Vaughn Heppner - Assassin of the Damned

“Do you prefer the word ‘chase’?”

“No. War.” My arm snapped forward. The knife whirled, and I heard a wet thud. The hunter’s mouth sagged. His stick fell from his grasp. Then he toppled from the saddle to crash onto the ground.

Around me, in the brambles and below, dead-faced men collapsed as if someone had cut puppet-strings. While as before, the hounds bayed as if their skin had caught fire, and they fled.

I worked down the rest of the way, put my foot on the hunter’s chest and yanked out the blade. Smoke trickled from the wound, and his medallion winked as if sunlight had struck it. I crouched beside the body and peered at the golden pedant. It was of the Cloaked Man. I reached for the thin stick, thought better of that and searched for an ordinary twig. With it, I prodded the medallion.

“Erasmo della Rovere,” I said, directing my speech toward it. “Can you hear me?”

I waited, but nothing happened. I prodded the medallion again, considered taking it, but rejected the idea. If the hunter had been able to trace me through my coin, surely the Lord of Night could do so with a Cloaked Man medallion.

I forced a grin. “How’s your foot, Erasmo?” I glanced around to see if anyone was near. No one was. I bent low and whispered, “In the swamp, you shouldn’t have run away. You should have fought me like a knight. I had a terrible wound. You might have won. But then the Good Book says, ‘The wicked flee when no man pursueth’.”

I rose abruptly, and I kicked the corpse. Erasmo held my wife and children. I stared at the medallion, wondering if it was true that a sorcerer could retrieve images from it. Had Erasmo heard my words? I did not know. Then I continued the journey to Perugia.

Halfway through the next night I reached the southern end of Lake Trasimene. Stars glittered on the still waters. Fishermen had surely retired at dusk and now slept in their cottages, their boats secured until morning.

Long ago Hannibal of Carthage had invaded these lands. He’d lured a Roman consular army into a trap along the northern shore of Lake Trasimene. According to ancient accounts, Consul Flaminius had marched the legions on the road to Perugia. Wily Hannibal had conjured a mist, hidden his troops near the lake and demanded silence. Hours later, the legions had tramped unsuspecting along the lakeshore, with their gear a-jangle. At the precise moment, Hannibal swept aside the fog. With a thunderous hurrah, his army charged down on the strung-out Romans. The sorcerer of Carthage slaughtered fifteen thousand legionaries that day, along with Consul Flaminius.

Thinking grim thoughts, I trod upon bricks laid down by those ancient legionaries. It made me wonder. How long ago had I ridden out at the head of my horsemen?

I raced upon the road, a dark shadow. I passed empty villages. They’d become homes for owls and foxes. A dog barked once. I investigated, and found a villa where a night watch clattered down narrow lanes, no doubt making their rounds. I leaped up a wall like a cat and sat on a dark battlement. I waited until the watch clanked around a corner. They were ordinary men with lanterns, halberds and helmets. They gave me hope. If altered men prowled the dark, a brave night watch became even more necessary. The dog, a gray mastiff, sniffed in my direction and began to bark hoarsely. The watch shouted. Some lifted lanterns, others their halberds. One man aimed a crossbow.

I dropped outside the wall onto gravel, and continued toward Perugia.

On this section of road, weeds grew between the ancient bricks. Later, I passed what should have been the first Perugian outpost at an overhang of ivy-covered rock. I checked, but found no billet or gallows. What had happened to the outpost? I passed more signs of neglect and signs of encroaching nature. Brush grew thickly and sand had drifted onto the road. In a word, the wilds were reclaiming lands laboriously torn from them, no doubt due to the plague. Yet surely, there would be enough people left in Perugia to keep the road clear.

I neared the turnoff to Velluti. Years ago, Erasmo had claimed it was the Baglioni ancestral village from before Roman times. The town rested on a mountainous plateau, nestled between two groves. Darkness reigned in the village, and a gate lay ajar as if the town was deserted.

In my haste to reach Perugia, I would have passed on but for the crickets. They merrily chirped as I hurried. Then the chirping quit. It was so sudden I halted, frowned and stepped back. The crickets burst into life. I walked forward again. There was an eerie absence of noise. I stepped back a second time, and the world’s sounds resumed as before.

As the prince of Perugia, I’d often led her soldiers into battle. I’d just as often camped in the wilds. If a step farther would have silenced crickets those times, I would have slept peacefully every night. I took that step now, concentrating. The silence swung shut like a door. I peered back. Beside the dirt road, a cricket shifted position, its wings a-blur but silent. I snapped my fingers. The sound was subdued, distant. I kicked a stone. I could hardly hear it.

It is said that a cat will deliberately sleep on a person’s chest, its nostrils near the sleeper’s mouth. The cat will steal the sleeper’s breath until death occurs. That is nonsense, of course, but many believe it. As I stood on the weedy road, it seemed that some invisible thing stole sounds as they were made.

I stepped away again. An ominous noise caused me to whirl. Something big and heavy clopped up the road. It jangled of chainmail and clunked of plate.

I hurried behind a boulder because the noise recalled to mind one of Lorelei’s warnings. I must beware once I neared Perugia. I soon spied a beast of a horse. Its hooves were like a smith’s hammer striking sparks on the paving. The horse was black. The rider wore dark plate-armor and a spiked iron helm.

In the old tales, black knights were villains. They painted their armor to blot out any heraldic symbols. That was to hide their liege or their own identity, or it meant they were landless and poor. Thus, the knight lacked a page to polish his armor. So he painted it to retard it from rusting.

The horse moved at a trot. I sensed power, strength and arrogance in the knight. He rode as if he would trample whatever stood in his way. I recalled the moon maiden’s words, to beware the black knight. She had called him Orlando Furioso, which meant, Mad Orlando.

I knew an Orlando. We all did. He had been Charlemagne’s greatest paladin. In some tales, Orlando and his best friend Uliviero had died at Roncevaux against the Saracens. In other stories, Orlando had gone mad and had departed in Charlemagne’s greatest hour of need. Afterward, Orlando had met a grim fate. All were legendary tales and from a time over five hundred years ago. The knight riding toward me could not possibly be the same man. Yet if a sorcerer could conjure any warrior to his side, Signor Orlando would be an excellent choice.

The rider stiffened as he passed my boulder, and he shifted so his armor creaked. He brought up a gauntleted hand. A chain rattled, one end attached to an oaken haft. At the other end swung a spiked ball. It was a morningstar, an ugly weapon, difficult to use well. Some horsemen preferred it, and for good reason. While on a charging horse, a sword stroke produced a numbing shock to the wielder’s hand. The morningstar’s ball struck just as hard, but because of the chain, the shock never reached the wielder.

He passed my boulder and turned onto the hilly road to Velluti. The clop, the clink and the leathery creaks quit on a sudden. As eerily, their image wavered as if viewed through water. In time, rider and horse plunged through Velluti’s gate.