FREEDOM’S HOME OR GLORY’S GRAVE

Graham McNeill

SHADOWS LEAPT LIKE dancers around the tall garrets of the crumbling towers and Leofric Carrard was starting to think that it had been a bad idea to agree to Lord d’Epee’s request to venture into the abandoned depths of his castle.

The blade of Leofric’s sword shone with a milky glow in the moonlight, its edge like a razor despite him never having taken a whetstone to it. The Blade of Midnight was elven and Leofric hoped that whatever enchantments had been woven in its forging would be proof against the monster they were hunting, a creature of the netherworld, neither alive nor dead.

The ruined inner walls of the gatehouse reared above Leofric, the ramparts empty and dusty, and the merlons broken and saw-toothed. The gateway before him sagged on rusted iron hinges, the timbers splintered and yawning like an open mouth. Beyond the gateway, he could see one of the inner keeps, its solid immensity a brooding black shape against the sky.

‘Do you see anything, Havelock?’ he called to his squire.

‘No, sir,’ whispered the squire, his voice sounding scared, and Leofric hoped that this venture would not see Havelock meet as grisly a fate as his previous squire, Baudel. Leofric still saw the bloody image of Baudel in his nightmares, his belly ripped open by the forest creatures of Athel Loren.

‘Very well,’ he said, keeping his voice even. ‘Let’s keep on.’

Leofric advanced cautiously through the gateway, keeping his head moving from left to right in search of anything out of place. It saddened and angered Leofric to see such a fine castle left to such neglect. In its day, this would have been an almost impregnable fastness, but its glory days had long since passed and its current lord, the lunatic Lord d’Epee was in no fit state to restore it. Where would the local peasants find shelter in times of war? Every lord and noble of Bretonnia had a sacred duty to preserve the natural order of things in his lands, and that could not happen were he to allow the peasants of his lands to be butchered by orcs or beastmen because they had nowhere to run to.

True, Aquitaine was a largely peaceful dukedom - aside from the fractious populace - but that was no excuse for a noble lord to let his castle fall into disrepair. When Leofric had commanded a castle of his own, back in Quenelles, he had spent a goodly sum from his coffers to ensure the castle remained defensible at all times.

But there was more than simple neglect at the heart of Castle d’Epee’s abandonment. The lord and his family dwelled in the outermost gatehouse, fearful of the darkness and the creatures of evil that had taken the inner reaches of their ancestral home, and unwilling to risk their own lives to recover the treasures and heirlooms that lay there.

One such heirloom was the object of Leofric and Havelock’s quest, a stuffed stag’s head said to be hung within the great hall of the third keep. Privately, Leofric thought it a frivolous use of his knightly skills to retrieve such a folly, but the twitching Lord d’Epee had offered Leofric and Havelock shelter on their journey in search of the Grail and his code of honour bound him to accede to his host’s request for aid.

Beyond the gate, Leofric found himself in a cobbled courtyard with ruined outbuildings leaning against the walls, their roofs collapsed and open to the sky. Rotted straw was strewn across the cobbles and the derelict keep loomed like an enormous black cliff before him. Moonlight pooled in the courtyard and glittered from the silver of his plate armour, but the keep remained resolutely dark and threatening, its casement windows invisible against its darkness and its crumbling towers like spikes of black rock.

Havelock moved to stand beside him; the man’s presence reassuring even though his skill with the bow he carried would be negligible in the darkness. His rough peasant clothes were dull and blended with the gloom so that only the light reflecting from his eyes stood out.

‘I don’t like this place,’ said Havelock. ‘I can see why they abandoned it.’

‘It’s a grim place, right enough,’ agreed Leofric. ‘Someone should come here in force and reclaim it. It’s not right that a castle this strong should be left like this.’

Havelock nodded and started to reply, but Leofric raised his hand to silence him as he caught sight of something moving at the base of the keep, a darting shadow that had nothing to do with those cast by the moon and drifting clouds above.

Leofric pointed to where he had seen the movement and set off towards the shadow, hoping to discover some way of entering the keep or a foe he could defeat.

He drew closer to the keep and with every step he took, it seemed to him that he could smell the aroma of roasting meat and hear the sounds of revelry. He turned to Havelock and saw that his squire’s senses were similarly intrigued.

‘Sounds like a feast,’ whispered Havelock.

Leofric nodded and returned his attention to the keep as he saw a soft light emanating from beneath a door of thick wood and banded black iron. He heard a woman’s laughter and felt an ache of loss as it summoned unbidden memories of his lost wife, Helene. He reached to his gorget, beneath which he wore the blue, silken scarf she had given him on the tilting fields outside Couronne after he had unhorsed Duke Chilfroy of Artois.

He could not feel the soft material through the metal of his gauntlets, but just knowing it was there was enough to warn him of the falsehood of the woman’s laughter. Even as they drew near, a warm and friendly glow built from the windows of the keep, spilling like warm honey into the courtyard. The sound of voices grew louder, laughter and ribald jokes echoing from the walls around them. Though he knew it was but an illusion, his heart ached to go to these revellers and join their carousing, to throw off the shackles of discipline enforced upon him by his quest for the Grail.

Havelock took a step towards the keep, the bowstring going slack as he lowered the weapon. ‘My lord… should we ask the people within whether they’ve seen the stag’s head? Maybe we can stop for a while, rest and get some food?’

Leofric shook his head and reached out to pull Havelock back. He felt resistance and pulled harder, stopping the squire in his tracks. The man twisted in his grip, sudden hostility flashing in his eyes.

‘Let me go!’ hissed Havelock. ‘I want some food and wine!’

Leofric’s palm snapped out and cracked against Havelock’s jaw. The squire staggered and Leofric said, ‘Use your head, man. There is no food or wine, it is all an illusion to ensnare us.’

Havelock spat blood and shook his head in contrition as he saw that Leofric spoke the truth. He pulled his bowstring taut once more. ‘Sorry, my lord.’

‘Remember,’ said Leofric. ‘Lord d’Epee said the creature would attempt to make us lower our guard by promising us a warm welcome and attempting to confuse our senses with friendly images. We must not let that happen.’

‘No, my lord,’ said Havelock.

Satisfied his squire understood the threat before them, Leofric once again advanced on the door. Light streamed from the windows and at the threshold, but it was a dead light now, bereft of warmth or sustenance. He could feel it calling to him, bidding him enter with promises of comfort and an easement of burdens, but knowing it for the lie it was, the illusory light had no power over him.

