[Heroes 05] - The Red Duke

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

  “My lord,” Aldric grabbed his master’s shoulder and shook the sick nobleman. “That thing is still out there, killing everyone it can find! We have to get out of here before it finds us!”

  The earl turned bitter eyes on his vassal. “I deserve to die,” he said. “For hate’s sake, I sent my sons to their deaths. For hate’s sake I spat upon my oaths to the Lady and the blessings of the grail. I have committed an unforgivable sin. Without the promise of my protection, the witch and the necromancer would never have dared such an outrage. I am the guilty one. I am ready to pay for my crime.” Earl Gaubert smiled weakly at the knight. “You have been loyal to the last, Sir Aldric. Run now, escape while you can. Consider your oaths fulfilled and leave an old man to meet the doom he has brought upon himself.”

  Aldric shook his head. “It would be the craven act of a knave to abandon my lord.” The knight helped Earl Gaubert back to his feet. “We will return to the chateau and muster your knights. Even the Red Duke does not have the power to stand alone against the might of your soldiers.”

  His knight’s words of martial pride stirred some hope in Earl Gaubert’s heart. There was still a chance to undo the evil he had unleashed. They could return with a company of cavalry and scour the graveyard until they brought the vampire to ground. They would destroy the monster and hide the shame Earl Gaubert had brought upon the name d’Elbiq.

  A sudden chill gripped the nobleman. He watched as the weeds around the headstone began to wilt. Turning his head, he gasped as he saw a grisly shape standing atop one of the tombs. It was just a dark silhouette, a shadow framed by the sickly light of Morrslieb, but Earl Gaubert could feel the creature’s malignant gaze fixed upon him.

  “Behind me, my lord!” Aldric shouted, pushing his master around the back of the headstone. The knight brandished his sword, shaking it at the watching shadow. “Hold your ground, fiend! Sup upon the peasants, but think not to touch my master or I shall send your rotting carcass back to its grave!”

  No sound came from the menacing shadow, the creature seeming content to crouch and watch the two Bretonnian nobles. Then with the speed and abruptness of a lightning bolt, the vampire leapt upon his prey, lunging at Aldric with the ferocity of a pouncing lion. The knight’s sword was knocked from his grasp as the vampire’s shrivelled body smashed into him, the force of the undead monster’s impact bearing him to the ground.

  The Red Duke’s claws gripped either side of Aldric’s head. With a single twisting motion, the vampire broke the man’s neck. A hiss of satisfaction slithered through the Red Duke’s fangs as he rose from the twitching corpse and fixed his fiery gaze upon the cowering figure of Earl Gaubert.

  Frantically, the earl tried to draw his sword, in his terror he forgot the infirmity of his crippled arm and tried to grip his weapon as he had before his fateful duel with Count Ergon du Maisne. The palsied fingers refused to close around the sword, the trembling arm refused to draw the blade from its scabbard.

  In two steps, the Red Duke reached the pathetic cripple. A sweep of his hand ripped the sword from Earl Gaubert’s feeble clutch. The nobleman screamed, stumbling across the graves, trying to keep a line of headstones between himself and the vampire.

  Before he had gone twenty feet, the earl collapsed, grabbing at his chest, trying to ease the burning pain that pounded through his body. An old, sickly man, he was not equal to the ordeal he had been put through. Now the earl’s terrorized flesh failed him, his weak heart sending waves of pain and weakness through his body.

  The Red Duke stared down at the panting, wretched figure of Earl Gaubert. There was no pity in the vampire’s eyes, only the merciless hunger of the damned.

  CHAPTER V

  Screams intruded upon the duke’s unquiet sleep, the shrieks of dead and dying men mingling with the fevered nightmares that tormented his mind. El Syf concentrated upon the anguished voices. He used their horror to draw him out from the black borderland of fever, the poisoned world of weakness and slumber that had held him for so long.

  By Herculean effort, the knight opened his eyes, blinking as the dim light of his surroundings stung his eyes. He could see the canvas walls of a large pavilion, could smell the wood burning in the belly of a bronze brazier. He was laid out upon a richly appointed bed, thick furs wrapped about his weakened body. The air was hot and arid, yet lacked the fiery malignance of the Arabyan desert. Could it be that he was back in Estalia?

