Dark Crusade (14 page)

"I hadn't realized you were empowered to make treaties, Kane," he remarked, signing for a steward to bring him a goblet.

"As general of your army, such is understood," Kane said suavely. "After all, decisions have to be made in the field, and you scarcely can spare time to have my couriers forever at your heels in Ceddi, trying to haggle over various trivial issues. Of course, every agreement I undertake is subject to your approval."

"Of course. Such is understood," Orted agreed. "You know how well I trust your good judgment."

The Prophet gulped down his brandy. "This is quite good. I'll have more." He glanced about the richly furnished pavilion, as the steward refilled his goblet "Don't go too far," he admonished. Behind him, his priests stood aloof and motionless as shadows of the dead.

"Well, Kane," Orted said, wiping his chin on his sleeve. "You've done very well for yourself here. I'm extremely pleased with what you've accomplished so far. You and your men have performed great works for the glory of Sataki. You have destroyed the army of Sandotneri, captured the city, and taken only moderate casualties in your victory, I congratulate you."

"Thank you," acknowledged Kane, every nerve straining to catch the menace he knew lurked behind Orted's brandied smile.

"You have, however, made one error in this," the Prophet spoke with deceptive grace. "To be sure, I don't fault you for it. You were acting as best you understood."

How much has the fool guessed? Kane's expression was blandly inquisitive. From his hand to his knife hilt to Orted's heart would be but a blurred instant.

"An error?"

"Yes. Sandotneri has twice defied the Dark Crusade. Sandotneri has massacred untold thousands of the Children of Sataki."

The Prophet's voice suddenly oozed with venom. "There can be no peace with Sandotneri! For these sins they must die!"

From out of the night, the throbbing chant of the Satakis--rising ever higher for these last moments--abruptly was stilled. Vaguely then, the keening moan as of a distant cold wind through skeletal trees. It was as if a hundred thousand throats raised one shrill scream of horror beneath a smothering shroud of leaden mist.

A shiver of indescribable ecstasy veiled the Prophet's eyes.

The muffled death-cry of a city rose to a banshee bowl. Terror ravened the night, and those who heard knew that death had unveiled its face.

"You devil!" Ridaze snarled.

Lunging for the doorway, Kane saw what he intended, but made no move to interfere. The others were entranced by the tocsin of dread that shattered the night.

Ridaze drew a poniard from the sleeve of his doublet. In one desperate leap, he flung himself upon the enthralled Prophet, stabbed the needled-like blade into his heart.

Kane exulted in that instant, knowing that even if Orted wore mail, that enraged blow would drive the poniard between the metal rings.

Orted staggered. The triangular blade snapped; its broken tip sprang away across the tent.

Ridaze recoiled, his face slack with disbelief. No trace of blood showed on the pierced silk.

Orted ignored him--even as the priests instantly swarmed over Ridaze. A rush of black robes, flashing grey blades, then gushing crimson. Ridaze sagged to the ground, disbelief still written in his dead face.

Kane spun past them--it was over in an instant--still following his initial impetus toward the doorway. Within the tent Esketra screamed brokenly, his officers blundered after him, the priests stood clustered about the laughing Prophet.

The night was starless black. Kane could see the circle of torches where the Satakis ringed the city. Where Sandotneri's towers and walls should rise, the others saw nothing at all. No light. No towers. Nothing but absolute darkness.

Kane, whose eyes pierced the darkness as keenly as ever his mother's, saw the dancing shadow horde that writhed, sated, away from silent Sandotneri and into the starless gulf of night.

Daylight dissolved the pall of night and unveiled a city of the dead. No assault, no plague, nor poison could have wreaked such wholesale annihilation of human life. Kane, riding at dawn through the murdered city, thought of the ravages of poison gas--although he knew too well that no such mundane death had claimed these victims.

The dead lay everywhere--grey, contorted faces, eyes stark with horror, tongues swollen and protruding, limbs frozen in final convulsions. Soldiers sprawled upon the ramparts, children crumpled beside their toys, merchants slumped across their wares, mothers fallen over their dead nfants. In street, or household, or tavern, or bastion, or alley, or stall...

For one dread instant, the portals of the dark world had yawned, and something alien and evil had crept forthand feasted.

