Dark Crusade

by Vaughn Heppner

Hugo rose, madly cranking his crossbow, dropping in another bolt.

  Warily, Gavin and Josserand neared the creature. Behind them, more men jumped down from the causeway.

  “It’s dead,” Gavin said, poking it with the silver sword.

  “So is Osric,” said Josserand.

  As the men hurried to them, Gavin eyed the High Priest’s knight. “You’re supposed to murder us in the swamp, aren’t you, sir? That’s why the High Priest sent you.”

  Josserand’s face went blank as his eyes took in Gavin’s drawn blade.

  With it, Gavin pointed at the gaunt. “He was a man once, probably a fisherman or a woodsman. They turned him into that.”

  Josserand said nothing, merely stared at Gavin.

  Gavin sheathed his weapon and squatted, lifting the gaunt’s head, with Hugo’s bolt sticking out of it. “Take a good look, sir. It’s what either of us might become if we fail.”

  Josserand gave him the barest of nods, then stepped aside as the others rushed near.

  Gavin shouted orders, and teams fanned out, looking for more of the creatures. They didn’t find any and soon they stood back on the causeway, drying their leggings by the fires.

  “This is an evil place,” said many.

  “We’re fools to ride on,” said others.

  If anything, the men looked more rebellious now than before the halt.

  Swan formed them into a circle. Hard-eyed and scared, they studied her. Lightning jagged just then. Heavy, accompanying thunder filled them with fear and almost spooked the mounts.

  “We are the crusaders!” shouted Swan. The cold wind whipped her hair. Her mail and fearless expression gave her a martial air. She, noble-born and bred, handled her mount with ease. “I dare to ride against those who would turn us into darkspawn,” she said. “What of you warriors—what do you oath-takers dare?”

  Few met her gaze, although one man shouted, “Osric dared, and he’s dead.”

  Swan nodded to Hugo. He went to his mount and drew a long pole, twisting the wood to unfurl a triangular-shaped banner of blue silk. It had a yellow silk flame in the center.

  “That was given me by the Matron Innocence of Banfrey,” said Swan. “It was taken out the holy place of the Shrine of Tulun. The Matron Innocence told me that as long as it was aloft the archenemy of Old Father Night would aid us. Think on that. Hosar hates Darkness. He will guard us from the spells of evil. And lo, I name you Hugo, Standard Bearer of the Banner of Hosar!”

  She gazed upon the men. Some doubted. Others watched with interest. Many had fiery eyes, blazing with wonder and hope.

  “Shout!” she told them. “Let them know the crusaders are coming.”

  Sir Hunneric raised a mailed fist. “We are knights of Hosar!”

  “Aye!” bellowed Welf.

  Gavin studied the warriors as they shouted. He looked to Hugo, his old and grizzled companion. He thought he had understood his friend, his boon sword brother. No speech in Godomar had ever moved Hugo. Yet there Hugo stood: his one eye shining and his mouth agape, cheering with the rest of these easily led louts. Gavin shook his head, wondering why he didn’t feel what these men did. He saw only death ahead, and more death. Some of these brave warriors would be changed into darkspawn. He and Hugo knew that. Perhaps his bitterness was at the loss of his squire. Hugo was Swan’s now. He should have seen it coming.

  Then, because it wasn’t wise amongst warriors to be the outsider, Gavin yelled with the rest of them.

  ***

  So it was that Swan under the Banner of Hosar led them through the evil swamp, the corrupted land, and brought them to awful Castle Forador. It sat like a rock in a bog. It was a fortress of stones piled one atop the other, with turrets, a raised drawbridge and dark, moss-lined walls. No lights shone from the castle, although darkness in places seemed thicker than elsewhere, and from those spots… Someone or something watched them. They all felt it. They felt hatred, a yearning for blood—theirs—to be sucked out of them until they were lifeless husks.

  The horses whinnied in terror, their ears lying flat.

  “Dismount!” shouted Gavin.

  Under his direction, they formed a shield wall, a circle, with the horses in the center together with Swan and the Standard Bearer.

  Black leaves rustled in the gloom. A chill wind, heavy with the feel of rain and malice, threatened to turn dusk into watery night.

