“Here’s our chance,” whispered Gavin.
The crusaders mounted the war-stallions, and quietly as possible, they followed Welf and the other scouts. Through dark trees they filed, until Welf led them to the lip of a small vale. Fires roared below and clawmen danced, cavorted and practiced bizarre rites as the goat-sacrificing continued.
Gavin chopped down with the silver sword. Buglers blasted the charge. Down the battle-stallions thundered. Knights, thegns and squires bellowed themselves hoarse. All the fear and loathing boiled into a type of frenzy. They hit the screaming, milling throng of clawmen. The crusaders hewed and trampled many. Uncounted clawmen scattered. A few faced the knights so the swords clove through their teeth instead of the backs of their skulls.
Then thunder boomed from low clouds and it began to rain. The bonfires hissed. Fortunately, before the firelight went out the fight was over. Gavin called the retreat and all that night they rode for the East March.
A last piece of luck helped them. Two days later shortly after the noon hour, they discovered barns filled with sun-hiding gaunts and pre-positioned undead. Those barns soon burned with cleansing fire and swords finished the darkspawn squealing and stumbling under the bright sun.
“That should stick in the spirit of Zon Mezzamalech’s craw, if he has one,” Gavin said. “That will surely give him pause. Now let’s hurry home and see how things stand with the King.”
***
As Gavin and the raiding crusaders returned to Bosham Castle, eleven ships wallowed out to sea. Eleven hulks of creaking timber showed no signs of life. Waves lapped against the hulls. Oars, in five specially decked galleys, rattled in their tholepins. Sails, tied securely with inexpert knots, propelled these seeming ghost ships not at all. The sun burned above, scorching the salt-encrusted decks. However, no debris lay scattered about the ships. Ropes were coiled tight. Guidelines hummed in perfect tension. Steering oars were lashed securely. All, in fact, seemed to be in order. Then, as waves pushed the apparently empty vessels apart, ropes rose out of the water and stretched tight between them. A massive cog, an 800-ton cornship, pulled two galleys attached by these hidden ropes back toward it. They would not be allowed to drift away.
On the nearest galley, a hatch creaked open. Through the slit peered two cat-like eyes. The creature hissed, closing the hatch. Then all was as before.
***
It was only as the sun sank into the cooling sea that life stirred aboard the eleven ships. With the appearance of stars, hatches banged open and clawmen boiled out. Oars slid into the sea. Haphazardly, sails came down to catch the wind. A gust on the 800-ton cog flapped the huge sail. Clawmen screamed, whipped off the rigging and into space. The few who had attempted to learn how to sail thudded onto the deck, snapping bones and splitting open skin.
The captain, a blood-drinker with a black cape and ivory white fangs, gave harsh orders. The boards over the main hatch were torn away. Out of the hold crawled a giant. Unsteadily, the giant used the mainmast to stand upright. As the giant lurched about this way and that because of the waves, he pulled down the sail and gave the ropes to new clawmen to knot.
In fits and starts, the eleven-ship flotilla resumed its bumbling voyage to Lobos Port. One ship, its entire crew seasick, fell farther and farther behind. The blood-drinker captain grew uneasy. At last, she shrugged in fatalistic resignation. Like the Mistress, she knew this to be a wild gamble. But it was a gamble where her head would roll for failure…or worse, the humans would impale her and jeer at her twitching corpse.
Humans!
Oh how she loathed them.
Her worry grew as the night wore on. They had to land, marshal their forces and storm the port before daylight. Her stomach knotted and her need for fresh blood grew strong. At last, with half the night spent, she realized she would have to gamble to have any chance of success. Another day floating at sea, this close to Lobos, was simply too great a risk.
Employing signaling drums, she had the ropes between ships hacked off and she brought the five galleys near her. Then, by spending more precious time, she had them tie heavy ropes to the cog. She needed the newly made giants above all else. She then gave the order. The five galleys dragged the behemoth cog. The other merchant ships with their clawmen cargoes comprising half the invading army would have to make it to Lobos when the wind picked up.
