Vaughn Heppner - Assassin of the Damned

I wondered if the ruins frightened them enough so they waited until daylight to enter. Their actions seemed to say I was the evil creature that haunted Perugia. I studied the stars. There was less than an hour of night left. I decided to in the tower during the day.

Soon, the knight took off his armor and stretched out on a cloak. The lycanthropes slunk into nearby thickets. Then I knew no more, forced under my cloak as the sun rose.

A bat stretched furry wings and let go of its perch. Because it had slept hanging upside-down, the little creature dropped. Before it struck the floorboards, it shot out the arch and into the starry night.

I eased up and peered toward the city gate.

The black knight saddled his horse. Half again larger than lions, the lycanthropes paced. One growled what sounded like words. The distance made it impossible to understand his speech.

The knight hoisted himself into the saddle. It was the first time I’d really seen him move. He mounted with grace, with strength, as the real Orlando might have done. He flicked the reins and cantered toward the gate. The lycanthropes slunk after him.

I hurried down the stairs. Maybe an hour later, I heard the knight and his horse and I climbed a pitted wall. Like a vulture, I crouched on a slate roof, hidden by a gargoyle statue.

The lycanthropes padded into view. They were thinner than lions, but had a big cat’s silky way of trotting. They sniffed wolf-like and growled among themselves, giving off the sense of speech. The knight followed on his horse. He held his morningstar and a triangular black shield. His hellish eyes glowed with sinister purpose and he glanced back and forth. The clop of hooves echoed in the ruins, and they passed underneath my gargoyle, the lycanthropes first.

I tensed and slowly drew my deathblade. I could drop like a vampire onto the knight, knock him off the horse and stab between the bars of his visor. But the armor looked sturdy, and I dreaded the idea of snapping my knife against it. Suppose he turned his head, or suppose he was really Orlando Furioso, the world’s greatest knight. The fight might take time. Would the lycanthropes simply watch?

The horse clopped past my hiding spot. The spike on the knight’s helmet looked sharp. I sheathed the deathblade. After they turned the corner, I dropped onto the street and hurried after them. I would have to whittle down the odds before I faced the black knight.

It galled me to slink like a thief in my own city, but I trailed them. I knew the shortcuts. That helped. I wanted to ring the city bells and call out the guard, but the guards were dead and someone had stolen the bells. So I peered around corners, climbed buildings and watched from glassless windows.

Once, the lycanthropes howled in chorus. I lay on a roof across from the Golden Inn. An eight-foot giant with a grotesque face and great hairy shoulders slunk out of the inn. His apish arms almost dangled to his knees. He would be a formidable foe. He held the silver knife, Lorelei’s keepsake. He held it by the end of the hilt as if it was poisonous. He flung it so it clattered onto paving.

“Who held it?” asked the knight.

The giant shrugged furry shoulders. Was he a lycanthrope? Were they shape-changers?

“Did a man or a woman hold it?” the knight asked.

The primitive giant cast a hateful glance at the knife. The lycanthropes, the other two, kept far from it. I suspected then that it was true what people said about silver weapons. They had a deadlier effect on such creatures than regular iron.

“Sniff it,” the knight said.

The giant made a face. But he bent down, put his hairy palms on the paving and leaned his nose near the knife. From where I lay, I heard him sniff.

“I sense a woman,” the giant growled.

“Is there any blood?” asked the knight.

“No.”

“Why did she leave it?”

“I’m not an astrologer,” the giant said. He sounded angry.

The knight chuckled, which I thought odd.

“Is your laughter a slur?” the giant asked.

“You can’t slur dogs.”

The giant hunched his shoulders, and he growled.

“Instead of calling you a dog, would you rather I called you a wizard?” the knight asked.

“We three are brothers of the fang,” the giant said. “We are hunters.”

“Dogs,” the knight said.

The giant snarled. One of the others snarled back. The humanoid beast stood to his imposing height. “Dogs are hunters. Dogs are good. Wizards hide behind spells.”

“Dogs hunt,” the knight agreed.

“Then you did not insult me?”

As if bored with the conversation, the knight stood up in the stirrups and scanned the street.

As he watched the knight, the giant’s lips drew back. He stepped toward the armored man.

I cursed under my breath. I was across the street and atop a building. If they fought among themselves, this was my chance. I debated jumping down and attacking.

The horse’s head swiveled around then. The giant stopped and flexed his grotesque hands, hesitating. The knight settled back in his saddle, patted the horse’s neck and chuckled. He did it in a way that said he knew exactly what was going on. The giant fell into a crouch, and in the shadows, he blurred. A moment later, he trotted away in beast form.

“Dogs,” the knight said. He clucked his tongue. The horse followed the sniffing pack.

I crept down the stairs and hurried out the back. I had a good idea which way they went. Maybe I could finally ambush them. Unfortunately, I guessed wrong, and was forced to continue my shadowy game. They dissected the ruins in efficient patterns, and after scouring one district, they began in another. Like a persistent cough, I remained near them throughout, waiting for my chance.

“Rabbits, foxes and rats,” a lycanthrope said later.

I peered from a window on a third floor. It was an ancient tenement building from Roman times. Tanners had lived here, workers in the leather guild. It was in the Bettona District, a former stronghold of republican sentiment and a hotbed for those hostile to Baglioni rule.

“You’re certain you haven’t smelled a woman’s tracks?” the knight asked.

All three lycanthropes shook their heads. All three were in animal form.

The knight leaned toward them and spoke in a dangerous voice. “Have you smelled anything else?”

“Rabbits, foxes-”

The knight made a curt gesture. “Forget about animals.”

“There is a dead thing-”

“You fool!” the knight said. “What dead thing?”

The three lycanthropes exchanged glances.

“None may insult us,” the chief lycanthrope said.

The red eyes behind the knight’s visor seemed to glow hotter.

“…It is very faint,” the chief lycanthrope said, “hints of a dead thing. You said to tell of scents.”

“So tell me,” the knight said.

“Why worry about carrion?”

In the third storey room, I flexed my hands. They were powerful, whole. If the lycanthrope spoke about my scent, he was wrong. I’d seen carrion before, rotted flesh. I had nothing in common with it.

The knight peered down the street; he peered up it. He examined the relics of buildings. “Your noses are legendary,” he told the beasts. “You can track anything. But you lack wit. If you desire to return home with important scalps, you must tell me everything.”

“Even dead things?” the lycanthrope asked.

“Did you smell it in more than one place?” the knight asked.

“It is faint.”

“You mean it’s an old scent?” the knight asked.

“It’s like a whisper that is hard to hear.”

“Is it old?”

“It is hard because here there are many dead scents.”