The Red Duke

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

  When he was finished, Renar drew a curved dagger from beneath his coat. Setting the edge of the blade against his palm, he directed his gaze at Earl Gaubert. “Do you understand the purpose of this ritual?” he asked, a note of demand in his tone.

  “I understand it will avenge my sons,” Earl Gaubert growled back. “Now be about your spell, warlock!”

  “This is the tomb of the Red Duke,” Renar told Earl Gaubert. “The greatest monster and the greatest swordsman to ever spill blood upon the soil of Aquitaine.” He smiled as he saw that revelation unsettle the arrogant nobleman. Like all knights, Earl Gaubert understood nothing of magic and had never imagined he would be brought to the resting place of the spirit he would have invoked. “This monument was erected to imprison the Red Duke’s spirit, enchanted by the magic of the prophetess. For nearly five hundred years the old magic has kept the essence of the Red Duke trapped inside this pillar of marble. That is the power we have set ourselves against, the power of the grail. It is what stands between you, my lord, and your vengeance.”

  Earl Gaubert looked at the ground, shame filling his heart. Renar had driven his words like a dagger into the earl’s heart, cutting to the last of his pretensions. If the nobleman thought he could call upon the black arts and remain true to his beliefs, remain a respectable knight of Bretonnia, Renar left him with no room for doubt. What he was calling upon were the forces of evil, the powers against which the Lady and the knights who served her were opposed.

  Even now, Earl Gaubert knew he could still turn back. He saw the entreaty on the faces of his companions, begging him to break faith with these villainous wretches and return to the chateau while they still had something left of their honour. Then the old hate came crawling back into his mind, the bitter spite that would be satisfied only with bloodshed.

  No need to fear the misgivings of his men. They were loyal knights who would die before defying the lord they had sworn their oaths to.

  “If the Lady will not grant me revenge,” Earl Gaubert said in a low voice, “then I shall treat with those gods who will.”

  Jacquetta smiled at the nobleman’s words. Renar greeted them with a grim nod.

  “Jacquetta’s magic will undo the wards placed upon the tomb,” Renar said. “Then I shall evoke the spirit of the Red Duke. His skill with the sword shall be drawn out, channelled into the receptacles prepared to receive such power.” Renar winced as he brought the blade of his dagger slicing across his palm. Blood dripped from his injured hand, trickling down his wrist. Cautiously, he held his hand above the silver goblets, allowing a few drops of his blood to fall upon the dark powder.

  Immediately, the powder began to boil as the blood struck it, bubbling and foaming with almost volcanic violence. The goblets began to fill with a stagnant crimson liquid, the magical fusion of Renar’s blood and the dark powder.

  “Evil begets evil,” Renar pronounced. “The blood of a necromancer and the ashes of a sorcerer. United they form a compact with the forces of Old Night and the Lord of the Black Pyramid. Through this tether to the netherworld, the power you seek will flow. Your bodies are weak, inured upon virtues and morality repugnant to the dark powers.” Renar tapped the blade of his dagger against the silver goblets. “This potion will rectify the balance and prepare you to receive the strength of the Red Duke.”

  Slowly, reluctantly, the three knights approached the altar. The symbolism of this profane rite was not lost upon them. It was a blasphemous mockery of the ultimate ambition of any knight, a foul parody of the grail quest. They stared in undisguised horror at the crimson filth slopping over the lip of each cup.

  “Drink,” Renar told them. The necromancer’s eyes narrowed with scorn as he saw them hesitate. “Drink,” he repeated, his voice a commanding snarl.

  Earl Gaubert seized his cup, bolting its obscene contents. The nobleman staggered back, struggling not to gag upon the vile stuff. One after the other, his companions followed his example, choking and coughing as the potion slithered down their throats.

  Jacquetta laughed openly as the last of the knights drank from the cups. She clapped her hands and her cloaked cult gathered about the altar, each taking a black candle into his left hand. The cultists began to chant, their voices raised in a repugnant cadence of obscenity and blasphemy.

