Dark Crusade

by Vaughn Heppner

“Seize him,” said Leng.

  “No!” bellowed Kergan, standing. “I said he is my guest. I will joust with him tomorrow and make him eat his proud words. Thus he is protected by guest-rights.”

  “And after said joust,” Gavin added, “I will champion the lady and prove this base charge of witchery false.”

  Leng pursed his lips. Then he laughed. “So be it. Tomorrow you will joust. Now will you sit, Sir Knight?”

  Gavin looked to the woman. She nodded. He sat, trying not to tremble.

  “You fool!” Vivian hissed into his ear.

  Gavin couldn’t reply.

  “Do you love her?”

  “No,” he said hoarsely.

  Leng’s loud voice demanded their attention. “You’ve yet to answer me, witch.”

  “I am not a witch,” said the prisoner.

  “Ah. So you’re not too proud to speak to the likes of us. Good, good,” said Leng. “Will you join the feast?”

  “You’ve starved…”

  As Leng scowled, her voice faltered and her shoulders slumped. Her next words were too quiet for Gavin to hear, but he watched the jailer shuffle to the end of the table. The chained woman sat on a stool, and shoveled bread and gulped water.

  “What’s her name?” Gavin demanded of Cuthred.

  “Swan, milord,” said the dog boy. “Her father was the baron’s liegeman, at least before he died.”

  “Why has she been accused of witchery? What did she do?”

  Cuthred bent his head in thought and soon lifted his palms.

  “Why does Leng hate her?” asked Vivian, who had half-turned from Gavin.

  “Swan accused of him sorcery,” said Cuthred.

  “What?” Gavin spat, his eyes narrowing. “Leng is a sorcerer?”

  Cuthred shook his head. “He is a scholar, milord. At least that’s what the baron said. Baron Barthek told us that only backwoods yokels equate knowledge with sorcery. The baron took it ill that such a noted scholar as Leng should be accused of black magic.”

  Gavin scowled, telling himself he had to think, to use his wits. “What kind of scholar is he?”

  Cuthred frowned. “He reads books, milord, and studies charts.”

  “Is he from here?”

  “Oh no, milord, he’s a foreigner.”

  “From where?” Gavin said, “what land?”

  “From overseas, milord.”

  “Why should the maid name him a sorcerer?” asked Hugo. “What act did this Leng do to brand himself so in her eyes?”

  Cuthred crunched his eyebrows, before he nodded, saying, “He and the baron began to spend long hours in the dungeons. People said they dug in the deepest vaults.”

  “For what did they dig?” asked Gavin.

  Cuthred shrugged.

  “Did Swan give any proofs for her charge?” asked Vivian.

  “Oh yes, milady. She said that the baron grew thinner, which indeed is true. People say that he seldom sleeps. The baron walks the halls at night muttering, angry if anyone interrupts him. Swan said that was due to the practice of Leng’s arts.”

  “How is she a witch?” asked Gavin. “What did she do?”

  Cuthred grew uneasy, glancing around. “People say she has visions.”

  “Witches don’t have visions,” growled Hugo, “but seers touched by Hosar.”

  Gavin nodded as he picked up his chalice. He paused, and he sniffed the cup. “Don’t drink the wine,” he said, setting down his cup with a thump. “I want everyone sober.”

  Vivian appeared amused. “For such a hardy knight you’re easily upset.”

  “Do you think yonder girl is a witch?”

  “She’s bewitched you.”

  “Oh, oh,” muttered Hugo, “now what?”

  Sir Durren rose from his chair, and in a lumbering stride, he approached them. People grew silent as the big knight neared their table.

  Gavin scraped back his chair, standing and bowing. “To what do I owe this pleasure, sir?”

  “You and I will trade places,” grunted Sir Durren.

  “Is this your request, sir?”

  The massive knight jerked a thumb over his sloping shoulder. “Leng wants to talk to you.”

  “Ah,” Gavin said, “as you wish. May I first introduce to you the Lady Vivian and to my squire, Hugo.”

  Sir Durren grunted, ignoring the one-eyed squire but nodding to Vivian as he sat down.

  With his gut knotted, Gavin strode to the head table.

  Leng studied his approach, and he said in a loud voice, “Who allowed this knight to wear a sword?”

