Alchemist in the Shadows Read online

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  JUNE 1633

  It was that uncertain hour just before dawn, when the wind dies down and the mist begins to rise, the morning still a pale promise at the edge of night. A veil of dew already covered the countryside around the solitary manor, standing close to the border between Alsace and Lorraine. A great silence reigned beneath the long tattered clouds which lazed across a sky pricked with fading stars.

  An elegant gentleman observed the manor from the edge of the nearby wood, watching the few lights that glowed within it. A mere shadow among the other shadows beneath the branches, he stood straight as a blade, his feet slightly spread, with his thumb tucked into his belt and one hand curled around the pommel of his sword. He was a tall handsome man. His name was Francois Reynault d’Ombreuse.

  And today, in all likelihood, he would either kill a dragon or the dragon would kill him.

  Behind the wall which protected the ruined manor and its outbuildings, mercenaries with tired, heavy eyes waited impatiently for the sun to rise. They leaned tiredly on their muskets or held up lanterns as they peered out into the lightening darkness, envying their sleeping comrades. They were soldiers of fortune, part of a band of thirty freebooters, who had fought and pillaged under various banners during the fifteen terrible years of war that had raged throughout the German principalities of the Holy Roman Empire. Now they had been hired to escort a quiet, pale-faced gentleman whose looks and manner impressed them more than they cared to admit. They knew nothing of him except that he paid well. As his entourage, they had crossed the Rhineland without ever pausing for long enough to unsaddle their horses, until they reached this manor. It had been abandoned for some time, but the thick outer wall and solid gate remained defensible. They had been camped here for two days now, at a safe distance from the roads and, most importantly, hidden from the Swedish and Imperial armies currently fighting for control of Upper and Lower Alsace. It seemed they would soon, secretly, cross into nearby Lorraine. Perhaps they would even visit France. But to what end? And why this halt?

  Francois Reynault d’Ombreuse did not turn around when he heard someone come up behind him. He recognised the footstep of Ponssoy, a comrade-in-arms.

  ‘They’ve even posted sentries out here, in this isolated place,’ Ponssoy said after counting the lanterns in the distance. ‘That’s more than just cautious . . .’

  ‘Perhaps they know we’re on their trail.’

  ‘How would they know that?’

  Pursing his lips doubtfully, Reynault shrugged.

  The two men served in the prestigious company of the Saint Georges Guards. They wore a half-cuirass for protection and were kitted out entirely in black: wide-brimmed black hats with black plumes, black cloth doublets and breeches, black gloves and boots made of tough leather, black belts and scabbards and, last of all, black alchemical stones of shaped draconite which decorated the pommels of their rapiers. The sole exception to this martial mourning attire was the white silk sash tied about Reynault’s waist, proclaiming his rank as an officer.

  ‘It’s almost time,’ Ponssoy finally said.

  Reynault nodded and they turned away from the old manor, plunging back into the wood.

  In a clearing, the twenty-five guards who formed Reynault’s detachment prayed beneath the stars. They each placed one knee on the ground and one hand on the pommel of their sword, the other hand pressing their hat against their heart. They held a rapt silence, gathering their spirits before battle. They knew that they would not all live to see the sun set, but the prospect of such a sacrifice did not weigh heavily upon their souls.

  Sceur Beatrice, also on her knees, faced the men. She belonged to the religious order they had sworn to serve, dedicated to defending France from the draconic menace. She was a Sister of Saint Georges, or a Chatelaine, as members of the order founded by Saint Marie de Chastel were commonly known. Tall, beautiful and solemn, she was not yet thirty years of age. Although dressed in white, with a veil, her attire looked as much like a young horseman’s as that of a nun. The heavy cloth of her immaculate robe concealed sturdy knee-boots and she had a leather belt cinched around her waist. She even carried a rapier at her side.

  After a final amen the assembly stood and dispersed, just as Reynault and Ponssoy emerged from the trees. Ponssoy went over to join the guards, who wordlessly busied themselves with their final preparations: checking their weapons, helping one another with the straps of their breastplates, making sure the horses were correctly saddled, adjusting this, tightening that, taking all of the hundred precautions that prudence dictated, but which also served to keep their minds occupied.

