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  Gavin told him he could leave and to be sure to say nothing about this to anyone.

  A half-hour after that Josserand stood in the room, telling them a different story.

  “That’s Gentile,” Josserand said. The man had taken time to don his mail-shirt and had a fighting dirk belted at his side. The High Priest’s mercenary glanced at each of them in turn. “Gentile was born a guttersnipe in faraway Constantinople and rose to be an alchemist’s apprentice. Had to flee far and fast, I heard. He stole from his master and failed to kill the alchemist when he discovered the theft. Gentile was knowledgeable about poisons and greedy for gold. He’s the High Priest’s special envoy for night work. Rest assured that there are others and that the High Priest will strike again, if not through envenomed blades than with golden bribes.”

  “Does Sir Ullrick know Gentile?” asked Gavin.

  Josserand hesitated a moment before nodding.

  “Does Ullrick know that Gentile is the High Priest’s assassin?”

  “Of course.”

  “So Ullrick lied to us,” Hugo said after Josserand had left.

  “Not necessarily,” Gavin said, who held the poisoned blade, studying it.

  They sat in Swan’s bedroom. The dead assassin had been removed. A shawl covered her shoulders as she stared out a slit window.

  Hugo protested, “But Josserand just said—”

  “I don’t believe him,” interrupted Gavin.

  Hugo arched his eyebrows. “Josserand is a crusader now. He swore an oath to Swan. He wouldn’t lie to us.”

  “You’ve never known a man to swear a false oath?” asked Gavin.

  “That is a base charge to make against a crusader,” Hugo said angrily.

  Swan turned to study Gavin.

  “Perhaps it is base,” Gavin said, “and if that is the case then I’ve another mark against my soul.” He wrapped the knife in a cloth, stuffing it in his belt. “Let us not forget that Josserand was the High Priest’s keenest sword. A few muttered words don’t necessarily change such a thing.”

  “Josserand swore on the banner!” Hugo said, striking a fist into his palm. “He knows that we fight for our very lives.”

  Gavin turned to Swan. “By your leave, milady.”

  She studied him a moment longer before permitting him to go. Soon thereafter, Hugo went back to his pallet to try to sleep the remainder of the night.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The next morning, Swan forbade any angry letters to be sent to Banfrey. Let the High Priest wonder and brood. That might delay his gathering of the King’s Army.

  Soon thereafter, they rode out of the castle and took the swamp route. Three grueling days took them through it. It was odd, but the swamp didn’t seem as bad as before. It rained on them and some of the trees were black, but the grim presence… It had departed.

  The first night north of the swamp, Gavin posted heavy guards and instructed that they build large campfires. Many of the men had trouble sleeping, as they lay wrapped in their campaign cloaks. Sensing their fear, Swan walked among them and sang sweet melodies. Soon they smiled, and one by one, they nodded off.

  Gavin left the fires, whistling softly, pausing and whistling again, until he heard the return whistle. He soon squatted beside Hugo in the dark. The old crossbowman crouched behind a boulder, his one good eye scanning the night. Moonlit grasses waved as crickets chirped nearby. In the distance, a wolf howled.

  Hugo cocked his head and then shook his seamed face. “That ain’t no wolf.”

  “Just like Muscovy, eh?”

  Hugo adjusted his leather hunting cap, grunting.

  “Muscovite Rules,” Gavin said softly.

  Hugo glanced at him. “Those are rules for blackhearts. We’re the crusaders, Swan’s crusaders. You’ve her reputation to think about.”

  “Reputations don’t help dead men.”

  “Don’t you understand? Men fight when they believe in something. They’ll flock to a seer leading them crusading, but they won’t flock to a rogue filled with guile.”

  “Is that how you see her?” asked Gavin.

  “She’s a seer.”

  “Yes. Our Seer,” Gavin said. “And that’s my point. As you did the other night with the assassin, I’ll do with the army she’s given me. To save her, I’ll shoot a man in the back.”

  Hugo shifted uneasily. “That was different.”

  With a cool breeze on his cheeks, Gavin eyed the night, the silvery grasses and the twinkle of distant stars. “We battle darkspawn, old friend. I know you understand what that means.”

