For a long moment, the baron stood at the threshold of the room. As much as he had been infuriated by the thought that his assassin had faltered in his purpose because of conscience, de Gavaudan found his stomach turning at the prospect of doing the deed himself. He cursed himself for such cowardice, such weakness. Had he not killed a hundred of the heathen at the Siege of Lashiek? Was it not his sword that had cut down Mustafa Amar, the castellan of Magritta before the eyes of the Arabyan’s pleading wives and children? Why should one more death weigh any heavier upon his conscience?
Steeled to his purpose, reminding himself that what he did was not for himself but for the future of his family, Baron de Gavaudan crept towards the sick bed. He paused again beside the ominously silent bed. He wondered if perhaps the deed was not already done. The killer might have gone to dull his conscience with wine after finishing the job, too wracked with guilt to remember to report back to his master. Or, maybe, the duke had already been dead when the assassin had entered the room, succumbing at last to his fever.
Cautiously, Baron de Gavaudan reached out and drew back the thin curtain masking the bed. He stared in shock at what he saw.
The body lying upon the bed was not that of El Syf, it was that of the baron’s assassin! The killer had himself been slain, slaughtered in a most brutal fashion, his neck snapped with such force that the man’s chin rested upon his spine.
Baron Gui de Gavaudan stumbled away from the gruesome scene, his mind reeling with horror. How could such a thing happen? Who had done it? And most importantly, where was the Duke of Aquitaine?
A crawling terror rippled through the baron’s flesh. The stink of death struck his senses, the cold chill of the grave closed upon his heart. Slowly, tremulously, he turned away from his murdered assassin. His eyes went wide with tenor as he saw a shape standing between himself and the door.
The apparition wore the semblance of El Syf, but the once handsome features were pale and drawn, sharp and cruel as the edge of a dagger. The figure’s eyes were like pits of darkness, smouldering embers of hate and hunger burning in their depths.
The baron did not have the chance to scream before the deathly figure fell upon him, its mouth open, its sharp fangs tearing into his throat. He flailed against his attacker, trying desperately to free himself from the vampire’s clutch, but he was like a lamb in the jaws of a wolf.
Baron Gui de Gavaudan was a long time in dying.
Sir Leuthere d’Elbiq walked his horse slowly down the grassy slope towards the crystal waters of the isolated lake. Lake Tranquil, the site had been named, and a more appropriate name the knight found impossible to imagine. Everything about the lake and its environs conspired to create an impression of peace and beauty, from the way the oaks and willows leaned out over the waters to the manner in which languid waves rolled across the surface. Legend held that the Lady herself had risen from the waters of Lake Tranquil, appearing to Duke Galand and allowing the valiant knight to sip from the grail. Leuthere was inclined to believe the legend. The atmosphere around the lake was such that he could easily imagine the lingering touch of the divine.
Leuthere left his horse to crop the grass around the lake and advanced to the edge of the water. Carefully he dipped one hand into the crystal mere, drawing a few drops from the lake and making the sign of the grail with his dampened hand. The waters of Lake Tranquil were held to be sacred because of the Lady’s manifestation. Even the noblest traveller was forbidden to drink from the lake without first paying honour to the Lady and begging her indulgence. It was a capital offence to fish the waters of Lake Tranquil; many a reckless peasant had ended his life upon a rope for daring such sacrilege.
The knight bowed beside the lake, waiting for some sign from the Lady that she would indulge his thirst. For many minutes, Leuthere listened to the waves lapping against the shore, the dryness of his mouth increasing with every passing moment. The temptation to rise and slake his thirst nagged at him, but the knight maintained his humble pose, refusing to falter in his faith.
A sharp cry sounded overhead, drawing Leuthere’s gaze skyward. He watched a large hawk with brilliant golden plumage wheeling through the azure heavens. As he looked, the bird suddenly swooped downwards, landing upon the shore a hundred yards from Leuthere. The hawk cocked its head at him, blinking its eyes in curiosity. Then, with stately stride, the bird marched to the lake, dipped its beak into the clear waters and took several quick sips. The hawk turned its head back towards Leuthere and then leapt back into the air, its powerful wings bearing it once more into the cloudless sky.
