Dark Crusade (6 page)

Through slitted eyes she saw the shadow horde--grotesque densities of deeper blackness than the night--fling aside their dead, stream toward the bronze gates. The sigil of Sataki, swollen to colossal proportions, overspread the brazen valves where Erill's hand had cast it.

Shadow hands drew at the iron bolts; shadow forms heaved against the massive valves. With the deceptively slow majesty of a falling tree, the brazen portals of Gillera swung ponderously open.

Drained, half-senseless, Erill slumped amidst the twisted bodies of the slain, as the shadow pack streamed past the yawning portal and into the darkness beyond. Dimly she was aware of a wild roaring, as of two monstrous winds. One was the panic-stricken cries of those within Gillera, suddenly aware that something from beyond the dark had opened their city to their slayers. The other was the blood-lusting howls of the Satakis as they poured past the unguarded gates.

The leaden waters of the Inland Sea thundered fitfully against the iron-hard fangs of the promontory overlooking the small harbor of Bern's Cove. The tide was at ebb, and the sour-sweet smell of seaweed and brine and fish hung on the desultory breeze. It mingled feverishly with the stale-sour stench of the refugee camp strewn out along the beach like jetsam of some darker tide.

Several months earlier Berri's Cove had sheltered a few hundred fishermen and their families. Today uncounted refugees swamped the tiny village and the rocky beaches beyond. Tents and huts and brush lean-tos afforded shade to those who could claim such luxuries; others huddled in the sparse shade of the storm-sculpted headland. The equatorial sun made the beaches shimmering expanses of white-hot flame, summoning forth a miasma of sweat and refuse and filth and fear. Typhoid was already killing faster than heat or starvation, and there was a dread whisper of cholera.

As Sandotneri closed its borders to the ever-increasing flood of refugees from the Prophet's conquests, those who sought to flee the Dark Crusade crowded the scattered towns and fishing villages along the western shore of the Inland Sea. Those who could, bought passage on whatever vessel might take them aboard. Ships were few; the cost of passage quickly soared. Most waited on the beach--waited for more ships to come to port, schemed and begged for the cost of a berth, endured the heat and misery for the hope of flight. Most simply waited. And waited.

Within the village itself, floorspace for a reed pallet rented nightly at a sum that would have purchased any dwelling in Bern's Cove a few months before. Food and drink sold for whatever price a merchant cared to demand. Fishermen who owned any vessel larger than a rowboat were in a quandary whether to reap the certain wealth their catches brought from those who clamoured for food, or instead to dare the sudden storms of the Inland Sea for the gold of those who begged passage to distant shores.

Between the village and the refugee camp, a hastily thrown tip patchwork of awnings and pavilions contained the overflow of merchants and opportunists of every sort who gathered whatever the misfortunes of war meant ready wealth. Northward, beyond the sea and savannah, the forests of Shapeli lay under the shadow of the Satakis. That this shadow of dread might soon engulf those beyond the forest's fringe in no way troubled the appetites of the vultures.

Beneath the shade of a sailcloth awning, Captain Steiern mopped the sweat front his round face with a silken scarf and sipped wine from a golden flagon. Returning the flagon to the heavy wooden table beside him, he leaned back in his chair and smiled at the anxious faces that crowded beyond the shade.

"Who's next?" he inquired lazily. The oaken chair creaked beneath his beefy frame. Golden coins made a bright chink as a mate counted the last of them into the strongbox upon the table.

Below the promontory, Captain Steiern's caravel, the Cormorant, rode her anchor and tempted the hopes of those on the shimmering beach. Her lateen sails were neatly furled, and at the distance no one could see their careless patches or the cracked mast. The Cormorant had made harbor that morning, and despite the exorbitant demands of her captain, already her decks would soon be crowded with passengers.

"Come quickly now!" Steiern called. "Only a few berths remain, then I dare take on no more. Who's next? Show me only ten marks of gold or whatever barter that's equivalent. Ten marks, my friends, for safe passage to far Krussin. Ten marks for your lives and your freedom."

"Ten marks should purchase that leaky barge of yours," scoffed a disgruntled onlooker. Several of Steiern's burly hands scowled, but the captain only sipped his wine. "Well then, my would-be shipowner," he said evenly. "Save your gold to buy the next leaky barge to make port. Could be another ship will put in before the Satakis hang you all up to dry. Come, my friends, ten marks for safe passage to Krussin, far from the Prophet's armies."

