Tales of the Old World

by Marc Gascoigne

  “Maybe you’re right, Havelock,” said Leofric. “I suppose each strata of society perceives past events through its own filters and hears what it wants or needs to.”

  His squire looked blankly at him and Leofric cursed for expressing himself in ways beyond the ken of a peasant. He smiled and said, “I’m agreeing with you.”

  Havelock smiled back and said. “Oh. Good.”

  “Don’t get used to it,” said Leofric and stretched, looking up into the darkness of the night sky. The Forest of Chalons was still some days off and as he watched a shooting star streak across the heavens, he wondered whether it was a good omen or not.

  The Forest of Chalons stretched out before Leofric in a wide swathe of emerald green that lay in the shadow of the rearing crags of the Massif Orcal. The outer trees were stripped of their leaves on their lower reaches by a technique Havelock informed him was known as pollarding, and the dawn light didn’t make the forest look any more appealing than it had when they had arrived last night.

  Dawn was only an hour old and there was no point in wasting the light, so Leofric pressed his heels to Aeneor’s flanks. He disdained the use of spurs, for to use such things on an animal as wondrous as an elven steed would be grossly insulting to it.

  “Come on,” said Leofric as Havelock’s horse displayed more reluctance to approach the forest before them. “We have to make as much progress before night falls.”

  “I know, my lord, but there’s not a man alive who wouldn’t be a bit wary of entering a place like this. We’re heading towards barrows, ain’t we? A man oughtn’t to mess with the resting places of the dead.”

  “That might be difficult if we’re to hunt down a vampire knight, Havelock,” said Leofric, though he understood his squire’s reticence. The forests of Bretonnia were notorious havens for orcs, brigands and the mutated beasts of Chaos, their dark depths unknown by men for hundreds of years. Many a brave, if foolhardy, duke had attempted to clear out the deep forests of his lands only to fail miserably and lose many of his knights in the process. The depths of the forests were the domains of evil and none dared walk beneath their tangled branches or follow their forgotten pathways without good reason.

  Leofric was no stranger to mysterious forests, having spent a span of time with the Asrai of Athel Loren, but even he had to admit that the darkness within the Forest of Chalons was unnerving, as though the forest itself looked back at him with hungry eyes.

  He shook off the sensation and guided Aeneor between the tall, thin trees on the outer edges of the forest. The undergrowth was thin and wiry, the forest floor hard packed and well trodden, as though many people had come this way recently, and Leofric fancied he could see hoof prints in the soil.

  They rode for several hours before stopping for some food and water, though Leofric had quite lost track of time in the gloomy half-light of the forest. Havelock walked the horses before feeding them grain that had cost Leofric more than most peasants would see in a month.

  “I don’t like this place,” said Havelock, as he always did. “Feels like someone’s watching me all the time.”

  Leofric looked up from the blue scarf wrapped around the hilt of his sword and cast his eyes around the clearing they had stopped in. The trees in this part of the forest were larger than those at the fringes, older and gnarled with age. They grew thicker here too, blocking the light and wreathing the forest in a perpetual twilight that blurred the passage of time and hung a pall of wretchedness upon the soul.

  But Havelock was right. As much as Leofric tried to dismiss his concerns as that of a superstitious peasant, he knew enough to know that in places like this, someone—or something—might very well be watching them. Since they had left the sunlight behind them at the edge of the forest, his warrior’s instinct had been screaming at him that they were not alone in this dark place.

  “I don’t like it much, either, Havelock,” agreed Leofric, “but for some reason, creatures of evil never make their lairs in beautiful groves or in the middle of golden corn fields. It’s always a haunted forest or deserted castle atop a forbidding crag of black rock.”

  Havelock laughed, “Yes, not very original are they?”

  “No, but there’s a certain evil tradition to uphold I suppose,” said Leofric, rising from the log he sat upon to climb onto the back of his horse once more.

  The barrows were at least another day’s ride away and Leofric had no wish to stay within the forest any longer than was absolutely necessary.

