The Mad Knight Brannen

[VictorK]

This is a little something I dug up this morning, those of you who have read The Gunpowder Age have seen a lot of references to Skraw and Brannen. The first half of this I wrote for the last Scrivener's Contest but I never submitted it. I added the second half this morning. My apologies to the Bretonnians out there, it's a little grim for you guys...


The Fall of Bretonnia
Weep for your faithful, Lady, for all hope has left them...

The tavern erupted with laughter for the fifth time in the early evening. It was one of those fortunate times in the sleepy Bretonnian village, the day?s toil was over and the townsfolk had been treated to a traveling bard as they went to commune with the rest of their number. Guys le Chevale was a talented singer, joker, and storyteller, the pinnacle of the bardic profession. He truly loved his work, accomplishing what few peasants in Bretonnia could hope for. He had respect and a vast storehouse of knowledge that even the noble classes would sit still for. Tonight was his night to appeal to the lower classes. He?d sung a few songs, entertained the hard working farmers with a few jokes and performed several stunts. He had even gotten the dark man in the corner to laugh once or twice, the night was shaping up to be quite the affair. The third round of ale was going around and Guys knew that a laughing drunken crowd could be a dangerous matter, and so like a true professional he settled down for his greatest act. Guys le Chevale called for requests. He was going to tell a story.

Initially there was much grumbling amongst the peasantry, great tales were always precious, and it was a careful choice indeed as to which hero would fill their ears tonight. Guys waited patiently while the commonfolk made up their mind, it was his challenge to spin a tale about any hero they could come up with. Then the first request came out. ?Brannen.? The dark man spoke from behind his pipe, smoke rising up into the dingy rafters of the tavern. He was clad in a strange manner of armor, as if many different sets of leather armor had been put together to create his protection. He wore a dingy black cloak around his shoulders and a farmer?s hat on his head. ?I would like to hear the tale of the Mad Knight.? The peasants murmured their approval and Guys grinned.

?Very well, traveler. You?re in luck; I am one of the few bards in these parts who know the whole tale of Jean Brannen, the Mad Knight.? The tavern settled, storytelling was a very sacred affair in rural Bretonnia. ?It begins with the coming of Iskit Skraw??

Skraw spilled forth onto the Olde World faster than any plague, and he hit harder than any army had before. Oblivious to the titanic events that were occurring beneath their feet those with power in the Olde World states made no preparation, could not prepare themselves for the invasion that would place Archaon in distant memory. While the Olde World fought Chaos a Skaven warlord was consolidating power in a way completely alien to the race of ratmen. He built an army that none in the Under-Empire could stand against and won the favor of the Council of Thirteen. War was coming to the Olde World, and the name Skraw would be feared long after it was over.

Some say a million Skaven attacked the Olde World the summer that Skraw appeared. Sewers were crowded with them, and from mineshafts and any other portal to the underworld whole armies spewed forth. Carroburg fell. Reikland fell. Wissenland fell. Quenelles fell. Guisoreux fell. Parravon fell. The Olde World came crashing down under the weight of the Skaven onslaught. The Empire managed, rallying its armies to halt Skraw at the river Reik. Embattled on the northern front Skraw turned his claws on Bretonnia, leading his personal armies to bolster the invasion forces. Two Bretonnian armies were defeated by Skraw, prompting the king to send out a call to arms, to rally around him every knight in Bretonnia and their retinues. He was going to drive Skraw from Bretonnia in one glorious charge.

It took nearly a year for the muster to be complete. Skraw waited, watching the king rally his troops. From every corner of Bretonnia knights came with thousands of peasants. Feeding the army was a monumental task, and it is a testament to the strength of honor and solidarity that the Bretonnians possessed that they were able to keep such a force alive. Hopes were high all throughout that great year. Nearly a hundred thousand peasants rallied under the king?s banner, in more than spirit was all of Bretonnia prepared to fight Skraw. Hopes began to wane as the winter came on. Not a single Grail Knight had reported to the encampment since the muster call had gone out, and the knights knew that without these legendary warriors they would not stand a chance against Iskit Skraw.

A horn sounded in the wilderness, a queer, other worldly sound. Jean Brannen looked up from his horse, Lothario, and towards the tree line. He was a lad of not more than twelve years; he wore livery of red and blue, the Brannen family crest emblazoned on his page?s smock. Men all around him started to move at the sound of the horn, fearing that Iskit Skraw had sent an army to strike at them before they could take the field bereft of Grail Knights. Such was the paranoia of these dark times, and Jean was not spared the heavy feelings on his heart. He watched the men run past, knights, all. The boy?s grip tensed on Lothario?s mane; never had he possessed a great measure of courage. He lived with his mother and uncle in the north, their home now overrun by Skaven. Young Brannen had been conceived the night before his father had left on his quest for the Grail, and Jean had never known him.