He reached out to grip the black ring that opened the door, and was not surprised when it turned easily beneath his hand. Cold, glittering light enveloped him as the door swung open with a grinding squeal of rusted hinges and he felt its attraction grow in power as he saw what lay within the keep.

Where he had expected emptiness and desolation, instead there was life and people. The great hall stretched out before him, its tables groaning with wild meats and fruit of all descriptions. Earthenware jugs overflowed with wine and a colourful jester capered madly in the centre of the chamber, juggling squawking chickens. Children played ”smell the gauntlet”, a game banned in Bretonnia after it had incited a peasant revolt, and a laughing nobleman clapped enthusiastically to a badly played lute. Above the nobleman, Leofric saw a stuffed stag’s head, its antlers drooping and sad, and shook his head at the idea of risking his and Havelock’s life for such a tawdry prize.

Leofric took a step inside, wary at the sight of so many apparitions and forced himself to remember that they were not real. Lord d’Epee had only mentioned one creature, calling it a Dereliche, a spectral horror that sucked the very life from a person with its deathly touch. He had said nothing about a host of creatures…

The revellers appeared to ignore him, but having attended the court of the king and been on the receiving end of courtly snobbery, Leofric recognised their studied disinterest as false. Whoever or whatever these ghostly people were, they knew he was there.

‘Lord d’Epee didn’t say nothing about a party,’ whispered Havelock.

‘No,’ said Leofric grimly, ‘he didn’t.’

Each of the revellers glimmered with a sheen of silken frost and Leofric approached the nearest, a man dressed in the garb of a minor noble, his clothes bright and well cut, though of a fashion even Leofric knew had passed out of favour many hundreds of years ago.

Leofric slowly extended his sword arm towards the apparition, the blade white in the reflected light of the hall. The tip of the sword passed into the outline of the man, and it had penetrated barely a fingerbreadth when the man hissed and leapt away, the guise of humanity falling from his features in a heartbeat.

Instantly, the gaudy banquet vanished and Leofric was plunged into utter darkness. A low moaning soughed on the cold, dry air and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise at the sound. He heard Havelock cry out in fear and spun around, trying to pinpoint the sound of the moaning voice.

‘Havelock!’ commanded Leofric. ‘Where are you?’

‘Right here, my lord!’ shouted Havelock, though Leofric could see nothing in the blackness.

‘Find a wall and get to the door, I don’t want to hit you by mistake!’

‘Yes, my lord,’ replied Havelock.

Leofric blinked and rubbed a hand across his eyes as he attempted to penetrate the gloom. He turned quickly on the spot, keeping his sword extended before him until his eyes could adjust. He heard a hissing behind him and spun to face it, but another sound came to him from behind and he realised he was surrounded by a host of creatures that were as insubstantial as mist.

He cried out as something cold brushed against the skin of his back, flinching in sudden pain and surprise. His flesh burned as though with frostbite, but he could tell his armour was still whole. Whatever powers these creatures possessed was such that his armour was useless and he cursed d’Epee for sending them on this fool’s errand. He remembered the same deathly chill touch when shadow creatures of the dark fay had attacked him when he had journeyed to the lair of the dragon, Beithir-Seun. Cu-Sith had saved him then, but the Wardancer was long dead and Leofric was on his own now.

Another cold touch stole into his flesh from the side, but he was ready this time and swept his sword down and the white blade cut through something wispy and soft like wadded cheesecloth. A sparkle of light fell to the stone floor like a rain of diamond dust and Leofric heard a shriek torn from what sounded like a dozen throats simultaneously.

‘So you can be hurt?’ taunted Leofric as he heard a chorus of hisses drawing nearer.

‘Yes, we can,’ said a sibilant voice that came from many places, ‘but your flesh is ours, your spirit is ours…’

He could see the faint outlines of perhaps a dozen figures drifting towards him, their outlines blurred and indistinct, but that was enough. Ever since his time in Athel Loren, his sight had been keener and he had been sensitive to the proximity of magic in the air. He narrowed his eyes, letting his awareness of the approaching creatures steal over him like a warm blanket.

‘Come on…’ he whispered as he saw they all moved in perfect concert, as though they were but fragments of a whole… as though orchestrated by a single will.

He could see that the apparitions were unaware that he could see them in the darkness and continued turning blindly to maintain the deception.

You’re not the only ones who have the power of illusion, he thought.

When the nearest creature was an arm’s length from him, Leofric lunged, spearing it with the point of his sword. The multitude cried out in pain as it vanished in a puff of light, but by then Leofric was amongst them, his sword slashing left and right and destroying each creature it cut into. Shrieks and wails of pain filled the hall and Leofric saw the apparitions whip through the air like smoke in a storm.

‘Now, Havelock!’ shouted Leofric.

Once again the rusted hinges squealed as Havelock threw open the door to the banqueting hall and bright moonlight streamed inside. Further illuminated by the light of the night sky, the apparition was bathed in white; its spectral outline limned in glittering light as its ghostly avatars returned to it and became part of the whole once more.

So this was a Dereliche, thought Leofric. Its features were twisted in hatred as its form grew in power, though Leofric knew he must have hurt it with those he had destroyed.

With a shriek of rage, the Dereliche hurled itself forward, its arms extended and ending in ghostly talons that reached for his heart. Its speed was astonishing, but Leofric had been expecting its attack and twisted out of its reach and swung his sword for its head.

His blade cut into the monster and he felt its rage as the Blade of Midnight burned its ethereal body with its keen edge. The Dereliche spun behind him and its claws raked deep into his side as it passed and Leofric cried out in pain as he felt his strength flow from his body and into his foe.

‘Your strength fills me, knight!’ laughed the Dereliche. ‘I will feast well on you.’

Manic laughter followed him as Leofric spun to face his foe once more, launching a deadly riposte to its body. The sword sailed past the creature and it darted in again with a predatory hiss of hunger.

The Blade of Midnight snapped up and Leofric shouted, ‘Lady guide my arm!’ as he leapt towards the Dereliche and felt the blade pierce its unnatural flesh.

It shrieked in agony as the magical blade of the elves dealt it a dreadful wound, the powerful enchantments breaking its hold on the mortal realm. Even as it wailed and spat in its dissolution, Leofric spun his sword until it was held, point down, before him. He dropped to one knee and whispered his thanks to the Lady of the Lake.

