TYBALT’S QUEST

Gav Thorpe

 

 

The stench of death hung heavily in the cloying fog. The broken shadows of twisted trunks and branches swayed fitfully in the lacklustre breeze. Tybalt dismounted from his great black stallion, his armour dripping with moisture from the swirling mist. Casting his gaze around to find something to fix his horse’s reins to, the Bretonnian knight spied what looked to be an old hitching post by the cemetery’s gate. As he led his steed towards it, the heavy footfalls of his armoured boots and the horse’s iron-shod hooves muffled by the dense fog, Tybalt’s eyes and ears strained to sense any other sound. All was still and silent. Even the hoots of owls and the baying of dogs from the village had fallen quiet.

Quickly tying the reins to the rotted post, Tybalt unsheathed his longsword and took one last look around. Above him, the light of the new moon could barely be seen through the misty blanket surrounding the hilltop. The twinkling lights of Moreux had been left far behind as he had made his way to the ancient graveyard overlooking the whole of the valley. Up here, in one of the narrower passes of the Grey Mountains, the air was thin, and even the fit and youthful Tybalt was finding himself short of breath. With a deep inhalation, the knight laid a gauntleted hand on the cemetery gate, the curled ironwork of which stretched several feet above his head, and pushed it open.

The shrieking of rusted hinges rent the air, causing Tybalt to freeze involuntarily. His heart was hammering in his chest, and it was a few moments before he realised that he had been holding his breath. Letting it out slowly, he eased the gate open further, an action accompanied by erratic squeaks and grinding noises. When he’d opened a gap just wide enough for him to pass, he turned sideways and slid himself through the opening, looking up at the gargoyles on the flanking gateposts. Both had probably been identical when sculpted, but now the one to the left had only one of its three twisting horns left, while the lolling tongue of the other had been broken off just outside its fanged mouth.

Treading carefully to avoid the deepest puddles in the uneven path, Tybalt made his way further up the hill, heading towards the blocky, dark shadows of the largest and oldest crypts at the summit. Something scuttling through the darkness banged into his foot, causing Tybalt to stumble in fright. As he fell to one knee, he came face to face with the evil, yellow eyes of a black rat. The verminous scavenger hissed at him and then scampered out of view.

Heaving himself to his feet once more, Tybalt wiped the mud from his left hand on his scarlet and azure quartered surcoat. For a moment, Tybalt wondered if he should go back to his horse to fetch his shield, but decided that a free hand would be more valuable in these treacherous environs. Pausing to collect his thoughts, Tybalt peered through the mist at the looming shapes of the old mausoleums at the cemetery’s highest point, wondering which belonged to Duke Laroche, the resting place of the ghost who had appeared to him in a dream five months earlier.

The long-dead duke had warned Tybalt that a great evil was disturbing his rest, and that he should undertake a quest to halt this darkness spreading through the realm. It had taken four months of searching the length of Bretonnia, examining the oldest heraldic records, to identify the arms of the ghost who had appeared to him: a black eagle on a plain yellow field. Duke Laroche was one of the founders of Mousillon, a man whose family dated back to the settling of Bretonnia in the time of Gilles le Breton, the first king. For the last month, Tybalt had searched far and wide for the old duke’s resting place, until finally he had come across the answer in the chapel records in the small mountain village of Moreux.

When they had learned that Tybalt was heading up to the old graveyard, the commoners back in Moreux had warned him against going to the ancient cemetery. Local superstition was rife with tales of ghouls and spectres haunting the heights of the mountains. Hearing these accounts had done little to ease the knight’s nerves.

 

Tybalt’s thoughts were interrupted by rustling behind him and he spun around, sword at the ready. Taking a few steps back down the path, his grey eyes tried to pierce the gloom. Shadows drifted in and out of focus with the rolling fog, and Tybalt heard more rustling. Taking another cautious step forward, the knight brought his sword back over his shoulder, ready to strike at a moment’s notice. More scuffling swung his attention to his left, and he stepped off the muddy path into the wet grass, which reached up to his thighs. Tybalt could hear an inhuman snuffling noise, accompanied by deep breathing and intermittent grunting. Something was approaching slowly towards him; he could see its vague shadow only a few paces away now.