  “My grace,” Gavin said, his smile easy, “I donned it in honor of your baron. It has a gaudy blade, true enough, but the hilt as you see is encrusted with gems. If I have outshone your own knights by wearing it I apologize most profusely.”

  “You have outshone no one,” growled Kergan, who hunched over his wine cup, with his face flushed.

  “Ah,” Gavin said with a bow, “I beg your pardon, sir.”

  Leng’s dark eyes seemed to glitter. “Have a seat, sir.”

  “Thank you, milord, you are most gracious.” As Gavin sat, he eyed Swan at the end of the table. “Is the bread to your taste, milady?”

  She hesitated, with a torn piece halfway to her mouth.

  “You are not to speak to her,” said Leng. “She is a witch, and I do not wish for her to bewitch you any more than she already has.”

  “A witch,” Gavin said. “Is that why you do not provide her with soap, milord?”

  “You are a bold cockerel,” said Leng.

  “Some say a fool of a knight,” replied Gavin.

  “A great fool,” said Leng. “I notice that your lady is charming indeed, yet you arise to defend this bedraggled witch.”

  “His lady is a harlot,” said Kergan. The white-haired seneschal grinned, with his lips stained with wine. “He picked her up in Glendover’s Street of Harlots.”

  Gavin was amazed to see Leng blush. Was the man really a sorcerer?

  “You have a rash tongue, Sir Kergan,” said Leng. “Have you no fear of this knight?”

  “Sir Kergan but jests, milord,” Gavin said.

  “Jests?” said Kergan. He lifted his chalice, draining it, banging it onto the table. “I make no jests. I speak the truth and dare any to gainsay me.”

  Leng stiffened, and he turned to Gavin with a dour twist of his lips. “Your companion is a harlot?”

  “No more than yonder maid is a witch.”

  Leng’s long face became even more remote. “You have dishonored my baron by bringing a harlot to the feast.”

  Gavin laid his hands flat on the table. Without glancing at Leng and while keeping his voice even, he said, “You are a scholar, are you not?”

  “A scholar of antiquities,” said Leng.

  “Are you also a man of honor?”

  Several nobles hissed in outrage.

  Gavin stared into Leng’s dark eyes. “Are you a man of honor, milord?”

  “I could have your tongue ripped out for that.”

  “Perhaps, but you have failed to answer my question.”

  “There is only one answer to such a question, sir.”

  “That is true,” Gavin said, “a duel.”

  Those near held their breath. Then the faintest of smiles edged onto Leng’s mouth. “Are you challenging me to a duel?”

  “Are you naming my lady a harlot?”

  “I am,” said Kergan.

  “Tomorrow you will learn the folly of that,” Gavin said.

  The white-haired seneschal picked up his chalice but found it empty of wine. He roared for more.

  From his high-backed chair, Leng studied Vivian, and he pursed his lips. “As of yet I make no claims about your lady—other than that she is fair of face and quite buxom. I wonder if she might find a scholar’s embrace more favorable than a brash knight’s.”

  “I do not wonder,” Gavin said.

  Leng’s hint of a smile vanished as Kergan bellowed again for
wine. The lean scholar snapped spidery-long fingers.

  A man in a cowl and with gloved hands set a leaden pitcher at Leng’s elbow. Gavin noticed that Swan looked up white-faced at the heavily robbed servant, who retreated into the shadows. Gavin wondered what was odd about the servant.

  “It is time for darker wine,” said Leng. He took the leaden pitcher and splashed sluggish liquid into his brazen cup.

  The prisoner’s head swiveled up to stare upon the chandelier.

  Gavin followed her gaze and the knot in his stomach tightened. The light…it seemed… He glanced at a wall torch. A black flicker danced within the otherwise bright flame.

  “Red wine for meat, black wine for a dark heart,” chanted Leng.

  “Is it getting darker in here?” asked a bejeweled lady.

  Gavin found himself sluggish, and he struggled to stare at Leng.

  “Drink unto oblivion they say,” muttered the scholar.

  With effort, with horror bolstering his will, Gavin picked up his chalice. “I’ll have some,” he said with a thick tongue. He thrust his chalice against the leaden pitcher and knocked it out of Leng’s hand. It fell to the boards with a thump and the dark wine spilled like blood. Greater illumination immediately flooded back into the Great Hall.

