“We landed on Anor at Glendover Port, yes, your lordship.”
“Perhaps the Duke has hired you and this maid.”
“If you believed that, your lordship, you would already have had us slain.”
“After you stirred up the crowds with your performance? No, I don’t think so.”
“Swan isn’t from Glendover Port, your lordship, but from Forador Castle. What then would be her sense in lying to the King?”
The High Priest’s false smile vanished as his eyes became predatory. “That is why you’re here, Sir Gavin. You have roused my curiosity. Yes, I admire clever ploys. That wound on her cheek, for instance. It was artfully done. I congratulate you.”
“Far better, your lordship, if you lent us a thousand men-at-arms and we razed Forador Castle to the ground.”
“Ah, not only are you a keen lancer, schemer and orator, but now you prove to be a jester, too.”
“Surely you must realize that this is no jest, your lordship.”
The High Priest nodded. “Quite right, sir. It is time for truth.” He pursed his thin lips. “I know your type, Sir Gavin. Handy with a blade, quick-witted and graced with handsome features, you believe yourself a match for anyone. Then you find a raving girl and decide: Yes, I believe I shall become King Egbert’s Constable. I’ll trick him into giving me an army and then I shall rule Anor.”
“Before long, your lordship, there will be nothing to rule. The darkspawn will see to that.”
The High Priest drummed the table with his fingers. He studied the top of the tent, staring for a time and then shaking his head. “You have played your role well, and I suppose you realize that. You have roused the city with your prattle. It seems therefore that I must enter into the lists, so to speak, on your terms. Very well, I accept the challenge.” He picked up a bell and rang it.
Gavin twisted around, wondering if men-at-arms might rush in with swords drawn. He tensed when the tent flap drew back and the Matron Innocence, an even older Wisdom in a coarse cloak and Swan entered. Men-at-arms followed, carrying chairs and placing them beside Gavin. The men-at-arms then retreated outside.
Gavin let out his breath, letting go of the dagger hidden under his jacket.
“What do you think, Inga?” asked the High Priest.
“Swan has the power of Hosar,” said the Matron Innocence. “We know the Lord of Light safeguards humanity from the powers of Darkness. At times, some are touched by visions in order to help us in this grim struggle. It seems to me that Swan truly is a seer.”
“Seems?” asked the High Priest.
“It isn’t wise to be hasty in these matters,” said the Matron Innocence, “although I am quite unwilling to say she lies.”
“How did you come to be imprisoned in your liege’s dungeon?” the High Priest asked Swan.
She told them the story of her accusing Leng of sorcery and Baron Barthek counter-accusing her of witchery.
“How do we know that she isn’t a witch?” asked the High Priest.
Gavin was surprised when the ancient Wisdom spoke up. She was toothless and shook with age. “I listened well as she told us her story, your lordship. This one is no witch. A seer, I believe, as Sir Gavin’s esquire says and our Matron Innocence suspects.”
“You are quick with your praise, Wisdom,” said the High Priest.
“Begging your pardon, your lordship, but I saw her sincerity and the urgency of real fear. And she is a virgin.”
The High Priest grew thoughtful, rubbing his jowls.
“She is not playing us false,” said the Matron Innocence. “I believe her.”
“Are you a witch?” the High Priest snapped at Swan.
“No, your lordship,” said Swan. “We must halt the darkspawn. I beg you to unleash your hosts and ride to Forador Castle while there is yet time.”
“Not my hosts, girl, but King Egbert’s.”
“Yet he has entrusted them to you,” said Swan. “You are his head councilor, the chief servant of the kingdom.”
The High Priest drummed his fingers on the table. “You spoke of an ancient sorcerer…”
“Yes,” said Swan. “Zon Mezzamalech.”
“He’s the one who imprisoned you?”
“No, your lordship. Leng did that.”
“Who exactly is this Leng? You’ve given us very little to go on.”
“Leng is not of Anor, your lordship. He comes from across the sea.”
“Just like your Sir Gavin has done,” pointed out the High Priest.
“Leng comes from farther away, your lordship, from the evil land of Godomar.”
