The Enchanter General 02 - Trial by Treason

by Dave Duncan

  Odell delivered his prisoner to the trap door and let go. Eadig swayed, but the pins-and-needles had almost stopped, so he didn’t fall head first into the hole.

  “Your choice, pest,” Corneille said. “You can go down by yourself or be thrown down. And you’re not going to hide under the desk tonight. Tonight you will be entree, or perhaps dessert. Yes, make that dessert. Sweet, tender dessert.”

  Eadig wanted to point out that the stairs were very nearly as steep as a ladder and his hands were not only tied behind him but tied so tightly that they were almost numb already. He couldn’t say so, though, because of the gag. The Satanist already knew all that and would probably enjoy watching him hurtling down into the cellar—feetfirst, headfirst, in my lady’s chamber . . .

  Having no choice, Eadig sat down, lowered his feet into the opening, and then wriggled in after them. Struggling to grip the slats with his hands, he slid downward, step by step, until he was standing on the flagstone floor. That Satanic stink was still there, and he supposed now that it was about to get much stronger when tonight’s abomination was completed.

  All five lamps above the pentacle were lit already, and the five lecterns set in position at the points. One man was busily dressing himself in one of the black robes, while another was starting to strip, ignoring the fact that there was a woman sitting . . . Oh, Lord, save us! It was Lovise Larson, bound and gagged, seated in the middle of the pentacle. She hadn’t seen him, because she had her back to him, and was looking at—

  Worse! The man chained against the far wall, where Sir Piers had stood yesterday, was Durwin. Only then did Eadig realize that he had secretly been hoping that Durwin would somehow appear to rescue him, leading in a band of men-at-arms to slaughter the devil-worshipers. But if both Lovise and Durwin had been captured, then there wasn’t any hope at all.

  Durwin was staring at Eadig with equal dismay, because Eadig was supposed to have been safely away in Nottingham hours ago, letting cats out of bags.

  Corneille had come down the stairs. He said, “Move!” and gave Eadig a hard shove. Eadig staggered forward, then stopped. He wasn’t going to cooperate in his own last rites in any way at all! His stubbornness made no difference—he was pushed through the gate, into the pentacle. Lovise looked up and her eyes widened. Unable to say anything, Eadig just shrugged.

  “Sit!”

  Eadig shook his head, so then his legs were kicked out from under him, pitching him down on floor. Hard!

  Corneille knelt at his feet, holding a rope. “I owe you a hard kick in the face, brat, and if you give me any trouble at all, that’s what you’ll get, understand?”

  Eadig nodded, and offered no resistance as Corneille began to bind his ankles.

  “Oh, brave man!” Durwin said. “Brave, brave man! A child half your size, bound and gagged and helpless, and you threaten to kick him in the face? Is there nothing you won’t stoop to?”

  The Satanist looked around at him. “I don’t know. I might try to find out in an hour or so. Like ordering you to cut off your own balls, for instance. And you’ll do it, you know.”

  Footsteps on the stairs announced that the rest of the gang were assembling.

  “Odell!” Durwin shouted. “Go and tell the master-at-arms that Durwin’s chained to the wall down here! They’re going to raise the Devil here, Odell. You’re on the wrong side, you’re helping Satan, Odell. Your soul—”

  Quentin ran forward and backhanded him across the mouth, then turned to look past Eadig at the giant. “He’s lying, Sergeant. Don’t believe anything he said. You can go home, now. Go to bed now.”

  Eadig heard the ladder creak as the giant began to climb.

  Satisfied, Quentin inspected the trickle of blood from Durwin’s lip. “He does what I tell him, you fool. Just me, no one else. Only two of us enthralled him: Walter of Froyle and me. We have to renew the spell about twice a week, but that’s nothing compared to what’s going to happen to you, with five of us chanting. We had the d’Airelle brothers down on their knees licking the floor.”

  “You will burn in Hell for all eternity.”

  “Not I!” Quentin snapped. “Henry will arrive in Hell before I do, but he will burn and I shall not. At the Dark Lord’s side, I shall sit in comfort, watching that Plantagenet dog writhe in torment through all eternity.”

