The Red Duke

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

  Lifting his hand, the vampire motioned his army to halt. He ran an armoured thumb along his cheek as he considered the defences that had been prepared to destroy him. He remembered the destruction of the Arabyans and how it had been brought about. Hateful flames blazed in the Red Duke’s eyes as inspiration came upon him. He would turn King Louis’ poorly chosen strategy against him. The jaws of the trap would sit unsprung, the chivalrous bait would be drawn out to act as the vampire’s shield.

  Ghastly laughter hissed through the Red Duke’s fangs as he summoned his captains to him and told them what they must do.

  Sir Leuthere watched as the undead horde came onwards. The knight made a quiet prayer of thanksgiving to the Lady. For long minutes, the undead had stood frozen in place at the edge of Ceren Field, exciting a despair in the breasts of every man. Doubt crept into each mind, the fear that the Red Duke would withdraw without pressing his attack. There would be no better ground upon which to face the vampire, no better place to crush the mighty undead horde.

  As Leuthere saw the skeletons and zombies surge into motion again, he felt such relief that he was oblivious to the horror of the situation for the moment. Then the awfulness came screaming back into his body, sending goose pimples along his arms. The stink of death and unholy magic, the hideous aspect of thousands of corpses stalking the land, the clatter of fleshless bones against rusted armour and the profane chants of the undead druids. This was different than fighting a mortal foe, of riding forth to battle orcs or to slay an ogre. This was like making war against the one foe no man could ever overcome: Death itself.

  Warmth and peace flowed back into the knight’s body and Leuthere was thankful for the caress of Iselda’s white magic. He had need of her power to sustain his courage. They all did. Duty and obligation could only drive a man so far before his very flesh rebelled against him. Even the onerous burden of his family shame was not enough to steel his heart against the terrifying aspect of the Red Duke’s warhost. It needed more than mortal courage to stand before the legions of the dead.

  High over the battlefield, Duke Gilon could be seen, the pegasus Fulminer circling above the Aquitainian positions. Coloured flags fluttered from the duke’s hand, strips of white that signified the knights were to hold their ground. A complex series of signals had been arranged by the duke with his generals, allowing him to exploit his fantastic steed to his best advantage. The view from the sky gave Duke Gilon an unparalleled appreciation of the battlefield. He could see events develop much more rapidly than the commanders on the ground. Advance warning of the undead tactics would be essential if the Bretonnians were to carry the day.

  “Duke Gilon makes a great sacrifice,” Count Ergon observed, his voice ringing with admiration. “He chooses to lead his army instead of provoking the contest he so greatly desires. With Fulminer, he could strike into the heart of the undead horde and cross swords with the vampire.”

  “My father may yet do just such a thing,” Sir Richemont said. “But he will not risk the outcome of the battle to confront our enemy.”

  Leuthere shook his head, not understanding. “If Duke Gilon can kill the Red Duke, the vampire’s army will be broken. Iselda has stressed that fact in every war council.”

  Richemont fixed Leuthere with a reproving glower. “And if my father should fail? If he should be cut down by the Red Duke deep within the enemy lines? We would lose the benefit of his command and the vantage Fulminer’s wings gives him. We would be fighting like blind men.” Richemont clenched his teeth, all the colour rising in his face. “Worse, my father knows his careful strategy would be lost. We would rush upon the undead in a reckless charge, determined to recover his body from the vampire’s vile hands. There would be no more thought given to victory. Only revenge.”

  Overhead, Duke Gilon displayed yellow flags, waving them from right to left. These were commands to the bowmen on the hills, motioning them to adopt new positions. Suddenly the duke’s flags fell still. Then, in a frantic gesture, the white flags appeared again. Duke Gilon waved them in a frenzy, the effect striking the watching knights and their commanders like a fierce shout, an imploring demand for the knights to hold their ground.

  “Duke Gilon seems to think it is urgent we stay here,” Count Ergon said.

  “It is almost as though he fears we will disobey his orders,” Leuthere agreed.

