Sir Aelfric gaped at Gavin. Then his lips moved, but he could not speak.
Swan moved to interfere. Hugo touched her elbow and whispered into her ear until she stepped back.
“Sir Aelfric,” Gavin said, “on the Duke’s authority, I order you to speak.”
Something happened behind Aelfric’s eyes. The hysteria drained from his wan features and he nodded ever so slightly. In a husky, low-toned voice, he began to tell them his tale.
Strange rumors had come of things that marched in the night. Villages had been swept clean of people. Traveling merchants had disappeared. So he had gathered his retainers to investigate and found a misty apple orchard out of which flew huge sections of tree trunks. He knew now that giants had done that. These terrible giants had gone on to win the brief Siege of Glendover. Since then it had been the horrible undead who had taken castles, towns, villages and fortified temples. Waves upon waves of undead, marching, hammering, slaughtering, always to the accompaniment of a wretched drum beat. Aelfric threatened to go under again as he trembled.
“The worst of it,” he whispered, “is when you see your own in those ghastly ranks. The Duke marches in their horde. My wife…” Aelfric shook his head as tears streamed from his eyes. “People refuse to leave their castles. They wait. They man the walls. They ready oil. They fix old catapults. Then at night, they reap the dreadful harvest of undead. The undead keep coming and coming, chopping open doors, marching over burning corpses, slaying everything in their path. They keep coming until everyone is slain.” The Duke’s champion shuddered, whispering now. “Then the drum sounds once more. And the new undead arise to take the place of the old. Ye gods! You never want to see such a sight!”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Gavin said. “That’s exactly what I want to see.”
***
“I must scout out the enemy for myself,” said the Captain General.
“Yes,” said Swan. “It’s the reason we rode north.” They stood alone by a bonfire, the hissing and crackling matching the leaping flames. The moon no longer rode the night sky, stars alone twinkled.
“I said scout out the enemy.” Gavin still wore his chainmail from the skirmish. A link chaffed against his back where a tuskrider had slashed him with a saber. Swan had wrapped herself in a brown campaigner’s cloak. It was too big for her, making her look so young, and with her thick, dark hair… Ointment concealed the scar on her cheek.
What force does this young woman yield that she commands us? Is it only her hope? Does Hosar truly guide her? Gavin scowled. “You will return to Wyvis Keep while I head farther north.”
“Just four of you?” she asked.
“I must see this new kind of darkspawn, milady. I must judge their tactics myself.”
“That’s madness. You’ll be killed.”
“You mean: I’ll lose the silver sword. Don’t worry. I’m leaving it with Hugo. Let Sir Josserand wield it if I don’t return.”
“But…”
“This is the only way to learn the enemy’s ways, milady, to find a way to defeat the spirit of Zon Mezzamalech. Stout hearts and courage must be infused with knowledge and sound strategy. I must see for myself so that I can devise a method for victory. That is what being a general is all about.”
Swan stared into his eyes. “I shall pray for your return, Captain-General, and take it very ill if you fail.”
He grinned, but it seemed false. “Believe me, milady, I’ll take it even worse than you.”
***
They rode coursers, lean horses built for speed and endurance, not for carrying a heavily armored knight into battle. Gavin, Welf the Forester, the Bear and his squire, a fierce, muscular lad, shed themselves of chainmail and lances to don leather jerkins, swords and crossbows. Welf led the way during the day, keeping to forest trials and stony high ground. He paused often to sniff the air, dismounting, and crouching by trail-sign, studying it. They rode warily, alert to any sound, loaded crossbows ready. Birds, bats, dogs and wolves, each time they spotted anything moving they hid behind trees or boulders or gutted-out, burned buildings. Once, a mouth-foaming sheepdog streaked across a fallow field, its eyes alight with a weird yellow shine. They had dismounted, stretching their legs. The squire turned and gave out a yell, pawing at his dagger. The Bear whirled with an oath and barely swung his axe in time, cleaving the sheepdog’s head. Noxious fumes drifted from the beast’s mouth. When the Bear yanked out his axe and wiped off the gore, he noticed small-pitted marks on the iron, as if made by an alchemist.
