Forgotten Heir: Realm Doors Book One

Chapter Seven

The dream wasn’t one of Cara's memories. It was one of Ric’s, and even while asleep, she wondered how it came to find its way into her mind. He was still human; she felt his heart beat pounding rhythmically as clearly as if it were her own. He lounged in a pavilion of red and gold, the walls moving gently in the French breeze.  Outside, the sounds of blacksmiths anvils and whinnying horses filled the churned up streets, roadways which stank of too many people, too many animal, and limited ability remove effluent. A page pushes through the crouds, fear in his eyes.

Sir Ulrich,” the youth greets him, bowing low. “I bring news from the lists.”

Ric leaned forward, listening intently. “Continue.”

The boy nodded and stood up straight. “Sir Harold and Sir William have both withdrawn.”

Ric slammed his fist into the table. He’s had enough of such cowardice. Every knight and every champion had withdrawn from the joust, all for fear of the new competitor, Sir Galahad. Who was ‘Sir Galahad’ anyway? An unknown knight sporting a name taken from myth. Yet during his first joust he’d broken his lance on Sir Percy with such force he’d killed the poor man.  In his second, he’d shattered Sir Alfred’s arm. Rumour said he’d almost taken the limb clean off. Every joust he rode in thereafter had a similar ending, until all the competing knights grew too afraid to ride against him.

The page watched him expectantly, murmuring, “They’re saying Galahad is a demon, Sir, soulless and merciless. They say he’s undefeatable. They want to know if you withdraw also?”

Ric grunted, swigging ale from a battered tankard. He thought of the lady whose favour Galahad carried. She was pretty girl, no older than seventeen by his estimation, though she possessed ageless eyes which disconcerted him. She had arrived the same night as Sir Galahad, and although they were not wed, rumours had spread that ‘the Lady’ went to Galahad’s bed every night to carry out the duties of a wife... or a whore.

“Sir,” the page interrupted his thoughts. “What shall I tell them? Do you withdraw?”

Ric shook his head. “No, I shall not. I will ride against this demon. Someone needs to show him and his pretty Lady what a real knight can do.”

The page bowed and scuttled away, leaving Ric to contemplate what he’ gotten himself into. Isabella would not be happy. She had begged him to withdraw days ago, but he would not.

Ah, Isabella, pretty Isabella, the girl he would’ve taken as his wife if her father hadn’t chosen Sir William instead. Ric threw the tankard across the pavilion, startling other knights and their servants as he rose angrily to his feet. Perhaps it would be a mercy if Galahad killed him. There would be no further shame if Galahad skewered him for all to mock; they already mocked his failed courtship of Lady Isabella anyway, and that was far harder to bear.

He stalked out and through the rain drenched walkways, mud splattering up his legs. His father would have laughed at him for even daring to love a woman. Females were not for loving, his father would say, they were for producing heirs if you married them, for pleasure if you paid them, and anything in between was a complication. Ric did love Isabella though, he had done since she was six and he was eight. They’d first met as their fathers jousted at tournament, but she’d never be his. He’d be forced to watch as she was traded off to some aging fool, all for a title and the chance to bear heirs who would become English earls.

Ric acknowledged that his blood line had grown too diluted, his family’s nobility called into question. That was why Isabella’s father had refused his requests for her hand. Even his family’s land had been sold off over time, as famine and war brought the estate to a painful demise. He had no wealth and his most valuable possessions were his few horses and the armour he would wear when competing. The house he maintained was crumbling and in serious need of a renovation he could little afford. 

He ran his fingers through his hair, asking of no one in particular, “Why does my heart aim so impossibly high?”

Ric sighed, admitting to himself that he could ride against Galahad because he had little to lose compared to the other competitors. If he won, perhaps he could pull back some glory. If he died, he wouldn’t need to concern himself with the happenings of the mortal coil. The more rational part of his brain piped up ‘And what if you’re simply injured, disabled, incapable of finding money to keep the little estate you retain?’

He ignored his conscience. There were few depending on him for anything anyway. So he strolled into the marquee where his squire waited to help him into his battered armour, and he didn’t hesitate.

“You’re sure about this Sir Ulrich?” the younger man asked. “More men have died riding against Sir Galahad than have come back alive.”