Leuthere bowed his head and closed his eyes, thanking the Lady for this sign of her largesse. When he finished his devotions, the knight cupped his hand and drew a mouthful of water from the lake, feeling the cool purity of its taste flow down his parched throat and course through his body. Leuthere could liken the sensation only to the soothing flush of a fine wine, but even this comparison seemed crude and improper.
Again, the knight thanked the Lady for her beneficence. He turned away from the lake, sitting down upon the soft grass of the slope. He stared out across Lake Tranquil, watching the wind swaying through the trees that clothed its far shore, observing the smoke rising from peasant villages hidden among those same trees. He saw, perched atop a hill overlooking the lake, the tall spire of the Tower of Wizardry, its tile roof and marble gargoyles gleaming in the sunlight.
Leuthere had never been to the tower. Few men had, for it was a holy place where the idle did not tarry. He was uncertain why it was called the Tower of Wizardry, unless in some time lost to legend a wizard had dwelt there. Now it was a shrine to the Lady; for centuries it had been the home of her prophetesses, holy damsels gifted with the ability to pierce the veil of time and gaze at things yet to pass.
He would have given much to have the mystical power of a prophetess just now. The altercation with his uncle weighed heavily upon Leuthere’s soul. In his grief, Earl Gaubert had exposed the ugly malignance that festered in his heart. For sake of the feud, Earl Gaubert had sacrificed everything; now he pursued his hate of the du Maisnes not out of family pride or duty, but for spite’s sake. His hate had made him blind to both honour and reason. Leuthere did not like to think how far his uncle would go to have his revenge. He did not know where his own duty lay. Should he follow his uncle, his lord and liege, no matter where that path would take him, or must he remain true to the oaths of chivalry and honour? Where did his obligation to lord and family stop and his duty to himself begin?
If he could but peer for a moment into the future and see the road ahead, Leuthere would know which way he must turn. To help his uncle find revenge or force him to make peace with his enemies for the good of the dwindling d’Elbiqs.
Leuthere returned his gaze to the Tower of Wizardry, staring at the grey granite edifice and its lofty spire. He might seek an audience with the current prophetess, a damsel named Iselda. She might be able to answer his questions.
As if bidden by his thoughts, a tiny figure appeared upon the small balcony near the roof of the tower. From this distance, Leuthere could make out little more than a tall, slender shape in a flowing blue gown and wearing a long, conical hat. He watched the distant woman for a moment, then saw her suddenly stare across the lake. Though there was no way he could be certain, Leuthere could not help the impression that the woman was looking directly at him.
Iselda, Twelfth Prophetess of the Tower of Wizardry and Guardian of the Lake, strode out onto the tile floor of her balcony, watching as the sun began its slow decline towards the west. The damsel studied the celestial flame for a moment, monitoring its progress, watching for the moment when it would be time to perform the ritual. The simple folk of Aquitaine believed that the mystical properties of Lake Tranquil had been endowed upon it by the manifestation of the Lady in its waters long ago. Even if they were told, they would little understand the real power that coursed through those still waters and which was in turn harnessed by the tower. They would not understan
d the careful rituals and spells needed to maintain the enchantment, the aethyric mechanism that allowed the tower to act as a focal point for the unseen magical energies flowing across Aquitaine.
The dark wizard who had built the tower would have understood, but he’d been driven into exile, banished to the Grey Mountains, by the Fay Enchantress long ago. Under his terrible influence, the tower had been a thing of evil, but the Fay Enchantress had redeemed it, sanctified it with the light of the Athel Loren. She had reclaimed it for the forces of good and entrusted its powers to her wisest students, those whose talent for magic had allowed them to tap into that most sacred of powers, the power of prophecy.
Iselda’s delicate lips drew back in a bitter smile. Prophecy. It was as much a curse as a gift. To know when calamity would strike, to see it as plainly as the tiles beneath her shoes, and unable to prevent its coming. Sometimes, even a warning did no good, for there were some catastrophes from which there was no escape.