  “You really believe the Devil’s promises, you idiot?”

  “What I believe doesn’t matter. And just in case the d’Airelle brothers fail, we now have a second string to our bow—you, Familiaris Durwin. You, too, have access to the king.”

  Durwin laughed. “Me? Access to the king?”

  “Oh, yes. It was Neil who warned us of that, and he cannot lie to me. Henry really ought to choose his friends more carefully. You won’t even need a dagger, because you know how to chant, and we shall arm you with a malediction that will stop his foul heart.”

  Eadig looked around to see what the others were doing. Quentin and Corneille were undressing and the other three had already put on robes. Everything else, even shoes, went into the chest. Two of the enchanters began carrying books around, one to each lectern.

  “To your places, if you, please, brothers!” Sage Corneille was the only one whose face was visible to Eadig. He frowned as he regarded the layout. “The offerings are too close to the center. Henri, Tancred, move them please.”

  Hands gripped Eadig’s shoulder and dragged him nearer the edge of the pentagon. Another of the robed men moved Lovise, and no more gently.

  “Better!” Corneille said. “Tonight of course, fellow Savants, we shall again chant the Adeste daemonia. I remind you that we have a couple of minor changes of wording. Last night we had one offering and two recruits. Tonight we have two offerings and one recruit. So the—”

  “You don’t need the woman,” Durwin shouted. “Kill the boy if you must kill somebody, but leave Lovise out of this abomination.”

  Eadig nodded vigorously to show that he approved of this idea, although it wasn’t the program he would really prefer, which would be to cut all the enchanters’ throats with a rusty saw. Slowly.

  “If you interrupt again,” Corneille told Durwin, “I shall have to gag you. I prefer not to, because we shall be able to judge by the timbre your screams when you are genuinely being possessed—not that I expect you to have much opportunity to fake your response. You should consider yourself honored to witness this magnificent demonstration of conjuration. I am sure the self-styled wise men of Helmdon never taught you anything as advanced as the Adeste daemonia.”

  He cleared his throat. “Now, brothers, do please remember: two offerings and one recruit. Sacrificia plural, tiro singular. If anyone wishes, we can do a read-through. That will take some time, and I am sure we are all anxious to get to bed, after two busy nights. No?

  “As before, we use the plural second person when summoning the guests. It is,” he told Durwin, “never possible to know exactly how many of these, um, entities is or are present.”

  “Too many, either way,” Durwin said in an astonishingly calm voice.

  “Quite. They also have a distinctive odor, which will permeate our clothing, and that’s why we change into these working costumes. You, Durwin, will survive the ceremony, so if you wish to undress, we can pack your garments away in the chest to preserve them. Otherwise you’ll have to burn them tomorrow.” “Very kind of you, I’m sure, but I find this dungeon rather chilly. You, on the other hand, are playing with fire. Why don’t you get on with the farce and we’ll see who laughs last?”

  “You threats don’t worry us, Sage Durwin of Helmdon. Your spells don’t work. You tried to curse all five of us, but we had taken precautions. We are all completely curse-proof against anything you could throw against us. But don’t worry. You will be very happy with your new slave status—you will feel as if you are achieving your life’s ambition.” He glanced around his accomplices. “Ready, brothers? You are all quite happy with omitting a read-through first?”

  Four
cowled heads nodded and mumbled agreement.

  “Very well, then. At the beginning.” He blew a note on a pitch pipe, and launched into the enchantment.

  Adeste daemonia called on demons to attend. As its title proclaimed, the spell was in Latin—old Church Latin, so far as Eadig could tell. It was also by far the longest and most complicated enchantment he had ever heard. Corneille was first voice, singing the equivalent of versicles. Sometimes the other four had solo responses, but not always all of them, nor in the same order. Sometimes they chanted together, as a choir—a choir of Hell, for they were summoning major devils. Eadig recognized many of the names, having been taught to shun any incantation that mentioned even one of them: Lilith, Iblis, Azazel, Beelzebub, Minos, Rhadamanthus, Aeacus, Pluto, Samyaza, Puck, Angra-Mainyu, Set, Loki, Rahu, Baal, although never Satan, but there were dozens of others that he had never heard of, and those must be devils also.