At night, they hid in the deepest woods or on hard-to-reach peaks. They lit no fires and kept troubled watches. Often they heard warbling cries and shrill screams. Once, far in the distance, they heard a terrible thud.
“The Death Drummer,” whispered Gavin.
Sir Ullrick plucked at his massive beard. In the starlight, a shudder ran across his broad shoulders. “It is an evil sound.”
“To the dead, it is a delight, apparently,” Gavin said.
The sound, the thud, the doom as from a drum, occurred again and then again and again.
“Sorcery!” hissed Ullrick. His fingers clenched into fists, the heavy knuckles white and straining.
“It is a thing unleashed from the pits of the Netherworld,” whispered Gavin. “All darkspawn are demons, hideous creatures that do not belong on the Earth. Old Father Night, the Moon Lady—”
“Please,” said Ullrick, “do not speak those names tonight, not in the dark and in sound of that drum.”
They hid behind rocks on a high hill. Gavin sat crouched, his arms wrapped around his knees. He listened to that drum and his thoughts drifted back to Godomar. Wretched sights…knights blubbering…thegns crying for their mothers…demons walking aboard to butcher and to drag down into darkness any unlucky soul they could find. He spat on the ground, and he recalled all that Sir Aelfric had told them about the undead.
In the morning, they came upon corpses on a rutted trail, black, smoky, burned wheat fields all around them. Each corpse lay headfirst in the direction they had heard the drum. Each corpse, more a skeleton really, with shreds of rotted flesh and showing plenty of bone, had tattered rags so that it was impossible to tell if they had been peasants, merchants or knights. A few of the dead clutched rusty knives, one a bent and worthless axe. Others had hacked off hands.
“As if something tore out their weapons,” said Welf.
Gavin inspected the first seven, until they came to a smoldering castle. Smoke drifted from the charred remains. The sky above was gray-cast because of it. The air was heavy with a charnel stench. Undead lay thick before the walls and the main smashed gate and almost as thick in the courtyard. There were no corpses of the defenders.
Sir Ullrick moaned in the gory main hall. He sank onto a bench and began to tremble. His face was wan and his eyes bleak and full of despair. “They…they took the, the…”
“The fresh dead joined the horde,” Gavin said in a tired voice. “Yes, that’s what I think, too. But the undead perish or become useless once they’ve rotted too much. It seems that skeletons cannot be made to fight under the Dark Banner.”
The Bear clenched and unclenched his thick fingers. He bit his lower lip, and it seemed that he forced himself to quit trembling. With a grunt, he lurched to his feet. “I’ve seen enough. This…this is horror beyond horror.”
Flies were thick on the gore and crawling over the blood splashed on the walls. The smell… Gavin led them to the courtyard. They mounted and rode out of the ruined castle.
“Back to Forador Swamp?” asked a pale-faced Welf.
Gavin shook his head.
“What’s wrong with you, man?” cried the Bear. “This is an evil land. We must flee before we’re taken in.”
Gavin eyed the huge knight. Sir Ullrick was brave, but this was something greater than mere courage could face. There was a plague upon North Anor, a sense of doom, of darkness, of the infernal Netherworld opened and its denizens unleashed upon the Earth.
“Don’t you understand?” asked Gavin. “This is what waits for all Anor. We must push on and see these undead in action. That way we shall be able to devise a method of victory when they finally march against us.”
Ullrick’s thick nostrils flared. Sweat dotted his lined brow. He had wild eyes like a horse ready to bolt. “Lead on,” he said. “Where you go, I shall follow.”
***
That night they crept up a grassy hill as a soul-wrenching doom-doom, doom-doom shook their courage. The squire waited below in the bushes and with the horses. Gavin, Welf and Sir Ullrick crawled on hands and knees, thistles trying to snag their clothing. From the other side of the hill came the crash of unified feet and then a most dreadful pause. Then there began hideous scratching.
“Please, Sir Gavin, let us flee this wicked place,” whispered a sweating Sir Ullrick.
Gavin ignored him as he battled his own fears.