“Reveal yourself, rascal!” challenged Tybalt, trying to speak with a confidence his shaking hand betrayed he did not have. There was an unearthly squeal and the shadow leapt at him from the darkness.

“Die, spawn of blackness!” Tybalt cried, stepping sideways and bringing his heavy sword flashing down. The blade bit deep into flesh, and blood fountained through the mist, splashing across Tybalt’s surcoat and armour. Ensuring the beast was no longer moving, Tybalt took a closer look. At first he thought it some hideous mutant, but as he bent down to look into the thick weeds, he saw that the long tusks did not belong to some creature of the netherworlds and were in fact those of a wild boar. Tybalt straightened up slowly and the tension suddenly released from his body.

“Lady, protect me from fears and nightmares of my own creation,” he laughed quietly to himself, turning quickly and striding back to the path. The sudden action and its mundane end had eliminated all of the knight’s trepidation now, and as he looked about, he saw nothing more unnatural than the heavy mist of the mountains, hanging over a place where the dead quietly rested in eternal sleep. With more of a spring in his step, he walked up the twisting path towards the summit.

 

Tybalt found Duke Laroche’s tomb towards the centre of the hilltop, identifying it by the deep inscription and the coat of arms whose yellow and black paint had been all but obliterated by the ceaseless march of the centuries. Hacking away at the twining ivy and stubby bushes surrounding the crypt, Tybalt made his way around to the back of the tomb, away from the cemetery gates, where ancient tradition dictated the entrance stone would be.

On turning the corner, Tybalt was momentarily taken aback. The portal was already half open! The young knight’s ears could hear nothing from inside the tomb, and so he ventured forward once more. Peering into the darkness of the mausoleum’s interior, he could not discern anything untoward, and he quickly set to with his tinder and flint to make a torch from one of the many broken branches scattered across the ground. The brand sputtered and smoked badly. The wood was dead but wet from the recent rains and the vapours swirling around the graveyard.

As he was about to step over the threshold of the tomb, Tybalt glanced down and stopped. Muddy footprints could be seen quite clearly leading into the darkness. Kneeling for a closer look, he saw that there were several sets, all overlapping but made by the same pair of boots. Judging from the length of the strides, Tybalt guessed that the man was fairly short. He then noticed scuffing on the imprints of the right boot which could mean that he either had a limp or perhaps was carrying a heavy burden. Tybalt was glad that he had spent much of his childhood with his father’s personal huntsman, learning some of the man’s tracking secrets. Deciding there was no more to be deduced, Tybalt stood up and took a few steps forward, into the tomb itself.

Looking around in the ruddy, flickering glow of his torch, he could see the walls were hung with ancient tapestries, each depicting some event from Duke Laroche’s life. Here was the duke repelling the green-skinned orcs from his castle walls near to what would become the city of Mousillon. Another showed the duke winning the Tourney of Couronne, claiming the silver helm from the Fay Enchantress herself. Another showed Laroche at court with the king of that age, his armour almost white with the brilliance of its polish. There were also scenes from his daily life, such as the duke out hawking in the mountains, his wedding to the Lady Isabon and the knighting of his son. The largest tapestry, almost a dozen paces in length, depicted various tableaux from his Grail Quest. It showed the duke driving forth foul beastmen of Chaos from the hallowed woods of Lapelle, his founding of the Grail Temple at Mousillon and his solitary two-month vigil in the Grey Mountains during which the Lady of the Lake had guided him to one of the Grail’s resting places.

