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  She blushed, and Gavin realized that the amazing mountain girl took it as a compliment.

  So it was that before they rode into the Black Hawk camp that Gavin decided to trust the girl.

  “You’re mad,” said Josserand. “It will never work.”

  A day later, Gavin and his men sat in the palisade of Angella’s father: the chieftain of the Black Hawk Tribe. After listening to his daughter’s account and all that Gavin had been through, the chief agreed to take them to the High Court of the Crags, to there speak with the High King of the Cragsmen.

  Soon, Gavin and Josserand sat in the High King’s palace. A low stone wall protected his larger than usual camp and a log house, long and low to the ground, with the floor dug down, was the palace for the High King. The floor was dirt, the fire encircled by rough stones and the smoke trickled through a hole in the ceiling. Thin log benches were the only seating but for the High King. He sat on a cedar stool. Thin, stunted warriors in furs and dirty woolens, with long curved daggers and javelins, made up the majority of the room’s occupants. The chieftain of the Black Hawks was among them, with his daughter Angella sitting at his feet. The High King indeed looked like a crafty fellow, and was young, with dark hair down to his shoulders. He had a way of squinting so you never saw his eyes. As Gavin spoke, the High King held a javelin in his right fist and kept hitting his knee with his left.

  Gavin told of all his adventures in Erin and some of what had taken place in far-off Muscovy. He showed them a letter written by Swan, approving his status as herald. He pleaded with the High King to desist from all attacks in the low country during this terrible time of peril. But more importantly, Gavin begged the High King to join their island-wide alliance.

  An old woman began to cackle. She tended the fire, poking it with a charred stick. She rose, and rattled because of all the strung bones she wore as necklaces and wristlets. She wore fine linen, but was horribly wrinkled.

  “Do you lowlanders think we follow your puling Hosar?” She spat in the fire, causing hissing. “I give that to your Hosar. We follow the Old Woman of Bones. She will protect us from the deities of the Night—or perhaps she will urge us to join them!”

  “Quiet, old woman,” said the High King. “Tend to your fire and leave the plotting to me.” He smiled at Gavin, although he still squinted and thus hid his eyes. “Tell us more about Nine Fingers. When does he come to join you?”

  Gavin spun a tale, and the High King nodded, from time to time pounding his thin knee. At last he stood, jabbing his spear into the dirt floor. “I agree with thee. Let there be a truce with the lowlanders. By Esus, I say this is so.”

  The small warriors around the fire stirred, smiling, nodding and whispering among themselves.

  “Now go,” said the High King. “Tell your crusader woman this good news.”

  Outside Josserand told Gavin, “Failure, sir. You outfoxed yourself.”

  As they saddled up, ready to ride, Angella slipped near. She took Gavin’s hand, pressing it against her lips. “Good luck to you, good knight.”

  He sighed, and he decided the girl had counseled him to the best of her understanding.

  “What is wrong?” she asked.

  “The High King agreed to the alliance,” he said.

  She laughed. “Is that what you think?”

  “Your High King swore by his god to agree to the truce.”

  “You are a mighty warrior, lowlander, but you don’t know anything about our gods. Esus is the god of craft and cunning. By swearing upon him, everyone knew the High King used guile on you. In other words, he mocked you and Nine Fingers. It was most cleverly done.”

  Gavin stared at Josserand. Josserand let a rare smile touch his lips.

  “Hurry,” said Angella. “You must ride before the High King decides to ambush you. Even now, the hotter-headed warriors urge him to do so. Only my father’s pleading and the sack of clawmen heads is holding them at bay.”

  So the forty crusaders mounted up and yelled for the gate to be opened. Then they thundered out of the High King’s palisade.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Cuthred pushed open the oaken doors and shuffled into the conjuring room. Harsh-smelling incense burned from the tapers lining the walls. The flames cast Leng into sinister shadows and showed the paraphernalia he used for his supernatural delving. Upon a nearby table rested strangely bound tomes of forbidden knowledge, along with alembics, caskets, vials and elixirs. His lean head never moved, and his evil eyes peered intently into a shallow bronze brazier. Ink lay like spilled blood in the brazier: sluggish, thick and putrid.

