Dark Crusade

by Vaughn Heppner

  “Up! Run!” snarled the medallion-wearing beast.

  With a groan the line of captives, about sixty strong, rose, stumbled and ran.

  Angella heard what the beasts must have already heard: the metallic clink of chainmail, the iron links riveted together that lowlander knights wore, that and the pounding of hooves and the clatter of shields.

  A trumpet blast froze everyone, both captives and beasts. On a hill, knights reined in their stallions. As the sun sank into the horizon, a cavalcade of lowlander horseman shouted in rage. They drew their terrible iron swords, readied their long lances and charged after them.

  The medallion-wearing beast howled as others among the wolf-men snarled in bafflement. Several of the beasts bolted, bounding away in terror. Others turned on the captive line and began hewing, stabbing men and women in the belly.

  “Charge the wolf-men!” shouted Angella. “Swarm the beasts.”

  No one heeded her. As one, the captives, starving, dehydrated and sickened by the long march, shrank back from the foaming creatures of evil that stabbed and hewed as they barked in glee.

  Angella dodged a dagger by leaping back, dragging another captive into the blade’s line. That man wept in fear, and the dagger slashed open his belly.

  The thunder of hooves became loud and the trumpet once more blasted its call.

  Under the howls and snarls of the medallion-wearer, the beasts dared marshal themselves to face the terrible men of iron. For the first time in her life, Angella was glad the knights were such fearsome warriors. As she lay on the ground, trembling, she watched in awe a particular knight who wielded a silver sword.

  ***

  Hundreds of years ago, the Cragsmen had lived throughout all Anor. Then the first knightly invaders from Elban had landed on their shores. It was during the time of one called Sir Strongbow that the most critical Cragsmen defeats took place. They had been driven from the forests and the fertile lowlands and into the empty fastness of the Western Crags. Foot-fighters: slingers and javelineers and known as ferocious hand-to-hand knifemen, the Cragsmen had been unable to stand against the tall iron men on their mighty chargers. Yet the Cragsmen were fiercely independent, lovers of song and daylong ballads. They seldom united en mass, too stubborn to do so, but they often raided the lowlands in bands of twenty or more. Smaller than the lowlanders, they were as wiry and nimble as he-goats. So when armies of knights came to retaliate, they fled to the higher mountains, driving their cattle and sheep before them. Once the knights retreated, the Cragsmen returned to their burnt homes, building their wattle huts and low-walled wooden palisades in a week. Their very poverty, in knightly terms, and their civilian mobility, kept them free from the feudalism of lord and serf. The pride of their personal freedom was both their bane and their salvation.

  It was these people that Gavin, and through him Swan, hoped to use against Nine Fingers, Count of the Barrens, the cousin of the King and the protector of the realm from the incursion of these very Cragsmen.

  “Ask this High King of the Crags,” Swan had instructed Gavin, “to join with us in our fight against the darkspawn. Then you must go together with the High King and speak with Nine Fingers, warning him of our unity and begging him to understand the horror of the darkspawn. If he marches on one of us, he marches on us both and will feel the wrath of us united.”

  “The High King will never agree to that,” said Angella on the ride from the darkspawn defeat and to her father’s palisade.

  Gavin and his forty crusaders had butchered the clawmen. They had freed the captives, at least those that lived. That is when Angella, the daughter to the chieftain of the Black Hawks, rose and told them who she was. On the ride to her father’s palisade, Angella listened to what Swan had instructed.

  “No,” said the girl of the Crags. “The High King will never agree to that. He is known as ‘the Wily One’ for a reason. He will never believe you. It is a known fact that all lowlanders always lie to those of the Crags.”

  “What about the heads of these clawmen?” Josserand asked. He slapped a gory sack tied to his saddle pommel.

  “The High King is the wily one,” Angella repeated. “He will never believe it. I’m not sure I believe it myself. It all seems like a nightmare now that is better left forgotten.” She tugged at her lower lip. Then she looked up and grinned. “Nine Fingers led a cunning raid into the Crags six months ago. He captured the High King’s totems and put them up in his hall in Krum Keep. If Nine Fingers rides in strength against you crusaders, then now would be the time to attempt a lightning raid against Krum Keep. Yet whatever you say the High King will expect is a lie. For as I’ve said: he knows that no lowlander tells the truth to a Cragsman. Therefore, you must beg the High King not to attack the Count.”

