“And you're looking for what again?” the sexton asked, leaning on his shovel. The cemetery around him was large, but meticulously well-maintained. Down the hill, a small village snuggled up to the Mule River winding its way through the valley of the same name.
“I told you, I am looking for the tomb of Sir Thomas d'Ulanth,” repeated the knight with a sigh. A fly landed on his face and he brushed it away. The summer heat was stifling in his armor and the sexton's stubbornness wore his patience thin.
The old gravetender was supposed to know about tombs and such, but struck the knight as an expert on giving him the side eye and spitting dismissively on the ground.
He demonstrated this expertise once more and looked around the graveyard. Walking with a slight limp which caused the unkempt scraggle of gray hair to bob erratically, he paced in irritation.
“Why do you want to go looking for that place?” The sexton leaned forward. “Rumor has it it's haunted.”
The knight straightened in his saddle. “That is exactly why I seek the tomb. I would put the dead to rest. I thought you might know something about that, being a grave keeper yourself.”
“Here now,” the old man protested. “You aren't saying these walking corpses are coming from this graveyard! I know exactly where my corpses are! In the ground!”
“I meant no offense,” the knight said. “I see that you are a busy man. If you would just tell me where the tomb is, I will leave you to your work. Please.”
“Tell me your name first.”
“What?”
“I will not tell this to a complete stranger.”
“Very well. I am Sir Robert d'Verlam.” He tapped his shield, blazoned with a simple design of blue above and green below with a white bend separating them diagonally. A white cadency mark stretched across the top denoting his junior status in his family.
The old man nodded at the young knight. “The tomb's in a glade three days' ride to the east from here. I doubt you'll have trouble finding it. Trouble will be waiting. I wouldn't go alone, if I were you.”
Sir Robert waved a hand dismissively. “Alone or with allies, it doesn't matter. I have a duty. All the same, I thank you for your time. Perhaps I shall be able to return the favor some day.”
The sexton snorted and began limping back to his hut. “Not bloody likely. Nobles all the same...”
Robert shook his head and spurred his horse eastward.
The first day of the ride was pleasant and uneventful. Cultivated fields stretched out along the Mule River, punctuated by small copses of trees. The sounds of birds and cicadas accompanied him along the road that followed the river. The only discomfort was from the hot Allanjan summer, but he wore his armor just the same. In case he was attacked, he justified, but his knightly pride played an equal part.
He stayed the night at a small inn. The couple running it were polite, but very formal around him, emphasizing their “Sir” and “as you wish” as much as possible. The stew was flavorful, if a little watery. The bed however, was excellent, and he paid them well for their hospitality.
The second day began much like the first, but it took him away from the Mule and deeper into the woods along a creek that fed into the river. Around midday he stopped by the creek for a rest. The horse dipped his head to the water while Sir Robert sat down on the bank, glad to be out of the sun. The farms were fewer and fewer out here, and the woods were thicker with no foresters maintaining them.
The sound of the creek bubbling along was a welcome distraction from the birds, but he noticed something out of place. The forest birds were silent.
A few seconds later he knew why. A faint sound, but unmistakable. Shouting, and weapons clashing. Battle! Robert thought, jumping to his feet. Some of the cries were human, the rest...weren't. He quickly mounted his horse and spurred it toward the sounds.
In a shower of foliage, horse and rider burst into a clearing swarming with gruesome, misshapen forms. They were called the Shattered, and where they came from no one knew. A horrid mash of man and beast, no two alike in anything except misery. In their hands were crude weapons, mostly cheap farm tools and clubs. They were believed to be the product of dark sorcery.
Surrounded by the Shattered was another mounted knight, fighting fiercely against the tide. Sir Robert noticed that the knight bore no heraldry over his mail, just a simple black surcoat and a badly damaged matching shield.
A black knight! He'd seen one at a tournament three years ago. A strange, quiet fellow. Everyone avoided him, saying his kind were a disgrace that wore the black as a sign of shame.
Robert briefly watched the black knight's progress as he rode through the Shattered, cutting at one hideous face, thrusting his blood-slicked sword into another.
There wasn't a decision to make. Regardless of whatever dishonor the black knight might have committed, he was a worthy warrior and nothing like his savage enemies. Sir Robert drew his sword and rode his horse into the fray.
The Shattered were so preoccupied with the black knight that Robert was able to trample one of them into the dirt as he charged into them, hacking two more down before the rest noticed his presence.
Ten Shattered remained alive, including a hulking brute with a goat's head waving an axe and bleating orders. Robert blocked a pitchfork with his shield while his horse turned and reared up to cave in the attacker's chest with its front hooves. Another Shattered raised a club to block him. He feinted to the left, then struck true into the monster's chest when the club moved away. Pulling his sword out, he spared a glance at the black knight. He was on foot, his shield a ruin of wooden splinters. Three more Shattered lay broken at the stranger's feet.