Now the Satakis swarmed like maggots throughout the corpse of Sandotneri--despoiling the dead, pillaging the silent shops and houses, stripping weapons and armor that had been no defense against elder horror. Commandeered wagons groaned beneath the weight of the plunder, broad peasant backs bent from sacks of loot. The wealth of Sandotneri was being stripped from the corpse, dragged off piecemeal for the forests of Shapeli.

Kane, inured to such scenes and to such horrors, nonetheless appeared depressed as he rode to meet Orted Ak-Ceddi. The Prophet gazed about him with the smug satisfaction of an artist who views his own masterwork. Kane had seen nothing of Orted in the chaotic hours since the Prophet and his retinue had swept out of Kane's pavilion, taking the terror-stricken Esketra with them. Kane had spent the remaining hours of the night deep in thought, while the Satakis rioted in triumph through the city of the dead, and Kane's officers attempted to maintain order amongst the men.

From time to time, throughout the night, Kane called to him certain of his men whom he knew he could trust, spoke with them in hushed council. Some departed that night on missions known only to themselves and to Kane.

By dawn, his spirits somewhat improved, Kane mounted Angel and rode into the city, where men told him he might find Orted Ak-Ceddi. Kane found him, smiling benediction upon the revels of his followers.

"Your face is grim this morning, General Kane," greeted the Prophet. "Surely the vision of massacre does not appall you."

"The massacre was needless," Kane replied. "The city had surrendered to us."

"Surrendered to you, Kane," the Prophet reminded him. "Not to me."

"I had signed a treaty."

"And the treaty was disregarded. There is no novelty in that. Surely nothing about the deed can blacken the name of Kane."

Kane glanced sharply at Orted, wondering how deep the mockery might lie.

"No, Kane--don't scowl so. You have done as you promised, and I am well pleased with you. You have forged a true sword for Sataki, and you have wielded it gloriously against the enemies of the faithful. You understand war and its waging to perfection, Kane--but you cannot understand the sacred mission of the Dark Crusade. You are a sword, Kane--and as you once told me, a sword has no soul. Your duty is to conquer the enemies of Sataki, Kane. What I choose to do with the conquered enemy is according to the will of Sataki. Don't concern yourself with matters beyond your understanding--and beyond your authority."

Orted paused, gestured at the windrows of slain defenders along the wall. "Word of the doom that befell Sandotneri will speed like a blight throughout the southern kingdoms. Sandotneri defied the Dark Crusade; Sandotneri is no more. I think, Kane, Sandotneri's fate is a warning that will serve you well--when you lead the Sword of Sataki across the southern kingdoms."

"I have no doubt the warning will be understood," replied Kane, meeting the dark glow of the Prophet's eyes.

"Very well then." Orted grinned without humor. "I believe Ripestnari is the next obstacle in our path."

"When it falls, the other border kingdoms will probably capitulate without resistance," Kane agreed.

"Then see that Ripestnari falls," Orted dismissed him. "You understand your duty."

"Perfectly," said Kane.

The dead man in the grass made a hoarse, gobbling croak as the dingo sank its teeth into his leg.

It startled the dingo. The wild dog had been eating human carrion for the past week. Not once had its meat offered protest. Ears taut, it regarded the dead man suspiciously in the dying light.

The noise subsided, save for a low rattling moan. Emboldened, the dingo took a firmer grip on the bare leg.

This time the dead thing gave a bellow like a bull sinking beneath quicksand, thrashed its filthy limbs in aimless paroxysms.

The cry brought an answering shout from the billabong close by. A running body pushed through the grass, coining toward the kicking dead thing. There was easier prey than this, and the dingo took to its heels.

Cautiously the girl approached the moaning thing in the tall grass, her poniard glinting with the last rays of the sun.

"What is it, Erill?" came a shout from the wagon drawn lip beside the billabong.

"It's a man, Boree!" she answered. "Alive, I think."

With a curse, the older woman caught up an ax and loped toward her. "Don't touch him!"

The man was naked, except for a torn jupon, coated with old blood and dried fifth. His bare limbs were cracked and blistered from the sun, lacerated from the saw-bladed grass. Beneath a crust of muck and caked scum, a number of old wounds festered under foul scabs, and bright blood oozed from the bite on his leg.