  Gradually the demonic summons began to work. The light faded as if the lanterns were being obscured by smoke; the dreadful stench of dung and rotting meat grew stronger. Something was happening in the center of the pentacle, although it was hard to make out exactly what. The air above it glowed, usually faintly, but sometimes bright, as it writhed, grew, shrank, changed color, varied from one to many. The floor was shaking, the lamps swinging, the ground making ominous noises, like belching or farting.

  Eadig wanted to pray, but he found that he couldn’t, that somehow the words were being blocked. He was both shivering and sweating at the same time.

  With a sound of grinding rock, something oozed up through the floor at the center of the pentacle, between him and Lovise. It might be a giant’s head, or a bundle of decayed corpses, or just an enormous suppuration—it was hard to look at, and never stayed quite the same for more than a moment. It, or they, shone in disgusting greens and yellows. At times it had eyes, two or more, and one or many fanged mouths. That might be a vast arm resting on the floor as it heaved itself higher, and if so it had claws like scythe blades.

  The incantation ended in a triumphant chorus. Five grimoires were shut, and the chanters leaned on their lecterns as if recovering from a long exertion.

  “By what name are you conjured?” Corneille cried, still speaking Latin. His voice faded away in strange echoes.

  We are Legion.

  That answer seemed to originate inside Eadig’s head, and yet it reverberated through the cellar as the singing had; it was both an intimate whisper in his ear and an echoing thunder from far away. The vision was never still, changing constantly, both too horrible to look at, and yet impossible not to look at, for it reeked of evil, hatred, and infinite power.

  “Legion, I bid you to enthrall the prisoner Durwin of Helmdon to me so that he shall always do my bidding, fanatically serve my purposes, and never betray me.”

  Yuuuh? Legion gurgled as if its mouth or mouths had filled with vomit. And what price do you offer for this service?

  “I give you Healer Lovise Larson and Adept Eadig son of Edwin, body and soul, to feed your hate.”

  Two enormous eyes rolled around the monster and came to a halt staring down at Eadig.

  Two virgins without enough sins to be crunchy. Still, two for one is better than you gave us last night. Let us hear what Durwin bids.

  All five enchanters shouted out in anger or panic, with Corneille the loudest. “No! It was we who summoned you by the ancient call!”

  Silence! Legion’s whispered command stopped every sound. At the end of your song you offered us this choice. Speak, little Durwin, and speak well, because we are offered two virgins. You, if you will excuse my mentioning it, do not qualify in that category.

  Durwin seemed surprised, but certainly agreeable. “I offer you all five of these traitor Satanists, body and soul, to feed your hate.”

  But the worshipers are already ours, given time. However long any of them may live, we can wait; ’twill be no loss for us, for we are eternal.

  “Five are better than two.”

  This is true. What services do you demand in return?

  “Nothing! Nothing at all. I do not bargain with the likes of you. Take them and begone.”

  Five black sinners as a free gift instead of two virgins as price for a possession? That smells like a better offer. What do you think, Corneille of Lepuix?

  “You cannot!” The sage’s voice was almost a scream. “You are bound by our enchantment!”

  You should have done the read-through. You sang words that were not there last night. Have you no better offer?

  “Yes, yes!” Corneille screamed. “Take them all but me! I give you Durwin, Quentin, Walter, Lovise, Henri, Tancred, and Eadig, but leave me so that I may continue to serve you here, in the world of sinners, forever.”

  The demon, or demons, found that amusing. He-they guffawed, making the whole building rock. We think not, little Corneille. We like Durwin’s offer better.

  “But I am offering you seven souls, seven bodies, to feed your hate, and I ask nothing in return, nothing.”

  True, the demons said thoughtfully, but we had rather leave Durwin here, in the world of sinners, until some other night. In time he may serve us better than you will. We accept your price, Durwin of Helmdon, and laud your lover’s cunning. Come to me, dear Quentin of Lepuix.

