“I think you’ve bought us at least a day, maybe two,” Leuthere corrected him. He pointed to the far side of the river. The Red Duke and a few ghastly skeletons wearing the tatters of ancient druid robes were prowling among the slaughtered ghouls, lingering over each body. The vampire and his liches gestured with their claws above the face of each ghoul, muttering some vile incantation which the observers could not hear. As the monsters performed their necromancy, the corpses began to twitch and rise, fresh zombies to join the decaying ranks of the Red Duke’s infantry.
“It will take them time to raise all the dead left on the far shore,” Leuthere continued. “And they will need to recover after invoking such dark powers.”
“The hours of darkness will bolster their vitality,” Count Ergon said. “We’ve seen as much during our pursuit of the Red Duke. I think we can depend on only a single day’s respite. When the sun falls, the vampire’s army will again be on the march.”
Richemont digested the words of the two knights, the men who had the most firsthand experience with the Red Duke. Reluctantly, he accepted the wisdom of their council. “My father’s allies will not reach Ceren Field in time then,” he said. “It was in my mind to fight a holding action here, to cut down the undead as they emerge from the river. We could destroy many of them, but to what end? We would only squander our strength here. Eventually sheer numbers would confound our valour and drive us from the field. In triumph, the Red Duke would simply raise his vanquished slaves and add to them our own noble dead.”
Richemont cast his gaze again at the crimson figure of the Red Duke, feeling the malignant evil rising from the vampire’s body. “Duke Gilon will need every sword he can get when this fiend is across the river.” Turning away from the river, Richemont shouted to his captains to muster their commands and begin the withdrawal.
“He is coming,” Sir Richemont reported to his father. The Duke of Aquitaine had established his command tent upon the hill overlooking Ceren Field, right beside the cemetery where it had all began. Whether the placement of his headquarters would prove poetic justice or cruel irony, only the outcome of the coming battle would tell.
“He is coming and in numbers even greater than we feared,” Richemont continued. “We must consider that to his existing forces he will add those who were killed fighting to hold the bridge against his vanguard.”
Duke Gilon shook his head, saddened by the thought that men who had died valiantly defending his domain should now be enslaved by the vampire. He could not fault Richemont’s decision to leave the bodies, however. It would have cost more lives to recover them and, as his son had correctly said, Duke Gilon needed every able-bodied man he could get.
“We’ve taken precautions against any further depredations by the Red Duke,” Duke Gilon said, his voice hard as steel. He gestured to the opening of his tent. In the brisk coolness of the morning, gangs of peasants could be seen labouring throughout the old cemetery. They were a motley collection of elderly men, haggard women and malnourished children, scarcely the most able-bodied work crew Aquitaine had ever seen. These were the peasants deemed too weak to take up arms against the vampire and his horde. Instead, Duke Gilon had found another way for these people to help defend their land.
With shovel and hammer, the peasants were breaking open the tombs. Noble and commoner, no grave was left inviolate. Every corpse was pulled out into the sun, dragged to the great bonfire which blazed at the heart of the graveyard. Grail damsels and priests of Morr conducted rites over the bodies as they were cast into the flames, begging the forgiveness of the dead and the understanding of the gods for the sacrilege necessity had forced upon them.
“All across Aquitaine, in every hamlet and thorpe, the same scene is being played out. Everywhere my messengers could reach has been given the order to burn their dead,” Duke Gilon said. His eyes dropped and a red flush of shame spread over his face. “Even the crypts of Castle Aquitaine have been broken open. I would rather the bones of our forefathers were rendered into ash than that their bodies should be violated by the Red Duke’s sorcery. Only the tomb of Duke Galand has been left unbroken. The prophetess worries that if the tomb is disturbed then Duke Galand’s spirit will depart and with it, the Lady’s blessing. All other graves must be destroyed.”
The assembled generals of Aquitaine nodded in sombre support of Duke Gilon’s desperate act. They knew how hard it had been for their liege to make such a decision and the terrible burden it placed upon his personal honour.
“We must stop him here!” Duke Gilon snarled, pounding his fist against the oak table.
