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《Questing Knight（科幻战争）》
作者:[英]Anthony Reynolds【完结】
Synopsis (英文书籍文案)
The Knights of Bretonnia are defined by skill, bravery and honour as they fight against evil. Having fought to defend his homeland, Calard takes the vow of the Questing Knight to seek out the forces of Chaos and destroy them. However he must face an array of deadly foes that will not olny test his mettle in battle, but also the strenght of his vows to the Lady
Calard had travelled the Old World and beyond seeking the Lady of the Lake, patron goddess of
Bretonnia. Never in all that time had he spent more than a single night in one place, as per the decree of
his oath, lest the Lady find him wanting.
Seeking the Lady’s divine favour, he had bested creatures foul and murderous in the forests of the
Empire, championed the oppressed in the burning lands of Araby far to the south, and battled alongside
dwarf thanes against screaming hordes of greenskins far beneath the Worlds Edge Mountains.
THE SILVER MOON of Mannslieb resembled a sickle blade hanging low in clear night sky. Patches of snow
shone brightly beneath it, and while it was almost a month into spring, the wind whipping across the fields
still held a touch of winter’s bite. Hunched against the icy gale, two riders were making their weary
progress along a muddy road, passing fields, abandoned hovels and isolated clumps of woodland.
They travelled in silence, one behind the other, offering no conversation. The only sound
accompanying them was the steady clomping of hooves, the jingle of tack and the ghostly whispering of
the wind.
The lead rider drew his travel-stained cloak tighter around his shoulders as the wind picked up. His
features were completely hidden in the deep shadow of his hood, yet his eyes glinted in the moonlight. He
rode a massive warhorse, over sixteen hands high at the shoulder, and had a large sword strapped across
his back. In stark contrast to his companion, he rode in the languid manner of one who had spent most of
his life in the saddle.
The second rider looked decidedly awkward, slumped in the saddle of a mange-ridden mule. The
plodding beast was a picture of misery, head hanging almost to the ground as it trudged through the mud,
laden with heavy packs and chests. This rider was shivering, for while he too wore a cloak, it was
threadbare and moth-eaten. His head was nodding towards his chest. Losing the battle to keep his eyes
open, he pitched sidewards. He came awake with a muffled yelp, and after a brief, inelegant struggle, he
hauled himself back upright.
‘I will not wait for you if you fall off again, Chlod,’ said the lead rider without turning. Chlod’s hood
had fallen back, exposing his brutish head. His hair was shaved short in a vain attempt to rid him of lice,
and his eyes were piggish and uneven. He had only one ear, the other having been hacked off by a
Norscan shaman years earlier, and his jutting jaw and heavy brow made him look like a simpleton. He
glared at his master’s back, and pulled a grotesque face.
‘Make that face again, Chlod, and I will cut off your thumbs,’ said his master.
‘Sorry, my lord,’ said Chlod, knowing that it was not some idle threat.
They continued along in silence once more. Chlod blinked the sleep out of his eyes and concentrated
on his surroundings. He thought they looked vaguely familiar, but it was hard to say under the cover of
darkness, and besides, it had been many years since last he had set foot in Bretonnia.
‘Where are we, my lord?’ he said at last.
‘Home,’ came the reply.
IT FELT STRANGE to say the word, thought Calard. Home.
Six long and difficult years had passed since he had left Castle Garamont. It felt like a lifetime. Six
years ago he had taken up the grail quest, setting aside his lance and handing over the running of his castle
and lands to his young cousin, Orlando, under the watchful eye of Baron Montcadas. Orlando had been
just a boy when he had left, and by now he would be all but unrecognisable, on the cusp of becoming a
man.
Calard had travelled the Old World and beyond seeking the Lady of the Lake, patron goddess of
Bretonnia. Never in all that time had he spent more than a single night in one place, as per the decree of
his oath, lest the Lady find him wanting.
Seeking the Lady’s divine favour, he had bested creatures foul and murderous in the forests of the
Empire, championed the oppressed in the burning lands of Araby far to the south, and battled alongside
dwarf thanes against screaming hordes of greenskins far beneath the Worlds Edge Mountains. He had
fought in a dozen duels of honour, one against a monstrous ogre tyrant. He had battled trolls upon the
frozen oblast of Kislev, rescued a nobleman’s daughter from sacrifice at the hands of a band of cultists
beneath Altdorf, and emerged victorious from the famed Dance of Blades in the cutthroat city of Sartosa,
off the coast of Estalia. Always, he chased the elusive presence of the goddess, yet always she led him
further on. Now, she had brought him back to his homeland.
