The chariot sped across the dryer ground, its light wheels scything through the dense loam of the forest floor. At its helm was a massive warrior, bedecked in gold and turquoise, and clearly long since dead. At his silent order the skeletal horses increased their pace, kicking up small showers of dirt. The chariot sped down the long line of silently marching figures, its master surveying their deathly progress. The figures moved along both sides of the mighty river, matching the progress of the massive barque that plied the waters. Like its ghastly escort, the ship was silent. The ostentatious decorations that covered it were just as grim as those of the figures. Leering skulls and animal-headed figures of turquoise and gold stared out from its hull.

The grim procession was but one of many that clogged the waterways of the Great Forest. As the Tomb Kings looted and raided down the rivers, they used these massive vessels to carry their prized artefacts. They also carried the most important kings. That was why Beoveld studied the vessel so intently from his pegasus mount far above the river. Could this be the ship that contained the fiend, the object of his endless hunt, Settra the Imperishable? The Bretonnian knight grimaced. He intended to put that name to the test.

Beoveld drew an arrow from his saddle. He would not debase himself to fire it, like some low-born peasant. Instead, he struck off its inscrolled head. The magics bound to the shaft lit up as he dropped it. At this height, to anyone watching from below, it would be impossible to spot. However, to whoever bore the arrow's twin, it would burn as bright as a falling star. It was his signal to the knights in waiting in the forest, trailing the slow moving barque. A sharp-eyed spotter, bearing the second arrow, would have seen it and by now would be riding to report to Jean Marcel l'Impéteux. It was his signal to attack.

Knights poured out of the forest, smashing into the outlying skeletons. Caught unprepared, without direction from their undead masters, the skeletons were all but incapable of defending themselves, and went down quickly. The knights poured through the crumbling lines and began charging down towards the main procession. By now the undead prince on the chariot had time to recognize the threat, and swiftly pulled his forces into a battle line. Together, they all marched back towards the edge of the river. The swampy ground would make it all but impossible for the cavalry to bring the weight of their charge to bear upon the creatures. The vile undead had learned from the past month of being trampled to the forest floor. They were altering their tactics. Beoveld had predicted exactly that manoeuvre.

The Pegasus Knights swept across the river and ran into the back of the Tomb King line. The long lines of undead, entrenched in the swamp mud they had turned to for protection, were unable to turn now to face this new threat. This second army of Pegasus Knights surrounded the undead. The army had been formed especially for the purpose of hunting Settra and the Tomb Kings, and each bore the golden cross of the crusade. The Royal Bretonnian Air Forces, as they had become known, bore these marks with pride and honour.

The Tomb Prince and his chariots still held the field, however. Slipping around the charging knights, they drove towards the forest. They seemed about to escape when a lance crashed down, piercing the centre of the chariot. The light vehicle crumpled beneath the strike, its rider thrown clear. Beoveld too was thrown clear of his pegasus, Tempest, after the mighty blow. The brave steed flew up once more to join its brethren in the sky. Beoveld drew his sword, and turned to face the rising form of the Tomb Prince.

With a speed that belied its withered frame, the creature struck out with a golden crook. The heavy object smashed into the side of the Bretonnian lord's head. For Beoveld, the world vanished in a burst of white. He stumbled back from the stunning blow, trying to regain his balance. The bright burst of light resolved itself into an image. The Lady stood before him, and smiled. In an instant, the vision was gone, and Beoveld's sight cleared. The prince stood above him, ready to finish off its dazed adversary. With a burst of speed, Beoveld rammed his sword upwards, straight through the undead abomination's neck. It stood there for a moment transfixed, then crumpled to the ground.

Beoveld stood back and watched as the rest of the undead were destroyed. His knights swooped low on their steeds and dropped flaming pitch onto the great barque. After a few moments, it caught flame. With a loud woosh, the polished wood and lacquered sides ignited. After a few minutes, the barque collapsed down into the water. Beoveld closed his eyes and whispered a prayer to the Lady, imploring her to wash all the darkness of the vessel clean. The swift current scattered remains of the ship, as withered decorations and again-lost artefacts were swept down into the depths of the dark river.

***