"Knussin, hell!" grunted the other. He turned to the radish-faced man beside him. "Let's get away from here. That tub is doing well to float at anchor, let alone cross the Inland Sea in summer."

"Well, what choice is there?" demanded his comrade, following the taller man through the crowd. "Either plague or starvation, or the Satakis--we rot here unless we find passage. Thoem curse Sandotneri for closing her borders to us! The southern kingdoms will regret the thousands they turned away, when the Prophet burns a swath through their lands!"

"That madman and his rabble won't venture beyond Shapeli," growled a third bystander, alike turning away in disgust. His ragged gear marked him as a former officer of the municipal guard from one of the many cities to fall to the Satakis.

The three--the other two evidently merchants who had fled with little more than their lives--paused to scowl as a luckier refugee pushed through the crowd to pour a heap of gold coins upon the captain's table. Steiern swept them up with rapacious fingers. In the lull between breakers they could almost hear the drone of dies.

"Orted won't venture beyond Shapeli?" inquired a new voice from behind them.

The trio turned to glare at the newcomer. He led a black stallion that must have stood seventeen hands. A man with such a mount might well have ten marks for passage, so that they looked at him with some calculation and little favor.

"No, Orted won't," snapped the former guardsman. "He's mad as a tomb beetle, but he's too shrewd a leader to risk his peasant mob against the cavalry of the southern kingdoms. He'll have to be content to consolidate his power in Shapeli."

"Then why do men pay ten marks for passage with Captain Steiern?" the newcomer asked sardonically.

"Because it's death to remain in Shapeli--unless you join the Satakis," growled the tall merchant, with the tired patience of one who explains the obvious.

"And the Satakis are certain to swoop down on Bern's Cove," whined the other, wiping stringy white hair from his red face. "Orted will crush the border towns, if only to punish those who have fled his Dark Crusade. The Prophet is mad--or possessed!"

"True," agreed his companion. "It goes beyond powerlust or greed. Orted is stark mad. He won't be content with Shapeli. He'll want to extend his power into the southern kingdoms. There will be no stopping the Dark Crusade."

"Mounted steel and a march under the hot sun will stop him!" sneered the guardsman. "If Orted leads his rabble onto the plain, Sandotneri's cavalry will cut the Satakis into crow bait."

"A fat lot of good that will do us," grumbled the shorter merchant. "By then we'll be dead--caught between Sandotneri and Shapeli. For it's certain the Prophet will invade the southern kingdoms." "Then it's certain he'll get a welcome he'll never forget," the guardsman insisted. "You can't face a cavalry charge with a mob of peasants--and that's all Orted's invincible army amounts to."

"Friend, you appear to be a man not without means," inveigled the taller merchant, scratching his hatchet jaw. "Perhaps you can help us book passage with Captain Steiern. I have certain rich holdings near Krussin. My associate here has well-placed relations along the coast there. We have but a part of the fee; your loan for the remainder will be generously repaid once we make port."

The stranger turned his back and swung astride his mount. Holding rein for a moment, he stared down at them thoughtfully. "You've saved me a voyage--I return your favor," he told them abruptly. "There's no refuge for you aboard the Cormorant. I've ridden all along the coast, and I've seen Captain Steiern play his game in every port along the way. Once beyond the harbor, his passengers are shark bait, and the Cormorant sails on for the next cargo of fools."

"Ten marks, my friends!" came Steiern's voice. "Surely ten marks is not too dear a price!"

"Thoem!" muttered the tall merchant, his face ashen. "But wait--what favor have we done you?"

"Like you, I've been seeking passage to another shore," the rider replied. "But your words suggest that there's work for me right here."

Kane spurred his stallion northward.

"Thoem! Their army covers the earth!"

Jarvo scowled and snorted, "Army, hell! Look at them, Ridaze. They're nothing more than a mob."

The sun beat an amber flame across the limitless savannah. It was still burning its are across the eastern sky, and by the time it reached its zenith the sea of tall grass would shimmer in yellow-green waves. The last rainfall had been weeks before. Climbing thunderheads of dust rose from the northern and southern horizons, signalling the advance of the two armies.

