Sir Evrard and the Holy Grail – pt. 3

Part 3 of the tale of my Bretonnian army and how they became corrupted Warriors of Nurgle.
Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3

As they walked from the castle towards the old executioner’s hill on the outskirts of Valais, Estienne was explaining -for what seemed like the hundredth time in the past three days- the alchemical properties of silver and why they needed so much of it to properly contain the plague brought by the three knights. But Baron Thibault wasn’t listening. He was staring up at executioner’s hill where he could see the figures of the three knights chained to the pillories. He wondered to himself if any semblance of his son still remained within the creature that wore his face.

“-and so the silver, being a metal of the utmost purity, will overwhelm the malign energies and prevent the plague from spreading from the bodies of the condemned.” The alchemist had been saying.

“Yes, yes. Good. And everything is prepared?” Asked the Baron, snapping out of his reverie.

“I am quite sure that everything is in order. The charts are very clear. It must be done tonight.”

Thibault found this unnatural business distasteful. But he had little experience with the servants of chaos, so he deferred to his learned advisors on the matter. He wished he had a true grail knight in his service to dispatch these creatures of chaos quickly.

“Good. Then let’s get it over with. I want this done and behind me.”

Baron Thibault made his way up executioner’s hill, followed by a retinue of guards, advisors, executioners, and any courtiers and citizens whose curiosity was stronger than the revulsion they felt at being within the sickening aura of the ill-fated knights.

Reaching the top of the hill, the grim precession gathered in a wide circle around the prisoners. Evrard rose to his feet and said “This is your last chance to listen to reason, father. Give in to the power of our Lady.”

The Baron looked around the gathered witnesses and saw that the courtiers were covering their noses with their sleeves to try to block out the stench. Thibault himself stifled a cough and blinked away stinging tears as his eyes began to water. He knew they had to do this quickly. The Alchemist had advised him not to allow the condemned any last words, lest they bewitch the good people of Valais, or else recite some spell to escape their bonds.

“I am not your father, foul spawn of chaos. My son is dead” He spat. And then, turning, said “Guards-”

The ring of guards parted, and three burly men with black leather hoods over their faces brought three coffins into the circle and laid them before the prisoners. Two more hooded men emerged, struggling under the weight of a large cauldron filled with pure molten silver. When they stopped, the glowing fluid sloshed and dribbled down the rim, causing little flames to flare up in the grass. The men’s legs strained with effort as they stood waiting for their lord’s command.

“Do it” said the Baron, without pausing for ceremony.

The executioners and guards sprang into action. The alchemist had instructed them to work quickly. And to ensure there were no mistakes, they had been rehearsing this execution for the three days it took to gather the required amount of silver. It turned out to be unnecessary. The prisoners did not resist. Evrard, Rolant, and Guiscard stepped into their coffins willingly and laid down. Despite the covers over their mouths and noses, the guards closest to the prisoners hacked and choked as they worked.

Thibault’s gaze was locked on the face of his son and his breath caught in his throat when their eyes met one final time. Evrard smiled darkly for a moment. And then a very real shadow passed over his face as the coffin lid was lowered and nailed into place. 

An executioner opened the small door that had been fashioned in the lid and signaled for the silver to be brought over. They heaved it into place and paused, once again looking to the Baron. He nodded once and they began to pour.

The screams that came from Evrard’s coffin were horrifying. Everyone present covered their ears, if they could. Whatever unnatural thing Evrard had become, his screams were human enough. They sounded like his son.

In the other two coffins, Sir Rolant and Sir Guiscard were laughing. The courtiers were wailing. And the executioners kept pouring. It was all too overwhelming. The insane lunatic laughing, the excruciating screams- O gods why would he not die? And the executioners kept pouring. The stench of puss, and filth, and burning organs stung his nostrils. All around him the courtiers were vomiting, fainting, and stumbling away.

And the executioners kept pouring. Until at last the molten silver burbled up and flowed over from the opening in the coffin. Everything was still. The only thing that could be heard was the crackle of the flames that licked up around the edges of the wooden lid.

Estienne helped the Baron to his feet. He didn’t remember stumbling. “Is it done then?” he asked the alchemist.

“There are still the other two prisoners, my lord. But yes, Evrard is dead.”

“I’ll be in my chambers. Report to me when you’re finished.” He turned to leave but was stopped in his tracks by a loud thump from Evrard’s coffin. No one moved. No one was sure that they really heard what they thought they heard. A sense of dread gripped the gathered audience as the wood coffin began to groan and flex outward.

The boards cracked and the nails popped out of place, until finally the lid of the coffin shattered under the pressure. An elongated arm, encased in semi-molten silver, arose slowly from the wooden box. A pair of legs followed. Their length suggested a figure much taller than Evrard had been. Much too tall to fit in the coffin. Stiffly, the figure sat up from the coffin and stood. It seemed to unfold painfully, like an insect emerging from its shell. The creature had the form of a man at least 8 feet tall. It was covered in a carapace of slowly hardening silver which still glowed in some places and crackled as it cooled. When the figure moved, the surface of the silver strained and broke, forming irregular seams in what was beginning to resemble a permanent suit of organically shaped armor, fused to the skin of the victim inside like a living iron maiden. The creature stood for a moment. It wheezed and its metallic ribcage swelled and cracked as it drew in its first few labored breaths. 

Thibault’s astonished gaze drew upward and his blood froze when he saw the face. It was that of his son. His final anguished scream cast in a silver death mask forever. What was behind those empty eyeholes?

The-thing-that-had-been-Evrard took a step from the coffin. Until this moment, the gathered witnesses had been locked in a stunned silence, but now the spell was broken and terror ripped through the small crowd. The creature took another heavy step and Thibault, backing away, tripped and fell onto his back. All around him, the courtiers were screaming, running. Locked within their coffins, Rolant and Guiscard were laughing again. The guards gripped their weapons uneasily, not sure what they should do. The creature took a third step. Each time it did Thibault could see strange fungi erupting from the soil and spreading outward, blackening the grass. Mutated insects twisted and squirmed up between the creature’s toes and skittered off into the night. The silver of its armored skin began to tarnish and rust before the Baron’s eyes as blood and black ichor oozed from the cracks between the plates of that vile chitin. It drip, drip, dripped onto the earth leaving behind a trail of writhing stinking fluid wherever it stepped. 

The corrupting influence of the plague knight’s presence began to spread. Anyone trapped within its sickening aura collapsed to their knees, retching and gripping their guts. The guards screamed and clawed at their armor, trying to remove it. And Thibault could see that it was rusting and fusing to their very skin. One managed to rip his helmet off in time, but it took layers of skin and hair with it.

The old Baron could feel his own armor becoming one with his flesh. Something writhed and twisted inside his guts and the cramps caused him to double over with pain. When he looked up again, the Evrard-thing was standing over him. The giant form of his son bent low and offered its silver hand. Up close, Thibault could see the moonlight dancing on the evershifting silver surface. It was almost…beautiful. Blood was oozing from between the plates of that living gauntlet now. Noble Blood. His son’s Blood.

He looked up into the face of his only son and from behind the mask, heard Evrard’s voice say, “Take my hand, father.”

The End

Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3