Before the bowmen could loose their deadly arrows, a cacophony of shrill shrieks descended upon the keep. The archers retreated as a flood of fluttering wings and verminous fangs filled each window, as a seemingly endless wave of chittering bodies dove upon them. The bowmen were forced to cast aside their weapons, to shield their faces from the slapping wings and slicing teeth of a living storm. Bats, summoned down from the sky in their multitudes by the dark magic of the Red Duke, converged upon the keep by the thousands.
The Red Duke watched as the bats swept the archers from the parapets. Boldly, the vampire spurred his horse forwards, slowly marching his steed towards the oaken doors that barred the gateway into the keep. Skeleton warriors followed obediently in their master’s wake. A dozen of them bore a stout log between them, moving with an almost mechanical precision beneath the ponderous weight of their burden.
“Open the way,” the vampire ordered his undead soldiers. The skeletons did not hesitate, but simply shifted their hold upon the log and charged the thick oak doors. The crude ram slammed into the portal with a violent impact, jarring the skeletons with the force of the blow. The skeletons instantly recovered, having neither mind or flesh to be stunned by the attack. They drew away from the doors and, with the same mechanical precision, repeated their assault.
The Red Duke turned from observing the attacking skeletons, fixing his attention instead upon Jacquetta’s ghostly figure. “Go inside and clear the way,” the vampire ordered the spectral witch. Jacquetta’s beautiful face corroded, withering once again into the leering skull of a banshee. Obediently, the undead witch drifted across the courtyard, gliding towards the inner wall of the keep. She did not hesitate when she reached the stone obstruction, but instead vanished through the unyielding wall.
The vampire hissed in satisfaction, watching his bats continue to torment the men at the windows of the keep. It would not be long now. Earl Durand had escaped him in the earlier war, but no power on earth would save his descendents from the Red Duke’s revenge.
“They’re trying to break through the main hall!”
Sir Armand turned at the sound of the shout, casting aside the rich tapestry he had been using to help corral bats in the upper gallery. He thrust the improvised net into the uncertain grip of a servant and hastened to the landing. The knight could see the main hall below. Men-at-arms and gangs of servants continued to drag benches and tables across the room to reinforce the huge double-doors which opened into the courtyard. While he watched, Armand saw the doors shudder and heard the booming impact of the battering ram.
Men rushed to brace the doors with a heavy bench taken from the keep’s chapel. Suddenly the men-at-arms dropped their burden, falling to the floor and clutching their heads in agony. A loud, keening wail filled the hall, reverberating from the stone walls. Armand staggered back as the sound assailed his senses. Even from the gallery above the hall, the noise was almost unendurable.
A ghostly form manifested amid the crippled defenders, the spectral image of a raven-haired woman, her face reduced to a sneering skull. The banshee continued to emit her agonizing screech, letting the sound torture all of the men in the great hall. Jacquetta could only kill with her scream by focusing it upon a single victim at a time, but the vengeful spirit was not stymied by the limits of her power. The banshee reached down and picked a discarded sword from the floor, her bony fingers closing about the bronze hilt. Still screeching, keeping the defenders disoriented and helpless, Jacquetta closed upon the nearest of the cringing men and stabbed the point of her stolen sword into the man’s skull.
Armand’s blood boiled as he observed the callous murder. Tying a heavy scarf about his head to at least soften the banshee’s wail, the outraged knight drew his sword and leapt over the gallery’s balustrade. He landed on his feet, taking only the briefest pause to recover from his jump before dashing off to confront the murdering ghost.
The banshee turned away from the liveried groom she had just killed, the man’s blood dripping from her sword. Jacquetta stared at Armand, her skull-like face filling out, becoming once more the stunning visage of the witch in life. She smiled invitingly at the young knight, beckoning to him with a crooked finger. Armand responded to the banshee with a grimace and a snarled oath.
Instantly, Jacquetta’s face decayed back into a leering skull. The banshee streaked forwards, gliding across the hall to meet Armand’s charge. The knight parried her thrusting sword, fending her off with a backhanded slash that should have opened her up from shoulder to breast. Instead, to the knight’s horror, his sword passed harmlessly through the banshee’s ghostly body.