‘She will not save you!’ hissed the Dereliche. ‘You are already marked for death, Leofric Carrard.’

Leofric’s eyes snapped open and he saw the fading form of the Dereliche as it sank slowly to the stone floor of the chamber, its form wavering and fading with each passing second.

‘How do you know my name?’ demanded Leofric.

The Dereliche gave a gurgling chuckle and said, ‘The Red Duke will rise again in Chalons and his blade will drink deeply of your blood. The realm of the dead already knows your name.’

Leofric rose to his feet and advanced on the creature, but before he could demand further explanation, its form faded completely until only a dimming shower of sparkling light remained.

With the Dereliche’s destruction, the last vestiges of the hall’s illusion fell away and Leofric saw it for the faded, forgotten place it truly was. Neglect and despair hung over everything and the wan moonlight only served to highlight the melancholic air of decay.

He looked up and saw that the stag’s head was still there, looking even more pathetic than it had before, its fur fallen out in clumps and one antler broken. Havelock moved to stand beside him and followed his gaze.

‘Looks like he’s seen better days, my lord.’

‘Haven’t we all?’ said Leofric, sheathing his sword and turning from the stag, his thoughts dark and filled with foreboding.

A LIGHT RAIN fell and Leofric shivered beneath his armour as he rode along the muddy, rutted road north-east from Castle d’Epee towards the squat brutal mountains of the Massif Orcal. He rode a magnificent elven steed, its flanks as white as virgin snow on a mountain top and a mane like fiery copper. Aeneor had consented to be his steed after a great battle in the heart of Athel Loren when his original rider had been killed and Leofric had ridden him into battle to defend the elves of Coeth-Mara.

Bretonnian steeds were widely regarded as the finest mounts of the Old World, but even the mightiest horse in the king’s stables would be humbled by Aeneor’s beauty and power.

Havelock rode behind him on a considerably less imposing beast, grumbling and miserable as the rain soaked through his oiled leather cape.

Castle d’Epee was many miles behind them and Leofric was glad to see the back of it. Upon presenting the mouldering stag’s head to Lord d’Epee, the man had hurled it to the floor and screamed at the pair of them that they had brought him the wrong one.

Manners forbade Leofric from responding, but even had the vow he had sworn upon embarking on his quest for the Grail not forbidden him to rest more than a single night in any one place, he would not have remained for fear of his temper causing an unforgivable breach of etiquette.

He and Havelock had ridden from the castle as soon as the sun rose over the World’s Edge Mountains, a distant smudge of dark rock on the eastern horizon. Castle d’Epee was now several days behind them, and they had made good time until the rains from the coast had closed in, turning Bretonnian roads to thick, cloying mud. The grim weather suited Leofric’s mood perfectly and he had brooded long over the last words the Dereliche had said to him.

Normally he would give no credence to the utterances of a creature of evil, but it had known his name and spoken of the Red Duke, and such things were not to be taken lightly.

As they had made camp on their first night away from Castle d’Epee, Havelock had started a fire and begun polishing Leofric’s armour. Leofric himself had found a nearby spring and offered prayers of thanks to the Lady for protecting them from the foul Dereliche.

The sky above was dark by the time Havelock had prepared a thin stew for him and as he sat on his riding blanket, Havelock said, ‘This Red Duke, who’s he then? Someone you crossed before?’

Leofric shook his head, blowing to cool the hot stew. ‘No, Havelock, he’s not. He’s something far worse. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of him. He was quite the terror of Aquitaine in his day.’

‘Maybe he was, but I’m from Gisoreux and we got enough troubles of our own to bother with them quarrelsome types from Aquitaine.’

‘And you’ve never heard the Lay of the Red Duke?’ asked Leofric.

Havelock shook his head. ‘Can’t says I have, my lord. Me and mine, well, we worked the land, didn’t we? All we had was a red horse and a black pig. Didn’t have no time for fancy stories like that.’

Leofric hadn’t known exactly what the reference to coloured farm animals meant, but assumed it was some Gisoren expression for poverty. Havelock was of peasant stock and Leofric had to remind himself that his squire was unlikely to have been exposed to any culture or heard any courtly tales.

‘So who was he then, my lord?’ asked Havelock.

‘The Red Duke was a monster,’ began Leofric, wishing he remembered more of the flowery passages of the Lay, ‘one of the blood drinkers. A vampire knight. No one really remembers where he came from, but he terrorised this land over a thousand years ago, murdering hundreds of innocents and slaying any who dared to stand against him, then raising them up to join his army of the dead.’

‘Sounds like a right bad sort,’ said Havelock, making the sign of the horns to ward off any evil spirits that might be attracted by such tales of dark creatures of the night.

‘He was,’ agreed Leofric. ‘His blood drenched debaucheries are said to have shamed the Dark Gods themselves.’

‘So what became of him?’

‘Like all creatures of evil, he was eventually defeated,’ said Leofric. ‘The noble knights of the day fought the great battle of Ceren Field and the king himself skewered the fiend on the end of his lance.’

‘So he’s dead and gone then?’ asked Havelock, scooping up the last of his stew with his fingers and wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

‘So they say,’ said Leofric, grimacing at Havelock’s lack of manners. Uncouth and peasant born he most certainly was, but he was a fine squire and was the only other human that Aeneor allowed near him. ‘It’s said that he rose again nearly five hundred years later, but he was defeated once again, though the Duke of Aquitaine was killed in the battle on the edge of the Forest of Chalons. Accounts of the battle differ, but some say that the Red Duke’s spirit escaped the battle and fled into the depths of the forest, where it remains to this day.’

‘And that ghost thing you killed says he’s going to rise again? That don’t sound good.’

‘No, it does not, and as a knight sworn to the quest it is my duty to see if there is any truth to what it said. And if evil is rising there, I must defeat it.’

FINE WORDS, REMEMBERED Leofric as a droplet of rain fell into his eye and roused him from the memory of his recounting of the Red Duke’s infamy. The Forest of Chalons was still some days distant and there were more uncomfortable days ahead. Leofric had no clear idea of where to seek the Red Duke, but the Barrows of Cuileux lay crumbling and forgotten in the south-western skirts of the mountain forests, and such a place was as good as any to seek the undead.

A low mist hugged the ground as the rain eased off and Leofric caught a scent of woodsmoke carried on the evening’s breeze. The landscape around him was undulating, but mostly flat and devoid of landmarks to help him find his bearings.

