Dark Crusade

by Vaughn Heppner

  “You blush all over,” she said with a wicked smile. “That is quite romantic.”

  He wasn’t big like a knight, but he wasn’t hunched like a peasant either. He had a sturdy frame and thick wrists, although everything else about him was lean from always running with the hounds. Some castle scullions had told him before he looked fine. None of them looked like Vivian. He turned away in embarrassment. He had never felt more exposed.

  “Would you like a kiss?” She laughed in a musical way as he looked up guiltily. “Your blush is almost purple now.” She clapped. “What a find you are, my handsome dog boy.”

  He hid behind a stand of expensive clothes. Sir Gavin and his squire had fitted themselves from this rack. He yanked on his new briefs and then his new leather breeches.

  “You have a name, don’t you?” asked Vivian, coming around to stare at him. She wore a long white dress and a small red ruby around her throat. Yellow ribbons bound her hair. Angels couldn’t look better than she did.

  “I-I’m Cuthred, milady.”

  “Oh, pooh, I’m no lady. Sir Gavin said as much.”

  “Is he your knight?”

  She clucked her tongue. “He’s arrogant and rude. Don’t you agree?”

  “H-He saved my hand, milady.”

  “Oh, that was just so he could look brave and bold. I’ve never met anyone who worried more about what people thought of him. There isn’t a more vain man alive.”

  Cuthred didn’t know what to say to that.

  “What is your baron like?” Vivian asked.

  “Milady?”

  “He has so many horses and cows. Is your baron rich?”

  “He’s the richest man I know.”

  She pouted. “But then you’re just a dog boy. Who have you known who’s rich?”

  He donned a shirt to hide his embarrassment, and he scowled. He wasn’t a bumpkin. He had kissed girls before, and… He gritted his teeth so the stitches in his face pulled tighter. It wasn’t right for her to talk badly about her knight, especially the knight who had saved his hand.

  “Is the baron married?”

  “No,” he said, slipping on brand new leather boots.

  “Cuthred?” she said.

  He looked up. She smiled. It was a radiant thing. She had all her teeth and they were so white and clean. Her smile made his heart ache. It was too bad he was just a dog boy. Now if he were a knight…

  “Is Sir Kergan married?” she asked, with her eyes and smile most merry, and yet…

  “Y-Yes,” he said.

  “Does Sir Kergan have a jealous wife?”

  He thought about Lady Wilma. He had seen Wilma box Kergan’s ears because the knight’s eyes had lingered upon a scullion scrubbing the floor. Another time Lady Wilma had taken a whip to him for his straying eye. Of course, Sir Kergan knocked her down sometimes. It depended.

  “Lady Wilma is jealous,” he said.

  Vivian’s smile turned wicked. She reminded Cuthred then of a man-killing panther.

  “Tell me,” Vivian said in a soft voice. “Would you like to see Sir Kergan dead?”

  “D-Dead, milady?”

  Vivian’s eyes glittered, and she said in flat tone, “Dead as horsemeat.”

  Cuthred went cold inside. He didn’t want to see anyone dead. There had been too much killing lately, too much evil.

  “Close your mouth, my dear dog boy. Then hurry outside. That’s Hugo you hear yelling for you.” She smiled. “Hurry, now—go.”

  Despite his aches and pains, Cuthred ran to obey. This was all very bewildering. Yet, it was a hundred times better than losing his hand.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “Do you notice what’s missing?” muttered Hugo, with his gnarled shoulders hunched.

  Gavin studied the circular Great Hall. The vast room surprised him, especially as the rest of the castle seemed more like a ruin than a fortress. The torches alone, near a hundred lined along the high halls, seemed an exorbitant expenditure for a swamp lord. Yet an exquisite, oil-burning chandelier hung from the domed ceiling that would have been more typical of a temple. Wooden balconies hung from the walls. Long-tables and benches filled each balcony and held a bewildering array of swamp-hunters, eel-fishers, hunting boys, reed weavers, scullions, trackers and crones. The boards groaned at the weight. The people came apparently not only from Castle Forador but also from outlying towers and forts.

  “You won’t find it in the balconies,” Hugo said. He bared his yellowed teeth. “What’s missing is something from the Great Hall proper.”

