The Count of the Living Death (The Chronicles of Hildigrim Blackbeard)

by Joshua Grasso

  A twinkle of light in the distance. She had ignored it at first, but shielding her hand from the sunlight, she focused on something bright--like a cross. Stumbling across the sand she found a sword buried in the sand. Bone white. She grasped the handle and pulled it cleanly out of the earth. It swished sharply through the air, large but surprisingly agile. A single blow...I could do that. I have at least that in me. And then it would be over.

  She walked over to Leopold, sword in hand, heart pounding in every nerve. The world seemed to spin recklessly beneath her. She had to do this quickly; she wouldn't retain consciousness for a second blow.

  "Mary! It's me! Come to your senses! It's me!"

  "I'm sorry..."

  "Mary, listen! What can I...no, wait! Mary!

  She raised the sword above her head, judging the blow. It looked sharp enough.

  "Mary!"

  "No!"

  "Mary--342! Do you remember 342!"

  She stopped cold.

  "What?"

  "342! Our sign, remember?"

  342. Once, when they were dancing, a conceited gentleman--twice her age, no less--interrupted them and demanded the next three dances. He had ancestors that went back to the Black Regime; his castle dated from 342! He said it over and over again like a mantra: "the stones are from 342! And that's nothing to sneeze at! 342!" So whenever they met Leopold made some silly reference to his hat--or his boots--or his mustache--as being from 342. She treasured those numbers, even scratching them in a tree where no one could see it. It became her way of saying what she could never confess privately to him.

  She dropped the sword and collapsed by his side, heaving and choking. Once she recovered, she cradled his head in her arms, shaking from her cold-blooded resolve to kill him. And she had come so close!

  "I don't understand...is this really you?" she wept.

  "Yۀ="+0">&qes, didn't you know? Can't you see the difference! He's nothing like me!"

  "No, he's not...but he is you. When he talks, the way he moves, it's all you. There were moments, of course...but I love you, every bit of you, I can't make distinctions."

  "As long as you didn’t kiss him," he muttered.

  She hastily dug him out, pulling him out of the sand and amazed to see everything whole and intact. It had done nothing to him, simply tucked him out of the way where no one would find him. Mary took him greedily in her arms and kissed him. Yes, now there was no confusion: it was him, the warmth, the life; her entire body hummed with recognition.

  "You're here--you're alive! I thought I had lost you."

  "I thought I had lost myself. But I knew you would find me."

  In fits and starts she filled him in on recent events, though he didn't quite follow it all, especially the part about a riddle and a dragon? She tried but couldn't repeat it, her narrative interrupted by tears and peals of laughter.

  "And he's there? He doesn't know?"

  "No, we left him sleeping. All he ever does is sleep. I thought you were sick—even dying. Now I see he can’t exist without you.”

  “And he won’t exist for long once I find him. So how do we get out?”

  "Oh...well, I suppose…we just call him?”

  She shouted Blackbeard’s name several times, the sound of it swallowed up by the roar of the ocean. Leopold joined in, too, but found no response. Where were they? Or perhaps he couldn’t hear them at all; perhaps only his Death knew the proper way out. Far from being upset, Mary found comfort in the thought of being trapped here with him, for ages perhaps, beyond the reach of her father or anyone else unpleasant.

  “So we’re stuck?” he said, somewhat alarmed.

  “They’ll find a way. We won’t be here for long. So we have to take advantage of what little time remains.”

  “Advantage? But what could we do here? There’s nothing—”

  “How little imagination you have,” she laughed, pulling him close.

  Leopold suddenly saw the virtues of their imprisonment.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  The soldiers had entered the castle: they could be heard throughout the halls and stairwells. Shހouts and startled cries; breaking glass and thunderous footfalls; entire rooms were being turned upside-down. Blackbeard dashed through the room, looking under scattered debris for something he could use--ah, there it was! A small cracked mirror became, after a hastily muttered spell, a looking glass into the entire castle. Images of soldiers plundering bedrooms flickered to life. There was Lucas, too, seized by the soldiers; he was yelling something at the top of his lungs--indistinct in the mirror--but Blackbeard made it out to be "run, Count Leopold, they're coming!" A new image showed soldiers overturning the count's bed--with him in it--while a young boy entered the room. The boy, despite his age, seemed to run the entire operation. He waved a paper in Leopold's face and circled his finger in the air. What this all meant escaped the sorcerer, but clearly he was being arrested.

