El Syf ash-Shml, the Arabyans had named him in the crude patois of the bedouin, “the North Sword”, often shorted simply to “El Syf”, the sword. It was a title the duke had earned through a year of bloody fighting to liberate the kingdoms of Estalia from the Sultan Jaffar. It was a name the Arabyans had come to whisper in terror after the Bretonnian armies came to the deserts of Araby to take the crusade into the sultan’s own lands.
El Syf made for a grim sight, surrounded by the barren sand dunes the raiders had chosen to hide their ambush. The knight was encased in full battledress, every inch of him sheathed in steel armour, bare now that an Arabyan’s blade had slashed his surcoat. The platemail was rendered in the finest Bretonnian fashion, each piece of armour richly engraved, the edges gilded. El Syf had always maintained that death should be grandly appointed when it came for a man, and he ensured that those who fell in battle against him would know their slayer was no simple yeoman or knight of the realm.
The finery of the Bretonnian’s armour was now caked in the filth of battle. Blood dripped down the breastplate, blood from the knight’s own steed. El Morzillo, the brave warhorse gifted upon the duke by the King of Magritta, had died nobly, refusing to fall while it still had the strength to shield its master with its body. An Arabyan arrow in its neck had not been enough to finish the horse, it had taken the sharp edge of a tulwar ripping across its throat to make its courage falter.
El Syf felt the loss of his powerful steed as keenly as he would the amputation of his arm. The death of such a noble animal moved him to a cold fury that sowed fear in the hearts of his foes. There had been over a dozen Arabyans when they had set upon him. Now six of them lay at his feet and the others faltered in their attack.
It was, perhaps, in their minds to retreat, to find easier prey to fall upon. Certainly the black-robed leaders of the ambush were sore-pressed to maintain command over the nomads. El Syf listened to them as the two cloaked Arabyans argued with each other, each with his own idea about how to still claim victory from catastrophe. The duke turned his head, studying the positions of the other raiders in the brief respite their broken courage had offered.
As he did so, the duke felt his eyes drawn to the crest of a distant sand dune. A lone rider stood atop the dune, watching the battle play out. From so great a distance, El Syf did not recognize the rider, though he could tell from the style of his armour that he was no nomad, but a knight. A chill ran through the Bretonnian’s body as he stared at the distant figure. Veteran of a hundred battles, hero of the Siege of Lashiek, slayer of the wyrm Nerluc, the duke had never felt such a sense of doom and fear as when he gazed upon the sinister knight.
The duke turned his eyes from the strange spectator, forcing his attention back to the Arabyans around him. “Sufficient for the moment were the evils thereof was an old piece of peasant wisdom that had somehow impressed itself upon the nobleman’s mind. Whatever menace there was in the black-armoured knight on the dunes, whatever was the cause of the evil the duke had sensed, it was of little concern to him if he was to die upon the blades of his present enemies.
The two Arabyan leaders continued their argument, each trying to shout down the other. The other nomads cast anxious glances over their shoulders at the two chieftains, unsure which of them would prevail, reluctant to press the attack upon El Syf until they were given the order.
El Syf regarded the violent tones of the chieftains. There was certainly no love between the two. They seemed a pair of bandits who had temporarily united their gangs and were now having a falling out because of the toll the knight had taken on their followers. That thought faded as he noted a familiar quality about the voice of one of the cloaked nomads. A familiarity that brought the duke’s blood to a boil.
At least one of the Arabyans was no Arabyan at all!
The duke’s mouth opened in an inarticulate roar of rage. Every virtue he held as a knight was repulsed by the treachery he now suspected, his stomach clenched in a tight knot of sickness. Clenching his blade in his fist, ignoring the slight wounds his dead foes had managed to inflict upon him, El Syf hurdled the dead carcass of El Morzillo and rushed the startled circle of his enemies.
The Arabyans were unprepared for the sudden attack, surprised like hunters whose prey suddenly turns upon them. One of the raiders fell with a shattered collarbone, another crumpled in a screaming heap, his arm shorn off at the elbow. Before any others could move to intercept him, Elf Syf was running along the side of one of the dunes, maintaining his footing despite the sand shifting beneath his boots.
