“Not stupid,” Iselda corrected Richemont. “Mad.” She let the word linger in the room before explaining. “The vampire’s mind is disordered, unable to focus fully upon the present. He drifts between today and yesterday, unable to make the distinction. When he laid siege to the Tower of Wizardry, it was Isabeau he made battle against, not her humble successor Iselda.” The prophetess scowled, clenching her delicate hands into frustrated fists. “The Red Duke’s madness makes it impossible for my powers of foresight to predict what he will do next. I can see how he might act, but not how he will act.”
“Then you are saying we are lost?” Duke Gilon asked, a hint of fear behind his words. “The Lady is powerless to help us against this monster?”
“No, your grace,” Leuthere said. “What Lady Iselda is saying is that her magic cannot help us predict what the vampire will do. However, we do not need her magic to do that.”
“What is your meaning?” demanded one of the seated generals. “How can we predict what the Red Duke will do without the prophetess and her foresight?”
Count Ergon leaned over the table, tapping his armoured finger against the vellum map of Aquitaine spread out upon its surface. “We know how the Red Duke made war against King Louis the Righteous,” he stated, casting his firm gaze across the generals. “We know the battles he fought and where he fought them. When the vampire laid siege to the Tower of Wizardry, he did so in slavish repetition to the way he conducted the campaign the first time. He even sent his undead cavalry to attack the sites of villages he razed centuries ago.”
Duke Gilon clapped his hands together, his face brightening to the theme of Count Ergon’s proposal. “We can fight the Red Duke as King Louis did!” he beamed. “The chronicles of Aquitaine recount every battle fought against the vampire and his forces. We can see where the Red Duke will attack ahead of time!” The duke slammed his fist down against the map, smashing his hand against the ancient mounds of the horse lords. “We can make our plans and crush this monster where he will be at his most vulnerable!”
“Ceren Field!” Sir Roget exclaimed. “The open space there will offer an excellent vantage for our knights to ride down the vampire’s infantry and smash them to bits!”
“There are also the hills to consider,” remarked a scar-faced marquis. “We can position bowmen on two sides of the battlefield and soften up the vampire’s legion before sending in our knights.” The marquis bobbed his head in contrition as he saw the surly looks the other noblemen directed at him. “I am not doubting the valour of our knights, but I feel we must look at things prudently. There is the possibility the Red Duke will vastly outnumber us. I ask which is the greater shame: to accept the value of a peasant’s bow or to allow a vampire to conquer Aquitaine because the land’s champions were prideful and arrogant?”
The chastising words of the marquis had their effect, silencing the offended hubris of the knights.
“We can also take comfort in the presence of Duke Galand’s tomb. Galand drank from the grail and the divine power of the Lady still endows his grave with tremendous power.” A fervent, almost worshipful light was in Iselda’s eyes as she spoke of the great hero of Aquitaine. Few of the men at the table noticed the slight flush that came into her cheeks and grim smile that spread across her lips. “The grace of the Lady saturates Duke Galand’s tomb. The holy power will repulse the Red Duke’s creatures, perhaps even the vampire himself will be unable to endure the Lady’s blessing. In any effect, I know that the Red Duke will be weakened if he is forced to fight on such hallowed ground.
“Then there is another point to consider,” Iselda added, raising one of her slender fingers. “We know that the Red Duke’s madness will eventually lead him back to Ceren Field.” She sighed, frowning as the most troubling thought of them all forced itself onto her tongue. “The only thing we do not know is when that madness will lead him there. By the time the Red Duke turns to Ceren Field, he may already have plundered the graves of the horse lords and opened the cromlechs around Dragon’s Hill.”
