Tales of the Old World (99 page)

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.”