Ric nodded. “All the more reason for me to unhorse him... before he kills too many more.”

The squire looked unhappy, but he wouldn’t speak of his fears; he had grown out of the fanciful imaginings which still plagued a few of the pages. Anyway, it was ridiculous, wasn’t it? The rumours that Galahad was a beast who feds on the blood of virgin girls to give him strength? They could only be fiction, the stories which claimed Galahad’s Lady only survived because she offered herself to him as his concubine so willingly that he wouldn't drink from her.

Together, he and his squire plodded to the lists, and Ric groaned as he’s helped onto his horse and glanced at the crowd; finding Isabella perched fearfully between her father and the oaf she was betrothed to. She chewed her lip, shaking her head at him despondently, tears in her eyes. He wished she'd stayed a way. Seeing her upset unsettled him, and he couldn’t afford to falter.

Galahad’s Lady was there too, eyeing him with interest. She signalled him to her box, and despite his misgivings, he felt compelled to urge his mount forward to stand before her. As he reined in his horse, the Lady stood.

“You do not withdraw, sir knight?”

“I do not.” Ric answered her stoutly.

“Why?” the Lady asked. “Do you not know fear as the other knights know fear?”

He looked levelly up at her. “I can see no honour in withdrawing, my Lady. There is no honour in fearing death to the extent it rules over your heart. Should I die today, I go willingly into God’s hands.”

She laughed, her grey eyes sparkling almost silver. “Ride well, sir knight, strike true.”

Ric bowed stiffly in the saddle then turned his horse and trotted back to his position.

The squire handed him his first lance with a grimace, murmuring, “Her eyes are still following you Sir Ulrich, as if you were a chalice of her favourite wine.”

Ric glanced back at the Lady, whose dazzling smile still beamed in his direction. He didn’t have time to worry over her interested, though.

The trumpets blared and Ric slammed his visor down, staring determinedly at Sir Galahad astride his prancing charger. He took a deep breath, steadying his heart rate as the adrenalin rush kicked in. The seconds seemed to tick slowly by as he waited for the banner to fall, signalling the charge. When it happened, Ric kicked his heels and his horse sprung forward instantly, galloping head long through the tilting yard. He lowered the lance with confidence, fitting it into the cradle with practised ease, and he didn’t hear the crowds cheering as he targeted Sir Galahad’s chest.

Ric grunted in pain as the air was knocked from his lungs in a cloud of splintering wood, Sir Galahad’s lance breaking on him even as his broke on his opponent. The crowd cheered louder, roaring his name, celebrating the first combatant to land a blow against Galahad.

With difficulty, Ric clung onto his horse, struggling to make his aching lungs expand again. He was still choking as he raised his head to study Sir Galahad sitting, placid and relaxed, on his steed’s back.

“God in heaven,” he muttered to himself. “He didn’t even feel the hit.”
“Are you alright Sir Ulrich?” The squire asked, staring at his master’s chest plate in awe.

Ric shifted painfully, still unable to catch his breath. He couldn’t look down for his helmet.

“Why are you staring at me like that squire?” he gasped over the burning pain in his torso.

God, he didn’t think he’d manage to ride again. And why had the crowd fallen silent? Why was Isabella on her feet, the tears which had been in her eyes streaming unashamedly over her cheeks?

“You don’t feel that sir?” the squire asked grabbing his horse’s reins.

Ric shifted a gauntleted hand to his chest, but as his armour caught the shard of wood which had pierced his armour, he tasted blood in his mouth. His own, frothing blood. It was a long way to fall, from saddle to sandy earth, but thankfully Ric was unconscious before he hit the ground.

He groaned as he came back, waking in a world of agony to find himself wrapped in blood drenched blankets, in the darkness of his tent. His breath came in short, shallow rasps, and when he tried to move, he discovered he didn’t have the strength. Another groan escaped him, the sound unnervingly feeble but enough to draw Isabella's attention. His beautiful Isabella, who slipped through the curtain which his squire held open for her.

“Oh Ulrich,” she cried, throwing herself towards his bed. “You stubborn man, why did you have to ride against him?”

Ric opened his mouth to speak but couldn’t draw the breath required to form words. He let his eyes close in pain, feeling his body grow colder.