Jacquetta pressed her attack, pushing Armand towards the cross-wall that bisected the lower floors of the keep. The knight struggled to keep his focus, to prevent panic from overwhelming his mind. He had to remain calm, let instinct and battle-hardened reflexes carry the fight. The banshee might be spectral, but her sword was a thing as solid as his own. That was what he had to attack.
Another boom and the cracking of wood sounded from the entryway. A few men-at-arms struggled towards the failing barrier, but the tormenting scream of the banshee kept the others writhing on the floor. If the barricade was not reinforced soon it would fail.
The greater plight of the keep galvanized Armand, his duty to father and family vanquishing the last of his fear. He mounted a furious attack upon the banshee, this time focusing solely upon the physical sword gripped by the spectral hand. The greater strength of the knight prevailed, battering the blade, swatting it aside like a child’s plaything, the insubstantial banshee knocked about as she refused to lose hold of her sword.
Armand could have broken away, fled back into the gallery while the banshee reeled from his assault. Doing so, however, would not help the keep’s defenders. Armand was determined to hold his ground, to press Jacquetta so sorely that the ghost forgot about the other men and concentrated solely upon him. Without the banshee’s wail stabbing their brains, the soldiers would be able to at least defend the barricades if the doors were broken.
Another powerful strike from the knight’s sword sent Jacquetta spinning across the floor, whirling like a crazed goblin fanatic. For the first time, the banshee showed fear, recoiling with a hiss as her spin brought her close to the cross-wall and the row of torches bolted to the bare stone.
Armand was quick to seize upon the banshee’s display of weakness. Another mighty blow drove her away from him long enough for the knight to lunge across the hall. The banshee guessed his intention, rushing at him in a frantic charge. Her sword struck sparks from the stone floor as Armand narrowly rolled away from an overhanded sweep of the ghost’s sword. Before Jacquetta could try again, Armand had his objective in hand, pulling a torch down from its iron sconce and driving its flaming end into the banshee’s skull-like face.
The banshee’s spectral wail fell silent as the ghost emitted a different sort of shriek, a scream of pain. Her face was sizzling as she retreated from Armand’s torch, ghostly steam rising from her morbid visage. Jacquetta’s sword clattered against the floor as she clutched at her smouldering cheekbones.
Armand rushed the wounded banshee, intending to finish her before she recovered from the shock of her injury. But even as he started his lunge, he knew he was too late. Jacquetta lowered her skeletal hands and fixed him with a malignant stare. Her fleshless jaw dropped open and from the banshee there sounded a different kind of shriek, a shriek only Armand’s ears could hear, a shriek that would not simply torment, a shriek that would kill.
The knight crumpled to his knees, his face contorted into a mask of agony. He could feel the banshee’s scream like burning fingers digging inside his skull. Armand tore the rag from his head, crushing his hands against his ears, trying to block out the ghostly wail.
Through the spectral shriek, Armand could hear the clamour of the great doors splintering, bursting open as the battering ram worked their ruin. He watched as the few defenders at the barricade were driven back, forced to retr
eat by the silent, grim march of the skeletons pouring into the keep. Then the knight’s vision collapsed into blackness and he slumped to the floor.
A moment later, the killing shriek of Jacquetta was silenced. An enraged rider galloped across the hall, smashing down the few soldiers who stood in his way. Armoured in crimson, his black cape flowing behind him, the Red Duke charged across the hall towards the cross-wall. His gauntlet closed about the neck of the screaming banshee, the ghost’s essence becoming solid beneath the vampire’s touch. Savagely, the Red Duke ripped her from the floor, flinging her away like a sack of rubbish.
“No!” the vampire snarled. “This one is mine!” The Red Duke bared his fangs in a venomous display of hate. “Durand du Maisne, know that death is the price of treachery!”
The Red Duke pulled back on the reins of his steed, the skeletal horse rearing back, its hooves kicking out above the prone knight.
Before the Red Duke could bring his steed’s hooves smashing down, a challenging voice rang out through the hall.