  The Great Hall seethed with swamp-born nobility and the retainers of Baron Barthek’s land and allied fiefs. Knights and ladies, men-at-arms and waiting maids and squires, pages, chief falconers, hunting masters and spearmen sat at the tables, each carefully segregated by station. A riot of colors milled upon the benches. Ladies strolled about in pastel-colored gowns. The men wore breeches and jackets. Knights wore the brightest colors, with Gavin the brightest among them. His shirt was green silk, his marten cape the richest fur and his trousers of fine Elban wool. Only he wore a sword, the impressive silver sword, in its jeweled leather scabbard.

  There had been hard words about that. He had said it was part of his costume, in honor of Baron Barthek. He had also whispered that he feared someone stealing it. It was silver and thus he assured them it was quite harmless. The guards had grudgingly admitted it.

  The great throng had made Gavin reevaluate Kergan’s baron. This feast was a grand affair, sumptuous and for this area obviously noteworthy. It made him wonder why Kergan had bothered being in the swamp today and why the seneschal should have been nearly berserk on a day when grand gestures and merciful actions would have better captured the tone of these festivities. It was odd, most unsettling.

  “What’s missing, you say?” asked Gavin.

  “Yes,” whispered Hugo, as he worried his lower lip.

  They sat at their own table, far down from where the baron’s throne-like chair stood. The baron had not yet joined them, probably desiring a grand entrance.

  Kergan as the presiding seneschal flipped a silver coin to the jongleur finishing the local hero-song.

  The chair to the right of the baron’s throne was also empty. Gavin found that interesting. It belonged to someone called Leng, an odd name. He noticed that no one sat near Sir Durren.

  “Do you mean that Sir Durren has no woman?” asked Gavin.

  The massive knight sat beside Kergan. Sir Durren was a bald dullard with sleepy eyes, but was a head and shoulders taller than anyone here. Cuthred had named him ‘Sir Durren the Strong.’

  “What are you two whispering about?” asked Vivian.

  She obviously enjoyed the many glances and the longing stares from the assembled men and the calculating studies from the women. Unfortunately, her gaze fell too often upon Sir Kergan, and Gavin expected a nasty surprise from her, knowing that she couldn’t let go of the ‘harlot’ remark.

  “What’s missing?” he now asked Vivian. “What isn’t here that should be?”

  “Oh. That’s obvious,” she said.

  “Well?” asked Gavin.

  “There aren’t any devotees of Hosar,” she said.

  Gavin glanced openmouthed at Hugo.

  Hugo nodded.

  “Only a dullard would miss it,” said Vivian.

  Gavin studied the masses anew as a cold feeling worked up his spine. “Dog boy,” he said.

  Cuthred pushed himself off the wall where he leaned in attendance. “Milord?”

  “Why aren’t there any devotees of Hosar?”

  “They died,” said Cuthred.

  “Through plague?”

  “In accidents mostly,” the dog boy said. “A senile wise woman fell into the castle well several weeks ago. Then there was Ran, an old savant who had once been the baron’s tutor. He died in a strange fire. They say crows carried hot embers and set Cathal Village alight.”

  “Speak on,” Gavin said, as his unease grew.

  Cuthre
d scratched his chin. “A little over a month ago a monk tried to break up a quarrel. Sir Rudel became so angry with the monk that he drew his sword and stabbed him.”

  “What happened to Sir Rudel?”

  “He’s in the dungeon with the tinkers and horse traders,” said Cuthred.

  Hugo clutched his dinner knife as Gavin waved Cuthred back. “We’ve got to get out of here,” whispered Hugo.

  “Tomorrow morning we leave.” Gavin said.

  “Now,” Hugo said. His seamed face, the good half, twisted with worry. He lowered the dinner knife under the table and as quietly as possible began stroking it against a sharpening flint that he always carried on his person. “We must leave before they bring in the meal,” he muttered.

  Since the baron hadn’t arrived, the feast hadn’t begun. Pages brought fresh bread to the knights and ladies. Everyone else poured wine or ale into growling stomachs. There were going to be some seriously drunk people soon.

  “So a few savants and wise women have died,” said Vivian. “Death happens to everyone sooner or later.”

  “You don’t understand,” muttered Hugo.

