Tales of the Old World (2 page)

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.