“Victory or defeat, we must keep our hearts firm and our heads cool,” Iselda scolded him. The prophetess rose from the velvet-trimmed chair in which she sat and cast her gaze across the assembled knights. “Do not rely upon the Red Duke to walk slavishly into our trap, as Sir Richemont did at the river. In life he was the greatest of King Louis’ warlords. You must be ready for the vampire’s trickery.”
“Cannot our prophetess foretell the monster’s battleplan?” Sir Roget demanded, speaking the impious thought that was on every knight’s mind.
Iselda looked sternly at the old knight until he turned away from her. “The Red Duke’s madness is his shield against my powers. From present to past, his insanity leads him down paths only he can see. Leading him back to Ceren Field is in itself a small triumph, but whether it will bring final victory, only the Lady herself could say.”
As she spoke the last, Iselda turned her eyes upon Sir Leuthere and Count Ergon. The old enemies stood side-by-side now, united by their quest to destroy a still greater foe. Yet she could sense the tension still lurking beneath the surface, the suspicion and resentment engendered by the ancient feud.
“We must stay true to our purpose and never forget that we fight not only for Aquitaine, but for the Lady,” Iselda said, keeping her eyes on the two knights whose destinies offered her the only substantial link to the vampire’s future. No, not the only one, she reflected with a shudder. There was another possibility—one that had haunted her ever since the vampire was set loose. A possibility that promised her own doom.
Duke Gilon drew his sword, laying the blade across the table. “My steel shall be sheathed no more unless it be in the vampire’s black heart,” he vowed. His words brought protests from his assembled nobles. Angrily, he brushed aside their objections, shouting them down. “Am I Duke of Aquitaine?” he growled. “Or has that monster already assumed my authority? It is my land this fiend despoils!”
“But you must not risk yourself, your grace,” insisted one of the barons from the winelands. “You are the heart of Aquitaine. Without you, who is there to guide us?”
“Without victory over this monster, there is no Aquitaine!” Duke Gilon snapped back. “Do you expect me to hide up here, watching as others light for my lands! No, far better to die on the battlefield than know such shame! I may be an old man, but there is at least one more fight left in me!”
“Then I will fight too,” Richemont announced. The young knight’s broken arm was tied against his chest, encircled by stout wooden splints. Even the oldest of Aquitaine’s nobles had never seen such a thoroughly shattered arm. Many of them thought the limb would eventually mortify and need to be amputated, though they were too wise to speak of such to Duke Gilon. The idea that Richemont would ride into battle with such an injury was one that struck them as morbidly absurd.
Duke Gilon did not share their sentiment. He could see the determination on his son’s face. Tears of admiration rolled down his cheeks that he should sire a man with such courage and conviction. “You will command the left flank,” he told Richemont. “Be my shield, my son. And if today sees the end of our line, then let it be an ending that shall live on after us in ballad and chanson.”
Richemont bowed his head in gratitude for the honour his father paid him. Turning away from Duke Gilon, he addressed Leuthere and Count Ergon. “I know your hearts are stout and your valour great. I will not comman
d you to ride at my side, but if you will consent to follow me into battle, I promise you will find no lack of work for your swords.”
Leuthere knelt before the ducal heir. “My lord, it is my honour to serve you in whatever way I am able.”
Count Ergon was less effusive in his acceptance of Richemont’s request. “If it gets me close to the Red Duke, I’ll ride with you into the maw of Chaos.”
The beacon lights burning from castle towers announced the advance of the Red Duke’s army long before the first scouts returned to the Bretonnian camp. The undead were still marching towards Ceren Field and thus far were acting in accordance to Iselda’s prediction and Duke Gilon’s hope. How long they could count upon the vampire’s delusion to work in their favour, none of the Aquitainians wanted to consider.
As the brightness of day began to fade, as sinister black clouds swelled from nothingness to choke the sky, the Bretonnians took their positions upon the field. A sense of dread coursed through each man’s heart as he considered the immense power of the Red Duke’s magic, the power to turn day into night and to smother the sun itself with his evil. Courage faltered in the face of such a display of supernatural might.
