The Red Duke

by C. L. Werner - (ebook by Undead)

  Renar spun about in alarm as the grim knight advanced. The necromancer raised his arms before him, almost in entreaty. Maraulf was unmoved. He could sense the power gathering about the evil conjurer. He pointed his sword at Renar, making it clear that the villain could expect no quarter.

  The necromancer sneered, then unleashed the spell he had been conjuring. Maraulf felt a sharp burn against his breast as the little raven talisman he wore became red hot, flaring with energy as it absorbed the black magic directed against the knight. Renar’s sneer became an expression of terror as Maraulf continued to advance towards the chapel.

  Suddenly, a new opponent came before Maraulf, a ghastly shape that lumbered out from the shadows of the chapel. Maraulf hesitated as the armoured skeleton raised its rusted sword and saluted him in the fashion of a knight issuing a challenge. There was no humanity in the witch-fires that glowed in the sockets of the wight-lord’s skull, but some element of the man yet lingered in the monster’s bones.

  Maraulf did not deign to return the wight’s salute. Such proprieties were for the living, not the undead. The knight instead charged at the skeletal monstrosity, his sword flashing out in a deadly arc. The sweep of Maraulf’s sword passed the shoulder of his foe, the wight displaying unexpected agility as it dodged the attack. The fleshless skull grinned at Maraulf as the wight’s rusty sword cracked against the knight’s pauldron with such force the armour was almost torn from its fastenings.

  There followed a grim duel, man against monster, living against undead. Blow for blow, strike for strike, the two combatants fought with equal skill. But skill was the least of the inequalities of this macabre duel. As seconds stretched into minutes, Maraulf’s vigour began to fade. The strain of his muscles, the fatigue of his flesh, the pain of his wounds, these began to sap the knight’s skill. Fear of failure plagued his every thought, polluting the purity of his swordsmanship. If he fell, Maraulf knew the chapel would be taken, the Red Duke would restore to hideous unlife his foul army.

  The wight suffered no such distractions. Its muscles were dust, its flesh only a vague memory, its wounds no more than gashes stricken upon unfeeling bone. No fear stirred its mind, only the inviolable command issued by its master. Every moment, Maraulf grew weaker but the strength of the wight-lord remained constant.

  In the end, Sir Corbinian’s blade slipped past Maraulf’s guard. The rusty sword passed through the knight’s armpit, stabbing deep into the body within the armour. The wight wrenched its blade free as the stricken Maraulf collapsed at its feet. Grimly, the skeleton raised the sword and saluted the mortally wounded knight.

  The Red Duke watched as his slaves brought bodies out from the catacombs beneath the Chapel Sereine. Renar had been unable to completely efface the magical guards placed upon the tomb, but he had managed to reduce its efficacy enough to allow the undead to trespass within its walls.

  The vampire cast an amused look at the emaciated necromancer. It was actually a brilliant idea, one so simple the Red Duke knew he might never have thought of it. Faced with death for failing to break the enchantment completely, Renar had made a desperate suggestion. If they could not raise the black knights from their tombs, then why not remove them from their tombs?

  “This had better work,” the Red Duke threatened as his zombies brought the last pile of bones out from the chapel. The vampire glanced about the cemetery, at the fresh bodies strewn about the graveyard. After smashing through the last defences, the undead had been presented with the villagers cowering inside the chapel. Only a few of the peasants had escaped the massacre, fleeing into the forest. The ghouls were tracking them down even now.

  “I assure you, it will, your grace,” Renar answered, trying to keep his voice from trembling. The necromancer gestured to the piles of bones laid out across the graveyard, each knightly corpse arranged into its original shape along with the remains of his horse. “The massacre of the peasants has saturated this place in dark power. Even the sanctity of the chapel cannot protect this place now.”

  El Morzillo stamped its hooves as the Red Duke leaned down from the saddle. “Then be about your task,” the vampire told Renar.

