The Count of the Living Death (The Chronicles of Hildigrim Blackbeard) (20 page)

"Good. We only know two things for certain: one, we have to kill it. Otherwise it will most certainly kill you."

"And the second?" Leopold prompted.

"I’ll tell you when we get there…” 

Prisoner #45601, officially known as "Leopold, Count of Cinquefoil." Arrested for his role in the escape of the notorious prisoner #33918, also known as "Ivan the Terrible," real name "Ivan Liadov," though questionably related to the house of Cinquefoil itself. The prisoner has been interrogated and made to undergo certain "compliance measures" to reveal the current location of Prisoner #33918. Surprisingly, the prisoner does not respond to any of the traditional techniques: the rack, submersion, and nail pulling were all abandoned out of sheer fatigue. The prisoner insists he knows nothing of the whereabouts of Prisoner #33918 and has refused to say a single word since his arrest. Threats of further torture and immediate execution received little more than a grin. How to proceed?

Philip put down his quill and stared out the window. Truly, it was the most vexing arrest of his career, and if he didn't solve it before the King found out, it might be his last. He had no wish to end his meteoric rise through the ranks of criminal justice at the age of 11. He had so much more to accomplish! Ever since his father had allowed him to carry the prison keys at 3, he knew he was destined for greatness. Through sheer talent and a single-minded ability to bribe, blackmail, and back-stab, Philip had become the true power behind the Dungeons (pity about his father's heart attack...no one had expected him to die so soon...other than Philip, that is). So what would they say if the Count, a pampered nobleman, resisted all his methods of persuasion? They would call him openly what they called him in private: "the little boy."

And who was he, this Count of Cinquefoil? Outwardly, he seemed soft, cowardly, incompetent. Certainly not the greatest criminal mastermind in a hundred years, able to look death squarely in the face without blinking. Of course, he was the one responsible for breaking Ivan out in the first place (which added to his humiliation--he still couldn't explain how he did it). Already, the soldiers were talking: they admired his bravado; they hoped he continued to hold out. They even called him "Count" rather than Prisoner #45601. Philip suspected they were only half-heartedly trying to break him, holding back on the screws, applying slightly less pressure to his eyelids and toes.

Philip could see no way around it. Torture and intimidation was all he knew. Reason he scorned as unreliable, especially as the criminals were typically smarter than he was. But no one could outwit an Iron Maiden. He was desperate now, and might have to risk mortally wounding the blackguard to extract his information. Sometimes, toys had to be broken when they wouldn't follow the rules.

They wheeled out the Iron Maiden. Basically a sarcophagus fitted with razor sharp nails, the Iron Maiden was typically reserved for mindless torture when information was no longer an issue. Everyone broke on the Iron Maiden; prisoners conjured up secrets they scarcely even knew they kept. If a prisoner survived the Maiden's embrace he was no longer, so to speak, a human being. Survivors tended to drool and sob hysterically for the rest of their lives--which typically ended in a matter of hours. Not so Prisoner #45601. They strapped him in, set the nails in place, and slammed the lid; no screams, no cries for mercy. They waited several minutes before peeking inside. The Count was unmolested. No gaping wounds or pools of blood; on the contrary, the ingrate had fallen asleep! Philip kicked the nearest guard and displayed a worldly knowledge of unprintable oaths. He would break! Within the hour! He would wrest the knowledge from his broken corpse if necessary--but it would be found!

But the guards refused to follow Philip's instructions. They came to the unshakable conclusion that Prisoner #45601 was either a vampire or a devil; even the name ‘Satan’ was bandied about. Philip took the interrogation into his own hands, but try as he might, the prisoner remained obstinately asleep. When he finally came to, it wasn't from pain or the application of brute force; he simply yawned and asked for a chamber pot (it had been hours since his last urination).

"Confound you and your chamber pot!" Philip shouted, stomping his foot.