  "What can we do? We can't let them take him!" Ivan said.

  "This is terrible news," he scowled, pacing the floor. "I could try to stop them, but Mary...we've left her alone too long as it is."

  "Then do something!”

  Blackbeard closed his eyes and cast a powerful spell: two misty hands appeared over his head, rapidly increasing in size and solidity. With a final swish of his hand he cast them into the box. Eyes still closed, he waved his arms through the air, like a puppeteer trying to coax his unwilling players to life. Seconds passed into minutes; his brow furrowed, his arms raced, but nothing came out of the box.

  "Well?" Ivan prompted.

  "Shhh!" the sorcerer replied, arms swinging.

  "Nothing?"

  "I'm...yes, having some difficulty locating her," he groaned.

  "Then I'm going in!"

  "Fool! You'd never come out again! This is the only way."

  "And what about her? What's it doing to her?"

  "I can't see exactly."

  "And we're standing here doing nothing?"

  "It's not that simple--"

  "It is for me. Out of my way!"

  With that Ivan took a flying leap into the box.

  "Ivan, no!” Blackbeard cried, before dropping his arms in vain.

  Ivan thought he was drowning as the water swallowed him up, only to spit him out—quite dry—on the seashore. He couldn't believe it. It had created an entire world in the box, a world as far from nightmare as he could imagine. A gentle rain fell over him, broken up by patches of sun through the clouds. A faint rainbow even shimmered across the horizon. And this was prison? If Leopold's Death had been trapped here for a hundred years he would consider the sentence light. There were certainly worse prisons on earth (and he knew--he had been in the worst!).

  "Mary!" he shouted, running along the beach. "Mary! Where are you?"

  Nothing. He scanned the horizon, but the sand seemed to run endlessly in every direction. There was nowhere to go or hide, no tracks against the unblemished surface. They had simply been swallowed up. Unless...

  He dove into the ocean, fearing it had taken her down--drowned her among the dark reaches where no one would find her. The ocean was a crystal clear, radiant blue. Schools of fish in every color swam past, undisturbed by his presence. And just beyond--yes!--he saw something. Two figures struggling amidst the ruins of an ancient temple. It had to be them! One was clearly a man, and he was seizing her--perhaps strangling the very life out of her body! Ivan swam as hard as he could, his lungs burning, desperate for breath. Not yet--just a little more--

  Mary's eyes widened as she saw him. She pointed at him and said, with absolute clarity, "it's Ivan!"

  Leopold turned to see, but Ivan crashed into him, hands reaching for his throat. Yet Ivan had little strength remaining; he was easily tossed off and sank helplessly to the ocean floor. Mary ran to his side, picking him up and saying "Ivan, you're killing yourself--take a breath! We can breathe here!" At first Ivan didn't believe her, fearing she had been bewitched by the Death. But clearly they were both br
eathing, talking, and acting as if the water lacked any substance. He took a breath—suffering an overwhelming seizure of wide-eyed panic--and exhaled.

  "I'm—I'm breathing!"

  "It's not water, silly! It's a totally imaginary world. You can even fly if you wanted!"

  Ivan jumped to his feet, ready to strike at the impostor who smiled at him with open arms.

  "Ivan! You're here! How wonderful!"

  "Who the devil do you think you are? You tried to kill him!"

  "No, no, Ivan, it's not him!” she cautioned. “Or rather, it is him! This is Leopold!"

  "He is? Then why was he attacking you? Trying to kill you!"

  They both laughed, Mary with a bit of a blush, and muttered, "killing me? Ah, we weren't fighting exactly..."

  "But you were! I saw--"

  "I hope you didn’t see toon’t se much!” she giggled. “But honestly, I’m perfectly safe, though I appreciate your heroics.”