  Leng turned wondering eyes upon Gavin.

  Gavin lurched to his feet, bowing, and he almost ripped out his silver sword to hew the sorcerer in his chair. “I’m so sorry, milord. I am a clumsy oaf. I beg your pardon.”

  The hall fell silent. The clatter of sounds died.

  “Surely I should leave the hall, milord,” Gavin said. “I have disgraced myself.”

  Leng shook his head. “No, sir, it was an accident. I would not think of having you leave. No, you are…pardoned.” Leng’s lips seemed bloodless. “Perhaps however you should return to your table.”

  “At once, your grace,” Gavin said, deciding that it was death to kill Leng.

  As Gavin approached, Sir Durren rose ponderously, lumbering to his former location.

  Hugo gripped an arm, “What happened to the light a moment ago? Did you notice?”

  The entire Great Hall seemed to have noticed. Everyone was whispering about it.

  The servant with the dark cowl spoke into Leng’s ear, soon sliding back into shadows.

  “We should leave this instant,” whispered Hugo.

  Before Gavin could agree, Leng rose as bells rang. “I have just been informed that the baron asks that I remind you of an eternal truth. The better, I was told, to prepare you for a surprise.”

  The whispering turned into silence.

  Leng cleared his throat. “On a dark night in the forest men huddled around a campfire. They did so because they feared the darkness. The fire crackled, throwing its lurid glow upon them. The men in the flame’s light became monstrous to look upon. As wolves howled, these men grimaced in fear. A snapped branch surprised them so their mouths opened wide and they readied themselves to scream. They could not see what hid in the darkness. As a matter of course, they fed the fire with twigs and branches. The fire consumed all. At last, they ran out of wood. The fire died. Darkness held sway once more. Tell me. What had the men gained by the firelight? They had gained nothing but a short respite from the night. Without the wood, they were at the mercy of the night, of the darkness around them. What then should they do?”

  “Hunt for more wood,” whispered Hugo.

  Gavin grew tense. Everything here felt wrong and evil, about to erupt into something unseen since Godomar. He was unaware of it, but his hand clutched his blade’s hilt.

  “No one can tell me,” said Leng, “because in the firelight men have forgotten the lessons of Darkness.”

  “Sorcerer!” shouted Swan, leaping to her feet. “You are a sorcerer.” She appealed to the throng. “Slay him before it is too late.”

  “Take her away,” said Leng, gesturing angrily.

  The jailer jerked her leash and two men-at-arms hurried to help.

  People should have gasped or shouted in outrage. None did.

  Gavin almost leaped to his feet, but Hugo held him down. “Not yet,” hissed the one-eyed squire. “Leng has them now. We must wait for our chance.”

  Gavin eyed the throng. They hung on Leng’s words, the same words which brought nothing but loathing to him. He suspected a spell.

  “They’ve been in the castle longer than we have,” whispered Hugo.

  “Why should that matter?” whispered Vivian.

  “There’s foul sorcery afoot this night,” whispered Hugo.

  The jailer and men-at-arms dragged the weeping Swan out of the Great Hall.

  Leng raised his voice. “The lessons of Darkness are hard. Yet they are the fountains of wisdom. For Darkness and Night are the twin natures of life. They lead to the true path.”

  Leng lifted his left hand, holding the leaden pitcher. He shouted loud words, eerie words, sounds that seemed to rip the air and make their eyes blur and well with tears. Leng lifted his right hand. A woman screamed. Others cried out in terror. The impossible occurred. The flames flickering upon the wall-torches detached themselves from the pitch-smeared ends. The flames cackled and blazed separate from their torch. Each fire leaped over the heads of the wide-eyed, horror-stricken crowd. They leaped like storybook balls of balefire and into Leng’s open right hand. Each addition fed the blaze in the scholar’s palm. Sweat slid down his face. He shouted. The chandelier darkened as its flames also fed the fire in his hand. With a great cry, he stuffed his hand and the blazing fireball into the leaden pitcher. He shoved and pushed. And in that instant, the tears cleared from everyone’s eyes. The blurriness left their vision. They saw with dreadful clarity each torch, each crystalline shard of the chandler flicker out as if doused with water or strange wine, throwing the Great Hall into blinding darkness.

  The screams ratcheted in volume.

