by Gav Thorpe

Rain lashed down from the dark clouds, spilling into the wind-tossed waves. Thunder rumbled and in the flicker of lightning a white cliff could be seen rearing out of the water, the sea crashing against the rocks in a foamy turmoil. Tybalt stood on the prow of the rolling ship, steadying himself against the rail and trying to ignore the queasiness in the pit of his stomach which threatened to boil up inside him. It was not just seasickness that assailed him. As he looked at the forbidding coastline, Tybalt felt a quiver of fear. He had no idea what awaited him on this strange land, what dangers lurked on the mystery-shrouded isle of Albion.

As in the past, he was here at the bidding of the shade of Duke Laroche. The dead knight had come to him again in his sleep several months ago. He remembered the encounter vividly. It was if he had just woken, the light of the twin moons pouring through the window of his chamber. A breeze stirred the bed clothes about him and he had risen, his mind disturbed as if he had woken from a nightmare. He had been pouring himself a goblet of water from the jug by the bedside when a sussurant hissing had come to his ears. Turning towards the window, he saw a shape there, etched in the white and green moonlight of Mannslieb and Morrslieb, glowing faintly.

'Young Tybalt, it is I,' the duke had said, and the foreboding in the young knight's heart had disappeared at the sound of the noble's deep, reassuring voice. 'You fared well in your last quest, and you have my gratitude for protecting my grave.'

'I am honoured to have served you, milord,' Tybalt had replied, bowing his head to Duke Laroche's ghost.

'Then you will be doubly honoured. Your service is needed once more,' the duke had told him.

'The cemetery?' Tybalt had asked, aghast at the thought that he had somehow failed, that perhaps some other evil had arisen to disturb the duke's resting-place.

'Nay, Tybalt, all is well where my bones lie,' the shade shook his head. 'The last time we spoke, I told you of a rising evil, a great darkness that threatened all the lands.'

'I remember,' Tybalt had said. 'You said that all men of courage and valour would be needed to fight it.'

'Indeed I did. That time is nigh, young Tybalt,' Laroche had told him solemnly. 'Across the waves, on the Isle of Storms, the armies of this evil power are mustering. Everything is laid waste in its wake, the ground itself withers and dies at its feet, the dead tremble in their graves at its passage. All who serve the cause of the light and the just must take up their arms, for it cannot be left to hold sway of the Isle of Storms.'

Read more of Tybalt's Battle...

Visit the Black Library site...