Spurred on by the visitation of the duke’s ghost, who had given him such dire warnings of evil to come that Tybalt had woken with a shudder and covered in sweat despite the autumn night chill, the knight had vowed to his father that he would seek out this evil, wherever it would be found. It was his father who first directed him to the massive heraldic library at Couronne. During his research, Tybalt had learnt much of the duke and had come to see him as a shining example of the true Bretonnian knight. Records told of a man who was pure and holy, pious in every way, noble to his servants and his peers. His humility had been near-legendary in his time and his ultimate sacrifice, saving the Queen’s life from a traitor’s blade, had been a glorious end to a glorious life. And now the duke had appeared to Tybalt, asking him for help. Tybalt was honoured that such a hero of his lands had faith in him.

Tybalt noticed that the tapestry at the far end of the chamber was hanging askance, obviously moved by someone. Combined with the footprints by the entrance, this convinced Tybalt that someone had been down here. Or perhaps they were still down here, Tybalt realised with a start. Easing his sword from its scabbard, Tybalt stepped cautiously towards the skewed tapestry, pushing it to one side with the tip of his sword. There was an archway beyond, and in the fitful light he could see that the burial chamber on the other side was empty of life. Glancing up, Tybalt noticed an inscription in the stonework above the arch. Raising the torch above his head, Tybalt read the epigraph: “In Life I protected thee. In Death I shall watch over thee.”

It is true, thought Tybalt. Even from beyond death, the duke has returned to warn us of a growing peril to the realm of Bretonnia.

The inner tomb was unadorned, and in the middle sat the duke’s sarcophagus. His shield and sword were laid upon it, along with the silver helm given to him by the Fay Enchantress so many centuries ago. None of his arms showed any sign of the many years that had passed. Looking around, Tybalt could see nothing amiss, but that only served to worry him further. If it had been crude graverobbers who had disturbed the duke’s eternal resting place, they would have surely have taken the treasures atop the coffin.

The young knight then noticed something on the floor near to the coffin. It was faint and scuffed, but he could see a tracing of lines and sigils. As he followed them, he realised that they formed some kind of pentagram with the tomb at its centre. They had a reddish-brown tinge to them and Tybalt knew instinctively that they had been drawn in blood. Perhaps human blood, he suddenly found himself thinking, his skin prickling with goosebumps. To his eyes, the enchanted matrix appeared to have faded, the blood at least several days old.

Tybalt was at a loss for a moment. He had finally reached the duke’s place of eternal rest, but now what was he to do? Would the duke appear to him again, or was there some ritual he must perform first? Laying his sword to one side and placing the impromptu torch in one of the several brackets hanging from the walls, Tybalt knelt on both knees, bowing his head to the stone coffin.

“By the Lady of the Lake, our eternal guardian, I have sought out this place. I am here to fight whatever dangers await my land. My sword and my life are yours to command, ancient duke. What will you have me do?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

For a moment, nothing happened, but then something stirred in the red-tinged gloom. A faint whispering noise echoed off the walls; a gentle wind sighed around the room. Looking up, Tybalt gasped in surprise. There, no more than two paces from him, stood the shade of Duke Laroche. He looked exactly as he had in the dream, dressed in flowing, yellow robes, the black eagle embroidered onto the left breast, over his heart. A small circlet of gold was placed over his shoulder-length hair, and his dark-brown eyes stared peacefully at Tybalt. The duke’s face radiated a knightly air, his hooked nose and strong jaw echoed in most of the aristocratic families of the present day. His face was stern but kindly.

The image was only half-present though. Tybalt could clearly see the coffin and the far wall through the shimmering apparition. A nimbus of white light played around the edges of the ghost, twinkling like distant starlight.

“My lord, I am your humble servant,” Tybalt managed to say. The duke remained silent, beckoning with his right hand for Tybalt to stand. Finally the duke spoke, the words echoing and distant, as if he were speaking from a long way away and some large chamber was magnifying his words.

“I knew thou wouldst come, young Tybalt,” the duke said with a warm smile. “I knew one of thy great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandsires! He was a good man, and I knew his blood runneth thick in thy veins. Thou wilst be a fine duke when thy father finally passeth into the care of Our Lady.”

