The Count of the Living Death (The Chronicles of Hildigrim Blackbeard) (6 page)

“Here?” he snapped. “Whatever for?”

“It’s been so long since I’ve seen trees,” he said, gesturing out the window. “Before I die, I want to stand under the tallest pine and breathe in its scent.”

“Time is pressing, but it’s not for me to decide,” he said, looking at the Count.

“I suppose…yes, why not?” he shrugged.

Leopold signaled to the coachman, who slowed the horses. As the coach came to a stop, Ivan gave a grateful smile and slipped out of the coach. Mary nudged the Count meaningfully:
follow him
, her eyes insisted. Realizing that he probably couldn’t trust his half-brother any more than he could a common thief, he scrambled after him. Ivan didn’t seem particularly interested in fleeing the scene. He walked thoughtfully, even aimlessly under the trees. After a few moments he turned back to Leopold and raised his arms.

“It’s a beautiful forest…my mother brought me here as a child,” he said. “I would very much like to remain here forever. My bones, that is.”

“Certainly…it’s the least I can do,” Leopold agreed.

Ivan nodded and went back to searching through the pines, now and then squatting before one, nudging the earth. Finally, beneath a tall, gnarled pine tree, he singled out a cluster of purplish flowers. He brought one to his nose carefully…then clipped of a petal for a closer inspection.

“What is it?” Leopold asked.

“Red Monkshood, I think,” he said.

“Red Monkshood? But I thought it was—”

“Poison? Nonsense,” he said, eating a petal. “It’s quite good. You should try it.”

“Are you sure—”

Ivan ate several more petals in quick succession. Then he grinned mischievously, as if he had just uncovered a secret and wanted Leopold to guess. A cold, hard wind swept through the Count. My God, the fool had just poisoned himself! And this—this was his revenge. To know that his half-brother needed him, couldn’t live without him, and at the last second to remove even that hope from his grasp. He had planned this all along.

“You’ve just killed yourself…haven’t you?” Leopold asked.

“As you said, I was already dead,” he replied. “At least this way I die how I wanted—where I wanted. Neither you nor the king can take me out of this world. And it seems you’ll be joining me soon enough.”

Before Leopold could send him off even quicker, the sorcerer was at his side, muttering an incantation. Ivan just laughed, mimicking the sorcerer’s pose and mocking him with gobbledygook. Blackbeard stepped back, mortified; how dare he insult the sacred powers of magic, much less his trademark pose (which, truth be told, had more to do with a bad back than anything else).

“What did he take?” Blackbeard asked.

“Red Monkshood,” the Count replied, shaken.

“The devil he did! It’s not only fatal but unusually resistant to magic. His mother taught him well.”

“Yes, my mother taught me to outwit you,” he said. “I’ve had my revenge on the Count; yours will come in time. I promised her that.”

“You little halfwit, born with your mother’s tongue,” he spat. “She betrayed everyone that loved her—including you, I imagine.”

“Devil magician!” he howled.

“Should we just kill him?” Leopold asked.

“No! There’s still time. Red Monkshood is deadly—but not immediate. Take him!”

Ivan started to run away but something struck him. He careened headlong into a tree and collapsed. Leopold and the sorcerer looked around and found Mary, another rock in her hand, ready to strike.

“I knew I didn’t like him; he reminded me of those ghastly portraits,” she grinned.

Blackbeard and Leopold carried him back to the coach. Once inside, his body slumped and began convulsing, making hideous, unnatural movements. Blackbeard tried various spells, but nothing worked. This was the end.

“C kize, uoachman—ride like the devil!” Blackbeard shouted.

“There’s no time!” Mary shouted. “Can’t you just snap your fingers—spirit us all away?”

“Us, yes, but not him,” the sorcerer scowled. “It’s the Red Monkshood. He was too clever by far.”

