Act of Will

had known what that opaline rock could be used for and they had built it into the basement of the fortress. Had those who had lived here ever since forgotten about the spectral army, or had they always known what that stone could do, and Arlest (or whoever was responsible) was merely the first to use it since? And if so, why now?

As ever, the more I learned, the less I understood. The only thing I knew for certain was that we had to get out, and we had to do so quickly and without rousing suspicion. I figured we should just fill our saddlebags and take a couple of fast horses. Renthrette argued that the contents of the wagon were too potentially useful in what might yet transpire.

Right. We needed that wagon like we needed cobras in our underwear. I told her it was slow and obvious. She said we weren’t supposed to look like we were running away and that if we did, no matter how fast our horses were, they would get us. I suspected they would “get us” Whatever we did, but she was sick of hearing me say that, so I shut up and let her play party leader, grudgingly grateful for her not pointing out that I could no more handle a fast horse than I could beat my arms and fly back to Cresdon.

It was a curious thing, but considering that we’d solved the main part of the mystery, I couldn’t help feeling that it made little difference. After all, knowing where the raiders came from didn’t make them disappear. What were we supposed to do, shout “We know where you live!” and figure they’d go away out of sheer embarrassment?

Renthrette was all business, only interested in the job at hand. Whatever minuscule spark there had been between us had given up the ghost as soon as adventuring had reared its ironclad head. Her face was all steely again and she had gone back to double-checking our equipment and polishing her sword. I was just an extra, a walk-on who announces the arrival of the mad duke and then goes off into the wings and is forgotten. In my plays I’d always tried to give my walk-ons a bit of something special: some pithy philosophy or wry political humor. I got Enter Messenger. Messenger gives letter to the warrior queen. Exit Messenger. Renthrette had her script memorized and was ready to hold center stage for a good while to come.

Then, while I was laboriously pursuing this metaphor through my head and she was carefully checking the links of her mail shirt one by one, she said, “You’d better think up something to tell the count so that he won’t suspect anything.”

Great. So she’s in control but I have to think us out of this fortress.

“Such as?” I said testily.

“You’re the storyteller,” she answered, without looking up.

I thought through all the lies that had helped me out of tight corners before: the sudden death of an aged aunt, the news that my house was on fire or that my wife had just had twins. I was a good liar and could deliver all the usual one-liners with a straight face: “What a delightful baby,” “You can count on me,” “I only play cards for fun,” “I wouldn’t dream of such a thing, Officer,” and of course, “Your wife? I had no idea. ” Still, this time my back was really up against the wall and the old chestnuts wouldn’t help. As a rule, however, I don’t worry about plausibility when I lie, I just state the case and adamantly say that it is so until the opposition begins to waver and confesses that he was too drunk to recall, exactly. I went to think amongst the ancient volumes of the tiny library on the second floor.

Renthrette and I saw Arlest immediately before dinner and announced our intention to leave as soon as we had eaten, hoping to travel a few hours before stopping for the night. She thought this was too sudden, but what we had learnt had radically altered my perspective on the place and the people in it, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to imagine speaking to Arlest at all without freezing up. The castle seemed still darker and colder, with longer, more eerily silent corridors and more guards than seemed necessary. The chancellor struck me as calculating and the pale, silent countess was positively sinister. It had become a place of strange shadows and howling winds: a castle of ghosts and vampires. Only Arlest himself remained oddly unblemished. I still couldn’t quite cast him as the villain, plotting and laughing up his sleeve as he ensnared his victims. I had seen too much death and misery to be able to pin it all on this weary, mild-mannered old man.

“Why the change of plan?” he asked with guileless interest.

“Well, sir,” I began.

“You needn’t call me sir, Will, you know that.” He smiled.

“Right,” I said, a little uncomfortably. “Well, we are moving off because we have vital information to pass on to our friends who are currently monitoring the movements of the raiders in northern Greycoast.”

I felt Renthrette shift anxiously. We hadn’t discussed my story.

“Information?” he said. “What information?”

“I know where the raiders come from,” I said.

Again Renthrette moved, fractionally. They were both still and tense, waiting to hear what I had to say. I swallowed hard to steady my nerves. “They come from the lost kingdom of Bangladeia across the sea.”

I paused for effect and the count sat down slowly, as did Renthrette. I doubted either had heard of Bangladeia, and both, for quite different reasons, were about to start doubting my sanity.

“Over two hundred years ago,” I went on earnestly, “the people of Bangladeia were beset by a terrible calamity which the books of your library here describe as a dragon.”

“A dragon?” said Renthrette, a little too dryly.

“Probably a poetic description,” I added with the indulgent smile of a teacher imparting knowledge, “for something far more mundane. A drought or famine, for example. The small kingdom of Bangladeia was unable to support itself, and many of its people died. From the dregs of their civilization they formed an army and set to wandering from place to place, taking from others what they could not grow or produce for themselves. Somewhere along the line, it seems,” I went on, quite reasonably, “they met Relthor the Necromantic Sage of the Western Mountains, and through him they traded their souls for life. After a hundred and eighty years of wandering, they have found their way to your lands. The warriors are vampires. We must completely rethink our approach, since I am in no doubt that we are facing the ranks of the Undead, who dwell in the darkness of centuries and survive by drinking the blood of their victims.”

There was a long silence and they both looked at me with wide eyes.

“You think the raiders are vampires?” said the count, cautiously.

“Certainly,” I replied with becoming gravity. “And have been for a hundred and eighty years. They turn into bats between attacks.”

Renthrette’s mouth was moving, but no sound was coming out.

“So you’ll want to borrow some good horses,” said Arlest with a sort of resigned bewilderment. I couldn’t say if he was disappointed or just caught completely off-guard.

Renthrette found her voice and cleared her throat before saying slowly, “We are in no great hurry. Will has been working very hard over the last few days and is-” She paused for thought. “-rather tired. I will drive the wagon back to Greycoast and he can rest in the back.”

Now she was getting the hang of it. The two of them exchanged knowing glances, and Arlest nodded thoughtfully.

“I’ll provide some blankets,” he said kindly.

“That would be helpful,” I said, “and we will want as much garlic as you can get hold of.”

The count nodded slowly, his eyes wary. I tapped my finger on the side of my nose significantly and sidled over to the bar. I poured myself a very large glass of wine, downing it hurriedly as I muttered about sunlight and wooden stakes. Meanwhile, Renthrette and the count talked in concerned tones.

Fine. I get to be scapegoat again, but if it gets us out of this fortified charnel house in one piece, I’ll take it.

The rest of the dinner party arrived as I was conspicuously downing a third cup of wine, and they were informed of our decision to leave, along with a version of the reason. Nobody said too much about Bangladeia and its blood-swilling geriatrics. Renthrette didn’t speak to me until dinner was over, though she gave me a couple of long, blank looks while I was talking earnestly about vampire battle tactics and plotting the positions of certain ghoul units with pieces of cheese and cured ham. It was a quiet meal.

A couple of hours later we were on the road and Renthrette was driving. Once out of Adsine’s rutted and smelly streets I came up front and sat beside her. She turned a stony face on me and said, “What exactly were you