  Hugo grunted once more. “You saved many of us in Muscovy, aye, I’ve never forgotten that.”

  “I saved a handful. Maybe we can save another handful.” Gavin brooded. “You saw Forador Castle, or what it had become. Vivian, Joanna and the boy weren’t there. Surely they must be dead by now.”

  “Or turned into darkspawn,” Hugo said. “But we can save them.”

  “You believe that?” asked Gavin, his rugged face one of surprise. “I surely do not.”

  “Our Seer can save them.”

  “That isn’t how it went in Muscovy.” Gavin lowered his voice. “We burned them at the stake, remember? That was the only salvation left them.” Before Hugo could answer, Gavin pushed off the boulder and strode back to camp, wrapping himself in a cloak and lying by a fire. He stared at the flames, hearing again in his memory the screams and howls of those they had burned. He shuddered. Fighting darkspawn was always ugly. There was nothing noble in it. One way or another, it stained you. He yawned.

  Much too soon, Welf shook him awake.

  Men shouted and dashed about, picking up spears or clanking and rattling as they donned armor. The dwindling campfires threw lurid light. Baron Bain shouted at his squire, bellowing for the fellow to bring him his morning star. It was a wicked-looking weapon: three spiked balls dangling by chains. Gavin had heard it said before that a warrior who used a morning star wasn’t right in the head. It was a murderous weapon. One unlucky swing and a ball could whip back to smash the wielder.

  The moon yet shone, although low on the horizon. It grinned like a demon. In the distance, Gavin heard squealing like that from a herd of boars. He accepted a shield and his sword. Men hoisted themselves into the saddle. Others ran to do likewise. Would they gallop into the darkness and blunder into gullies or break their horses’ legs over hidden rocks?

  The horrid pig-squeals floated on the night wind.

  “Monsters!” cried Welf.

  As Gavin buckled on armor, he shouted, “Foresters, squires and men-at-arms will stay afoot! All footmen will carry shields and torches. If you can’t find a torch, grab a brand out of the fire. Only knights and thegns are to be a-horse!”

  From bitter experience, Gavin knew that night fighting was risky. Darkness hid too much. A deer trampling in the woods became through panicked imagination a fire-breathing beast. Darkness also hid cowardice. A man was usually brave with someone to see it and he was often cowardly when he thought no one watched. In the dark, an army could turn into a frightened mob. He wanted the most battle-tested warriors on the steadiest steeds.

  Hugo cantered up, the banner waving in the breeze. Soon, twenty knights walked their stallions behind eighty footmen. The torches and fiery brands crackled and smoked. The pig-squeals sounded closer, to their left.

  “We should mount up,” said Baron Bain. He was a middle-aged knight with thinning hair and close-set eyes, scowling fiercely as he held onto his morning star.

  Gavin shouted the order, mounting up and rising in the stirrups to get a better view. Tall waving grasses spread out before the footmen. A knot of shadowy oak trees rose beyond that. Galloping past the oaks raced horsemen on wild-eyed mounts, moonlight glinting off their armor.

  “Horses,” said Welf. “What then makes the pig-squeals?”

  “Sound the trumpet!” cried Gavin.

  Welf blew mightily.

  “Advance on the run,” Gavin told the footmen
.

  A bellow rose from the ranks as those afoot surged into the darkness, their torches blazing at the rush of air. Their shields clattered and their feet thudded. Behind them, the knights on their mighty chargers followed at a trot.

  Grotesque squeals heralded a murky, wicked sight. Massive boars, their short legs pumping, galloped from behind the trees and after the fleeing horsemen. Upon the bristly boars rode man-shaped things, tuskriders. They were hard to make out in the moonlight.

  “Hosar save us!” shouted Baron Bain. “What are they?”

  “Darkspawn,” said Swan, “our sworn foes.”

  Gavin judged the situation. The enemy had more fighters than he had knights. Yet the tuskriders had become strung out. He shouted orders and the footmen divided under their leaders, running to the left and to the right, creating a lane.

  “Sound the charge,” Gavin said, as he settled his great helm over his head.

  Welf blew the trumpet and twenty crusaders spurred their stallions. Armor clanked, shields rattled and the heavy wooden saddles creaked ominously. The massive chargers, also called high horses, picked up speed as their iron-shod hooves drummed like thunder. The humans who fled from the tuskriders veered away from the glittering lance-points. The nearest tuskriders lowered slender spears as they tried to form ranks.