A heavy hand came down on Jean?s shoulder, prompting the boy to look up at the man who towered over him. Renault Brannen, the brother of Jean?s father was staring at the forest as well, a smile on his dirty face. Seeing his uncle smile Jean?s face too parted in that manner. Renault had been his father, and a good one, teaching the boy what he could. Now in times of war he taught Jean how to serve. ?They are here, Jean.? Renault spoke. ?The Grail Knights have come.?

From the old forest the greatest defenders of Bretonnia emerged. They were gods on earth, and light seemed to shine from the whole of them. The king had mustered nearly every Grail Knight in the realm, and now they presented themselves to the rest of the army. Hope was lifted in the heart of every man who looked upon them, and many a hardened knight fell onto his knees as the sight of the blessed warriors. The camp was covered in dirt and mud, its inhabitants slaves to the earth. Yet the Grail Knights stood apart from those of this world, their armor unmarred, their cloth free of dirt and grime. Nothing like them walked the Olde World or New, and as they filtered through the camp, the king of Bretonnia at their head, that entire body was lifted into grace, as invincible as the sun.

Renault and the boy watched the great spectacle with awe on their faces, their own thoughts lost to the adoration and exaltation of the knights. The Grail Knights were now a good way through the camp, riding towards the place where Skraw and his armies lurked. The king drew his sword, this one weapon capturing the light of the Grail Knights in its perfect surface. The signal was clear, now the Bretonnians rode to war once again. Jean watched the knights filter past, and then his gaze was torn away by the sound of hoof beats coming closer. A Grail Knight mounted upon a stately Pegasus met the boy?s gaze, holding it for a moment. Jean could not see the knight?s eyes or feel any emotion from him, he saw the light that emanated from him, and more important the red and blue livery that adorned him. ?Renault.? The knight spoke, his hidden gaze now drifting to Jean?s uncle. The voice was powerful, mighty beyond this world yet tempered with human feeling and compassion, the kind of voice you would trust on instinct. ?Is this boy my son??

?Yes, Tyrel.? Renault spoke, swallowing hard. Jean just continued to stare, his mind overwhelmed by the sights and sounds coming from the knight, his message had not yet registered.

?What is his name.? Tyrel Brannen?s voice almost sang onto the air.

?Jean, his name is Jean.? Renault replied, his speech quickened. A sheen of sweat was forming on the knight?s brow, and he breathed a sigh of relief as Tyrel looked to his son.

?A fine name.? While the knight?s voice was soothing and possessed of a divine quality, it lacked the compassion of a father. ?And a fine horse. You are a strong lad, my son. I can see it, though you may not. Thank you, Renault. You have raised him well in my absence. I must go now; the king will have us riding soon. Keep yourself safe, Jean. I am proud of what you are.? The Pegasus unfurled its wings and bore Tyrel aloft, leaving brother and son to stand and ponder.

?He does love you.? Renault said to the boy that now clutched at his hand. ?He cannot show it, Jean. Know that. I am sorry to leave you as well?But if we are to ride then I must get ready. See to Lothario, ready your supplies.? Then Renault too left Jean, who could only hold onto Lothario?s mane for support. The boy felt alone, without direction and without guidance. War was upon his land but he didn?t know what that meant, he was just a boy who had learned that his father was so far beyond his reach that not even blood seemed to connect them.

?I?m afraid, Lo.? Jean whispered to his horse, who whinnied in return.

For three days the vast host of Bretonnia rode and marched. They traveled at an incredible pace; such was the fire in their blood to drive them quickly through the forests and over the fields to where Skraw was waiting. On the dawn of the fourth day the Bretonnians could see fire on the horizon, the flames throwing up a great curtain of smoke that gave many of the men in the army the impression that they were truly riding into hell. Skraw was burning the forests, another day and he would have to answer to Bretonnian steel. Steel was not the only weapon that proud host carried, the valor of the knights was raised to its height, seeing their land thrown up as cinders they reaffirmed their oaths and prepared their souls. Come the fifth day, the king of Bretonnia was face to face with Iskit Skraw.

The army of Bretonnia arrived on the field of battle early the next morning. The sky was a dark swirl of black and red as embers mixed with smoke, and every now and again the sparks would fall from the sky like dying stars. The Bretonnians were lined up on a ridge overlooking a large bowl valley, its once green fields scorched and blackened. The Grail Knights lined up in the center, the banner of the king at the exact middle of the line. On either side were the other knights, one flank led by the Duke of L?Anguille the other by the Prince. This army was the largest ever mustered in Bretonnian history, but the force on the other ridge outnumbered them still.