  Above them Leng roared, “Father!”

  The darkness became blackness, until it became physical. The chandelier rattled. Plates cracked.

  Vivian clung to Gavin. Around them people jumped up in terror. They tripped and bumped against each other. A presence, a vast and brooding monster seemed to descend upon the Great Hall.

  “Old Father Night!” howled Leng. “Come and show us your path!”

  Gavin wanted to roar, but his throat had locked. Old Father Night was an ancient and dreadful god. Only in Thorongil and Godomar did they worship the grisly master of the lords and ladies of Darkness and Eternal Night.

  “What once was lost has now been found!” howled Leng. “The old and faithful servant awakens! He will stalk the world once more! Guide us, Master! Give us victory over your pale foes! Strengthen your servant so he may devour the land as night devours day. Abase us, Lord Master! Twist us into the creatures of Night!”

  A loud and ominous creak sounded. The screaming feasters fell silent, wondering perhaps what thing from the Horde of the Damned had come up this night from the depths of the Earth.

  Gavin couldn’t master his terror any better than the others could. A dark light, a green nimbus filled with evil, appeared. The evil green light glowed from a sickly-green amulet upon a man’s vestment. The evil light glowed on the man’s face. It showed foam-flecked lips and staring, almost unseeing eyes.

  “The baron!” screamed a woman.

  The baron laughed obscenely, his cowl thrown back. Had he been the servant who had given Leng the leaden pitcher? Behind the baron, in the evil glow, appeared bestial, hairy creatures. Following them came lurching men with long blank faces.

  “I see Sir Rudel!” cried a man.

  “And the pitch traders!” shouted another.

  Gavin moaned. Darkspawn. The worst horrors of Godomar were upon them.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The squire with the silver chain, the one who had pulled out Leng’s heavy chair, now lifted that chair above his head. The straining squire shouted wildly and brought the chair crashing upon the head of a rubbery-limbed man in the
baron’s train. That one went down in a heap, and everyone in the Great Hall, both feasters and darkspawn, seemed for that instant frozen.

  Then, in the hellish green light of the baron’s amulet, the rubbery-limbed man swept away the wreckage of the chair and rose. His half-crushed forehead dripped blood into eyes crazily askew. With long arms, he reached for the stunned, silver-chained squire. With manic strength, he spun the youth, throttling the squire with his own silver chain. The youth’s face turned a bloody shade of red and then purple. His eyes bulged and his hands clawed at the chain wrapped around his throat.

  A woman sobbed, and that seemed to be the signal.

  Furry, fanged creatures with clawed hands and bestial snouts shot past the baron and leaped upon the startled lords and ladies of Forador Fief. The beasts, the clawmen, seemed smaller than the knights who rose up to meet them, but they had the agility of apes and the strength of wild predators. A vicious swipe of a clawed hand left red ruin where a moment ago had been Lady Wilma’s eyes. Sir Durren the Strong tumbled backward as a clawman careened upon him, snapping, snarling and tearing at the costly garments. Sir Kergan fared better, at least in the initial rush. With a drunken roar, he smashed his chalice into the teeth of a clawman, breaking the fangs and sending the shards rattling across the floor.

  The rubbery-limbed men—they were terribly gaunt and much stronger than they appeared—grabbed men and women with equal indifference, bringing them to the baron. The baron touched them. The green glow of his amulet snaked to his shoulder, down his arm and to his hand and into the person. Only then did the gaunt release his victim. Blind Lady Wilma no longer screamed, but as the evil green glow sank into her face, she fell twitching onto the floor.

  Pandemonium erupted. The knights and retainers fought with chairs and table knifes, but most of the good folk stumbled away screaming from the swarming, leaping clawmen and lurching gaunts.

  “Gavin!” shouted Vivian, swept away by stumbling people.

  All around Gavin people moaned and wailed as if in the pits of the netherworld. Some blundered blindly in the dark, crashing against others. Then a new note alerted Gavin. It was a wicked snarl and claws scratching against the floor. Remembering grim lessons from Thorongil’s winter forests, Gavin drew his silver sword and thrust into the darkness. A ghastly howl assaulted his ears. Gavin shouted his battle cry as he shoved forward, twisting the blade. Talons slashed his cheeks. He ripped the blade upward. The howl changed to a whimper.