  Richemont’s expression became troubled with doubt. “Something is wrong, that much is obvious. But why does he think we would…”

  As he spoke, the ducal heir had risen in the stirrups of his saddle, peering across the field at the advancing skeletons. Like the Bretonnians, they marched with their cavalry to the fore, a solid wall of equine bones and rusted barding, skull-faced riders grinning at their distant foes. It seemed to Richemont that the Red Duke was behaving exactly as his father had hoped, walking right into the trap prepared for him. Then there was a flurry of motion within the lines of the undead. Ghastly figures rose above the marching skeletons.

  “Good Lady preserve us!” Richemont gasped in horror as he beheld the obscenity.

  The knights of Aquitaine knew they had left the bodies of fallen comrades behind them at the Morceaux. They had resigned themselves to the fact that the vampire would have performed his abominable magic upon the corpses, that in this battle they would likely face the reanimated husks of dead friends and kinsmen. This horror the men had accepted, steeling their hearts against crossing swords with their former comrades.

  The abomination they now witnessed was more hideous than any they could have imagined. The Red Duke had indeed worked his filthy magic upon their dead comrades, but they did not march with his unholy army. Instead, they were raised above them, impaled upon great poles, carried aloft like ghastly standards. As if the corpses of knights being subjected to such barbarous and obscene treatment was not enough, the Red Duke had inflicted another atrocity.

  Like the body of Earl Gaubert, the Red Duke had animated the impaled corpses of his foes. They writhed and twitched upon their stakes like insects skewered on a pin.

  Shrieks of outrage and hate welled up from the ranks of the knights as they recognized some of the tortured corpses. Overhead, Duke Gilon’s signals became more frantic. A volley of arrows streaked overhead, the bowmen shooting at the undead even though they were still out of range. It was a last, desperate effort by the duke to remind his soldiers of the plan and the trap and their role in it.

  The reminder was not enough to stem the fury that now gripped the knights. A few cool-headed captains were not enough to enforce the order to hold their ground.

  Richemont’s fist tightened about his lance. More than any of the men around him, he felt the shame of leaving the bodies behind. Shame became rage and a determination to make the Red Duke pay for this obscenity. Richemont was a dishonoured man, and his pride would only be restored when he saw the vampire’s head spitted on a spike above the gates of Castle Aquitaine.

  “A cask of gold and a blade of silver to the man who brings me that monster’s black heart in his hand!” Richemont shouted. Count Ergon made a grab for the ducal heir’s reins, trying to prevent what would come next. It was a last effort to save Duke Gilon’s battleplan, and it was doomed to failure.

  “For Aquitaine! For the Lady!” Richemont fairly screamed as he led the charge against the undead.

  The Red Duke’s cold smile had a suggestion of amusement about it as he watched the Aquitainians mount their charge. They had acted just as he had predicted. Just like Mehmed-bey’s troops, they were rushing headlong to their own destruction. The vampire might have been moved to pity them, if that emotion had been more than just an empty word to him.

  The knights were doomed as soon as they put spurs to their horses. On the hills, the bowmen were frantically trying to reposition themselves, trying to out race the galloping warhorses and put themselves in a position where they could shoot into the undead before their lines were hopelessly confused with those of the charging knights.

 
Although he thought little of the archers’ chances to outrun charging cavalry, the Red Duke decided to ensure the bowmen wouldn’t get the chance to loose arrows into his horde. Exerting his black will, the vampire set the great flocks of blood bats swooping down at the peasants. Great swarms of leather-winged rodents descended upon the men, at once breaking their dash along the hills.

  Hissing his cruel laughter, the Red Duke returned his attention to the charging knights. They made an awesome spectacle, proud and noble, a peerless fusion of man and steed into a single, deadly whole. The vampire felt bitter resentment as he turned his eyes from the magnificent sight of Aquitaine’s knights and stared across the decaying mass of his own cavalry. Spiteful hate boiled up inside him. If he could not lead men such as those who now rode against him, then he would obliterate their kind from the face of the earth.