  Meanwhile Reynault conferred with Sceur Beatrice. They had become well-acquainted with one another over the past month, tracking the man now returning to France with the mercenaries he had recruited in the Holy Roman Empire. Their consultation was brief.

  ‘He must not be allowed, at any cost, to regain his primal form,’ the Chatelaine emphasised. ‘Because if that happens—’

  ‘If everything goes according to plan, he won’t have time.’

  ‘Then . . . may the grace of God be with you, monsieur d’Ombreuse.’

  And with you, sister.‘

  A coughing fit woke the Alchemist.

  Curled up on his straw mattress, he coughed until his lungs were raw. The fit was painful and it was some time before he could finally catch his breath and stretch out on his back, arms extended, his face glistening with sweat. The Alchemist — not his real name, but one by which certain people knew and feared him — felt worn out. His natural form was that of a dragon and his human body was causing him more and more suffering. He was struggling to keep the pain in check. He knew he was a monster, a monster whose flesh was tormented precisely because his true nature was rebelling against it. It was making regaining his primal form almost impossible for him. Each time it was an ordeal, a slow torture that threatened to kill him and whose aftermath left him feeling weaker still.

  Outside, dawn was breaking.

  The Alchemist sat up in bed, letting the blanket slip down his bony chest.

  He was tall and thin, with an emaciated face of a morbid-looking pallor. His eyes were icy grey and his lips were vanishingly thin. He had slept in his clothes, in the room he had taken for his personal use when he and his mercenaries had installed themselves in this abandoned manor. They had already been encamped here for two days and nights, wasting precious time. Through his own fault. Or rather, the fault of the exhaustion and pain which prevented him from riding further. But he had recovered somewhat. Today they would resume their journey, tomorrow they would be in Lorraine and soon after they would reach France where the Alchemist could pursue matters he had left neglected for far too long.

  But right now . . .

  Wracked by nausea he felt cold, then warm, and started to shiver.

  The symptoms of deprivation.

  For his apparent recovery was deceptive. He owed it entirely to the abuse of a certain liqueur, which caused him to burn with an evil fire which energised him even as it devoured him from within.

  But wasn’t the important thing to hold on and endure, whatever the price?

  He turned on his side and, leaning on an elbow, stretched out a hand to a casket hidden near his boots, beneath an old rag. He opened it to reveal four large glass and metal flasks, each secured by leather straps. The first flask was already empty. The three others — one of which was already partly consumed — contained the precious liqueur distilled from henbane, a thick substance that resembled liquid gold.

  As always, the first swallow was a delight.

  The Alchemist let himself fall back onto the bed, a small smile on his lips. Eyes closed, he savoured the
moment as much as he could. A warm, gentle feeling of well-being flowed into him, easing his suffering, lulling his soul . . .

  But loud cries suddenly broke the spell. The sentries outside had raised an alarm and their comrades were already responding to the threat. The Alchemist rose and went to the window, which was nothing more than a gaping hole that looked out over the manor courtyard and the surrounding countryside.

  Horsemen. They were coming up the track leading to the manor at a gallop. Armed horsemen, led by a figure dressed in white.

  The Alchemist immediately knew who he was dealing with. He also understood he was trapped in this manor, and it would not resist an assault for long.

  He turned to the casket that lay next to the straw mattress.

  Three flasks of golden henbane.

  Enough to kill a man.

  Enough to awaken a dragon.

  The guards in black charged flat out, raising a cloud of dust that caught the first rays of the rising sun. The thunder of hooves made the ground shake. Reynault and Sceur Beatrice led the column. They rode side by side, their eyes fixed on the manor ahead, whose defence was being hurriedly organised. There were signs of movement, as hats and musket barrels appeared along the wall enclosing the courtyard. The Chatelaine unsheathed her sword and brandished the shining black blade, a blade made of draconite, high in the air.

