Much Fall of Blood-ARC

by Mercedes Lackey

  Vlad and Erik tried singing at the door.

  "Real stones," said the shaman. "Magic on inside. Maybe they'll hear you, but I don't know."

  Vlad stopped. "I think we need to find Elizabeth," he said. "She has to be involved in this."

  So they went along to the countess's rooms. The confusion spell of earlier seemed to have dissipated, and they found it with no trouble. Erik had given up on finesse and politeness. He tried the handle, it opened, and he barged in to the room.

  It was a very opulent chamber. It led into an even more opulent bed chamber. No one was in either. They found three other rooms—a walk in wardrobe full of clothes—more than a princess would own. Then a dressing room, all with more mirrors—even one over the bed—-than any person would want . . . and another room. A place of magical paraphernalia, some rather unpleasant in nature. There were bones . . . black ones. There were things in bottles. Some of them were alive or at least moving . . . The place stank. And she was not in it.

  But the shaman had teased a single blond hair from the inlaid ivory brush in front of the mirror in the bed-chamber. He held it up. Tapped his drum. The golden blond hair fluttered as if in a strong breeze. "Follow," he said.

  They did.

  It led them downstairs, and downstairs again . . . to a blank wall.

  "Walled off again?"

  The shaman walked closer. Touched it. "Is not real."

  He had to try several things, before a pattern of gray stones laid before the wall made it suddenly flicker and become a heavy, studded door, re-inforced with iron, with a solid bar, and large lock. Only the bar was slid open, and the key was in the lock. Erik turned the key and pushed. It opened into a dark passage, leading down. And the sound of screaming came out of it.

  Vlad led the way into the maw. Erik was just on his heels.

  * * *

  Dana bit her lip savagely. She would not scream again. It gave the countess too much pleasure. The countess had shed her clothes too. Somehow that was less obscene than the other women who had held her, in their parody of nuns robes, even with wimples on their heads . . . with cut-aways on their breasts, between which upside-down broken crosses swayed.

  The countess leaned over. Dana could feel her nails on the whip-cuts. She stepped around those who held Dana. Licked her fingers. A little blood trickled down from the corner of her mouth. "I can feel my skin refresh," she said, her voice thick and throaty.

  Dana said nothing. It was all she could do not to whimper. But while she could, she would not. She'd screamed the first time . . . not the second or the third.

  "Let us see how she does with the pain of others," said the woman.

  More of her vile pack held the peasant girl. They simply pulled up her thin dress and the countess brought her whip down. She screamed. So did Dana.

  "My brother will come. And he will hang you or burn you, you witch."

  The countess laughed mockingly. "He is here already, you poor little fool. How do you think I caught you? Who brought you to me? His man."

  Dana closed her eyes. And began to sing. Her voice felt small and weak. "Áve María, grátia pléna . . ."

  Those holding her nearly let go. Dana struggled with every ounce of her strength. And somehow it was enough. She was free. They snatched at her. And she ran, pushing aside the little dwarf.

  And somewhere down the passage, the singing of strong men's voices answered her—clean and wholesome and stong. She ran frantically towards it, as Elizabeth and her obscene nuns followed behind her, like a pack of slavering beasts.

  * * *

  Erik wondered if they had entered hell. Or at least the earthly version of it. The first room they came to was plainly a torture chamber. It had a rack, a "bed of no rest," a grate with shackles suspended over a fire-pit, and a wheel. Various instruments for cutting, burning, and tearing flesh were hanging from the walls. And there was a large bath with meat-hooks above it.

  The entire small group stayed very close together, swords and knives at the ready.

  They moved deeper into this place of horrors and came to the cells, and some had children in them. Vlad pulled angrily at the locked door, and those within cowered away and screamed.

  Just then another quavering scream came down the passage. And then moments later, a girl's voice, singing. The same voice, and the same song, that he and Vlad had heard on the battlements. Vlad answered . . . and they ran towards it.

  A naked, pale, dark-haired girl came sprinting desperately toward them, pursued by the harpies of hell. Leading the harpies was a equally naked woman.

