Chapter 8: The Masque of the Red Death
The gilded halls of the governor's palace blazed with light and decadence. Musicians, acrobats, and dancers entertained the masquerade throngs as spirits flowed freely. None here feared the night's terrors secluded behind iron gates.
An opulent feast occupied long tables for the select dignitaries invited to partake of the Emperor's bounty and enjoy lavish entertainments. They ate and drank with abandon, faces obscured by grotesque masks.
Gregor adjusted the beaked raven mask provided to his delegation by the frightened palace staff. He kept one hand on his sheathed blade as they joined the swirling morass of anonymity. Danger still stalked the darkness.
On the third night after ruination, Gregor had led the survivors back to the capital. They were greeted as heroes, holy saviors. But hollow fear still gripped all who survived the horrors. None felt safe.
So the governor had declared revelry and celebration of deliverance, no matter how superficial. The people craved any respite from the chill specter of doom banished but a few nights past.
But Gregor knew evil had only been repulsed, not broken utterly. The cycle would continue until the heart was pierced. And so, he watched and waited, blade ready against the shadows.
Masked dancers spun across the checkered ballroom floors in hypnotic rhythm. Gregor focused his psychic senses beneath the gaiety, seeking distortion or warding glyphs amidst veneers.
From high windows, the black moon leered down accusingly, not appreciating even brief separation from its subjects of terror. Perhaps its unnatural orbit was decaying. But it would return. It always returned.
To Gregor's unease, servants in black robes and raven masks had joined the throngs, orbiting the dining dignitaries. Even with covered faces, their body language conveyed malign intent.
Gregor felt the hackles on his neck raise as the rhythm built toward a violent crescendo around midnight feasting. He perceived the signs of ritual taking shape around oblivious indulgence.
Sounds of revelry turned to shrieks of terror as the servants drew blackened blades and set upon the feasters. Masks were torn aside to reveal not human features but gnashing maws and hollow sockets.
Gregor roared a warning as his sword left its sheath in a flash. Servants scattered from him, forsaking their attack to encircle this new threat loose in their ritual space.
Malicious laughter echoed from multiple sides as the raven-masked horde hemmed him in. Gregor turned slowly; blade ready to meet the first attacker. None dared close yet.
From around the ballroom drifted mocking whisperers: "His sword arm is sorely needed. The harvest approaches. The tithe must be met." The circle tightened.
Gregor reached with his mind for Brothers who might have escaped the slaughter. But no link could be found. His was the sole remaining soul not yet wearing death's flesh.
Red lightning arced from broken chandeliers as the manic dance reached a fever pitch. A rift was opening to receive fresh souls. Again, the shadows beckoned.
The raven circle parted as a new figure emerged. Tall and proud, the newcomer wore regal finery and a sable cloak. But beneath the exquisite masque glowed a red death's head.
Onyx ringed fingers clutched a long blade that wept poison. Behind the mask, cold flames flickered in the hollow orbits. This was the lord of the rite.
It moved without sound, gliding along the rime of energies beginning to coalesce from the dancers' ritual. Dead gems flashed on the pommel of its cursed dagger. A duel was at hand.
Gregor circled warily, blade flashing with mirrored movement. The Red Death seemed content to pace with him, awaiting weakness or imbalance to strike. They were evenly matched in skill.
From the swirling dancers came mocking entreaties. "Your membrane fades, mortal. Let our young feast." Gregor ignored their taunts, watching for the killing stroke.
Feinting low, Gregor sought to end it quickly with a downward slash. But the Red Death anticipated perfectly, riposting faster than thought. Gregor barely parried, poison eating at the nicked blade edge.
Again, and again their swords crashed as Gregor unleashed his most furious attacks. But the eldritch monarch matched him blow for blow, untiring in its flowing strikes and parries.
Sparks flew as their blades scraped and ground for an advantage that would not come. The impasse could not hold. But Gregor would not relent while blood still flowed hot.
The dancers' ritual song reached a wailing crescendo as Gregor and the Red Death circled endlessly in the emptying hall. Uptempo now, the clashing blades moved in a hypnotic blur under the pulses of eldritch light.
Sweat streamed down Gregor's face beneath the stifling raven mask. The creature's ripostes came swifter with each exchange, pressing him to his limits. Meanwhile, it flowed like liquid shadow, untiring, as the ritual energies swelled.
From barred gates, the sounds of shrieking spirits echoed now, promising a chance to don flesh once more if the veil was sundered. The manor had become a profane carnival masquerading mundane delight while pacted with death's kingdom.
Despair rising, Gregor retreated around a banquet table piled high with decaying fare and maggot-ridden chalices of wine. The Red Death glided opposite, blade flickering patiently. It knew mortal frailties too well. The end was ordained.
Gregor grasped a heavy pewter goblet and hurled it across the table to disrupt the ring of bloodless dancers. The Red Death flickered sideways, deflecting the missile easily before righting its glide toward Gregor.
But in that off-balanced moment, Gregor seized his window. Ignoring his quivering arms, he leapt forward, unleashing a mighty two-handed downstroke upon the nightmare monarch.
Sparks cascaded as ectoplasm rained down with the Red Death's parry. But Gregor's consecrated blade sheared through its wraith bone haft, sending the severed hilt spinning into darkness. At last, an opening!
The Red Death paused, regarding the sundered blade fragments with what seemed like curiosity. Then its empty gaze raised back to Gregor's mask in cold appraisal. The duel was not yet finished.
Bony fingers dripping inky blood reached up and slowly peeled away the flayed red mask, revealing the swirling madness beneath. Gregor's mortal eyes could not comprehend the shapes that flowed and melded behind its tattered skin veil.
And then it erupted forward, abyssal jaws unhinging as it flew at Gregor's throat. He slammed the banquet table up as a barrier, rotten fare splattering them both as it crashed aside.
Rolling under grasping claws, Gregor rebounded to his feet and snatched up the broken hilt lodged in the marble floor. The cursed trophy felt shockingly cold in his grip as he spun to meet the demon's charge.
With desperate prayer, he rammed the jagged hilt shards through its writhing veil into whatever passed as its heart. Inhuman screams of dissolving spirits peeled back his sanity as ectoplasm burst around the makeshift stake.
Like a punctured gas bladder, the Red Death careened away, wailing thin and formless as it spiraled into a shrinking mist. The bloodless dancers collapsed without their dark choreographer to sustain the deadly rhythm.
Gregor fell to his knees, flensing blades clattering down as blessed silence returned. By some Emperor-given providence, the tide had finally turned against the stewards of Halloween night.