Dark Crusade

by Vaughn Heppner

  The High Priest picked it up, scanning the lettering for perhaps the tenth time.

  It was the Tara Charta, dictated by Swan the so-called Chief Crusader of Anor, Truth-Teller and Seer of Hosar. It called the people of Anor to defensive arms against the darkspawn of Old Father Night. It rang with references to the “spirit of Zon Mezzamalech” and “the silver sword” and “in the defense of all humanity.” He had studied it carefully. It deeply troubled him. What he knew of the Moon Lady and the fearsome hints of legendary Hyperborea… Might the darkspawn truly be the terror that she spoke about?

  The High Priest’s upper lip curled. He tossed the Tara Charta back onto his desk and marched to his stool, climbing up it, taking his quill and dipping it into the golden ink. With sure, swift flourishes, he finished the missive. He read it over to himself and picked up a handful of sand, sprinkling it over the lettering. He heated red wax, poured it to the bottom of the parchment and pressed the King’s stamp upon it. He pinned two blue ribbons against it. When all had dried and hardened, he used his fingernails to work out the tacks, rolled up the freed parchment, tied it with a red ribbon, sealed it with wax, using the King’s stamp once more, and then worked it into a royal message tube.

  He then sat at his desk, slumping in exhaustion as he closed his eyes.

  Later, a tap at the door stirred him.

  “Come,” he said.

  His chamberlain brought in a young knight, the leader of the Elban gentlemen adventurers. The talk was brief, the young knight bordering on rudeness and then soon sent on his way. The fool had actually wished to ride north and join the crusaders.

  After that came more men, many of them messengers, two of them assassins given new assignments and one a bent old woman said to possess the second sight. The High Priest locked the doors and spoke with her in low whispers. From her many layers of clothing she produced strange cards, shuffling and fanning them and then bidding him to pick three. With a trembling hand, he did so. He had once ordered witches like her to be burned at the stake, trying to rid the kingdom of them. Yet the need was great, and his fear and uncertainty more than usual.

  The witch nodded as she studied the tarots, smiling, revealing that she was missing many teeth. “A fight, Your Excellency, but then you will be victorious.”

  “What of Swan?”

  “She will fall.”

  He grinned, lurching from his chair, staring out of the window.

  After a time the old woman coughed into a withered hand.

  With a start, he turned, went to his desk, pulled open a drawer and dribbled silver coins into her pouch. He ordered her to speak to no one about this session.

  After she had gone, he drummed his fine-boned fingers on his desk as he stared at the message tube.

  Another tap came at the door.

  “Come.”

  “Your Excellency,” said his chamberlain, “The Matron Innocence is waiting to see you.”

  The High Priest blinked at his chamberlain as his stomach turned queasy. “Usher her in.”

  The chamberlain bowed and retreated, closing the doors. The High Priest took his place behind the desk. With a start, he grabbed the medallion, putting it away into a drawer.

  The double doors to his study opened and the chamberlain said, “The Matron Innocence of the Shrine of Tulun to see you, Your Excellency.”

  A plump woman in her fifties, in a blue gown and fiery crown of office, with deep blue eyes and a serene smile allowed herself to be guided into a cushioned chair in front of the desk. The High Priest nodded to the chamberlain, who silently took his leave. The High Priest gave his full, grave attention to the Matron Innocence, the most powerful religious leader in the kingdom after himself.

  “What is this urgent request for a meeting about?” she asked.

  He picked up the Tara Charta. “Have you heard of this?”

  “The letter from Swan?” she asked.

  He lofted his eyebrows. He had thought his missive the only copy. “It will save time if you’ve already read it.”

  “Time is critical, I agree,” she said.

  “You do? I’m surprised. You were most fond of the girl, if I recall.”

  Inga frowned. “I think you misunderstand me. Swan has been proved right. There are indeed darkspawn and they have conquered the Duke’s territory.”

  “Nonsense!”

  The Matron Innocence seemed bewildered. “Have you actually read the charta?”

  “This inflammatory summons to open rebellion, yes, I’ve read it.”

