Tales of ravenloft, p.17
Tales of Ravenloft, page 17
part #10 of Ravenloft Series
SIGHT AND SOUND 151
Reluctantly, I withdrew my hands. Bluebeard smoothed his clothing and silently gestured me to return to my seat. I did so shakily, rubbing my strained knuckles and watching Bluebeard as he leaned against his desk, one calfskin-booted leg crossing the other.
"Your point, Bluebeard?" I said shortly. "I am in no mood for any more of your civilities."
"My point is one that you have overlooked, sir," he drawled, "and that is that perhaps Lorel wants to stay here with me."
I pressed my lips together. "Then I shall discover that for myself, Bluebeard. Let me see her!"
Bluebeard held up one hand, the rings twinkling in the candlelight. "Not so fast, Lord Henredon. You've accused me of being a murderer. Whether my wife leaves with you or no, you are likely to spread falsities about me. I cannot have that."
I bit my inner lip, and my brows drew together. I shook my head impatiently. "If Lorel chooses to leave with me, or if she convinces me that she is truly happy here, then, . . . despite my better judgment, I shall leave.
Either way, I give you my word 1 shall never speak of you to anyone." My eyes narrowed as I looked at the man lounging so casually before me.
"Oh, I believe that you say you would never speak of me, Henredon, but what do you offer by way of security?
Why should I believe you?" His voice held a tinge of smugness that infuriated my already jangled nerves.
"Because I am a gentleman, and I give you my word,"
1 said firmly.
"But I need more than that, Henredon. 1 need security."
"My word, Bluebeard," I replied coldly, "is my bond. It is security enough."
The man laughed outright at that.
I leaped to my feet. "Call Lorel to us here, now, and let us settle this! I give you my oath, I shall never mention—"
"How?" Bluebeard snapped. The single syllable boomed through the room. "How can you give me that oath, Henredon?" This time it was he who grabbed me; one massive red hand clutched at my throat. His grip 152 D. J. HEINRICH
tightened as he pulled upward on my neck, as if he were trying to wrench my head from my body. He almost pulled me off my feet, and 1 realized I had sadly under-estimated the strength of the man. "How will you give me that oath, Henredon? How can I trust that you will not speak—to someone, someday?"
I gasped through clenched teeth, my hands struggling to pull aside the vise on my throat, "My word, Bluebeard!"
"Your word is not enough, Henredon!" Bluebeard shouted. His eyes bulged, almost matching the quality of his pockmarked nose and fleshy cheeks. "/ want your tongue!"
"My—my tongue?" 1 managed to gasp. I could not breathe, and my vision was fading. "What . . . foul enchantment—?"
"No magic, my friend! Give me your tongue, or you shall never see Lorel again!" Vicious glee swelled his voice.
From somewhere within me I found the strength to struggle against the behemoth who held me. My hands circled over two fingers and bent them backward. A little more, I encouraged myself, and then—
Roughly my wrists were grabbed from behind and yanked away from Bluebeard's hands. The manservant brutally twisted my arms in their sockets, and together he and Bluebeard threw me back into my chair.
Bluebeard's thick hand now clenched my jaw. 1 winced in pain. "What say you, Henredon?" the man crowed.
"Give me your tongue and you shall see your sister this night. If she wishes to leave with you, by dawn, then so be it. I'll even annul the marriage and you can have the trollop for yourself!" He sneered, and little flecks of spittle spattered his fleshy lips. "You've lusted after her all these years—what's the loss of your tongue to attain your heart's desire? Nothing less will I take, Henredon—nothing else will vouchsafe your word with me!"
The man's hand tightened, and I looked into those dark eyes boring into mine with such ferocity. Thoughts ran rampant through my fevered mind. I was a scholar; how could I exist without speaking? But then to the fore SIGHT AND SOUND 153
rose the thought of my beloved Lorel lying with this—this abomination, and I could not abide the vision.
"Yes," I croaked breathlessly. Fear gave way to anger, and I raged at him, "Yes! Take my tongue, you loathsome, ill-bred cur! Anything for Lorel—"
Bluebeard roared, "Enough!" He slammed my head against the marble top of a nearby table, sending the piece crashing to the floor. Blood trickled into my eyes, and for a moment 1 was blessedly dazed.
