The Count of the Living Death (The Chronicles of Hildigrim Blackbeard) (12 page)

I’m outside. Inside and out. Your friend’s life hangs by a thread. Next I go for her. Unless you drop the sword
.

Leopold’s resolve faltered. Empty threats…or an evil promise? In a moment of weakness he dropped the sword.

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So this is death, the Count thought, taking a breath. One last chance: reach down a grab the sword—save your life. Or lower yourself into the box and drown in everlasting darkness. The second between thoughts stretched into days and months of eternity. A last look at the sword. A last thought of Mary.

He stepped into the box.

Leopold fell several feet before landing in a valley of sand. Everything around him was vague and indistinct; the sky—for there was a sky, inexplicably—seemed on the point of dusk, glowing and fading. In the distance he could hear the soft roar of the sea, though all he could see was miles and miles of sand. The Count instinctively reached for his sword only to remember his purpose. He had come to die.

“Leopold!” Ivan called out.

“Ivan! Where are you?” he said, looking around.

A shape waved in the distance. Leopold ran after it, or at least as well as he could in the sand. After tripping and falling and crawling forward, it only seemed to recede on the horizon. He called out again, asked him to stop, come closer, but the figure only waved him onwards. Was it a trap? Frustrated, the Count ignored him and sprawled out on the sand. Enough toying with him already—do your worst!
I’m ready to die…or perhaps I’m ready to be ready to die.
He clutched a fistful of sand and watched it seep between his fingers, each grain a second of his life. Or was
this
death…endless waiting and expectation for an event that never came?

“It’s good to see you again; it’s been far too long,” a voice said.

Leopold didn’t respond at once. At first he thought it was a mirror—he almost reached out to touch it. But it obviously wasn’t following his movements, much less sitting down. It was
him.
The very likeness, looking down on him; he could even read its thoughts.
His
thoughts?

“I’ve ached for your presence, so many long years,” it said, with an intimate smile. “For the first few years, I only wanted that—a reunion. The two of us as one. But as time passed I grew impatient. I vowed I would kill you on the spot. Naturally, that would end us both, but no matter. I would teach you a lesson.”

“What lesson?” he asked, in a whisper. “I never chose this. I never knew.”

“Perhaps, but I’m beyond that now. Once I saw you again I felt an impulse—a temptation which hardened into resolve. Certainly I could kill you. But is that all? Couldn’t I do more than that? Couldn’t I have the one thing I was forever denied, the one thing you have as your right?”

Leopold tried to follow its words, but nothing made sense. What else could he do but kill him? His death obviously expected him to make the connection; when he stared back uncomprehendingly, it laughed and knelt at his side.

“I mean your life!” it said, flashing its teeth. “I am your Death—your other half—condemned to live in the shadow. But what if we switched places? I condemn you to the darkness, I walk in the light? What would stop me? I already live—Hildigrim Blackbeard saw to that. And now that you’re here, spae= switchedyou will remain here forever, as I was meant to. A living death, trapped in the walls of the box!”

Now it was Leopold’s turn to laugh. Surely
it couldn’t go back and live—pretend to be himself? It looked just like him, even spoke like him, but to impersonate a human life? When it was dead…when it was death itself?

“Impossible! Blackbeard would know—they would all know!”

“How could they? I know you better than they do. I am you.”

“You’re nothing like me! Only in looks, not in—in what matters!” he shouted, hoping rather than believing it. “You would betray yourself, once she saw you—”

He immediately caught himself.
Mary
. If he went back as him, he would also go back to her; he could have her! She might never know.

“Yes, she will see me; I will rescue her from her loveless marriage. Why should she suspect otherwise? She loves me.”

Leopold leapt at it but tackled a pillar of sand. It collapsed at his touch and buried him to his eyeballs. He hastily jumped up, brushing himself off, only to find ‘him’ there, composed and smiling.

“I’ve had a long time to think this through. Blackbeard gave me a precious gift. One day, I will thank him for his pains, and complete the revenge your fake brother couldn’t.”

“Ivan! Where is he?” the Count asked, fearing the worst.

