Pierre Pevel - By The Alchemist in the Shadows Page 0,1

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