Vaughn Heppner - Assassin of the Damned

Several of the women of the flagellants scratched their faces until they bled. The villagers swayed. They mumbled in horror. They shrank back. Some bowed their heads and prayed fervently.

“This is against the holy-” the priest shouted.

“Shut up!” a flagellant bellowed. He clouted the bound priest on the side of the head. The priest crumpled. The flagellant kicked him viciously in the side.

“Stop that,” I said.

“Don’t bother,” the noble with the wide-brimmed hat whispered.

I glanced at him. He grinned, and I noticed then that he had fangs instead of teeth. He had long canines. He backed away from me and into the darkness.

People turned and stared, and I stood alone. The butcher stopped in mid-stroke. Worse for me, the hounds swiveled around. Most of the dogs had worked in near the two men bloodying themselves. A big brute of a hound raised its head and began to sniff the air. Its hackles rose and it barked at me. The other hounds followed its lead. Several curs moved stiff-legged toward me.

“Shoo,” I said. “Get out of here.”

The closest hounds tucked their tails between their legs. One whined, backed away. Several barked more wildly.

“Look at his face,” a woman screamed. “It’s the color of a corpse.”

The butcher, the bloody head flagellant, edged toward me. He pointed his gory whip. “Who are?” he asked in a nervous voice. “Name yourself, I command it.”

All the while, the hounds barked as if I was a bear they were too afraid to attack.

“Stop kicking the priest,” I said.

“He’s dressed in black!” a man shouted. I recognized it as the voice of the noble I’d been talking with, the noble with fangs for teeth.

The butcher’s eyes lit up. “It’s a demon!” he roared. “It’s a demon of Death. Our torments have brought it up from Hell. Now we must stone it. Kill it and the plague will stop.”

“Nonsense,” I said. “What-”

A stone hit me in the back of the head, enough so I staggered. The only one who was behind me, at least that I knew about, was the noble with fangs instead of teeth.

Men and women scrambled out of my path.

“He’s doesn’t bled,” a man shouted, one hidden in darkness, my evil benefactor. “His head is gashed and he doesn’t bleed.”

“Stone the demon of Death!” the butcher roared. “He’s colored like a corpse because he’s walking death. Kill it and save yourselves. Do as I-”

I dashed at the butcher, leapt to avoid the thrusting dagger of a nearby man and dodged the butcher’s wild whip-slash. Then I slammed an elbow into his face. The thud was loud, but he had a strong neck. It snapped back, but not as Ox’s had. Blood gushed from the butcher’s broken nose and he toppled backward. I whirled around. Stones flew, a half dozen. I dodged and ducked and only one struck me a grazing blow on the shoulder. I picked up the flagellant’s whip and snapped it at the nearest people. They surged back with screams. A few tripped over others and sprawled backward onto the ground.

The people feared and hated me. The noble with fangs for teeth had disappeared. I hurled the whip, turned and raced into the night. I had no desire to hurt regular folk.

I expected the people to bay like hounds and give chase. The butcher, however, lifted himself on one elbow.

“No!” he shouted. “Stay! We’ve driven the demon of Death from us. Now we must celebrate our victory. Help me up, and then someone bring that devil-priest to the fire. It’s time he learned a lesson.”

I heard no more, too busy sprinting up the lonely road. I hoped the noble with fangs for teeth followed. I’d pay him back for his troubles. All the while, I ignored the sense of smugness emanating from my coin.

I reached the hill’s summit. A plain spread out below. Roads webbed it and a city sat in the nexus of roads. Even better, I recognized the place. It was Siena.

As the prince of Perugia, I would skirt it. The city called itself a republic, which meant its merchants made the rules rather than a hereditary prince. I had rented my knights and foot soldiers and had gone along as captain on three separate occasions against Siena. The last time, I’d captured the fort that guarded the main gate. Siena’s merchants had wisely ended the siege by agreeing to the demands. Because of my part, the Sienase merchants hated me. Although I should point out that several years earlier, I’d hired out to Siena. My men and I gave them hardy service, and yet the coin-counting merchants had decided to keep our back pay. Storming that fort had balanced the scales of honor.

I trudged downhill. I would skirt the plain until near Lake Trasimene. Then I would head into the mountains for Perugia.

***

A little over an hour later, I heard whining. I thought of handlers gripping leashes and hounds straining to attack. I presently trudged uphill between boulders and tall grass. Down there by the bluebottle bushes, branches shook.

I sprinted along the slope for some trees. I should have been more alert. Lorelei had warned me. I soon strode steadily through the trees, and despite the steep angle and the litter of half-buried rocks, I never once twisted my ankle. Because of my keen night-vision, the world seemed odd. It lacked the bright greens and sky blues of day. Instead, the leaves were dark and the grass gray, yet I could see an owl swivel its head to watch me or a fox pause as it stepped out from hiding. It felt like a twilight half-world, a shadowy realm that only I inhabited.

I ran downhill, found a stream and splashed in it. I wondered if I should lie down. I did not breathe. I could simply be like a rock and wait for the hunters to pass. No. That was knavish, and there weren’t any deep spots in the stream.

I climbed a boulder and ran along an old fallen log. There was splashing behind me. I shimmed up a tree, peered back. Hounds ran through the stream. They were altered, elongated humans. They bunched together and whispered in low growls. Then some ran one way, some the other. Of handlers and horsemen, I saw no sign.

Maybe I could ambush these creatures one at a time. I had my deathblade. One persistent hound splashed in the same direction I’d taken. He flicked his limbs into the water like a finicky but persistent cat. He stared into the rippling current, and I wondered if I’d left footprints. Soon, he climbed up the same boulder I had, followed the path along the old log.

I eased my knife from its sheath. If I dropped silently, I had a chance for one swift stab.

“Prince Baglioni,” the hound whispered in a harsh, inhuman growl. “I know you’re near.” His head swiveled from side-to-side. He had a strangely undershot jaw and bulging eyes. “Prince Baglioni,” he whispered, “it’s me.”

I squinted, and horror touched me. The face…it just might have been Signor Guido, my old arms instructor. He had been a gallant gentleman, a favorite of the ladies. In those days, he had sported a thick white mustache and a neat little beard.

“Prince-”

“Up here,” I whispered.

He froze, and whined as he looked up. I dropped out of the tree. He cringed and whined again, even baring his teeth. It hurt to see him degraded to such a low condition. He had always worn finery. Now he was naked like a beast, with sores on his side.

“Is that you, Signor Guido?” I asked.

His tongue lolled and he sidled closer like a hound that wished to be petted. The desire was so apparent that despite my repugnance, I patted his shaggy head. He squatted on his haunches, beaming. It made me ill.

“I’m so glad to have found you, Prince Gian,” he said in his doglike growl.

“Is it really you…Guido?”

He hung his shaggy head and whined. Then he squeezed his eyes shut and shook like a hound shaking out water. “He did this to me, my prince.”