With a shrug of his eyebrows, the prisoner urinated on the floor. Philip felt the slightest twinge of admiration for his boldness. Truly, he had no fear ofad no fe death. But why? What did he know that the rest of them didn't?

"Listen...your death is certain now, there can be no reprieve. However, I can offer you the lesser of two evils. You death can be swift, painless...or it can be slow and protracted over many, many days."

The prisoner locked eyes with Philip, much as one would notice a fly circling one’s head.

"Very well; I offer you the same bargain," he said.

"You dare?" the boy gasped. "What could you possibly do--"

"Little fool, I
am
death!" he shouted. "I can kill you all with a wave of my arm. All of you—everyone in this room!—you're dead already!"

The remaining guards shrieked and ran for cover. Only Philip stood his ground...though a small, hidden part of him began to tremble. As if to make his point, the prisoner broke free of the wall and ripped off his shackles. Philip stumbled backwards, ice-cold fear gripping his heart. All warmth seemed to trickle down his leg; quite literally, as the puddle beneath him attested.

"You want information? You want that bastard, Ivan? Very well, I'll give you both—for a price! It's true I don't know where he is, but I know how to find him. You can have him—and the
real
Count Leopold—and that devil of a sorcerer Hildigrim Blackbeard! But the girl is mine. As long as I get her I'll spare your miserable lives. Cross me in any respect and see what happens!"

"What...what do you want?" Philip sobbed.

"Stage my execution. Make it public, announce it throughout the city. A ceremonial hanging."

"But...a hanging? But you said...you can't...why would we--"

"To bring them here, you worm! They won't let me die, they need me. Once they learn of my execution they'll come running...right into your trap. But the girl—she's mine, remember."

"What girl? We only seek the prisoner."

"Then we understand each other. Now go bring me new clothes. And something to drink."

Philip and the guards scampered off to fulfill his request. He watched them go, like rabbits, frightened of their own shadows. All humans wanted to do was kill, torture, and destroy their brethren. They wielded death like a crude toy, mistaking its sublime power for their own magnificence. He wanted nothing more to do with death and those who worshiped it. Mankind had everything they needed without that. To have love and a lifetime to enjoy it: that was a power that defied even death. They were fools, all of them; they didn't deserve the riches that lay scattered at their feet. No matter, he would scoop it all up for himself.

He stifled a yawn. Already hin. Alreas lids were drooping, threatening to roll out of their sockets.
Wake up, idiot--you've slept enough
! By the gods, if these humans could drag themselves around for 12 to 14 hours a day, then he could sleepwalk through the next 6. It was a small price to pay to have her. Besides, he could see the wheels moving behind the little one's eyes; terrified as he was, he would never let them leave. Obviously many people would have to die before it was all over.

Blackbeard found a way to smuggle them into the city, though every soldier had specific orders: neutralize suspicious activity. Coaches were stopped and searched. Strange people were brought into makeshift tents and interrogated. The news had spread that Leopold, Count of Cinquefoil, was to be publicly executed at noon in St. Stanislav Square. Naturally everyone whispered that someone would rescue him…or perhaps a last-minute reprieve by the king. Surely a Count of the realm couldn't be executed so cavalierly, whatever his crimes...which, strangely enough, had not been released to the public. Murder? Treason? Most suspected it had something to do with love, though the Count's name had never been linked to any of the eligible women of court, which made the prospect of scandal even more inviting. She must be someone truly obscene, perhaps a sorceress—or worse, an actress! Make that a French actress performing Italian comedies without license from the king. Yes, an alliance with such a woman would cost his head and the reputation of his entire family! Better to kill him now and be done with it.

Lucas navigated the coach through the busy city streets, taking back roads to avoid the most traveled areas. Eventually he had to pass through a checkpoint; a pair of soldiers flagged him down, bayonets aimed accusingly at the coach.

"Who's in there?" one demanded.

The windows had been magically blackened to discourage prying eyes.

"Foreign princesses, come for the annual summer ball," Lucas replied.

"That's not for some weeks yet," the guard grumbled, knocking on the window.