  Gavin nodded to Josserand, and together on foot, they scouted around the castle. They found deep pits filled with bones and gory rubbish, and they hurried across oddly sticky ground. Josserand paused, touching the soil, crumbling the dirt with his fingers.

  “Blood,” he said. “Much spilled blood here.”

  Gavin shuddered. They increased their pace, their armor jangling. Gavin tested the postern gate. He pushed it open, although neither of them walked through into the courtyard.

  “Something is in there,” whispered Josserand. He seemed tense, like a bent sword under tremendous pressure.

  Gavin squinted into the dark courtyard, but saw nothing moving. Still, a bad feeling worked up and down his back, like a hairy spider crawling across his skin.

  They retraced their path to the shield wall, grim-eyed men studying the castle and the swaying trees.

  Gavin ordered torches lit and passed around. “Let’s do what needs doing,” he told them.

  No one broke from the shield wall. Everyone remained in place. Many looked mulish, frightened-stubborn.

  “Shadows can’t harm us,” Gavin said.

  Sir Ullrick drew his axe, clutching it with a white-knuckled grip. His breathing deepened. It seemed as if he wanted to step out of the shield wall. Soon he scowled, turning away, his big shoulders hunching.

  “It could be a trap,” said Hunneric.

  Gavin studied the castle. The big pile of stones radiated terrible menace.

  A man-at-arms cried out, pointing a trembling finger, “Look! Look! On the walls!”

  Men scanned the ramparts as thunder rolled across the underbelly of the clouds.

  Swan, while a-horse, had been studying the fortress, with her features paler than ever. She moved her lips without making a sound. Sweat glistened on her face and she shivered as when she had the fever. Then she swung a leg over the saddle horn and slid to the ground, marched to Hugo’s stallion and drew the banner, unfurling it, raising it high.

  Men shouted in wonder. The yellow silk flame seemed alight, and as the wind rippled the banner, the flame seemed to waver, as would any fire.

  Swan handed the banner to Hugo. He grinned tightly, waving it back and forth. Then, beckoning Gavin beside her, Swan led the crusaders to the postern gate.

  “We must take back what is ours,” she told them. She plunged through the opening, with Hugo hurrying on her heels. The men followed, albeit reluctantly, with a clack and clattering of mail armor and iron-shod shoes.

  It was a ghost of a place, without a soul to greet them. Gruesome stains marred the courtyard bricks. Offal and worse horribly stank from pits and befouled cisterns. Torture racks and whipping posts had been built and used. Thick, congealed blood lay in gross puddles. Perhaps the worst were the bones littered everywhere, some half-gnawed. Many of the men grew faint. A few vomited.

  With her torch, Swan pointed at the main keep. It was a square tower, and from it radiated the worst wickedness.

  “There lies the evil,” she whispered.

  Men tightened the grips upon their swords, spears, shield handles and licked their lips.

  “We must enter and destroy the malice,” she told them.

  Ullrick had grown deathly pale. He now objected. “We have no sorcerers, no spell-casters to aid us.”

  “We have the banner,” said Swan, “and stout hearts and blades of steel.”

  Josserand smiled crookedly. Gavin found that his palms had grown sweaty and his throat dry. He didn’t want to reenter that awful place where he had witnessed such grim and inhuman butchery.

  Swan clapped Hugo on the shou
lder, making him flinch. He took a deep breath and ran ahead, kicking open the main door, entering with the banner into the darkness. A foul odor wafted out and many men hung back. Others gagged. Only the bravest—a mere handful—clanked into the former Great Hall after the Standard Bearer. Their torchlight flickered off a hundred bones scattered across the room. Bizarre, grotesque paintings on the walls sickened them. Dominating the huge hall, the only remaining furniture as it were, was a black altar bespattered with gore.

  For a moment none spoke, so the crackling torches seemed unnaturally loud.

  Then a lean, remote man stepped from behind the altar, startling them. He wore an odd gown that was unlike anything seen in Anor for a millennium.

  “Zon Mezzamalech,” whispered Swan.

  Gavin felt his hair stand on end in supernatural dread.

  The man, Zon Mezzamalech, smiled evilly. He lifted long, thin arms. He began to chant in a tongue that none of them except for Swan in her visions had ever heard.

  Sir Hunneric shouted wildly, half-berserk. He drew his sword and charged the sorcerer.

