

Truth be told, he had believed that whilst the knights of Bretonnian were completely different from his own beliefs and his own code of honour. Really, the knights should be focused on defending the Lady's Realm and striking down all those who dared set foot into her sacred realm.

Not impressing some floozy, making some inane bets, proving some fruitless goal and furthering one's own ego.

Such was his disgust with his comrades, that Artios stopped paying attention to them.

As a consequence, he could feel his mind drift away, and into memories….

But sometimes not all memories one recalls aren't the most pleasant….

"Mother"

"Yes?"

"Can you tell me about my father?"

Another day was drawing to a close in the kingdom that was Bretonnia. As the afternoon sun continued with its set, it light up the sky with a spectacular display of reds, oranges and yellows. And in this particular region of the kingdom, there was a sense of serenity in the air: The farmers had retired from a day of working in their fields, the livestock had been driven to the sanctuary of their barns and the peasants had returned to their hovels to rest for the night.

And as the sun journeyed downwards, down below another journey is in the process of being made.

It was a group of squires.

They were all mounted on brown horses and rode in a circular formation. They all carried formidable weapons in swords and a selection of well-used longbows. And they were dressed in the same ragged clothes distinctive of the Bretonnian common class and they all had the same haircut that betrayed their status as pages for a Bretonnian knight.

But in spite of appearances, the most striking feature of the squires was their facial expressions: Each of the squires had a face lined with utter determination. And for good reason: They were on a mission that demanded that they complete or die trying. They were all more than prepared to give up their lives for this mission and would gladly do so if it meant ultimate success.

So they rode through the Bretonnian wilderness, with eyes scanning for trouble, ears alert to any potential trouble, and their fingers ready on their bowstrings, ready to deal death from any foe that dare launch an attack on them.

At the moment, they were traversing through a large forest – their eyes and ears ready to accept any threat that dare show it's ugly face.

In the centre of the squire's circular formation, was the reason of their commitment to their mission: It was two more riders. But when compared to the squires themselves, the two riders' status as Bretonnian nobility was easily betrayed.

The first was a woman: She possessed a beauty that was reputable of a Bretonnian damsel: She had the slenderest of bodies, skin that was both pale and delicate, blonde hair that cascaded down her back and to her waist, and the softest of blue eyes. She was dressed in burgundy robes and rode a proud, white horse.

The other rider was a young boy, no older than ten summers. He had black hair arranged in an unruly fashion, the handsome facial features typical of someone his age and an expression that had excitement written all over it. He was dressed in teal stockings and a purple tunic that brought him recognition as an important person.

But the most striking feature about the child was that, even for such a young soul, he had a bodily structure that was indeed strong. It would be easy to assume he was a warrior of some ability and skill, even for his age, but such an assumption would face conflict in the fact that the boy's hands were too soft for a swordsman and that he had the softest of blue eyes. Neither of these features certainly were not the attributes of an experienced knight.

Nevertheless the rider travelled with the women and her squire bodyguard. He wasn't sure where they were going nor why they were heading there but he didn't seem too bothered – As far as he was concerned, this was a journey that, so far, went far from the castle he had lived in for his life. This was his first real glimpse of the kingdom that he had always been told about – the kingdom called Bretonnia.

The woman had been noticing the boy's enthusiasm and was quite happy to allow him to see everything for himself. Consequentially, not a word was spoken between them.

Until now that is.

The woman blinked.

"Your father?" the woman echoed. This sudden verbiage had caught her off guard – and it wasn't just the unexpected question.

"What was he like?" the child inquired his eyes shining.

The woman blinked, unsure how to handle this question.

As she struggled to come up with an answer, she then looked around - to see some of her squire bodyguards chuckling, amused at the child's curiosity.

The woman responded this not with words but with the iciest of glares. This was enough to keep the squires silent.

The cheek of these commoners…..

Nevertheless, she turned to face the child – his keenness for an answer written all over his face.

"Your father was Mathieu Trintigant" she answered "He was the bravest knight in all of Bretonnia."

"Really?" the child said, undoubtedly impressed.

"Yes he was' the woman smiled, hoping that the child found satisfactory enough to cease pursuing the matter.

But she was wrong:

"What did my father do?" the child inquired.

The woman's brow furrowed at the child's persistence. Nevertheless, she cleared her throat.

"Your father didn't always start out as a knight – he was once a humble peasant in his village. But then he found that a horde of those nasty Skaven were gathering in a cave nearby"

The woman paused - she noticed the child shivering from the mention of those nasty rat-men. But he had nothing to fear – they were, after all only a myth.

"So" she continued "Once your father found out about those Skaven, he swore to put an end to their plans: he found some armour, picked up a mighty sword, stormed into the lair and killed them all!"

The child smiled at this, his mind filled with images of a mighty, all-conquering, indestructible hero.

The woman sighed – Yes, take the image you want, she thought. And it's just as well because the truth is not as glorious as you'd believe.….

Mathieu wasn't really a glorious hero. And neither was she a Bretonnian lady of high distinction. Just because she wears fine robes and bears the appearance of utter beauty does not mean she is a genuine damsel. Why, the squires that accompany her on this journey aren't her servants but the product of her begging for protection to a local knight.