He wrenched open my jaw, and terror struck me.
Despite my intentions, instinct overrode me and, bucking and kicking, I writhed beneath his and his manservant's hands. I freed one hand and struck at Bluebeard, but the hand was too soon restrained—I was no match for the two of them. Bluebeard forced his monstrous paw inside my mouth. I felt his fingers curl around my tongue, one descending down my throat.
Bile and blood gurgled in my mouth, and from somewhere deep inside me—from a place 1 had no idea existed before this moment—a shriek of absolute, primal terror welled up within me.
I screamed without stop. The sound filled the room, blocking out everything, all thought, all emotion, even all sensation, until . . . there came the faint sound of something else—something so repulsive, so violently revolting 1 felt madness caress me at the sound of it. I screamed again to hide from that sound, but I could not: it followed me deeper, into that tiny part of myself in which I tried to hide and shield my soul. That sound followed me and perverted anything of me that had remained sane.
It was the sound of my tongue being ripped from its roots: the thin, shredding noises as muscle and tissue gave way under Bluebeard's insistence.
My scream turned into some misbegotten gargle, and above the noise I made I could hear the madman's laugh of malevolent triumph as he held above him the bloodied pulp that remained of my tongue. And as I collapsed into a hazy swoon, I thought I heard him say, "Your sister is in the adjoining room, Henredon. Be gone at dawn and your lives are yours. If not, they're mine to torment still more."
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He paused, then added casually, "For now, though, I think my man should try to stanch that blood. ..."
Truculent laughter filled my ears, and at that point I knew no more.
How long I lay unconscious 1 do not know. I awoke some time later in a sick and pain-racked haze. In desperation, I stumbled to my feet in the near darkness. My host and his servant were gone, and they had left me with but a single candle, not quite gutted in its holder. I put my hands to my face, then a low moan issued without volition from my throat and I was forced to swallow the blood that threatened to choke me. But I could spare no thought for my condition. My beloved Lorel could be my only focus—my only salvation from the atrocity Bluebeard had committed upon me—and I had to find her.
Vaguely I recalled those half words I had heard before my faint. I fumbled for my watch fob, but couldn't find it in my weakened state. Haltingly, I picked up the candlestick and looked toward the mantel, but there was no timepiece there either. 1 longed for a clock to tell me how much time I might have in which to find Lorel.
Although I knew the night must be old indeed, I didn't doubt that Lorel would leave immediately with me.
Despite what Bluebeard had done to me, my sister would see me and know instantly that I had come for her. She and I would leave this accursed castle, and I could converse with her with pen and paper at a calmer date. 1 had only to find her now, and all would be well.
I faltered toward the side door, recalling something Bluebeard had said about an adjoining room. I stumbled past the overturned furniture and broken bric-a-brac and nearly dropped the candlestick. At the door, I was overcome by a wave of delirium, and I stopped to lean against the cool ebon wood. I marshaled my forces. Now was not the time to stop; now was not the time to succumb in defeat. I swallowed reflexively, the gesture filling me with pain and horror. I had risked so much and given more; everything would be worth it to rescue my beloved Lorel. With renewed determination, 1 opened the door.
SIGHT AMD SOUND 155
All was in darkness inside this room, and it took many moments for my eyes to adjust, even with the feeble light from my sputtering candle. Vaguely I discerned the outline of a huge, four-poster bed, its draperies drawn shut. Lorel? my mind whispered. Her name rose in my throat, but 1 stopped myself. I would not frighten her in her sleep.
I staggered to the bed and drew back a curtain. I held aloft the candle and peered inside. The bedclothes were rumpled, and 1 reached out gently and pulled them back. Oh, how I longed for the pale gilt glimmer of my sister's hair to shine back at me! But there was no such sight. My eyes searched frantically as 1 wildly pulled back cover after cover. Lorel—!
Behind me 1 heard a sudden whimper, and 1 whirled about. My candle fell to the floor, sputtered once, then died. I was in utter darkness, but remained calm as I waited for my eyes to adjust. Faint, predawn light illuminated a large window some steps before me. The draperies, thankfully, were drawn open, and I would know the moment of sunrise. I made out the thin white form of my sister huddled in her nightdress upon the window's seat.
