Vaughn Heppner - Assassin of the Damned

***

The stench made horrible sense. I looked down at an old limestone pit. Rotting corpses lay in heaps, one atop the other. There were men, women and children, hundreds of them. I recalled Ofelia’s words about the plague. The corpses had whole heads, meaning no axe or sword had smashed their skulls. Many had lumps under their armpits and ugly sores. It hadn’t been a massacre, but pestilence.

I squinted at the hillside fire.

The limestone pit was at the bottom of the hill. The fire was a quarter way up. Instead of vineyards or orchards, this hill looked like pastureland for sheep. I sensed motion there, but couldn’t see the actual flames. It seemed as if shapes moved around the fire. A breeze brought what seemed like songs. When the wind stilled, the sounds became silent.

Would creatures of the night sing songs? I could not picture Erasmo sitting among them tapping his fingers. But I was curious nonetheless. I followed the dirt road up the mountain.

***

I crept toward the bonfire, and I swear my coin wriggled. I clutched my belt there. The feeling was more than a premonition. Stay away. You’re not yet ready for this .

I smiled grimly and slipped behind a mossy boulder.

The bonfire blazed with a tepee of pine trunks. Flames leapt twenty feet high and trails of sparks spiraled toward the stars. Why would the Moon Lady fear that I saw this?

A cluster of parked wagons stood at the edge of the bonfire’s light. Mules and horses cropped grass or munched oats from feedbags. Hobbles kept them stationary. Equine curiosity kept the animals focused on the people around the fire. There were young and old, rich and poor. They held hands and danced around the giant fire. They chanted:

Ring around the rosy,

Pockets full of posy,

Hush, hush, hush, hush,

We all fall down .

At ‘down,’ they collapsed as if struck dead. They lay there as the fire crackled. Soon they arose, clasped hands and once more began the dance and chant. Dogs wandered among the people. A few of the curs barked along as if part of the ceremony.

As I watched, a pang of loneliness touched me. These were ordinary folk, even if their activity was baffling. Since awakening, I’d only seen sulking mercenaries, a gravedigger, a sorcerer’s minion and altered men as hounds. I’d seen shambling corpses, an invisible gambler and a priestess of the Moon. Lorelei had claimed to be immortal. Here were normal people. They wore holiday finery, although a feeling of fear pervaded among them. Many glanced at a group of men and women who stood apart in the shadows.

Maybe those were Erasmo’s people. Those others wore cloth of gold garments and stood among velvet banners. They had silk jackets and fur capes. Yet their heavy faces, their facial scars and brutish mien spoke of peasants. A priest stood with them. He had his hands tied behind his back, and by his purpled face had taken a beating.

That seemed wrong. Yes, there was a feeling of wrongness here. Despite the holiday finery, the people were tense and kept glancing at the other group.

A bearded fat man detached himself from the shadowed group and approached the dancers. He sauntered like a knight, dressed like a prince in tight hose and yet had the features of a town butcher. He raised meaty hands as one who held authority. When the dancers noticed that, they left the fire and flocked around him. They had sweaty faces and many breathed heavily. I debated climbing my boulder as they circled him. They blocked my view.

My coin seemed to grow heavier then. But the Moon Lady’s warning only increased my desire to stay.

The butcher spoke. At least, I presumed he did. He had a strangely high voice, although the villagers listened raptly.

He said, “The clergy tell us they know why we die. They say we’re wicked. They say if we pray in the churches, if we give them extra florins they’ll beg the saints to help us. We’ve prayed. We’ve paid, and yet people die like sheep among raving wolves. The saints are deaf. The priests are liars and death stalks us unmercifully. We’ve all lost kin. We’ve all fled doomed villages, or many of us have. I’ve seen death everywhere. I’ve seen it in Milan. It rages in France.”

The butcher worked himself into a passion. I’d seen his type before in taverns: the drunkards who bellowed before they rose up to fight. Dogs had to growl and bark first. His words entranced the people and more than one glanced at the bound priest. Did they mean to hang the poor fellow?

Maybe my curiosity dulled my caution. Maybe I’d grown weary of the Moon Lady’s nagging. Maybe it was because they were ordinary folk. His speech and their dance were extraordinary. I wanted to know more, even told myself I needed knowledge of this so-called changed world if I were to outwit Erasmo.

I left the boulder and strode to the back of the crowd. I sidled next to a man who stood apart from others. He wore elaborate leather boots that reached his mid-thighs. He had a long face and a wide-brimmed hat with a crow’s feather. The hat and boots declared him a noble. The crow’s feather seemed strange. It should have been an ostrich feather.

I nodded as he glanced at me. “Who is he?” I whispered.

The noble stared at me too long. Maybe this had been a mistake. Could people sense my difference?

“Are you new here?” He whispered hoarsely and without moving his lips.

“…I fled my village,” I said.

He nodded as if understanding, although his lips twitched, perhaps in mockery.

I realized my garments and cloak were well tailored. I’d foolishly picked a peasant persona. “I noticed the fire,” I said. “I’m hungry.”

“They’ll be food afterward. First the flagellants must help expedite our sins.”

“The speaker is a…flagellant?” I asked.

“You’ve never heard of them?” The noble seemed more amused by the moment.

I shook my head.

He adjusted the brim of his hat, leaned closer. “The priests are powerless against the plague. Or so the flagellant says. If it is sins that have caused this-”

“The Great Mortality?” I asked.

“The Black Death,” he whispered. “That’s what we call it. Prayers are no good, so the flagellants practice harsher methods.”

The noble’s lips had remained motionless throughout his whisperings. It was more than odd. I felt as if he concealed something. His manner was too superior, too amused with me, as if he knew a joke I didn’t. It was then I noticed his scent, much like a wet hound.

“You don’t mean they beat the priest?” I asked.

He gave a strange chuckle. “The priest is given the choice of blessing the affair. If he’s stubborn and refuses, he earns his beating.” The noble glanced at me sidelong. “Do you think that’s wrong?”

The butcher shouted and interrupted our talk. I heard cloth tearing.

Women moaned. Some men shouted. A few children laughed wildly. The crowd surged back and jostled the two of us. It allowed me to spy the fat man, the butcher. He’d ripped off his expensive shirt. He had white skin with countless thin scabs.

One from his group handed him a whip. It was like a cat-o-nine tails, but with little iron spikes that rattled at the ends.

“Spare us!” the fat man shouted toward the heavens. He slashed himself with the whip, cut his skin. “Forgive us our sins!” He slashed a second time, a third and a fourth.

A woman shrieked as blood began to flow.

A second man from the group of flagellants ripped off his silk shirt. He joined the fat man, whipped himself until blood mingled with his sweat.

“Stop this madness!” the priest howled. “This is evil. You must stop!”

“We abase ourselves before thee!” the fat man shouted skyward. “We spill our blood to cleanse the Earth of stinking plague!”