Tales of the Old World (5 page)

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 fallen 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.

The sun had now dropped behind the horizon and Leofric felt a cold weight
settle in his belly as he realised that this warrior was protected from harm by
powerful dark magic.

“My lord,” begged Havelock from behind him. “We must flee. Please, I don’t
want to die here.”

“No, I will not run from this evil. I will defeat it,” said Leofric with a
confidence he did not feel. Before the pall of fear that still sought to crush
his courage could take hold, he attacked once more, a cry for aid from the Lady
of the Lake bursting from his lips. Once again, Leofric’s white blade and the
warrior’s black swords traded blows. The champion’s skill was great, but so too
was Leofric’s and he bore the enchanted blade of the Hound of Winter.

They fought within the circle of the undead warriors, Leofric finding his
attacks thwarted time and time again by the skill of his foe and the unnatural
magic that protected it.

When the end came it was sudden, Leofric raising his sword to block a
lightning riposte a fraction of a second too late. The black blade glittered
with evil runes and Leofric cried out in agony as it smashed through the waist
lames of his breastplate. Numbing cold and pain spread from the wound, the hurt
increased tenfold by the spiteful runes inscribed onto the champion’s blade.
Leofric swayed in the saddle as his vision greyed and only Havelock’s grip and
Aeneor’s sure footing kept him from falling.

Aching cold spread from where the champion’s blow had landed, blood streaming
down the buckled strips of laminated plate that had protected his midriff.

“You have great skill for a mortal,” hissed the undead warrior. “You will
make a fine addition to the Red Duke’s army.”

“No…” whispered Leofric, attempting to lift his sword, but his arm was leaden
and useless.

“Yes,” promised the champion, its grinning skull face alight with triumph as
it drew back its arm to deliver the deathblow. Leofric felt the fear that had
threatened to seize him earlier rise in a suffocating wave at the thought of
rising to become one of the living dead.

But before the undead warrior could strike Havelock cried, “Aeneor! Ride!
Carry us away!”

The elven steed reared once more, his lashing hooves forcing the champion
back, before turning and galloping towards the ring of skeletal warriors who
stood sentinel around the duel. Havelock held Leofric tightly as the steed
thundered onwards and closed his eyes as he felt the horse surge into the air.

Aeneor smashed through the ranks of the dead with the clang of metal and the
snap of bone as he crushed those he landed upon and scattered the others with
the power of his charge. Swords and spears stabbed, but none could touch the
fast moving steed as it battered its way clear of its rider’s enemies.

Then they were clear and Leofric felt a measure of his senses returning as
they rode clear of the dark fear that filled the air around the undead.

He raised his head and said, “We have to go back and fight!”

“With all due respect,” wheezed Havelock, “don’t be a fool! Don’t listen to
him, Aeneor, keep going!”

Leofric wanted to protest, but his strength was gone. He gripped his sword
hilt tightly and looked down at his wound, where blood pumped weakly down his
leg. He had suffered worse in his time as a knight, but the real damage had been
done—and was
still
being done—by the evil magic worked into the
champion’s blade.

He heard the mournful howl of wolves echoing from the furthest reaches of the
forest and knew that the minions of the Red Duke were not about to let him
escape that easily.

“Havelock…” gasped Leofric.

“My lord?” said his squire.

“Get me clear of this place…”

“That’s what I’m doing, my lord,” confirmed Havelock as the elven steed
thundered through the forest and away from the domain of the undead. “Though I
think Aeneor’s doing a better job of it than I am.”

Leofric nodded weakly as the cold spread to his chest and he felt the pain
deep in his heart. “We have to warn the lord of Aquitaine…”

Aeneor galloped onwards.

How long they had ridden for, Leofric could not say; his only memories
blurred and pain-filled. Deathly cold filled his limbs and his every movement
felt like it would be his last. He was dimly aware of the forest flashing past
him and the howling of wolves in the night. The passage of time became
meaningless to him as the pain of his wound threatened to overwhelm him.

Waking dreams plagued him in which he saw Helene once more, alive and wrapped
in her favourite red dress as she danced for him and held his son, Beren, out
before her. He wept to see such visions and though they showed him wondrous
memories, he cast them from his thoughts as he knew they were the vanguard of
the journey to Morr’s embrace.

In moments of lucidity, he tried to converse with Havelock and ask of the
health of Aeneor, but each time he tried to speak, he found his words slurred
and unintelligible.

An eternity or a heartbeat passed in silent, cold agony and it was with a
start Leofric opened his eyes to see that they were no longer beneath the
oppressive branches of the forest. Golden fields of corn stretched away for
miles in all directions and warm sunlight streamed from the sky.

