the killing circle. A surprised expression was etched upon its ashen face. For a second the headless
corpse remained upright, blood spraying forth in rhythmic spurts, before it toppled forwards and was still.
Blood continued to gush from the body, running into the spiralling grooves carved in the floor. The crowd
cheered their approval.
The speed and savagery of the dishonourable blow dragged Calard’s attention briefly away from his
foe.
He looked upon the face of the duel’s victor, and his blood ran cold.
It was his brother, Bertelis.
XII
CALARD’S EYES WIDENED in horror.
Bertelis stood alone in the circle, splattered in blood. His face bore an unhealthy pallor, and a cruel
half-smile ghosted across his blue-tinged lips. He dropped to his knees before Duke Merovech.
‘For your honour, my lord,’ said Bertelis in a voice that made the hairs on the back of Calard’s neck
stand on end. It was at once his brother’s voice, and it wasn’t, tinged with bitterness and cruelty.
Merovech laid his hand upon the back of Bertelis’s head as if in some dark benediction. They held
the pose for a moment, then Merovech spoke.
‘Rise,’ he said, his voice cold and dispassionate.
Calard was frozen in place, staring at his brother.
The duke loosened one of his exquisite, tight-fitting leather gloves and pulled it free, exposing a hand
as pale as virgin snow. He drew a slender dagger from his hip and placed it across his naked hand. His
fingers closed tightly around the blade, and with a smooth, slow movement, he slid the dagger free. His
blood shone brightly upon the blade.
Sheathing the knife, Merovech clicked his fingers and a goblet of wine was handed to him. He lifted
his pale hand above the goblet, still clenched in a fist, and let his blood drip steadily into the wine. When
the flow ceased, he handed the goblet to Bertelis, who accepted it with a look of hunger.
‘All of Mousillon salutes you, Bertelis, champion of champions,’ said Merovech.
Bertelis lifted the goblet high, then threw his head back and gulped back its contents. He shuddered
in rapture, his eyes half-closed as he lowered the drinking vessel from his lips.
Calard groaned in horror as he watched his brother drink the wine infused with blood, shocked to
the core of his being. Bertelis wiped a ruby drip from the corner of his mouth, and Duke Merovech
stepped down into the centre of the duelling ring. He moved with a lion’s grace.
Bertelis had always been tall, standing half a head clear of Calard himself, but Merovech towered
over him. He turned around on the spot, eyeing the gathered knights. His white features contrasted
sharply with the black of his armour, and his red-tinged eyes glinted in the torchlight, like those of a wolf.
All conversation had ceased in the chamber, and now all were gathered close in around the duelling pit to
hear their master’s words.
‘Tonight is an auspicious night, my brothers,’ said Merovech, his voice booming out to fill the
expansive hall. He began to stalk around the perimeter of the circle, like a caged beast. ‘Tonight is the
dawning of a new era in Mousillon’s history. Once, our realm was the most powerful in all Bretonnia.
Now we have a chance to reclaim that glory, you and I.’
Calard found himself captivated by Merovech, unable to tear his eyes away from him.
‘For seven hundred years I slumbered,’ said Merovech. ‘I awoke to find Mousillon a pale shadow of
its glorious past, overrun with vermin, its lands annexed by its neighbours, its very name a by-word for
despair and failure. But now, I have returned. Now, Mousillon will rise again. And you, my brothers, will
rise with it.’
Merovech had returned to the centre of the circle and now he stopped his restless pacing. Calard
could feel the excitement building amongst the onlookers.
‘Each of you has proven yourself worthy,’ said Merovech, ‘and so, I will grant you the greatest gift
that you shall ever receive. Tonight, you become as gods among men, and together we shall take back
what is rightfully ours. All of Bretonnia shall kneel before us, and the lands shall run red with blood.’
As if on cue, there came a grinding of gears and the turning of ancient mechanisms, and the domed
ceiling overhead began to open, unfurling like the petals of a black rose under the midnight sky. The
clouds were parting overhead, and the silver light of Mannslieb shone down into the expansive chamber.
There were gasps from the crowd of onlookers, but it was not for this mechanical wonder, or the sight of
the silver moon. No, those intakes of air were for the appearance of the second moon: Morrslieb,
glowing malignant and green, that stared down at them like a baleful eye.
Merovech was standing with his arms raised to the heavens, bathing in Morrslieb’s sinister emerald
glow.