  The countess Elizabeth. And with her came the terrible stench of decay.

  Erik raised his sword. "That which cannot abide the name of Christ, begone." He shouted.

  The pack halted . . . and the girl flung herself towards them. "Dear God. Help me!" She panted.

  Vlad and Erik stepped forward, and pulled her between them, to shelter behind them. They stood, swords out and ready

  "Elizabeth?" said Vlad, incredulously.

  The countess smiled. She might have perfect features, but it was smile of pure evil. "Vlad," she purred. "Come to me. I crave your body. I need to couple with you now."

  Vlad stared at her, his pale aristocratic face expressionless. And then he said: "You foul, unhallowed bitch. I should treat you as my grandfather treated all his enemies. Get away from me!"

  If he had kicked her in the stomach he could hardly have had more of an effect on her. Her face was anything but beautiful just then. It took on an expression that could not be described as anything other than fiendish. She raised a hand covered in streaks of dried blood and pointed a talon-like finger at Vlad. "By Ashteroth, Baal'zebub and all the lesser names. I commanded you to come to me. I command your lusts! Come and rape me!" she screamed.

  By the cold fury on Vlad's face, it looked as if he would very much like to impale her—but not in the way she wanted.

  "Let's get the hell out of here," said Erik quietly. "There are more of them behind her. And they have weapons.

  Vlad nodded.

  They began to back away, slowly, swords at the ready.

  "You cannot resist!" screeched Elizabeth her voice cutting across the shadows like a poisoned knife "No man can resist me! My magics command you!"

  "Not anymore," whispered the shaman behind them. "I washed the spell away. "

  All Erik could do was to thank heaven for that.

  Elizabeth did not seem to understand that her power over Vlad had been broken. She continued to call on demons, and scream at Vlad to come and violate her . . . Perhaps it had been a long time since anyone had escaped her. But it eventually did sink in. "Seize them!" she screamed.

  The passage between the cells was full of her minions. They surged forward in a suicidal rush, literally running themselves onto the blades

  It wasn't killing them that was the problem. It was their sheer numbers. In the end Erik and Vlad and their companions won back to the torture chamber. Two of the Mongol men had maneuvered the bath, the grate, and the "bed of little ease" onto the stair. As soon as the last of the rearguard were past they managed to upend both pushing them against the ceiling, until they jammed—partly on the body of one of the 'nuns'.

  They gained the top of the stairs.

  The waiting Mongol general slammed the door when they were up. Slid the bar. Turned the key.

  "There may be another way up. There seem to be hundreds of them," said Vlad, still pointing his sword at the doorway, breathing heavily.

  "The woman will use her demons to open the door," said the shaman, tracing a pattern on the floor with a small bundle of feathers.

  "Stables," panted Erik. "And some clothes for the girl."

  Vlad had already unbuckled his cloak. Turned to offer it to her. She shied away from his face, horror on hers. "What is wrong? he asked.

  "You're Vlad! You betrayed me to her!"

  "No. I . . . I don't even know who you are."

  "Looking at her, I would
say she's a relative of yours, Vlad" said Erik, trying not to look at anything but the face.

  "Dana?" said Vlad, incredulously.

  "Yes," she spat. "Traitor."

  Bortai handed the girl her cloak instead. Dana wrapped it around herself eagerly. "He is a good man," Bortai said. "Not a traitor. Would he be here if he was? Now we must go."

  Vlad nodded. "We'll be back with an army and a battering ram."

  "And a rope. That woman is rope-ripe," said Erik, grimly.

  They hurried down the corridor. Vlad was plainly hurt, confused and shocked. Erik fell back so that he was next to the young girl. Bortai had an arm around her. "Lady Dana? Why do you think Vlad betrayed you?"

  She was sobbing a little, and holding onto Bortai.

  "She told me. I said Vlad would come. She told me he was here. And he was. And his man took me away from the g . . .gypsies." She started to cry in earnest now.

