Tales of the Old World (98 page)

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.