The duke’s enemies cried out in panic, thinking the Bretonnian meant to escape them. They scattered, racing to encircle the armoured knight. But flight was the furthest thing from El Syf’s mind. As soon as he was certain the nomads had accepted his feint, the duke turned, charging straight at the two leaders. He prayed to the Lady, begging her to let him visit justice upon the traitor whose voice he had heard.
The two leaders staggered back in alarm when they saw their victim turning towards them. One of the black-robed men drew a curved scimitar from the sash girding his waist. The other, the man who was the focus of El Syf’s outrage, slid a very different sort of weapon from the scabbard hidden beneath his bisht. It was the straight blade of a Bretonnian knight. It was natural that the man should have such a sword. When, in the emotion of his argument with the Arabyan chieftain, the man had slipped and started speaking Breton, there had been an Aquitainian accent about his voice.
El Syf came upon the two conspirators with the marauding strength of a lion. The genuine Arabyan moved to confront him first, striking at him with a lightning-fast flourish of his scimitar. The duke matched each stroke, parrying the curved blade from his sword, biding his time until the sheik made a mistake. When that fraction of an instant came, the duke was ready. A mistaken twist of the sheik’s hand, a poor angle of his blade, and the duke’s sword was past his guard, stabbing into the Arabyan’s chest.
El Syf pushed the dying sheik from his sword and spun to meet the blade of the other conspirator. The Bretonnian traitor had lingered back during the duke’s duel with the sheik. There was a look of terror on what little of the man’s face could be seen through the folds of his cheche. To the Arabyans, El Syf was a warrior of mythical status, endowed with all manner of mystical abilities. The Bretonnian knew the Duke of Aquitaine better. He knew there was nothing mystical about his skill with the sword, but he also knew better than the Arabyans how great that skill truly was.
The duke met the traitor’s attack, catching the conspirator’s sword upon the guard of his own, twisting it aside with a practised roll of his own weapon, then following through with a thrust that skewered the renegade knight’s throat. The sword fell from the stricken man’s hand, his body slumping to its knees. El Syf reached forwards, tearing the cheche from about the knight’s face. He glared into features he recognized, those of Sir Bertric.
The duke stood silent a moment, stunned by the discovery. Sir Bertric was the vassal of Baron Gui de Gavaudan, father of Queen Aregund! A servant of the queen’s father engaged in conspiracy with Arabyan brigands, a conspiracy that could only have been intent upon the duke’s murder! But who would dare order such villainy? With King Louis upon the throne, who would dare strike in such a fashion? And why?
In the grip of his horror, the duke did not notice the stricken sheik crawling painfully towards him across the sand. He was still staring into the lifeless face of Sir Bertric when the Arabyan’s knife stabbed out, piercing him in the back of the knee. El Syf swung around, kicking the dying sheik with his armoured boot, shattering his face. This time, the duke made certain of his enemy, stabbing the point of his sword through the Arabyan’s heart.
Even as he struck, the duke swooned. The wound the sheik had visited upon him was minor, the poison edging the Arabyan’s dagger was not. He found that he lacked the strength to withdraw his sword from the sheik’s breast. A moment later and he could no longer stay on his feet, but crashed to the
sand. His breath came only with effort, his blood seemed to grow sluggish in his veins. It was with bleary vision that he saw the other nomads circling him, wary of him even as death reached out to snatch him into its talons.
The duke could see the sand dunes in the distance. As his vision began to darken, he noted that the sinister rider was gone.
Perhaps that figure had been an apparition after all, the duke thought. An omen of his doom.
The tension in the salle haute was like a living thing, predatory and lurking, waiting to pounce upon its prey. Even the lavish appointments, the marble caryatids which flanked the immense hearth, the long mahogany tables polished to a mirrored sheen, the colourful tapestries cloaking the walls and the stained glass window that reached from floor to roof behind the laird’s seat and allowed the noonday sun to stream into the hall in a brilliant rainbow, could not mask the intense emotion slowly building to a boil.