Leuthere turned towards the prophetess, a desperate idea forming in his brain. “Maybe we can provoke the vampire’s madness somehow,” he offered. He stared out over Duke Gilon and his advisors, the same men who had mocked his warning before. Now these men watched him with rapt, hopeful expressions. “If the Red Duke thought he needed to attack Isabeau when he saw the Tower of Wizardry, then maybe that is the key to bringing him to Ceren Field. If we can somehow provoke his madness, make him think King Louis is waiting to do battle with him…”
Richemont leapt to his feet. With quick strides the bold knight crossed the hall, advancing to the rows of armour and weaponry lining the wall. He paused before a tattered old banner bearing a quartered field and the heraldry of a crowned lion rampant opposed by a leopard rampant wearing the crescent-topped helm of an Arabyan sultan. Richemont bowed his head reverently, then pulled the standard away from the wall, holding it over his head by its bronze crossbeam.
“The banner of King Louis the Righteous,” Richemont declared, displaying the colours so that all the assembled generals could see it. “The same banner that rode beside him at the first battle of Ceren Field! If anything will provoke that undead bastard into facing us in open battle, this is what will do it!”
Duke Gilon beamed at his son, inspired by the cleverness and imagination of Richemont’s plan as much as the knight’s theatrical oratory. He motioned for the excited murmur of his generals and advisors to quiet. “A small company of riders can be sent to intercept the Red Duke without any of the logistical concerns that prevent moving against him with the full might of Aquitaine. It will be a perilous mission; the men who ride before the Red Duke must draw near enough to his host that the vampire can see the banner of King Louis, yet stay far enough away that they can withdraw at leisure. They must lead the Red Duke across Aquitaine, drawing him out, goading him into the mad grip of his own past. They must bring the vampire to Ceren Field where the army will await to destroy him and all his monstrous legion.”
“Father,” Richemont said, bending his knee before Duke Gilon. “I volunteer myself for this task.”
Duke Gilon grew pale. For a moment, the twitch returned to his cheek. “I cannot allow that,” he said. “I need you here to help organize the defences at Ceren Field.”
Richemont stood, his face flushed with anger. “It was my plan, your grace,” he stated, not quite keeping the emotion from his voice.
“Begging your pardon,” Leuthere interrupted. “But the plan to trick the Red Duke was mine. If anyone should risk his neck, then it is me.”
“We can’t trust this mission to a mere household knight,” Count Ergon challenged, stepping forward. “I offer myself to act as bait for the vampire.”
Leuthere rounded on the older knight, glaring at him. “You care nothing about luring the Red Duke to Ceren Field! Your only thought is to keep anyone else from destroying the vampire before you get your chance for revenge!” He sneered at Count Ergon, gesturing at the nobleman’s stiff right arm. “Besides which you are wounded, physically unfit.”
Count Ergon grimaced and gripped his right arm as Leuthere spoke. “I’ve recovered quite a bit since I saved your life in Mercal,” he said, taking extreme delight in watching Leuthere wince in pain at mention of his rescue. “As for the Red Duke, I have sworn by the Lady to kill the fiend. That is truth.” He bowed before Duke Gilon, laying his sword upon the floor at his feet. “But now I swear this oath. I vow that I shall bring the vampire to Ceren Field, whatever it costs me. I will take no move to avenge my family until the Red Duke has fallen into your trap.”
Duke Gilon smiled at the intensity of Count Ergon’s oath. “I have known your family a long time, du Maisne. I have never known one of them to break his word. You may lead the ‘bait’ as you call it.” The duke pointed sternly at the kneeling count. “But I add this condition. You will take Sir Leuthere d’Elbiq with you. If, in the heat of the moment, you should be tempted to forget your vo
w to me, then Leuthere will be there to remind you of your promise.”
Count Ergon scowled as he rose to his feet, directing an acid look at Leuthere. “As you command, your grace.”
“Choose your companions,” Duke Gilon directed. “No more than a dozen men. Take the finest horses that have been brought to the muster, choose animals known for the stoutness of their hearts and the fleetness of their legs.” The duke’s expression became dour.
“Lady be with you, Count Ergon,” the duke said. “The fate of Aquitaine rests upon the success of your mission.”
CHAPTER XVI
“I thought you said you knew how to ride!”
The mocking laughter of Duchess Martinga rolled back through the orchard. For the duke, the sound was as enchanting as the faerie music of the Athel Loren. There was a mixture of enticement and warmth in her voice that made his heart quicken whenever he heard her speak. Even in her angriest moods, his wife fascinated him.