  The witch herself took Renar’s place behind the altar, the necromancer retreating once again into the shadows. Cackling, she cast aside her cloak, exposing the pallid nakedness of her body. With an almost boneless sinuosity, she swayed before the monument, her voice raised in a semi-human howl.

  “I call upon the Fly Lord, Grandfather Nurgle of the Ten Thousand Poxes, raise forth your leprous hand!

  “I cry out to the Blood God, Great Khorne of the Ten Thousand Terrors, raise forth your bloody axe!

  “I implore the Wise Raven, Mighty Tzeentch of the Ten Thousand Lies, raise forth your feathered talon!

  “I beseech the Dark Serpent, Prince Slaanesh of the Ten Thousand Torments, raise forth your burning lash!

  “I command all the nameless powers and principalities, cast down this holy place! Rebuke the old enchantments and break the ancient wards! Erase the sacred signs and open the door that was shut!

  “By Zuvassin and Necoho and fiery Phraz-Etar do I compel the daemons of sky, earth and flame to heed my bidding! By the black name of Be’lakor do I command the ruin of this sacred place!”

  As Jacquetta’s voice rose to a shriek, a deep rumbling sounded within the hill. Headstones trembled, tombs shivered, the witch’s cultists were thrown to the ground. A peal of thunder crackled across the night sky, its echoes booming across the land.

  Earl Gaubert expected to see the marble column burst apart, to be cast down like a fallen tree. Instead, the monument stood as proud and tall as ever, defying the black magic that had been unleashed upon it. The nobleman cursed, his hand dropping to his sword. He had risked so much, made so many sacrifices, even suffered the indignity of drinking the necromancer’s abominable potion—all for nothing!

  As the earl drew his blade and stalked towards the shrieking witch, he did not notice the gilded sword fixed to the face of the column suddenly crack apart and crumble into the weeds.

  Sometimes, he would imagine he heard again the sound of hammers cracking against the walls of his prison, shrieking out in desperation to these mocking phantoms of memory, begging them for the release that would end his hunger.

  Then, into the eternal darkness there came light, a light black and terrible. He could feel the unholy energies rippling through the air, scorching him with daemonic claws, tearing at him with phantom knives. The pain was intoxicating, luxurious, invigorating. After the long centuries alone, his only sensation the insatiable hunger burning through his veins, even the agonies of hell were a pleasant respite.

  Slowly, he felt another change in the air. He could feel the ancient wards shattering beneath the hammers, evaporating into nothingness. The marble walls had become simply things of stone. The magic of Isabeau was gone.

  * * *

  Iselda awoke with a start, her hand clutching at her heart. Sweat drenched her body, her bed sheets coiled about her legs in a tight knot from the violent uneasiness of her slumber. She stared at the darkness of her room, almost afraid of what she might see staring back at her. The certainty that something evil and obscene was lying in wait became unbearable. Firmly she collected her thoughts, exerted her will and evoked a nimbus of icy blue light into being above her bed. The faerie light drove back the shadows, illuminating the wood-panel walls and richly tiled floor of the room. Nothing more menacing than her wardrobe and a heavy chair stood exposed by the light.

  Still, Iselda could not shrug off the sinister feeling that oppressed her. She felt like a doe that hears the unseen wolf stalking her through the forest. A terrible danger hung over Aquitaine, her premonitions had warned her of the lurking malignance. Now, however, her nightmares had become even more intense. She had seen a black crypt standing open and empty, the cas
ket inside ripped open. She had watched a red shadow rise from the tomb and stretch its hand across the land. Whatever the shadow touched withered and died, only to rise again as a decaying husk.

  She had seen the shadow grow more distinct, transforming into the figure of a pale man dressed in red armour. She had gazed upon the man’s face, seen the evil etched upon his features, the madness burning in his eyes. Then the man had seemed to notice her. His pale lips pulled back in a smile, exposing his sharp fangs…

  Iselda kicked her way free from the sheets and rose from her bed. She hurried across the cold floor, snatching a fur-trimmed gown from her wardrobe and tossing it about her shoulders. This was no hour to be tended by servants, even if Iselda was of a mind to tarry. The last of her dreams had possessed a sense of immediacy that brooked no delay. Something monstrous had happened, something that announced the beginning of the calamity she had been sensing for so long.