This was the army of Iskit Skraw. Rather, it was three armies. Skraw?s was in the rear, its engineers busy setting up the machines of destruction that would cast lightning and warpstone at their foes. They were the elites, veterans of countless battles. Only the finest Skaven served with Iskit Skraw. The other two armies were the standard invasion forces that had emerged all throughout the Olde World, sprawling masses of ratmen and their mutated servants. As the Bretonnians emerged on the far ridge the Skaven began to screech, lifting their high, unholy voices to the burning sky. They were feverish, their only desire to spill the blood of men on their own lands. At the center of it all was the villain himself. Iskit Skraw was the only silent Skaven in the entire mob, his arms crossed over his Dwarf-wrought armor, his dwarf-wrought weapon held by his standard bearer. He was a wicked creature as he surveyed the Bretonnians. A pitiful few, his evil mind reasoned. Skraw?s black lips parted to reveal his rotting teeth, his one remaining eye narrowing in anticipation. He lifted one paw to signal his standard bearer, who nodded vigorously and ran Skraw?s personal banner up its pole. Suddenly the cries of the Skaven ceased to be mindless screeching and took on form. They were shouting ?Skraw?.

The eyes of the king narrowed as the black banner of Skraw emerged from the center of the Skaven force. He turned to his own standard bearer, having to shout to be heard over the cries of ?Skraw! Skraw!? in the background. ?Sound the charge.? He told the knight, who took up his horn and let out one long, shrill call. Soon it was answered by every other horn in the Bretonnian army. Across the valley, Skraw?s smile widened. The king unsheathed his sword, and as one the mass of knights poured into the valley, a curtain of mail and lance. Impulsively the Skaven rushed to meet them, and from above the battlefield was the stereotype of warfare, black against white, good against evil.

The far ridge erupted in the eldritch green light of the skaven warmachines. Lightning arced down on the knights, wicked green bolts that fused their armor and scorched their flesh. Chunks of warpstone cascaded into them like hail, yet the knights did not waver. Their brothers in arms fell, but the host was not thinned and the high of valor had not diminished. No missile seemed to touch the Grail Knights at the center, their holy glow warding off the dark magic of Skraw?s horde. The skaven lines were close now, the disordered mass of slaves followed by the ranks of the mainstay warriors of the skaven. Overheard the Pegasus knights led by Tyrel Brannen prepared for their first dive. The king?s plan was simple, drive Skraw from the field with force of arms. He had utter faith in his men, and they would not disappoint him.

With scant seconds before the armies clashed the Grail Knights howled their battlecry, lowering the ends of their deadly lances. The crashed into the skaven like thunder, trampling their bodies without a second glance. The host of knights rode down the mass of slaves with little effort; there was nothing the already doomed skaven could do to resist them. The king could see Skraw?s plan now, the way he intended to beat the knights of Bretonnia. Lances were broken on slaves, the momentum of their charge diminished. The king cleared the last rank of the skaven, and now the ordered masses of Clanrats loomed before him. Skraw intended to slowly break them, they might get through this second line, but they would never best his army that lurked behind. The king had his own plans.

Like hawks seeking their prey the Pegasus knights dove, falling like the white hammer of some angry god onto the Skaven. Their lances plowed into the skaven, breaking the cohesion of their line and throwing into chaos. Lances were shattered and bones were broken, but after the Pegasus took to the sky again in between arcs of lightning the king?s knights clashed with the clanrats. The time for lances was over. One by one the knights unsheathed their swords and fell into the rat men with hacking fury. This was an uphill climb; the finest host Bretonnia had ever produced against a mass of skaven twice their number. Knights from every portion of the Lady?s land fell into the same enemy with equal ferocity, but none were greater than the Grail Knights. They decimated the skaven, burning through the body of their army like a cancer. Yet it is said that the deeds of every knight of the Quest on that field warranted a glimpse of the Grail, and that every man fought above his station.

From above the battle Skraw motioned to his standard bearer. The skaven grinned as two of his armies were being ground down to nothing. The standard bearer handed Skraw his sword, a yet unnamed Dwarfen weapon. It was a wicked semi-ellipse, the blade as long as the skaven was tall. Part of the sword had been carved out to allow a bar to be laid into the metal. It was here that Skraw gripped his weapon, his warped claws clicking against the hilt. He cast his head to the side, and wicked horn sounded. The beat of drums filled the air, causing Tyrel Brannen to glance earthward from his heavenly mount. Skraw?s army lurched forward in ordered ranks of which an Imperial drillmaster would be proud. Below the Pegasi the king and his knights were winning, but the gap between them and the army of Skraw was closed. The most well equipped skaven army in history was about to clash with the finest knights Bretonnia had to offer. Tyrel gave the order to dive.