‘Havelock?’ said Leofric, turning in the saddle. ‘Do you know where we are? What villages are around here?’

His squire stood high in the saddle, cupping his hand over his eyes as he surveyed the bleak landscape around him.

‘I’m not rightly sure, my lord,’ apologised Havelock. ‘I don’t know this part of the country, but I think this road, more or less, follows the border between Aquitaine and Quenelles.’

Leofric felt homesick as he looked eastwards towards the realm of his birth, the lands that had once been his, and the heartbreaking memory of his family.

‘So that means there’s maybe a few villages a few miles north of here, round the edges of the Forest of Chalons. Maybe even…’ said Havelock, his voice trailing off.

Leofric heard the faint longing in Havelock’s voice and said, ‘Maybe even what?’

‘Nothing, my lord,’ said his squire, staring at the mud.

‘Don’t lie to me, Havelock,’ warned Leofric.

‘It’s nothing, my lord, just something the servants at Castle d’Epee were talking about.’

‘And what might that be?’ demanded Leofric, tiring of Havelock’s reticence. ‘Out with it, man!’

‘A village they talked about,’ said Havelock. ‘A place they called Derrevin Libre.’

The name rang a bell for Leofric, but he couldn’t place it until he remembered the long, rambling discourses of Lord d’Epee. The man had mentioned something about the place, but his ravings had been too nonsensical to take much of it in. Clearly the servants had been talking about it too, and probably with more sense.

‘Well, what did they say about it?’

Havelock was clearly uncomfortable talking about what he’d heard and Leofric supposed some peasant code of honour kept his tongue in check.

He wheeled Aeneor to face his squire and said, ‘Tell me.’

THEY MADE CAMP for the evening and after finishing a meal of black bread and cheese, Havelock told him what he’d heard in the sculleries of Castle d’Epee. Derrevin Libre, it turned out, was indeed a village on the southern edge of the Forest of Chalons, but it was a most remarkable village. Some six months ago, Havelock said, the peasants there had risen up in revolt and overthrown their rightful lord and master before killing him. Once over his initial hesitation, his squire had relished the chance to tell the tale of the peasant revolt, embellishing his tale with lurid details of how truly repellent the local lord had been, even going so far as to link the man with the dark gods of the north.

Leofric sighed as Havelock continued with yet more details of the lord’s vileness in an attempt to justify the overthrow of the natural order of things.

‘So why didn’t the local lords just ride in and crush the rebellion?’ interrupted Leofric. ‘Why aren’t those peasants strung up by their necks from the top of the Lace Tower?’

‘They would have been, you see,’ said Havelock, wagging his finger at Leofric, before a stern glance warned him not to continue doing so. ‘Aye, they would have been, except that the local lords was in the middle of not one, not two, but three different feuds! You know how these Aquitaine folks are, they don’t have to fight for their land so they fight each other.’

That at least was true, reflected Leofric. The nobles of Aquitaine were ever in the grip of some internal feud or war and no sooner would one die down than a new one would flare up.

‘So the peasants were just left to rule the village themselves?’ said Leofric, horrified at the idea of such a thing. Were word of this to travel beyond the borders of Aquitaine, who knew what might happen if peasants were allowed to get the idea that their noble masters could be overthrown at will…

‘More or less,’ agreed Havelock. ‘Though Lord d’Epee’s scullion told me that they’d managed to attract the attention of a few bands of Herrimaults to help them fight to keep their freedom.’

‘Herrimaults?’ snapped Leofric, spitting into the fire. ‘I might have known. Criminals and revolutionaries, the lot of them.’

‘But sir,’ said Havelock. ‘They’s good men, the Herrimaults. They only rob from them’s as can afford the loss and give what they take to feed the poor. They’s good men.’

Leofric could see the admiration in Havelock’s eyes, and shook his head.

‘No, Havelock, they are nothing more than bandits who no doubt perpetuate the stories of their code of honour and reputation as underdog heroes to gullible people like you in order to secure their help in keeping them beyond the reach of the law. Honestly, Havelock, if a dwarf asked you to invest in the Loren Logging Company you’d say yes.’

The smile fell from Havelock’s face at Leofric’s dressing down, but Leofric could still see the spark of defiance there, fuelled by the romantic notion of peasants casting off their noble masters, and knew he had to crush it.

‘Very well, Havelock,’ said Leofric. ‘I have no issue with people wishing a better life for themselves, but there is a natural order to things that cannot be upset or the land will descend into anarchy. If every peasant wanted to rule his village who would till the fields, gather the crops or rear the animals? Nobles rule and peasants work the land, that’s the proper order of things.’

‘But, that’s not-‘

Leofric held up his hand to stifle Havelock’s protests and said, ‘Let me tell you of the last time a peasant tried to rise above his station. He was a young man of Gisoreux, and though you say you never had time for fancy stories, I think you’ll know it.’

‘You’re talking about Huebald, my lord?’ said Havelock.

‘I am indeed. Yes, he was a brave and handsome young man who saved the Duke of Gisoreux’s bride from the terrible beasts of the forest, but the thanks of the fair Lady Ariadne should have been enough for him. Instead he used his friendship with the lady to have her go begging to her husband to dub him a knight of the realm. A peasant becoming a knight, I mean whoever heard of such a thing?’

‘I don’t think that’s quite what happened,’ said Havelock, clearly hesitant about contradicting a questing knight.

‘Of course it is,’ said Leofric, ‘This Huebald, despite the armour, weapons and squire he was gifted with by the duke, was still a peasant at heart and his true nature was what was to undo him when he sought to move in higher circles. With the noble knights of Gisoreux, he rode into battle against a horde of beasts and was slain as he fled the field of battle.’

‘My lord, with respect, I do know this story, and if I might be so bold as to say so, I think you might have heard a different version from mine.’

‘Oh?’ said Leofric. ‘And what happens in your version?’

‘The way I heard it,’ said Havelock, ‘was that Huebald was shot in the back by his squire as he charged the monsters.’

‘Shot by his squire?’ exclaimed Leofric. ‘Why in the world would a squire shoot his knight?’

‘Rumour has it the nobles paid him to do it,’ shrugged Havelock. ‘Gave him a gold coin, more wealth than anyone like him would see in five lifetimes, to do it. The nobles didn’t want some uppity peasant thinking he could be as good as them and they put him back down in the mud with the rest of us.’