  Screams continued to rise from beyond the walls of his tent, mingling with the clash of steel and bestial, chittering cries. The knight recognized the sounds of battle when he heard them, though who or what was fighting, and why, he had no idea. Whatever the nature of the conflict, though, it was not the way of a knight of Bretonnia to sit idly by while there was need of his sword.

  El Syf struggled to raise himself from his bed, but even the act of moving his arms from where they were folded across his chest was beyond him. He sagged wearily against his pillow, tears of frustration rolling from his eyes. He tried to focus upon what had happened to him, remembering the poisoned dagger the sheik had stabbed him with, remembering the sinister knight with the dead face who had loomed over him as he lay stricken upon the sand.

  Memory was banished from his mind as the duke became aware that he was not alone in his tent. A furtive rustling sound arrested his attention. Wincing against the strain, he managed to tilt his head enough to gain a view of the boxes of supplies stacked in one corner of the tent. Two repulsive figures were crouched over the boxes, their scrawny bodies draped in ragged cloaks, their furry hands rummaging through the contents of each chest as they forced it open.

  One of the creatures lifted its head, listening attentively to the screams and sounds of battle raging outside. The cloaked shape turned, cackling to its comrade in a thin, snivelling voice. As it turned, the duke could see its monstrous countenance, the verminous visage of an enormous rat!

  The other ratman chittered with amusement as it heard the words of its comrade, then the sharp ears on either side of its head tilted back, flattening against the sides of its skull. The ratman spun about, its beady eyes fixing upon the prostrate figure of El Syf Black lips pulled away from chisel-like fangs as the skaven hissed angrily. Its furry hand dropped to its waist, pulling a rusty dagger from its belt.

  El Syf fought again to move his leaden limbs, his mind screaming as the two ratmen warily crept towards him, blades in their clawed hands. To fall victim to such abominations was enough of an indignity but to lie helpless before them, to be slaughtered like a pig…

  The duke struggled to turn his gaze away from the murderous ratmen. He saw the flap of his tent open. His heart swelled with relief as he watched Marquis Galafre d’Elbiq slip inside the tent. The nobleman’s armour was stained with the black blood of skaven; fur and gore caked the sword gripped in his mailed fist. A look of loathing coloured the handsome features of the young marquis as he noticed the skaven creeping towards his prostrate lord.

  The duke could have wept with joy as he saw his vassal steal towards the monstrous ratmen. Hope filled the nobleman’s breast as he saw his rescue near.

  Horror gripped the duke as a change suddenly came over the expression on his vassal’s face. From loathing, the face of the marquis fell into an attitude of miserable sorrow. He turned his gaze from the ratmen to the sick bed of his lord. There was pain in the marquis’ eyes as he met the duke’s imploring stare.

  Silently, before the ratmen were aware of his presence, Marquis Galafre d’Elbiq withdrew. He cast one guilty look at the duke before retreating from the tent.

  The duke’s final hope had been dashed. The man who should have been his rescuer had abandoned him.

  Abandoned him to the skaven!

  The Red Duke stood before the shattered ruin of his monument, staring up at the bronze statue atop the column. Hate shone in the vampire’s gaze, a cruel smile spreading across his face. Engorged upon the blood of his victims, the vampire’s body was no longer shrivelled and leprous, bu
t flush with the ruddy glow of the life he had drawn from his victims’ veins.

  The vampire paced back and forth, admiring his handiwork.

  Upon the column, the crippled body of Earl Gaubert d’Elbiq twitched and shuddered, the last of the nobleman’s life dripping into the weeds below. Impaled upon the statue’s raised sword, Earl Gaubert had taken a surprisingly long time to die. Long enough to satisfy even a vampire’s vengeance.

  The Red Duke sipped from one of the silver goblets scattered before his tomb and enjoyed the macabre spectacle of the impaled man. Even five hundred years had not been enough to erase the familial resemblance between Earl Gaubert and the man who had betrayed the Red Duke so long ago. The vampire had vowed to scour Aquitaine of the d’Elbiqs, root and branch. Now he was one small step closer to achieving that purpose.

  A sudden sound trespassed upon the deathly silence of the graveyard. In a blurring flash of movement, the Red Duke leapt across the grisly altar and the broken husk of Jacquetta, his sword in hand before his feet again touched the earth. The vampire’s fangs glistened in the sickly light of Morrslieb as his fiery gaze swept across the tombs.