  The necromancer almost choked as the foul breath of his undead master washed over him. Nodding hastily in agreement, Renar assembled his paraphernalia: black candles made from the fat of murdered men, the skull of a stillborn, three locks of hair plucked from the head of a hanged man, a vial of dirt from a sorcerer’s grave. Renar drew a circle about himself with the crushed bones of a mutant and sat down. His voice ringing across the graveyard, magnified by a force greater than that of fleshly lungs, the necromancer evoked the fell powers of darkness, drawing upon the terrible energies harnessed ages ago by dread Nagash, lord of the undead.

  Bodies twitched as dark vapours swirled around them, seeping up from the very earth. The recently slaughtered peasants were the first to rise, their fresh bodies easily absorbing the foul energies of Dhar. Broken and butchered, the mangled bodies began to rise to their feet with awkward, jerky motions. The new zombies were hideous, their gory wounds fresh and crusted with blood, their clothes spattered with the filth of battle and death. Empty eyes stared from lifeless faces as the undead awaited the command of their master.

  The ancient bones of the Red Duke’s black knights were slower to absorb the fell power evoked by the necromancer, but soon they too began to change. The shattered skeletons began to knit themselves back together, forming complete bodies once more. Men and horses came to their feet with a clatter of fleshless bones and rusty armour. The risen skeletons flexed their limbs, as though testing their restored motion and motivation. A semblance of will remained in the wights and each marched to its steed as its body was restored, mounting into decayed saddles, brandishing corroded swords and lances as they saluted their crimson-clad overlord.

  The Red Duke smiled in satisfaction as he watched his army reform itself from its own destruction. Between the peasants of Mercal, the black knights from the catacombs and the buried dead of the cemetery, the vampire now had a force numbering not in the hundreds, but the thousands. He was ready to face this Duke Gilon and remove him from the throne bestowed upon him by a usurper.

  Thoughts of his stolen dukedom turned the vampire away from the resurrection of his army. He focused instead upon the heavy casket his slaves had dragged out from the catacombs. Unlike the black knights, the body of Baron de Gavaudan had not stirred in response to Renar’s spell. It took a different kind of magic to revive a vampire.

  The Red Duke gestured to a waiting pair of skeletons, armoured grave guard recruited from the ruins of the Crac de Sang. Between them, the grave guard bore a prisoner, the leader of the battle pilgrims who had fought to the last to protect the chapel. As a reward for their persistence, the Red Duke had marked Jeanot for a very special death. At his command, the grave guard bent the struggling man over the open coffin. Jeanot’s face stared down into the dusty bones of the vanquished Baron de Gavaudan.

  One of the skeletons brought a rusty dagger slashing across the pilgrim’s throat, sending a torrent of blood streaming into the casket. The grave guard held their butchered victim over the coffin as his life dripped away. Only when the man was nothing but a dead shell did they let him sink to the ground, his bloodless body already drawing strands of Dhar into it.

  Grey smoke erupted from the coffin as a terrible metamorphosis took place. The fresh blood of the slaughtered Jeanot reacted with the ancient bones of Baron de Gavaudan. Flesh and muscle began to grow upon the naked bones, hair began to sprout from the barren skull. In a matter of minutes, the vampire’s body had regenerated from the very dust of its dissolution.

  The Red Duke watched impassively as a lean hand clawed at the edge of the coffin. Baron de Gavaudan’s twisted countenance leered out from the fading smoke as he pulled himself upright. The baron grinned crookedly at his lord. “Master,” the creature hissed.

  “You failed me,” the Red Duke pronounced. He gestured with his mailed fist and the
grave guard converged upon the casket. Baron de Gavaudan struggled as the skeletons tried to push the lid of his casket back into place.

  “For four hundred and seventy eight years I have been trapped inside my own tomb,” the Red Duke declared. He stabbed a finger at the twisted Baron de Gavaudan. “I have suffered because of your failure here. Now you will know the torment I endured. When the doors of that chapel are closed once more they will prevent anything undead from entering the tomb within.” A cruel smile appeared on the Red Duke’s face. “Entering… or leaving.”

  Terror crawled onto Baron de Gavaudan’s misshapen face. “No master! I have been faithful! I have carried out your orders!” He was still protesting his loyalty when the grave guard slammed the lid of his coffin in place. Sternly, they bore the casket back into the chapel. The Red Duke watched them depart. Baron de Gavaudan would have a long time to contemplate his faithless treachery.