“No,” wept the Bear, clutching at Gavin’s foot. “They’ll see you and then come and take us.”
Gavin kicked off the Bear’s paw. Panting, his heart thudding, he slithered uphill to peer past a mossy boulder. In the dark valley below seethed masses of undead, a carpet of walking corpses wielding swords, axes and hammers. On many of them, their clothes were still whole. By them, he could tell which were former knights, ladies, commoners and beggars. In their animated death, they surged united against a castle where torches waved on the walls, boiling oil gushed and catapults thumped fiery gifts. Droves of undead burned and fell apart under falling rocks, spears and arrows. Still more lumbered forward, demanding entrance into the castle.
“They’re without end,” whispered Ullrick.
Gavin gnashed his teeth. “Look there.”
“Wh-Where?”
Gavin stared into the center of the horde. Neither Welf nor Ullrick understood his horror. A crackling catapult-ball blazed over the horde. Joanna beat the dreadful drum. Gavin saw the stiffness to her torso, her baleful gaze, and he sensed the POWER in her. He buried his face in the grass, biting dirt so he wouldn’t scream. Joanna: the sweet, tough and never-complaining healer. In Godomar, she had washed the sores and drained the pus from those who had suffered most. Dedicated to Hosar, Joanna had never married, but had helped the poor, the hungry and the diseased. Four years she had traveled with him, always saying that she still owed him for saving her from the horrors of Godomar. O Joanna.
“Sir Gavin, what’s wrong?”
He heard the dread in Ullrick’s voice.
“What ails thee?” asked the Bear.
Gavin raised his face from the loam and stared at the stricken Ullrick. Dirt fell from his lips as he said, “Forget chivalry, sir, and learn Muscovite Rules. Our only hope lies upon that path and no other.”
“We must flee this place,” begged Ullrick.
Gavin wanted to ask this Banfrey champion how the blackhearts had survived Godomar. Or the few of them who had made it out alive. The blackhearts had learned the enemy’s tricks by tramping through the snow and learning from everything they had seen. They had not survived by acting knightly. They had to crawl in the dirt and study their foe. They had used whatever means to survive. That’s how blackhearts fought, and that’s what he still was.
“Please,” Ullrick whispered. “We must flee.”
“Yes,” Gavin said. “I’ve seen enough.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
“Cuthred!”
Cuthred gave a guilty start, bumping the back of his head against an upper windowpane. Eyes watering, he yanked his head within and slammed shut the wooden shutters, throwing the corridor back into gloom.
Leng strode up the plush corridor, his black robe trailing.
They were in Glendover, in the citadel. The Master slumbered. His condition made it impossible for him to walk unless it was near midnight.
“You were looking outside,” Leng said in wonder.
Cuthred hung his head. The corridors in the citadel were huge, big enough so that Cuthred could stand straight and with his head upright.
“You were staring at the sun,” said Leng.
Cuthred knotted his huge hands over each other. He felt shame for what he had become, shame for his bestial nature and shame at doing something dirty and unclean like staring at the fiery orb of day. At least, looking at the sun made him feel that way.
“Tell me you were staring at the sun.”
Cuthred scowled. A week ago, he had beaten the sorcerer. Now the Master once again trusted Leng. It was confusing.
“Cuthred!”
“What?”
The sorcerer took a step back. “What goes on here?”
Cuthred hunched his massive shoulders. His spiked club, which dangled from his belt by a thong, thumped against his hairy leg.
“You are bound to me, giant. Say it!”
“I…I am bound to you,” rumbled Cuthred.
“Were you staring at the sun?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“To see…” Cuthred scrunched his heavy eyebrows. “To see how far I’ve fallen.”
For a moment, Leng’s eyeballs glittered with malice, making Cuthred uneasy.
“Who taught you to say that? Vivian?”
“No one taught me,” Cuthred said in his slow way.
“Vivian did it,” said the sorcerer, nodding. An evil grin stretched his parchment-like skin. “She won’t be doing that much longer.” Leng snapped his spider-like fingers. “Follow me!”