  “Your Excellency, you surprise me. I know the King’s spies report to you.”

  “Spies, Inga? No. Loyal supporters to the King report about misdeeds and outlawry in the Midlands.”

  The Matron Innocence licked her lips, frowning, seeming to gather herself. “If you will notice, Your Excellency, Sir Ullrick, the King’s champion, signed the charta, as did Baron Wyvis, Bain and Aelfric the Duke’s champion, as well as the mayors of Tara, Ware and Kildare, among others.”

  “The rebellion has flared openly, yes, I understand that. And that is why we must move quickly. You, I’m afraid, must now make just as open a move for the King as they have for rebellion. For you are responsible for much of this.”

  “I do not understand your thinking.”

  The High Priest folded his hands on the desk, staring into her eyes. “Did you not give this Swan the Banner of Tulun?”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I do not believe you gained the King’s permission in doing what you did.”

  “I am the Matron Innocence of the Shrine of Tulun. My first loyalty is to Hosar—as yours should be, Your Excellency. My conscience is quite clear about what I did.”

  A wintry smile touched his face. “We shall not bandy words, you and I.” He put a hand on the message tube. “The Midlands has flamed into open revolt. Many townsmen, mayors and Midland barons have leapt at this chance to challenge the King. The great feudatories, however, remain loyal. In particular, Count Ranulf of the Barrens, old Nine Fingers himself, foe of the Cragsmen, will raze the lands of these rebels and soon put an end to their rebellion. And if that doesn’t suffice, then the King will lead in person with the main army and put down these rebels.”

  The Matron Innocence had grown pale. “Your Excellency, I urge you to reconsider. They are most certainly not rebels. They gather themselves in order to defeat the darkspawn. Most of North Anor has fallen. The Duke of Glendover Port is no more. Think about that, Your Excellency. The Duke of Glendover Port was a powerful man with a strong walled city and many fine knights. To brush aside this idea of darkspawn as being but petty brigands is utter foolishness, the very height of folly. For once, you must lay aside your schemes. You must sound the alarm and bring the King’s Army to the Midlands. We must unite the remainder of Anor and defeat this terrible menace. Otherwise, you, I and everyone else in the kingdom will soon march in the Horde of the Damned.”

  “Ah, Inga, you disappoint me. Swan says all this to be so in her Tara Charta. Yet it is obviously full of lies, full of hypocrisy. She is a seer, I’ll grant you, seeking to overthrow the kingdom! No. I will not be party to it and I will not let you be party to it. You have been duped by her from the beginning—either that or the two of you plotted most carefully.”

  “How dare you accuse me of that.”

  “How dare I?” asked the High Priest. “You gave them the Banner of Tulun, the very key to this rebellion, a stamp of your approval. Now you spout fear to me, urging me to fall under the waif’s spell.”

  The Matron Innocence sat back, turning thoughtful. “You sent Sir Ullrick and Sir Josserand with them. Are you not then just as responsible as I?”

  The High Priest’s smile turned hard. “Indeed I did send those two, and they may yet regain the King’s goodwill. But as for you, my dear.” He shook his head. “I find you intransigent. I find you willfully spiteful and stubbornly set against the good of the realm.”

  She rose, with anger and f
ear flashing across her face. “Tread carefully, High Priest. To threaten me is to threaten my entire Sisterhood.”

  “Do you really think so?” He pulled a cord. The doors opened and hard-eyed men in chainmail marched within. “Guide her below,” he said. “Let her rest securely in solitude so she may meditate upon her decisions.”

  “Do not dare to touch me,” she told them.

  “Don’t be tedious, my dear woman. Resist and it shall go worse with you. Cooperate and you may yet gain the King’s forgiveness.”

  She glared at him. Then, before the armored men laid hands on her, she lifted her gown and with a nod bid them to show her the way.