  "You mean—you wanted to be here, in the depths of the ocean, where no one could possibly find—"

  And there was his answer. He stammered with incredible embarrassment while the smiling couple joined hands. What a foolish mistake, though perhaps he smarted less from his foolishness than the glow in Mary's eyes. But how—how could this be Leopold? He had just spoken with him!

  "That's him—or it's him—or whatever we should call that creature," Mary explained. "It took his form and left Leopold in the box. That's why it's so sleepy; it’s never been in our world before. It doesn’t know how to live!”

  "Leopold...this is you? My brother?"

  Leopold nodded and embraced him. Ivan tried to whisper he was sorry but the words wouldn't come out. He felt like a double fool: a fool for failing him and a fool for thinking himself worthy of such a woman. And yet he still couldn't convince himself that she was beyond his reach, that he could live the rest of his life without her.

  "Our father judged right in exiling me," he said. "I've betrayed you."

  "And where was I to help you?" Leopold scoffed. "This is powerful magic we face here--even Blackbeard admits it. We're just men, you and I, stumbling along as best we can. But now we're together again. This time we'll defeat it."

  "I wish I could share your optimism," Ivan said, shaking his head. "Things are worse than you think; as we speak, soldiers are ransacking your castle."

  "Oh! My father's men?" Mary gasped.

  "No, soldiers of the king—looking for Leopold. Because of my escape."

  "Ah, I suppose we didn't go about that too discreetly, did we?" the Count laughed. "But where is--"

  "They're taking him away--they think he's you, of course. Even if we could kill him, we'd have to fight our way through hundreds of soldiers."

  "What is Blackbeard doing?"

  "Not much, if you ask me. That’s why I’m here.”

  "Then let's go, quickly!" Mary said, shaking them both.

  "Perhaps he can find us if we surface," Ivan said.

  "Ivan, wait," Leopold said, catching his hand. "Thank you for not abandoning me. I do have something to give you...in return."

  "Ye"+0">&qus, yes, enough chatter--time for reunions later!" Mary urged, pushing him along.

  Ivan caught a strange look in the count's eyes. A gift? Or something worse?

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Blackbeard held his breath as he hid behind the chest. The soldiers stormed clumsily through the armory, knocking over some tables, muttering impatiently.

  "Nothing here. Just some chest."

  "Should we take it?"

  "Nah. Take five of us. But we could take a look…”

  The soldiers opened the lid and fell deathly silent. Before them was a vision of paradise: they lacked words to describe or wits to understand the contents of the box. Both of them leaned in, smelling the windy, salty vapors of the sea...at which point Blackbeard leaped up and pushed them headlong into the chest. Neither screamed; they just vanished and were never heard from again. Blackbeard removed a spyglass from his cloak and peered inside. Squinting and twisting about he verified the presence of three figures, one of which—he was fairly certain of it—was Mary herself. He invoked the magic hands and thrust them inside; moments later, Mary, Ivan, and something resembling Leopold were hoisted out. Blackbeard stepped back, fearing the Death had returned more powerful than ever. Indeed, he was about the lob the deadliest spell in his arsenal when Mary seized his arm and began chattering in rapid-fire sentences.

  "What do you mean, this is Leopold?" he asked, cutting through her explanations. "We left Leopold upstairs!"

  "I tell you this is him--who else should know it but me? I knew something was wrong with the other one, we both knew something was wrong, even aside from its sleeping—who can sleep through dragon's breath? It bewitched them both and came out of the box as Leopold. That's his Death running about--the one they captured!" she said, in a single breath.

  "It's true," Ivan nodded. "It makes sense. Why I don't remember anything. It wasn't killed."

  Blackbeard almost fell backwards, but a table the soldiers had pushed aside stopped him. Impossible. A Death that had come...to life? The most complex spell of his career had become even more baffling. Cooped up all those long years, it had formed a will, a mind of its own; it had created an entire world simply to exercise its imagination. Perhaps it had even fallen in love--as much as it could understand love--with the object of the Count's affections. And now the soldiers had it. His Death was under arrest, to face a tribunal and likely deportation (or worse). They had to intervene, find some way to explain without getting deported or executed themselves!