  Erik understood now. "I swear this by all that is holy." He touched the cross on his surcoat. "Your brother has been with us, and us with him, for the better part of the last week. We have only just arrived in this place of devil-worshipers ourselves, yesterday. I believe Vlad was as entrapped as you were. And I swear on the cross that we will protect you and see that no harm comes to you."

  "Who are you?" she asked.

  "Ritter Erik Hakkonsen of the knights of the Holy Trinity, at your service, milady," he said, making a small bow, as they walked.

  That got a tremulous smile, despite the tears. "You have to free the others down there, she's . . . she's EVIL."

  Erik nodded. "Incarnate, I think. Look, this is plainly a Satanist cabal. And I'm no theologist, young lady. But my friend Eneko is. And he once described Satanism as not pagan, although it sometimes steals pieces from it. It's a parody, a deliberate perversion of Christianity, not a religion itself. And one of its core tenets is deceit. Betrayal and deciet. That is why Satan is called the father of lies. So: anything she said to you was probably not true. That's how she works."

  The girl was plainly made of the same tough steel as her brother. "But Emil. He did come from Vlad. Miu said so. And Miu does not tell lies," she said, fiercely.

  Vlad had plainly been listening. "Emil? As God is in heaven, I sent him to guard you. He was my trusted sergeant, and I certainly never ordered him to bring you here! You and mother . . . ." he paused mid-step. "Mother? Is she down there? I must go back."

  Dana shook her head quickly, before he could run back down the way they had come. "She's safe with the gypsies."

  Vlad wiped his brow. "I don't really remember you, you know. You were just a tiny thing, in your first dress . . . But mother. Dear God . . . I miss her."

  That plainly broke through her distrust. Dana took a step forward and hugged him, fiercely. He, after brief moment, responded. She winced. "Ow."

  "What is wrong?" he asked pulling away.

  "She beat me."

  "Her back is bleeding," said Bortai observed dispassionately.

  "Elizabeth will suffer for that," said Vlad, grimly.

  "No," said Erik, equally grim. "Die, yes. But we are exactly what she is not . . ." He realised that he was dictating about something that had nothing to do with him. "I spoke out of turn, Vlad," he said. "It's your Principality and your sister."

  Vlad nodded. "But you spoke well for me. I could be . . . worse than her, fixing it."

  "Can we get to the horses?" said Bortai. "You can talk later!"

  But by the noise, they'd left it too late already.

  * * *

  Someone shook Manfred awake. It was Falkenberg, and with him Ritter Von Stael.

  "Prince Manfred . . . I am sorry to disturb you . . . But we seem to have been locked in."

  "Probably don't want us molesting the nuns," said Manfred, yawning and stretching.

  "Possibly, Prince."

  "How did you find out?"

  "We heard a few odd noises. The guard," Falkenberg gestured at Von Stael, "thought they'd have a look. The door appears locked."

  "Could be an innocent measure of security," said Manfred. "But we'll explain in the morning. I'll need a battle-axe."

  Falkenberg allowed himself a little smile. "I know you well enough by now, Prince Manfred. I've had one fetched. Should be waiting for us at the door."

  It was. So were twenty knights in the final stages of hastily donning full armor.

  Manfred raised his eyebrows. "You're taking this seriously, Falkenberg."

  "No, Prince Manfred. I'd have them all up and in armor if I was."

  Manfred took the axe from the knight who held it out to him.

  He swung hard at the wood above the latch.

  The door cracked, but held. Manfred swung again, putting his full strength into it.

  The heavy oak shivered and split.

  And swung open a little way.

  But then, it stopped.

  Manfred reached forward and pulled it aside.

  The candles shone on a wall. A wall of stone blocks each weighing at least a hundredweight. And mortared. Manfred reached through and touched the stone. It was real, and quite solid.

  The knights gaped at it.

  Manfred turned to Falkenberg. "Full armor. Everyone. And make it fast."

  Falkenberg, himself already armored, gave the orders. The knights left at a run. He then accompanied Manfred back to his chamber, to help him get the steel on, and also to talk.

  "Those blocks. Are they real, Prince?"

