Welcome to the Round Table of Bretonnia!

He awoke with a start. It was gone. He could feel it. Had he slept so long and so deeply that he had not known? He had not arisen to defend it and now it was gone. And with it, her. He rose from his funeral bed with an angry roar. Bones creaked and a nimbus of energy played around the walls of his burial chamber. There would be a reckoning. There would be vengeance. There would be blood on the sands and death in the air. He would retrieve it and with it her, or he would die a thousand times trying. Another roar, in the ancient tongue of Nehekrara, summoned the Hierophant Priest that was bound to his tomb. The crinkly old creature, more corpse than man after centuries of silence in the tomb had taken their toll, appeared at once at his master’s side. Climbing out of his coffin for the first time in over a thousand years, the Tomb King Anharasphut gave his orders.

“Summon what force you can Hierophant and awake my Ushabti,” the Tomb King’s voice was a chilling and deep, “Fetch me my khopesh and my armor. It is gone, and with it her, and I must retrieve it.” The Hierophant, a glimmer of power already forming in his eyes, bowed before the might of his arisen King and hissed his affirmation. The army of Anharasphut marched to war once again and doubtless there would be much blood on the sands when those who had transgressed against such a majestic Lord were found. Woe betide them, thought the Heirophant as he let the ancient magic of the desert flow through him. Woe betide those who would trespass on this land.

Paulus the hedge wizard had been nodding off in the seat next to Ferdonio when he suddenly sat up, startling the mercenary captain, who had also been drowsing in the setting sun of the evening. The blessed cool of night was a well-needed relief to the heat of the day and briefly, he had wondered if he should consider ordering the caravan to move on through the night. Whatever thoughts he had been having of such a plan were shattered when Paulus spoke, his nasally voice filled with dread.

“They have awoken Francesco. The wards are gone and Shallya help us they have awoken! They will be coming for it! What do we do?”

Ferdonio gripped the hedge wizard by the collar of his ragged robes and drew his face in close. The Tilean’s voice was melodic and light, yet carried an underlying threat that was not hard to discern.

“First, we will keepa the noise down huh? Do you want them all to knowa what we are doing? What we have done?” The hedge wizard, startled by his ally’s harsh tone, shook his head dumbly. The mercenary captain continued, “For now, we do nothing right? We waita and we watcha and we continue marching. It would take them days to reach us no? Plenty of time to reacha Araby and then safety. Keep your magicks up to detect pursuit, and we will double the guard, saya we fear bandits or something. Even if they do catch us, we cana see these dead things off.”

Paulus nodded, wishing he had the same confidence as his long-time partner. “Most importantly,” the mercenary hissed in Paulus’ ear, “we tella no one. We want no rebellion, no mutiny. It has never happened to Francesco Ferdonio and it never will. Are we clear?” Again Paulus nodded.

“As you wish, Francesco. I will keep my wards up and ready, and hopefully we will know before they come.”

Ferdonio smiled and twirled his mustache with his finger. He reached back and lovingly stroked the gold chest, feeling its warmth beneath his gloved hand.

“Excellent friend Paulus. We shall not fear the dead. Somebody already puta them in the ground once yes? How hard could it be to do so again? They will never take our prize from us, or my name is nota Francesco Ferdonio.”

The caravan made camp for the night atop a large dune. They circled the wagons, putting the cart carrying the golden chest in the center. Ferdonio slept atop the wagon, next to the golden chest, cradling a primed pistol in his hands. The rest of the men slept next to their mounts or underneath the wagons. Sir Simons settled down with Marcelles next to a supply wagon, where Brynn sat nestled up against a wheel, smoking a pipe. Ferdonio had warned the mercenaries about the potential for bandits, so as an added precaution they had taken some of the barrels down off the carts to form barricades between the wagons.

Extra sentries were also posted to ward off any bandits, though few men actually expected an attack to come in the night. It was some shock then, when, as the brilliant moons of Morrslieb and Mannslieb were at their zenith, the bulky Rieklander Gerhard, wanted for the strangling murders of six children in Estalia, suddenly screamed out as two arrows appeared to sprout from his chest. Jean Luc, a former Bretonnian yeoman working for Ferdonio, echoed the cry and collapsed atop the wagon were he had been standing sentry, a black arrow piercing his skull. Suddenly, the air was alive with the hissing of black-shafted arrows, which hummed through the mercenary encampment, cracking into wood and thumping into bodies.

Panic gripped the mercenaries as men groggily arose to defend themselves. The flickering lights of the nearly dead cooking fires illuminated the chaos as men tried to find cover from the merciless rain of arrows. After a long day of weary marching, it was the last thing anyone expected. A sudden, surprise attack by an unseen enemy who could shoot accurately despite the darkness was the most horrific thing that could have happened. As if to prove the point, another man let out a gurgling cry as an arrow pierced his throat, pitching him back onto the wheels of the central cart. Francesco Ferdonio stood atop the treasure wagon, bellowing orders while calmly avoiding the arrows himself. Not all the mercenaries were panicking.