Today, she was far from angry.
“Someone insisted I buy her the fastest horse in Quenelles,” the duke retorted. “A rider can’t be responsible if his horse is outmatched!”
Martinga turned her steed about, a reproving pout on her pretty face. “That is a churlish thing to say,” she scolded him. “Blaming your poor mount for your own failure.”
A mischievous grin crept onto the duke’s face. With a sudden burst of speed, he charged his horse forwards. Before Martinga could spur her own mount into action, he had her reins in his hand.
“That was cheating,” she scolded him.
“That was strategy,” he winked back at her. “Battles are not won by bravery and bullheadedness. You have to trick the enemy into making a mistake.”
Martinga arched an eyebrow at him. “Oh, so I’m the enemy now?”
The duke laughed and pressed her hands to his lips. “The Lady forbid!” he exclaimed. “I can think of no more perilous a foe than the one who holds my heart in her soft hands.”
Still laughing, he threw his leg over the neck of his horse and slid down from the saddle. He reached up to help his wife extricate herself from the complicated, ladylike contrivance lashed to the back of her own steed.
“We should be getting back,” she warned him. Despite the admonition, she made no effort to resist as he lowered her to the ground.
“I’m the duke,” he smiled back at her. “They won’t dare start the feast until I get back.”
“And what about the duchess?” Martinga asked.
He licked his lips and pursed his mouth as he made a show of considering the question. “They probably won’t wait if it’s only you,” he said at last. “What is a duchess more or less when there is eating and drinking to be done?”
Martinga rolled her eyes at him. “To think I might have been Queen of Bretonnia instead of simply Duchess of Aquitaine!”
Instantly she regretted the flippant words. Meant in jest, she saw the flash of pain in her husband’s eyes. Quickly she took his hand in hers, squeezing it tight, letting him know there had been no malice intended.
The duke stared at her, his eyes heavy with pain and not a little guilt. “You could have been queen,” he said. “Louis always favoured you. By the grail, there were days when I gave up all hope, when I was sure he would win your affection. When he came back from his quest glowing with the grace of the Lady, I was certain I had lost you.”
Martinga hugged him to her. “My dear, sweet knight,” she whispered. “He could never move my heart as you do. Even if he is king, I would still choose my noble duke.”
He let her slip free from his grip, reassured by the love in her voice. The moment of doubt and pain passed and the mischievous twinkle was back in his eye. “He’s my junior by two years, you know. He’d have been a much better catch than this tired old warhorse.”
Martinga smiled at him, nodding in agreement. “Louis was always the spry one. You’d hardly believe he shared the same parents as the clumsy, worn-out ogre I married.”
Without warning, the duke caught her around the waist, pulling her with him as he fell onto the grass. “Worn-out ogre?” he challenged. “You shall rue those words!”
Martinga giggled in feigned terror. “Not here! What if someone is watching!”
The duke leaned over her, staring into her eyes. “These are the king’s orchards. Nobody is supposed to be in them. So if there are any spies about, I’ll have their eyes put out.”
“If nobody is supposed to be in the orchard, doesn’t that mean we’re in the wrong too?” Martinga objected, fending off her husband’s kiss.
“Oh we’ll be fine,” the duke assured her with assumed severity. “My little brother has always been a bit afraid of me.”
Thick storm clouds choked the leaden sky, blotting out the sun like a murderer’s cloak. The woods were silent, undisturbed by the song of bird or the scamper of deer. Nothing living dared stir within the forest, nothing save the degenerate ghouls that ranged ahead of the monstrous army and the swarm of bats that circled above the rotting zombies.
One other living creature braved the presence of the Red Duke’s army, riding alongside his vampiric master on the rigid back of a zombified horse. The heart of Renar’s living steed had quit long ago, frightened into bursting by the swelling numbers of undead marching under the Red Duke’s banner. Renar had accepted the animal’s defection with a pragmatic shrug, using one of his spells to force the horse’s carcass to serve him more faithfully than before. He only wished the creature had retained some of the resiliency of life. His arse was beginning to chafe from contact with the animal’s bony back.
