Tales of the Old World (64 page)

“How so?” the knight demanded. He leant forward eagerly, elbow rested on one
knee and eyes locked on the elder’s tragic countenance. His right hand,
seemingly of its own accord, had stolen down to brush against the hilt of his
sword. Claude regarded his master with a wry smile. Now that action beckoned he
looked more warrior than gentleman, and more wolf than either.

Francois, though, seemed oblivious to this change in his guest’s character.
His attention had wandered far beyond the present murky depths of this world and
into the past. He sighed and, with an obvious effort, dragged himself back to
the here and now.

“How so? Well, because when a man has gold in his pocket and the sun is
warming the stone of the high passes it’s only natural for him to consider
straying. Especially when…”

Francois eyes flickered upwards with a sudden guilty start and he broke off
in consternation. Claude wondered what had caused his host’s evident
discomfiture until, from behind him, a woman’s voice rang out.

“Especially when he’s married to such a shrew. Isn’t that what you were going
to say, Francois de Tarn?”

Claude turned to regard the speaker. She was, he thought charitably, a
solidly built woman. The black cloth of her smock looked hard-pressed to contain
the bulk of her hips and chest. Despite her impressive girth, though, her face
look pinched, sharp and hard even in the dull glow of the rush lights.

Shrew-like indeed, thought Claude sadly, and felt pity welling up inside of
him. He could guess how it must have been for this woman when she tried to tell
her neighbours of her husband’s disappearance. How they must have frowned and
talked of search parties in public whilst privately wishing the runaway all good
speed.

“No, Celine, I wasn’t going to say that,” the elder rallied, cutting through
the thread of Claude’s speculation. “I was going to say that when a husband and
wife have problems… well, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” the widow sighed, suddenly deflated. Francois shrugged
uncomfortably and ploughed on.

“Anyway, about a week after Pierre was taken we lost Charles. Then Alain the
smith. Then Bastien. Then Fredric and Sullier right afterwards. And then… then
the children, Sophie and Louise…” His voice trailed off into nothingness and he
swallowed painfully.

As the old man had recited the terrible litany of the lost it had been
punctuated by choked sobs or low, miserable moans from the assembled villagers.
Claude shifted uncomfortably. The air felt greasy with the grief and fear that
was tearing this small community apart. The tension, almost unbearable, crushed
down on his chest.

But if the weight of their misery had made any impression on Sir Gilles he
wasn’t showing it. The only emotion visible on the knight’s face was a terrible
hunger, an eagerness that reminded Claude of boar hounds straining at the leash.
For the second time in as many days the old retainer faced the gulf that lay
between them and shivered.

“So,” the knight said, his tones crisp and oblivious to the pain around him.
“What sort of intervals are we talking about between disappearances?”

“It varies.” Francois shrugged his shoulders. “Between Pierre and Charles ten
days. Between Sophie and Louise only three.”

“The children. Not as much meat on them, I suppose,” Sir Gilles mused aloud.

Behind him Claude heard a stifled cry and a rush of feet to the door.

“And you found no sign of a struggle? No smashed doors, no cries in the
night?”

“No.” The elder paused for a moment, his eyes flickering over the assembly
before he continued. “Charles was taken from his very bed whilst his wife lay
sleeping beside him.”

Sir Gilles nodded. One moment crawled slowly into the next, the time marked
only by the rise and fall of the wind outside and the spluttering hiss of the
rush lights within. When the knight finally spoke it was with a cry that sent
those nearest to him lurching backwards.

“Of course! Where do you bury your dead?”

“In the crypt behind the shrine,” the elder replied, puzzlement adding a
fresh tide of wrinkles to his brow. “Why do you ask, lord?”

“And tell me, do you have a store of garlic here?” the knight continued
uninterrupted.

“Of course, my lord. What kitchen doesn’t?”

Claude shared the old man’s confusion until, with a sudden flash of
inspiration, he remembered a tale from one of the castle grimoires. A tale of
nocturnal vanishings and blood black in the light of the moon. A tale of strange
weapons, garlic and water and…

“The only other things you’ll need are sharpened staves.” Sir Gilles rubbed
his hands together and sighed with satisfaction. He looked, thought Claude with
a touch of awe, like a man contemplating a feast or a day’s hunting.