  The mercenaries shouldered their muskets and took aim. They knew their weapons had a range of one hundred and twenty paces and that it was best to let the enemy draw near before firing. So they waited.

  The horsemen came on at a gallop, following the dusty track, three or four abreast. But what would they do when they arrived? They charged as if they saw an open gate before them. Yet both the heavy doors were closed tight and an old cart loaded with barrels full of earth had even been pushed behind them as reinforcement. Nevertheless, the guards came on at the same mad pace.

  They were only two hundred paces away. At sixty, the mercenaries would start firing.

  A hundred and fifty paces. The track ahead was a straight line. Her black sword still held aloft, the Chatelaine chanted an incantation in the draconic tongue.

  A hundred paces. At any moment a hail of lead would mow down the front ranks of riders, felling both men and beasts whose bodies would in turn force those behind them to tumble.

  Seventy-five. Sceur Beatrice was still chanting.

  Sixty. The mercenaries were about to open fire . . .

  But at the very last second, the Chatelaine screamed a word full of power. Her blade shone with a sudden light and the twin doors of the manor gate shattered into splinters. The explosion was tremendous. It shook the walls, made the ground vibrate and flung the cart and its barrels into the air. It killed, wounded or stunned the mercenaries posted to either side of the gate and left the remaining defenders in shock, deafened by the blast and blinded by the cloud of dust.

  The riders did not slow. They burst into the courtyard, firing their short muskets. Some of their enemies responded with their longer guns. Musket balls whizzed back and forth, striking their targets. One of them ricocheted off Reynault’s breastplate. Another ripped off his hat. He dismounted, drew his sword and shouted curt orders to his troops. All around him, close-quarters combat broke out. Sceur Beatrice remained close by his side.

  ‘Where?’ he shouted over the din of yelling men and clashing weapons.

  She seemed to search around and then pointed to the main building.

  ‘There!’ she cried.

  ‘With me!’ Reynault commanded as he leapt forward.

  He was immediately followed by Ponssoy and a few others who surrounded the Chatelaine. She knew how to fight, but it was her powers that could save them all as a last resort. Her survival was crucial.

  Muskets appeared at the windows of the large manor house and began to blast away. One of the guards crumpled. Despite his loss, Reynault and the rest of his group nonetheless managed to reach the main entrance. It was barricaded shut — they would have to force their way inside. Someone found a beam to use as a battering ram and with each successive blow the twin doors shivered, then began to crack a little more every time. But they still held.

  ‘Faster!’ urged the Chatelaine, a fearful expression on her face. ‘Faster!’

  The doors gave way at last. Reynault and his men rushed inside, charging straight into the mercenaries who greeted them with a murderous volley of musket fire. Several guards fell. Ponssoy was seriously injured and Reynault’s thigh was pierced right through, although he paid the wound no heed. A furious melee broke out, in which even the Chatelaine took part. She and Reynault attempted to force a passage through the combatants, until she finally placed a hand on the lieutenant’s shoulder.

  He turned to her.

  ‘Too late,’ she said in a quiet voice which he nonetheless heard perfectly clearly.

  A dull rumble came from somewhere within the house. The stone floor slabs in the great manor hall began to tremble.

  Reynault realised what was happening.

  ‘Retreat!’ he shouted. ‘Retreat! Retreat!’

  Carrying their wounded and fending off the mercenaries still pressing them, Reynault and his group hastily withdrew. The whole building was now vibrating, as if shaken by an earthquake. Its foundations began to sag. Tiles fell from the roof. The stones in the walls came loose.

  Suddenly a whole section of the facade collapsed.

  ‘Lord God, have mercy on us!’ the sister murmured.

  Around her, guards and mercenaries were locked in a confused mass, all of them speechless with terror.

  A great black dragon emerged from the manor amidst a cloud of plaster and a cascade of debris. Immense in size, it reared up and unfurled its leathery wings with a tremendous roar. A surge of power swept through the courtyard, a wave that churned the earth, toppling the men and causing the horses to bolt.

