The Red Duke

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

  A surge of raw fury blazed through El Syf’s body as he saw the orc warlord throw back his head and heard the beast’s bellowing laughter echo over the battlefield. For a knight of Bretonnia to die in such a manner was insult enough, for him to be killed by such inhuman vermin after surviving an entire crusade against a mighty enemy was tragic. For the man’s killer to mock his death was unendurable.

  Before he was aware of what he was doing, the duke threw back the heavy blankets. Despite the long months of sickness and immobility, he felt strength pouring through his limbs, a raw power like nothing he had ever known. He did not charge the orc warlord, he covered the dozen yards between them in a single bound, pouncing on the monster like a springing panther.

  The orc’s beady red eyes widened with shock, his lanternlike jaw fell open to gawp in amazement as the sickly duke attacked him. The orc’s amazement became disbelief as El Syf’s fist smashed into his face, cracking his iron-capped tusk and splitting his leathery lip. With a bellow of rage, the orc warlord drew his arm back, intending to cut the crazed human in half with one sweep of his oversized blade.

  Twenty-pounds of butchering iron slashed down at El Syf, propelled by the ox-like strength of the orc’s arm. The threatened blow was such that would cleave through an armoured warhorse, much less a man whose only protection was a thin woollen shift.

  For the second time, the warlord blinked in wonder, but this time there was fear crawling into his eyes. The monstrous blade had failed to cleave his enemy in half. It had failed to even touch the man. It had failed because the duke had latched onto the orc’s fist with his hand and arrested the sweep of the blade. The orc grunted in horror as the duke began prying his fingers from the hilt of his own sword, a feat that even the orc’s primitive brain understood was impossible!

  Bellowing in fright-fuelled fury, the orc drove his fist at the duke. The human released the warlord’s arm and ducked beneath the knobby mass of leathery flesh. The warlord’s freed arm swung around, slashing a deep furrow across the knuckles of his other hand. Unbalanced, the warlord staggered backwards.

  The duke rushed upon the reeling monster. Like some beast of the dark jungle, he pounced upon the orc, driving his knee into the brute’s belly, forcing him downwards as the wind was driven out of him in an agonized gasp. Before the warlord could react, El Syf seized the orc’s lower jaw in his clawed fingers.

  A gargled scream rasped across the battlefield as, with a single pull, the Duke of Aquitaine ripped the orc’s jaw from his face.

  Green blood sprayed from the monster’s mutilated face, raw terror filled the red eyes. The warlord threw down his oversized sword, casting aside his brutish bravado as pure fear consumed his brain. The orc turned to his heels, his only thought being to flee this crazed human who fought with the strength of a daemon.

  The orc took only a few steps before the duke leapt onto his back, straddling his midsection with his legs. The warlord pawed at the man, trying to rip him off, but the duke defied his efforts. Coldly, Elf Syf gripped either side of the orc’s thick skull. With a savage twist, the duke broke the monster’s neck.

  The warlord took a few more steps, then his massive body slammed into the stony ground, twitching as death slowly stole upon it. The duke disengaged himself from the carcass. He peered through dazed eyes at the battlefield. Men and orcs alike had stopped fighting so they could watch the feral battle between warlord and nobleman. Men and orcs alike gazed upon him with expressions of dread and awe.

  The orcs gave voice to a cacophony of disillusioned yells, scattering as they fled from this gruesome man who had slaughtered their leader with his bare hands. The monsters abandoned weapons and plunder in their fear, kicking and punching each other as they fled, none wanting to be left behind to share their warlord’s fate.

  The duke’s vassals were slow to approach their lord. Fear was in their faces, a frightened doubt that claimed even Earl Durand. El Syf could guess their thoughts. They wondered if some dread spirit had claimed the body of their master, some malign entity that would set upon them with the same brutality it had the orc.

  They were right to fear.

  El Syf looked down upon his hands, hands coated in the orc’s greasy blood. He felt a terrible longing burning inside him, a loathsome hunger that thundered inside his brain. Shivering, he began to raise his hand towards his face. He fought against the compulsion, revolting against the hideous impulse that would have him lick the filth from his fingers.