  “Half-march,” the Red Duke snarled. At his command, the skeletal horsemen and black knights pulled back on the reins of their grisly mounts. As the cavalry slowed, ranks of skeleton infantry crept forwards between the closely packed horsemen. Now hurtling towards his army at a full charge, the vampire doubted if his foes would notice the reduced pace of the undead. Even if they did, the Bretonnians could never halt their attack in time.

  The Red Duke grinned, licking his fangs in bloodthirsty anticipation as the knights thundered across Ceren Field. He gave a mocking salute with his golden sword to the frantic King Louis, still circling the battlefield overhead. He could imagine the terror surging through his little brother’s heart as he watched his army rushing to embrace its own ruin.

  Snarling in sadistic anticipation, the Red Duke returned his eyes to the charging enemy. He could see their bright surcoats and ornate helmets now, could smell the blood pounding in their veins. The vampire trembled with excitement, picturing the slaughter to come.

  At fifty yards, the Red Duke gave the command. “Spearmen forward.”

  The Aquitainians would have only a second to appreciate that theirs was no longer the only trap on Ceren Field.

  After that second, they would be much too busy dying to care why.

  Across Ceren Field, the knights charged, oaths of vengeance falling from their lips, prayers to the Lady ringing in their ears. Sir Leuthere could see the grimly silent ranks of the Red Duke’s cavalry arrayed before them. Every moment, he expected the skeletal riders to spring into motion, to sally forth and meet the coming attack. Each time his destrier’s hooves smashed against the earth, he expected the undead to surge forwards.

  Closer and closer the knights were drawn and still there came no reaction from the Red Duke’s army. Not a single arrow, not a single outcry, only the deathly silence of the grave.

  Then Leuthere saw them, marching out from between the Red Duke’s undead cavalry. Hundreds of skeletons armed with long spears of oak as thick around as the stakes upon which the zombies twitched and writhed. The skeletons took five steps, then dropped into a crouch, planting the butt of the spears into the earth and bracing it with their bony knees. In only a few moments, a jagged fence of corroded iron and bronze spikes girded the enemy’s position. To Leuthere, it looked like nothing less than the jaws of some great beast opening to devour the warriors of Aquitaine.

  There was no time to turn the charge, the momentum of the horses was already committed. The only reduction was in the readiness of the men who sat in the saddles. Lances were raised, shields were lowered as the knights instinctively tried to halt their headlong drive into the Red Duke’s spears.

  A deafening roar, like the death-cry of a mountain, boomed across Ceren Field as the knights smashed into the undead. Men screamed, horses shrieked as spears stabbed into their flesh and their own momentum spitted them upon the weapons. The same furious momentum drove the dying warhorses onwards, crushing the brittle skeletons that bore the spears, scattering their splintered bones in a wave of destruction.

  Onwards the charge was driven, the hooves of the destriers smashing all in their path. The fence of spears was obliterated, the skeletal skirmishers pulverized. At the same time, wounded Bretonnians were crushed into the blood-spattered soil by the remorseless tide of their own comrades, their screams lost in the chaos of battle.

  The undead cavalry held before the surging knights, using shield and sword to defend against the Aquitainians. The Red Duke’s spearmen had not stopped the attack. They had done something worse. They had broken the cohesion of the Bretonnian knights and blunted the impetus of their assault. Instead of smashing through the undead line and reforming on the other side, the knights were caught in a quagmire of individual fights. The men no longer fought as a group, but as lone warriors filled with a furious sense of outrage tempered by an equal measure of mortal terror.

  Leuthere smashed his lance full into the face of a leering wight, watching as the creature’s jawbone shattered and sprayed rotten teeth at him. He brought the broken lance back around, plunging it through the skeletal horseman’s chest, letting the weight of the heavy mass of wood and iron drag the grisly creature from its saddle. The wight toppled to the ground, snapping one of its legs as it struck. For an instant, the creature tried to rise, then the plunging hooves of Leuthere’s horse cracked down upon its spine and the monster moved no more.

  Beside him, Count Ergon fought with the madness of a daemon. Sweeping his sword left-handed, the nobleman hacked down skeletons with ferocious abandon. Leuthere knew the count’s purpose. Battle had been joined. Now there was nothing to hold him back. He would carve his way through the entire undead legion if need be to come to grips with the Red Duke and exact revenge for his slaughtered family.