  Gavin grinned within his helmet at the familiar tingle in his arms. His knights shouted and then he had no time to think. A crouching tuskrider aimed a spear at him. With a brutal shock, Gavin’s lance, longer than the enemy’s, pierced the tuskrider so it squealed. Gavin shook his lance free and re-aimed it at the next tuskrider. The lance splintered on the enemy’s shield. The monster grunted at the impact and flew from its saddle. Hurling away the broken lance, drawing his silver sword, Gavin barely shifted his triangular shield in time. The point of an enemy spear screeched across it. Gavin swung at the passing tuskrider, and then he was through their ranks. He yanked on the reins, wheeling his snorting stallion and roaring for Welf to sound the recall.

  A tuskrider flashed at him from his blind side, swinging a curved saber. Josserand rose in his stirrups, hurling his lance, spitting the tuskrider in the back.

  Gavin barely had time to glance at Josserand. “My thanks, sir! You saved me.”

  Josserand drew his sword and wheeled to face the rest of the tuskriders as they fled for their lives into the darkness. The darkspawn didn’t have any more stomach for this. A weird and warbling sound arose from their horns. On their bestial mounts, the enemy fled out of the torchlight.

  ***

  The humans who had escaped from the tuskriders seemed like walking dead. They had immobile masks instead of faces, glassy eyes and an inability to string out more than four words together. Gavin bade them sit at the bonfires and then plied them with wine, watching them drink mechanically as they stared transfixed at the flames. One by one, they slumped over and fell into an exhausted slumber.

  One of them, however, refused to go down. He gulped his wine, and that brought a semblance of wit to his eyes. White hair hung from his head, and he had a lantern-shaped jaw. From the rings on his fingers and the quality of his sword, it was clear that once he had been a man of substance.

  “I’m Baron Aelfric,” he whispered, his back straightening at his title. For an older man, he had thick shoulders.

  “The Duke’s champion,” said Ullrick.

  The blood drained from Aelfric’s leathery face as he turned haunted eyes upon the Bear.

  “Easy, man,” Ullrick said uneasily.

  “Rest,” said Swan, draping a blanket onto the baron’s broad shoulders. She touched his hair as if he were a little boy. “It will be better in the morning.”

  Aelfric closed his eyes. They flew open a moment later as he wailed in despair.

  “He’s mad,” whispered Baron Bain. His morningstar was tucked under his belt. Clotted tuskrider blood and tissue yet clung to the spiked balls.

  “Mad?” said Aelfric, spittle drooling from his mouth. “Have you seen what I’ve seen?”

  Gavin held out a goblet of brandy.

  With a convulsive jerk, Aelfric slapped it away, spraying costly brandy onto the grass.

  “What did you see, sir?” Gavin asked gently.

  Aelfric shook his head.

  “Sir Aelfric.”

  Again that sudden headshake.

  “Tell us,” Gavin said, grabbing the front of the baron’s tunic.

  “Leave him alone, man!” shouted Ullrick. “He’s been to the Netherworld and back.”

  “Speak, Sir Aelfric,” Gavin said, dragging the older man to his feet. “Tell us what you saw.”

  Aelfric, a big, strong man, struggled to get away as tears leaked from his eyes.

  “Unhand him,” said Ullrick, grabbing one of Gavin’s biceps.

  “Get him out of here!” snarled Gavin.

  Sir Josserand and Baron Bain hustled away a protesting Ullrick.

  “You’re the knight,” Gavin told Aelfric. “You’re these people’s protector. Teach me about the darkspawn, sir.”

  Sir Aelfric gaped at Gavin. Then his lips moved, but he could not speak.

  Swan moved to interfere. Hugo touched her elbow and whispered into her ear until she stepped back.

  “Sir Aelfric,” Gavin said, “on the Duke’s authority, I order you to speak.”

  Something happened behind Aelfric’s eyes. The hysteria drained from his wan features and he nodded ever so slightly. In a husky, low-toned voice, he began to tell them his tale.

