"And Satan gets their souls!"
"He is a collector of useless things. Thus the king may be aided by the powers of Hell, but so am I."
"Then Satan's assistance cancels out." Matt nodded. "It makes sense. The sooner you challenge the king, the sooner one of you will die—and Satan doesn't have to wait as long for your soul."
Anger flashed in Bruitfort's eyes, but he contained it. "Even so. 'Tis then a contest of strength, and the king must strive mightily to overcome me ere I am grown great enough to topple him." His grin broke through again. "In that, he has failed. I have countered his magics with my own sorcery, and that of my apprentices and journeymen. I have matched his armies and beaten them back—and steadily gained ground. Already I rule half of Ibile, and 'tis soon to be more."
A random thought occurred. "Of course, you could be fundamentally good, but just pretending to be evil long enough to get Satan's support."
Bruitfort threw back his head and laughed. "Think you the Prince of Lies is so easily deceived? Nay, I assure you! He knows true evil when he sees it! He would not aid a man who was good-hearted in secret!"
"So whose soldiers did I see looting and raping in the villages—yours, or the king's?"
"Mine." The duke's grin widened.—Thus I bind them to me—by the promises of the pleasures of cruelty, and the wealth gained by looting."
And, of course, the disregard for law that made such decadence possible. "Which means the king's soldiers are no better than yours."
"Surely not. If he seeks to keep his throne, he must be all that I am, and more—and instantly ruthless in quashing the first signs of rebellion. In that, he failed—for he had need of great enough intelligence to see when a contender was rising, but he did not see through my deception, my grinning sycophant's pose, until it was too late, and I had power enough to contend with him. For that, he shall die—and in not too long a while, I think."
So that was why Matt had encountered so little trouble from Gordogrosso—he was distracted by a domestic rebellion. The thought sent insight. "It was Sir Guy's attack! That's what gave you your chance!"
"Even so." The duke turned to Sir Guy with a mocking bow. "The Black Knight struck down the overbearing lords who preyed upon their peasants—and left holes in the fabric of evil behind him."
"Which you filled."
Bruitfort nodded. "He put down the vicious outlaws who sought to prey upon the weak, and gained the allegiance of the poor. He struck down the king's tax grinders, and weakened the royal power over the villages. He gathered about him all the fools who worship goodness; they came out from their hiding places to band together, and the king, of a sudden, had to contend with a challenge to his rule that could have been fatal."
"So he had to tie up most of his army, keeping Sir Guy and his followers penned in that castle—and while they were tied up, you took over the estates of the lords Sir Guy had ousted."
The Black Knight was staring, pale and drawn.
"Even so." The duke's grin widened like a shark's. "Let others waste their time in strife; I waited, and bowed, and scraped, then struck. Yet to counter the king, I must garner all the power I can, for even maimed, his magical power is formidable. Therefore, join with me, Wizard! Swell the strength of my evil challenge! Free Ibile from the rule of this corrupt monarch!"
"And replace him with another who's even more corrupt?" Matt suggested. "One who's much more efficient about making people miserable?"
"You will thus gain power you scarce can dream of. Join in my delights, and there shall be earthly power for you second only to mine! The most beautiful lasses of the kingdom, used only once! Fine meats, fine raiment, fine wines! What say you, Wizard? Will you have wealth, luxury, and power? Or a slow, agonizing death?" He looked up and gestured, and pain ripped through the sole of Matt's foot. He howled in agony; the room disappeared behind a red film. It cleared slowly, tending to pulse in time to the diminished but throbbing pain in his foot, thinned enough to show the duke, eyes bulging, teeth bared in a grimace of mounting pleasure. "Choose," he panted. "Choose."
Matt chose.
The duke shot back away, slamming into the solid stone wall. But he didn't fall; he stepped back, shaking his head, only dazed—and a nasty little whip with sharp bits of metal at the ends of its thongs scored Matt's chest. Matt shouted with the pain but remembered to keep bellowing:
The thongs snapped back, and someone out of sight screamed. The thrill of victory shot through Matt, and he cried out,
"Silence him!" the duke screamed.
A hard hand slapped down across Matt's mouth, which happened to be open. He bit.
The torturer screamed, but kept the hand there, and Matt started chewing in spite of the taste. Suddenly, the hand yanked away, and a wad of cloth jammed into Matt's mouth. It smelled foul and tasted worse.
The duke loomed over him, panting and wild-eyed "Well tried, Wizard! But poorly struck! There are too many of us here, ready to stop you! You cannot prevail against us!"
Showed how much he knew. Matt glared at him, gargling a few dire noises through his gag, while his mind raced, trying to dredge up verses that would be effective even though unspoken.
"Know then," the duke panted, "that your familiars are taken, and slain."
Matt frowned. Familiars? What was the man talking about?
"Your animals, your beasts!" the duke snapped. "The dragon, and that obscene hybrid! We have taken them, and drained their blood."
Matt stared, every muscle rigid. Then morality gave way—there could be no protection for so vile a man. He had forfeited all right to the protections of others' compassion or conscience. Matt would make him burn to death from the inside out, while his nails grew inward and his inner ears rocked...
Calm flooded through him, almost as if some outer spirit had filled him with charity and restraint. The man was human, after all, and though it might be Matt's duty to remove him before he could hurt anyone else, he had no right to work justice upon him. Torture could wait until after his death, if he deserved it, which Matt didn't doubt for an instant—but it wasn't his job.
Well enough. Back to high-powered, unspoken verses.
"Their blood will enhance my power enormously." The duke's eyes narrowed; he was all business now, sadism put aside for the moment. "So would your magic, though I can work quite well without it, if I must. Yet there is another source of power more vital by far." And he turned to Yverne.
Matt's heart nearly stopped. Then, frantically, he began to recite as much of the verse as he had worked out in his mind.
The duke's' eye gleamed as his gaze moved slowly over Yverne's form, but he was all business as he explained, "Your father's lands marched with mine, damsel, but also marched with Merovence. His lands ran along its border, through the mountains, for fifty miles. That distance is long enough to admit an army that could hamstring my forces from behind. I might take the capital only to find my own hard-won demesnes lost to the Bitch of Merovence."