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 leg
s 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.”
A CHOICE OF HATREDS
C.L. Werner
On the outskirts of the small town of Kleinsdorf, a group of raucous men gathered in a fallow field. Before them stood an inverted anvil upon which a burly man garbed in a heavy blacksmith’s apron set a second anvil. The man’s bearded face split into a booming laugh as one of his comrades lit a hemp fuse that slithered between the anvils to reach a small charge of gunpowder. A hushed silence fell upon the men as the smouldering flame slowly burned its way to the explosive. Suddenly a tremendous boom echoed across the barren fields and the uppermost anvil was thrown into the sky to crash into the ground several yards away. A great cheer erupted from the group and the blacksmith set off at a lumbering jog to retrieve the heavy iron projectile, even as one of his friends prepared another charge.
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