Tales of the Old World (4 page)

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, overgrown 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.