Oster, a grizzled, lanky Hochlander, hefted a strangely built long rifle, which he had stolen from an engineer he had killed in a robbery many years ago. The Hochlander slammed up against the wood of the wagon next to Sir Simon and Brynn, looking through the telescopic device upon the top of the rifle for a target in the darkness. Sir Simon, who seemed entirely unfazed by the arrows flickering around him, looked at the rifle with disdain and hefted his shield, checking to make sure the Montforte family blade was strapped securely upon his back. Brynn groaned and hefted his own round wooden targe, catching an arrow on it and snapping it off with the haft of his axe.

“Aren’t ya gonna join in the shootin’?” The dwarf grinned at Sir Simon as Oster’s rifle cracked and flashed brilliantly in the night. The knight grimaced.

“It is beneath a Bretonnian knight to use bows or… these things called firearms… to attack his foes. We prefer to clash with true steel.”

The dwarf, ducking another arrow that came skipping over the lip of the wagon, laughed aloud.

“Seems a wee bit of a silly thing dontcha think? Especially considering the current circumstances. I wish I had a nice wee crossbow right aboot now.”

“Regardless master Brynn,” Sir Simon said, grunting as he caught an arrow that seemed to change path in midair, heading unerringly for Oster, on his shield, “you know full well that this barrage is only meant to keep our heads down long enough for whoever is out there to move up and finish us off up close. Then you and I shall come into our full.”

The dwarf grinned madly and ran a thumb down the edge of his axe, drawing a little dribble of blood. “Oh aye laddie, dontcha worry about that.”

Ferdonio’s shouting had largely brought the mercenaries into cover and order. Despite his best efforts, the volleys of arrows had been devastating, leaving ten men either dying or wounded around the campsite. That left only about thirty men to repel whatever was slowly approaching in the darkness. Those men who possessed crossbows or firearms began trying to fire back at their mysterious attackers, but it was hard for them to pick targets despite the moons’ glow. Even Ferdonio let off a shot with one of his pistols, as the wizard Paulus stood below him chanting and waving his hands in the air, desperately trying to conjure up some sort of spell to aid the mercenaries against the sudden assault.

“Sigmar’s blood and ghost!” Shouted Oster, dropping down behind the cover of the wagon. “Sigmar’s bloody blood and bloody ghost.” The man looked pale and suddenly frightened and he clutched his rifle to his chest.  Both Sir Simon and Brynn looked at the man quizzically as he swore again.

“What is it man?” Snapped Sir Simon, his tone contemptuous.

“They’re dead you bloody Bretonnian fop! Sigmar damn them they’re dead and skeletons and they’re moving. They’re moving and shooting!”

Given the stress of the situation, Sir Simon chose to overlook Oster’s insult, at least for the time being, and continued his questioning.

“What do you mean they’re dead?” He querried, though he asked the question more to try and assuage his own fears more than anything else. He had warned Ferdonio. He had refused to enter the tomb along with the others because deep down inside, he had sensed that this might happen. They had not listened, and now he knew what they faced without Oster even having to tell him.

“They’re skeletons and they’re moving! I saw them through the scope of old Helga here. She don’t lie, no she don’t. There’s Sigmar-damned skeletons out there and there’s dozens of the things and they’re coming to kill us and we’re all going to DIE!” There was a loud smack as Brynn Burgnisson slapped the man across the face. Oster looked shocked.

“Pull yerself together manling! Skeletons break apart just as well as any other damn thing in this bloody world. Now use that peashooter ye got there and bust some skulls, ya hear me manling? Either that, or I shove it so far up your backside that you’ll be the bloody rifle I’ll be firing!” The dwarf’s tone was firm and commanding, and there was a threatening gleem in his eye. Oster nodded weakly and propped himself up against the wagon and sighted a new target out in the night. Sir Simon looked at Brynn slightly askance.

“Perhaps not the most honorable way to handle such a situation master Brynn,” Sir Simon said mildly.

Brynn grinned again, “Well laddie, some things ya pick up in a dwarf regiment and those habits never leave ya.”

Sir Simon shook his head slightly, “I hope that you remembered the habits that made you a warrior then dwarf, for I fear we’ll have need of them momentarily.” He swung up onto the back of Marcelles as the arrows seemed to slow down. “It seems that our undead foes seek to test our steel at a personal distance. The Lady protect you Brynn Burgnisonn,” the questing knight said as he lowered the visor of his helmet.

“Ah think she’s gonna have her hands full protecting you laddie but I’ll thank ya regardless.” The dwarf hefted his axe. “Time to crack some skulls.”

“Indeed,” said Sir Simon disdainfully as he hefted the gleaming Montforte family blade, “indeed.”