“Thank you, milord,” Tybalt replied, blushing at such praise.

“I expect thou wonderest why I have brought thou here, knight,” the apparition said.

“There is some great evil stirring in this place,” Tybalt answered. “That is what you have warned me of.”

“Yea,” the ghost agreed, “a great evil indeed. It hast been long forgotten now, but the ground thou treadst upon is one of the most holy places in all of the sacred kingdom.”

Tybalt stared down at the stone floor of the tomb in astonishment.

“This hilltop is that very spot where Gilles himself rested the night before he descended to claim the lands south of the mountains for his people,” explained Laroche. “Here is the place that our First King did witness the first visitation of the Lady of the Lake, and from here did all his knowledge and power spring. Even before the coming of the King, this land was a holy one, for our ancestors beyond the founding of the realm of Bretonnia did labour hard here to build the cairns for their dead lords. The very hill itself is but a gigantic tomb of the resting dead, from the time when the elves and dwarfs ruled the lands and our people were but scattered hunting tribes.”

Tybalt gulped heavily in amazement.

“How could such a place be forgotten, milord?” he asked, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Tis the way of things, young knight,” the old duke replied simply, stroking an incorporeal hand through his dark hair. “Ages pass, the world changes, the old ways are replaced by new ways; the ancient secrets and beliefs give way to the wonders of the modern age. It is the duty of the Grail Knights to keep that true wisdom alive, but there are fewer of us with every passing generation. A darkness threatens all of our lands, and the realms of others to the north, south, east and west. A time of great change is coming, young knight, a time of war and disorder. We shall need men such as thyself. Verily, there shall be such need of heroes, the like of which time has never seen before!”

Tybalt was about to ask what darkness was coming, but the duke held up a hand to silence him. The knight saw that the duke’s gloves were made from the blackest velvet, and on every finger was a golden ring bearing the crests of the eight great families of the founding of Mousillon.

“But that is the future, not thy current quest, valiant Tybalt,” the apparition finally said. “For now, you must fight against the hideous attentions of a dabbler in the black arts of necromancy.”

“Necromancy, milord?” Tybalt asked, unsure of the word’s meaning.

“Tis the power to summon the forces of Death and Undeath, and bind them to thy bidding,” the duke answered, his ghostly form stepping back to lean against the coffin. “Tis the power to raise corpses from thy graves to dance in unholy rites and march to war against the living. Tis the power to steal life with a touch of the finger. Tis the power to gaze past the gates of Death itself and peer at that which lies beyond. Tis the power to forever forestall the coming of the eternal sleep, so that thou might never know Death.”

The duke stood up once more, his fists clenched by his sides in anger.

“One who has these powers hath come here,” he spat. “To this site, that which is the most holy of places. He hath disturbed mine own slumber and that of others of your great ancestors. He yet will raise the bodies of the dead to sweep all before him, his vile blackness spreading like spilt ink across a clean parchment. Thou must stop him, Tybalt; that is why I brought thee here.”

“I should have brought my father’s army!” exclaimed Tybalt, raising his hand to his mouth in horror. “This foul creature would have no chance against a hundred sturdy men and knights.”

“Thou canst not defeat such an evil with battle alone, young Tybalt,” Laroche answered. “They feed on fear, thrive on thy terror. From the fallen ranks, he wouldst summon more from their graves to do his bidding. Nay, an army is not needed, for is not a knight of Bretonnia strong enough to overcome all obstacles? Is not the Lady the most powerful of allies? Tis faith that will break this darkness, and faith does not come from an army, but from one knight who will stand alone against the perils of the world.”

“I do not understand, milord,” Tybalt protested. “What can I do against a man who can raise an army from the very ground at my feet?”

“You can fight him,” the duke replied shortly, his eyebrows raised in humour. The duke then paused a moment, his head turning as if to look through the wall of the tomb.