“Well,” the knight prompted his host after a moment or two, “could you find
such staves of which I speak?”

Francois, the bafflement which marked his liver-spotted features reflected in
the faces of the rest of the assembly, nodded slowly.

“We can certainly make some, and that within the hour. But, my lord, Charles
and Pierre were woodsman, with woodsman’s axes. If their weapons failed them,
what use will sticks be to us?”

Claude watched a touch of irritation flicker across the brown depths of the
knight’s eyes before he answered.

“Using steel against the thing which now preys upon you is like trying to
drown a fish. No, don’t ask me why. Only the Lady knows how these things gain
their terrible strengths. All I know is that against the vampire the peasant’s
only weapon is wood, his only shield garlic.”

“The… vampire?” Francois asked, eyes widening in horror. A chorus of whimpers
and low curses rushed through his fellows, the sound as soft and insistent as
the chill wind that even now tried the locks and hinges of the inn.

Claude felt the hairs raise themselves one by one along the back of his neck
as he moved unthinkingly with the press of bodies that huddled closer to the
knight. As the crowd around him shifted with the restrained panic of a herd of
cattle before a storm, he noticed the furtive glances they cast towards the
shadowy corners of the inn and the rattling shutters of the windows.

Vampire!
It was a name to chill the hardest of hearts, a name to conjure
up a thousand half-remembered terrors from the darkest nights of childhood.
Claude was suddenly very grateful for the claustrophobic mass of warm bodies
that were packed so tightly around him.

“Am I right in thinking, my lord,” Francois began with all the caution of a
man taking the first step out onto a tightrope, “that you intend to lead us
against this beast?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Sir Gilles replied. There was a sudden, angry murmur
of protest from the crowd and, for the first time, the knight seemed to notice
them. He looked up and the granite wall of his gaze cut off their protests with
a guillotine’s speed.

“I won’t be leading you good people anywhere,” he continued, turning back to
Francois as if there had been no interruption. “I will go now to await this
monstrosity in the crypt you mentioned. Such things are usually tied to their
burial grounds, making a mockery of these resting places with their filthy
presence. Meanwhile, you’ll bring everyone back here tonight and arm yourselves
against the creature’s attack.”

A thoughtful silence descended upon the villagers. Claude could almost taste
their relief. “Any further questions?” the knight asked.

“I don’t think so, sire.” Francois shook his head. “But is there naught we
can do for you?”

Sir Gilles looked into the old man’s eyes and smiled, the expression cold and
humourless. “Yes. Make sure that nobody goes anywhere on their own until this is
finished.”

“Even to the latrines?”

A ripple of nervous laughter spread through the confines of the room at this.
Sir Gilles was pleased to hear it. Better foolish catcalls than blind terror.

“Even to the latrines,” he replied presently. “Now, who will show us to this
sepulchre?”

It was dark and, despite the bulk of Claude’s borrowed blankets, cold. He
could smell the thin, metallic scent of rain on the wind and feel the choking
weight of cloud that blocked out even the scant light of moon and stars. Only
the guttering red fire of their rush lights gave the two figures any trace of
light by which to keep their lonely vigil.

They sat like mismatched bookends on either side of the burial pit, these
two, their very presence defying the hungry shadows of the sepulchre’s maw.
Claude glanced across at his master, a little awed as always by the man’s
inexhaustible capacity for stillness.

Only the silvery glitter of the knight’s hooded eyes gave any indication that
he was awake, or even alive. That same glitter was reflected in the
straight-edged length of steel which lay across his begreaved knees. Sir Gilles
had been strapped into his full armour as he had given the villagers their last
instructions.

“Stay together. Even if it breaks in, don’t panic. Stand shoulder to shoulder
and call for me. But don’t pursue it. Remember, stay together.”

Claude, remembering the earnestness of the young knight’s expression and the
terrified eyes of the villagers, smiled. Had Sir Gilles really believed any of
that frightened herd would have charged a vampire, a drinker of souls?