  "Blackbeard...something troubles me," Leopold said.

  "Only one thing?" the sorcerer muttered.

  "The most important thing: am I alive? Obviously, yes, I'm here speaking with you...but can I be alive without my Death? Or is this...death?"

  "I'm afraid that's a question for a philosopher, not a magician," he said, frowning. "However, I can assure you that for all practical purposes, you are very much alive, even without your Death. Unfortu怅*nately, so is he. But we need to get him back. He will be tried. It won't go well for him, I fear."

  "Why not just let him be sentenced?" Mary offered. "Why should we risk our lives to save him? Let him be deported, imprisoned; how is that any different from being in the box?"

  "Because he couldn't escape from the box," Blackbeard said, closing it gently. "Outside of the box, no ship, prison, or shackles can hold him. He will be a menace to the world...and he will return to find us. You will never be safe."

  "But why? Why harm us?" she exclaimed, close to tears. "He got what he wanted—life. Killing Leopold won't change that."

  "But Mary, he wants my life—and everything in it," Leopold said, holding her. "Remember, he wanted you from the beginning. He only knows what I know; he only knows that I love you."

  "But can't he see that I could never love him? That he could never be you?"

  "But he almost was. You wanted to believe him."

  "I know...I’m sorry."

  "It’s not your fault. But that’s why it wants to live. It knows that we love this," he said, stroking her face, "but doesn't understand the rest."

  "I fear it understands far more than we ever expected," Blackbeard interrupted, replacing the locks. "Do you still have the sword?"

  "Right here," Ivan said, picking it up.

  "Good. We only know two things for certain: one, we have to kill it. Otherwise it will most certainly kill you."

  "And the second?" Leopold prompted.

  "I’ll tell you when we get there…”

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Prisoner #45601, officially known as "Leopold, Count of Cinquefoil." Arrested for his role in the escape of the notorious prisoner #33918, also known as "Ivan the Terrible," real name "Ivan Liadov," though questionably related to the house of Cinquefoil itself. The prisoner has been interrogated and made to undergo certain "compliance measures" to reveal the current location of Pr
isoner #33918. Surprisingly, the prisoner does not respond to any of the traditional techniques: the rack, submersion, and nail pulling were all abandoned out of sheer fatigue. The prisoner insists he knows nothing of the whereabouts of Prisoner #33918 and has refused to say a single word since his arrest. Threats of further torture and immediate execution received little more than a grin. How to proceed?

  Philip put down his quill and stared out the window. Truly, it was the most vexing arrest of his career, and if he didn't solve it before the King found out, it might be his last. He had no wish to end his meteoric rise through the ranks of criminal justice at the age of 11. He had so much more to accomplish! Ever since his father had allowed him to carry the prison keys at 3, he knew he was destined for greatness. Through sheer talent and a single-minded ability to bribe, blackmail, and back-stab, Philip had become the true power behind the Dungeons (pity about his father's heart attack...no one had expected him to die so soon...other than Philip, that is). So what would they say if the Count, a pampered nobleman, resisted all his methods of persuasion? They would call him openly what they called him in private: "the little boy."

  And who was he, this Count of Cinquefoil? Outwardly, he seemed soft, cowardly, incompetent. Certainly not the greatest criminal mastermind in a hundred years, able to look death squarely in the face without blinking. Of course, he was the one responsible for breaking Ivan out in the first place (which added to his humiliation--he still couldn't explain how he did it). Already, the soldiers were talking: they admired his bravado; they hoped he continued to hold out. They even called him "Count" rather than Prisoner #45601. Philip suspected they were only half-heartedly trying to break him, holding back on the screws, applying slightly less pressure to his eyelids and toes.

  Philip could see no way around it. Torture and intimidation was all he knew. Reason he scorned as unreliable, especially as the criminals were typically smarter than he was. But no one could outwit an Iron Maiden. He was desperate now, and might have to risk mortally wounding the blackguard to extract his information. Sometimes, toys had to be broken when they wouldn't follow the rules.