“The beast cometh now!” he hissed. “Gird your arms, and do battle, brave knight. Take mine silver helm, for it wilst protect thee from the worst of the devil’s magicks. The Lady is with you, brave Tybalt, so look to your faith for strength, and you will endure and overcome.” With a reassuring smile, the ghost of Duke Laroche began to waver and then was gone.

 

Standing on the crest of the hill, Tybalt could just make out a faint lightness in the mist, moving slowly towards him. As it grew closer, he saw that it was the glow of a flame, and it was not long before he could make out the figure of a man walking lopsidedly along the path. He had wisely extinguished his own torch, fearing he would reveal his presence too soon, and as the stranger came closer, the knight stepped behind one of the nearby tombs. Another dozen heartbeats passed before he could hear the scuffing of the newcomer’s twisted leg as well as the intruder’s laboured wheezing and a constant whispering in a tongue the knight did not understand. Pushing himself even further into the shadows, Tybalt waited for his adversary to come closer. The shuffling footfalls stopped at the summit, no more than a dozen strides from his hiding place. Tybalt eased his sword into a position ready to strike, and he waited for his foe to limp within easy reach of his blade. He heard the man give a hacking cough, and then a voice called out in accented Bretonnian.

“Show yourself, knight! I know you are here waiting!”

Tybalt felt his stomach tighten with fear, and he fought down the sick feeling. Blinking quickly to clear the moisture in his eyes, he took a deep breath and then stepped out of the shadows to confront the stranger.

The man was indeed short, no more than five feet tall. His right leg was crooked below the knee, splaying his foot outwards. He was dressed in a heavy, grey robe fastened with a frayed length of rope. In one hand, he held a knobbled wooden staff, the tip of which was glowing with an unnatural flame. Under the other arm, the man carried a heavy book bound in leather and brass. The man was looking the other way, and all Tybalt could see of his face was a bulbous nose surrounded by a wild shock of greasy, grey hair. The stranger then turned to face him, his face old and lined with many deep wrinkles like a carelessly discarded blanket. A scraggly growth of beard sprouted from his chin and cheeks, but the eyes that stared at him from under thick bushy brows were bright and lively.

“There you are!” the figure said, taking several steps closer. “I came as quick as I could. Did not want you to get cold waiting for me.”

“Approach no closer, creature of evil,” Tybalt warned, brandishing his sword towards the necromancer, who took a step back.

“Creature of evil?” the necromancer replied. “Who told you such things?”

“The duke has warned me of the vile deeds you are committing,” Tybalt said proudly, lowering his blade slightly.

“The duke?” the magic user replied excitedly, his sharp gaze meeting Tybalt’s own defiant stare. “Then it is true, a spirit can come back across the void! Oh, wondrous!”

“Leave, and never trouble these lands again,” Tybalt told the man facing him in his most commanding voice.

“Leave?” the necromancer replied incredulously, his head tilted to one side in astonishment. “When I am so near to finishing my work here? I do not think so! Get out of my way, and I will spare you.”

“You shall not pass me while I draw breath!” Tybalt threatened, bringing his sword up once more.

“So be it,” the necromancer sneered, pointing his staff towards the knight. The foreigner spoke two words in a harsh, clipped voice—and a white-hot flame roared out of the staff to engulf Tybalt.

The knight felt Laroche’s silver helm growing colder and the flames licked around him without touching, keeping him safe from harm. The flames continued, but the necromancer took a step back in dismay when the uninjured Tybalt strode from the magical fires, his eyes filled with murderous intent, his sword still stained with the boar’s blood, raised for a lethal strike. With surprising speed, the evil wizard lashed out with the staff, cracking it against the side of Tybalt’s helm.

Dizzied, the knight lurched to one side, his outstretched hand finding the wall of a tomb to brace himself against. When he looked around, the necromancer had disappeared into the mists, the glow of the staff nowhere to be seen. Tybalt could feel a small trickle of blood running down his left cheek from where his helm had broken the skin, and his jaw felt numb. Blinking back tears of shock, he pushed himself upright and began searching for the fleeing sorcerer.