  Leuthere ground his teeth together. He could not allow Count Ergon to cheat him of his only chance to atone for his uncle’s evil. If Count Ergon struck down the vampire, the only chance to restore the honour of the d’Elbiqs would be lost.

  “Vigor!” Leuthere cried out. Another of the undead horsemen pressed against the knight, forcing him to focus upon fending off its lethargic swordarm and the corded bronze blade it held. The crook-backed peasant rushed forwards, forcing his timid steed into the face of the mounted skeleton. Vigor’s mace crashed against the fleshless skull, tearing it from the spindly neck.

  “Vigor!” Leuthere shouted again, gesturing with his sword towards Count Ergon. “Stay close to the count! Don’t let him reach the Red Duke! I must be the one to destroy the vampire! It is the only way to make amends for the shame Earl Gaubert has brought upon us!”

  The peasant nodded grimly. Leuthere felt his gorge rise when he saw Vigor grasp the dagger thrust beneath the belt the peasant wore. Every chivalrous bone in his body railed against the idea, but the despair in his heart was enough to silence his misgivings. “Don’t kill him,” was the only remonstration he gave Vigor as the peasant urged his steed after Count Ergon.

  Lady forgive him, but he could not risk Count Ergon destroying the Red Duke!

  Sir Richemont’s horse faltered beneath him. A proud and noble beast, the destrier had refused to accept its pending death, plunging on into the undead lines with two spears piercing its body. The knight wept as the valiant animal stumbled and its legs buckled beneath it. The warhorse threw back its head, neighing loudly, as though railing against the weakness that prevented it from wreaking further havoc upon the enemy.

  The destrier kept itself upright long enough for Richemont to clear the saddle, then crashed down upon its side, blood streaming from its many wounds. The knight stared down sadly at his dying steed and saluted the horse’s fierce spirit with his raised sword.

  Around him, Richemont had cleared a great circle in the ranks of the undead. Splintered and broken skeletons were strewn everywhere, some of them still struggling to move with broken arms and shattered legs. A few fellow knights, veterans bearing the fleur-de-lys upon their surcoats, stood by the dismounted heir, using their great two-handed swords to hold back the undead as they began to close the gap.

  Richemont cursed his foolishness. He had led these men into battle
with no more thought than that of an angry child. He had spoiled his father’s carefully laid plan. The Red Duke would have no need to run the gauntlet of Ceren Field now. The vampire could happily massacre the knights on his own terms and never expose his own horde to the bowmen on the hills.

  Guilt fuelled Richemont’s anger still further. There was no way to undo what had been done, but there was still a chance to break the Red Duke’s army. If they could fight their way clear to the undead commanders and destroy them, the rest of the horde would be vanquished. Almost lethargic in their movement, there was a good chance of exploiting any gap in their lines. Despite their greater numbers, the undead were too slow to stop brave and determined men.

  Richemont slashed his sword across the legs of a skeletal horse as it galloped towards him, spilling beast and rider to the ground. As the skeleton knight started to rise from the tangled wreckage of its steed, Richemont’s blade severed its spine, leaving the bisected creature writhing in the dirt.

  Richemont thrust his sword into the earth and removed his helmet to wipe the sweat from his eyes. It was an awkward manoeuvre, made more complicated by the use of only one hand. The broken wreck of his left arm was curled behind the padded interior of an over-sized jousting shield tied against his chest. The knight grimaced as he remembered the awful strength of the vampire he had fought at the bridge. He felt a tremor of fear as he considered that the creature he now sought was that which the dark knight called master.

  Yet he had to try. Richemont prayed to the Lady for the courage to face his foe. Through the ranks of the undead, he could see the gleam of the vampire’s crimson armour, stark and blazing against the decay all around it. The Red Duke himself, commanding his undead horde as they cut down the knights of Aquitaine. Only a few hundred yards were between Richemont and the monster. A few hundred yards, and a few hundred undead corpses that existed only to destroy the living.