  For the rest of the day and much of the next, Leofric and Havelock rode deeper into the Forest of Chalons, their passage growing slower with each mile as though the trees themselves sought to impede their progress. The sensation of being watched remained with them the whole way and Havelock’s nervousness was not helped when they came upon the first of the barrows.

  The burial mound had long since been ransacked, its stone door lying splintered and mossy beside its overgrown entrance. Mouldering bones lay scattered around, not even the animals of the forest wishing to gnaw on the dead of this place. A broken sword blade of corroded bronze lay wedged in the dark earth and Leofric guessed that this tomb had been open to the elements for hundreds of years.

  They passed on, lest some wild beast had made its lair within the barrow, but the forlorn sight of the plundered barrow depressed Leofric. What hope was there for an honourable warrior if his grave was certain to be robbed by greedy delvers? A warrior should be allowed his rest when he finally made the journey through Morr’s gates, not disturbed by thieves seeking gold or treasures of ancient magic.

  He and Havelock said little as they passed onwards, seeing more and more of the gloomy barrows the further they travelled. Bleached bones, grinning skulls and rusted weaponry littered the forest floor and though they heard the sounds of animals and beasts through the trees, they saw nothing of the forest’s fauna.

  As dusk approached on the second day of their travels, Leofric felt a subtle shift in the forest around them, as though the very air and landscape had suddenly become less hostile to their presence. He could see patches of purpling sky above him and the scent of honeysuckle came to him, where before he had smelled only death and desolation.

  He raised his hand to halt their progress as he saw a gleam of low sunlight catching on something ahead. From here he could not yet see what had reflected the light, but its pale gleam was like a beacon through the darkness of the tree canopy.

  “There’s something ahead,” said Leofric, his hand sliding towards the hilt of his sword.

  Havelock did not reply, his mood too gloomy after the monotonous ride through the forest, though he raised his head to look. As he caught sight of the reflected light, Leofric saw his spirits rise, as though the sight of something bright was enough to rouse him from the melancholy the darkness of the forest had laid upon him.

  “What do you think it is?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” replied Leofric. “This deep in the forest, it could be anything.”

  He eased Aeneor forward, the undergrowth and trees growing thinner and more scattered the closer they came. Yet more bones and ancient shards of rusted armour lay strewn around, too many to simply be the result of despicable grave robbers, though Leofric saw that these were no ordinary bones or weapons.

  “Was there a battle fought here?” asked Havelock.

  Leofric had been wondering the same thing, though if there had been a battle, it had not been fought by men, for the fleshless cadavers and the accoutrements of war that lay here were those of elves and orcs. Graceful, leaf-shaped swords and snapped bowstaves lay strewn all about, and long kite-shields were splintered by monstrously toothed cleavers that would take two strong men to lift.

  Narrow elven skulls of porcelain white mingled with thickly ridged and fanged skulls of orcs and it was clear that no quarter had been asked or given in whatever battle had been fought here.

  And this was no ordinary battlefield either, saw Leofric as they emerged into a wide, overgr
own space of undulating barrows and ruined structures. The remains of a tall tower stood upon a rugged spur of silver rock, its once noble battlements cast down and forgotten. Fashioned from a stone of pale blue, it was clear that no human hand had been part of its construction, for its curves and smooth facing was beyond the skill of even the most gifted stonemasons.

  “It’s beautiful…” breathed Havelock, his gaze sweeping around the cluster of overgrown buildings.

  “These are elven,” said Leofric, riding into the centre of what must once have been an outpost of the Asrai in the Forest of Chalons, forgotten and abandoned hundreds of years ago or more. Weeds and grass grew up through the remains of stone roads and each of the fine buildings that once gathered around the foot of the tower had been smashed and burned in the fighting. The setting sun threw a golden light over the scene and Leofric thought it almost unbearably sad to see such beauty destroyed.

  “Do you think your Red Duke is here?” asked Havelock nervously and Leofric shook himself from his contemplation of the rained elven outpost.