  “Well?” asked the Mistress, who had followed Cuthred into the room.

  Leng didn’t move or allow his gaze to shift from the ink, nor did he make any gesture that showed he acknowledged the Mistress’ presence.

  Cuthred knew that Kergan/Master would have become enraged at such behavior from Leng. The new Mistress, however… She was slight of build, with stick-like arms, a scrawny neck and thin red hair. Freckles lay thick across her nose. She wore tight-fitting hunting clothes, with a whip curled on her belt. The leathers showed her to be unlovely and graceless. Mistress-ship had not changed that. From her flat chest, glowed the pale green amulet. Its chilly aura gave this princess all the power she needed. Or to be more precise, the amulet had found a new and temporary home in this ugly Duke’s daughter.

  Cuthred, for all his dullness, understood that Vivian had avoided this fate because the Duke’s daughter had taken her place. It made him like Vivian less than before.

  “Knowledge, Sorcerer, only upon that can a cunning strategy be formulated. To proceed blindly is folly—as your fravashi blundered when he attacked Swan in Tara.”

  Leng raised a lean hand. His fingers fluttered as he softly intoned, “Lord of Bats, we beseech thee. Let us see with your eyes, O Lord. Let us know the things that transpire afar. O Lord of Bats, long have I brought you human blood, fresh and in vast quantities. Grant me this request, O Lord, that your work may fly abroad.” Leng chanted evilly in a tongue long forgotten.

  “Ah…” said the Mistress.

  Cuthred peered over her shoulder. Incredibly, a window in the ink seemed to open. For a moment, a flicker in time, a darkly handsome and evil face appeared. He wore a high-necked collar and smiled sardonically as a king of vampires might. Then the scene, the image in the window, changed. A stout tuskrider hunched upon a massive boar. Around him sat several lancers, while a dark banner waved in the breeze. The stars glittered above, and they reflected off the swamp-water around the riders.

  The stout tuskrider lifted a warthog head as he gestured curtly. Ram-horns were raised to thick lips. Cuthred imagined their thin, piercing sounds. Beyond the stout tuskrider and splashing through the swamp, charged clawmen. Starlight painted their spears and short curved swords. Before them stood a log wall that had been mortared with dried slime. Fireballs arched over the wall. Like a horde of angry bees, the crackling balls hissed down at the darkspawn, as dour-faced crossbowmen appeared atop the wall. They sighted, and let their missiles fly. Clawmen flopped into the mire. Then, like meteors, the fireballs landed. More clawmen died. A few scrambled up the log wall to attack. Spearmen greeted them with iron-tipped points.

  The picture went back to the stout tuskrider, a commander. He shook his warthog head, saying something to his brothers. They urged their mounts away from the wall, away from the fireballs that came seeking them.

  “I’ve seen enough,” said the Mistress.

  Leng chanted anew. A different picture came into focus. It showed a torch-lit courtyard. Knights in armor milled about. King Egbert appeared on a balcony above them. He shook his fist as he shouted. The knights cheered, although through the inky window the sounds remained unheard. The King stepped back. The High Priest stepped onto the balcony. He spoke. The knights cheered again. Then the pictures changed more rapidly. Men-at-arms hacked at posts. Archers shot at hay-backed targets. Peasant levies marched back and forth with spears hel
d at the ready. The snapshot pictures went faster and faster in this city of torches, the biggest city in Erin. Everywhere it showed warriors, a veritable army massing together.

  “The King marshals his host,” said the Mistress.

  “To chastise those he considers rebels,” said Leng. “To scourge those who bar our way out of the swamp, and who guard the East March between North and South Erin.”

  “You believe that drivel?” asked the Mistress.

  “King Egbert is mad,” said Leng.

  “But the High Priest isn’t. No. If the Banfrey Host marches to the Midlands, it will be to fight against us, not against Swan’s Crusaders. Your spies are wrong in that regard.”

  “I’m unsure,” said Leng.

  “While I’m not,” said the Mistress.

  “My lady, please consider—”

  “No! My mind is made up. I will hear no more upon it.”

  After a brief moment, Leng inclined his head. “Would you see more, my lady?”