Only a moment more, my beloved, I said to myself, silently praying Lorel could hear my thoughts. Only a moment more, and I shall show myself to you in this wan light, and you shall call my name in joy, and we shall be gone from this abysmal place.
I stepped forward.
"No!" Lorel screamed, throwing her white arms over her face and cowering in the window. "No! Don't hurt me! Don't come near me!"
1 hurried to her and said her name—or, rather, tried to say her name. In the face of her pain I forgot my own, and her sweet name came out as a garbled groan. She screamed, and I knelt at her feet, reaching out to touch her. Lorel flailed her arms at me, her pale hair streaming across her lovely face, and she cried aloud once more. I spared a glance out the window: dawn was imminent.
I grasped her arms and shook her, perhaps a little too roughly. She hung her head and moaned, shivering 156 D. J. HEINRICH
palpably and whispering, "Don't hurt me. Please don't hurt me." Again, at the sound of her voice, I could not restrain myself and I tried to say her name.
Lorel struggled to pull free of me, frightened by the grotesque noises coming from my throat, and her cry of agony tore at my heart. Oh, my dear! I thought. Look at me! Look at me with those eyes of azure! Just one look, and you will know that it is I, your beloved. Look at me!
With one arm I roughly pinned her against the window so that she could not escape. Beyond her shoulders, outside, I saw the sun crest the hill, and I knew that dawn was at hand. With my free hand I brushed aside that gilt curtain behind which she was hiding—
Lorel screamed—
—and I gazed in horror a t . . . at the bloodied, sightless sockets that marred my lovely Lorel's face.
Eh? Visitors? I should have known my fire would have other effects than merely warding off the chill air. Come closer, friends, for no man or beast should be denied comfort on this night. Yes, my skin is duskier than yours, but it is better to be too dark than too pale, eh?
Have no fear, my friend, for no ghul or ancient elder am I, but only a simple traveler, carrying his life on his back.
Come closer.
A thousand pardons. You seem taken aback by my hand, or rather the stump where my hand should be.
Alas, I wish I had a stirring tale to explain this malformation, but such is not the case. 1 was a simple thief, and for my thievery I was judged guilty and punished by the lopping off of my thieving appendage—a lesson to me and a warning to others. Such is the harsh justice of my home.
Perhaps I do have a story, then. Not of my personal judgment, but of judgment nonetheless. I come from the land of al-Kathos, a harsh land of hard judgments. I call upon the listener to turn a good ear to this tale, upon the scribe for a firm and learned hand, and upon Fate herself to guide my words as I tell them to you.
Al-Kathos is a land of sweeping arid wastes and burning sands. It is ruled by the powerful and evil Malbus, a ram-horned abomination who dwells in his Burning Citadel, commanding legions of hellish minions and dining on the flesh of those mortals he captures. However, it is not his tale that 1 now tell, and he must wait for 158 JEFF GRUBB
another evening.
My homeland is also the land of the Sand Singers, lus-cious wraiths who lure the damned to their dooms with soft scents and honeyed tongues. But though they tempt, theirs is not the tale I tell now. And al-Kathos is the home of the jackal-headed priests of the Rotting Gods, yet even their story must stand aside for the moment.
For this is a tale of judgment.
In the land of al-Kathos there lived a great and powerful man, fair of face and strong of manner. His eyes glistened with a brilliance akin to the desert stars, and his name was abd-al-Mamat. He was thoughtful and wise, even in his youth, and spoke only when he had first thought what he meant to say, cutting to the heart of the matter and discerning truth from fiction.
Yet his role in life was determined not by what he was but by what he was not: for he was not born into high station. This abd-al-Mamat was the son of a slave, and though himself a free man, was considered of low birth and little worth. Were he the son of a sheikh, what you might call a clan leader here, all that followed might have been avoided. But alas, not a dram of noble blood flowed in his veins, and the luxuries of the nobility were denied him.
