They wheeled out the Iron Maiden. Basically a sarcophagus fitted with razor sharp nails, the Iron Maiden was typically reserved for mindless torture when information was no longer an issue. Everyone broke on the Iron Maiden; prisoners conjured up secrets they scarcely even knew they kept. If a prisoner survived the Maiden's embrace he was no longer, so to speak, a human being. Survivors tended to drool and sob hysterically for the rest of their lives--which typically ended in a matter of hours. Not so Prisoner #45601. They strapped him in, set the nails in place, and slammed the lid; no screams, no cries for mercy. They waited several minutes before peeking inside. The Count was unmolested. No gaping wounds or pools of blood; on the contrary, the ingrate had fallen asleep! Philip kicked the nearest guard and displayed a worldly knowledge of unprintable oaths. He would break! Within the hour! He would wrest the knowledge from his broken corpse if necessary--but it would be found!
But the guards refused to follow Philip's instructions. They came to the unshakable conclusion that Prisoner #45601 was either a vampire or a devil; even the name ‘Satan’ was bandied about. Philip took the interrogation into his own hands, but try as he might, the prisoner remained obstinately asleep. When he finally came to, it wasn't from pain or the application of brute force; he simply yawned and asked for a chamber pot (it had been hours since his last urination).
"Confound you and your chamber pot!" Philip shouted, stomping his foot.
With a shrug of his eyebrows, the prisoner urinated on the floor. Philip felt the slightest twinge of admiration for his boldness. Truly, he had no fear ofad no fe death. But why? What did he know that the rest of them didn't?
"Listen...your death is certain now, there can be no reprieve. However, I can offer you the lesser of two evils. You death can be swift, painless...or it can be slow and protracted over many, many days."
The prisoner locked eyes with Philip, much as one would notice a fly circling one’s head.
"Very well; I offer you the same bargain," he said.
"You dare?" the boy gasped. "What could you possibly do--"
"Little fool, I am death!" he shouted. "I can kill you all with a wave of my arm. All of you—everyone in this room!—you're dead already!"
The remaining guards shrieked and ran for cover. Only Philip stood his ground...though a small, hidden part of him began to tremble. As if to make his point, the prisoner broke free of the wall and ripped off his shackles. Philip stumbled backwards, ice-cold fear gripping his heart. All warmth seemed to trickle down his leg; quite literally, as the puddle beneath him attested.
"You want information? You want that bastard, Ivan? Very well, I'll give you both—for a price! It's true I don't know where he is, but I know how to find him. You can have him—and the real Count Leopold—and that devil of a sorcerer Hildigrim Blackbeard! But the girl is mine. As long as I get her I'll spare your miserable lives. Cross me in any respect and see what happens!"
"What...what do you want?" Philip sobbed.
"Stage my execution. Make it public, announce it throughout the city. A ceremonial hanging."
"But...a hanging? But you said...you can't...why would we--"
"To bring them here, you worm! They won't let me die, they need me. Once they learn of my execution they'll come running...right into your trap. But the girl—she's mine, remember."
"What girl? We only seek the prisoner."
"Then we understand each other. Now go bring me new clothes. And something to drink."
Philip and the guards scampered off to fulfill his request. He watched them go, like rabbits, frightened of their own shadows. All humans wanted to do was kill, torture, and destroy their brethren. They wielded death like a crude toy, mistaking its sublime power for their own magnificence. He wanted nothing more to do with death and those who worshiped it. Mankind had everything they needed without that. To have love and a lifetime to enjoy it: that was a power that defied even death. They were fools, all of them; they didn't deserve the riches that lay scattered at their feet. No matter, he would scoop it all up for himself.