  When the doors closed and the High Priest was alone again, he sank into his chair with a groan, massaging his forehead. A knot welled in his stomach. Just how dangerous were the darkspawn? Surely, there had not been enough of them to conquer Glendover Port. That had to be sheer fabrication on the rebels’ part. Still… He nodded to himself. The Duke’s territory was undoubtedly in turmoil. So if he maneuvered the situation to best effect, perhaps it would be possible to sweep both the rebels and to launch an attack north of Forador Swamp. He could unite all Anor under the King’s crown. It had been over a hundred years since the entire island was ruled from Banfrey. First, however, before he could consider such grand dreams, he must squash this idea that the Tara Charta had any basis in fact. He must push the King into marshalling the main host. It wouldn’t be wise to rest everything on Nine Fingers.

  ***

  “…in conclusion, Your Majesty,” the High Priest said as he strode about the palace courtroom. “We must call out the knights, gather the men-at-arms and order the crossbowmen to the royal standard. Then we must march north to put down these dangerous, clever rebels.”

  Silence greeted the words. The King frowned from on his throne upon the dais. His lords sitting on either side of the hall and on cushioned chairs shifted uneasily. Many older lords in their velvet robes and golden chains of office avoided the High Priest’s eyes. A few of the younger knights, dressed in hose, tabard and long silken capes, dared to stare at him in wonder.

  Finally, an old, fat knight stirred, the Constable of the Kingdom. The Constable dyed his hair red with henna and wore a vast robe to hide the extent of his girth. The only article proclaiming his office was the vine baton he fiddled with in his pudgy hands. The Constable now cleared his throat and grunted as he struggled to his feet.

  “Yes?” asked the High Priest.

  “What about the darkspawn, your lordship?” wheezed the Constable.

  “That is a hoax,” said the High Priest. His smile grew tight as the King’s guards armed with loaded crossbows did as he had instructed. They stood perched on an upper balcony, fixing their attention onto any that spoke against the plan.

  “B-But the reports, your lordship,” wheezed the Constable.

  “Oh, I’ll grant you there may be a few of these darkspawn,” said the High Priest. “But an army of them, one that has swept the Duke’s territory? I cannot believe that. Can you, Your Majesty?”

  King Egbert looked confused. He shook his head.

  “We must stamp out these rebels, Your Majesty. Isn’t that so?” asked the High Priest.

  The King nodded.

  The High Priest smiled pointedly at the Constable. “Who here gainsays the King?”

  A few knights appeared uncomfortable. The Constable gripped his baton, fingering it, working his nonexistent eyebrows. A cleared throat from a knight beside him caused the Constable to glance up at the crossbows. His eyes grew wide. His fat neck swiveled as he looked from guard to guard. Each crossbowman eyed him closely. The Constable hurriedly sat down.

  “Is it decided then, Your Majesty?” asked the High Priest.

  “Yes,” said the King.

  “Then should not the Constable begin to call out the troops.”

  “Let it be so,” said the King.

  The fat old knight, the Constable, yet hesitated. He had once been a brave man. With a rattling sigh, he rose once more to his feet. He saluted the King with his baton, turned and saluted the High Priest and then shuffled for the door.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Ten days later, as the motley collection of knights, town militiamen and sullen-eyed peasants first attempted military evolutions at Bosham Castle by the Sea, heralds from Count Ranulf of the Barrens, old Nine Fingers, boldly rode into camp. The three heralds on caparisoned stallions clattered into the castle courtyard, shouting for the whereabouts of the one named Swan.

  The heralds wore costly gear: gold-inlaid tabards, ermine-trimmed cloaks and jeweled rings. Their bearing was haughty as befitted their lord the Count. The youngest herald bore a flag. Upon the flag was the silver outline of two hands that clutched the throat of a choking Cragsman. The ring finger of the right hand was missing. It was the flag of Nine Fingers and showed his avowed purpose.

  In the Count’s youth, the High King of the Crags had captured him, cut off his ring finger, and stolen the family signet. Since then, after paying his ransom and gaining his freedom from the Cragsmen, “Nine Fingers” had become a savage warrior, usually raiding into the Crags each summer with fire and sword. In his old age, he had become a sullen fighter, known for his fearlessness.

