The Red Duke Read online

  “I will set aside this feud between us,” Count Ergon decided. “I will help you catch this vampire and bring him low—but remember, mine is the greater claim to vengeance. Mine must be the sword that puts the Red Duke back in his grave.”

  Leuthere felt sympathy for the count’s emotion, but knew there was a more important duty than revenge before the nobleman now. “What you wish is impossible,” Leuthere said. “There is a more important task which only Count Ergon du Maisne may perform. Duke Gilon must be warned of this menace, must be made to believe the Red Duke has returned. He would not believe a d’Elbiq knight, but he will believe Count Ergon du Maisne.”

  The count clenched his jaw in anger. “I will not forget my son and my wife and my servants slaughtered like cattle by grave-cheating horrors. Beside you or against you, I will take up the Red Duke’s trail. The vampire will not escape my justice!” Count Ergon reached to the neck of his armour, pulling from beneath it a heavy gold chain. A large signet ring hung from the necklace. “We will stop at the first chateau we come across and I will dispatch a message to Duke Gilon telling him the vampire has indeed returned. Duke Gilon will not dispute the message when he sees my seal affixed to it.”

  Leuthere sighed. “There is no way to make you change your mind?”

  “Only by using your sword and leaving me here with my son,” Count Ergon replied.

  “You have set aside the feud, so too shall I,” Leuthere said. “Until the Red Duke is vanquished, we are comrades in arms.” The knight turned his gaze to the sorry corpse of Sir Armand. “If you will allow me, I would help you bury your son before we pursue his killer.”

  “There will be no grave for my son,” Count Ergon answered. The nobleman turned Armand’s head so that Leuthere could see the ugly wounds in the dead man’s neck. “The vampire shattered my son’s body, then ensured Armand would share his profane curse. He damned my son to an eternity as a crippled monster crawling on its belly through the shadows.” Count Ergon rose from the floor and shambled towards the shattered table. “I know such was his purpose because he threatened me with the same fate.”

  Count Ergon drew a long sliver of wood from the collapsed table, carefully inspecting the sharpness of its splintered end. “No grave for Sir Armand du Maisne,” he said, his voice grim. “A stake through the heart and a bonfire to cremate the bones. That is the only way to spare my son from the curse of the vampire.”

  Renar ran his finger through the long blond mane of his horse, admiring the feel of the animal. Like any Bretonnian, the necromancer appreciated good horseflesh and the graceful, lean-limbed courser he had taken from Count Ergon’s stables was among the finest he had ever seen. A peasant, even the most prosperous merchant, could never hope to own such a fine animal. Money could buy one, of course, but the laws of the nobility would quickly settle any peasant who had the audacity to ride such a fine beast.

  The necromancer smiled and moved his fingers from the fine mane to the flowing purple caparison covering the horse. Purple was a royal colour, set aside for the higher ranks of the nobility. These trappings had probably belonged to Count Ergon himself, or perhaps his wife. It was an act punishable by the most cruel mutilation for anyone not nobly born to display royal colours.

  A spiteful chuckle rattled through Renar’s rotten teeth. He had no reason to fear the tyranny of the knights and their laws any longer. Not now, not with the Red Duke as his protector, not with an army of the walking dead to stand between him and a noose. He, a miserable peasant, had risen to the position of advisor and confidant to the most powerful warlord Aquitaine had ever known.

  The necromancer patted the saddlebags draped across the flanks of his horse, filled to bursting with plunder from the Chateau du Maisne. Renar’s mouth watered as he imagined the things he would buy. There were booksellers and antiquarians in Moussillon who specialized in certain outre subjects. Renar knew of one scabby old merchant who possessed a copy of the Liber Mortis written by the Sylvanian necromancer Frederick van Hal. The secrets contained just in that single tome would be enough to make Renar the most fearsome sorcerer in the history of Bretonnia. With his powers enhanced and the Red Duke’s army, Renar would be able to carve a kingdom from the bloodied husk of Aquitaine.