In the same manner that they had attacked the first two armies the Pegasus knights plummeted towards the earth to do what damage they could to Skraw before he met the king. Skraw had seen the winged knights break the formation of his first two armies. He had watched them defend Parravon, but ultimately he had taken that city, and no trick ever worked twice against Iskit Skraw. As the knights dived the skaven artillery opened up, hurtling lightning and warpstone at the knights. Such was the volume of the magical hail that the wings of several Pegasi were sheared off, causing the beasts to plummet to the earth with their riders. Lightning caught some, causing the rider and Pegasus to burst into flames and die in screaming agony. Tyrel didn?t even look up. His mission was before him, and no amount of weapon fire was going to stop him. Skraw had dispersed along his front line giant, twisted creatures that the humans called rat ogres. They carried massive hammers, and had been trained for this task. Many of the pegasi that survived the curtain of warpstone and lightning did their damage, plowing into the front ranks. Most were either roped by Skraw?s horde or crushed under the hammers of the ogres. Tyrel realized his error too late, and when he pulled away from the seething mass of skaven he took stock of the sky. Less than a dozen Pegasus knights remained.

Skraw laughed his insane cackle as the Pegasus knights were decimated. They weren?t going to trouble him this battle. The knights were winning, that was for sure. The weak willed skaven from the two regular armies were fleeing in droves, only to be cut down by their own artillery as they tried to get away. Skraw had no use for them. So they died. The knights were still tied up in the battle, and Skraw knew he was going to have the momentum. ?Spears down!? He called to the burly rats in black fur. ?Death to the manlings! Leave leave their king to me!? He was answered by a massive roar from the Skaven as they broke into a run, charging into the Bretonnians.

The king was at once aware that something was wrong. His blade sliced through the neck of a skaven, his black blood arcing into the air but not touching the holy form of the king. The king turned his head towards the oncoming army of Skraw, spurred his horse and turned towards it. ?For the Lady! Grail Knights, to me!? And miraculously, over the din of battle, they heard him and came. The holy host detached itself from the rest of the Bretonnians, making breakneck speed towards the ranked spears of the Skaven. They howled their cries and sounded their horns, knowing that this was where the battle was to be decided. The skaven were more afraid of the black banner of Skraw behind them than the shining knights before them, and continued to march forward. The king sensed battle, waiting for his sword to taste skavenflesh once again. He would be denied another skaven?s head that day.

The ranks of the skaven parted to allow the king and his personal bodyguard to pass. The black horde swallowed him up, but not a skaven touched him. The king knew what this was; the banner of Skraw was looming before him. He would make the skaven regret issuing this challenge. He heard this Grail Knights connect with the skaven behind him; letting the sound of their steeds crashing against skaven armor hearted him. He could now see Skraw through the slits in his helm, standing with utter confidence next to his standard bearer. There was no bodyguard for Iskit Skraw, not group of soldiers the king would have to fight through. Skraw and Skraw alone awaited him. The king cried out, calling for the warlord?s blood. Skraw laughed, throwing his grizzled muzzle to the burning sky and laughing to his gods. His standard bearer seemed to disappear, flying forward in a black blur that caught the first of the two knights flanking the king. He heard a muffled, wet cry from the knight, and then just as quickly the same sound from the other. The king turned to his warriors fall to the ground, and the skaven in black garb standing between them. Enraged, the king met Skraw.

Skraw ducked low as the king came, his sword held at his side. Skraw swung, and the forelegs of the king?s horse disappeared. The king tumbled to the ground, though not one of the skaven that surrounded his battle with Skraw moved to touch him. The king rose, removing his helm to face the evil skaven. Louen Louencour was old. He was the last of the heroes that had stood against Archaon, the last statesman of that foregone age. His beard was white and long, but the fire of the Lady burned in his eye and his valor had not been dulled by such a paltry thing as the passage of years. His beard was long and white, but his arm strong. A gold circlet ringed his head, marking him as the ruler of Bretonnia. For a moment he faced down the ratman, eyeing the being that had ravaged his lands with utter contempt. The king brandished his weapon, and charged.