 

Tybalt had wandered aimlessly for some time, trying to find the necromancer’s hiding place. He had walked back along the length of the path and was sure his prey had not left the cemetery. It was at the gate that he had another revelation. The necromancer had only known he was in the cemetery because of the black stallion he’d tied up by the gate! There had been nothing mystical about his knowledge at all. The man’s magic was hardly as all-powerful as the knight had at first believed. Checking on his horse, the knight found it unharmed, and Tybalt suspected that the vile wizard had decided to steal the fine steed once his owner had been killed.

“This is fruitless!” Tybalt hissed to himself in frustration. The graveyard was large, and in the dense mist it was impossible to see anything at all beyond two dozen yards. What was it the duke had said? Faith would see him victorious? Shrugging, Tybalt stuck his sword in the ground, knelt on one knee and bowed his head to its pommel.

“Oh glorious Lady of the Lake, who watches over our king and lands, guide me to this evil man so that I may slay him in your name,” he prayed, eyes still flickering from side to side, alert from danger.

He knelt for almost thirty heartbeats, but nothing happened. With a sigh, he closed his eyes for a second, and suddenly his mind was filled with a vision. Blinking, Tybalt closed his eyes once more and concentrated. In his mind’s eye, he could see the necromancer in a narrow depression which the knight somehow knew was on the other side of the hill. The wizard had his spellbook open on the top of a low tomb in front of him and was chanting verses of magic from its pages. The air around him was shifting and changing, ruffled and rippled by the movement of unquiet spirits. Focusing his mind even more, Tybalt caught the noise of the wizard’s words and, as he opened his eyes once more, he found he could still faintly hear them. Following his ears, Tybalt began to move around the base of the hill, staying close to the high, dry stone wall that served as the cemetery’s boundary.

 

Tybalt was creeping up the hillside, closing in on the necromancer’s ritual. Stealthily he wove his way through the mass of gravestones, glad that his armour was well oiled and did not make too much noise. As he made his way between the graves, Tybalt’s foot caught in something, pitching him forward onto his hands and knees. Thinking it a bramble or similar, he tugged hard, but to no avail. Glancing back he gave a high pitched yelp. A bony hand protruded from the ground and was grasping his ankle!

As the knight tried to wrench his leg free, another arm broke through the surface, and then the skeleton’s skull pushed free, its fleshless grin leering at the knight from the dead creature’s grave. Tybalt smashed the skull in two with his sword, and the dead thing’s grip relaxed.

Pushing himself up, Tybalt realised other shapes were pressing through the mist towards him. Preferring not to be trapped in the tightening ring of dead creatures, he jumped towards the nearest, lashing out with his blade. The sword crashed through the skeleton’s ribs and spine, toppling it to the ground in two parts. Turning to face the others, he counted four more adversaries. Dodging to one side, he realised that three of the four were armoured and armed with ancient-looking axes and maces. One still carried a shield on its left arm, while all four wore scattered fragments of mail armour.

“Lady, give me strength!” Tybalt hissed as the nearest undead creature lashed out with its rusty-bladed axe, the blow falling wide as Tybalt swayed to his left. Tybalt brought his sword around in a long, backhand sweep, smashing the skeleton several feet backwards. Tybalt stepped forward, thrusting out with the point of his blade, embedding it deep into the creature’s chest. The magic binding it to the world of the living severed, and the thing collapsed into a pile of mouldering bones. Fleshless hands grabbed at Tybalt’s neck and he spun on the spot, ramming his elbow into the face of the skeleton which had attacked him, its jaw flying into the fog. Too close to use his sword, Tybalt brought his knee up sharply and was rewarded by the sound of splintering ribs.

Tybalt was staggered sideways as a mace crashed into his shoulder, and as he stumbled he brought the pommel of his sword down onto the skull of the unarmed skeleton, crunching through the time-worn bone and smashing it asunder. His next blow crashed against the other’s shield and Tybalt was forced to sway backwards as the mace rushed inches in front of his face. With a grunt, Tybalt grabbed the skeleton’s shield, pulling the thing’s face forward onto the brow of his helm with bone-shattering force. As it flailed backwards under the impact, Tybalt gripped his sword in both hands and cleaved it from right shoulder to pelvis with an arcing, overhead chop.