‘I had not heard that version of the story,’ said Leofric.

‘Well you wouldn’t have, would you, my lord,’ said Havelock, absently stirring the embers of the fire. ‘You nobles hear your version ‘cause it puts us peasants in our place, and we hear our version and it gives us something to hope for. Something better than grubbing in the mud and shit, which is what we normally do.’

‘So which version do you think is true?’ asked Leofric.

Havelock shrugged, ‘Honestly? I don’t know, probably somewhere in the middle, but that doesn’t matter, does it? All that matters is we each have our own version that keeps us happy I suppose.’

Leofric said nothing, staring at Havelock with a little more respect than he had done before. When Havelock had come to him and begged to be his squire, Leofric had initially refused, for a questing knight traditionally travelled alone, but something in Havelock’s demeanour had changed his mind. Perhaps it was his newly acquired sense for things yet to pass that had made him change his mind, a disquieting gift, he presumed, of his time spent beneath the boughs of Athel Loren. Whatever the reason, he had allowed Havelock to accompany him and, thus far, had no cause to regret the decision.

‘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, 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.

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.’

‘Put the wind up you?’

‘Aye, my lord,’ nodded Havelock, appearing more reluctant to continue. ‘Once she’d finished, you was raving for the whole night, shouting about Morr’s gate and… well…. how you had to get back to Athel Loren to save her… ‘

Leofric lay back down on the bed, well able to imagine how his ravings must have appeared to one who knew that his wife was dead.

‘But anyway,’ continued Havelock. ‘Whatever it was she did seems to have worked, eh?’

‘So it would appear,’ agreed Leofric, sitting upright again as another thought occurred to him. ‘Two days? The undead? Is there any sign of them?’

‘No,’ said Havelock. ‘We got away from them. I think Aeneor would have outrun Glorfinial himself.’

‘Aeneor!’ cried Leofric.

Havelock held up a hand and said, ‘He’s fine. I took care of him myself. He’s a tough old beast that one, the hard muscles of his chest kept the spear from going too deep. He’ll have a nasty scar to show off, but he’ll live.’

Relieved beyond words, Leofric swung his legs from the bed and said, ‘My thanks, Havelock, you have done me proud. I’ll not forget this. Nor the kindness of the peasants of… actually, where are we?’

‘Ah…’ said Havelock. ‘Funny you should ask that.’

‘Funny?’ said Leofric. ‘Funny how?’

Havelock was spared from answering by the arrival of another man at the door, his build powerful and his bearing martial. Dressed in the rough clothing of a huntsman, he carried a quiver of arrows over his shoulder and had a long bladed sword partially concealed beneath his hooded cloak. Beneath his peaked and feathered hunter’s cap, his face was rakishly handsome and Leofric saw a glint of mischief there that he instantly disliked.

‘Who are you?’ asked Leofric. ‘And where am I?’

The man smiled. ‘My name is Carlomax and you are in the Free Peasant Republic of Derrevin Libre.’

LEOFRIC SAT ON the wall on the edge of the village, his breath coming in shallow gasps as he walked the circumference of the village to regain his strength. He wore his armour, for a knight of Bretonnia had to be able to fight in his armour as though it weighed nothing at all, though he felt very far from such fitness.

The blade of the undead champion had wounded him grievously, and despite the healing power of this village’s fay woman, it was going to take time for his strength to fully return. He set off again, feeling stronger with each step and casting an eye around the village of Derrevin Libre.

Two score buildings of a reddish orange wattle and daub comprised the village, though at its centre stood a largely dismantled stone building that must once have belonged to the noble lord of this village. Only the nobles of Bretonnia were permitted to use stone in their dwellings, but such laws obviously held no sway in this place as Leofric watched gangs of peasants chipping away the mortar and ferrying the stone to the ground via a complicated series of block and tackle.

A tall palisade wall of logs with sharpened tops formed a defensive wall around the village and Leofric knew that this was higher and stronger than most villages could hope for. Having climbed to the top of the wall earlier, he had seen a bare swathe of the forest where the logs had come from and knew that the revolting peasants had put their brief time of freedom to good use in preparing for the inevitable counterattack. Hooded Herrimaults with longbows patrolled the walls and land beyond the village, alert and ready for the attack from the local lords that must surely come soon.

The village was thronged with laughing peasants and Leofric found the effect quite unsettling. Men and women worked in the fields beyond the walls and children played in the earthen streets, chasing hoops of cane or teasing the local dogs. The villages Leofric remembered from Quenelles were a far cry from Derrevin Libre, their peasants surly and hunched with their faces to the soil.

The sun was hot and he could feel his skin reddening, though he had refused Havelock’s offer of a hooded Herrimault cloak, seeing it as an acceptance of what had happened here. The few people he encountered in his slow circuit of the village were amiable, if wary of him, as they had good right to be. For Leofric represented exactly what they had rebelled against six months ago.

Leofric still found it hard to believe that a peasant revolt had managed to survive this long, but if there was anywhere it could do so, it was the fractious dukedom of Aquitaine. He did not know the names of the local lords, but knew it was only a matter of time until they came with fire and sword and put an end to this futile dream of freedom. Strangely, the thought of the status quo being restored here did not give him as much comfort as he expected it would. People would die and the ringleader of this revolution would be hanged.

Speaking of the ringleaders, he saw Carlomax, the charismatic Herrimault who appeared to be the self-appointed leader of this revolt walking towards him, a longbow clutched in one hand, while his other hand gripped the hilt of his sword.

‘Mind if I walk with you?’ asked Carlomax.

‘Do I have a choice?’ asked Leofric.

‘This is Derrevin Libre,’ smiled Carlomax. ‘Everyone has a choice.’

‘Did the local lord have a choice before your little revolution killed him?’

Carlomax’s lips pursed and Leofric saw him bite back a retort before his easy composure reasserted itself. ‘You are angry with me, yet I have done nothing to you, sir knight.’

‘You are a revolutionary, that is enough to make me angry.’

‘A revolutionary?’ said Carlomax. ‘Yes, I suppose I am. But if I am, then I fight for honour and justice, that is the true revolution here.’

‘Honour and justice now includes murder does it?’ spat Leofric.

Again Carlomax struggled to stay calm, and said, ‘If you’ll allow me to show you something, I think you might change your mind.’

‘Show me what?’