  A man stepped from the shadows, cadaverous in build, the stamp of peasant ugliness about his features. The Red Duke knew this intruder was something more than a humble peasant, however. Only magic could have hidden the mortal from his sight for so long. Only magic could have kept the man safe while the starving vampire had feasted upon the witch and her cult.

  “Halt!” the peasant said, his voice deep but betrayed by a tone of trepidation. “You will do my bidding.” The man raised a grisly talisman, a candle crafted from the hand of a murderer, each of its fingers bursting into light as he evoked its power. “I, Renar, master of the dark arts command you in the name of Nagash himself…” The necromancer hesitated as the Red Duke’s malignant stare transfixed him. He raised the corpse-candle higher, almost as though to hide behind its feeble light. “In the name of the Supreme Lord of the Damned…” Renar began again.

  The Red Duke threw his head back and laughed, a sound that more resembled the hungry howl of a wolf than anything human. There was no merriment in the vampire’s laugh, only malevolence and pitiless hate. Renar cringed as the terrible laughter swept over him.

  “Master of the dark arts indeed!” the Red Duke scoffed. With a gesture, he drew upon his own occult powers. The fingers of Renar’s corpse candle flickered and died one by one, snuffed out by a spectral wind. The necromancer gasped in terror, recoiling into the doorway of the tomb behind him. The vampire felt a surge of contempt for this craven mortal, this slinking peasant who had the audacity to think he could command the Duke of Aquitaine! For such temerity, the cur should be torn limb from limb! His blood should sate the hunger that yet raged through the vampire’s veins!

  The Red Duke waved his hand, motioning for his black knights to seize the impudent wretch. He glanced aside, puzzled when his warriors did not answer his command. He raised a hand to his breast, feeling the jagged rent in his armour where the lance of King Louis had pierced his heart. His knights were gone, destroyed upon Ceren Field. The Red Duke fixed his mind upon that fact, trying to dredge it up from the confusion that afflicted his brain.

  Only he had survived the battle, and then only because of the foolish sentiment of the king and the occult power of the jewel he wore about his throat. The vampire’s hand closed about that jewel, a blood-red stone that had been wrested from the bony fingers of a liche. Its power had sustained the undead horse lords in their barrow mound for a thousand years. Now that power served the Red Duke alone.

  The vampire’s grim gaze considered the terrified necromancer grovelling before him. The Red Duke’s Kingdom of Blood had been shattered, but he would rebuild it. To do that, he would need slaves, even such slaves as this cringing peasant. After all, Renar’s magic had played a part in destroying the enchantments that imprisoned him. That spoke well of the necromancer’s abilities, if not his good judgement. A true master of the black arts never summoned anything he could not control.

  No, the Red Duke decided. It would be rash to kill the peasant out of hand. He could prove useful while the vampire regained his strength.

  Renar noted the vampire’s indecision and he began to hope that the monster might grant him a reprieve. “I… I freed you,” Renar said, tossing aside the useless corpse-candle. “My… it was my magic… that called you back…”

  The Red Duke sneered in contempt at the necromancer. “Your magic? No, mortal, all your magic did was to break the seals that bound me! Know this; for five-hundred years I have endured my prison. Locked inside my own tomb. Unable to escape. Unable to die. Unable to feed!”

  “Then… then you must… be grateful…” Renar stammered.

  “Perhaps, a few centuries ago,” the Red Duke considered. “Now I only wonder why a man of your talents did not come sooner to free me.” The vampire’s hand clenched about the sword he held, a mad gleam in his eyes.

  “I… we… did not know!” Renar insisted. “Everyone… they said… the king destroyed you!”

  The Red Duke advanced towards the necromancer. “Then why did you disturb my tomb?” he demanded.

  Renar blanched at the question, but knew only the truth would possibly save him. “Earl Gaubert d’Elbiq!” he shouted. “It was the earl! He sought revenge upon Count Ergon du Maisne! His sons have all been killed by Sir Armand du Maisne, the finest swordsman in Aquitaine. The earl thought that by evoking your spirit, one of his knights might gain the skill to defeat Sir Armand.”