The necromancer rubbed his sores and scowled at the grim procession of wights and skeletons shambling through the forest. The undead did not tire, they had no need for rest or provision the way mortal soldiers did. The Red Duke could march his legion to the end of the earth and there would never arise from them the slightest murmur of discomfort. It was inspiring, really, until one noted the worms wriggling through the flesh of the zombies, or the rusty bits of harness crumbling off the grey bones of the wights.
Ahead, the forest began to thin out, the trees becoming sickly runts of their breed, clawing at the darkened sky with naked branches, their trunks peeling from the ravages of fungus and beetle. The ground, so lush before, became a lifeless stretch of dun-hued dirt, as withered in its fashion as the trees sprouting from it. Legend held that the ground had been poisoned by the venomous blood of a mighty dragon slain by some now forgotten hero centuries before Giles le Breton was born.
Unfit for crops or pasture, the pragmatic horse lords had employed the region to entomb their dead. Through the dead trees, Renar could see the barren hillocks within which the bones of the Bretonni tribesmen had rested down through the ages. There were dozens of the barrows, each raised to honour an ancient king. The druids of those times had practised horrific rites and most ghastly of all had been the ceremonies made to consecrate the graves of their kings. Heroic warriors would be massacred and entombed beside their king that the sovereign might have a fitting bodyguard to accompany him into the world of shadow. Fine steeds, the favourite consorts of the king, even cooks and artisans would be chained inside the barrow to follow the spirit of their master into the land of death. Even a member of the cruel druidic order would stay to attend the dead sovereign, sealing the barrow from within at the conclusion of the burial.
The necromancer rubbed his hands together in sardonic glee. The bloody rituals of the druids had left the barrows choked with dead horse lords. Each tomb would offer dozens, if not hundreds of bodies to reanimate. There would be no stopping the Red Duke once such a force was bound to his will.
Renar looked over at his vampiric master. The Red Duke sat astride his ghastly horse, staring hungrily at the rows of barrows. The vampire seemed most keen to investigate the sprawling mound called Dragon’s Hill. The necromancer could easily guess why. From the size of the mound, the king entombed within must have had an entire nation buried with him.
Or, and the thought brought a tremor of excitement to him, perhaps the site was the tomb of that forgotten hero who had slain the venomous wyrm so long ago. It was possible the druids had buried hero and beast together.
Might the bones of a dragon lie inside Dragon’s Hill? It was a fascinating question. Renar had read of necromancers who had restored such mighty beasts to the simulacrum of life, resurrecting their reptilian bones as mammoth zombies. He wondered if his knowledge of the black arts was sufficient to create such a monster should they uncover a real dragon buried under the mound.
“There is much work for you here, sorcerer,” the Red Duke hissed, turning his savage gaze upon Renar. “The ground is obscene with the smell of death.”
Renar nodded his head in fawning agreement. “Quite so, your grace,” he told the vampire. “It will tax both our powers to call so many from their graves, but when we are finished here, your army shall be the mightiest Bretonnia has ever seen!”
“No,” the Red Duke corrected him. “It will not be finished here. I will not be content until I have a legion great enough to scour Aquitaine clean.” The Red Duke’s gaunt face pulled back in a feral snarl. “Why- I have finished with Aquitaine, not a bird, not a rabbit, not a mouse will be left to draw breath. The land shall suffer for rejecting its master. I shall make of Aquitaine a charnel house that shall make the Lady tremble and cower! The blood of Aquitaine will be exterminated, burned away like a noxious pestilence!”
The vampire’s oath made Renar shiver, his pasty features becoming pale with fear. There was no doubt the Red Duke meant what he said. In his moments of madness, he sought to refight lost battles. In his lucid state, the vampire’s ambition was to satiate his long-denied bloodlust, to avenge the centuries of torment he had endured within his own tomb. The agony of all he had lost, the pain of his wife’s suicide, the betrayal of his king, these he would wash from his soul by unleashing a tidal wave of slaughter upon the land. It was enough to horrify even Renar’s twisted morality.
[Heroes 05] - The Red Duke Page 27