With night fast waning, she at last spied Lobos Port on the dark horizon. A fire on the headland, a well-known beacon, guided her toward the other major port after Glendover. She made a swift calculation. Lobos Port was divided in two by the Fangohr River. Joining the two city halves was a fortified bridge with towers on both ends of it. Control of the bridge gave one control of Fangohr mouth.
With so little night left, she would need a fortified position in order to withstand any counterattacks from the humans during the day.
Humans! By the Lord of Bats, she despised them.
She snarled new orders. The five galleys aimed themselves at the largest docks where four of the King’s biremes lay. The ropes attached to the 800-ton cog hummed taut. The dark seaport loomed closer and closer.
Sick with dread, the blood-drinker captain checked the sky. Night dwindled, and she had a town to take. “Help me, Lord of Bats,” she hissed. “Grant us your power. Do so, O Mighty Lord of Bats, and I will sacrifice a hundred virgins on your altars.”
Crossbow bolts arched from the docks as a ragged line of mercenaries fired at them.
Wood crumbled as the galleys’ bronze beaks broke apart on the stone docks. The blood-drinker captain staggered at the impact. She righted herself swiftly and hissed orders. Knowing that their time was short, the clawmen boiled onto the docks and swept the mercenaries before them. Ahead, however, the massive gate that guarded Lobos from just such sea-borne invasions closed shut with a slamming bang.
The blood-drinker hissed to her brethren. Black like night, the seventeen blood-drinkers bounded to the city seawall and like spiders scrambled up it. In an orgy of bloodshed, they murdered the tower guards. The huge gate creaked open and admitted the howling clawmen. Humans, unfortunately, rose up to fight them. Once the cog landed and the giants led the knot of brutes, the tide of battle turned decisively in darkspawn favor.
Thus as the sun peeked over the horizon, half of Lobos Port lay in darkspawn hands. The humans still held the bridge and from their half of the city they launched two galleys out to sea. The blood-drinker captain, her arm bandaged after a savage knife-thrust, knew keen regret. She never expected to see the rest of her fleet again. She wondered how badly she would need the reinforcements before this siege was over.
As the sun rose and drove back the night, she felt the Lord of Bats depart. Success now rested solely upon the sword-arms of brutes and the clubs of giants. She hoped they would prove enough until Darkness granted them the power to attack once more.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
On a lathered stallion and by a weary herald, word came to Bosham Castle that the darkspawn had struck at Lobos Port. The King’s Army had thus turned aside from its ride north and now besieged the stricken port town. The atrocities committed on the hapless citizens were too awful to repeat and word of this new darkspawn, those that drank blood and had the cunning and cruelty of spiders, the blood-drinkers, gave many pause for fearful rumination.
Before a bonfire, the knights who had ridden into the dark north caroused and quaffed ale, clinking cups and staring drunkenly at the flames or roaring out bold ditties.
As was his habit, Josserand sat alone, sipping, brooding, his face as bland as a stump of wood.
“Can’t you rejoice?” Gavin said, slumping onto the cold ground as he gnawed on a turkey leg. “We’ve only one army to face, no longer two.”
“How many did we slay during our ride north?” muttered Josserand.
“Maybe four or five hundred darkspawn,” Gavin said.
Josserand snapped his long fingers. “What is that to this dark sorcerer, he who makes the darkspawn? It is
nothing. Why, he sends an entire army south to fight the King even as he marches against us.”
“What a precious gift you possess. You can find gloom in every bright spot.”
“Do you call it bright that the darkspawn have closed the jaws of a trap?”
Gavin gnawed on his turkey leg.
Sir Ullrick, his strong teeth tearing from a joint of beef in one hand and quaffing from a jack of ale in the other, belched loudly as he strode up to them. “If it is the jaws of a trap, then may this sorcerer break his teeth upon us and the King. All we must do is ride through the sorcerer’s horde and slay him. Our knight-errant with his shiny sword thinks he will do it, but I claim the right to first attempt this prodigious feat.”
“Like Sir Hunneric attempted it?” asked Josserand.
Ullrick scowled, shaking his head, tossing ale down his gullet and dashing the jack to the ground. He snatched up his double-bladed axe. “The lad attacked a wraith. Let Death-Biter touch Zon Mezzamalech and our troubles shall be over.”
