Karl Edward Wagner - Kane 04 - Dark Crusade

eBook Version: 2.0

Dark Crusade

Karl Edward Wagner

To Bob Herford--

So, we'll go no more aroving

So late into the night...

Contents

Prologue

I The Man Who Cast No Shadow

II The Man Who Feared Shadows

III Goldfish

IV Shadows That Slay

V Sharks

VI Red Harvest

VII Nexus of the Crisis

VIII Origin of Storms

IX The Forging

X At theTowerofYslsl

XI Mourning of the Following Day

XII The Blooding

XIII Siege

XIV Treaties and Evocations

XV Omen

XVI Broken Sword

XVII Children's Hour

XVIIIDream and Delirium

XIX Goddess

XX Her Lips Are Painted Red...

XXI ...It Looks Like She's Been Fed

XXII Let It Bleed

XVIIIDream and Delirium

XXIV Beneath theSeaofSand

XXV Nemesis

XXVI Desperado

XXVIIIn the Lair of Yslsl

And the hapless Soldier's sigh

Runs in blood down Palace walls.

William Blake,London

Prologue

"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 ofIngoldi , 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 bloodtrail 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 sprcad-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.

I

The Man Who Cast No Shadow

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 theInland 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 acrossGuild 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 skill 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 intoGuild 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 narrowTrade 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 bloodtrail 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 tile Outskirts of

Ingoldi. Emerging from the forest, the city's nondescript skyline of pointed roofs, crooked chimneys, and

denied mansions of the wealthy was a welcome sight. The dark waits 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 bast 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 an 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 ear-rings 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 vaguely recalled that this was the sigil of Sataki.

"You're right," be said. "It is a tough-looking gang to be playing watchdog for a bunch of crazy-assed

priests. Wonder where they got the money to hire them?"

"I'd swear they're some of Orted's men."

"We could check it. How long have people been listening to them?"

"Well, like I said, at first there was some catcalls and that was silenced pretty quick. Then people close

by started looking to see what the row was all about. And some drifted away, but more stayed, and the

crowd just kept building up as more and more folks come over to see what everybody else was listening

to. They've about got the square jammed solid, and nobody can get to the stalls or anything."

"Then we'd better bust this up," Fordheir decided, remembering who paid his wages.

The harangue of the black-robed priests had been working to a crescendo. At this distance Fordheir

could catch only a little of what they said. Oft-repeated was the word "prophet" and certain phrases: "a

new age," "a world reborn in darkness," "a prophet sent from Sataki," "he who will lead us." Fordheir's

eye was drawn to the tall priest who stood in their midst--silent, motionless--enswathed in a great

hooded cape of black silk, on which the sigil of Sataki was emblazoned so that its band of glyphs fell like

a scarlet circle about his torso, and the avellan cross rose over his chest and back so that his head was

the center of its "X." The words and gestures of the other priests more and more were directed toward

their silent brother. Highly charged with excitement, the attention of the crowd focused on this enigmatic

figure.

Suddenly the impassioned harangue of the priests broke off. Fordheir heard their cry: "Behold! The

Prophet from the Altar!"

With a dramatic flourish, the silent priest flung off his cape.

Anchara gasped and pointed. "Thoem! Do you see that!"

Fordheir saw. Everyone saw.

With the majesty of a demigod, Orted stood before them. The leonine head with its mass of brown hair

and clean-shaven features was unmistakable--albeit more carefully groomed than was his wont. Arms

akimbo, clad in close-fitting trousers and blouse-sleeved shirt of black silk, he loomed larger than life.

The gold sigil of Sataki hung over his broad chest, flashing in the late afternoon sun. His glowing black

eyes passed over the many hundreds of faces before him, seeming to meet each man's gaze.

He cast no shadow.

"Block off every street out of the square," Fordheir ordered. "And send a rider to the barracks for every

available man. I don't understand this, but Orted's no fool."

Grimly he contemplated forcing a wedge through the packed square. "Bring up archers," he went on.

"We can't risk his escaping into the mob."

"Sir." Anchara's voice was uneasy. "He doesn't seem to cast a shadow."

"I know."

Guild Square grew quiet after the initial hubbub of surprise as the crowd recognized the outlaw leader.

The carnival air was overshadowed with an atmosphere of wonder and expectation. In the hush Orted

began to speak in measured tone, his resonant voice ringing clearly.

"I am the man who once was Orted, called bandit and outlaw by other men. I am that man no longer. A

god has entered into me, and his will is my will, my words are his words. Listen to me, for I am Orted

Ak-Ceddi, the Prophet of Sataki!

Karl Edward Wagner - Kane 04 - Dark Crusade

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