I used to write the odd article, adventure and such like in exchange for a small amount of cash and
last year the Black Library, publishers of Warhammer fiction, had an open submission month. It seemed like an excuse to do some writing and I thought after all the critiquing of their novels on this blog I'd have a go at writing my own short story - a kind of psychological horror story about a quixotic senile knight hunting a witch in a backwards rural village in Bretonnia (basically a backwards Arthurian medieval France setting) while his squire, a treacherous fellow who uses the knight's senility and rank to get an easy rise, dissuade the knight from his investigations. There's also some stuff about an evil version of the Grail I eventually put into last year's Nationals module.
Anyroads, I wrote a synopsis and a short 1,000 word sample. Black Library then announced they didn't want a synopsis and it seems the original synopsis is lost to hard disk crashes.
Since Games Workshop never got back to me in nearly a year I guess they were after more teenage-friendly action and less psychology, so I'm posting it here for general comments/critiques.
For Want of a Grail, A Warhammer Fantasy Short Story by Stuart Kerrigan
Overview: The Questing Knights of Bretonnia who find the Grail
become Grail Knights but what of those who do not succeed yet remain bound by
their oath to stubbornly continue their quest?
Sample
1,000 words:
The mood in the common room was as cold as the snow that carpeted the
village commons Jacques thought. On a normal night Beyonne’s keg house echoed
with sounds of ribald jests, grumblings and tales of mundane drudgery. Tonight
their nerves were on edge and their glassy eyes squinted into their glasses of
cheap wine.
Jacques cursed under his breath. The drinks were flowing as slowly as the
conversation. His eyes scanned the length of the dirt covered bar looking for a
dirty glass to spit and clean. Suddenly the door to the keg house opened and
the barkeep felt the kiss of the chill wind upon his skin. A single figure
stood by the door, his stooped form in silhouette from the single lantern hung
from the rafters that bathed the room in urine-yellow light.
The man moved towards the bar with a pronounced limp on his left leg, and
when he at last stood in the light Jacques saw the man had a weathered
countenance. He was bald as an egg, wearing a brown eye-patch over his left eye
to match most of his mismatched leather jerkin. A scar marred his left cheek
and when his right hand slammed onto the bar Jacques noticed a mere three
digits.
“My liege, Sir Brisbois, Knight of the Quest, finds this weather too cold
for his liking,” said the man in a deep, scratchy voice. “He wishes to stay the
night in your fine establishment.”
Jacques stood at once to attention, “Aye milord.” Perhaps tonight would
not see his takings down. Knights were a capricious breed - unschooled in
matters of commerce they were often unwittingly generous, but if they found the
service wanting their anger could be great.
The ill-favoured character nodded in acknowledgment and exited the
tavern, leaving the door open. A few moments passed and the warmth continued to
escape the common room. Then he returned, holding the arm of his
master.
The knight that entered was thin and stooped under the weight of his
armour. A short untidy white beard ordained a wrinkled and elderly face and
matched the crop of hair on his head. He wore what had once been fine, albeit
old-fashioned, plate mail that was now encrusted in dirt and rust. Some of the
ringlets of his cuirass and underlying hauberk lay broken. A still-fine silver-hilted
long blade and a cruel looking double-handed sword were girthed to his left
side. Jacques grandfather and great-uncles had been men-at-arms. From them he
knew that a squire who kept his knight’s raiments in such a shabby manner would
be horsewhipped to within an inch of his life.
The rogue who accompanied the knight led him down to a table near the bar
and pushed him onto the bench non-too-gently. “Bring him wine,” said the
squire. “And bring me some too.”
Jacques dusted off a Bastonne vintage he kept under the bar and brought
it to the table along with a pewter goblet. The squire gleefully seized both
saying, “This’ll do for me. Bring him the house red.”
Jacques looked uncertainly from the braggart to the knight, but the old
man still shook from the cold of the winter night. Jacques returned with a
chipped pewter goblet full of the local red. The old man slowly drained it
while the braggart swigged from the bottle.
“Thank you Grenell,” said Brisbois hoarsely.
“That’s not my name,” said the rogue, ignoring the knight and speaking to
Jacques. “Not that he knows or cares anymore. Milord here is forever listening
to the dragon as the Bastonne’s would say.” He tapped the side of his temple
whilst rolling his eyes in mockery. “The real name’s Malloc.”
“Have you tended to the horses?” asked the old man, oblivious to his
squire’s disrespect.
“Of course I have milord,” said Malloc patronisingly. He handed Jacques a
silver penny and whispered, “Have your boy stable his mule out front. The
thing’s half dead with cold. Old devil thinks it’s an elven steed gifted him by
the Lady.”
Jacques brow creased, partly in confusion and partly in disgust at this
so-called squire. Before he could decide how to respond he was joined by Russo,
a dirt-covered farmer who had been sat by the hearth. The peasant stooped
unsteadily over the knight’s table. He focused on the old warrior and knelt in
supplication, “Have you come to deliver us from the devils sir knight?”
Brisbois said nothing, tilting his head and seemingly staring past the
peasant with his tired grey eyes.
“Horrors plague the farms sir. Last week my cow, she gave birth to a
two-headed calf, she did and the others say I be…”
The peasants head hit the table as Malloc backhanded the peasant. He
laughed, “Livestock are not our concern peasant.”
Tears formed in Russo’s eyes as he lifted his head, a nosebleed mingling
with the filth and straw on the common room floor. Jacques took a deep breath
and turned to the knight, “A month ago someone snuck into the barn and cut Dominic’s
prize sheep open. Its entrails were snakes and when he found the carcass and the
snakes bit him. He died days later he did. An’ there’s been more over the last
few moons.”
“Enough!” said Brisbois, surprising even Malloc with the sound of his
voice. “I have heard enough!” The knight reached his feet unsteadily, shaking
as he did. He drew his double-handed sword in his palsied hands and moved it
an uncertain arc over Malloc’s head. The squire recoiled, ducking under the
table. “You have described to me the signs that a daemon infests your town of…”
“Beyonne, milord,” said another peasant to nervous chuckles. “Yer in the
back of Beyonne.”
Brisbois continued unphased, “Of Beyonne. By the Lady I swear to you I
shall find your demon and excise it from your soil, and regain her favour.”
The peasants chattered excitedly. Brisbois unsteadily lowered his sword
to the table and knocked over the bottle of Bastonne red.
Malloc cursed under his breath. This had become more than an overnight
stay in Beyonne.
It's a quest for a maguffin - the missing Runefang of Solland, a former province of the Empire that was razed by orcs and subsumed by its neighbour, Wissenland. A Runefang is the magic sword each of the Imperial Electors (i.e. top noblemen) wields in battle, and this particular Runefang was half-inched by the orcs. Unfortunately it is the only weapon that can destroy the undead liche that is currently ravaging Solland and Wissenland.
.JPG)
