Assassin of the Damned (Dark Gods) (16 page)

I broke into a sprint.

It was a hilly area, with low bushes and clumps of trees. I’d used the local road, a rutted track as before. I ran along it so my cloak flapped.

The piping was different. Last night thoughts of lust had nearly consumed me. Now fear mingled with bloodlust. Creatures bleated rage and I heard war cries and men’s shouts. The intensity of sword-strokes, of clashing steel, increased. Wood thumped, which likely meant shields absorbed otherwise debilitating cuts. I rounded a bend and jumped over a boulder. Bright light illuminated the darkness. Glass shattered. Men shouted urgent commands. The piping became crazed.

I slid behind a bush and peered at a desperate fight. Mailed men-at-arms stood in a knot, many back-to-back. They held dented shields and notched swords. Those in the middle raised torches and lanterns. One soldier wound a crossbow. Fear contorted every one of their faces. Around them in a swarming circle, savage goat-men clutched double-bladed axes. They darted in, swung and then nimbly jumped back. Beyond them strutted the muscular Goat Man. He blew his pipes and sweat slicked his hair. He had a vile grin and his eyes swirled with power.

It was a chaotic fight, and chunk by chunk, the goat-men hewed apart the terrified soldiers’ shields.

A campfire and cloaks on the ground told the story. The goat-men must have surprised the soldiers—mercenaries, I decided. Ah! Their armor gleamed. These were White Company soldiers, Englishmen.

The crossbowman slapped a bolt into his weapon, raised it and fired. The huge Goat Man ducked the bolt, and his thick fingers moved upon his vile pipes. Three goat-men leaped at the crossbowman. Men-at-arms converged. One hacked and cut a goat-man. A different goat-man loped off the man’s sword-hand. Then the three altered men jumped out of range of enemy weapons. The crossbowman, meanwhile, hurriedly rewound his weapon.

Four goat-men lay dead or dying in the glade. Three of them wore bolts in their bloody chests. Twice that many mercenaries were dead or clutched at their wounds. The mayhem of shouts, screams and savage bleats, the clash of steel, the thump of wood, the battle was brutal. The goat-men had the numbers and greater fury. The White Company mercenaries had armor and training, but the evil music meant their doom.

I had vowed to champion humanity, and I wanted to whittle down the odds. The Goat Man switched to a screeching tune. It must have been a signal. By now, some of the human shields were mere shards of wood. The mercenaries looked haggard. The mark of death was on their faces.

The Goat Man lifted his horned head star-ward and seemed to play his tunes to them. The lesser goat-men tensed, ready to spring upon the mercenaries. This time, I did not think the altered men would leap back, but rush in like wolves for the final kill.

I drew my deathblade. I rose up and charged the muscular Goat Man.

-23-

Battle is a strange beast. It is a thing of muscle, sinew, nerves and courage. The greatest element of a fight is winning.

It is also important to remember that a primordial monster lives in most men. To hack, hurt your foe and remain sound is one of the headiest feelings possible. Men do not fight to test themselves, although a soldier is tested. Men do not normally fight in a hopeless battle, although many are caught in hopeless situations. The soldier fights to see his foe turn tail and run. Then a savage animal is born as the howling bloodlust takes over. The terror of steel swung in your face, the grim thought of watching your arm loped off, turns into blazing relief when your foe runs away. That relief is transformed into rage at him who just threatened you. The rage becomes joy unspeakable. The physical need to hack your sword into his back, to watch him topple, it is a bestial thing and makes for murderous victories.

It also means that in fights between groups the rear is always the most vulnerable spot. A group of soldiers cannot march on a foe if his backside is exposed to enemy attack. The soldier must turn and protect himself. It is a basic instinct. That is why the mercenaries had clumped into a group, gone back to back.

I shouted at the goat-men. I charged out of the dark. I raced at their backs. That stole much of their forward momentum against the mercenaries. That stoppage caused others on the far side of the doomed circle to hesitate.

The second most vulnerable spot against a group of soldiers is their mind. Anything that surprises can cause confusion, hesitation and then panic.

I bellowed the Perugian war cry. Several goat-men saw me at once. They saw me race down the slope. I saw their gaze dart past me. For the obvious conclusion, for them, was that a lone man does not charge a soon-to-be victorious company of altered creatures. That would be insanely unmilitary. Seeing me, they expected others. Their question would be ‘how many others rushed them?’

Even though the Goat Man played his maddening pipes, his charges looked longer than they should have.

I hurled a rock with my left hand. The Goat Man nimbly ducked it. He was amazingly quick. He aimed his pipes at me and blasted a sickening tune.