Robert parried a swipe from a rusty sword. Its owner snarled and drew back for another swing. He kicked at it with his left foot, knocking it back into a wild slash that brought down another Shattered with a hideous gurgle. His horse turned. He took another swing at the one he'd kicked. The sword descended on its head, cleaving it in two. Robert reared his horse to keep any other Shattered at bay while he regained his balance in the saddle.
None attacked him. The surviving three were focused on the black knight. The man dodged an overhead blow from a tree branch. The momentum of the swing carried the beastman too far forward, sending him past the knight. Another charged, waving a threshing flail. In one motion, the black knight brought his sword around and thrust it into the passing attacker's back while jabbing a small dagger into the charging Shattered's neck. Both went down.
The last survivor was their leader. He was huge, wider than either knight and swaggered on misshapen legs. He hefted his axe and the hircine face broke out into a toothy grin.
“Killed my boys. You good. Clever. Eat your brains, maybe I get clever too.”
Robert prompted his horse forward. The black knight waved him back.
“Stay out of this boy; its not your fight.”
The Shattered unleashed a loud scream from his goat mouth, sending birds scattering from the clearing. He raised its axe and pounded a fist on his armored chest. The armor, like his limbs, was horribly mismatched.
The goat-man charged, a nightmare etched in teeth and metal. The black knight waited. He gripped his sword in two hands, the dagger already back in its sheath. The axe came down in a mighty swing. He stepped out of the way and brought the sword against the Shattered's shin just as the axe sank deep into the ground. The sword rebounded off bone, and Robert could sense the knight's alarm through his helm. The knight jumped back before another swing could connect. The Shattered bayed gleefully, enjoying the moment as he yanked his axe out of the earth.
The laugh turned to a howl of rage and pain as the knight brought his sword up to the creature's head, cutting off one of the horns. The Shattered dropped to his knees, reaching a hand to feel the broken horn and howling in pain. Gripping his blade in two hands, the knight stepped forward and smashed its skull in with the pommel of his sword.
Silently, the black knight hacked the creature's head off. Then he picked up a stout stick, fixed the head onto it, and shoved the gruesome assembly into the ground. Sir Robert watched quietly.
His work done, the black knight removed his helmet and turned to Robert. “It's a sign to the rest of his kind,” he said. He was approaching his middle years, and a few strands of gray had worked into his hair.
“Sign?”
“They razed a chapel of Altheria not far from here. They did this to the abbess.”
Robert said nothing for a moment, then, “How many Shattered?”
“About twenty,” answered the strange knight. “I've hunted them through the woods, taking one or two at a time. They finally caught on and surprised me. Thanks to you, the chapel's been avenged.”
Robert nodded and pulled two pieces of linen from his saddle. Giving one to the black knight, he wiped the blood from his sword before sheathing it.
“Who...are you?” Robert ventured at last.
“Who I am means nothing now, but if you must know.” The knight gave a mock bow. “I am Pierre d'Corbin of Cabot's Hill.”
“Cabhill?” Robert asked. “The damned city?”
A look of pain flashed across Pierre's face, then it was stony once more. “Show some respect, lad. The city was not always so.”
“Apologies. I am Sir Robert d'Verlam.”
Pierre looked him over carefully. Robert was young, probably not more than seventeen. His brown hair was cut short in the popular style, and a fire burning in his green eyes did more to make him look older than the wisp of a mustache sitting on his lip.
“Running an errand? Looking for glory?” Pierre asked.
Robert nodded. “I'm looking for the tomb of Sir Thomas d'Ulanth.
The black knight shook his head.
“What?” Robert asked.
“You're not the first I've seen ride gloriously to his death in that place.”
“So you know where it is?” Robert asked eagerly.
“Indeed.” Pierre paused. “And it is as damned as Cabot's Hill.”
“Take me there.”
“Then you're a fool like the rest.”
“I swore an oath to cleanse its darkness. If I don't, I will fail, and my word will mean nothing.”
The black knight considered this for a moment, then said, “Very well, Robert the Foolhardy. I will take you there.” He gave the younger man a sad smile and whistled toward the treeline. A black stallion trotted over to him in a few moments.
“I've had enough of this small prey,” Pierre said as he mounted. “Let's find something worthy of our deaths.”
Sir Robert frowned as they rode away, wondering what else Pierre knew about the tomb. After they were gone, a single crow landed on the impaled head and began pecking. Soon, another, then another came until an entire murder descended on the clearing.