“Monster!” Count Ergon shouted down from the gallery, his face torn and bloody from the fangs of bats. “Coward! Leave my son alone and face me!”
The Red Duke glanced in confusion at the knight lying on the floor and the nobleman hurling abuse at him from the gallery above. The vampire shook his head, trying to clear the muddle of thoughts and images. Finally, he focused his burning gaze upon Count Ergon.
“You should have let me die in Araby,” the vampire hissed, his fingers tightening about the hilt of his sword. “Now I will scour you and all your line from the land, Durand du Maisne. I will strike your name from the records. I will pull down this castle stone by stone. I will open the tombs of your fathers and their fathers. I will make it so your family is not even a myth told among peasants.”
Count Ergon blanched at the vampire’s threat, a horrible suspicion rising inside him. This was no nameless monster from the night. This was the most infamous creature in all Aquitaine’s long history. This was the Red Duke himself.
The vampire sneered at Count Ergon’s sudden fear. Forgetting Armand, the Red Duke turned his horse and galloped towards the timber stairs leading up into the gallery. A pair of men-at-arms, attendants of the count, broke away from their master, running down the steps, trying to block the vampire’s progress. Desperately they tried to hold the Red Duke back with their spears, jabbing at the armoured vampire, driving the points of their weapons into the fleshless neck and empty belly of his steed.
The Red Duke hissed in annoyance. With one driving sweep of his blade, he splintered the spears of his foes. A second sweep of his sword, with the inhuman strength of the undead behind it, claimed the heads of both men, flesh and bone and mail parting like butter before the vampire’s sword. The valiant soldiers collapsed upon the stairs, their heads rolling obscenely clown the steps.
The Red Duke drove his spurs into the flanks of his deathly steed, driving the spectral beast to mount the stairs, climbing up to the gallery in a series of stumbling jumps. Arrows clattered against the vampire’s armour and lodged between the ribs of his skeletal horse as a small group of bowmen tried to fell the monster.
Gaining the gallery, the Red Duke charged the nearest of the bowmen. The vampire’s sword crunched through the man’s kettle-helm, splitting the skull beneath the iron hat. The stricken soldier crashed against the balustrade, already dead when his body pitched over the side to fall into the great hall below.
The courage of the other bowmen faltered as they saw the gruesome demise of their comrade. Some threw down their bows and fled in abject terror, a few others rallied about their lord, begging Count Ergon to escape. The count waved them off. It was not that he did not share the terror of his men, if anything he had more reason to fear the Red Duke than they But he knew that only by keeping the vampire here could he give his family any chance with their own escape. While the Red Duke fought him here, the countess and the rest of his household would be slipping through the postern gate and on their way to the sanctuary of Castle Aquitaine and Duke Gilon’s protection.
The last of Count Ergon’s men, shamed by their lord’s display of courage, set aside their bows and drew their short swords. Count Ergon called out to them when he guessed their intention, knowing such a reckless attack was nothing but suicide. The Red Duke cut each of them down, barely even glancing at each man as he brought his blade slashing down. Soon, Count Ergon was alone upon the gallery with the vampire. Even the sounds of battle in the gallery below had fallen silent, the triumphant undead standing in rigid ranks awaiting their master’s next command.
“You are brave, Durand,” the Red Duke grinned. “It warms my heart that you have not forsaken all your knightly virtues.”
Count Ergon glared at the vampire. “You have no heart, monster! If there was anything human inside you, it withered into dust centuries ago!” The count lifted his sword, pointing the weapon at the Red Duke. “Before I put you back in the grave, at least know I am not Earl Durand du Maisne. I am his descendent, Count Ergon du Maisne. You have butchered my kin and my servants. For that, Lady willing, I will send your spirit back to the hell that spawned it.”
The Red Duke sneered down at the nobleman. “I was going to kill you, Durand,” the vampire hissed. “But now I think I shall do much worse to you.”
With no further warning, the Red Duke dropped down from his saddle. The code of chivalry under which he had once lived yet lingered in the vampire’s mind, sometimes continuing to guide his actions. Commoners and beasts might happily be butchered from the saddle, but the code of arms demanded that an unhorsed knight be fought on foot. Not that the Red Duke expected Count Ergon to benefit from the discarded advantage.