Crawling across the northern horizon marched a seemingly endless wave of human flesh. Two hundred thousand? Five hundred thousand? Jarvo could not tell. Scouting reports indicated the latter estimate, possibly more. A fraction were mounted, the vast majority on foot; Jarvo disdained to consider such rabble in terms of cavalry and infantry. Wagons and impedimenta were scattered at random throughout the surging mass of bodies. The Prophet's army had all the order and discipline of a rioting mob in search of a fight. Jarvo was surprised it had held together for the two-day trek south of Shapeli's forested demesne.

"We should have spared ourselves a day's ride, and let them walk all the farther," grumbled Ridaze, doffing his armet to mop his face. "A few more days under this sun, and our work would be all the simpler. Any of the Satakis left standing would be too wilted to do much but wait for our blades to come reaping."

"There's too many of them to risk allowing a closer approach to our borders," Jarvo reminded his subordinate. "Let those who escape us run back to Shapeli, and not skulk around Sandotneri's marches."

Ridaze lifted an eyebrow. "You think some may escape us?" The other officers chuckled.

"Too many here to kill in a day," Jarvo grinned sourly. "See to your men now, and remember: no looting until the rout is complete, then as you will. Oh--and take no prisoners."

"Not even the cute ones?" another officer leered.

"That counts as loot," Ridaze laughed.

"Good hunting," Jarvo dismissed them. His colonels saluted and rode off to where their commands waited.

Jarvo frowned, scratching at the thick scar that disfigured the left side of his face. The hot sun tightened and seared the leprous tissue. Beneath its black patch, sweat stung the eye that had no more vision than the boiled egg it resembled. Despite the heat, Jarvo replaced his vizored helmet.

Some months had passed since that night at the Red Gables. The barns had healed--healed with severe scarring for all the ointments and assurances of the physicians. Esketra had been very sympathetic. Jarvo had seen her only three times since their rendezvous in her garden. Each time she had been on the arm of a different court gallant; she had expressed very touching concern for him. A score of attempts to meet with her alone had been politely, firmly rebuffed. Jarvo told himself he had no reason for jealousy. They must maintain discretion for yet awhile longer.

Kane had dropped off the face of the earth; not even the ghost of a rumor as to where he had vanished. That pained Jarvo far worse than the agony of his face, for he found he hated Kane more and more each time he passed a mirror.

With Esketra's unaccountable aloofness making life in Sandotneri intolerable for him, Jarvo welcomed the reports from the frontier that Orted Ak-Ceddi was massing his ragtag army for an invasion of the southern kingdoms. It still seemed incomprehensible to him that a leader of Orted's reputed cunning would embark on such a foolhardy expedition. The whole of Shapeli now lay under the Satakis' control. With so many conquests to consolidate, Orted was mad to grasp for more.

Perhaps it was no more than the familiar pattern of a tyrant whose victories only inflamed his greed for yet more conquests. Perhaps the Prophet was truly insane. Jarvo shrugged. It mattered little to him why the Dark Crusade dared venture beyond the confines of Shapeli's dense forests.

There were disturbing rumors that the priests of Sataki had employed certain sorceries to facilitate the Prophet's conquests. Jarvo was inclined to discount such rumors, although the dearth of information concerning the cult of Sataki was a source of unease.

More to the point, countless horrified accounts from those who fled Shapeli afforded hard evidence that the Prophet relied on mob violence of an unparalleled scale for his victories. Overwhelming numbers and ruthless terror were the extent of Orted's tactics. Messy but effective--on the Prophet's own ground. Today the field was one of Jarvo's choosing.

The savannah was relieved by an almost imperceptible rise and fall of the terrain. While it was inaccurate to consider the Sandotneri position that of high ground, there was sufficient rise to command a prospect of the advancing Satakis. As their horde slowly crept forth from the haze of their dust, Jarvo felt the first twinge of uncertainty. Their army covered the horizon. Jarvo had never before seen half so many bodies assembled in one numberless mass. The Dark Crusade must have emptied the forests of Shapeli.

Weeks before, the Satakis had overwhelmed the last towns along the forest's edge and the coast. Scouting parties had watched closely thereafter. At word of the Prophet's impending invasion, Jarvo had ridden north from Sandotneri with ten regiments of light horse and five of heavy cavalry. Mustering the frontier outposts of their garrisons increased his ranks by an equivalent of another ten regiments of light mounted--about half of that archers. Thirty thousand men against easily ten times that number. Trained warriors against an undisciplined mob,