  “Yes. Show me this Sir Gavin.”

  Leng creased his tall forehead.

  “Well?” asked the Mistress.

  “There… Something guards Sir Gavin, my lady.”

  “You’ve tried to scry him before this?”

  “I have.”

  “And failed?”

  Leng inclined his head once more.

  The Mistress stepped closer to the brazier, touching it. An eerie green color shone from the amulet. The inky substance in the brazier rippled and then grew still, and a large knight with a tough face stood before men sitting on bales of hay. The knight held a spear, apparently showing the men the correct way to thrust it. Then the men on the bales leaped up, and the sword strapped to the knight’s side seemed to shine within its scabbard. Hints of bright light made a glow around the silver hilt. The knight with the close-cropped beard and shrewd eyes drew his sword. Blue glyphs pulsed up and down the blade.

  The ink in the brazier rippled once more. The amulet on the Mistress’ chest shone an eldritch green. She jerked her hand off the brazier. A rivulet of smoke trickled from it. She panted, while sticky ooze, like sweat, stained her face. It stank horribly.

  Cuthred coughed, shuffling back, holding his big nose.

  The Mistress mopped her face with a rag. She seemed thoughtful. “Show me Bosham Castle.”

  “Alas,” said Leng, who had watched the interplay with avid interest. “I cannot.”

  “Why not?” said she.

  “Interfering powers lie there, too, my lady.”

  “Hosar’s power?” she asked.

  “Mayhap. I’m uncertain.” Leng shook his head. “The truth is I can’t tell you. The power masks itself from my spells and it is even more powerful than when I tried to view Sir Gavin.”

  The Mistress touched her amulet. “Our stroke must fall at Bosham Castle then. For there is the heart of my opposition.”

  “My lady,” said Leng, “do you truly think that is wise?”

  The ugly, scrawny Mistress turned eyes as cold as death upon Leng. “Explain yourself.”

  Leng bowed in a servile and abject manner. “To pitch strength against strength, my lady, is sometimes very costly. Why not let your powers and influence grow? Bypass this single fortress of strength and shatter the roots that support it?”

  “Do you seek to teach me strategy, O worker of spells?”

  “Never, my lady,” said Leng. “I merely supposed that your powers might be too engaged in bringing your full return. Why then spend magic against these fools? Perhaps if your darkspawn forced a passage through the swamp and then your main host swung toward Oswald Ferry, cutting off the Midlands from all future assistance… Then the King and the crusaders would be unable to unite. Perhaps even, the hordes ravaging the various castles and towns would split the crusaders and cause them to go away from Bosham Castle, as each separate baron or mayor rushed to defend his own home.”

  “Your idea has merit, I admit.”

  “Divide the crusaders, my lady, by threatening their interior homes, by threatening their castles, towns and villages. And all the while, make more darkspawn.”

  “The idea has merit, but the crusaders guard this swamp-route as we’ve just seen. And making more darkspawn is so draining. No. I learned once to my sorrow that leaving the main enemy foe alone is dangerous in the extreme. Crush all opposition and pollute Hosar’s shrines and this weight I feel—I shall be able once again to concentrate on the great task.”

  “Please reconsider this, my lady. They guard the swamp-route against a small attack only. Surely they could not face a full assault led by the undead.”

  “And how will you feed this army, Sorcerer?”

  “The undead need no food.”

  “That is true,” said the Mistress. “But unless they are closely watched, many of the undead will mire themselves in the bogs and rot away before they can be freed. The swamp, with so many thousands of corpses in the Death Drummer’s horde, becomes for us a trap. It is not as before, when we marched out of Forador Castle with a small army. Such numbers as those, as we have just seen, wouldn’t force that wooden rampart. The crusaders have heavily guarded the swamp-route.”

  “Use clawmen to force the passage.”

  “Again I ask you: How will you feed them? For the swamp path is narrow and the beasts have either been slaughtered or fled faraway. To bring enough meat for the clawmen as they mill before the wall and as fireballs fall among them. No, no. The swamp-route is a trap. It is a killing field against us. Our enemies have cleverly blocked that route.”