“Squire, leave,” another female voice sounded by the door, cold and yet enticing. Galahad’s Lady commanded authority, and the youth left without question, so quickly it made Ric wonder if the boy knew his master lay dying.

Isabella glared furiously at the other woman, and if he’d been in good health, he would have complimented her defiance as she ground out, “What are you doing here, concubine.”

“I’m here to save him, little girl,” the Lady answered. “He has but moments left to live, and if you try to stop me, he will die. Do you want that?”

Isabella hugged her arms around herself, suppressing a sob. “He is beyond saving, Lady.”

The other woman shook her golden head. “For you maybe, not for me.”

She strode confidently to Ric’s side, adding “You rode well today, human, and now I’m here with your reward. I can give you the strength Galahad wields.” 

She lifted him easily into a sitting position as she spoke, even as he slipped once more towards oblivion. The Lady turned briefly to Isabella, hissing, “If you make a sound, I will kill you most painfully.” Then she tipped Ric’s head back, exposing his throat. Her fangs descended quickly as she pressed her mouth to his plus point, where his skin still twitched, but only slowly. She bit him, letting her venom seep into his blood stream.

Isabella stumbled behind her, her chest rising and falling too fast as she hyperventilated, panicking.

“You are a demon. You are a demon,” she repeated in terror as her legs gave way.  She couldn’t scream, couldn’t run. The devil had come to claim her, and she had frozen her to the spot.

The Lady laughed “If you say so, little human, but I warned you not to make a sound.”

The Lady was old and understood the Old Ways; controlling mortal minds was a simple task to her. She forced Isabella into silence and submission, almost without effort, and as the Lady probed the girl’s frightened mind, she didn’t miss how Isabella longed to give herself to Ric. She could grant that wish... in her own way... once her knight was ready.

It took some minutes for the venom to begin burning him, but when it did, Ric's eyes widened in agony. The Lady stroked his sweating brow, a gentle brush of soft fingertips against his clammy skin.

“Be at peace, sir knight, it will only hurt for a second longer.”

She drew her wrist to her mouth, biting into her own vein before pressing her arm to his mouth, knowing the venom would drive him to drink from her, and also knowing the potent mix of her venom and her blood with heal him. It would kill him first of course, or so they said. She wasn’t sure how she could still walk if she was dead, not that such details concerned her.

She moaned in pleasure as he took the first draw of her blood, suckling hungrily at her vein. She intended to have fun with him over the coming years; Galahad had been a favourite of hers for a long time, but the Lady felt like a change.

They remained like that for several minutes, until she tugged her wrist away, ignoring how Ric’s expression begged for more. Flashes of silver already burst out through his irises, and he gasped as his heart slowed, his lungs struggling to complete their instinctive, human task. He jerked on the bed, thrashing, and the Lady thought she could remember the next bit hurting. However, her own transformation had taken place so long ago, she couldn’t really say for certain.

Her new knight grunted and suck desperately at the air, his hands clenching and unclenching until everything slowed to a pain filled stop and he lay, corpse like, on the bed. She waited patiently for a few moments more, until she saw his fangs drop for the first time, then she pressed her mouth to his, running her tongue the sharp point and making herself bleed. She giggled as he pushed up to bite her, but he wasn’t strong yet and it was easy to fend him off.

Ric’s lust faded as awareness returned. He felt dazed, confused... Why was Galahad’s lady sat on his bed? Why was Isabella weeping on the floor, her eyes ringed red in sorrow?

Staring at Isabella, he noticed for the first time how her soft, smooth skin jumped adorably over the artery at her throat. He could hear her heart thumping loudly in her chest, too fast... too afraid. He wanted to comfort her.

Pulling himself from the bed, he crept over to the girl he wanted as his bride, but when she pulled away in terror, he frowned in confusion. Wasn’t she grateful that he was alive? Wait, how was he alive? Why had the pain gone? His mind seemed so foggy, unable to piece together any of what had happened between riding against Galahad and seeing the Lady perched on his bed.

“Isabella?” he queried. “What’s wrong?”

To her credit, Isabella fought angrily against the Lady’s hold on her mind, spitting, “Back, demon!”

She didn’t have the willpower to run, but with a struggle her hand lashed out and struck Ric. His eyes widened in surprise as he was forced to grab her hand before she hit him again. She stared up at him in horror and that was when some previously dormant part of Ric realised she was weak. More than that, she was prey. He was strong; he was an apex predator.