Even as fear began to take root, a blazing brilliance erupted from the centre of the field. The tomb of Duke Galand was engulfed in a warm white radiance that seemed to reach out to each man, filling him with a sense of peace and serenity. Iselda stood before the tomb, a slender branch of yew clutched in her dainty hand. As the prophetess waved the branch before the door of the tomb, the radiance grew even more brilliant, spreading out to encompass the whole of the field and bring comfort to the bowmen mustered upon the flanking hills.
The knights of Aquitaine took to the centre of the field, awaiting the coming of the foe, the pennants fixed to their lances snapping in the wind, the banners of their households forming a riotous array of colour and heraldry. Some distance behind them came their men-at-arms, spears and halberds at the ready. The peasant-soldiers would exploit any gaps in the enemy line caused by the charge of the knights, making it impossible for the enemy to reform ranks after their assault. In the event the knights were forced to retreat, the men-at-arms would form a defensive bulwark and prevent the cavalry from being overrun by the pursuing enemy.
On the left flank of the main block of knights was a second gathering of cavalry composed of the surviving knights errant and questing knights who had taken part in the battle at the bridge. Their numbers were swollen by large groups of mounted squires and yeomen, unarmoured horse-troops drawn from the households of Aquitaine’s noble lords.
Sir Leuthere and Count Ergon took their positions behind Sir Richemont’s mighty destrier. With them was Vigor, the crook-backed peasant overjoyed to take part in the battle, determined to atone for his own guilt by taking the fight directly to the Red Duke’s unholy warriors.
Upon each of the flanking hills hundreds of bowmen moved into position. The vantage points chosen for them presented a great field of fire for their longbows. Before the vampire’s army could come to grips with the defenders of Aquitaine, they would be forced to cross four hundred yards of punishment from the archers on the hills.
Duke Gilon strode from his campaign tent and buckled his helmet to his head, the golden crown of Aquitaine shining above the hinged visor. Sternly he crossed to the covered stable his servants had erected beside the tent. Looking like the oversized hutch of some monstrous hare, the strange stable had been hastily constructed to hold Duke Gilon’s favourite steed.
The duke’s grooms emerged from the stable leading a magnificent creature. At first glance, the beast looked like a mighty destrier, larger even than the warhorses of Richemont and the other knights. Snowy white in colour, the great horse was clothed in a colourful caparison of red and blue. Upon its head, the animal wore a winged crown of gold that matched the crest of Duke Gilon’s helm. Fierce, intelligent eyes gleamed from behind the silk mask the steed wore, betraying a wisdom greater than that of any common horse.
This steed was Fulminer, and as it emerged from the hutch-like stable, it spread the great pinions attached to its shoulders and removed any doubt that it was but a common horse. Twenty-foot wings folded outwards, fluttering as Fulminer eased the stiffness from its limbs. The great feathered wings, of a barred white and brown colour, fanned the air in a bold display of strength and power.
Duke Gilon stroked the muzzle of the pegasus, greeting the creature like an old friend. Fulminer had been a gift from the Duke of Parravon, given to him when the pegasus had been a foal. No more valiant or noble steed was to be found in all Aquitaine.
The current ordeal, however, would test the courage of both knight and steed. Duke Gilon’s intention was to circle above the battlefield, to seek out and find the Red Duke himself. Once he was certain of reaching the vampire, he would descend upon the fiend from the sky.
With the Red Duke destroyed, the vampire’s army would crumble away. At least such was the account of the first Battle of Ceren Field.
Now, Duke Gilon would put the legend to the test.
If the Lady was merciful, the old tales would be proven true.
As Fulminer took to the sky, Duke Gilon was afforded a more complete view of Ceren Field than any of his generals could hope for. He could see his troops moving into position. It sent a thrill of pride through him to see the fine discipline of even the peasants as they set their minds to the labour of war. The white light of Galand’s tomb cast brilliant reflections from the armour worn by the Bretonnian knights, making the entire battlefield shine like a tapestry woven from stars.