“How do you know this?” asked Josserand.
The Bear lofted his bushy eyebrows. “Hasn’t the knight-errant claimed such?”
“The spirit of Zon Mezzamalech creates darkspawn through his amulet,” Gavin said. “Such I saw. Thus it stands to reason that if you slay him victory is ours.”
“Perhaps,” said Josserand. “Though if reason is your guide, then it tells us that all we’ll destroy is his ability to create darkspawn. Tell me, how many has he made already?”
“Too many!” shouted Ullrick. “Next time, Captain General, I’m riding north with you.”
“To kill more fleas?” asked Josserand.
“Bah!” said Ullrick. “There’s no pleasing you. I see now why the High Priest loved you.” The Bear strode off, shouting for more ale, from his mouth spewing meat in all directions.
Josserand sipped from his cup, his black eyes reflecting the bonfire’s dancing flames. “The trap has closed. No one on Anor can escape.”
“Then let us fight,” Gavin said.
“Yes, but how do you defeat an enemy who creates more soldiers every time he captures any of ours?”
“Swan asks the same thing, as does Hugo. They think by driving out the evil that creates the darkspawn that they can reclaim the creatures for Light.”
Josserand looked up. “Can this be done?”
Gavin scowled, thinking of those that he had known who had been captured and turned into darkspawn. He remembered Godomar and burning darkspawn at the stake. The priests of Hosar had said the fire drove out the evil, so that at the last moment the former darkspawn perished as a human. Gavin jumped up. “No,” he said. “It is impossible to save darkspawn.”
“How do you know?”
Gavin stared at Josserand, the Sad Knight, the mercenary killer. “Once they corrupt you there is no turning back. It is a fool’s dream to think otherwise. We must slaughter the enemy or he will destroy our souls. It’s as simple as that. Give me one moment with Zon Mezzamalech, that’s all I ask and that is all we should strive for.”
“Your vaunted plan, eh?”
“Give me another if you don’t like mine.”
Josserand turned away to stare at the flames. After a time he lifted his goblet, sipping wine.
***
The next morning Gavin rode back into North Anor, to fall into an ambush by tuskriders during the early second dusk. By dint of hard fighting the crusaders won, but they had lost too many knights and thegns. With several tuskriders as captives, they returned to Bosham Castle, where Gavin drilled the mounted men each day.
“Why isn’t Hugo here?” Gavin said one morning on the practice field. “The Standard Bearer knows this is the full dress rehearsal. I want everyone to know their part perfectly.”
Sir Ullrick opened his visor. His massive beard was bunched up, making him look decidedly uncomfortable.
“The Standard Bearer is with Swan,” said Ullrick.
“So I gathered,” Gavin said. “Do you know why?”
“They attempt to heal darkspawn.”
“What?” Gavin scowled. “Are they alone?”
“They have no warriors, if that’s what you mean. Only those with enough faith can attend. Thus, Sir Josserand and I were sent away. The few others with them are priests and sisters of Hosar.”
Gavin swore. “Are they fools? We brought back the tuskriders to question, not to attempt the impossible with and maybe get our Seer slain. Take over!”
“Has your faith grown enough to attend their ceremony?” asked the Bear.
Gavin spurred his stallion, galloping for the hill he had seen Ullrick ride down. His mount struggled up the slope as shale slid out from the iron-shod hooves. Behind him in the valley horsemen galloped to the sound of bugles. For all her innocence, Gavin knew the Seer to be wise in the ways of darkspawn, while Hugo…the old squire from Godomar would have known better than to attempt such foolishness as re-conversion of one twisted by Darkness. This new squire a-risen from death—Hugo had become a mystery to him. With a snort, the huge seventeen-hand stallion scrambled onto the grassy plateau. Three cloaked and cowled creatures stood in chains amidst a knot of priests and sisters of Hosar. Swan, in a white gown, with her face intent, held a silver spike above her head.
“Call out to Hosar,” she called. “Beg him to turn back the spells of Darkness, to undo what Old Father Night has done to you.”