  Of course, that meant continuing to manage the vampire and trying to control his capricious moods. Renar wasn’t happy about that prospect, but he was confident he would find a way. He needed the Red Duke; the vampire still had the mind and genius of the brilliant warlord he had been in life. At the same time, the Red Duke needed him. There were limits to what even the most powerful among the undead could accomplish. It took a beating heart and a mortal soul to fully draw upon the fell powers of Dhar, the black wind of sorcery, the power that sustained the lesser undead and which fuelled the dark art of necromancy.

  Renar looked about him, watching as the silent ranks of zombies and skeletons marched along the little country road, making the long journey back to the Crac de Sang. Now that the Red Duke had shown his hand, it was important that they return to the fortress and fortify it against attack. The nobles of Aquitaine could not be expected to remain idle once they were aware of the vampire’s return. The Crac de Sang offered the best stronghold from which to fight a defensive campaign.

  If the Red Duke stuck to the plan, they would be able to hold off an army once his old fortress was restored. With a tireless legion of undead labourers, the vampire declared the castle could be made defensible in only a few weeks.

  Renar was not convinced. He wanted more bodies marching beneath the vampire’s banner. He’d railed against the Red Duke’s decree that the corpses of Count Ergon and his retainers be left to rot in the Chateau du Maisne. The Red Duke had decided that Durand du Maisne’s descendant and any craven enough to follow him were unfit to serve the rightful ruler of Aquitaine. Nothing Renar could do would sway the vampire’s decision. He could take some small consolation that the Red Duke had allowed Renar’s zombies to scavenge arms and armour from the dead and the castle’s stores. The vampire’s pride was not above seizing the resources of a vanquished enemy. Only the horses had been left behind—too frightened by the unnatural taint of the undead to be managed on the long march. Renar supposed they could have slaughtered the beasts and revived them as zombified husks, but such a prospect offended even his pragmatism. In the end, only the horse Renar chose for himself had been taken, and even that fine animal had to wear blinders and be soothed by the necromancer’s spells before it would allow itself to be brought near the undead warriors.

  The necromancer turned in his saddle, watching the shuffling columns of walking dead following behind him. There were more of the creatures now. Renar had suggested to the Red Duke that they stop at each village they passed on the way back—to “impress soldiers” as he phrased his plan. The peasant inhabitants fled when they saw the ghastly army coming, but the inhabitants of their graveyards could not. After passing through half a dozen villages, Renar had created enough new soldiers for the Red Duke to almost exhaust the store of weapons taken from the Chateau du Maisne, doubling and almost trebling the force that had attacked the castle.

  Slavering shapes loped back towards the column, sharp-fanged ghouls the Red Duke had sent to scout the terrain ahead. The vampire chose to think of the slinking subhumans as venerers, but the only game the loathsome creatures were adept at sniffing out was carrion. They had been quite useful finding large graveyards for Renar. From their agitation, it seemed that the Red Duke’s army would be inducting fresh recruits quite soon.

  Renar spurred his horse to the head of the column where the Red Duke and the gruesome wight-lord Sir Corbinian held conference. If the skeletal knight uttered any responses to the Red Duke’s words, it was in no such voice as Renar could hear.

  “When de Cavaudan returns we shall dispatch the knights to the left flank,” the vampire was telling his old retainer. “Then we shall deploy the archers behind the dunes. When Mehmed-bey leads his Arabyans down the wadi, the cavalry s
hall engage him, drawing him deeper into the defile. Then, unable to advance because of our horse, unable to retreat for the press of his own men, and unable to turn right or left because of the dunes, we shall rain volley upon volley upon the heads of the foul Paynim!”

  The vampire twisted his head around as the ghouls came loping back. He smiled down at the first of the monsters to reach him. “Ah, a hobelar bringing word from my noble vassal! You have lost your steed, my good man! Retrieve another from the remounts!”

  The ghoul stopped short, his fanged face contorting in confusion as the vampire spoke. Anxiously, the creature backed away from the Red Duke.

  Renar grimaced, shaking his head in frustration. What new madness was this?

  “It doesn’t have a horse,” the necromancer snapped. “If you gave it a horse, it would eat it. It isn’t bringing word back from anybody. You sent it out to look for graveyards so we can steal bodies. We steal the bodies, I use my magic, they come alive and we give them a spear to stick into an enemy.”