He stifled a yawn. Already hin. Alreas lids were drooping, threatening to roll out of their sockets. Wake up, idiot--you've slept enough! By the gods, if these humans could drag themselves around for 12 to 14 hours a day, then he could sleepwalk through the next 6. It was a small price to pay to have her. Besides, he could see the wheels moving behind the little one's eyes; terrified as he was, he would never let them leave. Obviously many people would have to die before it was all over.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Blackbeard found a way to smuggle them into the city, though every soldier had specific orders: neutralize suspicious activity. Coaches were stopped and searched. Strange people were brought into makeshift tents and interrogated. The news had spread that Leopold, Count of Cinquefoil, was to be publicly executed at noon in St. Stanislav Square. Naturally everyone whispered that someone would rescue him…or perhaps a last-minute reprieve by the king. Surely a Count of the realm couldn't be executed so cavalierly, whatever his crimes...which, strangely enough, had not been released to the public. Murder? Treason? Most suspected it had something to do with love, though the Count's name had never been linked to any of the eligible women of court, which made the prospect of scandal even more inviting. She must be someone truly obscene, perhaps a sorceress—or worse, an actress! Make that a French actress performing Italian comedies without license from the king. Yes, an alliance with such a woman would cost his head and the reputation of his entire family! Better to kill him now and be done with it.
Lucas navigated the coach through the busy city streets, taking back roads to avoid the most traveled areas. Eventually he had to pass through a checkpoint; a pair of soldiers flagged him down, bayonets aimed accusingly at the coach.
"Who's in there?" one demanded.
The windows had been magically blackened to discourage prying eyes.
"Foreign princesses, come for the annual summer ball," Lucas replied.
"That's not for some weeks yet," the guard grumbled, knocking on the window.
The door opened to reveal four beautiful women decked out in sumptuous gowns with a slight Eastern accent. They smiled and simpered accordingly, and the guard, stumbling for words, merely asked them if they were enjoying their time in the country.
"Yes, to come here is very...handsome," Mary said.
"Well then...I suppose you can pass, but be careful," the guard motioned. "This execution is bringing out all the riffraff. Keep your valuables close. In fact, I'll provide a personal escort, just to be safe."
The women exchanged dismal expressions. But there was nothing to be done: Lucas dutifully followed the soldier through the crowds, as he led them gradually away from St. Stanislav Square to the Grand Palace. Once they arrived, the soldier ordered several footmen to attend upon the ladies. The way that one looked at him...said he was handsome...she could make his fortune in a single night. He knocked politely on the door and bowed, making an impromptu speech about love, virtue, and honor, all of which he laid at her feet as tokens befitting a woman of her charm and magnificence...
But she didn't emerge. In fact, the door remained firmly--even stubbornly--shut. He knocked again, a trifle louder, and repeated his speech, albeit clipped of a few metaphors. Nothing. Perhaps they had fallen asleep? Or worse still, been knocked unconscious by a bump in the road? He suddenly imagined all the beautiful women with their brains dashed out, blood flooding the coach and smearing the windows--
Mustering up his courage, he knocked once more (no reply) and flung open the door. Princess? Hello? Are you—
Gone. The coach was empty. He looked frantically over the seats, turning this way and that, but found nothing. It was as if he had imagined the woman and her priceless words.
"You there! Where are they?" he demanded of Lucas.
Lucas feigned surprise, even going so far as to threaten the soldier for losing his passengers. The soldier cursed and gesticulated, but promised that he would find
each one and return them safely to the coach. As he ran off, Lucas began looking around himself, whispering "Lady Mary? Blackbeard? Hello?"
The quartet had already become part of the crowd, their strangeness scarcely noticed among the cries for blood and mercy. They were a short distance away from the execution platform, though there was no sign of him yet. Only the noose swung playfully in the wind, more like a child's toy than a serious means of destruction.
"What now?" Leopold asked.
"As soon as he arrives I'll make a distraction," the sorcerer said, scanning the area. "It should give you a few minutes to whisk him off-stage. After that, we'll have to rely on luck and improvisation to--"
"Hey, someone pinched my butt!" Ivan shrieked. "I’ve had enough of this play-acting; change us back."