‘It is time!’ bellowed the duke. ‘Bring forth the prisoner!’
BOUND IN HEAVY, ensorcelled chains and surrounded by armed guards, the prisoner was dragged up
through the palace halls from the oubliette that had held it, far below. It bellowed its fury, the sound
echoing deafeningly through the lower levels. Its massive body was a patchwork of burns, savage cuts
and mottled bruises courtesy of the duke’s finest torturers. More than a score of muscle-bound wardens
hauled upon the thick chains, straining and heaving to keep the prisoner moving. They wore black leather
hoods over their heads, and were accompanied by an entourage of palace guards, silent, long-dead
warriors enclosed in black plate armour.
The ambush hit them hard and fast. The battle took place halfway up a wide marble staircase, with
the attackers striking simultaneously from above and below. The fight was brutal and bloody, and over
within thirty heartbeats. The prisoner itself tore apart half a dozen of its gaolers, ripping them limb from
limb in a gory explosion of rage and savagery.
Grandfather Mortis approached the prisoner warily, hands raised, as one might approach a wounded
bear. His eyes were full of pity as he looked upon his lord’s tortured flesh.
Murmuring calming words, he laid a hand gently upon one of the prisoner’s immensely muscled
shoulders. Its heavy head came up sharply, snarling, and Mortis jerked back. Its snarl descended into a
low, warning rumble deep in its chest, and Mortis placed his hand back upon its shoulder. This time it
accepted his touch.
‘It’s over,’ said Grandfather Mortis in a soothing voice. ‘It’s over.’
‘No,’ growled the prisoner, forming the words with some difficulty. Its mouth was built for tearing
and ripping, not for speech. ‘It is time for vengeance.’
CALARD SAW THE thrill of anticipation on Bertelis’s ungodly pale face, mirroring the expression of every
onlooker. His brother grinned, exposing needle-sharp canines.
‘Blessed Lady of mercy,’ Calard breathed.
As if hearing his words, Bertelis’s head snapped around. For a second his eyes darted from face to
face, searching for who had spoken, but then they settled on Calard. His grin widened, and he began to
chuckle. With slow, unhurried movements he drew his sword and began walking towards Calard. The
knights and ladies around the questing knight drew back away from him, leaving him isolated and
exposed.
‘Hello, Calard,’ said Bertelis. ‘What a pleasant surprise this is.’
‘What has he done to you, my brother?’ said Calard, standing alone.
‘Nothing that I did not wish for,’ said Bertelis with a grin, loosening the muscles of his neck and
shoulders languorously, like a cat stretching. ‘And it feels fantastic.’
‘Finish it quickly,’ hissed Merovech. ‘The time of the conjunction draws near.’
‘I’ve been looking forward to this for a long time, brother,’ spat Bertelis, hefting his sword and
moving purposefully across the killing circle.
Reluctantly, Calard drew the Sword of Garamont and stepped out to meet him. He swung his
battered shield from his back and secured it on his left arm.
‘It does not have to be like this, brother,’ he said.
‘Oh, it does,’ said Bertelis. ‘It truly does.’
BERTELIS ATTACKED WITH such savagery and speed that Calard was instantly fighting for his life,
defending desperately as furious attack after attack rained down on him. It took all his concentration, skill
and hard-earned experience just to survive the opening exchange, and such was the power and vitriol
behind each blow that he was knocked physically backwards each time his sword met his brother’s.
He was given no opportunity to even consider launching a counter-attack., and his left arm was numb
from the jarring blows he took on his shield. He was doing all he could to evade Bertelis’s furious assault,
stepping off the line of attack and retreating hastily in an effort to put some distance between them. His
brother came after him relentlessly, sword blade flashing as it sliced through the air again and again. Had
any of those attacks struck home, they would have been fatal.
Calard knew that he was a vastly superior warrior now than he had been when he first took up the
quest, six years earlier. The long years on the road had hardened him, body and soul, forging him anew
and honing his killer instincts to a razor’s edge. He was stronger, leaner and faster than he had been, and
was confident enough in his own abilities to back himself against any man. Even so, he was struggling
now with the pace of battle that Bertelis was setting, and struggling even more with his brother’s
unprecedented strength and fury.