The High Priest nodded as if that were as it should be.
“But that isn’t the worst of it, your lordship,” said Swan. “Like Zon Mezzamalech once did, Leng defies time. He’s lived longer than his normal span by using foul arts and by making a pact with Old Father Night. With those extra years Leng has gathered much dark knowledge, including the location of Zon Mezzamalech’s amulet.”
The High Priest peered at Swan as if looking at a new animal, at something he had never seen before. He shook his head, turning to the Matron Innocence. “Do you believe all this, Inga?”
“I do.”
“And you?” the High Priest asked the ancient Wisdom.
“With all my heart, your lordship,” she said.
The High Priest sat back, soon smiling bleakly. “I shall grant you your request, Sir Gavin. You will be allowed to travel with Sir Ullrick, the King’s own champion, as he rides to Forador Castle on royal business.”
“May I ask how many men you intend to send?” asked Swan.
“Fifty riders should be sufficient,” said the High Priest, “along with whoever else you two can connive.”
Swan, already pale, grew whiter yet.
“Fifty is a joke,” Gavin said, regretting letting Hugo talk him into this foolishness. “We shall all be killed.”
“Nonsense,” said the High Priest. “Fifty doughty warriors a-horse should easily be able to capture enough darkspawn to convince all Anor to go crusading.”
“You were not in Forador Castle’s feast hall, my lord,” Gavin said. “You are unaware what it is like in the swamps with howling darkspawn on your trial.”
The High Priest sat forward. “Fifty or none at all, sir.”
Swan signaled Gavin to accept. He bent his head in thought.
“Do you truly think that will that be enough men?” asked a troubled Inga. “I think you should send more.”
The High Priest smiled smoothly. “That will be enough for the moment. Sir Ullrick will be instructed to make a quick strike, thereby upsetting the enemy’s plans. Remember, Inga, these are not just fifty peasants I’m sending, but fifty knights. Believe me, they will keep the darkspawn busy—if darkspawn there really are—as we ready Banfrey and warn the rest of the kingdom. Or are you unwilling to go?” the High Priest asked Gavin.
“I will ride,” Gavin said, thinking himself a fool.
“Excellent,” said the High Priest.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Brutes ripped away his heavy leather blanket, causing the muted sunlight to engulf Cuthred in his trench. He mewled in fright as tears welled in his eyes. Although protected by the shadows of an apple orchard and the foggy, Leng-conjured Moon Mist, high in the heavens blazed the sun. Because of the light, Cuthred felt exposed, naked and vulnerable. He was fearful someone who knew him of old might see him in his degraded state.
“Up! Up!” cried the brutes. “Hurry!”
Cuthred buried his face in the dirt. Last night they had marched until dawn. It was the third night since they had left the swamp. For three nights, they had used the merchant lane that led to Glendover Port. For three nights, they had bypassed the stony castles where ironclad warriors dwelt, ready to boil forth like bees if disturbed. They had also bypassed the wooden-walled towns where grim crossbowmen earned their silver coins through constant vigilance. However, those who lived in small un-walled villages or in lone
hamlets, or any lost hunters and camping merchants and the like caught in the net of the advancing horde, found themselves trapped by the Death Drummer. Ritual killing knives slit their throats. Then the newly dead heard the wicked doom of Joanna’s drum. Dead limbs stirred. Vacant eyes stared ahead. And the new undead joined the rotting corpses, swelling their ranks to overflowing.
Last night the Master drove the horde until minutes before dawn. Glendover Port was almost in sight. As daylight had driven away the night the horde’s minions had burrowed like gophers and covered themselves for protection from the loathsome orb of day. Then Leng, before the sun had robbed him of the Moon Lady’s presence, had conjured the blanketing Moon Mist. Thus, the entire horde had bedded down for the day, guarded by specially trained brutes that could withstand the muted sunlight.
“Up!” cried the brute-captain, a massive specimen that had once been Sir Durren the Strong. He wore chainmail armor, an open-faced helmet and bore in his hairy claws an axe of black iron. He dwarfed his fellows as they dwarfed most men, and he dared to prod Cuthred in the back with the haft of his iron axe.