Making all possible haste, they arrived at the palace little more than an hour later. Ivan remained semi-conscious, but Blackbeard was relieved; for some reason the poison had slowed and his vitals were stable. In the courtyard a team of servants hoisted Ivan over their shoulders and followed their master to the armory. Leopold tried to catch his breath; in a moment he would face his death as they turned the final key in the lock. Would it accept Ivan as a substitute? Or was this merely a fool’s hope, Blackbeard’s way of preparing him for the inevitable? Even now, Blackbeard’s expression betrayed doubt, or at least a flicker of uncertainty. Had he ever attempted such a spell? Some said he had been slain and returned to life through his magical arts. If so, where was
his
death? There were so many secrets, so much that he didn’t know…and might never know after tonight.

“I shall go in alone to prepare the box,” Blackbeard said, taking him aside. “When I give the word, open the door and have Mary bring him in. Don’t let it see you—not even a glimpse. All would be lost.”

Leopold tried to find words to respond but only nodded, and even that was a mere drop of the head. He had never felt such unbearable dread, such a profound sense of drowning. Every movement felt like the turning of hands around a doomsday clock. But he had no choice; he simply had to ignore the fear and wait.

“You’re going to be fine,” Mary said, embracing him. “He knows what he’s doing. I won’t let you go.”

Behind the door, they heard Blackbeard muttering spells…and a knocking against the box. Leopold clutched Mary. Something inside him throbbed, but it wasn’t his heart. A voice cried out for him, a voice sweeter than Mary’s and equally alluring; a voice that came from the box.
It knew he was close
. His mind clouded and his hand reached for the door. Perhaps it should be this way; perhaps we should be reunited, he thought to himself. Death, far from being terrifying, became blissful…suddenly he wanted to die.

“No! He told us to wait!” Mary cried, pulling his hand away.

Leopold struggled against her and tried to open the door. It called to him. His other half. His inner self.
Why did you wait so long
?

Mary pushed him against the wall and held him with almost supernatural strength. Leopold struggled but finally collapsed, exhausted by the strain. The call lessened and he no longer heard the words. He could only see Mary’s face, her eyes pleading with him as they drew closer. Another kiss and he crossed over, fear flooding into his veins, beating his heart. He wanted to live, to be with her, to flee this place.

He suddenly became aware of another presence in the hallway: a shadow that leaped up from the corner of his eye. The shadow was Ivan. Mary saw the look in his eye and turned—and screamed. Iva nȼy: a n shoved her out of the way and grabbed Leopold’s sword, unsheathing it before he could react. He held the blade at the Count’s chest, his pale face leering with triumph.

“I was never allowed to wear a sword,” he said. “A nobleman’s privilege… and I, alas, was not a nobleman.”

Mary threw herself at him, but he caught her and twisted her arm. She fell to her knees, writhing in his grasp. He pulled tighter, making her scream until she forced it back; he wasn’t worthy of her pain—only her blackest contempt.

“Should I break her arm…or run her through? What’s she to you?”

“Let her go. Take me,” he rasped.

“I fully intend to. But I have time for both.”

“Why aren’t you—”

“Dead? You fool, Red Monkshood can’t kill me. My mother gave me a charm to protect me against its poison. However, I did take an unusually large dose…it nearly destroyed my bowels.”

He gave a contrived laugh and released Mary, who fell heavily to the floor.

“Don’t try that again,” he said, pressing the blade closer. “I have no quarrel with you.”

“What do you have against me? I never even knew you,” Leopold said.

“But that’s just it…you never cared to know me. You would have just assumed I didn’t exist. Until, of course, you needed me to
die
.”

“No—I wanted to help you!”

“So magnanimous!” he laughed, angrily. “Death is not a buffet! One death serves just as well as another, and each one is equally bitter. No, this was never about me. You simply wanted to live, just as I did…but your father didn’t give me the chance.”

“And I regret his actions. But I’m not my father.”

“No, sadly not,” he said, with a note of real regret. “But you’ll have to do.”

With a single thrust he stabbed him through the heart.