  The prophetess hurried along the dark halls of the tower, gliding along the galleries with all the noise of a ghost. She wanted to consult the reflecting pool, that basin of enchanted waters drawn from the Crystal Mere deep within the forest of the fay. The future could be seen within those waters, if one had the sight to see.

  The oracle chamber was situated at the very heart of the tower, many levels below that of Iselda’s private rooms, yet she reached the chamber in only a few minutes. The sense of immediacy she felt caused her to regret every second wasted hurtling down stairs or racing along halls. Every passing moment brought the menace nearer, she could feel that fact in her very bones.

  When she stepped into the oracle chamber, Iselda immediately shuddered. The room was absolutely frigid, so cold her breath turned to mist before her. Even in the dead of winter, the room could not be cold. Only the taint of black magic could leave such a chill in the air. Whispering a quiet invocation to the Lady, asking for her protection, Iselda cautiously approached the reflecting pool.

  What she saw made her cringe away in revulsion. The basin, shaped in the semblance of the grail, was cracked, the floor around it drenched. But it was not the enchanted waters of the Crystal Mere that stained the floor. By some occult force, the waters had become viscous and thick, darkening to the colour of blood. Despite the gory puddle around the basin, there was still enough within the pool to fill it nearly to the brim.

  Iselda could see things writhing in that basin of blood, maggot shapes that crawled and slithered with mindless life. There was something more though, something within the very depths of the pool. Only by ignoring the revulsion that wracked her body and the fear that clawed at her heart was she able to gaze down into the pool, to peer into its depths.

  She saw an image staring back at her, the hideous countenance from her dreams.

  Iselda knew now the menace she had sensed for so long. She knew the evil that loomed over Aquitaine, the evil that would besiege the Tower of Wizardry as it had once before.

  What the Prophetess Isabeau had feared throughout her long life, the dire warning she had passed down to her successors, had come to pass.

  The Red Duke was free!

  The face of the column split open, ancient masonry crashing to the ground. Earl Gaubert and the cultists watched in amazement as the crack spread, entire blocks of stone falling away from the monument, smashing to the ground with such violence that clouds of dust rose into the air. Jacquetta’s incantation trailed off, ending on a note of uncertainty. The witch backed away from the damaged column, crossing her arms defensively over her chest, fear beginning to crawl across her face.

  A jagged opening gradually appeared where the marble had broken away, exposing a black hollow within the monument. A stagnant gust of wind billowed from the lightless depths, its smell rank with the stench of death. Weeds turned yellow and brittle, withering before the stunned eyes of the onlookers. Jacquetta’s cult backed away from the monument, their twisted faces trembling with fear. Earl Gaubert made the sign of the grail as a feeling of unspeakable dread came over him.

  A tense silence settled upon the graveyard as the last of the crumbling blocks fell from the fissure. It was a menacing silence, pregnant with the promise of horror.

  The silence was broken as a gangling shadow burst from the hollow column, flinging itself upon Jacquetta with inhuman speed. The witch’s soft flesh was savaged by steely claws, her body trapped by the shrivelled arms that encircled her. She cried out as the withered, skull-like face of her attacker leered at her, desiccated lips pulling back to expose long sharp fangs.

  The vampire’s head darted forwards, his jaws locking about Jacquetta’s throat, worrying her flesh with the savagery of a starving dog. Bright blood streamed from the wound, coursing down the witch’s breast, staining her milky skin with the colour of death. She struggled to scream as the fangs slashed her veins, but all that escaped was a croaking whimper.

  The cultists took up Jacquetta’s scream, giving voice to the terror she could not express. The black-robed peasants and mutants scattered, fleeing in every direction, retreating into the labyrinthine darkness of the graveyard. Jacquetta reached out to them, imploring her faithless cult for help.