  “Why would we beg that?” asked a befuddled Gavin.

  “Because you must tell the High King that Count Nine Fingers is your ally. Instead of talking about the Count invading your lands, you must say that Nine Fingers is coming to aid you in your war against the darkspawn.”

  Josserand said sourly, “You have a devious mind, girl.”

  She blushed, and Gavin realized that the amazing mountain girl took it as a compliment.

  So it was that before they rode into the Black Hawk camp that Gavin decided to trust the girl.

  “You’re mad,” said Josserand. “It will never work.”

  A day later, Gavin and his men sat in the palisade of Angella’s father: the chieftain of the Black Hawk Tribe. After listening to his daughter’s account and all that Gavin had been through, the chief agreed to take them to the High Court of the Crags, to there speak with the High King of the Cragsmen.

  Soon, Gavin and Josserand sat in the High King’s palace. A low stone wall protected his larger than usual camp and a log house, long and low to the ground, with the floor dug down, was the palace for the High King. The floor was dirt, the fire encircled by rough stones and the smoke trickled through a hole in the ceiling. Thin log benches were the only seating but for the High King. He sat on a cedar stool. Thin, stunted warriors in furs and dirty woolens, with long curved daggers and javelins, made up the majority of the room’s occupants. The chieftain of the Black Hawks was among them, with his daughter Angella sitting at his feet. The High King indeed looked like a crafty fellow, and was young, with dark hair down to his shoulders. He had a way of squinting so you never saw his eyes. As Gavin spoke, the High King held a javelin in his right fist and kept hitting his knee with his left.

  Gavin told of all his adventures in Anor and some of what had taken place in far-off Godomar. He showed them a letter written by Swan, approving his status as herald. He pleaded with the High King to desist from all attacks in the low country during this terrible time of peril. But more importantly, Gavin begged the High King to join their island-wide alliance.

  An old woman began to cackle. She tended the fire, poking it with a charred stick. She rose, and rattled because of all the strung bones she wore as necklaces and wristlets. She wore fine linen, but was horribly wrinkled.

  “Do you lowlanders think we follow your puling Hosar?” She spat in the fire, causing hissing. “I give that to your Hosar. We follow the Old Woman of Bones. She will protect us from the deities of the Night—or perhaps she will urge us to join them!”

  “Quiet, old woman,” said the High King. “Tend to your fire and leave the plotting to me.” He smiled at Gavin, although he still squinted and thus hid his eyes. “Tell us more about Nine Fingers. When does he come to join you?”

  Gavin spun a tale, and the High King nodded, from time to time pounding his thin knee. At last he stood, jabbing his spear into the dirt floor. “I agree with thee. Let there be a truce with the lowlanders. By Esus, I say this is so.”

  The small warriors around the fire stirred, smiling, nodding and whispering among themselves.

  “Now go,” said the High King. “Tell your crusader woman this good news.”

  Outside Josserand told Gavin, “Failure, sir. Yo
u outfoxed yourself.”

  As they saddled up, ready to ride, Angella slipped near. She took Gavin’s hand, pressing it against her lips. “Good luck to you, good knight.”

  He sighed, and he decided the girl had counseled him to the best of her understanding.

  “What is wrong?” she asked.

  “The High King agreed to the alliance,” he said.

  She laughed. “Is that what you think?”

  “Your High King swore by his god to agree to the truce.”

  “You are a mighty warrior, lowlander, but you don’t know anything about our gods. Esus is the god of craft and cunning. By swearing upon him, everyone knew the High King used guile on you. In other words, he mocked you and Nine Fingers. It was most cleverly done.”

  Gavin stared at Josserand. Josserand let a rare smile touch his lips.

  “Hurry,” said Angella. “You must ride before the High King decides to ambush you. Even now, the hotter-headed warriors urge him to do so. Only my father’s pleading and the sack of clawmen heads is holding them at bay.”