  “No!” shouted Swan. “Wait!”

  Young Sir Hunneric gave his battle cry and swept his blade at the sorcerer. The sword passed harmlessly through Zon Mezzamalech, to shatter against the stone altar, shivering into several pieces.

  The sorcerer, if such he was, stepped near, clutching Sir Hunneric by the throat, lifting him off his feet. That hand glowed eerily green, and that glow passed into the young knight. Hunneric screamed as if hot brands had been shoved into his belly.

  A bolt flew from Hugo’s crossbow, also passing harmlessly through the sorcerer.

  “Is he real?” roared Ullrick, spittle flying from his lips and with madness in his eyes.

  “Draw your sword!” Swan shouted at Gavin. “Draw your enchanted silver blade.”

  Gavin did so: horrified as Sir Hunneric kicked his legs and vainly tried to free himself from the glowing grip.

  Swan clutched Gavin by the sleeve, leading him toward the sorcerer.

  “How do you slay a wraith?” shouted Ullrick, trailing behind.

  Gavin was amazed to see bright tracings running up and down his blade.

  The sorcerer or wraith holding aloft Hunneric saw it too. “No!” it hissed. “Keep away.”

  “Strike the altar,” Swan whispered in his ear.

  “And shatter my sword?” asked Gavin, as if in a daze.

  “Strike, Sir Gavin! Be bold! Trust for once in your life.”

  Gavin didn’t know if it was her words or Hunneric choking out his life. He swung as the apparition screamed. The silver blade touched the altar. Thunder boomed, blue lightning erupted and the altar stones burst apart.

  Hunneric collapsed onto the ground with a thud. The sorcerer, wraith, whatever it was, vanished.

  Dumbly, Gavin stared at his sword. It no longer had those frightening glyphs, the glowing magic runes. No notch marred it, and it was whole. Most surprising of all, as the dust settled, he saw that the altar had been shattered. It was askew, chunks of it fallen free.

  “Look at Sir Hunneric,” hissed Josserand.

  To their horror, the young knight metamorphosed before them. Furry hair sprouted all over his face as his mouth lengthened into a wolfish snout and his teeth into fangs. His fingernails grew long and hardened into claws.

  “Help me,” pleaded Sir Hunneric. Then he snarled, struggling to rise.

  With his sword and before anyone could stop him, Josserand ran him through the chest, so Hunneric or the beast he had become staggered back against the broken altar. Blood gushed. And the thing that had been Sir Hunneric slumped back in death and no longer breathed.

  The men stared at one another in horror. A few sobbed unashamedly.

  Then the dead thing stirred—although his chest didn’t rise to take in air. He raised his bestial head with coal red eyes like the fires of hell, and he opened his mouth so that wicked laughter issued out that did not seem to be his own. “Fools! You shall never leave this swamp alive! This night will you join the Horde of the Damned and dance a death jig for my amusement.”

  It would have spoken more. But as the others watched in frozen terror and loathing, Gavin swung, decapitating the grisly head. He turned to the others, shouting, “Get out! Run!”

  Swan shook her head in bewilderment. “No. We must burn this place to the ground.”

  Gavin backed away from the broken altar, his eyes wild. He heard flapping and thin squeals. With a flicker of his blade, he struck two bats, cutting them from the air. Another bat fell from the rafters and attached itself to Sir Ullrick’s cheek. The Bear roared in rage and terror, ripping it from him, throwing it down and stomping it with his heel. At that, they broke and ran, Hugo grabbing a reluctant Swan. Outside, from the clouds above, grew a strange sound, a rustling that came from many dark blots.

  “More bats!” shouted Gavin. “Run to the horses! We must ride!”

  They ran, and soon mounted. With blades drawn and horses neighing, the company thundered for the causeway. Bats dropped from the sky, hundreds of them. Later, strangely altered bears, wolf-things, and creatures that once had been snakes hopped and slithered out of the swamp to attack them. The crusaders hewed, they slashed, and they rode from Forador Castle, killing and being killed.

  The next morning less than thirty reached the toll bridge, all of them stained to the soul by the horrors they had witnessed. Each now knew that they doomfared in earnest.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Cuthred trembled as he clutched a bloodied whip.