  And a long time to think about how much he would give to taste blood again.

  The Red Duke turned away from the chapel. A flicker of annoyance entered the vampire’s countenance as he noticed one of the bodies still unmoving upon the ground. The Red Duke motioned to Sir Corbinian. The wight-lord marched to the offending corpse, lifting it from the ground. The armoured body groaned in pain. The Red Duke recognized this not-quite-corpse now. It was the knight who had fought so vainly and so valiantly to deny him access to the chapel.

  “Bring him to me,” the Red Duke commanded Sir Corbinian. The wight-lord bowed its head and dragged the mortally wounded knight towards the vampire. The Red Duke stared down at the dying Maraulf. He reached down and tore the helm from the knight’s head, smiling cruelly as he saw the haggard face of his enemy, the bloodless colour of his skin. Despite his fast approaching death, there was still a look of defiance in the knight’s eyes.

  The Red Duke could have snapped Maraulf’s neck like a twig, but another idea had occurred to him. With Baron de Gavaudan consigned to an unquiet grave, the vampire would need someone to lead his army into battle. Someone with more stomach for the job than a peasant like Renar and more wits than a wight or banshee.

  Coldly, the Red Duke pulled back the mail coif around Maraulf’s head, exposing the man’s neck. Realising what the vampire intended, the knight struggled feebly to pull away.

  “You have squandered your life defending these peasants,” the Red Duke declared. “Now you shall serve a more noble master.”

  Maraulf screamed as the vampire’s fangs tore into his throat.

  CHAPTER XI

  “To oars ye scugs! This scupper’s headed straight ta Mannan’s casket!”

  The deck of the Bretonnian carrack was a confusion of activity as sailors scurried about trying to follow the frantic commands of the ship’s mates. The loudmouthed seaman who pronounced the ship’s doom was struck in the nose by his furious captain. He crashed to the crazily leaning deck, his nose a red smear across his face.

  For the passengers of the carrack, there seemed no doubt that the vessel was doomed. Three days out from Lashiek the ship had started to founder, water rushing into her hold. In the space of an hour, the carrack had started to list badly to port, defying the efforts of the crew to correct the tilt by shifting cargo and ballast.

  Marquis Galafre d’Elbiq stood upon the quarter deck and surveyed the desperate attempt by the crew to save their ship. He was no seaman, but he knew their efforts were useless. He knew their efforts were useless because he knew what had happened to their ship.

  The nobleman cursed Baron de Gavaudan under his breath. The scheming baron had betrayed them all. He wasn’t content to allow the poison and sickness afflicting the Duke of Aquitaine to run its course. He was too impatient to see his liege dead. Marquis Galafre had been taken into the baron’s confidence before the carrack had left Araby. The promise of increased rank and lands had been made if Galafre would ensure the duke never reached Aquitaine.

  Galafre felt shame that he had accepted the baron’s offer. He had been a loyal vassal to the duke, following El Syf into battle across Estalia and Araby. But he was also a practical man. The duke would never recover from the dastardly poison his Arabyan ambushers had used on him. There was no dishonour in breaking allegiance with a corpse. He had his future to think about and that of his family. Baron de Gavaudan would be Steward of Aquitaine under the new duke. He would be the most powerful man in the dukedom, and there was no sense offending him needlessly.

  Even so, Galafre could not still the sense of guilt that nagged at him. This latest display of the baron’s naked ambition only heightened his distaste for the entire plot. The baron’s agents had drilled holes into the hull and sealed them with salt plugs. After a few hours with the sea eroding them, the plugs dissolved enough that they crumbled away entirely, letting the sea rush into the hold.

  Galafre could see the plot quite plainly in his head, for it had been suggested to him by the baron before the carrack set sail. It was a plan that offended the knight’s sensibilities. He had vowed to find another way to deal with the dying duke. Clearly, Baron de Gavaudan had been fond enough of his idea to sink the carrack that he’d found another agent to put his plan into action.

