Vaughn Heppner - Assassin of the Damned

I eased away. It was too near dawn. I should have paid closer attention to that. I slunk away and then ran. I fairly flew across the ground. Then I stumbled upon a pond and a stratagem blossomed. I did not need to breathe; they did. I waded into the pond. Muck sucked at my boots. I obliterated most of the tracks and waded toward the middle. The water rose to my waist, chest and then over my head. A catfish nosed near to investigate. I poked him. He fled in a flash of fins.

It was a good-sized pond, once likely kept for fish, ducks and cattle. The plague must have murdered the owners. The surface loomed thirty feet above my head. I crouched low and waited. I was sure the goat-men fled daylight like me and would correspondently feel compelled to catch me while it was still night.

Soon the water stirred. I squinted and thought to spy hoofs at the edge of the pond. I waited at the bottom, with a tight grin. Goat-men peered into the murky gloom. Then splashes heralded their entry. Several floundered toward me. Kicking hoofed feet little helped. They used their arms and hands.

I sprang, grabbed a sinewy arm and plunged my blade into his chest. His mouth opened and bubbles billowed upward. Four died deep in the pond. I waded up, slew two more in the shallows and chased down the seventh. The last two bleated horror and dashed faster than I could believe possible.

Dawn was minutes away. I hurried back for the pond and splashed past half-sunken corpses. Then the glimmer of sunlight made the water gleam and harsh rays slanted down like spears. I tried to remain alert as I weighted the dead with stones. The sun remorselessly gained ascendance, however, and I slumped and lost awareness.

***

The following night, I arose like a wary sea serpent and found bloody, trampled reeds.

I faded into rugged terrain. Rabbits, squirrels, even a fox, leaped in surprise as I squelched by in my waterlogged boots. Half the night passed. My garments dried out. I heard shouts then, the clangor of battle and mad piping. A horse neighed.

I broke into a sprint.

It was a hilly area, with low bushes and clumps of trees. I’d used the local road, a rutted track as before. I ran along it so my cloak flapped.

The piping was different. Last night thoughts of lust had nearly consumed me. Now fear mingled with bloodlust. Creatures bleated rage and I heard war cries and men’s shouts. The intensity of sword-strokes, of clashing steel, increased. Wood thumped, which likely meant shields absorbed otherwise debilitating cuts. I rounded a bend and jumped over a boulder. Bright light illuminated the darkness. Glass shattered. Men shouted urgent commands. The piping became crazed.

I slid behind a bush and peered at a desperate fight. Mailed men-at-arms stood in a knot, many back-to-back. They held dented shields and notched swords. Those in the middle raised torches and lanterns. One soldier wound a crossbow. Fear contorted every one of their faces. Around them in a swarming circle, savage goat-men clutched double-bladed axes. They darted in, swung and then nimbly jumped back. Beyond them strutted the muscular Goat Man. He blew his pipes and sweat slicked his hair. He had a vile grin and his eyes swirled with power.

It was a chaotic fight, and chunk by chunk, the goat-men hewed apart the terrified soldiers’ shields.

A campfire and cloaks on the ground told the story. The goat-men must have surprised the soldiers-mercenaries, I decided. Ah! Their armor gleamed. These were White Company soldiers, Englishmen.

The crossbowman slapped a bolt into his weapon, raised it and fired. The huge Goat Man ducked the bolt, and his thick fingers moved upon his vile pipes. Three goat-men leaped at the crossbowman. Men-at-arms converged. One hacked and cut a goat-man. A different goat-man loped off the man’s sword-hand. Then the three altered men jumped out of range of enemy weapons. The crossbowman, meanwhile, hurriedly rewound his weapon.

Four goat-men lay dead or dying in the glade. Three of them wore bolts in their bloody chests. Twice that many mercenaries were dead or clutched at their wounds. The mayhem of shouts, screams and savage bleats, the clash of steel, the thump of wood, the battle was brutal. The goat-men had the numbers and greater fury. The White Company mercenaries had armor and training, but the evil music meant their doom.

I had vowed to champion humanity, and I wanted to whittle down the odds. The Goat Man switched to a screeching tune. It must have been a signal. By now, some of the human shields were mere shards of wood. The mercenaries looked haggard. The mark of death was on their faces.

The Goat Man lifted his horned head star-ward and seemed to play his tunes to them. The lesser goat-men tensed, ready to spring upon the mercenaries. This time, I did not think the altered men would leap back, but rush in like wolves for the final kill.

I drew my deathblade. I rose up and charged the muscular Goat Man.

Battle is a strange beast. It is a thing of muscle, sinew, nerves and courage. The greatest element of a fight is winning.

It is also important to remember that a primordial monster lives in most men. To hack, hurt your foe and remain sound is one of the headiest feelings possible. Men do not fight to test themselves, although a soldier is tested. Men do not normally fight in a hopeless battle, although many are caught in hopeless situations. The soldier fights to see his foe turn tail and run. Then a savage animal is born as the howling bloodlust takes over. The terror of steel swung in your face, the grim thought of watching your arm loped off, turns into blazing relief when your foe runs away. That relief is transformed into rage at him who just threatened you. The rage becomes joy unspeakable. The physical need to hack your sword into his back, to watch him topple, it is a bestial thing and makes for murderous victories.

It also means that in fights between groups the rear is always the most vulnerable spot. A group of soldiers cannot march on a foe if his backside is exposed to enemy attack. The soldier must turn and protect himself. It is a basic instinct. That is why the mercenaries had clumped into a group, gone back to back.

I shouted at the goat-men. I charged out of the dark. I raced at their backs. That stole much of their forward momentum against the mercenaries. That stoppage caused others on the far side of the doomed circle to hesitate.

The second most vulnerable spot against a group of soldiers is their mind. Anything that surprises can cause confusion, hesitation and then panic.

I bellowed the Perugian war cry. Several goat-men saw me at once. They saw me race down the slope. I saw their gaze dart past me. For the obvious conclusion, for them, was that a lone man does not charge a soon-to-be victorious company of altered creatures. That would be insanely unmilitary. Seeing me, they expected others. Their question would be ‘how many others rushed them?’

Even though the Goat Man played his maddening pipes, his charges looked longer than they should have.

I hurled a rock with my left hand. The Goat Man nimbly ducked it. He was amazingly quick. He aimed his pipes at me and blasted a sickening tune.

Fear shivered through me like a spear in the guts, maddening panic. However, the purpose of a knight’s long training was to gird his soul with relentless courage. As Roger of Hoveden had once written: ‘He who has seen his blood flowing, who has felt his teeth cracking under an opponent’s blow, who has lain on the ground with his enemy over him, and still has not lost his courage, he who has been thrown to the ground time after time, only the more staunchly to stand up again-he may go into battle with high hopes. For virtue grows when it is irritated, but a soul that gives in to fear has only fleeting glory.’