Even more troubling than clear visions were the many presentiments that insinuated themselves upon the mind of a prophetess. Far more nebulous in nature, these impressions, good and ill, were as elusive as phantoms, as intangible as the wind. They would burn brightly within the mind of the prophetess, blazing with the glamour of the brightest star, then fade into nothingness before the prophetess could even be certain of what she had seen. All that was left behind was an emotion, a feeling of excited anticipation or a cloud of despairing dread.
Fate had chosen Iselda for the role she bore, marked her from birth to the service of the Lady. It was the only life she had ever known, but even she appreciated the strangeness of it. Sometimes she admired the humble peasants with their simple ways and their simple beliefs. Sometimes she pitied them that they could not see the world as it really was, that they would never know the magic that flowed through their land. More often, she felt a tinge of envy that they could exist in their world of ignorance, fearing the future but unable to see what there was to fear.
For many months, Iselda had been troubled by presentiments of doom. Nightmares had wracked her sleep, visions of burning villages and crumbling castles, a forest of impaled bodies stretching from mountain to sea, the soil of Aquitaine churned into a crimson mire of blood. At the very edge of her nightmares, in that elusive borderland where dream collapses into wakefulness, she sensed an ancient evil stirring, mocking her with its venomous voice. However hard she concentrated, it eluded her, always keeping to the shadows of her mind.
In all the decades since she had become Prophetess of the Tower, Iselda had never been so disturbed by her gift. She feared to stare into the tower’s reflecting pool, was reluctant to gaze at the stars and read the portents written in the heavens. Perhaps it was her fear that kept her blinded to whatever menace threatened Aquitaine, or maybe the evil she feared was subtle enough to hide from a direct confrontation. But there was no denying that the evil was there, lurking and waiting to strike. Iselda knew a ghastly doom threatened the dukedom. Unfortunately she knew nothing more than the fact that it existed.
The prophetess suddenly felt a compulsion to turn away from the purification ritual she was just beginning to perform. A chill crept down her spine as she turned away from the sun and cast her gaze across the calm waters of Lake Tranquil. Her sorcery allowed her to see the knight watching her from across the lake as clearly as if he stood beside her. He was a young, good-looking man, a storybook image of a Bretonnian knight. She did not sense any evil in him, yet there was something about him that caused her face to turn pale with dread.
Iselda quickly turned her face from the young knight and withdrew back behind the walls of the tower. She felt her body shivering with fear, nausea boiling in her stomach. It was as though some unseen fiend had torn open the door between worlds and allowed her a glimpse of the daemonic realms.
Whatever was threatening Aquitaine, it was drawing nearer and the young knight was associated with it somehow. In some way he was connected with the doom Iselda had sensed hovering over her.
The prophetess struggled to compose herself. Whatever her fear, she was not one of the peasants. She could not afford the luxury of ignorance. She had to face this evil and unmask it while there was still time.
Iselda rushed back onto the balcony, intending to beckon the young knight to come to the tower. Talking to him would be a quicker and more direct way of learning who he was and where he had come from than relying upon her magic. If she knew more about the man, she might learn something about the evil she had sensed.
When Iselda looked back across the lake, however, the young knight was already gone, riding off into a twilight that seemed darker than any the prophetess had seen before.
Earl Gaubert d’Elbiq scowled in disgust at the squalid mess around him. The cave was bad enough, dank and dreary, its ceiling so low in places that a man was forced to crawl to make any progress through its narrow tunnels. Dirty liquid that was more mineral than water dripped from the walls, each drop echoing wildly as it splashed into the stagnant pools that pitted the floor. Rats and pallid cave frogs scampered about the nobleman’s feet, deranged bats flittered through his hair, cobwebs clutched at his face and the tiny bones of vermin crunched beneath his boots.