The growing confidence in Duke Gilon’s breast faltered as Fulminer whinnied anxiously. He turned his flying steed about, watching as a cloud of giant bats swarmed towards the battlefield, their bodies bloated with blood. Beneath the flocks of bats marched a seemingly numberless horde of skeletons and zombies. Duke Gilon could make out the Red Duke’s abominable cavalry leading the way, not a scrap of flesh to be found on either riders or steeds. They were a vile mockery of knighthood, wasted husks of chivalry stolen from their graves and enslaved by the black sorcery of a merciless monster.
Soon, their profane existence would be ended. Duke Gilon felt some of his confidence return as he watched the undead lumber out onto the field. For all his vaunted tactical prowess, the Red Duke was behaving exactly as he had against King Louis. In only a matter of moments, the archers would begin loosing volleys of arrows into the rotten horde. Before the vampire could reach the centre of the field where Aquitaine’s knights awaited him, half his army would be destroyed.
By the Lady, the salvation of Aquitaine would soon be realised!
CHAPTER XVIII
Mehmed-bey’s cavalry came charging down the narrow neck of the wadi, pursuing the crusader horsemen as they retreated. Mad with hate, arrogant with pride, the Arabyan knights came pouring down the valley like a flood of steel and fury. These were the terrors of the desert, the warriors who had kept a land twice the size of Bretonnia beneath the cruel fist of Sultan Jaffar. They would not suffer the insult paid to them by this miserable little company of infidel cowards!
And upon the hills, hidden beneath cloaks coloured to match the sands, El Syf’s bedouin scouts watched as Mehmed-bey’s great army plunged headlong into the duke’s trap. Once the siphais were far enough into the wadi, enclosed upon each side by the rocky cliffs, once the numberless horde of Mehmed’s mamelukes and janissaries were choking the mouth of the wadi and cutting off all chance for escape, the scouts sprang into action. One after another, the vengeful bedouins placed horns to their lips and blew a single note.
Behind the dunes, hidden from sight, rank upon rank of Bretonnian bowmen drew back their strings and loosed volley after volley into the wadi. The iron-tipped arrows fell upon the Arabyan cavalry in a withering hail, piercing armour and flesh and hone. The arrogant charge of the siphais disintegrated into a panicked route, and still the arrows came. Broken and bloodied, the heavy cavalry turned to escape the punis
hment of the unseen archers, trampling their own infantry in their desperate attempt to flee.
With the great horde of Mehmed-bey falling into confusion, the scouts blew a second call upon their horns. The volleys of arrows suddenly stopped. In their place came the thunder of hooves. Hundreds of crusading knights charged into the wadi, striking like a burning spear through the disordered ranks of the Arabyan army.
At the head of the crusaders rode the Duke of Aquitaine, El Syf, his golden sword striking out at the panicked Arabyans. He cut through the enemy, slaughtering them by their dozens, unstoppable as a desert sandstorm. Always his eyes remained fixed on the banner of the Black Lizard, the flag of Mehmed the Butcher.
There could be no victory this day unless Mehmed-bey was dead. El Syf kissed his sword and vowed to the Lady that he would not leave the field unless it was with the head of his enemy hanging from his saddle.
The Red Duke’s cold lips pulled back in a sardonic smile as he observed the disposition of the king’s forces. He saw in the Bretonnian battleline the echo of the tactics he himself had employed to work the ruin of Mehmed-bey. The cavalry offered as tempting bait, the bowmen arrayed to either flank to act as the deadly jaws of the trap.
The vampire sneered at the crudity of his enemy. His brother would have known, of course, how Mehmed-bey had been defeated. He himself had instructed the king in the strategy used against the Arabyans. It was insulting to find the ploy so crudely and poorly executed here. He found it even more audacious than the fact the king thought he could use one of the vampire’s own strategies against him. It was further proof, if the Red Duke needed any, of the perfidy of the Lady that the goddess should consider such an inept fool worthy of drinking from the grail. He would take great delight in defiling her shrines and massacring her damsels when this battle was over.
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