Blood of the Impaler (39 page)

"So you make a judgment," the Voivode said. "You may be wrong."

"I may be wrong," the voice agreed.

"I may win."

"The pope may become sultan," the voice said. "The king of Hungary may become a Moor, and the king of France a Hussite."

The Voivode laughed bitterly. "I shall not win the battle, and I shall die."

"Yes, horribly, at the hands of Torghuz Beg."

The Voivode began to pace up and down in the silent crypt. "It cannot end thus. I must have an alternative. I must go into battle knowing that even in defeat I shall triumph."

The voice did not respond for a long while. Then it said, "There is a way, Little Dragon, but it will entail a special damnation."

The Voivode laughed. "Do you think I fear damnation, Ordogh? I am damned already!"

"Yes," the voice agreed, "but for as long as you live, you have the option of repentance."

He spat a bitter laugh. "Sooner will the raven walk or the wolf fly."

"I know," the voice said. "You bring great joy to me, Little Dragon. You have always brought great joy to me."

"Then tell me of this way, Ordogh. Tell me how I can triumph over Torghuz Beg, even in defeat."

"If you choose the way, you will be serving me and pleasing me long after the name of Torghuz Beg is forgotten, and long after the stones of this fortress have been reduced to dust by the wind and the rain, if you choose the way, your service to me will not end with death."

"Tell me, Ordogh, What is the alternative which I have?"

The voice seemed to whisper in his ear. It whispered of strange powers, of great joy in the midst of misery and great suffering in the midst of exquisite pleasure. It spoke of life and death, of life in death and death in life, of terror and ecstasy and pain.

When the voice had finished its whispering, the Voivode stood motionless and silent. "I had not dreamed of such a thing," he muttered.

"That is the offer I make to you, Little Dragon. It is yours to accept or reject, but know that you are damned regardless."

The Voivode nodded. "But I must think, Ordogh, I must consider this carefully. Must I answer now?"

"Call upon me unto the point of death. For as long as you live and breathe, you can choose to accept my offer. But remember Little Dragon that you are damned regardless; know that you will lose the battle; know that whether you accept or reject the way I have described to you, your land is fated to be ground beneath the heels of the Turk for many years."

The Voivode thought about this. "And if I accept, then I shall be here to rule again when the Turks are gone?"

"You will be here, but you will not care about kingdoms and castles and power and glory. The centuries will change you greatly, Voivode.
I
shall change you greatly."

He nodded again. "I shall call upon you again, Ordogh, and give you my answer, when the outcome of tomorrow's contest has been decided."

"I await your summons, Little Dragon," the voice said, and then there was silence.

The Voivode was deep in thought as he mounted the stairs that led from the crypt to the main floor of the fortress. He ignored the salutes of the guards as he continued back up to his private chambers.

Is vengeance and victory worth such a fate?
he asked himself.
Yes, it is
. He smiled.
If the battle is lost, if I am to die at the hands of Torghuz Beg, then it will be worth such a fate to see him die in terror and pain.

He entered his chambers once again and sat down on the side of the huge bed beside the sleeping figure of Simone, the Frankish girl. He stroked her hair absently and admired her naked form, draped by her golden tresses. "Simone," he whispered.

The girl opened her eyes groggily and gazed up at him with confusion. Then, seeing who had awakened her, she became instantly alert, and she smiled at him. Her smile was both loving and wary, for this was a hard man to please, and a dangerous man to displease. "My Lord!" she said softly. "I am glad of your presence."

"Are you indeed," he said, and smiled. "Tell me, my little Teuton, do you fear death?"

Her eyes went wide with apprehension. Such questions, when asked by the Voivode, were rarely rhetorical. "I . . . I am but eighteen, My Lord. I pray that death will spare me for many years."

"Tomorrow I battle the Turk, Simone. If I am victorious, then all will be well. But if I am defeated, if the Turk takes this fortress, then death may be something that you welcome."

She shook her head, relieved that his question was not a prelude to something more immediately frightening. "You shall win, My Lord. Of that I have no doubt."

He smiled at her with what passed for affection. "Do you want to live forever, little Simone?"

"My Lord?" she asked, not understanding his words.

"Would you live forever, if you could?"

She shrugged slightly. "Of course I would, My Lord."

"And if it meant death and misery for others? Would you still choose to live forever?"

"Why do you ask me this, My Lord?"

But he did not hear her response. He was stroking her firm young thigh absentmindedly as he stared off at nothing. "I would still choose it," he muttered. "What do the deaths of others mean to me? What is their misery beside my desires?"

"My Lord?"

He smiled at the girl. "Go back to sleep, Simone."

"Do you wish to take pleasure with me, My Lord?"

"No," he sighed, lying back on the bed and putting his arm around her. "I save my strength for Torghuz Beg. Sleep, little German." She leaned her head down and rested it upon his chest, listening to his heartbeat and wondering what his odd discourse portended. In a few minutes she was sleeping.

To triumph over my enemies
, he thought.
To reach out from beyond the grave and destroy them, make them beg and plead and whimper. What was it Genghis Khan said? Life has four great joys: killing your enemies, torturing their sons, raping their daughters, and making their widows weep.

You were wrong, Mongol
. He smiled.
There is a fifth pleasure, one so horrible that even you could never have dreamed of it
.

He dozed lightly for a few hours, and as the sun rose slowly over the mountaintops he was awakened by the sounds of bustle and voices in the great hall and out in the courtyard. A knocking on his door was followed by a nervous voice from without saying, "My Lord! The Turkish forces have been sighted near Dobresti!"

