Dark Crusade

by Karl Edward Wagner

Genres: Fantasy; Historical Thrillers; Historical Fantasy

Synopsis

Kane the Mystic Swordsman encounters an ancient cult of evil. The cruel cult of Sataki has come to life again, and Orted Ak-Ceddi, a daring outlaw, is its prophet. Orted knows he must have a powerful cavalry to launch a new drive - and Kane is the man who can command the conquest. But Kane intends no final victory for the Forces of Darkness - he intends to rule the earth himself!

Release date: May 29, 2014

Publisher: Gateway

Print pages: 148

Sample

“There’s no refuge there.”

“What?”

The hunted man spun about, warily studied the shadows. There, in the dark corner of the buttress, a black-robed figure he had not noticed a moment before — when on failing legs he staggered toward the shadowed walls of the ancient tower. From the darkened streets down which he fled came shouts and clamour of armed pursuit. In the black silence beneath the tower, there was only the hoarse rush of his breath and the soft splat of blood as it dripped from his arm. His sword raised clumsily in the direction of the voice.

“There’s no refuge for you there,” repeated the black-robed figure. “Not in the Lair of Yslsl.”

A bony hand snaked from the shadowy robe and gestured toward the black stone tower that rose into the starless night. The wounded swordsman followed the gesture, gazed upward at the dark mass of the abandoned tower. It was older than the city of Ingoldi, men said. Older even than the fortress, Ceddi, whose weathered fortifications had once incorporated the black tower. Abandoned now, the ancient tower was the subject of countless foreboding legends. But tonight guardsmen with torches and ready blades made the yawning doorway and its cobwebbed spiral stairs a welcome shelter.

“What do you know, old man!” growled the hunted man.

“Only that the guardsmen who followed your blood-trail will not hesitate to search the tower. There’s no escape for you in the Lair of Yslsl, and brave Orted will make this final stand with only bats and spiders to shield his back.”

The swordsman squared his bull-like shoulders. “So you know me, old man.”

“All across Shapeli men know the fame of Orted. And all Ingoldi is talking of the trap that closed upon you and your wolves today, as you dared enter the city to plunder the Guild Fair.”

The bandit laughed bitterly. “Not a one of the common folk of Shapeli would raise a hand against us — and one of my own men betrayed me.”

He stepped closer to the black-robed figure. “And I know you, old man — a priest of Sataki by your black cassock and gold medallion. I thought the Satakis stayed in the dusty halls of Ceddi, shut away from the common world.”

“We haven’t forgotten the world beyond Ceddi,” returned the priest. “Nor are we friends of those who oppress the poor to build up worldly treasures.”

There was surprising strength in the gnarled fingers that tugged at his bloody sleeve. “Come. We’ll give you shelter in Ceddi.”

“Is this another trap? I warn you you’ll not live to spend the bounty you seek!”

“Don’t be a fool. I could have given the alarm already if I desired your death. Come. They are almost upon us. There’s a way past the wall close by here.”

With nothing to lose, Orted yielded to the pull on his sleeve. The priest withdrew through the shadows of the tower, leading across the rubble-strewn court toward a ruined wall. A paving stone pivoted downward at the angle of the wall, and steps led downward still. The priest descended confidently. Ill at ease, the bandit leader followed. Very little was known of the Satakis, but such rumors as there were of the ancient cult were not pleasant ones. Still, the torches were very close, and the arrows in his shoulder and side were leeching away his strength.

As he entered the gloomy passageway within, the entrance silently swung shut. Orted turned to see whose hand had closed it. He sensed the priest’s quick movement behind him.

Then nothing at all.

Sensation returned after a space. The back of his skull ached. Cold stone pressed against his bare flesh. His limbs were outstretched, immobile. He opened his eyes.

Above him floated a naked man, spread-eagled in the blackness.

Orted shook his head, fighting pain and vertigo. His vision cleared. He looked into a black mirror, high on the ceiling above him. The naked man was himself.

He was spread-eagled across a circle of black stone, pinioned by thongs about his wrists and ankles. His limbs lay along grooves cut into the stone, and in the mirror, he recognized the ring of glyphs carved into the perimeter. It was the same as on the gold medallion the priest had worn — the avellan cross with its circle of elder glyphs.