For months, Calard’s dreams had been haunted by a recurring vision. Though he could not discern its
full meaning, one thing was certain beyond any doubt; the goddess wished for him to return to Castle
Garamont.
Calard reined his destrier in as he topped a tussocked rise. He drew his hood back. Gone was any
hint of softness in his appearance, the years on the road having hardened his body and his mind. His eyes
were dark and stern, and his cheeks rough with stubble. His hair was unwashed and hung past his
shoulders, and his face was tanned. As alert and lean as a hunting wolf, he stared over the fields into the
distance. His eyes narrowed.
‘Master?’ said Chlod, after a minute. ‘What is it? I see nothing.’
‘Exactly,’ said Calard. ‘Where are the lights of Castle Garamont? We should be able to see them on
the horizon from here.’
The mighty fortress dominated the landscape for miles around, and its men-at-arms always kept its
beacon fires burning through the hours of darkness. Nevertheless, the western horizon was ominously
dark.
‘Perhaps someone forgot to light them?’ offered Chlod, but Calard shook his head.
‘There is something wrong here,’ he said, his eyes glinting fiercely in the moonlight. ‘I’ll move quicker
alone. Follow after me, and keep to the road. Do not tarry.’ Chlod nodded.
With a flick of the reins Calard urged his destrier into a canter and began riding towards the distant
silhouette of Castle Garamont.
Mannslieb was just touching the horizon by the time he drew close. Dark and ominous, his family
castle loomed above him. He circled around it in a wide arc, scouting for danger, but saw no sign of life
other than a startled fox and a mated pair of ghost-owls hunting for prey. Calard’s expression was grim.
The scent of ash filled the air, and several of the castle’s towers had collapsed. There were no sentries
upon the walls, and no light in any of its windows. By all appearances, it was utterly abandoned, and had
been left to ruin.
Nevertheless, Calard’s experience had taught him to be cautious, and he completed his wide circuit
around the castle before he began his approach from the south, angling towards Garamont’s main
gatehouse. Out of habit, he ensured that the wind was always in his face, so as to mask his scent from
anything ahead.
The drawbridge was lowered and in a state of disrepair, and the rusted portcullis was up. Calard
rode through the gatehouse into the courtyard beyond, staring around him at the ruin of his once great
castle.
The keep was a burnt-out shell, its pale stone blackened with soot, and the wind howled mournfully
through its empty halls. The stables were completely gone, with nothing but a few charred stumps and
charcoal marking where they had stood. The north-east wall had partially collapsed, the debris scattered
on the ground like grave markers.
Dismounting, Calard tied his warhorse to a fire-blackened post before climbing the stairs towards the
keep. One of its doors was gone, while the other hung forlornly on one hinge, creaking in the breeze.
Drawing his sword, he moved into the keep’s dark interior.
He passed through its empty halls, his expression betraying none of his surging emotions. The inside
of the keep was now open to the sky, the upper floors completely gone, and the stars were visible high
overhead. A few thick supporting beams remained intact, but even these were charred and looked as
though they might fall at any moment. The grand stone staircase that rose from the main entrance hall still
stood, rendered pointless now that it climbed nowhere, and its steps were thick with ash.
Bones and scraps of armour protruded from the debris in one hall, and these Calard inspected
carefully, turning them over in his hands in an attempt to discern what tragedy had befallen his home.
Chipped bone showed evidence of heavy sword blows, and as he prowled deeper into the ruin, he found
more evidence that a great battle had taken place here some years earlier.
Without conscious thought, Calard found himself in a small annex off the western wing, where the
castle’s shrine to the Lady was located. No divine power had protected it from the fire that had clearly
ravaged the keep, and only a few jagged shards remained of its once beautiful stained-glass windows.
Something caught his eye, and Calard sheathed his sword and knelt before the fire-blackened altar.
Half-buried amongst the rubble, a small statue of the Lady remained intact, lying on its side. It was
covered in soot and chipped, but Calard picked it up and placed it reverently upon the altar. Closing his
eyes, he began to pray.