  “Perhaps,” he said. “We should explore this place and see what we can find.”

  “Yes, my lord,” said Havelock, looking into the dusky sky, “but shouldn’t we do that with the sun at our backs? Don’t seem like sense to go delving into a place like this in darkness.”

  Leofric nodded, wheeling his horse to face his squire. “Yes, you’re right. We’ll make camp a few miles distant and return at first light.”

  He saw the relief on his squire’s face and chuckled, “I may be a knight sworn to destroy evil wherever I find it, Havelock, but I’m not going to go charging off into a ruined tower as night falls looking for the undead. I learned my lessons as a Knight Errant.”

  The smile fell from his face as he heard a dry crack, like that of a snapping branch. His sword flashed into his hand and Leofric was amazed to see a cold fire slithering along the length of the blade. The liquid flames gave off no heat, and Leofric could feel the powerful magic surging within the enchanted blade.

  “What’s happening?” cried Havelock, as Leofric heard more dusty cracks and the scrape of metal on metal. He spun his mount to identify the source of the noises, seeing that the sun was now almost vanished beneath the western treetops.

  Before Leofric could answer, the source of the noises was revealed as a host of shambling warriors emerged from the collapsed and greenery-draped buildings. Their skeletal forms marched with a horrid animation, for each of the warriors was a dead thing, a revenant clad in the armour of forgotten times and bearing a rusted sword or spear. They rose from the undergrowth with the powdery crack of bone and their empty eye sockets were pools of darkness that burned with ancient malice.

  “The living dead!” shouted Leofric, his revulsion and fury at these abominations rising in his gorge like a sickness. Havelock’s mount reared in terror, its ears pressed flat against its skull. His squire had drawn his bow and, without a firm grip on the reins, he tumbled from the saddle as the horse bolted from the clearing. Leofric cursed and angled Aeneor towards the fallen Havelock as more of the skeletal warriors picked themselves up from the ground or emerged from the rained structures.

  He held out his hand and Havelock took hold of his forearm, swinging up onto Aeneor’s back as Leofric caught sight of two figures emerge from the tower that stood above them. The first was a warrior in gold and silver armour, and where there was a mindless malevolence to the warriors that rose around them, Leofric saw a black will and dark purpose at the heart of this creature. Though the flesh had long since rotted from its bones, it was clear that it had once been a mighty warrior, its thin skull and gleaming hauberk marking it out as one of the Asrai. The creature bore two ancient longswords and a high helm of tarnished silver reflected the last dying rays of the sun.

  The second was a hunched man robed in black who bore a long, skull-topped staff and whose face was gaunt to the point of emaciation. Leofric saw the skeins of powerful magic playing over his pallid flesh.

  “Let’s go, my lord!” begged Havelock, his primal terror of the undead making his voice shrill as the skeletal warriors closed the noose of bone around them.

  Leofric dug his heels into Aeneor’s flanks, knowing that speed was more important than manners now. The horse leapt forwards, smashing the nearest of the dead warriors to the ground. Leofric’s white blade clove the skull of another and he cut left and right as the armoured skeletons pressed in around them.

  The fire of his blade surged with every blow and Leofric felt the hatred of the weapon as a potent force that guided his arm and struck the head from his every opponent with a deadly grace. Clawed hands tore at Aeneor and the horse lashed out with his back legs, its hoofs caving in brittle ribcages and shattering rusted shields.

  Havelock loosed arrows from the back of the horse, though most of his shots flew wide of the mark. Leofric chopped with brutal efficiency at the grimly silent horde of undead, battling to get enough space to fight with all the skill he possessed.

  But the long dead warriors were too numerous and even Aeneor’s strength was insufficient to forge them a path.

  “Lady protect us!” shouted Leofric, smashing his sword through a skeleton warrior’s chest and dropping it to the ground as another slashed a spear across Aeneor’s chest. The steed screamed foully, rearing up and almost toppling them from its back. The spear was knocked from the dead warrior’s grip and Aeneor’s hooves crushed his attacker as they came back down to earth.