But he was on the cross, and this was the altar of Sataki.

Orted growled a curse and strained at his bonds. Even had he not been wounded it would have been useless.

The black-robed figures circled about the altar looked down at him, faces expressionless blurs in the shadow of their cowls.

Orted raged at them. “Where are you, you pox-eaten whoreson liar! Is this the refuge you promised! Why didn’t you leave me to face the guardsmen — that would have been a clean death!”

“It would have been a useless death,” sneered the familiar voice. “Sacrifices are rare to find in these dismal times, and my brothers too few, too old. It has been months since we last were able to lure into Ceddi some fool whose disappearance would not be noticed. For all your life of villainy and plunder, bold Orted, your final act will be one of service. Not in many years have we offered to Sataki a soul as strong as yours!”

They ignored his curses, as they began their evocation. The bandit howled in rage, writhed against his bonds — but his cries could break their low-voiced chant no more than his sweat-soaked limbs could snap their fetters. Orted, a man who had no gods, called out to Thoem, to Vaul, to such other gods whose names he knew. When they ignored him, the outlaw beseeched the aid of Thro’-ellet the Seven-Eyed, of Lord Tloluvin, or Sathonys, and others of the demonlords whose names are not good to speak. If they listened, they were not moved.

“Our god is far older than those to whom you plead in vain!” came a mocking whisper from the priest who painted the sigil of Sataki across the bandit’s chest with a brush wetted from his flowing wounds.

Bittersweet incense clouded the air, its narcotic fumes dulling his senses, soothing his frantic struggle to break free. Their droning chant, unintelligible to his ears, grew vague and distant. In the black mirror overhead, his reflection became clouded…

No. From the mirror above him a black fog was taking form, blotting out his reflection in a shroud of nebulous substance.

Orted screamed then — arching his body away from the altar, heedless of the trivial pain of his wounds.

Something was being torn from him…

The circle of priests ceased their chant, drew back in anticipation…

But that which they anticipated did not occur — and not even the hoariest annals of their ancient cult gave warning of that which did.

A thousand misty tendrils streamed down from the circle of black glass high above. Like spiderwebs of jet, they spun down to enfold the contorted figure on the altar. And on the tendrils of shadow, the half-glimpsed shadow of something crept down to engulf the stricken man. Altar and sacrifice were totally obliterated in a writhing mass of darkness.

Those of the onlookers who had not fled or died from fear could not guess how long the shadow clung there. Huddled in supplication they buried their faces in their robes. As there are names it is not wise to utter, there are visions it is not well to see.

And after a period of dread a voice commanded them: “Rise and stand before me!”

Lifting terror-stricken faces, the priests of Sataki beheld a wonder beyond comprehension.

The Guild Fair at Ingoldi was in its third day. Located centrally to the trade routes that crossed this region of tropical forest, the city was an ideal setting for the annual event. From across Shapeli craftsmen journeyed to display their work to the speculative eyes of merchants and traders of the forestland and beyond — wind-burned sailors whose merchant ships plied the Inland Sea to the west, dark-tanned horsemen whose caravans crossed the grassy plains of the southern kingdoms where the forestland turned to savannah on Shapeli’s southern border. Even for those who were neither craftsman nor merchant, the Guild Fair was a grand event — a holiday from an existence of bucolic drudgery. From innumerable towns and settlements, those who were able to make the journey travelled to Ingoldi for a week of carnival.

In stalls and pavilions, from wagons and hastily thrown up awnings, all across Guild Square and overflowing along the streets that entered the square, buyer and seller hawked and haggled for the products of the forest. Rich fur pelts and leatherwork, finely woven cloth of cotton and linen. Sturdy chests of tropical hardwood to hold your purchases safe against your travel, or a delicate comb of ebony and adder skin to grace your lady’s hair. Tablewares of tin and copper, pottery and blown glass, wooden trenchers and silver plates. Exquisite jewellery of silver and gold, emerald and opal — and to guard it, hardwood bows and iron-barbed arrows, knives and swords whose blades are of true Carsultyal steel — by Thoem, I swear it!

