The black knight said little to Robert for the rest of the day, only occasionally pointing to a landmark or asking a simple question of the young knight. As the two rode onward, the land grew more foreboding, sapping Robert's spirit like...like a vampire, he thought with a slight shudder. He whispered a silent prayer to Altheria that one of those horrors wasn't behind all this.
Night fell, and the two knights made camp deep in the woods, far from any friendly manor or village.
Pierre faced Robert from the opposite side of the small campfire they built. He stared into the fire with a haunted frown.
“What do you know of Sir Thomas?” he asked at length.
“Little, really,” Robert shrugged. “I just know that he was a just and virtuous servant of the Four who died bravely in battle against demons.”
“Have you ever given any thought to why he was buried so far away from anything?”
Sir Robert shrugged. “I had never really thought about it. Do you know?”
“I'm not quite sure, but if I told you my guess, I doubt you'd stride into that place. Foul things dwell there.”
They were silent for a long moment, the crackling and popping of the firewood the only sound in the chilly night. Then Robert spoke.
“Why are you a black knight? One of your skill and bravery must surely-”
Pierre cut him off. “I am from Cabot's Hill. That should be enough.”
“It isn't,” Robert narrowed his eyes. “Unless you've something to do with the ruin of that city.”
Pierre's eyes glinted back at Robert. “I am its rightful heir by blood and swore a sacred oath to never wear my coat of arms until it has been restored to glory.”
“How do I know you speak the truth?”
“You don't,” Pierre laughed bitterly. “Though it hardly matters now.”
#####
The next morning was cool for Midsummer's Eve's Day. The two knights rode more cautiously through the woods. The trees themselves took on more sinister shapes. Clouds darkened the sky, and few birds echoed through the branches.
In the afternoon, the two found themselves on the edge of a glade. Squatting in its center was an ancient mausoleum, surrounded by a field littered with debris and bones. It stank of death. Sickly trees, draped in stringy gray moss, lined the perimeter of the graveyard. Many of them grew through the remains of the stone fence that once stood there.
“There it is.” Pierre pointed. “The 'Great Tomb' of Sir Thomas d'Ulanth.”
Robert's jaw gaped in shock. “What happened?? This is no resting ground for a knight!”
Pierre shook his head. “Nothing rests here, least of all the dead.”
Robert drew his sword and urged his horse forward. It refused to step onto the grass of the glade. He tried prodding it, but it only trembled and whinnied obstinately, eyes darting back and forth wildly.
“The horses won't go anywhere near it. You'll have to go on foot.” Pierre shook his head. “Though I do believe your steed has more sense than you.”
Robert dismounted. His glare at Pierre only disappeared when he donned his helmet. “Then I shall go alone.”
“You will die alone.”
“A man who dies with honor and courage is never alone!”
Pierre sighed, unable to decide if the youth was brave or stupid.
“...If that is the fate Altheria has decided for me,” Robert finished softly, making the sign of the Moon on his chest.
Without another word, the young knight turned and took a cautious step onto the grass. The trees swayed loudly behind him.
“Sir Robert,” Pierre called. Robert turned to see the black knight marching toward him, sword drawn and helmet on his head. “You saved my life, and if Lady Altheria wills it, I shall save yours as well.”
The pathway leading to the mausoleum was lined with dozens of corpses, many of them knights wearing the remains of old styles of armor. A group of Shattered, the most recent bodies, judging by the smell of them, lay mouldering in a broken heap near the entrance.
Four statues lined the broken walkway to the entrance. Once, their arms reached across the heads of the faithful forming a kind of arch. Aefren, King of the Sea reached for his wife Aleena, Queen of the Earth. The second pair were of the commanding Sun God Aelon and the comforting Moon Goddess Altheria. All four statues bore significant marks of weathering. Robert spared a moment to make Altheria's sign before her statue, then continued.
The two knights walked in silence until they reached the foot of the steps leading up to the entrance. At the top was a large black door. Lying by the door with one arm outstretched to the ominous portal was the desiccated corpse of an elf. The rotted robes still held some decoration, and the rings in the long, pointed ears marked the body as a wizard of some rank.
Pierre stepped over the body and pushed on the door. After some resistance, it opened with a loud creak.
As they passed over the threshold, their breath froze in midair. The smell of mildew and rot washed over like a tide. Both knights tried to descend as silently as their clinking mail would allow.
At the foot of the dew-slicked steps they encountered another wooden door. This one opened with ease and they walked into a large stone chamber. Ancient sconces lined the walls, neglected wax drippings reaching to the floor. In some places, fresh candles were placed, casting flickering shadows across the giant stone sarcophagus dominating the center of the room.
Enormous iron chains had once secured the lid but were now rusted and broken across the floor. The lid itself lay shattered to one side, the metal sigil that once rested on it lay dented against a wall.
Peering inside, Sir Robert found a body wearing Allanjan mail without a tabard, in the archaic style. The rings of mail were rusted together into sheets, except where they were broken outward from hideous bone spikes that had erupted from the corpse.
“This is Sir Thomas...?” Robert gasped.
Laughter, cold and dry like a graveyard breeze, floated across the sarcophagus. “Yes,” the voice said. “The glorious Thomas d'Ulanth, slayer of demons. Not as pure as you expected, is it?”
An old man limped into the light, his black-cowled robes obscuring everything except his beard.
Sir Robert recognized the beard, and the limp that accompanied it. “You...!”
The old sexton threw back his hood and smiled.
“I found this place some time ago,” he explained. “The animals don't bother with it. They know. According to the inscriptions in Old Walani, good Sir Thomas here fell in battle against a demonic horde. As he drove his blade into the chest of their leader, another demon struck him from behind and entered his body.