  “Don’t let the heralds speak,” warned Josserand.

  He had whispered to Gavin, who hurried with Swan and Hugo into the courtyard.

  “We don’t fear their words,” Hugo said. Since his rebirth, he had taken to wearing a white tunic with the symbol of Hosar upon his breast and belted by a white rope. Instead of shoes, he wore sandals. The only other article upon his person was a strap across his chest and slung over his shoulder. It held his faithful crossbow upon his back and a round cylinder of bolts.

  “You would do well to remember,” Josserand said blandly, “that Nine Fingers is cousin to the King.”

  “The heralds do sit arrogantly,” Gavin said. “They peer about as if someone waved a shovelful of dung under their noses. Perhaps you’re right.”

  “Sir Josserand is not right,” said Swan. “They are heralds. They are under the lawful protection of Hosar.”

  “As you wish, milady,” Gavin said.

  Midland barons, mayors and higher-ranked knights who had joined the crusading hurried toward the three heralds. The chief herald, a handsome man with white hair down to his shoulders, put a tissue of cloth-of-gold upon his head as if it were a hat. He then signaled the other two.

  The beefiest herald put a silver trumpet to his lips and blew a mighty blast. The one with the flag waved it back and forth. Then all three of them clucked their tongues and caused their fine steeds to high step their hooves upon the cobbles, as they slowly turned round in a circle.

  “How lovely,” said Josserand.

  Everyone in the courtyard stopped what he or she was doing.

  “Where is the one named Swan?” bellowed the herald with the tissue of cloth-of-gold upon his head.

  “You wish to speak to the Seer?” shouted Hugo.

  The herald blinked.

  The barons and mayors joined Swan and Gavin.

  “This is the chief servant of Hosar,” Hugo said, “Seer of Truth and leader of the Crusading.” He knelt before Swan, bowing his head.

  “Get up, Hugo,” she whispered. “You’re embarrassing me.”

  “Yon waif is your leader?” asked the herald in his booming voice.

  Gavin stepped up, grabbing the horse’s bridle. “Have a care how speak about the Seer, sir.”

  The herald raised his chin. “I am the herald of Count Ranulf, lord of the Barrens and cousin to the King. You would do well to unhand my horse, sir. Or do you not recognize the laws of the land?”

  “You are granted safety,” said Swan. “Heralds are immune to harm. We recognize you, sir.”

  The herald barely nodded, and as Gavin let go of the bridle the herald made a subtle signal. Once more, the trumpeter blasted upon his silver instrument.

  The chi
ef herald thereupon cleared his throat and spoke loudly. “Count Ranulf of the Barrens, cousin to the King and known abroad as Nine Fingers the Scourge of the Cragsmen, bids me to urge you to wisdom and proper featly. Be it known that Nine Fingers stands with his cousin the King. He deplores this breach of the Anno Charta and pleads with his fellow lords to remember who rules in Anor. Yet my lord Nine Fingers knows that sometimes barons and their retainers lose their wit under the pretense of troubles. ‘Crusading in South Anor?’ he asks. Can Nine Fingers have heard a right? Nay, my lords, this is a plot against the King, and the Count will not stand for it.

  “Know, sirs and lady fair, that Count Ranulf, cousin to the King, also known to the foul Cragsmen as Nine Fingers the Destroyer—know that the Army of the Barrens has even now been assembled. Let every baron who rebels watch to his castles and keeps. Nine Fingers shall besiege and burn each stronghold to the ground. He will raid the rebellious fiefdoms, slaughter the peasants and take all cattle and booty for his own.”

  The herald eyed the throng with a haughty sneer. Then he pointed to one in the crowd. “You: Baron Bain. My lord Nine Fingers bade me give you this personal missive. ‘Your lands will fall first, sir. I will dung your wells and ravage your wife and daughters fair. I will—’”

  “Knave!” roared Baron Bain, drawing his morningstar and beginning to whirl the three spiked balls above his head. “I’ll give you my personal answer right here and now!”