  So the forty crusaders mounted up and yelled for the gate to be opened. Then they thundered out of the High King’s palisade.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Cuthred pushed open the oaken doors and shuffled into the conjuring room. Harsh-smelling incense burned from the tapers lining the walls. The flames cast Leng into sinister shadows and showed the paraphernalia he used for his supernatural delving. Upon a nearby table rested strangely bound tomes of forbidden knowledge, along with alembics, caskets, vials and elixirs. His lean head never moved, and his evil eyes peered intently into a shallow bronze brazier. Ink lay like spilled blood in the brazier: sluggish, thick and putrid.

  “Well?” asked the Mistress, who had followed Cuthred into the room.

  Leng didn’t move or allow his gaze to shift from the ink, nor did he make any gesture that showed he acknowledged the Mistress’ presence.

  Cuthred knew that Kergan/Master would have become enraged at such behavior from Leng. The new Mistress, however… She was slight of build, with stick-like arms, a scrawny neck and thin red hair. Freckles lay thick across her nose. She wore tight-fitting hunting clothes, with a whip curled on her belt. The leathers showed her to be unlovely and graceless. Mistress-ship had not changed that. From her flat chest, glowed the pale green amulet. Its chilly aura gave this princess all the power she needed. Or to be more precise, the amulet had found a new and temporary home in this ugly Duke’s daughter.

  Cuthred, for all his dullness, understood that Vivian had avoided this fate because the Duke’s daughter had taken her place. It made him like Vivian less than before.

  “Knowledge, Sorcerer, only upon that can a cunning strategy be formulated. To proceed blindly is folly—as your fravashi blundered when he attacked Swan in Tara.”

  Leng raised a lean hand. His fingers fluttered as he softly intoned, “Lord of Bats, we beseech thee. Let us see with your eyes, O Lord. Let us know the things that transpire afar. O Lord of Bats, long have I brought you human blood, fresh and in vast quantities. Grant me this request, O Lord, that your work may fly abroad.” Leng chanted evilly in a tongue long forgotten.

  “Ah…” said the Mistress.

  Cuthred peered over her shoulder. Incredibly, a window in the ink seemed to open. For a moment, a flicker in time, a darkly handsome and evil face appeared. He wore a high-necked collar and smiled sardonically as a king of vampires might. Then the scene, the image in the window, changed. A stout tuskrider hunched upon a massive boar. Around him sat several lancers, while a dark banner waved in the breeze. The stars glittered above, and they reflected off the swamp-water around the riders.

  The stout tuskrider lifted a warthog head as he gestured curtly. Ram-horns were raised to thick lips. Cuthred imagined their thin, piercing sounds. Beyond the stout tuskrider and splashing through the swamp, charged clawmen. Starlight painted their spears and short curved swords. Before them stood a log wall that had been mortared with dried slime. Fireballs arched over the wall. Like a horde of angry bees, the crackling balls hissed down at the darkspawn, as dour-faced crossbowmen appeared atop the wall. They sighted, and let their missiles fly. Clawmen flopped into the mire. Then, like meteors, the fireballs landed. More clawmen died. A few scrambled up the log wall to attack. Spearmen greeted them with iron-tipped points.

  The picture went back to the stout tuskrider, a commander. He shook his warthog head, saying something to his brothers. They urged their mounts away from the wall, away from the fireballs that came seeking them.

  “I’ve seen enough,” said the Mistress.

  Leng chanted anew. A different picture came into focus. It showed a torch-lit courtyard. Knights in armor milled about. King Egbert appeared on a balcony above them. He shook his fist as he shouted. The knights cheered, although through the inky window the sounds remained unheard. The King stepped back. The High Priest stepped onto the balcony. He spoke. The knights cheered again. Then the pictures changed more rapidly. Men-at-arms hacked at posts. Archers shot at hay-backed targets. Peasant levies marched back and forth with spears held at the ready. The snapshot pictures went faster and faster in this city of torches, the biggest city in Anor. Everywhere it showed warriors, a veritable army massing together.

  “The King marshals his host,” said the Mistress.

  “To chastise those he considers rebels,” said Leng. “To scourge those who bar our way out of the swamp, and who guard the East March between North and South Anor.”

  “You believe that drivel?” asked the Mistress.

  “King Egbert is mad,” said Leng.

