eBook Version: 2.0
Dark Crusade
Karl Edward Wagner
To Bob Herford--
So, we'll go no more aroving
So late into the night...
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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
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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."
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"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
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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
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