Tybalt felt something ragged dig deep into his right thigh and he fell to his left knee, the axe in his leg wrenched from the dead grip of the skeleton. Its fingers clawed at his closed helmet, trying to twist his head off. Tybalt grabbed its neck in one hand, battering the thing’s temples with the quillions of his sword. The skeleton would not let go though, and with a cry of pain, Tybalt forced himself to his feet, his hand still tightly gripping the creature’s neck, blood pouring down his leg from where the axe still hung.

“You died once, you can die again!” Tybalt spat, dropping his sword and thrusting the fingers of his free hand into the skeleton’s eye sockets. As its clawed fingers scraped deafeningly against his helm, Tybalt stretched his right arm forward with all his strength, pushing the unnatural monster’s head further and further back. He felt the tiling’s bony fingers scratching at his exposed throat and a flicker of fear struck him when they slid across the veins and arteries which were standing out from his neck with the effort of pushing the skeleton away.

Suddenly shifting his weight to one side, Tybalt pulled the skeleton towards him, throwing it over one hip so that it landed back-first on the ground. Its grip had been broken and Tybalt stamped down on its chest, his heavily armoured boot crushing the unlife from the creature.

Panting with exhaustion and pain, Tybalt grabbed the handle of the axe stuck in his leg and pulled it free, a cry of agony torn from his lips. Tossing the ancient weapon aside, he retrieved his sword from the long grass. Using the blade of his sword, the knight cut a rough bandage from his surcoat and wrapped it around the injured thigh, pulling it painfully tight over the wound to stem the bleeding. Glancing around to ensure that no more unholy denizens were nearby, he started to limp up the slope towards the necromancer.

 

The wizard’s face was a picture of almost comical shock when Tybalt staggered through the mist towards him. He had one hand outstretched, the other pointing towards his grimoire, where he had obviously been following the lines of writing. Around him stood a dozen more animated corpses, all of them ancient and yellowing skeletons. The summoner of the dead quickly masked his surprise.

“Still walking, yes?” he said, a cruel smile playing briefly across his thin, cracked lips.

“I am,” Tybalt replied simply, taking another step towards the necromancer, his sword held across his chest.

“It does not matter, I have more minions to deal with you,” the wizard said glibly, gesturing left and right to the skeletons stood around him.

“And I will destroy them in turn, before I destroy you,” Tybalt answered with utmost sincerity, momentarily surprised at his own confidence.

The sorcerer hesitated for a second, and once again Tybalt noticed doubt creeping into the old man’s eyes. The knight took another step forward.

“You think you can stop me? On your own?” sneered the necromancer, but Tybalt caught more than just a hint of false bravado about the wizard’s defiance.

“One Bretonnian knight is enough for any evil creature, be it griffon, elf-thing, orc or man,” Tybalt assured the necromancer. A shadow of fear passed briefly across the evil wizard’s face. Behind the magic user, two of the skeletons began to sway back and forth and then collapsed into a pile of bones. Tybalt thought he saw a flicker of soul-light and heard a distant cry of joy of a spirit set free once more.

The necromancer turned and looked over his shoulder before his horrified gaze settled on Tybalt once more.

“Your power is fading, old man,” Tybalt said menacingly, pleased with the metallic ring given to his voice by the closed visor of his helmet. He saw the necromancer swallow hard, eyes darting left and right, searching for an escape route. Another three skeletons crumbled into grave dust to the knight’s left.

“No, no, no, no…” the foul wizard whispered harshly and then began to babble something in a strange tongue. But this was no otherworldly language of magic, for Tybalt recognised it as the Reikspiel of the Empire, even though he did not understand the words.

“It seems your creations are sparing me the exertion of slaying them again,” Tybalt joked, marching slowly through the long grass. He levelled the point of his sword at the necromancer.