  Leofric cried out as he saw the blood spray from the wound and kicked the skull from another warrior’s shoulders as he saw that they were pulling back, forming an unbreakable ring of blades and bone around them. He heard Aeneor’s breath heave and saw blood-flecked foam gather at the corner of his mouth.

  “What are they doing?” asked Havelock, his survival instincts overcoming his fear for the moment.

  “They are waiting for that,” said Leofric as he saw the armoured warrior that had emerged from the ruined tower striding towards him with grim purpose and murderous intent.

  Clearly this was one of the champions of the undead, an ancient warrior bound to the mortal plane by evil magic. It would not attack mindlessly, but with malice and all the skill it had possessed in life. Closer, Leofric could see the skill wrought in every link of its armour and the fine workmanship of its weapons. An obsidian charm hung around the champion’s neck, gleaming and polished to a mirror finish.

  Leofric risked a glance towards the tower, seeing the robed figure extend his hand towards the silent horde, now understanding that he was surely a practitioner of the dark arts of necromancy. The will of this necromancer was what held the dead warriors at bay while his champion took the glory of the kill. Did such a creature even understand the concept of glory or honour?

  The armoured champion stopped and spun his swords in an elaborate pattern of swirling blades that Leofric recognised as elven. He had seen the Hound of Winter perform similarly intricate blade weaving and fervently hoped that this warrior was not as skilled as the venerable champion of Lord Aldaeld had been.

  “You will fight me,” said the creature, its voice dusty and lifeless. “And you will die.”

  Leofric did not deign to reply, he had no wish to trade words with this creature of darkness. A dark pall of fear sought to envelop him at the unnatural horror of this dead warrior, but he fought against it, raising his sword as a talisman against such weakness.

  The undead champion raised its swords and dropped into a fighting crouch. “You will fight me. The Red Duke will have need of warriors like you and I when he rises.”

  “The Red Duke…” said Leofric, suddenly understanding. “He has not risen.”

  “No,” agreed the champion, “he bides his time, but you have been brought here to die like many before you to swell the ranks of his army for when that day comes.”

  Leofric cursed his impetuous decision to ride towards Chalons from Castle d’Epee in such haste. How many other knights had falle
n into this trap and been slain only to rise again as one of the living dead? For all his smug words to Havelock earlier, he knew that he was not as far from his days as a Knight Errant as he had thought.

  Further words were useless and he gave a cry of rage as he charged towards the undead champion. His sword speared towards its chest, but a black-bladed sword intercepted the blow and the champion slashed high towards Leofric’s neck. The edge clanged on the metal gorget of Leofric’s armour, but with the force of the blow he almost fell. He swayed in the saddle as Aeneor turned nimbly on the spot as the champion came at them again.

  With Havelock behind him, Leofric was nowhere near as mobile as he would normally be, but he could not simply push him from the horse. Twin longswords stabbed for him, but the Blade of Midnight moved like a snake, blocking each blow and sending blistering ripostes towards the champion’s head.

  The dark warrior circled Leofric and he thought he could sense its dark amusement at their plight. He felt his anger rise and quashed it savagely, knowing that such anger would lead him to make a fatal error. He felt Aeneor’s chest heave with exertion and hoped his faithful mount could bear them away from this evil place.

  Once again, he charged towards the warrior, using the mass of his steed to drive his sword home. The Blade of Midnight smashed aside the first of the warrior’s longswords and plunged towards his chest. Leofric yelled in triumph, then cried out in pain as a shock of numbing cold flared up his sword arm and his sword slid clear without having caused any harm to the undead warrior.

  He circled around, gritting his teeth against the pain and stared, uncomprehending, at his foe. His strike had been a good one, he was certain of it. The monster should even now be cloven in twain upon the ground, yet it stood unharmed before him, the amulet on its chest burning with afterimages of dark fire.