  The duke’s will won out. Uttering a sharp cry of pain, he fell to the earth, the awful hunger retreating unsated into the black corridors of unconsciousness.

  The last thing he heard was Durand’s voice urging his retainers to help their stricken lord.

  Again, the Duke of Aquitaine prayed his loyal vassal would leave him to die.

  Then the nightmare would be over.

  The sickly light of Morrslieb cast eerie shadows upon the land. The air had a dead quality about it, heavy and smothering like the folds of a burial shroud. Through the darkness, the rustle of leather wings and the titter of hunting bats made a sinister accompaniment to the low, guttural chanting of the man who crouched upon the barren earth.

  The Red Duke stood beside Renar as the necromancer practised his grisly craft, feeding the mortal the dark power needed to fuel his black magic. The vampire felt his strength being drawn from him, leeched from his body by Renar’s parasitic spell.

  The Red Duke stared out into the darkness. Arrayed behind him was his army, the skeletons and zombies scavenged from a hundred peasant villages, the ghouls and wights from the catacombs of the Crac de Sang, the black knights from the Chapel Sereine. The vampire scowled as he considered his loathsome legion. They would not be enough, not when the current king brought his army to Aquitaine. He needed more, he needed a force that would crush any living army the Bretonnians could bring against him. Only then could he make the land pay for all it had taken from him. Only then could he build his Kingdom of Blood.

  Immense hills surrounded the Red Duke’s army, grassy mounds raised by the primitive horse lords to honour their fallen dead. The ancient barrows were a source of strength the Red Duke had not dared to exploit when he had fought against King Louis. Now he knew better. He knew there could be no limits to his ambition and what he would do to achieve it. If the bones of Giles Le Breton were lying before him, he would call upon them to rise and march under his banner!

  Renar’s incantation ended upon a snarled epithet, a name so ancient and foul it made even a vampire shudder. He could feel an electric charge in the air, a chill seeping into the atmosphere, drawn from a realm beyond the aether. The Red Duke peered anxiously at the mounds, waiting for the necromancer’s spell to loose the ancient dead.

  For long minutes, there was only silence. Renar glanced nervously at his master, frightened by what the Red Duke would do to him if the spell had failed. The vampire gave no notice to Renar’s anxiety. He could feel the change, smell the power in the air, the profane energy being drawn into the cold earth, drawn to the things buried beneath.

  There came a distant patter, the soft sound of pebbles shifting and dirt trickling through grass. The Red Duke followed the noise, his face splitting in a fierce grin.

  From one of the mounds, a steady stream of soil was rolling down one side, pushed up by the efforts of something digging its way through the side of the barrow. Soon the trickle became a cascade of dirt, rock and grass as dozens of holes began to appear in the face of the mound. A knobby grey stone pushed its way into the feeble moonlight, dirt clinging to its surface, roots draped about its sides. As the stone was thrust higher, it revealed itself to be a thing of bone, the calcified shell of a skull.

  Skeletal talons soon followed the skull, gripping the edges of the hole, straining to pull the rest of the fleshless body free from the barrow. The rotted remains of a harness of bronze scales enclosed the wight’s ribs, a cleaver-like falchion swung from its waist, fastened to its body by a rusty iron chain. />
  The Red Duke beckoned to the ancient horse lord. The wight’s skull rotated upon its neck with a sharp click, the witchfires smouldering in the sockets of its leering face fixing upon the vampire. Slowly, with the awkward stiffness of a thing two thousand years in its grave, the wight strode towards the Red Duke, dirt and weeds dripping from it as it walked. Other wights followed the first, forming a regiment of the ancient dead.

  Renar flinched, cringing away as two hundred resurrected horse lords marched towards him. The necromancer darted behind the imposing bulk of El Morzillo, cowering in the shadow of the spectral warhorse.

  The Red Duke remained unmoved, immobile, as the sinister procession of reanimated skeletons advanced upon him. The vampire lifted his hand, motioning for the hoary revenants to stop. As though composed of a single body, the entire regiment came to a halt, their glowing eyes staring expectantly at their new master.