  The Red Duke turned his skeletal horse about, directing a hard stare at the necromancer. “How dare you ride your lord’s horse, peasant!” The vampire gestured and Sir Corbinian shambled forwards, seizing the courser’s reins in his bony hand. The animal bucked furiously, the calming spells unable to soothe away such close contact with the wight. Renar was thrown to the road, landing on his backside. The wight-lord allowed its grip to slacken, the courser pulling free and racing away.

  Renar scowled and cursed as he watched his prize run off, gold and jewels spilling from the saddlebags. “Black bones of Nagash! That was my horse! That was my treasure!”

  “Mind your tongue, varlet,” the Red Duke warned. “I tolerate your insolence only because I need every man to fight the Arabyans.” The vampire waved a hand towards the galloping horse. “That fine animal returns to my loyal vassal Baron de Gavaudan. If you came by any of yon plunder fairly, then he will return it to you.”

  Rolling his eyes, Renar got back to his feet. “Baron de Gavaudan is dead! He has been these past four hundred years!” The necromancer spread his arms, gesturing at the tall trees bordering the road, at the green fields beyond. “This isn’t Araby! This is Aquitaine!”

  The Red Duke closed his eyes, pain flaring across his face. He raised his hand to his forehead, driving the armoured fingers of his gauntlet into the pale skin as though trying to rip the agony from his skull.

  “Where is de Gavaudan?” the vampire demanded when he lowered his hand.

  “I told you,” Renar snapped. “He’s dead.”

  The Red Duke’s expression became one of livid rage. “I asked where he is, not what became of him!”

  Renar staggered on his feet, all thoughts of lost wealth and power driven from him by the fury in the vampire’s voice. “He fought King Louis at the village of Mercal and was defeated.” The necromancer swallowed hard, not knowing how the Red Duke would react to such news. “The king’s men destroyed them all. Not a single one escaped.”

  The Red Duke’s scowl took on a cunning quality. “Turn the column about,” he ordered.

  “What about the Crac de Sang?” protested Renar.

  “We’re not going to the Crac de Sang,” the Red Duke hissed. “We’re going to Mercal.”

  CHAPTER X

  He was more dead than alive as they laid him upon the brass-framed bed and its thick coverings of silk and fur. The standard of Bretonnia’s king fluttered over his head, fixed to a stand beside the bed. A squadron of pages decked out in the royal livery circled the bed, creating an artificial breeze with ostrich-feather fans. Squires scurried about the tent bearing jugs of cold water drawn from the wells of El Haikk and chilled by the magic of Imperial wizards. Physicians swarmed over him, examining every finger and toe as they solemnly tried to restore his vitality. In one corner of the pavilion, a dour priestess of Shallya erected a tiny shrine and prayed to the goddess of mercy and healing for his recovery.

  El Syf was only dimly aware of all this, his mind wandering back to the ambush in the desert and the strange dark knight who had been both his rescuer and his destroyer.

  “He won’t survive,” the voice of Baron de Gavaudan was sharp with frustration. “Every physician says the same thing. They can’t stop the poison. Even the Arabyans don’t know what kind of venom is in his veins. There’s no hope.”

  “This is no hero’s death,” was the bitter observation of Marquis d’Elbiq. “Lying abed, his life drained out of him by these damn doctors and their leeches! Better he had died in harness fighting the filthy heathen!”

  “A hero’s death or no,” Baron de Gavaudan declared, “we must accept that the Duke of Aquitaine will not recover.”

  “Then if he is to die, let him die on Bretonnian soil!” The regal voice of King Louis the Righteous was harsh with fatigue and despair. “This abominable land has claimed too much of our blood already. It will not have his!”

  “Be reasonable, sire,” Baron de Gavaudan implored. “He cannot last much longer. It would be foolish and cruel to send him back to Aquitaine now. Let his body be borne back with the other noble dead when we decamp these damnable deserts.”

  “Marrying your daughter does not make you my father,” the king replied acidly. “No man in the crusade has fought as nobly or as well for our cause as the Duke of Aquitaine. There is no honour we can pay him that could be too great.”

  “But he is dying,” Baron de Gavaudan persisted. “We must think of the future. There must be a new Duke of Aquitaine. You, sire, are the next in ascension. You are the logical one to assume his duties.”