Count Ergon did not charge the Red Duke. He had seen to what effect such attacks had profited his soldiers. The nobleman instead awaited the vampire’s advance, thinking that by fighting defensively against the monster, he might surprise the fiend and cause him to make a mistake the count could exploit.
Like some slavering wolf, the Red Duke stalked towards Count Ergon, an inhuman hunger burning in the vampire’s eyes. The vampire slashed at Count Ergon’s side, capitalizing upon the nobleman’s lack of shield. Count Ergon spun his body in time with the attack, bringing his own sword around to block the Red Duke’s blade. Too late did Count Ergon realise that the vampire’s attack was only a feint to draw him out.
The Red Duke smashed the flat of his sword into Count Ergon’s shoulder, sending a pulse of numbing pain down the nobleman’s arm. The superhuman strength of the vampire’s blow caused the sword to fall from his enemy’s paralysed grasp.
Instantly, the vampire was upon his unarmed foe, seizing him by the throat, pressing him back until his spine was crushed against the balustrade. Count Ergon cried out in pain as the Red Duke increased the pressure, the nobleman’s fists smashing uselessly against the vampire’s armour.
“I will break your body,” the Red Duke hissed, his face only inches from the terrified eyes of his victim. “I will snap your spine like an old rotten twig, leave you a crippled, crawling thing.” The vampire’s lips pulled back in a feral grin, exposing the sharp fangs. “Then I will make you immortal, one of the eternal undead. You will pass eternity slithering on your belly, creeping in the shadows, sucking blood from the veins of rats and vermin! I will be avenged upon you, Durand, avenged throughout eternity!”
Count Ergon screamed as the vampire began to carry out his threat. He could feel the mail he wore digging through the padding underneath, the iron rings cutting into his flesh.
Suddenly, the pressure was gone. An expression of surprise came across the vampire’s pallid countenance. The Red Duke looked down in surprise at the stream of sickly treacle leaking from a gash in his side just below the rim of his cuirass. Torn links of mail dangled about the edge of the vampire’s wound. Slowly, the Red Duke turned to face his attacker.
“Let my father go!” Armand roared at the vampire. He wagged the tip of his sword at the
Red Duke, spattering his breastplate with the stagnant treacle that had lately coursed through the vampire’s veins. “You are brave against an old man or a knight knocked senseless by the shrieks of your hag. Let’s see how you fare against the greatest swordsman in Aquitaine!”
The Red Duke shook his head, blinking in confused rage. He could smell the blood of Durand du Maisne in this bragging fool. The vampire glanced contemptuously at Count Ergon. With a snarl, he threw the nobleman over the balustrade.
“Father!” Armand screamed. The knight’s first impulse made him want to rush to the great hall, to help his stricken father if he could. Other instincts, those drilled into Armand’s brain by a lifetime learning the art of war, prevailed. He was a warrior locked in battle. He would not turn his back on his foe, whatever the reason.
“The greatest swordsman in Aquitaine?” the Red Duke scoffed, striding towards Armand. The treacle leaking clown the vampire’s side had already begun to subside, the fiend’s recuperative powers beginning to repair the damage the knight’s blade had wrought.
Armand readied himself to meet the Red Duke’s attack. He met the vampire’s thrust with a skilful parry, compensating for the monster’s greater strength by bracing his legs for the bone-jarring impact. As the Red Duke’s blade slid from Armand’s steel, the young knight thrust forwards with a stabbing riposte. The point of his sword glanced across the vampire’s breastplate as the monster twisted his body in time with the knight’s attack.
Savagely, the Red Duke brought his blade whipping up and around the guard of Armand’s sword, the edge of the vampire’s sword slashing across the knight’s fingers. Armand’s gauntlet was scoured down to the mail glove beneath the steel plate, his entire hand stinging from the vicious impact. Only by force of will did Armand prevent his blade from falling to the floor alongside that of his father.
[Heroes 05] - The Red Duke Page 15