  Only the Chatelaine, her white clothing flapping in the storm, managed to stay on her feet. Holding her black-bladed rapier in her right hand she spread her arms wide and began chanting again. The dragon seemed intrigued by the insignificant creature standing before it, somehow capable of summoning a power comparable to its own. It lowered its enormous head to peer at the sister, who continued her incantation without faltering. She chanted words in a language which found an echo in the dragon’s brain — a brain dominated by brutal, primitive impulses, but not entirely devoid of intelligence.

  Sceur Beatrice knew it was too late. She had failed. Now the Alchemist had recovered his primal form there was nothing she could do to vanquish — or even restrain — the most powerful adversary she had ever encountered.

  But there was one last card she could play.

  Looking straight into the terrible depths of the dragon’s eye, she gathered her remaining strength and plunged into the huge creature’s tormented mind. The effort she had to make was both colossal and perilous. But after several false attempts, she finally found what she was searching for. The vision struck her soul like a fist.

  For the space of one brief, yet seemingly eternal, moment the Chatelaine could see.

  She saw the cataclysm threatening France, both her people and her throne, a cataclysm that would soon become a reality played out beneath ragged skies. It left her terrified, awed and gasping, while the dragon — having been defeated in the very core of its being - screamed with rage before taking to the air and escaping with a few mighty beats of its wings.

  1

  Beneath the dripping boughs of a forest which, on this dark night, was being buffeted by the wind and downpour of a violent storm, two young dragonnets were playing. They squabbled as they flew, heedless of the weather, chasing one another, spinning and fluttering in mid-air, improvising virtuoso acrobatics among the branches. The little reptiles were fighting over a small vole they had hunted down together, whose mauled remains were snatched from one mouth to the other in the course of their unruly game. They were brother and sister, both born from the same egg and thus
perfectly similar, sharing the same golden eyes, the same scarlet-fringed black scales, the same grey belly, and the same slender, elegant profile.

  And the same intelligence, too.

  Growing tired of their play, the twins finally settled on a knotty root where they were sheltered from the worst of the rain. They shook themselves, and then folded up their leather wings. Pulling from either side, they tore the rodent in two and devoured it peacefully together. The darkness lay thick around them and, when the thunder ceased, the only sounds in the forest came from the rain, the wind, and the battered foliage. Yet something interrupted the dragonnets’ meal. Something only they could perceive. Something that made them rear up sharply and captured their complete attention.

  They remained frozen in place for an instant, like a pair of small onyx statues gleaming wet from the rain. They had to be sure they were not mistaken, that there was no danger of misinforming their mistress, and thus risk incurring her anger or, worse still, losing her affection. But there was no mistake.

  So they roused themselves and exchanged nervous growls before taking wing, the male vanishing into the shadows of the vast forest while his sister flew towards the source of their interest. She moved swiftly, weaving between the tree trunks and seeming to take pleasure in dodging them at the very last moment, only finally slowing when she recognised the sound of voices. She found herself a comfortable perch in the hollow of a tree . . .

  . . . where she did not have very long to wait.

  There were riders approaching.

  There were three of them, following a muddy trail beneath the rivulets of rainwater cascading down through the forest canopy. Soaked to the skin, they plodded along in the haloes cast by the lanterns hanging from their saddles. These did not shed much light, but at least, between the flashes of lightning, allowed them to make out the puddles disturbed by their horses’ heavy hooves.

  Saint-Lucq led the way. Behind him, Captain Etienne-Louis de La Fargue endured the rain with perfect stoicism, as it spattered his aging, patriarchal features: pale eyes, handsome wrinkles, martial bearing, grim mouth, closely trimmed beard, and firm jaw. Tall and solidly built, he was wearing a sleeveless vest over his doublet, which was made of leather thick enough to stop a musket ball fired from a distance, or even deflect a clumsy sword stroke. It was black, as were this old gentleman soldier’s breeches, boots, gloves and hat. As for the doublet, it was the same dark red as his baldric and the sash tied around his waist, knotted over his right hip.