The Lady chuckled behind him. “She wants you to take her, sir knight.”

Ric felt the pulse in Isabella’s wrists, taunting him, even though he didn't understand why. A hunger like none he’d ever felt ripped at his gut and turned his tongue to leather. He needed... what?

Smiling to herself, the Lady decided to make it easy on him. She forced an image into Isabella’s panicking brain, and allowed herself a jolt of enjoyment as the girl broke free from Ric’s grasp to scramble to the table and clutch desperately at a knife. Ric tried to grab Isabella in bewilderment, but even the whimpering girl didn’t fully comprehend what she was doing as she drew the blade over her own throat. She sealed her own fate; the smell of blood intoxicated the newly turned. That first taste was important, and the fragrance reached him almost before Isabella’s blood seeped out of the wound. He thirsted for it with such intensity it became torturous.

In bewildered desperation, Ric grabbed Isabella, pulling her to his chest and pushing her long hair back over her shoulder. Before he had a chance to consider his actions, he buried his fangs into the girl he’d loved for seventeen years. As her blood burned against his tongue, he felt his body wake up, aware in a way it had never been before. He saw with heightened vision, heard with more sensitive ears, and desired more passionately than he’d ever thought possible. Ric fed greedily this first time, needing every exquisite mouthful until he heard Isabella's heart flutter and fail.
He pulled back abruptly, gazing into Isabella’s blank, dead eyes, horror gripping him. As he dropped the girl, the Lady watched in amazement, analysing the way he scooted from the corpse, an expression of guilt on his face.

He felt remorse? That puzzled the Lady. She'd never had a young one feel guilt before, yet she saw no other reason for the way Ric’s stared, wide eyed and open mouthed at the cooling cadaver.

“I’ve killed her.”

“Yes,” the Lady affirmed.

“What have you done to me?” he begged in response. “What monster have you created?”

The stillness of his aching heart alarmed him. How had he come to kill Isabella, his beautiful Isabella? Why would he do such a thing? Why, now, did he desire the hunt and the taking of human life? His chest moved quickly in horror, but his panting breaths were unnecessary, he knew it.

The Lady smiled, amused by his lisp as he spoke through fangs he wasn't acclimatised to having. It would be a few weeks before he learned to hide behind a human face. He might never learn to turn his true face into a human face at will. 
“You are vampire now,” she informed him. “It was the only way to save you.”

“I told you if I died today I would go willingly to God’s hands. Get the demon out of me! Please, take it back.”

She knelt in front of him, shaking her head. “Once the gift is given it cannot be taken back.” Yet even she frowned at the tears on his face; vampires didn’t usually cry. She touched his tears cautiously, as if they might be poison, asking, “Why do you weep?”

Ric hung his head in shame, pain radiating through him.

“I loved her,” he indicated towards Isabella. 

Love. The Lady considered that. She couldn’t remember feeling love or being loved. She couldn’t remember a human life, either. She must surely have had one but the remnants of it had long since been swept away by countless years as a vampire.
Just then the squire returned, he froze a moment staring from the Lady’s blood tinted lips, to Isabella’s lifeless remains, and finally to the demon staring back at him from his master’s face. The Lady made to leap at him, but Ric grabbed her in alarm. He would not watch his squire die, even though the Lady snarls as the youth escaped to fetch guards.

“Stupid child,” she reprimanded Ric, then phased into Blutholme, dragging him along with her through the realms. She wasn’t in the mood to face pitch forks, flaming torches, and the dangers of an angry mortal mob.

Ric dropped to his knees in the darkness of a world where the sun remained permanently eclipsed. At first he wondered if it was hell. He felt afraid, not understanding what happened or how he came to be feeding on Isabella, deciding he deserved hell.

The Lady ran her fingers through his hair, dismissing the importance of his terror as she murmured, “I have a brand new world to show you Sir Ulrich. A wondrous new world.”

She smiled down at him. ‘You will love me’, she thought. ‘You will love me above all others’.

But many centuries in the future, Cara frowns in her sleep. Ric’s voice came to her like a whisper on the wind, resigned as he sighed, “You see little one, I will not destroy another love.”