Karthos, Odek, Koros Kyr with his standard, Bereng with his carnyx, Tnash, Odagidor and the rest of them.
They would ride into eternity and make it ready.
Karthos’ left arm was splinted up on a pole. Raised, outstretched.
Fingers splayed.
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.
Tales of the Old World Page 74