  It was the act of a base villain! Galafre clenched his fist at his side. Whatever the baron had promised him, there was no honour in the knave! Why, he could almost believe the baron had sent the Arabyans to ambush the duke in the desert!

  “We must get his grace off this ship.” The statement was made by the man standing beside Galafre. The marquis barely shifted his gaze. Earl Durand du Maisne’s first thought would be the welfare of the duke. It was small wonder the baron had not approached Durand with his offer. Father-in-law to King Louis or no, Durand would have cut the dog down before he finished describing his plot.

  “The crew may yet keep this tub afloat,” Galafre said, but he made no especial effort to make the words sound convincing. It occurred to him that Baron de Gavaudan had intended to drown him along with the duke by this act of sabotage. He wasn’t as inclined to further the rogue’s ambitions now as he had been a few hours ago.

  Durand shook his head. “We should prepare for the worst. ‘Trust in the Lady, but hobble your horse.’ We should lower the longboats and put over provisions. If the sailors can save the ship, we can always put his grace aboard again.”

  The ship’s captain, in between bellowing orders to his crew, had been paying attention to the exchange between his noble passengers. “If you will pardon my impertinence, my lords,” the captain said, his voice both grim and apologetic. “I think Earl Durand has the right of it. Mannan’s got one hand around this ship already. A little tug from him and she goes to the bottom.” The seaman grinned, displaying his blackened teeth. “A captain’s honour is to go down with his ship, but a duke is made for better things. Please, save his grace if you can. I’d find a poor place in the gardens of Morr with the death of a hero on my hands.”

  “Have your men lower the longboats,” Durand told the captain. “We shall attend to his grace.”

  Galafre shrugged. It was a plan of action at least and a part of him wanted to see Baron de Gavaudan’s face when they brought the duke back to Aquitaine despite his efforts to kill them all.

  Aimee could feel her little heart pounding like a blacksmith’s hammer in her chest. It hurt to breathe, her tiny lungs felt like they were burning each time she drew air into them. Her legs were almost numb from the pain in her muscles, her skirt torn and tattered by brambles and thorns. But worst of all was the icy fear that made her body feel as though all the strength had been drawn out of it.

  “Run, Aimee! Run, and for Shallya’s sake, don’t look back!”

  The terrified words of her mother still rang in her ears. She stifled a sob as she thought of her mother, lying sprawled across the gravestones, her leg caught in the splintered lid of a rotten coffin. There had been no thought of checking the ground when the monsters had broken into the chapel and they had been forced to flee into the cemetery. Her mot
her’s foot had broken through the surface of a shallow grave, ending her dash for freedom.

  Aimee would have stayed with her mother. The thought of leaving her behind had been scarier than the monsters, but her mother had shouted at her and pushed her away. There was anger in her mother’s voice as she ordered the little girl to run.

  She did cry as she thought of her mother being so angry with her. But it was better than thinking about those other sounds. She didn’t want to think they had come from her mother, those anguished shrieks. Almost, Aimee had turned to look back, but her mother’s warning kept her from doing so. She knew deep inside that if she looked back she would see something so terrible…

  Aimee’s red-rimmed eyes went wide with fright as she heard running feet racing through the underbrush. She scrambled for the shelter of an old oak tree, nuzzling her small body down among the roots. She clapped a small hand across her mouth to stifle her whimpers. Her other hand covered one of her ears. She pressed the other side of her head against the tree, trying to block out the sound of running feet.

  Since entering the forest, Aimee had heard the sound of running feet almost continuously. Some were the sounds of other people trying to get away. Some were the sounds of the things chasing after them. Sometimes the things caught the people. Then the night was ripped apart by horrible screams. Aimee didn’t want to hear any more of the screams.

  The little girl crouched among the roots, her wide eyes peering into the dark. She didn’t want to hear what was going on in the forest, but she wouldn’t close her eyes. She didn’t know where she would go without her mother and father; in all her short life she had only once been beyond the borders of Mercal, and that was to attend a festival at the lord’s castle. She didn’t really know where that was, only that it had big rock walls and that knights lived there.