~General Tupen ~
Through a secret door on the outside of an ancient edifice, they steal through a secret passage stairway leading down. The tight passage is only wide enough for one man to walk through sideways. Cyrano leads the way, his sword drawn and held before him, a small lit candle balanced perfectly upon the narrow flat of his blade. Erik the Phantom follows closely behind him, and Quasimodo last.
“I should be in front,” grouses the Phantom. “The garish light of your candle will only blind us and possibly alert the guards. Trust my eyes, Cyrano. Trust them more than the light.”
“You have not, and never will, earn my trust, Monsieur Erik. Nay, I take that back. I trust your voice when it sings, but not when it speaks.”
“You are cruel, but kind,” says the Phantom.
A cold draft, seemingly coming from nowhere, blows out the candle, and all is black. Cyrano stops and fumbles to relight the wick. After nearly a minute, his light is born anew, and he sees the Phantom several paces in front of him.
“How did you pass me?” Cyrano asks, his eyes round and full of disbelief. “The ceiling is too low for you to leap over me, the passage too narrow to squeeze past. What trick—?”
The Phantom cuts him off with a soothing “Shhhhhhhh…” He then begins to sing, slowly and softly, at first. But with each step and new verse, the voice grows in strength and lucidity.
Nighttime alters, compounds each sensation,
Darkness stirs, arouses agitation,
Quietly the senses abandon their defenses,
Helpless to defy the notes I indite,
For I compose the music that doth fright,
Quickly, harshly night unfurls its horror,
Feel it, sense it, fantastical torture,
Turn your hopes away from the tawdry light of day,
Turn your thoughts away from living through this night,
And listen to the music that doth fright,
Close your eyes and surrender to your dark nightmares,
Purge your thoughts of all sweet and happy dreams,
Close your eyes, hear your spirit start to scream,
And you'll die as none ever died before,
Roughly, sickly, music shall confound you,
Feel it, fear it, closing in around you,
Open up your mind, let your sanity unwind,
In this darkness which you know you cannot fight,
The darkness of the music that doth fright,
Let your mind start a journey to a strange new hell,
Leave all thoughts of the world you knew before,
Let your soul take you where you're meant to be,
And right then, you'll belong to me,
Plummeting, falling, sweet exhilaration,
Flee me, fear me, cry with each sensation,
Let the terror begin, let your sanity give in,
To the power of the music I indite,
The power of the music that doth fright,
All of you will make my song take flight,
Hear me make the music that doth fright.
By the song's end, the great Cyrano is in a cold sweat. Never before did he feel fear amalgamated with such audible beauty. Both had penetrated his very soul. He looks back to see Quasimodo unaffected, saved by his deafness.
“Are we almost there?” asks the Hunchback.
Before Cyrano can speak, the Phantom answers. “Tell that buffoon, we are here now.”
Cyrano gives the Hunchback a nod before turning his attention forward. The passage opens to a much larger, straighter passage lit by ensconced torches. Every ten feet is the locked door of a cell. Two guards lie upon the stony floor. All is silent as a grave.
Aghast, Cyrano looks to the Phantom. “My word! Did you kill them all with your song?”
The Phantom spreads his gloved hands. “They are merely dreaming bad dreams, as are all the prisoners here. Come now, you and Quasimodo slay the guards as we make way to Tupen's cell. We do not want them waking on our way back.”
Cyrano waves a hand and furrows his brow in a harsh glare. “Nay. I am a warm-blooded lover and a fair killer, not a cold-blooded killer and a fair lover. Though I am deformed and look the part of a villain, I need not play it. You'll do well to learn that lesson, Monsieur Erik.” He flicks the candle off his blade, and sheaths it.
Something of a sigh escapes the Phantom's mask as he turns to run down the hall. “At least tell the Hunchback to remove their carbines, lest they wake and fire upon the two of you. This way.”
The three men run down two more hallways, each one with two more prone guards enrapt in nightmarish slumber. Quasimodo takes up their carbine rifles. By the time they reach the cell of the sleeping and whimpering Claude-Luc de Tupen, the Hunchback's thick arms are full.