  “So tell me,” she said.

  Gavin and Hugo exchanged glances.

  “Oh,” she said, rolling her eyes. “So it’s more of ‘Please don’t ask me about Godomar. It was so horrible in Godomar. Horrible, I tell you. Now pass the wine so I can drink myself into oblivion and forget about the cold wastes.’”

  “Don’t mock what you know nothing about,” growled Gavin.

  “You two should have been goliards, the way you carry on your act,” she said. “Nothing’s that bad, though. I could tell you stories that would curdle your stomachs. But you don’t see me trying to create a legend about it.”

  “Oh?” Gavin said.

  “Don’t bother humoring me, milord. Your ‘I’d like to forget about Godomar play’ is getting tiresome. My grandmother acted more manly than you two cluckers.”

  Hugo glared at her. “Ever seen your friend possessed?”

  “What do you mean?” said Vivian.

  “Ever seen your friend captured, then changed by the sorcerers into…into…” Hugo ground his teeth as beads of sweat dotted his forehead.

  “What’s he muttering about?” she said.

  “Darkspawn,” Gavin said, grim memories surfacing at the word. Sometimes he wondered if he hadn’t come to Anor because it was the farthest land from those cold pine wastes he could find.

  “Darkspawn as in the old Continental legends?” she asked.

  “They’re horribly true,” Gavin said. “At least in Thorongil and Godomar they are. In that cold land they still worship Old Father Night. They worship the Moon Lady, the Lord of Bats and the terrible Death Drummer.”

  “What does Hugo mean by his friends changed?”

  “Darkspawn,” Gavin said, remembering panting through a frozen pine forest, with monstrous creatures howling for his blood. Each of the furry blasphemies had once been his companions come north with him for the crusading. He now put his hands on the table, staring at them, breathing deeply. That was years ago. It was over, never to happen again. Let it pass, he told himself.

  “Do you ever wonder why the others do anything Gavin asks of them?” growled Hugo.

  “All the time,” said Vivian.

  “Because he saved them from becoming darkspawn,” Hugo said. “He saved them from being possessed and changed. What do you think the blood-drinkers were?”

  “You mean the ones in your stories?” said Vivian.

  “Don’t mock me, girl,” warned Hugo.

  “Oh, so its ‘girl’ now is it?”

  Hugo growled an oath, turning from her, concentrating on secretly sharpening his dinner knife.

  Gavin put a hand over Vivian’s slender fingers. She was so alive, so filled with the fire of life. The things she made him feel… He wished they didn’t quarrel so often.

  “You aren’t as clever as you think,” he said. “There are things in the world that are old and evil, and filled with wicked guile. Sometimes they roost in the oddest places. This castle—Hugo’s right. I’ve not felt the cold knot in my stomach like this place causes since Godomar.” He squeezed her hand as she opened her mouth. “Listen to me, Vivian. Please.”

  Her plucked eyebrows rose, perhaps at the intensity of his voice.

  “Something wrong occurs here,” Gavin said. “Hugo feels it and now I do too.”

  “I don’t feel it,” she said.

  He gave her a sickly grin.

  “I know,” she said with a sigh, “I wasn’t in Godomar.”

  “You’re too quick-witted, Vivian. It makes you think you’re smarter than everyone else.”

  “You win all your jousts,” she said. “So you consider yourself a better warrior than others.”

  “Point taken,” Gavin said. “You are smart, probably the smartest among us. It’s one of the reasons I…I…”

  Her features softened as she leaned against him.

  Just then, a trumpet blared.

  Gavin, Hugo and Cuthred, everyone in the Great Hall except for Vivian, turned in anticipation. With lips parted, she watched Gavin, no doubt waiting for him to turn back to her. He didn’t. In a moment, she pulled her hand from under his and pouted.

  “All rise!” roared Kergan. The heralds along the walls took up his cry.

  Hundreds of benches scraped back. Plates and jewelry, belt buckles and clattering rings made a din of noise. Above it all, sounded the trumpet.

  A tall thin man strode into the hall. He wore a long trailing robe of black silk, with the collar lined in silver fox fur. His thin face was narrow and sharp like the rest of his body. His black eyes were of extraordinary intensity. They seemed like dark pits, inky pools. He kept his facial expression blank as if he was exceedingly bored.