The door opened to reveal four beautiful women decked out in sumptuous gowns with a slight Eastern accent. They smiled and simpered accordingly, and the guard, stumbling for words, merely asked them if they were enjoying their time in the country.

"Yes, to come here is very...handsome," Mary said.

"Well then...I suppose you can pass, but be careful," the guard motioned. "This execution is bringing out all the riffraff. Keep your valuables close. In fact, I'll provide a personal escort, just to be safe."

The women exchanged dismal expressions. But there was nothing to be done: Lucas dutifully followed the soldier through the crowds, as he led them gradually away from St. Stanislav Square to the Grand Palace. Once they arrived, the soldier ordered several footmen to attend upon the ladies. The way that one looked at him...said he was handsome...she could make his fortune in a single night. He knocked politely on the door and bowed, making an impromptu speech about love, virtue, and honor, all of which he laid at her feet as tokens befitting a woman of her charm and magnificence...

But she didn't emerge. In fact, the door remained firmly--even stubbornly--shut. He knocked again, a trifle louder, and repeated his speech, albeit clipped of a few metaphors. Nothing. Perhaps they had fallen asleep? Or worse still, been knocked unconscious by a bump in the road? He suddenly imagined all the beautiful women with their brains dashed out, blood flooding the coach and smearing the windows--

Mustering up his courage, he knocked once more (no reply) and flung open the door.
Princess? Hello? Are you—

Gone. The coach was empty. He looked frantically over the seats, turning this way and that, but found nothing. It was as if he had imagined the woman and her priceless words.

"You there! Where are they?" he demanded of Lucas.

Lucas feigned surprise, even going so far as to threaten the soldier for losing his passengers. The soldier cursed and gesticulated, but promised that he would find each one and return them safely to the coach. As he ran off, Lucas began looking around himself, whispering "Lady Mary? Blackbeard? Hello?"

The quartet had already become part of the crowd, their strangeness scarcely noticed among the cries for blood and mercy. They were a short distance away from the execution platform, though there was no sign of him yet. Only the noose swung playfully in the wind, more like a child's toy than a serious means of destruction.

"What now?" Leopold asked.

"As soon as he arrives I'll make a distraction," the sorcerer said, scanning the area. "It should give you a few minutes to whisk him off-stage. After that, we'll have to rely on luck and improvisation to--"

"Hey, someone pinched my butt!" Ivan shrieked. "I’ve had enough of this play-acting; change us back."

"Now you know how we feel," Mary snapped. "However, you make a tolerably attractive woman. Enjoy it."

"Better your ass than your face, which would set off a thunderstorm of recognition,” Blackbeard said. “Besides, they'll be looking for us, not a gaggle of exotic princesses. Now push forward, as close to the stage as you can. We'll need to--ah, here they come!"

In the distance, a parade of soldiers appeared with a man in a black shroud. Nothing of his face or body was visible, though it stopped just short of his legs, allowing him to march in time with the guards. The group mounted the make-shift stairs to the platform, where the noose, still quite innocently, awaited. The guards pushed his head into the noose, tightened it, and directed him stand over a trap door; when a lever was pulled, the door would open and his feet would plunge through. The fall was never enough to break a man's neck (no sport in that!), so the victim would hang there for some minutes, strangling away to the delight of the crowd. Mary felt nauseous. Growing up in the country, she was unaccustomed toaccustom the entertainments most city children took for granted, even emulated in play. What a cruel, hard world, she thought to herself. Her children would never grow up here, would never see such monstrous sights…though perhaps it was presumptuous to think of children at a moment like this?

A flourish of drums and trumpets swept over the audience. The moment was at hand. Cheers and cries of "hang him!" responded, but were soon drowned out by shouts of "mercy!" The executioners pulled down their masks, fashioned in grotesque imitation of a human skull. They moved into position, taking one final measure of the crowd. A hand was placed on the lever. His companion looked at the criminal and nodded. Now.