From the nearest guard, Cyrano takes a ring of keys. After examining them all, he chooses one. With a thrust and twist of the key, the lock pops, and the cell door swings ajar. They open the door to behold Tupen lying in a nest of rags, twitching and sweating from an unyielding nightmare. Cyrano kneels down and shakes the man.
“General Tupen! General Tupen, awake!”
The beady eyes of the aristocrat open as he lets out a mewling cry. “Oh! That voice! What horror! I was surrounded by bloody-handed peasants. They fell upon me like hungry beasts and led me to the guillotine! And worse yet, they were singing the most horrific song while doing it! Who are you?”
Cyrano takes the man's arm and pulls him to his feet. “We are your rescuers, though we know not why. Come, Tupen. We haven't time to lose.”
As the aristocrat emerges from his cell, he reacts to the sight of the three men with confusion and disgust. “What is this trio of the grotesque? I demand answer!”
The Phantom takes a step toward Tupen, making him balk in apprehension. “We are the Broken Bards of Paris, Monsieur. We sing the songs, fight the throngs, and right the wrongs. Now, be a good audience and remain silent.”
Tupen shakes his head. “But who would want to rescue me?”
“Who indeed?” answers Cyrano. With a forceful tug, he ushers Tupen to a speedy trot.
Quasimodo tosses the carbines into the empty cell, closes the door, and breaks the iron key off in the lock. In little time, he catches up with Cyrano and Tupen.
“Where did the Phantom go?” the Hunchback asks.
Cyrano looks about as he runs, seeing naught but cells, stones, and ensconced torches. “I know not, nor do I care at the moment.”
Just ahead, two guards arise from the floor, awakened from their nightmares. The closest guard sees them and begins to draw his sword. The Hunchback is upon him before the blade clears its sheath, and with a tackling pounce and a blow of Quasimodo's mighty fist, the guard is dispatched.
The next guard has time to draw his blade. “Halt!” he orders, pointing his sword at Cyrano and Tupen. Cyrano's sword is drawn in a flash as a venturous smile curves below his perfect mustache. To him, the guard seems slow as a statue. After a brief meeting of steel, his point pierces the man’s heart.
“I'll take his sword,” Tupen says, seeing the man fall. “I was a soldier.”
He reaches for the blade only have his hand slapped by the flat of Cyrano's rapier.
“You'll do no such thing, Tupen. Onward!”
“More guards!” Quasimodo yells back at them.
Cyrano and Tupen continue their dash down the halls to find the Hunchback engaged with two more armed guards. Quasimodo avoids each thrust and swipe with the deftness of a cunning ape until one guard lands a lucky cut upon the Hunchback's hump. Quasimodo roars, his ugliness augmented by his pain-induced rage. The sight and sound startle the guards long enough for him to grab an iron torch off the wall and fling it at the guard's face. The burning projectile strikes true, and the guard falls into a limp heap. Just as the second guard closes in, Quasimodo takes hold of his wrist and snaps it like a week-old baguette. The sword clanks to the floor as the man screams. With a series of vicious blows, Quasimodo ha
mmers him into eternal silence.
After a few more turns through the darkened prison, they come upon Erik, the Phantom, facing off against the last two guards blocking the way out.
With his back facing his allies, the Phantom raises his gloved hand. “Stop, my friends. They are no trouble.”
Cyrano, Quasimodo, and Tupen halt, unnerved by the Phantom's eerie calmness. They see Erik remove his volto mask, and the two guards tremble and turn sheet white. The guards try to scream, but their voices catch in their throats. With eyes wide and mouths agape, they fall dead upon the floor. Erik puts on his mask and turns to look at the dumbfounded men.
“It would have been better that they died in their sleep, no?”
“What trickery did you use?” Cyrano asks, his chin raised in scrutiny. “Drugs? Poison? Gypsy hypnotism? You expect us to believe you killed them with sheer terror at the sight of your face? Do you think I fear you, Opera Ghost? Do you still pretend to be a true Phantom and not some rogue trickster?”
At this Erik laughs and gives a mocking bow. “No, Monsieur de Bergerac. My answer to your last question is no.” With a dramatic flap of his cape the Phantom disappears.
Quasimodo's good eye widens in wonder. “Cyrano, was that real magic or just a trick?”
The greatest swordsman in all of France has no answer.
Chapter 8