  “Then use blood-drinkers to first disorganize the defenders. That way you will need less clawmen.”

  “Number me our blood-drinkers, Sorcerer.”

  “There are less than twenty, my lady.”

  “Too few,” she said.

  “Surely you jest, my lady. Twenty blood-drinkers would shatter defender morale long enough for the clawmen to scale the wall in force.”

  “Twenty blood-drinkers, yes,” she said. “But you said less than twenty. Those few I will use elsewhere.”

  “May I ask where, my lady?”

  The cold dead eyes studied Leng. He bowed low, groveling. The Mistress touched the amulet. “I grow weary of strategy and plots and your insinuating suggestions. O to call down a cloud of soul-devouring, as in the day of old. Or to hear the shrieks of the night-hags as they fly upon my foes, to suck dry their blood and steal their courage. What need then of marching monsters, of giants, brutes and clawmen, of the undead in their masses? You spew me maneuvers, a hearth-mage from a land of barbarous wallow, where hunchbacks scamper through cold pine forests against fools in armor shivering in their dank holds of stone. O but to conjure black nights of slaying or dooms demonical, to bid the gods of Darkness to harry my enemies and to bark like dogs against my foes and then savage them, such I should be doing. These small matters you think so consequential… To one like Zon Mezzamalech they are spites only, the concern of children and the sons of mere kings.”

  Leng had thrown his cloak over his head, trembling. He felt the magical power emanating from the amulet and dreaded that the spirit of Zon Mezzamalech had truly awoken. He groveled, but he dared not pray to Old Father Night. This ancient sorcerer before him might well feel such calls.

  Leng peeked from under his cloak.

  The Mistress’ hand had fallen away from the amulet. The ancient talisman now looked dull and dark. She stared mutely at the brazier.

  Leng dared draw back his cloak and rise to a sitting position.

  The Mistress turned to him. “I shall pin down the island King.”

  “I do not understand, my lady.”

  “No matter,” she said. “What does matter is that you will march with me to Bosham Castle. That is where my hardest blow will fall. Destroy it, and the army defending it, and Erin is mine. Then…ah, then Erin will become the Black Isle. Then I shall fully rise again, Sorcerer. Then the world will know again the fell power of Zon Mezzamalech reborn!”
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  “My lady, Hosar’s champion lies at Bosham Castle, as does that terrible silver sword.”

  “My legions vastly outnumber theirs.”

  “When gathered, my lady, agreed. Such a gathering as you know takes time.”

  “Which is why I have ordered that the fleet be readied,” she said. “We must not allow our enemies to unite their two main armies. It is very fortunate for us that the Cragsmen have boiled out of the hills. That they besiege Krum Keep is an amazingly lucky boon, no doubt the workings of the agents of the Dark Gods.”

  “The fleet?” asked Leng, bewildered.

  Cuthred stirred. He knew that several days ago there had been a discussion about the fleet. Vivian had carefully explained it to him. Several days ago, Leng had urged the new Mistress to put the elite troops along with Joanna the Death Drummer aboard ship and sail to Lobos Port. Once capturing the port connected by the Fangohr River to Banfrey, and raising new corpses for a new undead horde, they could march on and storm the capital city as they had once done to Glendover Port. The Mistress, although as the Duke’s former daughter had been a bitter enemy of the King, had wanted no part of such a plan.

  “One bold stroke and all is won,” had argued Leng.

  “One storm while we sail and all is lost,” had been the Mistress’ reply.

  “Surely a simple spell will insure…”

  The Mistress, as Vivian had described it to Cuthred, had several days ago mocked Leng. “What you suggest is a fool’s gamble, Sorcerer, which is decidedly not boldness. It is called folly. My powers will soon give me everything. To rush that victory at great risk—No! There will be no sea-borne invasions. I forbid it.”

  Yet now, today, the Mistress had apparently readied the fleet. Cuthred was as confused as Leng appeared to be.

  “The fleet?” asked Leng again. “I thought you said we shall make no sea-borne invasions.”

  “A particle of my horde used to pin down more than half of the enemy’s numbers is worth a small risk. That, even, is worth the entire lot of blood-drinkers.”

  “Yes, my lady.”