“Safe, as I promised. He will live, my faithful ally, protecting my life from those who suspect me.”

Leopold marveled at the web of lies and deceit, a masterpiece of cunning. Yes, Ivan would protect him. His true brother would never be seen again.

“But you said…he was fake. Why?”

“He’s not your brother. Surely you know that. By now Blackbeard knows it, too.”

“Blackbeard?”

“His son. The Russian cleverly passed him off as your father’s. Your father knew—or at least suspected. Blackbeard in his blindness did not.”

“Wait—please!” the Count said, scrambling toward his Death. “You can’t do this…simply take my life and be done with it! That’s what you want—what you always wanted! You can’t live as me forever!”

“Perhaps not,” it said, thoughtfully. “But I would settle for a normal human life. Good-bye, Count Leopold. Enjoy the prison you made me.”

Leopold reached out for it, trying to resttryould settlrain, plead, gain a second’s consideration, but the image dissolved into wind and sand. The taste of it coated his mouth and left him squirming on the sand, howling and choking.

Ivan woke up on the floor of the armory, stunned, unable to remember anything that had happened before. Flickering impressions of the box and the creature within it swam around him, until he remembered—or thought he remembered—Leopold’s voice. It seemed far away at first, but then it seemed to whisper in his ear.

“Ivan? Ivan, it’s me…I’m here.”

Ivan looked up through the haze and saw the Count standing over him, offering his hand. He took it and fell into his brother’s embrace. Ivan knew there were questions that had to be asked, a logic that didn’t quite make sense; but at the moment he could only close his eyes. At the moment there was just relief. It was over.

“Is it…?” he finally managed.

“Yes, it’s gone. I killed it.”

“Killed it? Alone?”

“I was never alone. You were with me,” he said.

“But I didn’t help—I was useless!”

“Nonsense!” the Count laughed. “You were able to distract it while I struck the fatal blow. Don’t you remember?”

“I did? No, I don’t remember…not a thing. And the sword worked?”

“A single blow. It crumbled into lifeless dust and blew away.”

“Amazing,” Ivan said, examining the Count closely.

Somehow, perhaps owing to his rattled senses, Leopold seemed different. That is, everything looked exactly the same, and it was undoubtedly the man he had come to know; and yet, something subtle in the way he moved or held himself puzzled Ivan. Of course, Leopold had just fought and defeated his Death. What
did
a man without a Death look like? And was he now…immortal?

The door opened and Blackbeard stumbled in, pale and shaking. Were they alive? Both of them? It didn’t seem possible. Even with the sword, even together, could it be done? In his heart of hearts he denied it, especially given his failure with the previous spell.

“Blackbeard…you did it,” the Count said, raising the sword. “The spell was flawless.”

“I’m speechless,” he said, with a weak grin. “And it’s dead? You saw it?”

The Count nodded vigorously, but Ivan only grinned—a sheepish, empty grin. The sorcerer took note of this. He also took note of Leopold’s clothing: pristine, with no sign of damage or gore. Not that a Death would bleed as such, but he still expected…well, that was just it. He didn’t know what to expect. Everything felt off because it
was
off.

“As I predicted, we made history today,” the sorcerer said, clasping his shoulder. “Once the secret is out, magicians far and wide will flock to hear your story. Even I want to hear it! But for now, you should rest.”

“Certainly. But firstlacke= swand wid” Leopold said, returning to the box.

Strangely, he picked up each of the fallen locks and secured them on the box. Why? There was no longer anything to capture or secure. Blackbeard met the Count’s eyes, who almost apologetically admitted, “I know, it’s foolish…but I would feel safer. Peace of mind.”

“Of course, no need to explain,” the sorcerer nodded. “Whatever you need to put it behind you.”

Still, as they left the room, the sorcerer couldn’t help noticing the three locks, each gleaming in the torchlight. Illogical, yes, but somewhat understandable; after all, he had never faced his own Death in single combat. But all three locks? He made a note of it and tugged his beard. Too much had happened too quickly. For now, to bed. He would sort it all out in his dreams.