“Thomas' last hours were spent in agony, wrestling with the inner demon trying to possess him. As his body mutilated itself faster and faster, his dying breath commanded his followers to bury him in a tomb meant to be lost to history.”
The old sexton smiled mirthlessly at the corpse. “And there he lay for centuries, his twisted body wasting away as a cage for both Thomas and the demon, embraced in damnation for all eternity.”
“You killed all those people outside?” Robert asked in horror.
“No. He did.” Malice crept into the smile. “I struck a bargain with the demon. In exchange for his mobility, he told me secrets you couldn't possibly understand.”
The necromancer shook his head. “But there is still so much to learn. So much to master.” He gestured over Sir Thomas. “Kill him.”
Something inside the body of the long-dead knight groaned awake and with mail creaking and joints popping, the horrid corpse rose from its tomb. The body shuddered with every step, rust falling away in small clouds, the rictus grin sneering at Robert. The sword it raised was of outstanding Allanjan craftsmanship, neither dark nor tarnished with age.
The corpse staggered forward, whispering a litany of curses in myriad tongues. Halfway through an Old Walani oath about his mother's lack of virtues, the knight-errant barely managed to parry a slash. Robert's fingers stung from the force of the blow.
Sir Robert answered with a riposte meant to skewer the monster's heart. It glanced off a bone spur harmlessly.
“Pierre, help me!” he shouted. There was no answer. Retreating several paces, Robert looked around for his erstwhile companion and scowled beneath his helmet.
“So be it, coward.”
Knuckles whitening around the grip of his sword, he raised it in salute to Sir Thomas and murmured a prayer to the Four to have a place for him by their side.
Surprisingly, Sir Thomas answered the salute with his own before repeating the unearthly howl and charging.
Thomas' blade crashed down on Robert's, the young knight's sinews burned with fire from the exertion of holding back the attacks. The strikes came quicker now, and Robert's blocks were slower and slower.
“You've had your fun, boy, now its time to die.” the Necromancer taunted. “There's enough of the old knight in him to give you a quicker death than I would.”
“Never!” Robert screamed, anger filling his muscles with the strength to deflect another strike.
“Have it your-”
The necromancer never finished his sentence. Instead, a surprised look crossed his face accompanied by a small, disappointed gasp. He crumpled to the floor in a lifeless heap of beard and robes. The body of Sir Thomas jerked back. The right arm raised for another strike, when the left arm shot up and held the right in place.
Pierre d'Corbin stood over the old man's body, blood dripping from his sword. “Strike him now!”
Robert thrust his blade into Sir Thomas' armpit, where the bone spurs and rusted mail failed to protect.
A jolt ran through Robert, but he wasn't sure if it was from the impact or from the deafening screech that erupted from the corpse's mouth. Blue lights flared in the eye sockets. The jaw slackened and the body of Sir Thomas d'Ulanth sagged to the ground.
Robert dropped to his knees to stop the shaking and realized he'd been sweating despite the cold. A few tugs on his sword found it stuck fast in the corpse.
He nearly jumped when a hand rested on his shoulder.
“Best to leave it be,” Pierre said. His helmet rested in the crook of his other arm.
“You didn't leave.”
“Oh, I thought about it,” he shrugged, stooping to pick up Sir Thomas' sword. “But that would be a poor way to repay my debt to you. This is a fine blade. You've earned it.”
Robert reverently tested the weight of the sword and found it well-balanced. An older blade, with a smaller quillon and pommel than the modern style. An Allanjan prayer to Altheria was etched into the fuller in Old Walani. The blade itself was spotless. Nodding, he sheathed it and bent to pick up Sir Thomas. “Help me get him back inside,” he said.
Unlike the body, the sarcophagus lid of Sir Thomas d'Ulanth was impossible to put back in place, so the knights settled on another solution. With some effort, they were able to force the inner door off of its hinges to serve as a new lid. Pierre placed the sigil on the lid. After a short benediction commending Thomas' spirit to the side of the Esteemed Four, they removed the necromancer's body and dumped it on the pile of the Shattered outside. “A gift for the crows,” Pierre said.
The day was growing late, but the air was much warmer than before. The horses had even ventured to the edge of the clearing to graze.
Pierre d'Corbin mounted his horse and turned away from the tomb. “So your quest is complete, Sir Knight. Did it bring you the glory you sought?”
“Not in the way I expected, no,” Sir Robert said as he mounted his own horse. “Though I am glad to have brought some peace to this place. I have much to think about.”
Pierre inclined his head. “Then it is time I took my leave.”
“Where will you go?”
“There is much I need to think about too, if Cabot's Hill is to be reclaimed. May we meet again as wiser men someday.”
Robert nodded. “If the Lady wills it.”
“Yes...” Pierre was silent a moment. “Yes. Who knows what may happen.”
“You will always be a welcome guest in my home, Sir Pierre,” Robert said, reaching out his hand.
“Really?” Pierre laughed. “A black knight as an honored guest? Scandalous.”
“Loyalty is blind to scandal. You are a good man, and true to your word. I can think of no more worthy guest at my table.”
Pierre laughed again, but grabbed Robert's hand in a hearty shake. “I think you might be mad, but if so, I hope its the kind that can reshape this equally mad world. Very well. I accept your offer, should I ever be in Verlam.” He nudged his horse into a trot away from the tomb. “Until we meet again!” he called without looking back.
The young knight urged his own horse to start moving and spared a look back at the mausoleum's entrance. A knight in archaic armor stood in the entrance, holding Robert's lost sword. He raised it in salute, and was gone.
Sir Robert d'Verlam saluted back and began the long ride home.
