Vaughn Heppner - Assassin of the Damned

“Madam, there is no snub intended. I thought it obvious why I rode in with the gravedigger.” Nobody liked to be thought a fool. They even less liked to look like one. I suspected priestesses of the Moon were no exception, nor was I wrong.

“Hm,” she said. “I see. I suppose you thought it clever.”

I allowed myself a broader smile.

“Yes,” she said, “and you wished to strike back at Erasmo della Rovere.”

My features stiffened and I took a menacing step closer.

The priestess chuckled. “Did you think I didn’t know?”

Guile, guile, I needed to use guile. I nodded brusquely.

“He suspects, of course,” the priestess said. “Why otherwise leave a minion on patrol?”

“Magi Filippo?” I asked.

“It’s a false name. We both know that.”

“Yes,” I said. “He called himself Filippo and wore a medallion of the Cloaked Man.”

“Did he?” she said. “Erasmo must be more worried than I’d realized. What did you do with the medallion?”

“I left it.”

“On the body?” she asked sharply.

I shrugged.

The priestess began to pace. She shook her cowl. “Rash. Did you slay his bondlings?”

“Most.”

“Oh, rash, very rash,” she said. “You mustn’t let your enmity blind you to reality. The Lords of Night are drunk with death. They expand exponentially because of it. We hope they overreach and quarrel among themselves. But it was rash to tweak Erasmo’s nose, as it were. We can only hope he is too involved in other matters to take notice of this.”

I nodded blandly. I wanted to know what these Lords of Night were and what they had done to gain their exalted station.

I cleared my throat. “I’m unclear on several matters. A few of my memories seemed to have faded. For instance-”

“After the ceremony all will become clear. It’s time you bathed and donned fresh clothes. Your foul mail stinks like a sty. Afterward, we shall approach the inner sanctum where you will pledge your soul. Come! Time is no longer your ally.”

***

I bathed in a silver tub in a room resplendent with paintings. In some, a maid with a bow hunted stumbling men. The full moon hung in those. One showed the maid in a frilly tunic astride a stag. Panthers trailed like pets. In the nearest, a naked maid strode toward a smiling man in black. He held a dark knife in one hand and a goblet in the other. That painting troubled me most. The maid wore the beguiling smile of the Moon Lady, the same as my coin and dream. The man, he wore my features, but without the beard.

I’d shaved before entering the tub. Now I wished I hadn’t.

I toweled myself and found dark garments, dark boots and a midnight-colored cloak laid out. Whoever had deposited them had also taken my rusty mail, soiled padding and sword. I put on these and ran my fingers through sodden hair.

Pledging my soul-I’d never do it. I’d palmed the coin earlier without the priestess noticing and now regarded it. It glowed, and the Moon Lady’s smile was as enigmatic as ever. I studied her. There was something faint in the air…it seemed like laughter.

I flipped the coin in anger. Perugia. The engraved moon shone above the mountain city. I turned the coin back to the Moon Lady. I concentrated. The faint connection strengthened. I sensed a mild scrutiny, curious, amused.

“Why am I here?” I demanded.

You are the Darkling. You are mine .

I clenched the coin in my fist, and cut off the ethereal thoughts.

I was unarmed, and I disliked it. I began to pace. My new cloak flapped at every turn. An image came to mind, a leopard, a caged beast. Moors had captured it in North Africa, in the hinterlands, and sought to sell it in Rome. The leopard had paced as I did now. It had been caught, a thing for the amusement of others.

I scowled. No one caged me, at least not without a fight. I strode from the room and hurried through a corridor. It merged into others. I chose one at random, another and found that this corridor had side rooms. They were empty…unless I stared into them. Then ghostly shapes took form. Men and women danced in one. In another room, tormenters wheeled a rack and broke a ghost’s bones. The worst showed a priestess with a silver knife as she hacked a sacrifice’s chest and withdrew his ghostly heart.

This place was evil.

I soon found stairs leading down. I took the steps four at a time, raced through another corridor. I spied a large hall with moonlit chandeliers. Filthy corpses rose from boards laid on the floor. They were all too solid, all too real. Clods of dirt fell from some. Others had half-gnawed faces. They shambled across the giant hall, to an archway that roared with flames.

I ran from it, desperate now to escape the castle.

Someone shouted “Darkling,” behind me. I looked back, spied a silver robe and darted through an archway. I took corners, found a passage with an arch and ran through it. I was back in the courtyard where I’d unloaded corpses. Were those the same corpses that now shambled across a hall? Here in this place of sorcery, the dead walked again.

I chose a different archway and found myself in a bright corridor. I fled through it. Near the end, an odd feeling warned me. I slowed, and peered into a large room.

A mural of the Moon Lady filled a wall. Tripods with braziers wafted scented odors. The mural, it showed the same portrait as my coin. On the wall, however, the portrait of the Moon Lady slowly turned as if to face me. There was something ominous in that.

I noticed a dais before the mural and a pad or cushion, one often used in the custom of fealty. One knelt to a stronger in fealty, put his hands in the stronger person’s hands and pledged service. The stronger one pledged to protect the weaker, the server. The cushion on the dais was the type used for an older man’s knees, to soften the act of kneeling. I had the feeling I was supposed to kneel on the pad and pledge away my soul. The fact they desired this pledge made me believe I still had my soul. That proved I was alive in some fashion.

I entered the room. In the portrait of the Moon Lady, in the mural, was a slit window behind her. She was in a castle, I supposed. It was night in the mural. Several stars showed in the window, and then a large blue moon. I did not understand a blue moon’s significance. I suppose only an artistic genius like Giotto would have understood.

Beyond the kneeling pad was an ornate stand. Upon it lay a black belt and a sheathed dagger.

They had taken my good if rusty sword. I strode within and stopped, surprised. Torches burned in alcoves. In them were statues of the Moon Lady. No, those were idols. Many were salacious.

I strode onto the dais and kicked the kneeling pad, sent it shooting across the room. I grabbed the belt and buckled it to my waist. I drew the blade. It was black and oily, an assassin’s knife, but it would have to do.

I heard footsteps from the corridor. I leaped from the dais and ran to an alcove. There was an archway in the rear.

“Come back, my Darkling.”

I whipped around. The voice was sensuous and seductive. The portrait of the Moon Lady still turned. Her lips moved in slow motion. With her voice came a terrifying sense of presence, as if lightning had life and bolted the earth like a goddess taking steps.

I fled.

“Darkling…”

I clamped my hands over my ears. The voice was too beautiful. I took corridors, leaped down flights of stairs. Yes, I wanted my memories, but I wanted to keep my soul more.

I ran down a steep wooden ramp that kept curving. I wondered if it was for wine merchants or for peasants trundling vegetables up to the kitchen. Then I realized that no peasant or merchant would come here. The ramp led into the earth, into a dimly glowing cavern. I paused. No one thudded down the ramp after me, at least not yet. The cavern’s ceiling was higher than I could reach. The rocky sides glittered with mica. I scowled and peered into the hateful depths. Then I gripped my resolve and hurried into them. It was then I noticed that my boots were noiseless as a cat’s paws. Although they were made of leather, they never creaked as regular knight’s boots did.