Upon his high-backed chair of oak trimmed in ivory, his hands clenched about the clawed armrests of his throne, Earl Gaubert d’Elbiq stared in silence at the body laid out upon the floor before him. The old nobleman’s cheeks trembled, his eyes were moist, his right leg twitched as though from an ague. None of the servants, none of the knights and courtiers dared intrude upon their lord’s sorrow, standing as still and silent as statues throughout the high room of the Chateau d’Elbiq.
For the better part of an hour, Earl Gaubert looked down at the body of his son, Sir Girars. His eyes never shut, never so much as blinked, as though he were trying to burn the image of his slain son upon his brain. He had reacted similarly to the death of each of his sons, but this time was different. This time, he looked upon the last of them. As a father, Earl Gaubert wanted nothing but to die and still the misery he felt, the unendurable horror of seeing all of his children dead.
As head of the House d’Elbiq, another purpose gripped the nobleman’s heart, a purpose that at last caused him to raise his eyes from the body of his son and fix his gaze upon Sir Leuthere d’Elbiq, eldest son of his brother, the Comte d’Elbiq.
“My son was murdered by Sir Armand du Maisne,” Earl Gaubert’s voice was little more than a dry croak as he spoke. “How is it that you return to me and allow my son’s murderer to walk free?”
Sir Leuthere could not hold the vicious gaze of Earl Gaubert, lowering his eyes and staring at the floor as he addressed his uncle.
“It was not murder,” the knight said, his voice low but firm. A murmur of astonished disbelief rippled among the earl’s courtiers. “Sir Girars fought Sir Armand in a fair duel.”
Earl Gaubert’s lip quivered with rage. “Liar! Coward!” he snarled.
“Sir Girars fell in open battle,” Leuthere persisted. “He was killed fighting his opponent in a just duel. He showed boldness and courage the equal of any knight of Bretonnia, never showing fear before his enemy, never faltering in his purpose, however great his injuries.”
“My son was murdered!” Earl Gaubert roared.
Resentment filled Leuthere’s heart, giving him the courage to raise his face and meet the irate gaze of his lord. “Sir Girars died the death of a knight,” he said, his voice stern. “Unhorsed, his arm broken, his enemy offering him quarter, Sir Girars refused to yield. He fought to the last with valour. If heart and conviction alone were enough to win a battle, he would stand before you now.” The knight’s voice became solemn. “But his enemy was better than he with lance and sword. There is no shame in falling before a worthy foe.”
Earl Gaubert sank back into his throne, his face livid. “A worthy foe? The du Maisnes are the scum of the earth! Ratfolk! Vermin! The lowest bitch in my kennel is more honourable than Count Ergon’s daemon-spawned assassin!”
Leuthere listened to the hate in the earl’s voice, saw the mindless fury that set upon his lord. The mania of the feud was strong upon him, causing the nerves in his maimed arm to writhe like the coils of a serpent.
“Have we not lost enough already fighting this senseless war?” Leuthere dared to ask. “Your father dead beneath the hooves of a du Maisne stallion, my father crushed by a du Maisne mace. Your sons and all the others dead upon du Maisne swords. Yourself crippled by a du Maisne lance. By the Lady, where will it end?”
Earl Gaubert’s mouth split in a hateful smile. “Where it must end!” he spat. “With the taint of du Maisne blood scoured from the realm or the last of the d’Elbiq line fallen in the attempt!” The nobleman lifted himself from his seat and pointed a trembling finger at Leuthere. “You should not have come back! You should have avenged my son! You should have returned with Armand’s head on a spike!” Furiously, the earl swept his hand through the air. “Be gone from my sight! Let me not see you again until the villain be slain!”
“I have seen Sir Armand fight,” Leuthere said. “My skill with the sword isn’t enough to overcome his. You send me to my death, my lord.”
A cold fanatical gleam entered Earl Gaubert’s eyes, a cunning curl twisted his smile. “If you are afraid, fall upon him in the night. Cut him down when he is asleep, strike at him from a dark alley, set upon him when he is bowed before a shrine. I care not how you do it, but bring me the swine’s head!”