Furthermore, she is leaving the village they were raised in for a reason – simply because the woman and the child were on the run.

After all, should anyone catch up with them, they will be made into an even greater item of mockery….

Nevertheless, she should be grateful the child has this perfect image implanted in his mind. Because it does conceal him form the truth.

And it was that thought that urged the woman to go on with her story:

"When the local baron found about this feat of heroism, he immediately offered him a place in his regiment. There, your father joined an elite group of knights who fought in many battles and always emerged victorious!"

"Wow!" the child said his voice full of awe.

"But this wasn't enough for your father" the woman continued. "He was eager to find success and victory – so much so, he only stayed with the knights for a short amount of time."

"Why's that?"

"Because he then decided to go on the Grail Quest!"

"Grail Quest? What's that?"

The woman opened her mouth to speak – but before she could she speak, she was interrupted.

By a scream of an arrow as pierced its way through the air.

An arrow that struck the woman and buried its way into her shoulder.

And what happened next happened quickly.

The woman screamed in both alarm and pain. The child blinked in utter bewilderment. The squires blinked their expressions stunned and their hands reeling in their horses by the reins.

Suddenly one of the squires shouted;

"Ambush!"

And then they all saw it: A group of wolves bursting out from the trees. Dirty, mangy wolves with teeth sharp, saliva dripping from their mouth and fur matted and dark. And on their backs rode a group of short humanoids armed with the most crudely-made weapons and the most poorly-manufactured armour. Their skin was green and their eyes blazed with greedy fervour.

"Goblins!" shouted another squire.

Immediately, several of the squires raised their bows and launched arrows from them in order to deal with this threat. A rain of arrows burst across the sky to rain down upon the advancing Wolf Riders. Several of the goblins were downed but this attack wasn't enough to stop the rest from advancing. Some of the goblins returned the attack by raising their own shorts bows and returning fire. The goblin arrows plunged through the air to provide enough strength to launch three of the squires off their horses and to their deaths.

The remaining squires launched arrow after arrow at the approaching Wolf Riders – but with each arrow launched, their facial expression grew in apprehension and desperation. As the advance grew closer and closer, it became clear to each of the squires that they were hopelessly outnumbered. Each of the squires shot brief glances at each other, each suspecting that their hour of doom was nigh.

One of the squires rushed to the side of the woman. Her fine robe was stained red with the blood from her shoulder wound. However, in spite of the pain, she managed to retain her seat within the horse's saddle. Currently, she leant forward, no doubt still reeling from the pain caused by the arrow

The child, meanwhile, started at the preceding in utter bewilderment. He simply started with the blankest of eyes, shock written all over his face. He didn't seem aware of Wolf Riders, nor the fact that they were under attack. Instead, he just started, still in the horse's saddle but without moving a muscle. It was anyone's guess how he, in this state, managed not to be picked out by the Goblin arrows.

The squire reached the woman's side. He reached out, grasped her by the shoulders and lifted her up and to an upright position.

"Milady!" he exclaimed. "We're under attack!"

The woman blinked in reply, her eyes blinking in confusion.

The squire's eyes hardened – so he then speaking slowly and clearly, making sure that every word he said was understood clearly.

"Milady, it's not safe for you here" he said "We're under attack and it's doubtful whether or not we may survive."

"But….." the woman managed to burble.

"Listen to me!" the squire insisted. "You must get to safety and have that wound treated! Don't worry about us - you must get out of here and to Bordeleaux!"

"But – but…" the woman stammered. "The boy…..!"

"Understood" the squire said.

By now the Wolf Riders had slammed right into the squires. The squires immediately drew their swords to deal with this threat. The air was split with sounds of swords clashing against each other, the sound of wounds being torn into flesh and the screams of the dying.

One of the squires fell with a gurgling scream. Another followed soon after,

But even now the outcome was clear: the squires were outnumbered and it was only matter of time before each of them toppled from their saddles and fell into the mud below

In amidst of all the mayhem, the squire grasped the boy by the shoulders.

"Listen to me" the squire said "We must get you out of here!"

The boy was till in a state of shock – he couldn't respond for the shock radiating from his widened eyes.

In desperation, the squire shook the boy, trying to get a response out of him.

"Do you understand?! You're in danger - if you stay here, you'll surely get killed!"

These words did nothing to break the boy out of his shock but a small mewling sound came creeping out from his lips.

Taking this a yes, the squire lifted the boy out form his saddle and placed him within the safe company of the woman. Despite her wound the woman found enough strength to shift backwards and allow the boy to sit before her.

"Are you all right?' she whispered.

As the boy was still in a state of shock, no reply was issued.

She wrapped her protective cloak around him and an arm around his waist. The other hand took up the horse's reins.

"Get out of here!" the squire yelled, placing a kick into the horse rear end. With a whine of shock, the horse bolted.

Plunging through the sounds of combat and to safety, the woman kept her head down, trying to avoid attracting the attention of the Wolf Riders. She kept head down to avoid any stray arrow or sword stroke. And she kept her head down to, most importantly of all, to prevent anything to happen to the boy.

The horses continued charging from the beleaguered squires and through the forest.

Fortunately for the woman, the goblins were too busy battling the squires to notice the fleeing rider….