The three heavily cloaked tuskriders snarled and spat profanities, struggling so their arm-chains clinked. The nervous, brown-cloaked priests holding onto the other end of the chains staggered back and forth, as they sought to control the creatures.
“Tap into the power of Hosar,” said Swan, serene, holding forth the silver spike. It glittered with sunlight.
The bestial darkspawn squealed, holding deformed, hairy hands before their eyes, before warthog-like snouts. One staggered back, and with a convulsive jerk ripped the chains out of the priests’ grasp. It squealed anew, with hate, and blindly charged the Seer. Swan lifted the spike higher, and the silver flashed. The tuskrider howled as if a spear had been thrust into its guts. It shuffled away from Swan, mewling in fright. A priest reached for a chain. The tuskrider, swathed in cloaks so none of its skin was visible to the sun, snarled, jerking away the chain, grasping it and whipping the chain across the priest’s face, knocking the man to the sward. The gnarled darkspawn then pivoted and on short, bowed legs made an awkward run for freedom. It looked like a hunchbacked fool, a court jester dressed in mockery as a priest. Robes flapped and the cowl almost slipped off the ugly head. It bent its head and with twisted fingers, it insured that the cowl protected it from the hated orb of day. Chains rattled and clanked behind it.
“Come back!” shouted Swan. “Don’t run from the Light.”
Hooves thundered as Gavin’s stallion closed the distance. He drew his sword with a shing of steel. He felt pity for this thing. It but scrambled for a crevice or a hole, anywhere the light didn’t shine. Once, the tuskrider had been a man, a peasant most likely. He would have worked his fields in drudgery, mowing hay for his lord and toiling in his lord’s orchards during picking season. The thing before him, the squat tuskrider, threw an agonized glance back over his deformed shoulder. Dread shone wetly in those hideous eyes. Gavin set his teeth and swung. The nightmare for the tuskrider, he, who had once been Peasant Graf of Lake Shire, ended with a sharp and terrible pain and then nothing.
Gavin dismounted and wiped his gory blade on the tuskrider’s cloak. He then clanked to the whey-faced devotees. The remaining two tuskriders cowered like beggars. Hugo, in his sandals and white tunic, stepped protectively before them.
“That was ill done,” said Swan.
“He was darkspawn,” Gavin said.
“He was a living thing,” said Swan. “There was yet hope for him.”
Gavin struggled to control his anger. “In Godomar we saved the darkspawn for the flames. Only thus, at the last moment, said the priests, was the evil driven
from them. They died in pain, but they died in peace, if you can believe that burning to death is peaceful. If you feel mercy for these two, burn them like we did in Godomar.”
“Is that the mercy you would show an old friend?” asked Hugo.
Gavin thought of Joanna, how she led the Horde of Damned. He nodded.
“Then I pray you never give me mercy,” Hugo said.
“Those are hard words, old friend.”
“True words,” Hugo said.
“I see.”
“You do not see,” said the one-eye Standard Bearer. “You hold to bitterness and call it insight. You cannot accept that there is another path to victory. It is a path filled with hope. Step onto that path, Sir Gavin. Let go of your bitterness so you may open your eyes and see Hosar.”
“We have no time for that,” Gavin said.
“When is the time?” asked Swan.
“After we destroy the spirit of Zon Mezzamalech and his army,” Gavin said.
“What about those two?” she asked.
“Kill them. Otherwise, in some nefarious manner, the spirit of Zon Mezzamalech or Old Father Night will use them against us as he once used Sir Hunneric.”
“It is because of Sir Hunneric that I strive to learn how to take back what has been taken,” said Swan.
“It cannot be done,” Gavin said.
“How do you know?”
“Because it has never been done before,” he said. He thought that should be obvious.
“I tell you that is because no one has ever really had faith enough in the power of Hosar before to try,” she said. Her eyes were alight and her face…what power did she have?
Despite his unease, Gavin shook his head. “I find that difficult to believe, milady. In Thorongil and Godomar, the Sword Brothers and the power-filled sisters were as devoted as any. Yet they could not do this thing.”
“Do you dare to call the Seer a liar?” growled Hugo.
“Of course not,” Gavin said. “I merely think that she is mistaken.”
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