“Your death will be brief,” the knight assured him with all earnestness. With a clatter of bones the magic animating the remaining skeletons was broken, and the necromancer was left standing alone in the thinning fog. Tybalt saw that his foe was visibly shaking with fear now, as the knight stalked across the shallow dell. Once more, the necromancer looked for somewhere to run, but there was no way out. Even wounded, the knight would catch the crippled wizard with ease.

“What powers of magic have you that you can destroy my creations so easily?” asked the wizard, eyes pleading beneath his grey brows.

“I have no magic other than the blessing of the Lady,” Tybalt answered him. “It is your own weaknesses that have destroyed them, your own lack of will to keep them animated. Your magic is powerful, but you are weak. Without your magic, you are nothing!”

“Have mercy, knight,” the necromancer begged, eyes filling with tears. “Please do not kill me!”

“Mercy?” Tybalt sneered, stabbing his sword towards the wizard to emphasise his scorn. “Mercy for the creature who has despoiled and profaned one of the most sacred places of all Bretonnia? Mercy for the beast who would wake the heroes of our past from their eternal sleep to be slaves to his vile purposes? Mercy for a creature that would sweep away the living with his own tide of death? There can be no mercy for such crimes!”

“Please kill me not!” begged the other, falling to his knees in the long, wet grass. “I cannot bear the thought of death!”

Tybalt paused in his rage-driven advance.

“Scared of death?” the knight asked scornfully. “Is that all you have in your defence? You have plagued the living and the dead because of your own fear of death? Your fear is the root of your weakness. The very thing that drove you to seek such dark powers has unmanned you.”

“I cannot bear the thought of the final ending of my life,” the necromancer admitted, his squinting eyes streaming with tears of fear and loathing. “I had to find some way to escape. I did not mean harm. That I will one day not be anymore fills me with terror that I cannot face.”

“But death is not an ending,” Tybalt growled, stepping towards the wizard, through the thick weeds once more. “As the duke has shown me, death is merely a gateway to another place. If we live well, we shall be rewarded: the Lady will take care of us, and we shall be beside her for the rest of time.”

“How do you know of such things?” the sorcerer demanded, his face filled with anguish.

“I do not know such things. I believe in them,” Tybalt answered, standing over the cowering necromancer. “I have faith that what I have been taught is true. I need no evidence of the land beyond death, for it is faith in its existence that will take me there.”

“And what of those who have no faith?” the necromancer asked fearfully.

“I do not know,” the knight replied, drawing his sword back. “Perhaps we all get what we believe in. Perhaps you will just simply cease, or perhaps your soul will be trapped in a limbo between realms. Or maybe there is a hell, and devils will rend your soul for all eternity.” Tybalt stepped to one side of the necromancer and braced his legs in the soft ground.

“You will know, sooner than I!” he cried, his sword arm bringing his blade swiftly across the necromancer’s neck, sending the head tumbling into the overgrown grass.

 

As Tybalt rode back along the single road of Moreux, a crowd of peasants began to gather around him. He must have been a fearsome sight, his armour scratched and bloody, his face a grim mask. Reaching the open space that served as town square, he halted his steed.

“Foul things have come to this land because we have allowed them to trespass,” he called to the assembled throng. “We have forgotten that which should be remembered. Hear this, and heed it well. As a knight of Bretonnia, I command you all to send men to the graveyard along the pass, to clear away the min of centuries. It shall be your duty to see that it is maintained with dignity and pride. I lay this honour upon you. Do not fail in this task, for I shall return, and I shall demand to know who is responsible if my commands fall on deaf ears!”

As the peasants began to drift away, Tybalt turned to look back at the hill at the top of the pass. The sun was just now reaching over its crest, its golden light spilling down the slope and lending it a beauty it had not had in the dark mists of the night before. He wondered for a moment if the duke was still there looking down on him.

“Farewell, milord,” the knight said to himself. “You have earned your rest.”