  A vast, slobbering maw opened in Legion’s shivering, shifting image, emitting a belch whose stench that made Eadig’s head swim. Screaming, pleading, and cursing, Quentin approached it, fighting every step, but drawn inexorably. When he arrived, a black tongue lolled out like a welcoming carpet, and he climbed aboard. He and the tongue vanished inside. Legion made some disgusting chewing noises, and then spat out a soggy mess that might once have been a black gown.

  Again Legion belched thunderously, then metamorphosed into a scrambling mass of smaller demons like cockroaches, struggling and tearing at one another with sickle claws, each one trying to reach the top of the heap.

  Walter! they screeched. Walter of Froyle, come to us.

  As reluctant as Quentin, another robed enchanter dragged himself inward to meet his fate. The pack sucked him in, ripping his gown off him in bloody shreds, and then devouring his naked body while he screamed. At the end, when only his head was left, they played with it, tossing it up and catching it, and somehow, even lacking lungs to breathe with, it screamed and screamed. Then they ate it also, and spat out the teeth in a tiny hailstorm.

  That left Henri Morlaix, Tancred de Umfraville, and Corneille Boterel. One after another they went, and each death seemed more horrible than the last. Corneille took the longest to go, burning and melting like a lump of soft fat, bubbling screams all the time. Lovise Larson was weeping and sobbing prayers. Durwin just watched, grim and ashen-faced. Eadig wished he could faint.

  Finally there was only Legion itself, or themselves. Now they reeked of roast meat; it sweated gravy. Very tasty! Will there be anything more, Boy Enchanter? The stench of pity in here is quite sickening.

  “Nothing more,” Durwin said hoarsely. “You have done. In Christ’s name begone.”

  Then I wish you a fond evilbye, the monster said. I know we shall meet again, some dark night. It dwindled and vanished with a disgusting sucking noise.

  The lanterns brightened.

  chapter 21

  i have already admitted that I underestimated Corneille Boterel and his accomplices, but no one had ever warned me about Le Salon de Satan. I had no idea that such an organization existed. “The Sons of Satan” was what we called them later as we hunted them all across England. It was years before we were able to catalogue all the chants and tricks Quentin and Corneille must have used to avoid capture that day, to smuggle the town healers into the castle when the guards had orders to forbid them entry, and eventually to assemble in the sanctum building right under the noses of the men-at-arms guarding the only door.

  Nor have I ever claimed credit for foiling the Satanists’ efforts to enthrall me. That was all Lovise’s doing. Finding herself locked
into the room upstairs with me an inanimate lump on the floor, she remembered what I had told her about trip wires and proceeded to add six words to each copy of the final chorus in the enslavement chant. As Legion gloatingly told the Sons, they should have done a read-through, for then at least one of them must surely have noticed that deadly addition.

  So the conspirators had gone and we three had survived, but the danger was by no means past. Neil and Piers had a clear day’s start and were undoubtedly riding hell for leather on their way to find King Henry and kill him. The night was halfway gone and we were all exhausted.

  I dredged up from memory the text of Cambrioleur, a solo-voice spell to open locks. I chanted it and my shackles fell free. With my muscles all tangled by pins and needles, I staggered over to Louise and knelt down to untie her bonds. Eadig made frantic noises through his gag.

  “I’ll get to you in a moment,” I snapped, struggling with the knots.

  He made louder noises, rolling his eyes and jerking his head. As soon as I had the sense to realize what he might be telling me, I started playing the question game.

  “There’s a knife?”

  Nod—nod—nod. More head waving.

  “In the chests?”

  Nod—nod—nod.

  So I went to the chests and located the writing supplies he had discovered two days before, which included a penknife. That solved the first problem, releasing the prisoners.

  The second problem was the unbearable stench that had saturated our clothes. The only available substitutes were the clothes the Satanists had discarded—for which they would never have any use again. They were all men’s garments, of course, but Lovise was tall. She selected some and went off upstairs to change. Eadig and I did what we could with the rest. Our skin and hair still reeked, of course, but that was far down our list of troubles.