Taverns and impromptu wineshops served the thirsty crowd with ale and wine, brandy and more curious spirits. Street vendors hawked fresh fruits and produce, or spicy stews and kabobs, cooked before your eyes on charcoal braziers. Beneath the tolerant eyes of the city guard, cutpurses and con men roved through the throng in search of prey. Enterprising whores with harsh laughter and automatic smiles sought to lure tradesmen from the business of the day. Acrobats, mimes, and street singers added their frantic distractions to the milling crowds.

The Guild Fair was an imbroglio of gaudy colors, exotic smells, strident sounds and jostled bodies. All Ingoldi was engulfed in the festival atmosphere, and the abortive attempt of Orted and his outlaw pack to raid the Guild Fair the day before was already a topic of outworn interest.

To Captain Fordheir, who commanded the city guard, the matter was still of pressing interest. Fordheir it was whose archers had yesterday made a bloody shambles of Orted’s carefully planned raid. Tempted by the bounty on the famous outlaw’s head, one of his band had earlier revealed Orted’s well-laid plans to the captain of the guard.

Ingoldi was an indolent, sprawling city — after centuries of peace, its walls outgrown and dismantled for building stone. With the Guild Fair at height, an incalculable fortune in coin and costly, readily transportable wares was concentrated here — with only an undermanned city guard to protect it. It was a daring scheme, but the common folk applauded the bold outlaw and would not rally behind the mercenary guard or the rich merchants. Why face outlaw steel to protect gold that could never be yours?

Orted thought to have a hundred of his men intermingled with the throng as he rode into Guild Square. The informer’s eye had been keen as an adder’s fang, and less than half remained untaken when Orted and the rest of his band charged down narrow Trade Street. Suddenly guildsmen’s wagons were barricades, and overhanging shops housed archers. It was quick slaughter for all but a few.

To Fordheir’s chagrin, Orted himself had thus far eluded him. When the trap closed, Fordheir saw the bandit leader, already hit twice, crash his horse through the lattice window of a shop. Somehow the wounded outlaw cut his way past the archers within, then bolted down the twisting maze of alleys and hidden courtyards beyond — losing himself in the confusion of mob panic. They hunted him throughout the afternoon and evening, but withal Orted somehow won free.

Fordheir scowled as he remembered how the blood-trail inexplicably vanished near the ancient walls of Ceddi. The outlaw had almost been in his grasp there, and someone had helped him. His men perhaps, in which case Orted doubtless was far from Ingoldi — or possibly someone in the city now sheltered him.

Fordheir had long pondered the inconsistency of the outlaw’s popularity. Orted was a hero to the common folks — a daring rogue who only stole from their masters. Fordheir snorted at the conceit — what profit was there in robbing from the poor? Besides, he knew enough of the outlaw to be aware of the ruthless, less picaresque side of his depredations.

Captain Fordheir, on the other hand, and the city guard were only despised mercenaries — hired by the merchants and the aristocracy to maintain such order as there was in Ingoldi. For pittance pay that necessitated bribe-taking to maintain one’s person and equipage, the city guard kept the citizens of Ingoldi reasonably safe from each other. The populace held them in scorn, and the gentry loudly demanded to know how Orted had managed to escape. It was, reflected Fordheir, his blond hair thinning and his joints stiff with age, enough to make him yearn for the days of his youth and the interminable border wars of the southern kingdoms. But an aging mercenary has to eke out his years as best he can.

Wearily he stretched in his saddle, wriggling his toes in the cramped boots. He and twenty mounted guardsmen slowly made their way into the city after some hours of fruitless search along the outskirts of Ingoldi. Emerging from the forest, the city’s nondescript skyline of pointed roofs, crooked chimneys, and domed mansions of the wealthy was a welcome sight. The dark walls of Ceddi made the gloomy fortress a thing apart from carnival Ingoldi.

It had been a sleepless night, a long afternoon. Fordheir’s tired joints ached, his belly was sour, his temper frayed. Grudgingly he admitted to himself that he had let the outlaw leader slip through his hands. Well, a good meal, a pitcher of ale, and his cot at the barracks would improve matters somewhat.