“Go away!” shouted Cuthred.
The brutes stirred uneasily. Even the huge leader whined, before saying, “The Master orders you up. Up, up, the Master orders you up.”
A shudder ran through Cuthred. The Master. He Who Must Be Obeyed.
A week ago, or maybe more—it was difficult for Cuthred to keep track of time—the boards to his swamp-hole had been torn away. Kergan, the Master, had peered at him. Kergan’s shoulders hadn’t been as massive nor his neck quite as bullish as before. And the eyes, they had begun their slow retreat into the skull. The amulet on his chest, however, had glowed with an infernal force. Like an eye, Cuthred knew it watched him, marked his thoughts and would sear him with pain if the need should arise.
“The Master orders you up,” snarled the Durren-brute.
Despite the sun, Cuthred scrambled out of the trench. He panted as the brutes struggled with the heavy iron plates of his cuirass. When Durren-brute gave the signal, Cuthred poked his head through the hole as if the armor were a robe. Because he crouched low after that, the brutes snapped the buckles, cinched the straps and hooked his chainmail girdle. Next, they buckled greaves to his tree-trunk shins and thick plates to his thighs. They handed him a massive helmet, bigger than a camp-kettle. Finally, with thick leather braces tied to his forearms, he donned chainmail gauntlets. Only then did he lift his shield, larger than Forador Castle’s postern gate. Lastly, he hefted a monstrous oaken club. Iron bands circled the wood and gave it heft and strength, while a large spike had been driven through the end.
“Hurry,” shouted Durren-brute. “This way, this way.”
Like some prehistoric monster, Cuthred strode through the grove, following the squad of brutes. Everywhere spread the blankets of those who hid from the sun. The shade of the apple trees gave small comfort. The Moon Mist and the heavy leather blankets helped more. Best, though, was the cold dirt, the loam where everything dead was buried eventually.
Cuthred shuddered. In the center of the grove and within damp tents waited the ranks of undead. Their vile stench of corruption threatened his stomach. He loathed and feared the undead almost as much as the sun. Whenever the Death Drummer pounded her horrible instrument, she made Cuthred’s stomach churn until the beating finally stopped. He understood little of what occurred, little of the Master’s strategy. He knew, however, that under no circumstances could the undead walk in sunlight. Gaunts, perhaps, could be driven with fire from their holes. Then like drunks, they would stagger across the battlefield, meat for enemy blades. Only the brutes could fare well under the sun, together with a handful of clawmen.
“Quiet,” said the Durren-brute.
Cuthred slowed his tread. At every step, he clanked and rattled. He enjoyed the sound. It meant that soon he would kill, murder, slay and butcher the bastards who all his life had tormented him. His slow and heavy step found an accompanying beat in his skull. Despite the sun, which even under his helmet made his eyes water, his heart sped up in anticipation. His titanic palms grew sweaty. Rend, smash, pulp, and tear apart. Ahhhh—ecstasy.
“Shhh,” hissed the Durren-brute.
Cuthred blinked sweat out of his eyes. Then he saw the command knot, the post where the Master, Leng and Vivian waited. Several apple trees had been felled and piled two down, one on top. Ringing them were heavily armed brutes, bearing large shields and thick dark swords. In front of the command post shuffled nervous clawmen. So few, so very few compared to the entire horde.
With his hand on Cuthred’s shield, Durren-brute led him quietly to the command post.
Leng sighed as his eyes fell on Cuthred.
The Master asked in his cold way, “Where are the others?”
Durren-brute cringed. “The orb, Master, they fear the fiery orb.”
“One giant should be enough, Master,” said Leng.
The Master turned his dreadful gaze on the sorcerer.
“Shall I get them, Master?” Leng asked hastily, with sweat popping onto his forehead.
The Master fondled his amulet, strangely dull this morning.
“One hard blow, Master,” Leng said with a whine. “One hard blow and a good quarter of Anor will fall into your grasp.”