  “Let him return to his home with full titles and honours,” King Louis said, his voice heavy with sadness. “It is a knave who would play jackal at such a time.” The king’s voice grew firm. “This is my decree: the duke’s vassals shall bear him back to Castle Aquin with all dispatch. An honour guard shall see them through the desert and the fastest ship in the fleet shall be at their disposal when they reach Lashiek. Every consideration shall be given for the comfort and dignity of the duke as he is returned to Aquitaine. If it is within the power of man, we will return him to his domain that he may gaze upon the greenery of Bretonnia before he is taken into the Lady’s embrace.”

  “As you say, sire,” de Gavaudan said. “Every consideration must be made…”

  Sir Maraulf shook the shoulder of the sleeping peasant. The man’s hands instantly flew to the spear propped up against the earthen wall. His head bounced about like that of some enormous bird, his eyes struggling to pierce both the darkness and the sleep crusted at their corners.

  The knight gave the startled peasant a reassuring pat, urging him to be calm. The attack Maraulf feared had not yet manifested. Even so, he wanted the man to be vigilant. Because the attack would come. Maraulf had never been more certain of anything in his life.

  Ironically, it was the thing the knight most desperately prayed for that was taking an unmerciful toll on the defenders of Mercal. Time was what he needed, time to strengthen the defence of Mercal, time to convince the local earls and marquises that it was in their best interest to send troops to protect a cluster of peasant hovels and a half-forgotten chapel.

  Most of the lords had laughed at Maraulf’s entreaty, scoffing at his claims that the Red Duke had returned. Perhaps, had he completed his quest and become a grail knight, they would have listened to him, but Maraulf had been moved to take a different path. Now, more than ever, he understood the gulf that separated him from the knightly classes to which he had once belonged.

  There was still some hope that the gods would move the hearts of some of the lords who hadn’t laughed at him. Even a dozen knights and a few score men-at-arms might be enough to hold the Chapel Sereine and the cemetery around it. Enough to thwart the Red Duke’s plans and break his evil before it could fully begin.

  Until then, Maraulf had to make do with the troops available to him. There had been no shortage of volunteers from Mercal itself—every able-bodied man, and seve
ral of dubious health as well, had taken up arms to defend his home. The man he had awakened, Trejean, who now gripped his spear so fiercely, had been nothing more than a chicken farmer a few days ago. He had never done anything more warlike than chasing foxes from his coops with a stout club and a raised voice. Yet there had been no hesitation when Maraulf explained the village’s peril to Trejean. The thought of facing the walking dead was something terrifying to the peasant. The thought of seeing his family and his home destroyed by such creatures was more horrible still.

  All of Maraulf’s peasant-warriors were scared, and as the hours turned into days, that fear only grew. They were unable to eat, unable to sleep, unable to think about anything except the terrible doom that hung over their village. Time was wearing them out, fear eating them away until they dropped exhausted at their posts. These men were not knights or soldiers. They were farmers and swineherds, coopers and leatherworkers, men for whom the thought of war was almost as horrifying as the Red Duke himself.

  The knight left Trejean and continued his march along the trench. The peasants had laboured hard to build the defensive earthworks around the Chapel Sereine and its graveyard. Duke Gilon’s engineers could have done better, of course, but Maraulf was impressed by the way the villagers had followed his commands. He supposed it was, after all, only a little different than digging a drainage trench or an irrigation ditch, but it would be just as effective against a cavalry charge. The excavated earth had been formed into low mounds, creating a staggered barrier all around the graveyard, tall enough for a man to hide behind but short enough that they would not conceal the enemy’s advance.

  Maraulf lifted himself up from the trench, looking over the anxious, weary faces of his men. He could see how uncomfortable they were with their improvised weapons—crudely fashioned spears, farm implements lashed to poles, rusty axes and maces plundered from some ancient battlefield. This was all strange to them, the idea of bearing arms and defending their homes. It was strange to Maraulf too. After so many years, the knight had never expected to ever lead men into battle again, be they peasant or noble. He could only have faith in the gods that his leadership and their courage would not be found wanting.