            The skeletal ranks of King Anharasphut advanced slowly towards the small circle of wagons, their bleached bones creaking in the cold desert night. Sir Simon’s breath caught in his throat. He was not a man unaccustomed to horrors, yet even he gave pause as he watched the march of the ranks of the undead. In all his years as a questing knight, he had never faced such a concentration of the living dead, the ancient bogeymen of Bretonnian nightmares. Their glowing eye sockets and creaking bones were enough to send even the hardest men running for cover, and the silence, that was the most unnerving thing of all. The ranks of the dead marched quietly, without horns or drums, the only noise was the crackling of ancient bones and the occasional hiss of an arrow. For a second, Sir Simon felt terror welling up inside his breast, but then the pommel stone of his sword glowed brightly with it’s soft golden light and he felt the fear seeping from him, replaced with a cold determination to fight in the Lady’s name. These were the vile foes of the Bretonnian people and he would banish them as he had banished so many other foul monstrosities in his quest for the Grail.

Marcelles reared as the first of the skeletal ranks slammed into the barrel barricade, knocking through the wooden wall with a mighty crash. Shouting an oath to the Lady herself, Sir Simon charged, smashing into the first rank of skeletons and cleaving down into a skull with the blade of the Montfortes. His charge hit the advancing skeletons like a thunderbolt. Bones snapped and skulls went flying as the Bretonnian knight and his mighty steed drove forward into the packed mass of skeletal soldiers. Sir Simon’s blade was a whirlwind of endless motion. A quick strike shattered the spinal column of a skeleton that lunged at Marcelles’ flank with a spear. His next blow chopped through a bronze sword and shattered the ribcage of a clawing foe, sending a pile of bones collapsing to the ground. With a touch of Sir Simon’s heels, Marcelles changed direction, swinging his hefty flank into the next rank of skeletons, sending them tumbling backwards with a clatter of bones. The knight followed up with a series of rapid strokes, each one smashing or beheading a skeleton before the undead warriors could even react.

Using the gap the knight had made with his charge, Brynn rushed forward, swinging his axe to crush a reeling skeleton’s knee and then handily decapitating it with a backstroke. He barreled his stocky form into the next enemy, its pelvis disintegrating when met with the solid force of dwarven muscle. Swinging his axe and shouting war cries, the dwarf cleared his own space next to the stamping Marcelles, giving the other mercenaries more room to counter-charge.

Inspired by the knight and the dwarf, the other mercenaries leapt to attack the skeletons. The hedge wizard Paulus sent dizzying rays of light blasting into skeletons ranks, disintegrating those enemies they touched. Even Ferdonio laid into the enemies, abandoning his chest to push in amongst his foes, swinging his rapier with quick, mechanical strokes. The runes on the blade flashed and each time it stung a foe, the skeleton seemed to shatter into dust as if they had been struck by a mighty warhammer. The Hochlander Oster shattered the skull of the skeletal regiment’s standard-bearer with a well-placed shot and the bronze banner pole fell to the ground.

The fight was brutal but brief. Attacking with an unexpected ferocity, the mercenary band crush the skeletal regiment, leaving their enemies as crumbled dust in the desert sand. The warriors, Sir Simon included, roared in triumph as Brynn shattered the skull of the last skeleton with a mighty downward stroke of his axe. Then, almost instantly, the desert grew quiet. Following the fury of the skirmish, the silence seemed unfamiliar, and was broken only by the heavy breathing of the men, a groan from a wounded Reiklander laying up against one of the wagons, and the whinnying of Marcelles. Sir Simon looked down at Brynn, who was covered in bone dust, sand, and small scratches. The dwarf was grinning maniacally.

“A fair fight that huh laddie? You and yer wee beastie there did a fair amount o’ damage I have to say. Ya know how to use that blade, that’s for sure.”

“My thanks master Brynn. I would venture to say that your axemanship was not too poor either. I have to say though,” Sir Simon lifted his visors, revealing sweat-streaked face, “I do not think that our ordeal is over. There was no leader amongst these undead, no champion animating their corpses. I feel we have not seen the last of these foes.” As if on cue, the hissing of arrows broke the night’s silence, and an Estalian screamed as an arrow took him in the eye socket. The mercenaries scrambled back to the cover of their wagons, their sudden victory turning into an inglorious panic under the barrages of the unerringly accurate black-shafted arrows. Sir Simon nodded at Brynn over the chaos.

“As I said master Brynn, this is far from done,” he said, as an arrow nicked Marcelles ear, “and I believe I might know why.” He gestured his head towards the cart with the golden chest, where Ferdonio stood twirling his mustache and stroking the box.

“Aye laddie. I follow yer thinkin’ on that,” whispered the dwarf, “Let us see what becomes of this then shall we? Fer now, I feel we should be steelin’ ourselves for the next attack.” Sir Simon nodded and checked the edge of his blade, casually ignoring the arrows flickering around him. He needed to remain calm, despite the dangers of skewering death from the skies, or he would not make it through what promised to be a long, harrowing night.