The old retainer’s grin faded as he studied the reassuring lines of his
master’s face. The steel dome of his helmet was gone, a concession against the
near-blinding darkness that enveloped them, and even in the flickering
half-light of their peasant torches Claude could see the look of peace which had
fallen across Sir Gilles’ trail-hardened features. The expression reminded him
of the knight’s father. He had had the same look about him on the night before
the Battle of Ducroix. It was only at times like these, whilst sat in the very
eye of the storm, that the Lady’s chosen warriors seemed to find true peace.

A sudden burst of wind whistled around his ears and the old man shrank down
further into his blankets. It had started to warm up within this little cocoon.
Claude yawned and stretched, luxuriating in the rare feeling of comfort.
Gradually, little by little, his thoughts melted away into dreams.

He jerked back into wakefulness with a guilty start, eyes springing open like
traps. It was too late. Sir Gilles was regarding him with the tolerant composure
that the older man found so irritating. Claude opened his mouth, fumbling for an
apology, but the knight silenced him with a gesture.

“Try to sleep, Claude. I will need your wits about me in the morning.”

“Sire, I said I would share your watch and I will.”

“And I said there was no need. Sleep. If I have need of you I will wake you,
have no fear of that.”

“Well…” Claude begin, then stopped and shrugged. The heavy droop of his
eyelids weighed more than any arguments. And, at his age, what did he have left
to prove?

“Thank you, sire.”

Sir Gilles nodded, the gesture almost imperceptible amongst the wind-chased
shadows of the night, and returned to his silent meditation.

A few moments later Claude began to snore. The wind, as if in response to the
old man’s guttural breathing, blew harder. It screeched through the draughty
eaves of the burial pit, groping with icy fingers at the chinks and hinges of
the knight’s armour and setting the forest-lined slopes of the valley aroar. The
distant trees rushed and splintered as though some mighty beast had been set
loose amongst them.

Sir Gilles, unmoved by the rising tumult, sat and waited. Soon even the rise
and fall of his servant’s breath was drowned beneath the howls of the wind, but
this hardly concerned him. And when the rush lights started to die, one by one,
he merely smiled at the memory of how darkness had frightened him as a child.
That fear was gone now. It had gone the way of all other fears during his
training as a knight.

All other fears but one, of course, the last and the greatest. And with the
Lady’s help that final fear would be vanquished tonight.

The last of the torches died, its flame strangled by a sudden gust. In the
blinding depths of the darkness that remained, Sir Gilles sat and awaited his
destiny, a murmur of thanks on his lips.

If he survived this night’s trial he knew that he would be blessed indeed. If
he survived this night all would know that the blood of his line ran true in his
veins and that his faith in the Lady was true. Yes, all would know it. Even
himself.

He just hoped that the vampire, when it came, would be the equal of its
reputation.

Claude awoke to dew-soaked blankets and tingling joints. His knuckles felt
hot and swollen, blistered from within. There was no real pain, not yet, but in
the vulnerability of the single unguarded moment that separates sleep from
wakefulness he made a mistake. He thought about what might be going on beneath
his reddening skin.

He imagined the gristle in his fingers swelling, choking off the blood. He
imagined the nerve endings rasping and sawing against granite-edged bone,
fraying like lengths of twine. He imagined a colony of rat-headed creatures
eating into the very stuff of him, their burrows growing deeper and more painful
by the minute.

With a low moan he clenched his fists, damning the first sparks of pain the
movement ignited. The cold, he knew, would fan those first few sparks, tend them
and feed them until they twisted his hands into crippled, burning claws.

Well, to the hells with it. If he had need of his hands the Lady would
unclench them. And if the pain became unbearable the Lady would take it away. In
one way or another, She would take it away.

The old man sighed and opened his eyes. The dawn sky above him was as sombre
and cheerless as a shroud, lacking even a smear of cumulus to cut through its
grey monotonous weight. Claude shrugged indifferently and climbed to his feet.
At least it wasn’t raining. He wrapped his blankets around his thin shoulders
and yawned. Time to start on breakfast. Now where had he left those damn horses?