He smiled as he wondered if this was what it was like to die. He had heard
that Morr’s realm was cold, but he felt the warmth of the sun on his skin as a
sweet nepenthe.

Thin columns of smoke rose from a pleasant looking walled hamlet in the
distance and he wondered what fine fellows dwelled within. He realised that he
was still riding a horse, feeling the grip of another holding him upright and
with that realisation came the pain again.

He groaned, remembering the battle in the forest and the dire warning they
had to bring to the knights of Aquitaine.

“Havelock…” he gasped, seeing a handful of hooded peasants walking towards
them from the direction of the hamlet.

“I see them,” said Havelock.

Leofric squinted through the bright sunshine and his heart sank as he saw
that the men were all carrying longbows fashioned from yew.

And as his consciousness finally slipped away, he saw that every arrowhead
was aimed unerringly towards him.

When next Leofric opened his eyes, he saw woven straw bound by twine above
him and the animal stench of livestock was thick in his nostrils. He blinked,
his eyes gummed by sleep and his mouth felt unbearably dry. His head rested on a
pillow of wadded hessian and he saw that a thin blanket covered his body.

He lay still for several moments, piecing together the events of the last
few… days?

How long had he lain here?

And where
was
here?

Leofric rolled his head to the side, seeing that he lay in a small room with
a floor of hard-packed earth and walls formed from wattle and daub. His armour
lay neatly stacked in the corner of the room and the Blade of Midnight stood
propped against one wall.

He tried to rise, but a wave of nausea rose and threatened to make him vomit,
so he lay back down and marshalled his strength as memories began to return to
him. He remembered the fight against the undead warrior and reached below the
blanket to where he recalled the monster’s diabolical sword had cut him.

He could feel the wound was stitched, and that it was no more than a couple
of days old. Of the flight from the undead, he remembered almost nothing, save a
frantic ride through the dark groves of the forest towards what he supposed was
safety.

“So where in the name of the Lady am I?” he whispered.

From the look of the room, he surmised he was in a peasant village somewhere
near the edge of the Forest of Chalons, but which one he had no idea. Perhaps
Havelock would know…

Havelock!

What had become of his squire? Leofric was overcome by a sudden horror that
Havelock had met the same fate as Baudel, and vowed that never again would he
ride into danger with a squire.

Even as the thought formed, a shadow moved at the entrance to the room and
the blanket that covered the door and afforded him a little privacy moved aside
and Havelock entered, carrying a steaming bowl that smelled delicious.

“Havelock!” cried Leofric. “You’re alive!”

“Well, begging your pardon, my lord, of course I am,” replied Havelock. “It’s
you that almost didn’t make it out of the forest in one piece.”

Leofric smiled to see his squire alive and well, pushing himself slowly
upright. He winced at the numb stiffness in his side, but could already feel
that it was a fading hurt. Havelock sat at the end of the cot bed and handed him
the bowl, together with a hunk of hard bread. He saw the bowl was filled with a
thin soup and dipped the bread in to moisten it before chewing it slowly.

He said nothing for a while, content just to wolf down the soup and bread,
feeling stronger already as it reached his stomach. At last he put aside the
bowl and said, “How long have I lain here?”

“Two days,” replied Havelock. “You were unconscious before I brought you in.”

“I was badly hurt,” said Leofric, again touching the stitches in his side.

“Aye, my lord,” nodded Havelock. “That you were. I stitched the wound easy
enough, but there was something about that wound that I couldn’t fix.”

“The undead warrior,” said Leofric. “He carried a blade of dark magic. I
should be dead. Why am I not dead?”

“Always looking for the cloud around every silver lining, eh?” smiled
Havelock. “There’s a woman here, knows her herbs and a thing or two about the
human body. More than a thing or two in her younger years, if you take my
meaning.”

“What?” said Leofric, utterly nonplussed.

Havelock sighed. “Sometimes I swear trying to get the nobles to understand
something simple’s like duelling an avalanche.”

“What are you talking about, Havelock?”

“I’m saying that there’s a grandmother here with more than a touch of the fay
about her,” whispered Havelock conspiratorially. “Her eyes are different colours
and she’s as quick on her feet as a Bordeleaux tavern wench.”

“What about her?” asked Leofric. “What did she do?”

“Well I don’t know,” shrugged Havelock. “You don’t go asking about those with
the fay upon them, you just accept it and hope they don’t turn you into a frog.
She dug up some herbs from the edge of the forest and made you some kind of
poultice. Rubbed it on your wound and mumbled some mumbo-jumbo I never ever
heard before. Fair put the wind up me.”