  The emaciated Master sat upon the Duke’s throne. The Master had the same height as the former seneschal of Castle Forador, the same shock of thick white hair. But the face was no longer fleshly and full. The body lacked Kergan’s once deep chest and heavy arms and legs. The face was skull-like, the raging eyes deep within the sockets. The limbs were skeletal, the hands particles of liver-spotted flesh, tendons and bones. Upon the wreckage of his body, the Master wore a fine-spun Vachan robe. Upon his sunken chest radiated the eerie amulet.

  The throne room’s windows were sealed, the torches and vast fireplace unlit. A green glow emanated from twin braziers beside the throne, matching the nimbus around the Master’s amulet. The smoky incense of the braziers also helped mask the smell of decay that the Master wore like a rotting cloak.

  The braziers dimly illuminated Leng groveling at the foot of the throne, with his brown robe shredded, his back stained with blood. Vivian watched to the side, she watched with purple-painted eyes wide with fear. Her bound hair was fixed high in an ancient style, with deep red rouge streaked upon her cheeks and with black lipstick. She wore costly rings, a silk gown that trailed at her feet and a necklace of Muscovite amber.

  “They destroyed the enchantment,” said the Master. With his bony fist, he hammered the arm of the throne, splintering it. “They shattered my spell!”

  “Master,” said Leng, from upon a Saxon rug. “I can repair this damage. By the Moon Lady, I swear it.”

  The Master turned his decaying eyes upon Cuthred. “Again, and strike harder this time. You are forbidden to pull your strokes.”

  Cuthred’s huge arm moved ponderously, whirling in an arc. Whip-leather hissed through the air and slashed the sorcerer’s flesh.

  From upon the rug, Leng howled.

  Vivian shrank back, groaning in dread.

  Cuthred grinned, showing off horse-sized teeth. He swung once more.

  ***

  After the Rape of Glendover, the Master had moved into the Duke’s vacated apartments in the citadel. There the bloodiest fighting had taken place, the former Duke leading the defense. Presently, the now lifeless Duke marched in the Horde of the Damned, scaling the walls of nearby castles. Each evening, Death Drummer Joanna took her horde on yet another conquest, refilling her chopped-up ranks with more complete, fleshier recruits. By now, those who had become undead at Castle Forador tottered with their last shreds of flesh. More than one simply collapsed on t
he march as the last retaining muscles rotted away.

  The Moon Ships had worked to perfection as they had sat offshore that victorious night. Many Glendover folk might have survived the slaughter, but they had hesitated to board ship and face the ghostly sea-warriors. So with daylight and the moon ships’ disappearance, more than one doomed human had known great bitterness.

  Glendover became the Master’s stronghold. Behind the huge stone walls, the darkspawn were safe during the day. Except that a day not so long ago, as dusk fell, the Master hurried to the docks to examine his cogs and galleys, the ones left by the humans. He and Leng had argued over the best use of the fleet, Anor’s biggest.

  As he had hurried, outpacing his brutish guards, a lone human arose. The haggard woman, wild-eyed and dirty, her rags torn, screamed from her secret hiding spot. She screamed and launched herself upon the Master, a spear in her death-grip. She refused to look into the Master’s eyes. She screamed so she couldn’t hear his words. She drove the spear into his belly and shouted in triumph—only to see that triumph turn into disaster as the Master, with a horrible grunt, yanked the spear from his belly and turned it upon her.

  She, too, along with the brave Duke, now marched in the Horde of the Damned.

  With his spells, the Master had stanched the flow of blood. But the withering of his flesh had accelerated. And he had decided that his brute guard had failed him. They now hung by their heels upon the city walls, writhing in the daylight and moaning at night.

  Cuthred became the Master’s new bodyguard. It was a dubious honor even to the giant’s dull-witted understanding. Only Vivian’s presence brought any relief.

  ***

  The Master now rose from his throne, tottering to a nearby window. He unlatched the shutter and gazed over the nighttime city. In the streets below new armies of clawmen, tuskriders, brutes, blood-drinkers and a handful of giants metamorphosed into being.

  “Broken,” the Master said. “The enchanted was shattered.”

  “H-How?” whispered Leng, who still lay on the costly Saxon rug.

  “You dare ask me that?” said the Master. “They have opened the swamp route. Nothing now bars their way from reinforcing the North.”