A horseman approached them at gallop. By his dark green shirt and trousers, a stripe of red along the leg, Fordheir recognized the rider as one of his men. He wondered what the guardsman’s haste might bode.

The rider was out of breath as he drew rein. “Lieutenant Anchara ordered me to find you, sir. A group of Satakis are haranguing the crowd. He’s afraid there might be trouble.”

Fordheir swore. “If those damn pinch faced priests don’t have sense enough to stay hidden in their stone-pile during Guild Fair, it’s none of our lookout if the crowd tears them to pieces!”

“It’s not that,” the guardsman said with a trace of worry. “Lieutenant Anchara thinks they’ve got the crowd behind them.”

“Thoem’s balls! One day it’s bandits, the next a bunch of crap-headed fanatics! Does Anchara really think we need to bust them up? He’s got men there — why doesn’t he use them!”

“I couldn’t say, sir. But something’s definitely in the air. Lieutenant Anchara thinks he saw some of Orted’s men in the ranks about the priests.”

“Lieutenant Anchara thinks! Why doesn’t he ask Tapper if they’re Orted’s men! That’s what we’re paying the little snake for!”

“The informer has disappeared, sir.” The guardsman’s tone was unhappy.

Fordheir spat in disgust. “On the double, then. Let’s see what kind of fool’s errand this is!”

As he led his men through the streets to Guild Square, Fordheir tried to make sense of this latest disturbance. So far as he knew, the Satakis generally kept to their crumbling citadel and left the outside world alone. From time to time the disappearance of a street child or drunken beggar was whispered to be the work of the Satakis, but no one had ever been concerned enough to inquire within the fortress.

Tradition had it that their cult worshipped some elder world demon, and that Ceddi (which was said to mean “the Altar”) had been raised on the stones of a still older fortress, of which the Tower of Yslsl was a survival. The cult was as ancient one, certainly; at present all but passed into extinction. Religious fanaticism had burned out some centuries previous when the Dualist heresy had fanned the flames that brought down the vast Serranthonian Empire. Today those of the Great Northern Continent who felt obliged to follow a god commonly worshipped Thoem or Vaul, or some combination thereof, and Sataki and Yslsl were names alien to any known pantheon. The seldom seen black-robed priests were held in some distrust by the populace, and few cared to venture close to Ceddi after twilight. While almost nothing was known about the cult, there were certain rumors and conjectures of an unpleasant sort.

Guild Square was as crowded as Fordheir could remember having seen it. Over a hundred yards across, the vast paved square was jammed to the point where walking was a labor. There was an atmosphere of suppressed energy, of building excitement about the crowd. Forcing passage to where Lieutenant Anchara waited with another contingent of the guard, Fordheir decided he didn’t like the feel of it. Too many heads were turned from the business of the Fair, intent on the small group of black-robed priests who had appropriated a stage platform near the center. This far away, Fordheir could not hear their words — but the murmurs of the crowd were not reassuring.

His lieutenant gave him a nervous grin as he drew rein. “Hope I didn’t cause you to break off anything important…”

Fordheir shook his blond head. “You didn’t.” Anchara had served under him in the old days in the southern kingdoms. Fordheir respected the man’s judgment, and now to his mind as well there came a sense of danger.

“How long has this been going on?”

“About an hour ago I noticed that a bunch of them had climbed up on one of the stages, started their damn preaching. Few people tried to shout them down, but if you look close you’ll see they’ve got some damn ugly-looking bastards cordoned around the stage. There were a few scuffles, nothing much, and I was wondering how to handle it or if I need bother, when I came to notice a few faces in the cordon. Damn Tapper demanded his money and lit out like all hell was after him, so I couldn’t be sure — but I’d swear that tall bastard with the earrings there is one Tapper fingered and gave us the slip.”

Fordheir studied the cordon of thuggish guards. Their dirty and ill-sorted garments had one thing in common — each wore a broad armband of red cloth, on which was emblazoned in black ink an “X” within a circle. Fordheir vague. . .