Leuthere staggered back as though from a physical blow when he heard his uncle’s frenzied rant. He cast his eyes across the hall and saw that, noble and peasant alike, all within the high room were shocked by their lord’s scurrilous words. “I am a knight, not a murderer,” Leuthere protested.
Earl Gaubert slumped back into the chair, for the first time appreciating the magnitude of his outburst. “Leave me,” he sighed, sorrow beginning to rout fury from his face. “Leave me alone with my son.”
Leuthere led the exodus of servants and courtiers from the high room, leaving their lord alone with his grief. The knight lingered in the hallway beyond, casting one last look at the solemn earl before servants drew the heavy oak doors shut.
Mixed among the muffled sobs rising from Earl Gaubert, Leuthere thought he heard a word woven amid the weeping, a word that was spat out as though it were the most poisonous curse.
Not a word, a name.
Du Maisne.
A cool breeze rustled through the long grass, making the plain below the hill resemble a strange sea of green waves. The peasants of Aquitaine held that the ground of Ceren Field was tainted, cursed by the monstrous things that had spilled their rancid blood there. No lord had ever been able to get a peasant to work the land or bring his herds to pasture there. Even the tomb of Duke Galand, Aquitaine’s greatest hero, a knight who had sipped from the grail, failed to quiet the superstitions. Duke Galand’s tomb had been built that his holy spirit might watch over Ceren Field and sanctify it against any lingering evil.
Sir Armand saw nothing to be afraid of, felt only a sense of serenity and peace as he stared down at Duke Galand’s tomb from the larger cemetery atop the little hill. It was a broad mausoleum, its walls of white marble rising into a sharp archway above the heavy stone doors which sealed the entrance into the crypt within. Walls and doors alike were richly ornamented with carvings of the grail and the fleur-de-lys, sacred symbols to the knights of Bretonnia. Strands of ivy crawled across the tomb, their red flowers and green leaves forming a stark contrast to the cold, pristine stone. The knight could sense an aura of peace emanating from the hero’s grave, a comforting impression that seemed to tease the tension from his mind. He did not understand the peasant fears, finding the old battlefield a place of quiet solitude where a man could be alone with his thoughts and forget for a few hours the onerous burden of position, honour and family.
Armand sat upon one of the graves, listening to the wind writhing through the overgrown weeds. If Ceren Field was shunned, then the cemetery on the hill was absolutely forsaken. The narrow ranks of graves, the cromlechs of knights who had fallen in battle against the Red Duke, had been abandoned. No comforting hand had tended the graves, only the cruel attentions of wind and rain. Most of the headstones were just disfigured lumps of rock, any names upo
n them consigned to oblivion by the elements. Larger monuments had toppled, lying sprawled among the weeds like broken giants, whatever grace and beauty had once been theirs lost to history. Sometimes, the whirl of a fleur-de-lys or the cracked stem of a stone grail might be recognized upon the weather-beaten stones, stubbornly defying the corrosion that sought to destroy them.
One monument alone had withstood the ravages of time. A great column of white marble that towered above the graveyard. At its top was a bronze statue of a knight upon a rearing horse, the stallion’s long tail acting as a third support for the massive statue. The style of the knight’s armour was ornate and somewhat archaic, the visor of his helm lowered, obscuring his face. The knight’s right arm was raised high, a bare sword gripped in the statue’s hand. His other arm was locked about a huge kite shield. The shield was without device, instead bearing the names of battles, among them Lasheik and Magritta. The last battle written upon the shield was Ceren Field.
There was some enchantment upon the monument, some magic woven into its construction that allowed it to withstand the caprices of the elements. Armand could feel the strange vibrations exuding from the monument like a dull hum at the back of his head, an icy finger poking against his chest. It was a magic unlike the serenity of Duke Galand’s tomb, but it was magic of kindred purpose—to soothe and ease the tranquil repose of the dead.
Armand had first started coming to the cemetery when he was a young lad, hiding among the gravestones as he and his cousins played at war. The strange power of the place had impressed him then; it impressed him now. He had been given to forgetting his games and just sitting and staring at the marble monument for hours. It was a habit he still found himself susceptible to.
The Red Duke Page 4
