Vaughn Heppner: Assassin of the Damned

Another brigand suggestively hefted an axe.

“Take my medallion,” the man at the stake sobbed. “Take it, it’s all I have. You have to believe me.”

A horse screamed, and it yanked at the reins tying it to a branch. Several nearby horses neighed wildly.

“What’s the matter with them?” the red-bearded leader shouted.

A page threw up his hands to show he had no idea.

The staked man decided he had courage after all and cackled in a strange manner. He had a forked beard. In the firelight with his sweaty features, he seemed like a devil.

The red-bearded leader turned to him with a scowl.

“This is an evil swamp,” the staked man declared. “An opening to the underworld lies near. The Forgotten Ones march out on cursed nights. The dead walk and capture the living.”

The frightened horse became shrill. Its eyes rolled and spit foamed at its mouth as it struggled to tear itself free.

“Maybe he’s right,” the brigand with the axe said nervously. “This place is bad luck.”

“Shut your mouth!” the red-bearded leader snarled. “The only bad luck will be his if he doesn’t pay his ransom.” He jerked a thumb at the staked man. “Settle the damn horse down!” he shouted at a page.

“The dead walk here!” the staked man shouted. “They’re drawn to murder and treachery. They come for you!”

The red-bearded leader whirled around and backhanded the staked man. “Do you think you’re clever? Do you think you can frighten Englishmen with your child’s tales?”

The staked man had glazed eyes. Blood trickled from his lip and into his forked beard. Yet he smiled.

A crossbowman knelt by the fire and nervously fed it twigs. With wide eyes, he stared into the darkness.

The staked man spat blood. Then he stared where I lay hidden in the thicket. I noticed his medallion. It was a heavy circle of gold. It showed a cloaked man. He silently mouthed words, seemed to aim the words at me.

I climbed to my feet and bulled through the bush.

The horses went wild. Several neighed shrilly. One broke free. It whirled around and kicked at a page. The lad barely dodged. Then the horse screamed again and galloped away.

I hurled my stone. It clanged off the red-bearded leader’s helmet. He staggered back. The crossbowman by the fire lurched upright, fumbled his weapon and pulled the trigger. I heard the ka-chuck . The bolt flashed past my head. It slapped leaves and disappeared into the darkness.

“You missed,” I laughed. It was a horrible sound.

The effect on the hardened brigands startled me. They stared wide-eyed as the fire cast its lurid light. The second crossbowman deliberately lifted his weapon, aimed and fired. The bolt thrummed with power. His was an arbalest, a heavy crossbow that needed a pulley to load. The bolt slammed into my torso, rocked me, and smashed out my back.

I expected to crumple to my knees. I expected to vomit blood and curse them with my dying breath. Why had I been so foolish? By the stars, that hurt. I glanced at my torso. Something black leaked out. It was a trickle, a paint of color on several links. I’d expected a gush of blood, redder than satin.

The pain angered me. I strode at the crossbowman. He dropped his weapon and clawed for his dagger. The others watched spellbound. Maybe the staked man practiced magic that froze them-I now suspected that he was a sorcerer. The crossbowman drew his dagger, cried out and stabbed. I caught his wrist before he could stab me. Then I tore the dagger from his nerveless fingers and punched the blade through his chest-plate. He stared at me with incredulous eyes and crumpled, as I should have done earlier.

Pandemonium erupted. I thought the brigands would attack. Instead, they bolted in all directions. Some freed horses and managed to mount or drape themselves onto a horse’s back. The rest charged into the forest on foot. It happened so fast that I failed to grab one for questioning. I glanced at my torso, at the wound. A little more blackness dripped out.

Why was my blood so sluggish and black? I wondered if the staked man would know. I turned toward him.

He wrestled with his bonds. It was a violent struggle, and somehow he freed an arm.

“Who are you, signor?” I asked.

His head whipped up, and his eyes went wide with fright as he stared at me.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” I said.

Horror twisted his features. There was none of his former cunning in evidence, none of his devilish features. He clawed at the rope on his left wrist, bloodying himself in his frenzy. Then he yanked the rope free and hurled it at me.

I snatched the rope out of the air.

He turned and ran.

“Wait!” I shouted, and took off after him.

His head twisted around so he glanced over his shoulder. As he spied me, he shrieked and ran like the proverbial deer. He smashed past leaves and grunted whenever heavy branches clawed him.

I used my arms to ward off the same branches. I sprinted, my rusty armor a jangle of noise, my muddy boots a thud of determination. In the open areas, I gained. In the thickets, he dodged with cunning desperation. He ran away from the swamp, away from the forest. Unfortunately for me, we entered an area heavy with brush.

I caught my last glimpse of him near dawn. Sweat drenched him and flattened his hair. He’d discarded his furs so the medallion flopped on his sweaty chest. He flung his arms into the air and screamed. It sounded like a desperate plea for me to leave him alone.

Soon, my steps grew sluggish. My thoughts blurred. Had he cast a spell? If so, why had it taken so long to harm me?

The sun peeked over the horizon. Sight of the dazzling light struck me numb. Then I was falling…and I knew no more.

A lady stood over me. She wore a flowing, silvery dress, sheer enough to hint at the wonderful curvatures underneath. She had dark curls, hot eyes and that beguiling smile. It was the lady in the moon, so perfectly beautiful that it was frightening. I lay on a slab of stone in darkness. An archway to my left glowed with a fiery red and there were roaring sounds like a mighty furnace.

She held a bow stave. It might have been ivory. Strange designs twined about it. She thrust the stave hard against my ribs.

“You’re late,” she said. “And now you dally, playing foolish games.”

The blow against my ribs made me snarl at the pain. I struggled to rise. If I could, I would tear that stave from her hands and swat her backside. No one thrashed Gian Baglioni as if I were a common serf.

She ignored my feeble efforts, and I wondered at my weakness. She tapped my chest with the stave.

“My patience has limits, signor. You’ve already slumbered far too long. Old Father Night has gained a march on me, maybe two or three. His minions abound.”

She tapped my chest harder.

I gingerly touched my ribs from the first blow and felt to see if any were broken.

“You’re not the Darkling,” she said, “not yet. So these heroics must cease. Hurry to the castle. Neither my patience nor my strength is unlimited-unless it is that you wish to return as you were.”

“Erasmo…” I whispered.

A frown creased her brow. It destroyed the image that she was a young maiden. It also caused her eyes to shine dangerously. They were strangely silver and molten with threatening power.

“You’re late,” she said. “Now you must hurry.”

She began to fade as the red glow from the arch increased its hellish hue. The roaring sounds grew. Then fear tore at me. From out of the darkness shuffled a naked man. Dirt dribbled from his grimy hair. He shuffled toward the arch and his eyes were blank and his face stiff like a mask. I struggled to rise. I strained with all my feeble strength. The shuffling man looked like me.