There was noise outside and Calard was instantly on his feet, sword drawn. Moving silently and
keeping to the shadows, he ghosted back through the ruined hall.
‘Master?’ called a voice.
‘Silence, fool,’ Calard hissed, stepping from the concealing darkness of the ruined keep.
‘What happened here, master?’ said Chlod. He half-climbed, half-fell from the saddle, and tied his
mule to the post alongside Calard’s steed.
Calard’s eyes were locked on the ground at the peasant’s feet.
‘Stand still,’ he ordered.
‘What?’ said Chlod, turning in Calard’s direction.
‘Be still! Stop moving,’ said Calard, and the peasant froze. Calard moved forward, studying the
ground intently. There were prints in the mud that he had not noticed earlier. ‘Back away over there,’ he
said, gesturing.
‘Shall I prepare you some food, master?’ said Chlod, doing as he was bid.
‘Fine, but no fire,’ said Calard, not looking up. ‘It would be seen for miles around.’
Careful not disturb the tracks, Calard crouched and studied them intently. They were difficult to read,
for the prints were old and crossed over themselves time and again. Nevertheless, after several minutes
Calard had identified the tracks of nine separate individuals and their steeds. He judged that they had
made camp here a week ago, perhaps two.
His eyes narrowed when he came across one particularly clear hoof-print. The depth of the track
indicated a horse heavily burdened, and the mark of its shoe was clear. In the centre of the imprint was
the blacksmith’s mark. Calard recognised the heraldic device instantly.
‘Sangasse,’ Calard spat.
Standing, Calard marched towards his waiting warhorse, and called for Chlod to make ready to
depart.
‘Where do we go, master?’ said the peasant as he hurriedly began packing up his pots.
‘To visit an old neighbour,’ said Calard, his voice filled with rage.
II
‘MALORIC!’
The sky glowed with pre-dawn light. The peasants of Sangasse had been awake for hours, working
the muddy fields. Many of them had halted their work as Calard had passed by, leaning on hoes and
muttering under their breath. Calard had ignored them, his head held high and his face a grim mask.
Though they were neighbours, no knight of Garamont had set foot on Sangasse lands for over six
generations without blood being spilt. The border between the two powerful noble families had long been
disputed, changing hands countless times over the centuries. As Calard had ridden towards the border,
his anger had deepened, for it was clear that the Sangasse family had claimed much of Garamont’s land
in his absence. By the time he arrived outside the gates of Castle Sangasse, a formidable bastion built
atop a natural rocky bluff, his rage was incandescent.
‘Maloric!’ he bellowed again, wheeling his warhorse beneath him.
Nervous men-at-arms looked down from the castle walls at him. All of them were garbed in tabards
bearing the heraldry of Maloric, the Earl of Sangasse. Maloric and Calard were of a similar age and had
a long history of antagonism. Since childhood they had been raised to loathe one another, and even
though they had fought side by side on dozens of occasions, even going so far as saving each other’s lives
on the field of battle, they could never be anything but rivals.
Chlod licked his lips. Hundreds of bowmen were stationed along the walls, and a pair of mighty
trebuchets were positioned atop the gatehouse. Scores of men-at-arms barred the way, shields locked
together. Calard was undaunted, refusing to be intimidated by mere peasants.
‘Show yourself, Maloric!’ he shouted. ‘Calard, Castellan of Garamont demands it!’
At last, a young knight appeared atop the gatehouse. His hair was dishevelled and he was still
blinking the sleep out of his eyes. Calard did not recognise him.
‘What is it you seek here, Garamont?’ called the knight.
‘Fetch your master, and be quick about it,’ shouted Calard. ‘I will not bandy words with you or any
of Maloric’s lackeys.’
Chlod winced as the knight’s face reddened and several archers nocked arrows to strings.
‘Speak to me in such a tone again, Garamont, and you will be cut down where you stand,’ shouted
back the knight. ‘Speak your piece quickly, or take your leave!’
‘I am a Questing Knight of the Lady,’ shouted Calard. ‘Any man who dares loose an arrow in my
direction will be cursed by the goddess, as shall you if you give the order. Now be gone from my sight, I
am done talking to you. I will speak to Maloric, and no one else. Fetch him from his bed if sleeping past
dawn is his habit.’
His face flushed, the knight turned and disappeared from sight.
For long minutes, Calard and Chlod waited while men-at-arms and peasant bowmen shuffled their