The Master sneered. “You said a quick march would paralyze them until it was too late. But here are humans ready to attack us at our most vulnerable moment.”
“A-Attack us, lord?” Leng asked. “It-it-it is Sir Aelfric, lord. You remember Sir Aelfric. He was always quick to take the field. I’d wager these are his household troops, thus few in number. He hasn’t had time to speak with the Duke, to coordinate a reaction to us. This will be a small army at best, more likely a raiding force.”
“Do you wager your head?”
Leng allowed his long fingers to wipe sweat from his forehead. Otherwise, he waited silently, without moving.
“On your head,” the Master said icily. “Go.”
“Cuthred,” said Leng.
Cuthred rose from his haunches and shuffled after the quick-moving sorcerer. He met Vivian’s gaze. She also followed Leng. Like an Amazon, she wore a leather helmet and armor and bore a small spiked shield and hatchet. She looked scared, although she touched his forearm with her tiny hand.
“Will you protect me, Cuthred?” she asked.
“Shhh,” hissed Leng. “Don’t confuse him.”
“You’ve confused me,” she shot back. “Why do you keep me with you, Leng? Why do you drag me into every battle with you, each little skirmish?”
“You watch everything I show you like a hawk, harlot. Have you learned anything yet?”
“Yes,” said Vivian. “That the Master hates you.”
“Shhh,” Leng whispered, holding up his hand. He peered through the thinning trees.
Despite the water filming his eyes, Cuthred did likewise. The Moon Mist faded beyond the grove. It was hatefully bright out there. That brightness flashed off armor: that of knights on horses, their squires and mounted men-at-arms. Following them clattered a band of peasants armed with staves, pitchforks, knives and a few shields, along with a handful of what appeared to be mercenary crossbowmen.
“Will they attack?” asked a pale-faced Vivian.
“Would you?” asked Leng.
“On three different nights someone must have seen the horde,” she said. “The reports grow, surely, of our advance. Someone will have to investigate.”
Leng was shaking his head. “Would you risk your household troops on things of the night? Would you risk them against a surprise host of unknown number?”
“I would if it swept my men, women and children out of my villages.”
Leng considered that, nodding after a moment. “We need more undead if we’re to have a chance at taking Glendover. That’s why we’ve been making more of them, scouring any unprotected villages.”
“Perhaps,” said Vivian. “But you’ve insured…well, this small army.�
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A bugle sounded. A knot of horsemen cantered from the enemy host and toward the trees.
“Will your darkspawn stand and fight?” asked Vivian.
Leng peered at the sun. He peered at the picket of clawmen. They shuffled nervously, eyeing with horror the approaching knights.
“Cat and mouse,” whispered Leng. “They don’t know what’s in the mist, aren’t certain of our numbers and have seen empty villages. Fear must fill them.”
“And your troops?” asked Vivian. “Are they full of courage?”
Leng spun around and hissed orders at the Durren-brute. Then the sorcerer bade Cuthred to set aside his club and shield and follow him to the command post. The Master was no longer there, nowhere to be seen, in fact. At Leng’s orders, Cuthred dragged two fallen trees to the orchard’s edge. The brutes wielded axes, thudding into the hard wood.
“Are you trying to scare them with sounds?” asked Vivian.
“What are they doing?” Leng asked.
“The knights listen. No. More horsemen canter up. I count twenty in the vanguard.”
“Hurry!” cried Leng.
Soon, six huge chunks of tree-trunk lay at Cuthred’s feet. A strong man would have been lucky to roll such a chunk. At Leng’s command, Cuthred hefted the smallest over his head. With a roar, as if the chunk were a rock, Cuthred hurled it at the horsemen. Not even Cuthred, however, had strength enough to heave it that far, although the chunk rolled and forced the horsemen to canter aside as it went past them like a rolling ball.
The human leader, white-haired Sir Aelfric, pointed with his sword at the grove and shouted. The horses broke into a trot as the vanguard moved toward them.
“He must think we have a catapult,” said Leng, “and hopes to close before we can reload. Again!” he shouted.
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