  The sight of a helpless woman begging an uncaring mob for aid was too much for Jehan. He had set aside many of his vows and virtues for the sake of his lord, but the knight would not ignore the obligations of chivalry. Grimly, he gripped his sword and lunged at the creature savaging Jacquetta.

  The vampire noted the knight’s approach, tearing his mouth from the wound on Jacquetta’s neck. The creature hissed wrathfully at the man, his face shrivelled and pale where it was not smeared with the witch’s blood. Angrily, he threw the dying witch aside, flinging her across the altar with such force that her spine broke upon impact with the stone obstruction.

  Jehan received a good look at his foe for the first time. The vampire’s body was withered, but from its desiccated husk there was fastened the armour of a Bretonnian lord, armour stained as red as the blood smearing the creature’s fangs. A thick-bladed sword hung from a chain about the vampire’s waist, the golden pommel cast in the semblance of a grinning skull.

  In a blur of steel, the vampire drew his blade, springing towards the knight with bestial fury. Contemptuously, he swatted aside Jehan’s guard, crumpling the edge of the man’s blade with the superhuman power of his blow. Jehan reeled, staggered by the violence and suddenness of the attack. The monster allowed him no quarter. The serrated blade he held licked out, smashing through the knight’s arm, slashing the chainmail as though it were cheesecloth. Blood bubbled up from the mangled flesh beneath the armour.

  Snarling, howling like a beast of the wilds, the Red Duke fell upon the wounded Jehan. The powerful warrior was crushed by the vampire’s clutch, held as helpless as the witch had been while undead fangs tore at his mangled arm. Struggling, kicking, screaming for help, the knight could do nothing as the vampire engorged himself upon the man’s lifeblood.

  It was a drained, lifeless husk the Red Duke let fall to the ground minutes later. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, licking the blood from his fingers, savouring the intoxicating tang of fear trapped within the sanguine liquid. After so many centuries, there was nothing like the taste.

  He would never suffer such privation again, the vampire promised himself. He would gorge himself, fatten himself, stuff himself until the hunger was sated, until he was acquitted of the long centuries of starvation and torment.

  The Red Duke bared his fangs in a ravenous snarl. There was more blood nearby, he could smell it coursing through terrified hearts, thundering through shivering veins.

  All of it would be his, a feast of blood to drown the years of deprivation and agony. Not a man, not a woman, not a child would leave the graveyard. Peasant or noble, they were people no longer, but cattle to be tracked down and slaughtered. Fodder for their dread liege, the Red Duke, rightful master of Aquitaine.

  Earl Gaubert had fled along with the rest, dragging Aldric with him. The nobleman’s heart pound
ed with terror as he blundered through the maze-like darkness, uncaring of direction so long as his steps took him away from the monument and the monster his madness had set free.

  Yes, the earl admitted, it was his fault, the responsibility was his alone. In his insane lust for revenge he had allowed himself to treat with the forces of darkness and the unholy powers had betrayed him. Instead of evoking the Red Duke’s spirit, instead of stealing from that spectre its skill with the blade, Jacquetta and Renar had resurrected the vampire himself in all his terrible glory. Earl Gaubert felt his skin crawl as he remembered the sight of the undead gorging himself upon Jacquetta’s blood, of the vampire tossing about one of his bravest and boldest knights as though he were a child.

  “My lord, we must hurry,” Aldric advised him when the crippled nobleman’s endurance faltered and he leaned upon the cold back of a headstone. There was fear upon the knight’s face, only his sense of duty and obligation kept him by the old man’s side.

  Screams rippled through the night, obscene cries of agony that pierced the very stars with their horror. The vampire was hunting the members of Jacquetta’s cult, stalking them among the tombs, battening upon their diseased blood.

  Earl Gaubert crumpled beside the headstone, the strength deserting his legs. He covered his face with his hand, tears falling from his eyes. What had he done? What kind of monster had he set loose? The enormity of his shame turned his stomach and he retched into the weeds.

  “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!”