"Assemble my host!" the Voivode said as he sprang from the bed. "Tell Yaroslav to bring me my armor. Tell my generals to meet me in the great hail in fifteen minutes."

"Yes, Lord," the chamberlain said, and then hurried away from the door, shouting out the orders of his master.

"Malcolm!" he heard a distant voice saying.

The Voivode walked over to the window and looked out at the mountains.

"Malcolm! Wake up!"

Sunrise
, he thought.
By sunset, either I will be victorious or I will be in chains. If victorious, then tomorrow's sunrise will see me on the way to becoming lord of all Dacia. And
if
in chains, then I shall see no more sunrises
.

Even if I accept Ordogh's offer, even if I exist for centuries to come, never again shall I see the light of day
. He gazed out the window for a few more moments.

Then, as he turned to leave the room and go out to meet the Turk, a resounding slap landed on his cheek.

"Malcolm, wake up, goddamn it!" Jerry said.

"J . . . Jerry," he said weakly. "Wh . . . what . . ."

"Are you okay?" Jerry asked.

"Yes . . . another dream . . ."

"Shit," his friend muttered. "Why don't you sit down for a minute?"

It was only when Jerry made this suggestion that Malcolm realized that he was standing motionless, an untouched glass of sherry in his hand. He stared at it for a few moments and then impulsively poured the entire glass down his throat. The phone began ringing as he placed the glass down upon the table, and he stumbled over to it, "H . . . hello?"

"Malcolm?"

Her voice was like a ray of sunlight. "Holly! I . . . I was going to call you."

"I have to see you, Malcolm. Can you come over right away?"

"Yes, yes, I want to come over. An awful lot has happened, and—"

"You can tell me about it when you get here.
I'm
home, in my apartment. Can you come over now?"

"Sure I can," he said, smiling and relieved.

"Good. Come alone."

"Holly, I'm so happy that—" But there was dead air on the other end of the line. She had hung up. Malcolm turned to Jerry and said, "Tell Rachel that I'm going over to see Holly. Either I'll be back in a little while or I'll call you from her place." He rushed out the door, without waiting for a response.

It was just after sundown.

M
alcolm coughed nervously as he stood before the door of Holly Larsen's co-op apartment. He was alone in the narrow, dimly lighted hallway, and he glanced to his right and to his left to make certain that there were no witnesses to his unease and discomfort.
How can I ask her to put us up, after everything that has happened? How can I try to impose on her?
But he knew that he had to impose on her. And he knew that she would agree, knew that her decision to end their relationship had been a rational one that ran contrary to her emotions. He told himself that he knew this. In reality, he merely hoped it.

Malcolm coughed again, took a deep breath, and rang the buzzer. A long moment passed and then he heard Holly's voice say, "Come in, Malcolm." Her voice sounded somehow odd.

Malcolm found to his surprise that the door was not locked, and as he pushed it open and leaned his head into the apartment, he noticed first that all of the lights were out and all of the shades were drawn. Then an odor reached his nostrils and he crinkled his nose against the sickeningly sweet smell. "Holly?" he said into the darkness of the interior.

"Come in, Malcolm," she said again.

He stepped into the dark room, leaving the door open behind him. Attempting a bit of humor, he said, "I guess you didn't clean out your refrigerator before we left for England, right? Whew! There's one hell of a stink in here. This place is ripe!"

"Close the door behind you," she said. "Don't turn on the lights."

Malcolm pushed the door shut and then stood there,
allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness before walking forward. "Holly, what are you doing sitting in the dark?"

"Find a chair, Malcolm," she said softly. "We have some things to discuss."

He groped around in the general vicinity of where he remembered a chair as being, then sat down in it. "Holly, I can barely see you. Why do you have the lights out?"

"I'll explain in a moment. Just be quiet and listen to me."

"Sure, Holly, but first I have a favor to ask of you. I think that Lucy managed to hide the remains in my house somewhere, and we haven't been able to find them yet. I don't think that Rachel and I should stay there at night, and Lucy knows where Jerry lives, so would you be able to let us stay here tonight?"

"No."

Her answer was unambiguous and immediate. Malcolm was slightly nonplussed and managed only to say, "But . . . I mean, I know that we . . . I mean, you and I . . ."

Holly laughed, and there was a quality to her laugh that caused the hair on Malcolm's nape to bristle. "I'm afraid that I can't really give you any help, Malcolm. And I really think that it would be best for all concerned if you and Rachel stayed at home."

Malcolm peered through the darkness at his ex-girlfriend. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness as much as they were able, and still he could barely see her. He was able to see her teeth very dimly as she smiled, and the whiteness of her skin was very, very slightly visible in what little light insinuated its way through the slats of the blinds from the streetlamp. "Holly, I don't think you understand what I'm saying. If I stay in the house—"

"Stay in the house, Malcolm," she interrupted. "Don't fight it anymore. There are things happening here that you don't understand, that you can't even guess at. Just stay in the house. Give up."

"Give up!" he exclaimed, growing angry. "After what we've been through? After what I've done, after what might happen? Are you serious!" He paused as he reached out toward the table beside the chair and felt around in the darkness for the lamp. "Holly, I don't understand why you're—" He stopped speaking the moment after he switched on the light. He remained motionless, speechless, stunned, staring
at Holly Larsen. She sat across from him on the sofa, her right leg crossed over her left, her hands folded demurely in her lap; but only the studied poise of her position was the same as the Holly he had known. Her skin, once so delicate and rosy, now had the aspect of marble cold, hard, and lifeless. Her face, once so warm and expressive and loving, was a drawn, pallid mask of inhuman amusement. Her smile, once sincere, was now sardonic, and her once hazel eyes now burned with a reddish glow.