Yet his talent and his wisdom were recognized, first by his equals, and then by his betters, then by the tribal elders. Many came to seek his advice, and he thought carefully of each request, regardless of the seeker. He never said a word that he did not mean, for, as you know, braying is the mark of all asses. The word spread among his tribe that this low-born orphan, this son of a slave, was a font of wisdom and sound advice.
And at last, when the sheikh sought out a new coun-selor, which is called in al-Kathos a vizier, he came to abd-al-Mamat. The young man was honored and readily agreed to serve the sheikh with a glad heart. As the sheikh's advisor, he would sit near him at the head of the feast, at the side of his master, and offer counsel in all the sheikh's actions.
And that was enough, at first. As the young abd-al-Mamat grew to his maturity, he advised well and often.
THE JUDGEMENT OF ABD-AL-MAMAT 159
Yet the excitement of his advancement, near the head of the feast, wore thin as abd-al-Mamat grew older.
Abd-al-Mamat could sit near the head of the feast, but not at the head of the feast; he could counsel, but he could not decide; he could advise, but not rule. Even the most foolish of the sheikh's brothers had more claim to tribal rulership than he, and should something happen to the sheikh, they would command, not he. And the sheikh himself would often have this thoughts muddled by wine or other pleasures and not heed his words, obvious and truthful though they be.
Late into the evening abd-al-Mamat would pace his tent and curse Fate for his lot. At first he would feel shame for cursing so, in that he thought himself a good man, and good men accept their Fate. Later he felt shame in that others might spy him cursing Fate, and so think less of him. And later still he would feel no shame at all, and wondered at the foolishness of his master.
And after that time he declined even to sit at the sheikh's flank, unless he was so commanded.
As a result, abd-al-Mamat was not present at the feast that was disturbed by the arrival of an exhausted horseman. The rider bolted into the sheikh's pavilion, still mounted, his horse foaming at the bit. Sitting pillows, tribesmen, and wine goblets flew in all directions as the rider spun in place near the center of the revelry.
The rider spoke in gasps, as if he and not his horse had made the long gallop. A merchant caravan from the Burning Citadel had been spotted not far away, he said.
It had been in some battle, for it had a fraction of its legion of guards, and the survivors looked worn and bloodied. Should some further harm befall this weakened party, said the rider, then the treasures they carried would be free for the taking.
The celebration was electrified by the news, and the sheikh's brothers soon began arguing among themselves as how to split this as-yet-ungained treasure. The sheikh's eye lit with greed as well, but he summoned abd-al-Mamat. The vizier stamped his way to the sheikh's flank near the head of the feast.
The sheikh said, "A weakened party of merchants 160 JEFF GRUBB
from Malbus is in our lands, oh vizier—wounded, weakened, and bloodied. What say you to this?"
Abd-al-Mamat scowled at the thought of the ram-headed abomination's wrath and of what the sheikh said, and he asked no further questions. Instead, he nodded and said, "Go to them. The rewards will be great."
The vizier's fellow tribesmen gave a hearty shout, and as one, they tore from the pavilion to mount up and pursue the merchants. A large mob of them, touched by wine and dreaming of great treasure, set off at once, the sheikh and his brothers at the head of the van.
Abd-al-Mamat, standing among the remains of the revelry, watched with a puzzled look on his face as they departed. He watched the sheikh's party until they were mere dots on the horizon, and he shook his head. One of the sheikh's other servants stepped forward and asked why he looked so troubled.
Abd-al-Mamat said, "It is strange that there would be so much excitement for a simple mission to rescue some merchants' caravan."
The servant looked at abd-al-Mamat agog, and said,
"They do not intend to rescue them, but to rob them.
That was what the sheikh was asking."
Abd-al-Mamat's eyes widened, and he said in an ice-cold voice, "That is not what he asked. . . . I have sent our master into great peril! We must send a rider at once to stop them."
A rider was sent, but arrived too late to save the sheikh. He and his brothers and the flower of the tribe's warriors swept down upon the caravan, and the merchants in fear called upon the protection of their fiendish master. Malbus answered their call, for a tower of flame erupted from the desert floor. Of the fifty warriors who attacked, only the rider lived to tell the tale, and he only because he fled before the fire.