  Strange rumors had come of things that marched in the night. Villages had been swept clean of people. Traveling merchants had disappeared. So he had gathered his retainers to investigate and found a misty apple orchard out of which flew huge sections of tree trunks. He knew now that giants had done that. These terrible giants had gone on to win the brief Siege of Glendover. Since then it had been the horrible undead who had taken castles, towns, villages and fortified temples. Waves upon waves of undead, marching, hammering, slaughtering, always to the accompaniment of a wretched drum beat. Aelfric threatened to go under again as he trembled.

  “The worst of it,” he whispered, “is when you see your own in those ghastly ranks. The Duke marches in their horde. My wife…” Aelfric shook his head as tears streamed from his eyes. “People refuse to leave their castles. They wait. They man the walls. They ready oil. They fix old catapults. Then at night, they reap the dreadful harvest of undead. The undead keep coming and coming, chopping open doors, marching over burning corpses, slaying everything in their path. They keep coming until everyone is slain.” The Duke’s champion shuddered, whispering now. “Then the drum sounds once more. And the new undead arise to take the place of the old. Ye gods! You never want to see such a sight!”

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” Gavin said. “That’s exactly what I want to see.”

  ***

  “I must scout out the enemy for myself,” said the Captain General.

  “Yes,” said Swan. “It’s the reason we rode north.” They stood alone by a bonfire, the hissing and crackling matching the leaping flames. The moon no longer rode the night sky, stars alone twinkled.

  “I said scout out the enemy.” Gavin still wore his chainmail from the skirmish. A link chaffed against his back where a tuskrider had slashed him with a saber. Swan had wrapped herself in a brown campaigner’s cloak. It was too big for her, making her look so young, and with her thick, dark hair… Ointment concealed the scar on her cheek.

  What force does this young woman yield that she commands us? Is it only her hope? Does Hosar truly guide her? Gavin scowled. “You will return to Wyvis Keep while I head farther north.”

  “Just four of you?” she asked.

  “I must see this new kind of darkspawn, milady. I must judge their tactics myself.”

  “That’s madness. You’ll be killed.”

  “You mean: I’ll lose the silver sword. Don’t worry. I’m leaving it with Hugo. Let Sir Josserand wield it if I don’t retur
n.”

  “But…”

  “This is the only way to learn the enemy’s ways, milady, to find a way to defeat the spirit of Zon Mezzamalech. Stout hearts and courage must be infused with knowledge and sound strategy. I must see for myself so that I can devise a method for victory. That is what being a general is all about.”

  Swan stared into his eyes. “I shall pray for your return, Captain-General, and take it very ill if you fail.”

  He grinned, but it seemed false. “Believe me, milady, I’ll take it even worse than you.”

  ***

  They rode coursers, lean horses built for speed and endurance, not for carrying a heavily armored knight into battle. Gavin, Welf the Forester, the Bear and his squire, a fierce, muscular lad, shed themselves of chainmail and lances to don leather jerkins, swords and crossbows. Welf led the way during the day, keeping to forest trials and stony high ground. He paused often to sniff the air, dismounting, and crouching by trail-sign, studying it. They rode warily, alert to any sound, loaded crossbows ready. Birds, bats, dogs and wolves, each time they spotted anything moving they hid behind trees or boulders or gutted-out, burned buildings. Once, a mouth-foaming sheepdog streaked across a fallow field, its eyes alight with a weird yellow shine. They had dismounted, stretching their legs. The squire turned and gave out a yell, pawing at his dagger. The Bear whirled with an oath and barely swung his axe in time, cleaving the sheepdog’s head. Noxious fumes drifted from the beast’s mouth. When the Bear yanked out his axe and wiped off the gore, he noticed small-pitted marks on the iron, as if made by an alchemist.

  At night, they hid in the deepest woods or on hard-to-reach peaks. They lit no fires and kept troubled watches. Often they heard warbling cries and shrill screams. Once, far in the distance, they heard a terrible thud.

  “The Death Drummer,” whispered Gavin.

  Sir Ullrick plucked at his massive beard. In the starlight, a shudder ran across his broad shoulders. “It is an evil sound.”

  “To the dead, it is a delight, apparently,” Gavin said.

  The sound, the thud, the doom as from a drum, occurred again and then again and again.