"Now you know how we feel," Mary snapped. "However, you make a tolerably attractive woman. Enjoy it."
"Better your ass than your face, which would set off a thunderstorm of recognition,” Blackbeard said. “Besides, they'll be looking for us, not a gaggle of exotic princesses. Now push forward, as close to the stage as you can. We'll need to--ah, here they come!"
In the distance, a parade of soldiers appeared with a man in a black shroud. Nothing of his face or body was visible, though it stopped just short of his legs, allowing him to march in time with the guards. The group mounted the make-shift stairs to the platform, where the noose, still quite innocently, awaited. The guards pushed his head into the noose, tightened it, and directed him stand over a trap door; when a lever was pulled, the door would open and his feet would plunge through. The fall was never enough to break a man's neck (no sport in that!), so the victim would hang there for some minutes, strangling away to the delight of the crowd. Mary felt nauseous. Growing up in the country, she was unaccustomed toaccustom the entertainments most city children took for granted, even emulated in play. What a cruel, hard world, she thought to herself. Her children would never grow up here, would never see such monstrous sights…though perhaps it was presumptuous to think of children at a moment like this?
A flourish of drums and trumpets swept over the audience. The moment was at hand. Cheers and cries of "hang him!" responded, but were soon drowned out by shouts of "mercy!" The executioners pulled down their masks, fashioned in grotesque imitation of a human skull. They moved into position, taking one final measure of the crowd. A hand was placed on the lever. His companion looked at the criminal and nodded. Now.
"Fire!" someone screamed.
Mary turned to look with the rest of the crowd. Zounds—the entire city was aflame! Waves of fire danced from one building to the next, consuming roofs and spires. The crowd dispersed in a dozen directions. Coaches were overturned in the confusion, windows broken, guns fired. Only Blackbeard's voice at Mary's ear, whispering "just a distraction," saved her from panic. She looked up and saw the stage almost completely deserted, save for a few guards and the lone prisoner, still fastened in the noose. They rushed the stage, Ivan and Leopold overpowering the guards while she pushed ‘him’ down and removed the rope. So here it was, the creature who stole his likeness, who claimed to love her. The sooner they destroyed it the better. And yet, why did it do all this? Why did it want to be him, love her, and spin such an elaborate web for something it could never have---or be?
She pulled off the shroud and almost gasped to see Leopold, exactly as he was a moment ago, smiling back at her. There was no difference: even in the eyes, she felt his presence.
"So you've come to save me? Can I interpret this as a sign of love?"
"You know exactly why I'm here," she said, dragging it up. "You have to go back."
"Go back? Where can I go? I'm here."
"Back in the chest--or to oblivion, or wherever things like you go! Now quickly, we have to--"
Suddenly it grabbed her and removed a pistol from his jacket. It held the barrel at her skull, shouting loudly for the others to notice. Ivan and Leopold froze in place. How the devil did it have a pistol?
"I won't hesitate to kill her if it comes to that," it said, pushing her forward. "I'm afraid this is all very expected of you, though I enjoyed your little fireworks. But the comedy is at an end. Time to pay the actors."
Soldiers rushed the stage, followed by the young boy Leopold had met in the Dungeons. The boy stared in disbelief at the Count; or rather, he looked from one Count to the other, trying to decipher the real and the fake one--and failing at both. Nevertheless, he ordered Leopold and Ivan arrested and taken to the Dungeons. Mary he overlooked, as the Death wanthe Deathed; however, he had plans for that one, too...all in good time.
"The sorcerer!" the Death shouted. "He was right there--find him!"
The soldiers scoured the audience for Blackbeard; he had vanished. Mary felt some small consolation at this. Blackbeard had other plans--he would find them. She just had to bide her time. Already, she could see the Death stifling a yawn, the eyes looking red and blank.
"Let's go," it commanded, marching her off.
From a distance, Blackbeard watched it all and nodded grimly.