Ancient sword range against new construct as the two titans of the Olde World clashed. Louen knew that as he saw his reflection in the marred surface of Runegraw that he might very well be the last of the great heroes. The war against Archaon and his horde had created many mighty warriors, but killed even more. Skraw was the plague sent to finish them. How many of them still lived? How many men with might to match their valor still walked the Olde World? Few, he reckoned, so few. The king kept up with Skraw, their battle a furious game of parries and strikes. The first blow landed would be the last blow, and both warriors brought out all of their skill and ferocity. I heard the horns this morning. Their voice sounded over my valley, washed through my enemy. But it was hollow. I knew it then, I can see it clearly now. Are we, the noble, to be purged? Has our time truly come to its end? Where are the knights, where are the soldiers who carry the world on their backs? Where are the heroes who will fight against the curtain of night? As if to answer Louen?s question Skraw?s unnamed sword snapped his shield in two, breaking the king?s forearm and driving him back. Skraw danced forward, bringing his sword down on the king?s other arm. It broke. The king was dizzy, stumbling back while his arms wobbled at his sides. Skraw kicked him. He fell.

Louen had only the vaguest sensation of hitting the earth. Then he felt a furry, diseased claw grasp the back of his neck. He was lifted from the ground and held like a toy, his gaze out over the battlefield. ?See see your defeat, king!? Skraw rasped into his ear. And the skaven was right. The knights were dying. Louen could no longer spot the liveries of the knights errant, the young hope for Bretonnia. There were being swallowed. Even the light of his Grail Knights was fading as they fought against the overwhelming horde, surrounded. Louen cried out for the lost, screaming in rage and in pain, in shame and in sorrow. He had led his kingdom to utter defeat, and fate had been cruel enough to let him watch it unravel. Skraw cast him back to the ground. ?Your kingdom is mine, king king.? The skaven chuckled darkly, placing his boot on Louen?s chest. Louen sputtered.

?Blackfang.? Skraw called out, and the skaven in black garb that had been Skraw?s standard bearer came forward. ?I think I have found a name for my sword.? The skaven?s cruel eyes found the king?s. ?Archaon called his sword the Slayer of Kings, yes yes. Mine is about to slay a king. It shall be called Regicide.? Skraw laughed, bringing the wicked sword down on Louen?s neck. Skraw knelt, grabbing the head of Louen by its hair. He hoisted it for all to see, and called out: ?The King is dead! The lands of the manling are mine mine!? The skaven horde roared their approval. Skraw cackled, throwing back his arms and howling with glee. The last of the knights were either fleeing or being crushed under the unending mass of skaven. Not a single Grail Knight would walk from the field.

Tyrel Brannen dived one last time. He was the last, the last of the Grail Knights. His mind burned with the impossibility of this reality, his heart screaming against what had happened. He screamed with rage, driving his lance into a rat ogre with all the force he had left. The beast toppled onto its handlers, and Brannen tore into the other skaven. He was driven mad with grief and sorrow, hacking away at any rat man he could see. Another rat ogre stepped forward and grabbed Tyrel?s mount in its giant hands. The Grail Knight hacked away at the creature?s fingers with his sword, not so much to free himself but to cause the monster pain. It crushed the skull of his Pegasus in its hands, dropping the fine steed to the ground. Brannen had no time to mourn his mount, and charged the rat ogre. He leapt onto it, driving his sword down its throat. It fell backwards like its companion. Brannen screamed again, drawing his sword and falling into the skaven. They couldn?t stop him, not now, because he was the last, and always would the Grail Knights defend Bretonnia. He did not grow tired, the aura of power around him only intensified as he raged on. The skaven were running from him. Brannen howled and turned, only to have a skaven spear pierce his gut.

Still the knight fought, pulling the spear from him and then going after its wielder. His strength seemed to ebb from the wound, and Tyrel pierced that now he was going to die. More wounds started to crisscross his skin, drawing his blood and leaving him weaker. Tyrel Brannen collapsed onto one knee, dispatched one last skaven, and took a look around. They were everywhere. No matter how many the king?s army had slain they were still everywhere. The ground was littered with the bright colors of Bretonnia, caparisons that knights had once worn so proudly. He was tired, Lady, ready to come home to your embrace. At the end of the line, perhaps the end of all things, the one thing Tyrel Brannen regretted was not seeing his son grow. He would never be able to pass his sword and what he had learned to the boy, and he willed himself to believe that this was not the end, that Bretonnia would rise again. He looked to the sky, and saw between the tendrils of smoke that had clouded it a weak shaft of light. It has come to bear me away, he thought, to where my comrades lie sleeping. I yield myself to you, my Lady. Do not find my courage lacking. Tyrel closed his eyes. He was killed when a skaven spear drove through his heart. His sword fell to the earth, forgotten.