‘Come,’ said Carlomax, indicating that Leofric should follow him. ‘It’s easier if you see it first.’

THE ICE ROOM of the former lord of Derrevin Libre was dug deep into the earth, far below ground level, and as Leofric descended the stairs he relished the drop in temperature after the heat of the day. A compact room of rough-hewn stone blocks, there was, of course, no ice left, but it was still nevertheless pleasantly cool though the shelves were empty of meat and vegetables as he might have expected.

In fact the room was empty save for the bloated shape of the corpse concealed beneath a large blanket. Despite the cool air, the stench was appalling and Leofric was forced to cover his nose and mouth to keep it at bay.

‘You kept the body?’ said Leofric, aghast. ‘Why?’

‘You’ll see,’ promised Carlomax. ‘Take a look.’

Against his better judgement Leofric approached the covered body, keeping one hand pressed over his mouth as Carlomax took hold of the blanket and pulled it back to reveal the dead body beneath.

Leofric dropped to his knees at the horror that was revealed, his stomach turning in loops as he fought to prevent himself from vomiting. The body was that of a man, but a man so bloated and repellent that Leofric could barely believe such a thing was human. Sagging folds of flab hung slackly from the man’s frame, his skin discoloured and ruptured in numerous places, each long gash encrusted with filth and dried pustules. The man had clearly been diseased and he backed away lest some contagion remained in the rotted flesh.

‘You need to burn this,’ said Leofric. ‘It has become rank with corruption.’

‘No,’ said Carlomax. ‘The body has not changed since we killed him.’

Leofric looked back at the repulsive corpse and said, ‘Impossible. The body has rotted from within.’

‘I swear to you, Leofric, that this is exactly how this… thing was put here. Look at his arms, he was a worshipper of the Dark Gods.’

Leofric was loath to look again at the horrendous sight, but bent once again to the body. His eyes roamed the purulent, flabby arms, at last seeing what Carlomax was referring to. All along the length of the man’s arms were a regular series of blisters, each formed in a triangular pattern of three adjoining circles. Each cluster was arranged in the same pattern.

‘I have seen this before,’ said Leofric.

‘You have? Where?’

‘I fought alongside the king at the great battle against the northern tribes at the foot of the Ulricsberg. I saw this symbol painted on the banners and carved into the flesh of the warriors who worshipped the Dark God of pestilence and decay.’

Carlomax made the sign the protective horns as Leofric saw that many of the open wounds on the man’s body had more than a hint of mouth to them, some even having twisted vestigial teeth and gums protruding from the grey meat of the body.

‘The man was an altered,’ said Carlomax. ‘He deserved to die.’

Leofric nodded. The mutating power of Chaos had warped the dead man’s flesh into this morbidly repulsive form for some unguessable purpose and the horror of it sickened him.

The power of Chaos was a foulness that infected the minds of the weak with promises of easy power and immortality, but it inevitably led to corruption and death, though such a fate never seemed to deter others from believing they could master it.

‘I’ve seen enough,’ he said, turning and marching up the stairs. He needed to be out of that foetid darkness and away from the disgusting vision of the mutated corpse. He emerged into the sunlight, taking a deep breath of fresh air and feeling his head clear almost instantly as he moved away from the building.

‘You see now why this happened?’ asked Carlomax, following Leofric back into the daylight above.

Leofric nodded, but said, ‘It won’t make any difference though.’

Carlomax shook his head. ‘It has to. When people see what happened here and why, justice will prevail.’

‘Justice?’

‘Yes, justice,’ snapped Carlomax. ‘That is the code of the Herrimaults, to uphold justice where the law has failed and to reject the dark gods and to fight against them at all times.’

‘The Herrimaults truly have a code of honour?’

‘We do,’ said Carlomax defiantly.

‘Tell me of it,’ said Leofric.

AS THE LAST rays of sunlight faded from the sky, Leofric sat on the edge of the palisade wall looking out over the surrounding lands, his thoughts confused and uncertain. When he had first heard of Derrevin Libre, he had been horrified at the upsetting of the natural order of things and branded the Herrimaults as little better than brigands, but the day spent with Carlomax had disabused him of that notion.

The man’s brother had been hung for smiling at a noble’s daughter and his mother crippled by a beating for weeping at the execution. Small wonder he had turned to the life of an outlaw.

Carlomax had told him how he had later abducted the noble’s daughter, intending to rape and torture her, but had found that he had not the stomach for such vileness, and had released her unharmed.

How much of that story was true, he didn’t know for sure, but Carlomax had an integrity to him that Leofric had quickly recognised and despite his initial misgivings, he found he believed the man. The code of the Herrimaults had impressed him, its tenets not unfamiliar to a knight such as he; to protect the innocent, to uphold justice, to be true to your fellows and to fight the powers of Chaos wherever they are found.

Following such a code, Carlomax might himself have been a knight were it not for his low birth. And from what Leofric had seen around Derrevin Libre, he couldn’t argue that Carlomax had created a functioning society for its people that was superior to the lot of the majority of Bretonnian peasants.

The night’s darkness was absolute and Leofric knew that come the morning he and Havelock would ride to the city of Aquitaine itself to warn the duke of the threat gathering in the north of his lands.

Filled with such gloomy thoughts, Leofric did not hear Havelock approach, his squire appearing absurdly cheerful, though he was not surprised. To another peasant, Derrevin Libre must seem like paradise and Leofric found that he could not find it in himself to disagree.

‘You should get some sleep, it’s going to be a long day tomorrow and you still haven’t got your strength back yet… my lord,’ said Havelock and Leofric couldn’t help but notice the tiniest hesitation before he had added ”my lord”.

‘I know,’ said Leofric.

Havelock nodded, suddenly awkward and Leofric said, ‘Do you want to stay here, Havelock? In the village, I mean?’

His squire frowned and shook his head. ‘No, my lord. Why would I want to do such a thing?’

Leofric was surprised and said, ‘I thought you admired the Herrimaults?’

‘I do, my lord,’ agreed Havelock. ‘But I swore an oath to you and I plan on honouring that. It’s nice here, don’t get me wrong, but…’

‘But what?’

‘But it won’t last,’ whispered Havelock sadly. ‘You know it and I know it. When the local lords finally get over whatever feuds are keeping them busy, they’ll come in force and burn this place to the ground. Can’t have the peasants believing that there might be other ways of life than the one they’re born to, eh? Tell me I’m wrong.’