  “Now,” the Red Duke hissed, gazing out across the ranks of undead warriors, “my revenge begins.” He closed his armoured hand into a fist, the plates grinding against each other as the vampire exerted his hideous strength in a display of rage.

  “First the usurper Duke Gilon,” he snarled. “Then the king and all who pray to the treacherous Lady!”

  “It seems Duke Gilon got your message,” Sir Leuthere told Count Ergon.

  The knights had just crested the vine-covered hills overlooking Castle Aquitaine. Behind them, riding ponies and leading the massive warhorses, Vigor and the Prophetess Iselda brought up the rear of their small procession. It had taken three days of hard travel to reach Duke Gilon’s castle. They had not dared to tarry in their journey to draw supplies and remounts from the castles they passed. There was no saying how much time they had to stop the Red Duke. Worse, there was no saying where the vampire’s madness would send his undead legions next. Every castle they passed might already have fallen to the Red Duke and be held by his skeleton warriors as a bastion against the living.

  Despite Iselda’s assurances that she had seen Duke Gilon assembling his army in her reflecting pool, the two knights felt better seeing the muster for themselves. It was an impressive force, a gathering of knights such as neither of the men had ever seen before. Even the most opulent tournaments paled beside the numbers of warriors gathered in the fields beyond the village of Aquitaine. Every speck of open ground seemed to have sprouted a tent or pavilion, the brightly coloured pennants of dozens of noble houses snapping in the wind. Coats of arms emblazoned with the heraldry of a hundred families shone from shields and surcoats arrayed upon wooden stands outside the tents. Destriers of every colour and pattern marched anxiously about in a thousand improvised stalls and stables, their bold spirits aroused by the smell of war.

  If he had not seen the Red Duke’s army for himself, Leuthere would have said nothing could stand against so vast a gathering of knights. But he had seen the vampire’s legions, the hideous horde of walking corpses that knew neither fear nor fatigue. What could even this mighty host do against such a foe?

  “You must be brave and not allow your spirit to falter,” Iselda said, riding up beside him atop the hill.

  Leuthere shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. He didn’t like to think that Iselda would use her magic to read his thoughts, though he knew such a thing would be simple for a woman endowed with the magic of the Lady.

  Iselda smiled in apology to him. “I must know the minds of the men who would defend the land,” she said. She turned in the saddle, sweeping her gaze to include Count Ergon. “More than anyone, it is you who must stand resolute before the Red Duke’s evil. For in you burns the only hope of destroying him.” A haunted look crept into her eyes, a troubled frown crossing her face. She glanced at the two knights, not quite hiding the worry in her gaze.

  Count Ergon patted the hilt of his sword. “The monster will die,” he vowed. “For what he has already done as much as for what he would still do.”

  “Do not allow revenge to overcome your honour,” Iselda chastised the nobleman. “Without a pure heart, you will not prevail. Vengeance is a contagion of the soul.” She peered at Leuthere, studying him intently. “The lust for glory is no better,” she warned.

  The prophetess’ words surprised Leuthere, hurting him more deeply than he thought mere words could. His was a noble purpose, the quest to atone for what his uncle had done, to redeem the honour of the d’Elbiqs. There was no shame in such a pursuit. Certainly it was no vainglorious enterprise, a thing built upon a foundation of pride and arrogance.

  Iselda continued to look at him. Subtly, she glanced aside at Count Ergon. Leuthere at once guessed her meaning. He still hadn’t told the nobleman why the Red Duke had attacked the Chateau du Maisne and killed his household.

  Leuthere shook his head, casting his eyes downward. No, there were some things he would not discuss. Not with a du Maisne. Too much depended on them now for them to fall out over the feud. Certainly there was no reason to let du Maisne know of the great shame that tarnished the d’Elbiqs.

  Iselda’s expression became stern. She gestured to the towers of Castle Aquitaine. “We should hurry,” she said, casting one last disapproving glance at Sir Leuthere. “Duke Gilon is meeting with his generals as we speak. It would be best if we had words with him before they have turned his ear with their own strategies and tactics.