  Manfred nodded. "And the mortar is dry. This is magic, Falkenberg. But whatever it is, it is not good."

  "So what do we do, Prince?"

  Manfred pointed at the floor. "The castle is a stone shell. Those are oaken floorboards. And our ever so beautiful and charming countess is going to do some explaining. "

  * * *

  Vlad and his tiny party found their way blocked. So they hurried down another passage. And then another.

  "We're being herded," said Erik.

  "Where to?"

  The answer appeared in front of them.

  A man—dressed like a well-off peasant, wearing a hat with three feathers in it. He had haunted, desperate eyes, thought Erik.

  "I have a way out for you," he said.

  In a vast stride, Vlad reached the man, grasped him by the front of his tunic, hauled him up off the ground and slammed him against the wall, holding him there with one hand. "Emil! You traitor."

  "I have a way out for you," the man gasped. "Follow me."

  "Why did you do this to me?" Vlad hissed, his face contorted with fury—and then he looked at Erik, and Erik looked soberly into those eyes that were dark with a terrible rage, and the fury was replaced by something colder and more rational. He shook himself, like a wet dog, and put his prisoner down. "You have a few seconds to make your peace with God," he said, his tone icy. "I will not execute you un-shriven.

  * * *

  Vlad had felt the dark tide rising. And then Erik, friend and, dare he say it, conscience, intervened. Vlad was grateful . . . . and still determined. But that wild rage was channeled now. A desire for the truth, the truth at all costs, flowed out of him. The man fell at his feet.

  The shaman said something.

  "He says there is spell written all over the man," said Erik.

  The Mongol shaman came forward, did what looked like a little dance in place, threw some powder over the man, spat on his finger, and rubbed it on Emil's forehead. Emil gave a choked cry. "Drac. Kill me Drac. Please forgive me, but kill me, for I do not deserve to live. She made me do it. She wanted me to betray you now, again. To take you to her chapel. She draws all that is evil in a man, drives him. I killed her, Drac. I strangled her while Countess watched. Then she lay with me again next to her body. God, I had to have her. I did what she told me."

  "Who did you kill?" asked Vlad, although, somehow, he already knew.

  "Rosa. The countess was angry about her . . ."

  Vlad felt his blood go cold. His sword-point dropped.
<
br />   "Forgive me, Drac," the man pleaded.

  But Vlad knew that he never would. "God may," he said, bleakly.

  The question of what he would do with this man was taken from him, seconds later. He only just had time to raise his sword. Emil, screaming, arms flailing, flung himself at them. He literally impaled himself on three swords.

  Vlad's was not one of them.

  His sister pressed against him. Put an arm around him.

  "We've got to go on, brother," she said.

  Vlad did not want to. He was an inner maelstrom of ice and fire, raging. He did not care if he died. But his little sister needed him. He might not know her, but he felt her, bone of his bone, blood of his blood. They were of the same flesh. She needed him, and it was his duty to protect her.

  * * *

  They pressed on. Erik saw how Vlad fought now with an almost insane rage and strength. It should have made him easy to kill. But their opponents who had plainly escaped the dungeon were not of any particular caliber. Elizabeth chose her men-at-arms for her 'religion' not martial prowess.

  They could win free to the stables, still. And then Erik realised they would not. Not down this passage anyway. The countess had finally stopped fighting them by force of arms and was using her magic.

  Something all shadow and ire roared out of the darkness; they all looked to the shaman, who looked to his talismans and powders and then just shrugged. "I do not know this thing," he said. "We must run."

  Shadows wrapped it so that it was impossible to see, but there was no doubt that if it got them, it would kill them.

  And then the shadows cleared. Whatever this monstrous thing was, it was pushing a wall ahead of it. All they could see was a block of stone, Stone, so tightly fitting the passage that it ripped the sconces from the walls, as it advanced on them at a slow walk. They could only retreat.

  Back, back, towards the chapel.

  Chapter 73

  They had little choice: go into the chapel or be crushed., because whatever was behind that wall was strong obviously strong enough to push them ahead of it or crush them beneath it.