Calard and Bertelis had trained together since childhood, and both had been schooled by Gunthar,
the old weapon master of Garamont. Growing up, their duels had always been evenly matched, though it
had been obvious that Bertelis was the more gifted of the two, a natural swordsman with the perfect
blend of strength, balance, speed and instinct. He had always relied too heavily on his natural-born
talents, however, and in his youth had been a lax student, earning many stern words from Gunthar. In
contrast, Calard had worked hard at his swordsmanship, rising hours before the rest of the household to
hone his technique and strengthen his body. It was only after Gunthar’s death that Bertelis began taking
his training more seriously, devoting himself to it with a focus bordering on obsession. Only then had he
started to show his true potential.
It was clear now that Bertelis had eclipsed those expectations and taken them to a whole new level,
reaching a plane that Calard had no hope of matching, and even less of competing with. Bertelis’s skill
was bordering the sublime, and Calard could think of few – perhaps only the Grail Knight Reolus, Lady
rest his soul – that could have equalled it. The speed of his blade was incomparable, and Calard had
rarely crossed blades with one who struck with such power. It was overwhelming how far Bertelis’s
blade skill had come in the last six years. Calard felt a child facing a master.
A blow thundered into his shield, wrenching it out of shape, and he winced. He slashed a riposte
towards his brother’s neck, but it was batted aside with contemptuous ease. Bertelis grinned and stepped
back, allowing Calard a moment to catch his breath. He realised that his brother was toying with him, just
as he had his earlier opponent.
‘You have grown soft,’ said Bertelis.
‘Turn from this path, Bertelis,’ said Calard. ‘It leads you only to damnation.’
‘You drove me onto this path, brother,’ snapped Bertelis. ‘You turned your back on me!’
‘And I’m truly sorry,’ said Calard. ‘My words were spoken in haste. I was blinded by grief. I meant
not what I said.’
‘It is too late for apologies,’ said Bertelis, and Calard knew he spoke the truth. There was a madness
behind his eyes that Calard had never seen before, a simmering, insatiable rage that threatened to
consume him. It was as if some wild beast had taken up residence in the flesh of his brother, directing his
movements like a puppet.
‘You are no longer the brother I knew and loved,’ said Calard. His breath was ragged from the
intensity of the fight, yet Bertelis appeared completely rested, barely having raised a sweat.
‘No,’ agreed Bertelis. ‘I am something far greater.’
‘Enough!’ hissed Duke Merovech from the edge of the killing circle. ‘Finish it, now!’
Calard’s gaze darted between the fiend that was once his brother and the pale, immortal figure of
Duke Merovech. Realisation dawned.
‘It was you who sacked Garamont,’ he said, looking back at Bertelis. ‘It was you who killed
Orlando and Montcadas, and butchered my knights.’
‘I would have killed you too,’ said Bertelis, ‘had you been there. Now, the cycle will be complete,
and every tie to my former life will at last be severed.’
‘You are not even human,’ said Calard. Bertelis smiled in response, exposing needle-sharp canines.
‘My, you are quick, brother,’ he said. The smile dropped from his face. ‘And now, you die.’
For a moment the brothers regarded each other from opposite sides of the killing circle, before they
began closing the distance, swords at the ready.
A deafening roar boomed through the cavernous chamber, echoing loudly and making the windows
rattle in their frames. Calard could feel the reverberant sound in his bones. He looked up, the duel
momentarily forgotten.
An arched balcony jutted out over the room, thirty feet overhead, and crouched upon its marble
balustrade was a monster.
XIII
IT WAS HUGE, easily six times the bulk of a man, and it looked like some monstrous gargoyle come to
life. It was hunched, and black matted fur covered its massive shoulders. Immense talons carved furrows
in the marble as it tensed its huge arms, bulging with sinew and muscle. It howled at the heavens again,
the sound deeply affecting on some primal level, before turning its baleful gaze down into the chamber
below.
Its head was huge and wide, a hideous blend of man, bat and wolf. Its lips drew back to expose a
terrifying array of fangs, and its snarl rumbled deep in its powerful chest. Its canines were heavily
pronounced, and each was easily six inches in length. Its eyes were those of a predator, burning with fury
and hunger, and they locked on the pale figure of Duke Merovech, far below.
The monster howled again, spittle flying from its maw, and it launched from its eyrie. Powerful leg
muscles propelled it downwards at astonishing speed, and its huge taloned arms extended in front of it,
veined membranes of skin unfurling from wrist to hip like vestigial wings.