Fear shivered through me like a spear in the guts, maddening panic. However, the purpose of a knight’s long training was to gird his soul with relentless courage. As Roger of Hoveden had once written: ‘He who has seen his blood flowing, who has felt his teeth cracking under an opponent’s blow, who has lain on the ground with his enemy over him, and still has not lost his courage, he who has been thrown to the ground time after time, only the more staunchly to stand up again—he may go into battle with high hopes. For virtue grows when it is irritated, but a soul that gives in to fear has only fleeting glory.’

My years of training as squire and knight now clamped down upon this wretched fear. And maybe being the Darkling gave me added courage. I flashed my deathblade, snarled and advanced at a trot.

The huge Goat Man lowered his pipes in astonishment. It was then I noticed a strong, musky odor. He reeked of it.

“Look at me, mortal,” he said. “Gaze into my eyes.”

I looked. His eyes seemed like pinwheels, swirling numbness into my mind. I shook my head, and my left hand touched my belt where my coin lay hidden. Greater fear entered me. This was no mere altered man. The Goat Man seemed ancient. Pan, I realized, or the Old One from eons past. He was the one men poorly remembered, making fanciful legends of Pan that were much too lighthearted.

“
Are
you a mortal man?” he bleated.

His goat-men held back, confused. The mercenaries waited, exhausted, watching us. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the crossbowman fit a bolt into his weapon.

The Goat Man’s eyebrows rose toward the two obscene horns that sprouted from his forehead. “You serve the Moon Bitch,” he said. “You’re the one the Lord of Night wants?”

“Are you his servant?” I sneered.

“You shall linger long and painfully for that remark.”

“Mulciber forged this,” I said, showing him the deathblade. “You’d do well to fear it.”

I think I saw fear in his strange eyes. I also heard a crossbow release. The Goat Man turned, but too late—or maybe just in time. The stubby iron bolt pierced his forehead to become a third and feathered horn. It staggered him, and the herd of goat-men groaned in dismay.

The leader did not collapse, however. He gave a fierce cry, and he leaped at me. He was fast, and he lowered his head like a charging beast. He tried to rake me with his horns. I twisted and slashed. I heard a horrified bleat and felt my blade cut skin. Then the Goat Man was past me. He moved in great bounding leaps, full of vigorous life. He fled. If the bolt had entered his brain, it lacked killing power. Or maybe Old Ones were dreadfully hard to kill.

The remaining goat-men cried out in misery. They lost their courage and glanced about like frightened animals.

The White Company mercenaries surely sensed this. They were among the fiercest killers known. Their captain, a big man with a snarled red beard, bellowed a war cry, and he led the charge. Despite their nearly useless shields, notched swords and battered armor, the mercenaries began to slaughter the goat-men, who finally broke and ran pell-mell.

I decided to kill more of them before their leader recovered and re-gathered his herd. So I followed the altered men into the darkness, stabbing as I ran.

***

An hour later, I retuned to the mercenary camp. Men shouted. Lanterns lifted, and the crossbowman raised his weapon.

“I’m a friend!” I said.

They crouched tensely around campfires. The toughest arose with spear or sword. Many lay on bloody cloaks, some dead, some coughing out their last. Only a handful appeared to be in any condition to fight. One of those was a big man about my size. He had a red beard and wore iron gauntlets. I recognized him as the captain Ofelia had once hired. His leveled sword gleamed, which meant he must have already wiped it down and filed out the worst nicks.

“It’s him,” the big man said. “Lower your crossbow.”

I strode out of the darkness. I’m not sure what they saw. They gave me wary looks. As the lanterns and firelight washed over me, many glanced at each other. Faces tightened. Some looked frightened.

“That was a brave stand,” I said. My voice made some mercenaries flinch.

The leader peered at me closely. He bit his lip. Then he made a show of sheathing his sword. He strode out and held out his hand.

“I’m Carlo da Canale of Pisa, signor.” His English accent was thick.

I nodded, and decided it would be unwise to tell him my real name.

“I’m Paolo Orsini,” I said. He had been my marshal, my second in command while I was prince of Perugia.

Da Canale cocked an eyebrow. “You look familiar to me, signor. Have we met before?”

“It’s possible,” I said, “although I think I would remember a fighting man like you.”

Da Canale grinned within his bushy beard. “Make way,” he said. “Give our savior room.”

Men scooted aside. I sat on a log and rubbed my hands over the flames as if for warmth.

“We have water, signor,” Da Canale said.

I glanced at a nearby bowl, towel and bar of soap. “Thank you,” I said. I scrubbed my face, hands and washed my hair.  The crossbowman handed me a comb.

“It’s a gift,” he said.

“Thank you,” I said, and I ran it through my hair.

“You’re human after all,” Da Canale told me.

Several men-at-arms laughed uneasily.

I told them a tale, how the goat-men had hunted me, how I’d hidden in ditches and lain among corpses to fool them.

“They’re clever,” Da Canale admitted. “The Lord of Night has unleashed them like a new plague.”

I nodded sagely.