  The vampire laughed again. He glanced up at the now still body impaled upon the statue’s sword. The Red Duke mockingly saluted the dead Earl Gaubert.

  “It would be ungracious of me to ignore my benefactor,” the vampire said. “And I have my own debt to repay. The d’Elbiqs for trying to kill me. The du Maisnes for letting me live.”

  “But Count Ergon has an entire army!” Renar protested. “He would have accepted a challenge from d’Elbiq, but no knight in all Bretonnia would trifle with the Red Duke! If you show yourself at the Chateau du Maisne, they will send to Duke Gilon for every soldier in Aquitaine!”

  The Red Duke scowled at mention of another duke, another pretender to the title that was rightfully his. “You are right, peasant,” the vampire snarled. “I shall need an army to do what I must do.” The vampire sheathed his sword and stretched forth his hand. Renar could see the dark energies gathering about the Red Duke as he drew upon the black arts at his command.

  “I shall have my army,” the Red Duke hissed. Renar could see the body of Earl Gaubert’s dead knight shiver, the crushed head lolling upon its broken neck as the corpse began to rise. Empty, staring eyes gaped in the knight’s bloodless face as he shuffled across the graves. Stiffly, with awkward motions, the zombie bowed before its master.

  Other shapes moved among the tombs now, blundering through the graveyard, drawn by the inviolable summons of the vampire’s sorcery. The broken, pallid shells of Jacquetta’s cult stumbled out from the darkness, their ragged cloaks draped about their bodies like burial shrouds. Last of all came Sir Aldric, his head draped against his shoulder, his eyes unfocused and glazed.

  The Red Duke watched the zombies assemble before him. His powers had grown weak after so many centuries of inactivity, sufficient at the moment only to raise the freshly dead. But his strength would return, restored by the blood of innocents. Then, even the ancient dead entombed in the barrows of the horse lords would not be beyond his ability to summon and command.

  Renar shook his head as he moved among the zombies. “We will need more than these,” the necromancer advised. “Many more.”

  “There will be more,” the Red Duke said. An angry look crossed his face and he turned from the necromancer, stalking back towards the monument that had imprisoned him for so long. He glared down at Jacquetta’s shattered corpse. Fury twisted the vampire’s face out of all human semblance.

  “Attend me!” the Red Duke snarled at th
e lifeless body, enraged that Jacquetta had not risen with the others. “I am your lord and master! You will attend me!” he clenched his fists above the woman’s body, focusing his hideous will upon the defiant corpse.

  Dark magic saturated the witch’s body, causing it to writhe and jump. A cold light began to shine from the pores of her skin, a spectral luminance that caused the soil around her to blacken. Renar gasped as he watched the furious vampire direct still more power into the corpse, horrified by the amount of magical energy infusing Jacquetta’s body. He expected the entire cemetery to be reduced to ash by the forces the Red Duke was drawing upon, both awed and horrified by the magnitude of the vampire’s power.

  The cold light began to seer away the flesh from Jacquetta’s body, exposing the bones within. Even these began to shrivel and blacken, reduced to reeking mush by the arcane forces that engulfed them.

  From this liquefied mess, a radiant figure slowly took shape. It was as ethereal as a moonbeam, too fluid and graceful to share the crude stuff of flesh and bone. Renar thought of the Lady venerated by the nobles of Bretonnia and of the mysterious fay who haunted the forest of Athel Loren. But where such visitations had always been described in terms of beauty and warmth, the apparition he gazed upon was hideous and terrible. It was the withered ghost of a woman, her face a leering skull, her black hair flowing behind her like a nest of oily serpents. A nimbus of spectral malignity clung to the phantom, an aura of murderous envy towards the living.

  Jacquetta’s ghost stared at Renar and her mouth opened in a keening wail. The necromancer screamed as the sound pierced his brain. He could feel the unholy power of that screech draining his vitality, siphoning years from his soul with each passing heartbeat. Hairs fell from Renar’s head, wrinkles crawled across his hands as the banshee’s wail savaged him.

  “Enough!” the Red Duke snarled. At his command, the banshee fell silent, ending its magical assault upon Renar. The necromancer breathed uneasily, horrified by the nearness of his escape. Jacquetta had been a capricious, dangerous woman in life. In death, she had become a baneful harbinger of doom.