Chapter Forty-Eight
The Death shoved Mary in a nearby carriage and stood outside the door, waiting, expecting to be followed. It knew that little fool wouldn’t let them simply disappear into the wilds. After a few minutes it screwed up his face, annoyed; no sign of anything, which was the worst sign of all. It yelled something to the driver and climbed in, sitting across from Mary, who squirmed to one side so their legs wouldn’t touch.
“I suppose I don’t really need this, do I?” it said, lowering the pistol.
“So what are your plans? To run off together? Live happily ever after?”
“I understand your hesitation…you don’t see me as him. We’re two different people in your mind. But it’s not so; I am him, that is, the most essential part of him. He has all the gross, material aspects…I have the mind, the heart. I am the one you fell in love with.”
“Don’t be stupid!” she said, almost spitting. “You’re just some thing that lived inside him like a parasite. You may have seen what he saw, and thought what he thought, but that doesn’t make you the same. I can read a thousand books and pretend I wrote them, but that still doesn’t make me a writer.”
“On the contrary, I am his thoughts. He can’t live without me. If you went back to him, you would notice the difference; he would be nothing, a mere shell. I gave him the words he spoke to you!”
She turned away, horrified to see him speaking these words. Settling for the vague impression of its face in the glass, she replied,
“You forget that I kissed you, told myself over and over that you were him. But you weren’t. Everything about you is cold and lifeless. When I touch him I feel alive. I could never feel that way about you.”
“It’s this body, I’ve never had to use it before,” it said, angrily tossing an arm. “Once I learn to master it there will be no coldness, nothing for you to object to. I will be him, as you’ve always known him. If you would just let me show you…”
It moved closer to her, only to be repulsed by her boot. Another inch and she would strike, her eyes warned. With a gracious shrug it returned to his seat.
“Let me ask you this, then: why do you love me?” she asked. “What about me, of all the women in the world, excites your fancy and admiration?”
“You…are perfection.”
“Based on what?” she laughed. I fUYour careful study of women? Your past relationships? What do you know of women? Hmm? What do you know of love?”
“I…I know what I feel,” it said, looking away, out the window.
“You know what he feels! That’s all you know. But you don’t understand. You don’t know what he sees in me, what made him want to—”
“Your tears.”
“What?”
“He saw you crying. In a hallway in the palace; he didn’t know why. He saw you in the shadows, alone, and wanted to protect you.”
She knew exactly what he meant. The mo
ment opened before her eyes, the cold floor, her beating heart, the spinning room. Tears for her mother’s death, learned weeks after the event—her father couldn’t be bothered to inform her. Mary had been forced to leave the country to be shown at court, her official “coming out.” Her mother knew she was dying, however well she hid it, and begged her father to wait a few more months (she was only thirteen). Such arguments held little sway with her father, whose desire to make a profitable match had been his only consolation for having a daughter. So they left with scarcely even a good-bye to her mother, who struggled out of bed defiantly. Do as your father says, she told her, but don’t ignore the will of your heart. Could a broken heart have a will of its own?
She had never seen Leopold in the corridor, and even if he had seen her, it could have only been a fleeting glimpse. Her governess found her within minutes and whisked her away, consoling her with lies and empty words: that they would leave in enough time to see the funeral (they never did); that her mother would be so proud of her conduct at court (how could she know?); that her father only wanted what was best for her (even the governess didn’t believe it). She couldn’t remember the next time she saw Leopold, but it was probably around the time they first began speaking to one another. No longer as children, but as intimate friends, with their own language and secrets.
“And was that when you fell in love with me, too? Did you want to reach out to me—to protect me?”
“There is no distinction between us. I was there, I saw you in the shadows, I felt your pain. And yes, I loved you, too.”
“You call this love?” she shouted, waving her fist, just inches from smashing its chin. “Can’t you see what you’ve done? Do you imagine this is how men and women fall in love—marry? Through impersonation and murder?”
The Count of the Living Death (The Chronicles of Hildigrim Blackbeard) Page 15