Leofric shook his head. ‘No, you’re not wrong. I just wish the notions that underpin the knightly code and the Herrimaults’ code could be put into practice beyond the conduct of a single knight or outlaw.’

‘Well, it’s a noble dream, my lord, but we live in the real world, don’t we?’

Leofric said, ‘That we do, Havelock, that we do. Here, help me up.’

Havelock pulled Leofric to his feet, the pair of them freezing as a chorus of wolf howls echoed through the darkness.

Leofric’s gaze was drawn to the edge of the forest as he heard new sounds beyond that of the howling wolves, the tramp of feet and the crack of snapping branches as armed warriors marched through the trees.

‘Oh no…’ whispered Leofric as he saw scores of armoured skeletons emerge from the treeline, packs of snapping wolves at their heels.

Standing in the centre of the battle line, dimly illuminated by the flickering glow of the torches set on the palisade walls of Derrevin Libre, was the gold and silver armoured champion of the dead and the hooded necromancer. The champion rode the monstrous carcass of the blackest horse, its eyes afire with the flames of the damned.

‘Run, Havelock!’ shouted Leofric. ‘Get Carlomax! Tell him to get every man who can hold a sword to the walls. We’re under attack!’

WITHIN MOMENTS, A hundred men were at the wall, some armed with longbows, but most with peasant weapons: axes, spears and scythes.

The army of undead had not moved since Leofric’s warning, their utter stillness draining the courage of the men at the walls with every passing second.

‘Where have they come from?’ asked Carlomax, standing beside Leofric with his bow at the ready and a quiver full of arrows.

‘From deep in the forest,’ said Leofric. ‘They are the heralds of the Red Duke.’

‘The Red Duke!’ hissed Carlomax, his handsome features twisted in the fear that such a name carried for the people of Aquitaine. ‘He rises again?’

Leofric nodded. ‘I believe he will soon. Havelock and I were riding for the duke’s lands bearing warning when we came upon your village.’

‘Can we hold them?’ asked Carlomax. ‘There are quite a lot of them…’

‘We’ll hold them,’ promised Leofric, casting his gaze along the length of the palisade wall. ‘By my honour, we will hold them.’

Like a wind driven before a storm, the fear of these dreadful creatures reached outwards, and Leofric could see that each man’s heart was icy with the chill of the grave at the very unnaturalness of the risen dead.

Though the men on the walls were clearly brave, Leofric knew that their courage balanced on a knife-edge and that they needed some fire in their bellies if they weren’t to flee in terror from the first charge.

Leofric marched along the length of the wall facing the undead, lifting his white bladed sword high so that every man could see its purity in the face of such evil.

‘Men of Bretonnia!’ he shouted. ‘You will hold these walls!’

‘Why should we listen to you?’ cried a voice in the darkness.

‘If you want to live, you will listen to him!’ returned Carlomax.

Leofric nodded his thanks and continued. He had thought to appeal to their duty to the king, but had thought the better of it when he saw the number of Herrimault cloaks among the villagers. As much as he had considered them little more than bandits before today, he was savvy enough to know that their skill with a bow would be useful in the coming fight.

‘You are right to question me, but I say this not as an order, but as a statement of fact. You have to hold these walls, for if you do not, your families will die and your homes will become your graves. At least until fell sorcery brings your spirit back to your dead flesh and you are denied eternal rest.’

He could see the horror of such a thought writ large on every face, knowing that the fear of such a fate would rouse each man to great deeds.

‘Your courage and strength will decide if you live or die tonight, so if you fight not for the king or your lord, fight for that. No grand gestures or lordly ambitions will be satisfied by this battle, only survival. I have fought things like this before and I tell you now they can be defeated. Cut them down as you would an orc or beast, but be wary of them rising again. Destroy the head if you can or smash the ribcage. Though these things have no hearts that beat as ours do, a mortal blow will still destroy them. Fight hard and may the Lady guide your arms!’

‘Derrevin!’ shouted Carlomax, seeing that Leofric had finished.

‘Libre!’ cheered the men of the village in response.

‘Nice speech, my lord,’ said Havelock, nocking an arrow to his bow, ‘but I think his was punchier.’

‘Evidently,’ agreed Leofric as the chant of ”Libre! Libre! Libre!” echoed through the darkness.

Leofric gripped his sword a little tighter as he saw that the time for speeches and waiting was over as the army of undead began its advance on the village. Marching in ordered squares a general of the Empire would have been proud of, the dead warriors tramped in silence towards the walls, the only sound the clink and scrape of rusted chainmail on bone.

‘Steady!’ shouted Carlomax, nocking an arrow and pulling his bowstring tight. For a moment Leofric wished he had a bow, but then shook his head at such foolishness… a knight with a bow! He chuckled at the idea and knew he had spent too much time in Derrevin Libre if its revolutionary ideals were starting to put such thoughts in his head.

‘Loose!’ shouted Carlomax and a flurry of arrows slashed towards the marching warriors.

As Leofric had said, the undead could indeed be brought down, and a dozen skeletons collapsed into jumbled piles of bone as the magic binding their form together was undone. The remainder paid these losses no heed and came on, uncaring of the volleys of shafts that punched through skulls or severed spines.

Though dozens fell with each volley, there were hundreds more and Leofric knew that within moments the enemy would be at the walls. Dark fear spread like a bow wave before the undead and Leofric could see many shafts loosed in haste from shaking hands thud harmlessly into the ground.

‘Bretonnia!’ he shouted. ‘The spirit of Gilles le Breton is in each of you! Do not give in to the fear! Remember that your loved ones depend on your courage!’

Further words were wasted as the undead warriors slammed into the wall and Leofric felt the logs sway as the implacable will of the Necromancer gave the undead strength. Ancient sword blades hacked into the timbers and skeletal hands dug into the gnarled bark as dead warriors hauled themselves towards the parapet.

A leering skull encased in a fluted helmet of bronze appeared before Leofric and he swept his sword through the neck, sending the body tumbling to the earth. No sooner had it vanished than yet more appeared. The Blade of Midnight smote them down, but armoured skeletons clambered over the sharpened logs all along the length of the wall.

The villagers of Derrevin Libre hacked at them with axes and stabbed them from the walls with their spears, but for some the horror of the living dead was too much and they broke and ran from the battle. Havelock sent shaft after shaft into the horde at the bottom of the wall as they chopped at the logs or slithered over the bones of the fallen.