  “After all, we know the enemy better than the duke’s generals,” Iselda said, still looking at Leuthere.

  “There is no mistake. Our enemy is the Red Duke himself, not some pretender to his horrors. He intends to conquer all Aquitaine and remake it into his own Kingdom of Blood.” Iselda’s voice echoed through the great stone hall, reverberating off the cavernous walls, ringing off the ancient armour and tarnished shields arrayed throughout the immense chamber.

  The men sitting around the huge oak table in the middle of the room had been a bickering mass of egos before the entrance of the prophetess. Now they were silent, attentive, and subdued. They hung off her every word as though it were holy in itself. Barons and counts, earls and marquis, even Duke Gilon himself, the men set aside their own authority to hear the wisdom offered by this servant of the Lady.

  “The Red Duke has already ravaged much of the north country. Entire villages have been slaughtered, their graveyards plundered for recruits to swell the ranks of the vampire’s army.” Iselda paused, locking eyes with Duke Gilon. “He plans even worse horrors, your grace. Even now, the Red Duke marches to the barrows of the horse lords to stir the ancient dead from their tombs.”

  “If he should reach Dragon’s Hill…” muttered Sir Roget, the old knight’s face turning pale.

  Iselda nodded grimly. “There are thousands of ancient warriors buried inside Dragon’s Hill. With these marching under his banner, the Red Duke will have an army to threaten all of Bretonnia.”

  “The king has been made aware of our peril,” Duke Gilon said. He looked to have aged ten years since the day he had cast Sir Leuthere from his presence, his features drawn and haggard, his eyes dark with fatigue. A nervous tremor tugged at his left cheek, causing half his face to twitch sporadically. “It will take time for the king to raise an army, time for word to reach the other dukedoms. Until then, we have only Sir Richemont and those who rode with him from Couronne.”

  The duke indicated the knight sitting at his right hand. Sir Richemont favoured his father’s looks, though not his father’s dour humour. Richemont fairly exuded an excited energy, his martial spirit eager to cross blades with so formidable an enemy. Like all young knights, he was impatient to earn his name and to heap glory upon his family.

  “If the Red Duke tarries among the barrows, he gives us time to prepare our campaign against him,” Richemont said. “A single knight is worth a dozen of his walking skeletons. Let the vampire call his bags of bones to battle. Every hour he delays his attack is another hour the king’s army grows.”

  “You do not appreciate the scope of his army,” Count Ergon warned, rising from his chair. “I have s
een it for myself. Already the Red Duke’s legion outnumbers us. If he can plunder the graves of the horse lords, he will have a force great enough to smash even this muster like a flea. It will not be a question of twelve to one, it will be fifty, a hundred to one against us!”

  “And do not forget, my lord,” Leuthere said. “While our army must provision itself and rest between battles, the Red Duke’s horde is driven by nothing more than the vampire’s evil. They need neither food nor sleep nor shelter. They can maintain the attack until every man in Aquitaine lies dead.”

  Duke Gilon slammed his mailed fist against the heavy oak table, drawing all eyes to him. “The vampire must be kept from reaching Dragon’s Hill,” he declared. “We cannot allow his army to grow any more vast than it already is.”

  “Fine and good, your grace,” objected a bewigged baron from the wine country, “but how do we stop him? It will take days to decamp the troops here and intercept the Red Duke. We’d have to leave behind the foot soldiers and the baggage train. The only supplies we could take would be whatever could fit across a saddle.”

  Duke Gilon slumped back in his chair, his cheek twitching as he considered the logistical problem. “Supplies could be floated down river,” he proposed, then shook his head. “No, that would require gathering enough barges to carry everything and we simply don’t have them.”

  “My lords,” Iselda addressed the generals. “There is another way. If we can divert the Red Duke from his purpose, make him abandon his plan to violate the barrows of his own accord…”

  “Why would the vampire do such a thing?” Richemont asked. “By all accounts he was a masterful strategist when he was alive. Becoming one of the undead may have made him evil, but I think it is too much to hope that it has made him stupid as well.”