Da Canale rubbed his leathery face, and he glanced at me with calculation. “I’ve never seen a man fight like you, signor. By the Dark One’s beard, you don’t even wear a sword. You charged the demon lord with a knife! He was fast, but you moved with a leopard’s quickness. I saw one once when we raided North Africa. The Moors kept the leopard in a pit, and tossed down dogs to fight it. I sailed with the Genoese in those days.” Da Canale appraised me. “Are you sure you’re human, signor?”

“Don’t you smell the brimstone?” I asked.

His eyes narrowed, but he laughed.

A man placed a jug of wine beside me and a hunk of moldy cheese. I sipped the wine, and wanted to spit it out. I didn’t even try the cheese.

“Why did the goat-men attack you?” I asked.

“That is their task,” Da Canale said.

“They make war on humanity?”

Men muttered at that.

Da Canale drew his sword, set it on his knees and picked up an oily rag. He began to rub the fine steel, and I felt he watched me closely.

“That was an odd question, signor,” he said.

“You’ve spoken about my unusual speed,” I said. “There is a reason for it, but I’m uncertain you will understand.”

“These are strange times.”

“And I’ve been through stranger,” I said. “The Lord of Night has seen to that. He sent me to a strange realm.”

“Sorcery,” Da Canale whispered, and he made a warding sign. His men shifted nervously.

“In this strange place I learned to knife-fight in a new manner,” I said. “Only lately have I returned. Now I find goat-men and other strange abortions loose in the land. Cities I knew lie in ruins. There has been mass dying.”

“It is called the Great Mortality,” Da Canale said. “Where exactly did he send you? How did you return?”

“That is unimportant. What is important is that I owe the Lord of Night a debt and I am determined to repay it.”

“Vengeance can be costly, signor, especially when your foe is such a powerful sorcerer.”

“I’ve honed my fighting skills for a reason,” I said.

“Join us!” the crossbowman cried. “We can use a fighter like you.”

Men-at-arms glanced at him in horror.

“You march to a fight?” I asked Da Canale.

He took his time answering. “I’ll tell you frankly, signor. You frighten me. Even a deadly fighter should not run out of the darkness to battle a demon. I’ve never seen anyone so quick except for creatures summoned by a sorcerer. It causes me to wonder if you’re fully human.”

He had touched upon that once too often. Before I thought of a suitable reply, he dug in his belt pouch and extracted several coins. He studied them, placed one on his knee and put the others back. He picked up the coin, looked at it, at me, and back again at the coin.

He pitched the coin to the crossbowman, who neatly caught it. “Is there a likeness?” Da Canale asked.

The crossbowman frowned and glanced at the coin, then at me. “What does this mean, signor?” the crossbowman asked his captain.

“Give him the coin,” Da Canale said.

I warily accepted it, and was shocked to see my likeness stamped there.

“It’s you,” Da Canale said, “is it not?”

Erasmo, I realized. He had stamped coins in his image—my image. What was wrong with him that he couldn’t accept the features he’d been born with? Surely he had become powerful enough to drop the pretence.

“I knew you looked familiar,” Da Canale said.

He held his sword and he darted a meaningful glance at the crossbowman. The man picked up his loaded weapon. Others stood. Steel scraped out of wooden scabbards.

I handed Da Canale the coin. “The sorcerer changed my features so I’d look like him. Why he did this, I cannot fathom, unless he thought it a joke.”

Da Canale became thoughtful. “We all might have died except for you. I owe you that, and I pay my debts.”

I felt an easing of tension.

“I wonder if you would grant me a favor,” Da Canale said.

I waited.

“You wear mysteries like a cloak, signor, but I would appreciate it if you could tell me why you helped us.”

He did not add, ‘Tell us truthfully.’ Yet I heard the plea in his question. I stared at the flames. These were hard times for men. These here struggled manfully, and they faced devils in the night. It was good to be among brave soldiers. I wondered if I had become one of the things of the night. The answer was so obvious it pained me.

“I believed that if I helped you,” I said, “you would willingly answer certain questions of mine.”

He nodded. “There is reason in that. Please. Ask.”

“Why do you think the goat-men attacked you? So far, I’ve only seen them attack peasants.”

“Men say the Lord of Night is hurt,” Da Canale said. “Rumor speaks of him lying abed in the Tower of the East. From peasant, to knight, to lord, everyone fears him. Yet I’m sure you know this. Now, however, the lords of Milan, Pavia, Bologna and Modena have plucked up their courage. These lords have cast silver into the wind to hire companies, lances and even scattered men-at-arms, anyone who dares face this sorcerer. Signor Hawkwood of the White Company leads the army. The armed camp grows on the shore of an evil swamp, the first rampart to the Tower of the East. The Lord of Night may be hurt, but he sows fear and death through his minions. They butcher villagers, burn hamlets and attack small companies such as ours.”