“Coming, Blackbeard?” Ivan asked, taking his arm.

“Yes, of course. And you—do you feel…”

“Fine, I suppose,” Ivan said. “I really don’t remember much of anything. It just happened. I fear he did all the work.”

“No, he couldn’t have done it without you. You proved your courage and lineage today. You’ve done your father proud.”

“Do you think…he knows? That he could see me?” Ivan asked, hesitantly.

“He knows,” Blackbeard said, with comforting finality.

As her father promised, everything had been settled quickly. Her betrothed, Duke Vladimir, promptly agreed to the terms and dowry, quibbling only over the color of his wedding cape (blue, instead of the purple her father wrote in the contract, which was hastily scribbled out). With barely a kiss good-bye, her father shipped her and a handful of retainers on a vessel bound for Cytheria. In good weather, the crossing took just six hours. In bad weather, as much as a day. But on days like today, with a red sky and relentless, razor-sharp winds, ships tended to vanish altogether. The sea tossed the boat irreverently, slapping aside the royal banners which went fluttering to their doom. Sailors prayed, the captain swore, and Mary gazed into the steel-blue masses of cloud for deliverance. If only the ship
did
sink—then she had a chance! She could clutch onto something and be washed up on some deserted island like that one fellow—Crusoe? Leopold would find her. In the meantime she would fashion her own utopia, a paradise of sea, sand and monkeys. Assuming monkeys could even be found in these climes.

Somehow the ship survived the crossing. Once the storm broke, the battered remains limped on, eventually sighting the coastline. Mary’s heart dropped. From her window, she could see the spires of the Duke’s castle. Her prison; her home. Her maidservant tried to distract her, telling her stories of her future wardrobe and possessions, how every woman alive would envy her spoils. Not if I’m spoiling away in them, she snapped. The island itself belied its tecke=er storierrible reputation. The rocky coast gave way to thick forests and purple hills, the air filled with strange yet beautiful sounds. Perhaps she could make an excuse to tour the area with a few trusted (mindless) servants and make a dash for it? It would take them days to find her with a good head start, and by that time Leopold…but perhaps she put too much faith in a happy ending. By now Leopold might be dead. The sorcerer was unusually grim at their parting. She knew what he said without saying: that no one could defeat death at its own game. What scared her even more was not knowing. Would the sorcerer even bother to tell her? Would Ivan? No, she wouldn’t want to hear it from him…deep down, he would secretly enjoy it.

After being greeted by the servants and a man who pretentiously referred to himself as the “Majordomo,” Mary was led up a winding flight of stairs to the tower suite. There she would await the Duke’s arrival under lock and key: her husband orders. She surveyed the suite (cramped, uncomfortable), and paused before the window, which had been fitted with iron bars. A room with a view—but little else. With a sigh she dismissed her maidservant and various hangers-on. She would nap in private.

“I trust you have everything you need at present,” the Majordomo said.

“Everything?” she scoffed. “Can I at least have a book?”

“I…yes, I believe the Duke keeps a few volumes in the library. But I fear they’re very old.”

“I’ll take them. And some wine? It’s very cold.”

“We keep a few bottles in the cellar, yes,” he said, making a grimace. “However, it’s reserved for special occasions…”

“And the arrival of the Duke’s wife
isn’t
a special occasion?” she asked, somewhat archly. “Please bring up a few bottles. And the books.”

The Majordomo paused for a moment but finally gave a slight bow and disappeared. Mary sized him up at once: a self-important ninny who longed to talk about himself. Only in his mid-twenties, he had ambitious plans; he wouldn’t remain a “majordomo” on this forgotten isle forever. No, eventually, someone would recognize his potential, his prodigious talent for…well, whatever it was he was good at. With the right amount of encouragement and flattery he would spill. When the Majordomo returned, he cradled a dusty bottle of wine, two glasses—but no books. Seeing her eyebrows raise, he apologized, “they didn’t survive the journey.” She laughed as he poured her a glass of wine (less than half a glass!) with only a drop for himself.