Cuthred shambled after Leng. One of the unfortunate things about being a giant, he had found, was painful feet. His always hurt. It was worse when they marched.
A short shamble brought them to an ornate set of doors. Standing guard in front of the doors stood two brutes in plate armor. One of them was Durren-brute, still the captain of the heavily armed darkspawn. A flicker of…of…Durren-brute opened his mouth to reveal horse-sized teeth. He had a flat, wide face with a spread-out nose. He frowned. The flicker in his eyes seemed to rise. Then it subsided until he looked away from Cuthred and focused on Leng.
“Open the door,” said Leng.
Durren-brute heaved against the door that the Duke had built so only three strong men could possibly hope to budge. As if he was a bull, Durren-brute snorted. With his ironclad feet, he pawed at the carpet. The solid brass door grated against the floor, opening inch by inch.
“Good enough,” said Leng.
Durren-brute fell back gasping.
“Cuthred.”
Cuthred shuffled forward, and with an arm, he pushed open the door the rest of the way. He followed Leng into the Duke’s former treasure room. Sacks of gold and silver, ingots of platinum, velvet-covered trays of rubies and emeralds, displays of pearl necklaces and diamond rings, bolts of silk, imported teak, several sacks of pepper and a bag of cloves completed the chamber’s riches. A lantern shone over a sleeping Vivian. A silk cover barely concealed her form. With her sleek body, long dark hair and an angel’s face, Vivian stirred something in Cuthred.
“Vivian!” said Leng.
Her eyes opened.
Leng stepped to the bed and slid his hand across her bare torso. Despite a sleepy face, she batted her eyelashes.
“Shameless,” said Leng.
“For you,” she purred.
Leng smirked and then he turned and motioned to Cuthred.
“What is it?” she asked, slipping into a red silk robe.
“Hold her arms,” said Leng.
“Leng?” she asked, as Cuthred shuffled around the bed and wrapped his huge hands around each of her arms.
“My dear,” said Leng, “it’s time you learned why you’re here.”
Her green eyes grew wide as she paled and began to tremble.
“Vivian, Vivian,” chided Leng. “Whatever is wrong?”
She glared at him. “I know your plan,” she said, the quaver now in her voice.
He arched razor-thin eyebrows.
“You…” She turned an ashen shade of gray. She sq
ueezed her eyelids tight and whispered under her breath, “The Master is almost finished with his latest body.”
“Ah,” said Leng. “You are observant.”
“Only a fool couldn’t divine your plan.”
“Oh?”
“You need a carrier, a wearer, someone the amulet can drain even as it…”
“Go on,” said Leng.
“What more need I say?”
“Say it anyway.”
She shrugged: a difficult gesture with Cuthred imprisoning her slender arms. “I’m the only human left in the city—besides you, of course. And I don’t think you wish to enter the Master’s service in quite that way.”
Leng smiled evilly.
“So you’ve kept someone else near him at all times. Me.”
“As you say, that is an obvious deduction. Why haven’t you tried to escape then? Or is it that you wish to become the Master?”
“Don’t be absurd.”
“No,” said Leng. “I suppose you can see well enough what happens to said person.”
“Why does everyone the Master possess, shrivel and waste into nothing?” asked Vivian. “I thought you said before that he was the world’s greatest sorcerer. That the gods themselves fear and feared his magic talisman.”
“The gods do fear it. To bask in the amulet’s warmth—waves of magic flows from it. If you have the training and sensitively as I do, then to stand near the amulet is breathtaking and marvelous. Ah, to own such a magic source… It is the mightiest force of arcane power this world has ever seen, or at least that I know about. In the days of yore, Zon Mezzamalech forged more than he knew. Why, it is the very path unto…” Leng smiled, showing his sharp, white teeth. “The host shrivels because of the very fact that the amulet is so powerful, and because of the spell our Master uses to animate himself with life. It is unbelievably consuming of magic and intense will. The flow of such magic…” Leng shook his head. “No mortal shell can contain it for long. What the Master does—it is frankly impossible. Yet with the amulet, with the talisman of ultimate thaumaturgy, the impossible has become possible.”
Dark Crusade Page 18