Yes, the cave was bad enough on its own, but the noxious accoutrements collected by the witch were worse. Heaps of dried stinkweed, strands of mouldering hensbane and poison oak, the rotting carcasses of birds and beasts strung up by their heels. Skulls, human and animal, arranged in little piles throughout the hideous maze. A grotesque idol that looked like it was made of swamp moss and smelled like cattle manure squatted at the centre of the witch’s lair, welcoming the earl with a smile made from eggshells and eyes crafted from the fangs of panthers.
The earl glared at the offensive sculpture, crushing a pomander against his nose to fend off the smell. One of the knights he had brought with him stomped forwards to pull down the hideous thing. Vigor moved to stop him, but quickly remembered his place, instead muttering fearfully to himself terrified of what the witch would do if the earl’s man touched her god.
A sharp cackle arrested the knight as he reached to grab the idol. The startled knight looked around in surprise. Finding no one, he angrily returned his attention to the grotesque statue. This time, however, he noticed something different about the thing. A long black tongue had appeared between the idol’s teeth, a black ribbon of scaly flesh that stared at him with beady eyes and hissed as his fingers came near it.
Cursing loudly, the knight leapt back, recoiling from the odious serpent that had so suddenly materialised.
“Your man is wise to keep his distance.”
Earl Gaubert and his attendants turned at the sound of the voice. They watched as a woman entered the cavern, stepping out from a tunnel each of them would have sworn hadn’t been there but a moment before. Despite the uncouth surroundings, she presented a striking figure, every graceful curve of her nubile body exposed by her scanty raiment. A black skirt slit to the waist, a black bandeaux about her breasts, a tangle of necklaces about her throat and a set of bone sandals upon her feet composed the entirety of her costume. Her hair was a sombre mane framing her face with wild confusion. There was a cruel beauty about the witch’s face, a glamour that at once aroused and repulsed.
“That is a Moussillon marsh adder,” the witch informed her guests. “Had it devoted its attentions to your man, he would have died a most excruciating death.” Jacquetta swept her defiant gaze across each of the visitors, baring her teeth in a cold smile. “You all would have. My pet has made its nest somewhere inside Onogal’s head.”
“I did not come here to play with snakes or stare at strumpets,” Earl Gaubert snarled. He pointed his fist at the witch. “The only reason I suffer you and your filthy cult, Jacquetta, is because you are useful to me. Stop being useful, and I’ll see every last one of you burn.”
Hisses sounded from every corner of the cave. The earl turned about as he heard the angry sounds, watching as a motle
y variety of scruffy figures emerged from the shadows. Some wore filthy cloaks and hoods, looking as though they had come fresh from the fields. Others were naked as babes, their skin pale beneath the layers of dirt that were caked onto their bodies. Many of these troglodyte creatures bore the stigma of mutation upon them, their faces twisted by bestial snouts, their hands disfigured by feline claws and bovine hooves. The knights drew their swords as Jacquetta’s followers surrounded them.
“I will forgive this rudeness because I know you are distressed by your recent loss,” Jacquetta told the earl.
“How dare you, a peasant, speak to me in such fashion!” Earl Gaubert roared.
Jacquetta smiled at him coldly. “I dare because I know why you have come here. I dare because I can give you what you want.”
Earl Gaubert held the witch’s gaze for a moment, then scowled at his attendants. “Lower your swords,” he told them. If it would help him be avenged upon the du Maisnes, then he would suffer the witch’s impertinence.
“A wise choice, my lord,” Jacquetta cooed, not bothering to hide the mockery in her voice.
“Do not toy with me,” Earl Gaubert warned. “You say you know what I want and that you can help me.”
Jacquetta strolled casually across the cave, her movements as lithe and sinuous as those of the marsh adder, each provocative swing of her hips drawing the gaze of Earl Gaubert’s knights. “You want Sir Armand du Maisne. You want him dead, but not simply dead. You want him humbled, humiliated upon the field of honour. You want his reputation as the finest swordsman in Aquitaine cast into the dirt alongside his bones. You want to destroy more than just a man, you want to destroy his very name.”
[Heroes 05] - The Red Duke Page 6