Screams of fear and pain filled the air as ancient blades and clawed hands tore at warm flesh and Leofric hacked his way through the dead to where the fighting was thickest, bellowing cries to the Lady and the King as he smashed the undead from the walls.

Carlomax held a section of wall above the gate, his sword battering skeletons from the walls with every stroke. Leofric could see that the man was reasonably skilled with a sword, and what he lacked in elegance, he made up for in ferocity.

The night rang to the clash of iron on bronze, the battle fought in the flickering glow of torches set on the wall. Leofric heard wailing screams and turned to see the men on the wall to his right shrieking like banshees and clawing at their flesh in agony. Age-withered flesh slid from their muscles and wasted organs blistered as they ruptured and turned to dust.

‘No!’ shouted Leofric, tasting the rank odour of dark magic on the air. He risked a glance to the hillside where the undead champion and the necromancer watched the battle below. Leaping scads of power swirled around the dread sorcerer.

Even as he returned his gaze to the battle, he saw it was hopeless. Skeletal warriors had footholds along the wall and the men of Derrevin Libre who had fallen were even now climbing to their feet to hurl themselves at their former comrades with monstrous hunger.

‘Carlomax! Havelock!’ shouted Leofric. ‘The sorcerer!’

He had no way of knowing whether or not his words had been heard as he fought his way along the wall, hacking a path through the living dead. He saw Havelock pinned against the inner face of the wall by a skeleton attempting to throttle the life from him, while Carlomax battled a trio of armoured skeletons. Leofric killed the first and kicked the second over the wall as Carlomax despatched the last.

He hacked his sword through the spine of the skeleton attacking Havelock and, together with Carlomax, the three of them formed a fighting wedge above the gate.

‘My thanks,’ breathed Carlomax. ‘I don’t think I could have taken them all.’

Leofric nodded and said, ‘We can’t hold them like this.’

‘No,’ agreed Carlomax. ‘What do you suggest?’

‘Something more direct,’ said Leofric, pointing to the two dark figures that observed the battle from their vantage point at the treeline. ‘I need to get them down here!’

‘What?’ said Carlomax. ‘Are you mad?’

A thunderous crash and crack of shorn timbers sounded from below and Havelock shouted, ‘The gate!’ as a white blur galloped through the village towards the wall.

‘Be ready for my shout!’ yelled Leofric as he dropped from the parapet and onto the back of Aeneor. Leofric yelled an oath to the Lady, and rode into the gateway, where a dozen skeletons pushed through with spears lowered. He smashed their blades aside and bludgeoned them to splinters with the weight of his charge and the brutality of his sword blows.

Aeneor reared in the gateway before the advancing horde of the dead, Leofric’s Blade of Midnight throwing off loops of white fire that reflected from the insides of the skulls of the warriors before him.

‘Come on then, you dead bastards!’ he shouted. ‘I’ll kill you for good this time!’

A shadow loomed beyond the gateway and he urged Aeneor onwards, leaping the splintered ruin of the gate and scattering the skeletal warriors before him. His sword cut skulls from necks and arms from shoulders as he cut a deadly swathe through the enemy, but beyond the press of bone and bronze at the gateway, he saw what he had been hoping for.

Mounted on his dark steed, the undead champion awaited him, the necromancer hunched in his shadow and dark coils of magic leaping from his wizened fingers.

‘Carlomax! Havelock!’ called Leofric. ‘Now! Shoot!’

A pair of arrows leapt from the walls and hammered into the champion’s breastplate, but the dead warrior appeared not to notice them.

‘Not him!’ shouted Leofric, but further words were impossible as the champion charged towards him, the eyes of his terrifying black steed burning with dreadful malice. Leofric knew his strength was not the equal of this warrior, but he was no man’s inferior on horseback. He had toppled Chilfroy of Artois and would be damned if this creature of darkness was going to be the death of him.

The distance between the two warriors closed rapidly and Leofric swayed aside at the last possible second as the champion’s sword struck to deal him a mortal blow. The Blade of Midnight turned aside the blow and Leofric lunged, the tip of the blade spearing the heart of the champion’s obsidian amulet and splitting it apart with a hideous crack of thunder.

The champion gave a cry of fury as Aeneor turned on the spot and Leofric swept his sword out in a wide arc as a pair of arrows slashed through the air above him.

Even amid the clamour of battle and the screams of the dying, Leofric heard the thud of arrows striking flesh and the hollow clang as his sword smashed the undead champion’s helmet and skull to shards.

The dark steed rode on for a moment before its substance began to unravel and it finally collapsed into a clattering pile of dead flesh and bones. The fallen champion was pitched from the saddle, his own form coming apart as the will that held him to the mortal world fled his ruined shell.

Leofric lifted his sword in victory as he saw the necromancer struggle to pull Carlomax and Havelock’s arrows from his chest, but it was a futile gesture and Leofric watched as dissolution rendered his flesh down to naught but dust.

The sounds of battle began to fade and Leofric saw the undead horde begin to collapse before the walls of Derrevin Libre as the dark magic that empowered them faded from their long-dead bones.

He sighed in relief and felt his spirits rise as he realised that the night’s horror was over.

The Battle for Derrevin Libre had been won.

‘SO WHAT WILL you tell the duke of us, Leofric?’ asked Carlomax as Leofric and Havelock prepared to ride from the village the following morning. Havelock’s horse had been lost in the depths of the forest, but he had been furnished with one of the previous master of the village’s prize steeds.

With the defeat of the undead, Leofric felt that the sky was clearer and he could smell the scent of wild flowers carried on the back of a delightfully crisp breeze.

Leofric considered the question for a moment before answering. ‘I will tell him the truth.’

‘And what is that?’

‘That Derrevin Libre has no lord,’ said Leofric. ‘And that it might be better were it to be allowed to go on without one for a while.’

Carlomax nodded. ‘Thank you, that is more than I would have asked for.’

‘It won’t change anything though,’ warned Leofric. ‘They will come with bared swords.’

‘I know,’ agreed Carlomax. ‘But now we have a few battles under our belts and even if they do kill us all, what we achieved here will be spoken of for years. Even the mightiest forest fire begins with but a single spark…’

Leofric shook his head. ‘Then Derrevin Libre will be freedom’s home or glory’s grave.’

He turned Aeneor for the southern horizon and said, ‘And I do not know which one I fear the most.’