Leopold gasped and slumped forward, the pain steadily magnifying until it closed around him, cutting him off. Mary pushed Ivan aside and caught him as he fell. She pressed him vize, idth="2 close, poured tears into his breast hoping that love alone could revive him. Instead, he grew limp and seemed to slink out of her grasp, his eyes flickering like dying flames, going dark.

“Tell Blackbeard that his time will come,” Ivan said. “I sympathize with your loss, but I assure you, mine was greater.”

Mary never looked up as he gave a slight bow and vanished down the hallway. Every ounce of her being expressed itself in grief and horror as his body reached to the floor. He grew so heavy! She kissed his face, his hair, anything that could warm him to life. At first he didn’t respond, but gradually, he drew a breath; his hands began grasping, catching her arm—

“Leopold!” she cried, kissing him frantically.

“Am I dead?” he whispered.

“No, keep talking!” she insisted.

The coldness in his limbs diminished; his legs pressed against the floor, pushing him up. With a shriek of joy and amazement, Mary threw herself against him. His body returned with equal force. He was alive!

“You’re back!” she exclaimed.

“But I was…I felt myself go…and yet…”

His hands instinctively felt for the wound—and found nothing. There was no wound, no sword thrust, no gash in his shirt. Had it all been a dream? If so, the memory haunted them both. She had lost him—and dragged him back from the grave. They laughed with deep, exhausted relief and kissed each other again and again.

“Zounds, what the devil!” Blackbeard shouted, sticking his head through the door. “I need quiet to conjure the spell!”

The look on their faces convinced him that something extraordinary had happened. He then realized that Ivan was nowhere in sight. Mary began explaining but the sorcerer quickly waved her off. Of course, it was all a ruse…more of her mother’s tricks. The next time they met Blackbeard would be cruel and decisive: he would no longer pity him for his mother’s sake.

“But he stabbed me—right here! I’m alive…” Leopold said.

“I should hope so!” Blackbeard laughed. “Your Death is right where I left it, locked fast in the box. You can’t die, remember?”

“I can’t? Even if—if someone—”

“Not even if a dragon incinerated you to a crisp, devoured what’s left of you, and defecated the rest,” he said. “You would live to tell the tale…even if you didn’t care to remember it.”

“So I’m…immortal.”

“For a few hours, at any rate,” the sorcerer said, tugging his beard. “But your Death will find its way out of the box. It’s imperative that we relocate Ivan quickly.”

“He can’t have gone far,” Mary said, gesturing to his escape route. “Can you cast a spell to find him—or bring him back?”

“Alas, the Red Monkshood is a potent charm,” Blackbeard sighed. “Until it passes out of his system, I cannot summon him nor follow his tracks. We’ll have to be decidedly old fashioned, I’m afraid.”

“I’ll have them lock the gates!” Leopold shouted.

His command was quickly executed. The guards assured him that no one had entered or escaped the palace since they arrived. So unless Ivan had grown wings and leaped out the window, he was still here…in any one of two hundred rooms and twice as many hallways. It could take days to find him, assuming he wasn’t particularly clever and stayed in one place. But if he toyed with them and played cat and mouse…

“Perhaps we won’t look for him at all,” the sorcerer shrugged.

“Not look for him!” Mary gasped.

“Why bother? We couldn’t possibly find him.”

“Indeed! And why not just open the box? But let me climb in, too—because I’m going with him!”

Blackbeard chuckled. He took Mary’s hand and patted it gently.

“I see you don’t trust me. Now listen…he thinks the Count is dead, which might be to our advantage. So that leaves me. Perhaps we should let him find me?”

Mary’s eyes grew wide and she nodded.

“Yes...he said your revenge would come. But how…”

“The servants talk. Spread the word that I will hold a special séance to bring back the Count from the clutches of death. Tonight, in the armory.”

“Brilliant!” Leopold said. “But do you think—”

“As long as you don’t let him leave,” he nodded, with a strange look in his eyes. “Ah—you see, the Red Monkshood must be wearing off…because I can almost predict his arrival.”