  “That’s Leng,” Cuthred whispered into Gavin’s ear.

  Gavin noticed that Kergan glared at the approaching man.

  With his big hands, Kergan motioned the people to sit. The heralds should have shouted his instructions. Instead, they looked to Leng. Leng didn’t seem to be in any hurry. If anything, he slowed his step.

  “Those two hate each other,” Vivian said into his ear, and there seemed to be a note of triumph in her voice.

  A squire with a silver chain dangling from his throat pulled out Leng’s heavy chair. Leng gazed at the nobility standing in his honor. Only dull-eyed Sir Durren was taller.

  It was hard to tell at this distance, but Gavin swore that a smile twitched across that lean, remote face.

  At last, Leng deigned to sit.

  “Be seated!” bellowed the heralds.

  There was a great shuffling and clattering as the throng sat.

  In a loud voice, Kergan asked, “Where is my cousin the baron?”

  Leng raised dark eyebrows.

  Kergan waited for an answer and then he flushed. He didn’t look as he had in the swamps. The big seneschal wore white garments, a golden chain, with his face scrubbed, and his white hair carefully combed.

  Leng raised a long-fingered hand. Drums rolled.

  From the same door he had entered now came a hunchbacked jailer in leathers. The jailer held a leash that snaked to an iron collar. Within the collar was the dirty neck of a hungry-looking woman. Her filthy clothes, disarranged and rather short hair and haunted eyes gave her a mad appearance. The jailer shuffled in what seemed like a foot-hurting gait but the tethered woman strode with an elegance that made a mockery of her attire.

  Gavin snapped his fingers for Cuthred and then snapped again. He turned around. Cuthred gazed in shock at the girl, as did everyone else in the Great Hall.

  The drum roll ceased. Into the silence rushed the whispered comments of a hundred folk.

  “Witch!” said Leng in a commanding voice. “You come to the baron’s feast. Is it to beg forgiveness?”

  The chained woman’s chin trembled, but she raised it defiantly.

  “She is a proud witch,” said
Leng. “You will sit at the end of our table, proud witch.”

  The chained woman scanned the throng. Her eyes met Gavin’s eyes.

  He sucked in his breath. It wasn’t her beauty. Vivian easily outshone her. But those eyes, he had seen eyes like that in Godomar, in the winter forests. She had the eyes of a doomed slave in the neck-chains of a sorcerer. Gavin lurched to his feet.

  Hundreds of garments rustled. The buzz of whispering rose.

  Leng motioned the heralds. “There will be silence!” they bellowed.

  “Sit down, Sir Knight,” ordered Leng.

  Gavin’s heart hammered. His mouth was dry. This was an evil place, vile. How had he not felt it before? He had to free this girl and flee hard and fast.

  “I am a guest,” Gavin said loudly, glad that his words didn’t stumble over each other. Vivian tugged his sleeve, but he ignored her. “As a traveler I have heard of the baron’s grace. Thus it surprises me to see this young woman treated so villainously.”

  “Aye!” shouted someone from the balcony.

  Leng’s smooth, bored features remained placid. “Who brought this churlish knight to the feast?”

  “I did,” said Kergan.

  “You?” asked Leng.

  Kergan squirmed. “‘Tis a matter of honor.”

  With his eyebrows lifted, Leng regarded Gavin anew. “Why is the baron’s dog boy in his company?”

  “That is the matter of honor,” said Kergan. “There is to be a joust tomorrow. I have given my word.”

  “Sit down, Sir Knight,” said Leng.

  “Milord, what of the woman?” asked Gavin.

  The buzz of whispering began anew. Leng held up his thin hand. When the noise had lessened, he said, “She is a witch.”

  Gavin licked his lips. This was a deadly game. He could accomplish nothing arguing. Yet he stared into those haunted eyes. Something wrenched at his heart.

  “Sir Knight,” said Leng.

  Hugo rose, saying, “He is Sir Gavin of Wolfsburg, a knight-errant in search of worthy foes.” That said, Hugo quickly resumed his seat.

  “I find you wearisome, sir,” said Leng.

  “Who judged this woman a witch?” shouted Gavin.