He made a mewing sound, and wriggled brokenly toward the near by waterhole. If he was aware of their presence, he gave no sign. A faint trail of bent grass indicated the man had been crawling for some distanceevidently his last strength had failed just before he could reach the water he sought.

Boree made a thick sound in her throat. "It's a soldier, from the great battle."

"Ours or theirs?" Erill wondered.

"Who cares. Best to put the poor bastard out of his misery, and have done." Boree hefted the ax.

"No!" Erill protested sharply. "He doesn't appear badly wounded. Maybe he only needs water."

"Needs a lot more than that, honey. Could be all busted up inside. Hell, what are you going to do?"

The smaller girl bent to tug at the man's shoulders "Give a hand here, Boree. We'll drag him down to the pool. I've seen too much of death."

"Then one more shouldn't bother you," grunted Boree. "Here, give me his shoulders, and I'll pull him. You grab hold his feet. If anything's busted, he's past caring."

She cursed as she raised the man's shoulders. "Hell, honey. He won't want to live even if he has the say. Half his face is all chewed up."

"Boree, will you just shut up and pull."

Straining, for the man was thickly built, and a limp body is a difficult weight to manage, the two women stumbled to drag him to their camp. Days before, their wagon had been part of the Sataki horde that converged upon Sandotneri--not so much from their zeal for the Dark Crusade, as because to remain behind might be construed as disloyalty to Sataki, and disloyalty did not escape the notice of the Defenders of Sataki. Now, returning from the plundered city, a lame horse had detached them from the straggling horde. By degrees they followed apart from the main body, returning to Ingoldi because there was no other place to go.

Erill had pondered the idea of fleeing to the south. But now that Sandotneri had fallen, the Sword of Sataki rode like a destroying wind across the southern kingdoms. The Dark Crusade was engulfing the land, and there was no place to flee. And so they slowly made their way back to the forests of Shapeli, camped here tonight with another day's wagon journey to go.

Gingerly they laid the man down at the water's edge. He had barely strength enough to gulp a few mouthfuls of water, then lapsed once more into unconsciousness. Erill stripped off the tattered jupon and began to lave the filth from his tortured flesh. The man lay senseless throughout her ministrations, even when she scrubbed against his encrusted wounds.

Boree, who had gone on with cooking their dinner, came over to see if he still lived. She shook her head, then scowled, squinting in the failing light.

"That's an old wound there on his face. It's all sear."

"Looks like an old burn scar," Erill commented. "I don't think he's badly wounded--mostly thirst and exhaustion."

"And fever," Boree remarked. "Burned up with fever. That'll kill him, even if he doesn't get blood poisoning from these wounds."

"They're not deep--only look bad because they've festered," Erill told her. "And there's awful bruises all around them."

"Crush injuries," Boree judged. "Likely then he wore armor. Unless you slip past a joint, takes a hell of a lot to bash through steel plate."

They looked down at the unconscious face, its scarred half unnaturally pallid against the fever-flushed skin of the right. It would have been a handsome face.

"Erill, do you know who this is!" Boree breathed suddenly.

"Yes."

"Erill, that's Jarvo! It has to be!" "I know. I guessed it when we picked him up." Boree licked her thick lips. "There's one huge bounty on him. Alive or dead."

"We'll keep him alive," Erill told her. "If we can."

"Bounty's the same."

"We aren't keeping him for any bounty."

"No bounty?" Boree tried to see the joke.

"We'll hide him, nurse him back to health."

"Erill, are you out of your mind!"

"No." Erill's face was as bard as her voice. "Once the Satakis used me as a tool to destroy a city. Now I'm going to salvage a sword to destroy the Dark Crusade." "

Oh, Erill," murmured Boree. "Oh, Erill."

"Noochee! Noochee! Noochee!"

Jarvo spun around at the jeering shouts of the children, saw that they only played along the alley. He relaxed, then uneasily glanced about to see if anyone had taken note of his guilty start.

"Noochee! Noochee!" A whimper, then shrieks of laughter.

Noochee. He was an inuchiri--or noochee, as current slang had foreshortened it. There were only two kinds of people left in the world: the Satakis and the inuchiri--literally, "those who betray the one faith". As easy to say, the living and the dead--for where the Dark Crusade cast its shadow, there were no alternatives.