  “But the High Priest isn’t. No. If the Banfrey Host marches to the Midlands, it will be to fight against us, not against Swan’s Crusaders. Your spies are wrong in that regard.”

  “I’m unsure,” said Leng.

  “While I’m not,” said the Mistress.

  “My lady, please consider—”

  “No! My mind is made up. I will hear no more upon it.”

  After a brief moment, Leng inclined his head. “Would you see more, my lady?”

  “Yes. Show me this Sir Gavin.”

  Leng creased his tall forehead.

  “Well?” asked the Mistress.

  “There… Something guards Sir Gavin, my lady.”

  “You’ve tried to scry him before this?”

  “I have.”

  “And failed?”

  Leng inclined his head once more.

  The Mistress stepped closer to the brazier, touching it. An eerie green color shone from the amulet. The inky substance in the brazier rippled and then grew still, and a large knight with a tough face stood before men sitting on bales of hay. The knight held a spear, apparently showing the men the correct way to thrust it. Then the men on the bales leaped up, and the sword strapped to the knight’s side seemed to shine within its scabbard. Hints of bright light made a glow around the silver hilt. The knight with the close-cropped beard and shrewd eyes drew his sword. Blue glyphs pulsed up and down the blade.

  The ink in the brazier rippled once more. The amulet on the Mistress’ chest shone an eldritch green. She jerked her hand off the brazier. A rivulet of smoke trickled from it. She panted, while sticky ooze, like sweat, stained her face. It stank horribly.

  Cuthred coughed, shuffling back, holding his big nose.

  The Mistress mopped her face with a rag. She seemed thoughtful. “Show me Bosham Castle.”

  “Alas,” said Leng, who had watched the interplay with avid interest. “I cannot.”

  “Why not?” said she.

  “Interfering powers lie there, too, my lady.”

  “Hosar’s power?” she asked.

  “Mayhap. I’m uncertain.” Leng shook his head. “The truth is I can’t tell you. The power masks itself from my spells and it is even more powerful than when I tried to view Sir Gavin.”

  The Mistress touched her amulet. “Our stroke must fall at Bosham Castle then. For there is the heart of my oppositio
n.”

  “My lady,” said Leng, “do you truly think that is wise?”

  The ugly, scrawny Mistress turned eyes as cold as death upon Leng. “Explain yourself.”

  Leng bowed in a servile and abject manner. “To pitch strength against strength, my lady, is sometimes very costly. Why not let your powers and influence grow? Bypass this single fortress of strength and shatter the roots that support it?”

  “Do you seek to teach me strategy, O worker of spells?”

  “Never, my lady,” said Leng. “I merely supposed that your powers might be too engaged in bringing your full return. Why then spend magic against these fools? Perhaps if your darkspawn forced a passage through the swamp and then your main host swung toward Oswald Ferry, cutting off the Midlands from all future assistance… Then the King and the crusaders would be unable to unite. Perhaps even, the hordes ravaging the various castles and towns would split the crusaders and cause them to go away from Bosham Castle, as each separate baron or mayor rushed to defend his own home.”

  “Your idea has merit, I admit.”

  “Divide the crusaders, my lady, by threatening their interior homes, by threatening their castles, towns and villages. And all the while, make more darkspawn.”

  “The idea has merit, but the crusaders guard this swamp-route as we’ve just seen. And making more darkspawn is so draining. No. I learned once to my sorrow that leaving the main enemy foe alone is dangerous in the extreme. Crush all opposition and pollute Hosar’s shrines and this weight I feel—I shall be able once again to concentrate on the great task.”

  “Please reconsider this, my lady. They guard the swamp-route against a small attack only. Surely they could not face a full assault led by the undead.”

  “And how will you feed this army, Sorcerer?”

  “The undead need no food.”

  “That is true,” said the Mistress. “But unless they are closely watched, many of the undead will mire themselves in the bogs and rot away before they can be freed. The swamp, with so many thousands of corpses in the Death Drummer’s horde, becomes for us a trap. It is not as before, when we marched out of Forador Castle with a small army. Such numbers as those, as we have just seen, wouldn’t force that wooden rampart. The crusaders have heavily guarded the swamp-route.”