Vaughn Heppner - Assassin of the Damned

My years of training as squire and knight now clamped down upon this wretched fear. And maybe being the Darkling gave me added courage. I flashed my deathblade, snarled and advanced at a trot.

The huge Goat Man lowered his pipes in astonishment. It was then I noticed a strong, musky odor. He reeked of it.

“Look at me, mortal,” he said. “Gaze into my eyes.”

I looked. His eyes seemed like pinwheels, swirling numbness into my mind. I shook my head, and my left hand touched my belt where my coin lay hidden. Greater fear entered me. This was no mere altered man. The Goat Man seemed ancient. Pan, I realized, or the Old One from eons past. He was the one men poorly remembered, making fanciful legends of Pan that were much too lighthearted.

“ Are you a mortal man?” he bleated.

His goat-men held back, confused. The mercenaries waited, exhausted, watching us. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the crossbowman fit a bolt into his weapon.

The Goat Man’s eyebrows rose toward the two obscene horns that sprouted from his forehead. “You serve the Moon Bitch,” he said. “You’re the one the Lord of Night wants?”

“Are you his servant?” I sneered.

“You shall linger long and painfully for that remark.”

“Mulciber forged this,” I said, showing him the deathblade. “You’d do well to fear it.”

I think I saw fear in his strange eyes. I also heard a crossbow release. The Goat Man turned, but too late-or maybe just in time. The stubby iron bolt pierced his forehead to become a third and feathered horn. It staggered him, and the herd of goat-men groaned in dismay.

The leader did not collapse, however. He gave a fierce cry, and he leaped at me. He was fast, and he lowered his head like a charging beast. He tried to rake me with his horns. I twisted and slashed. I heard a horrified bleat and felt my blade cut skin. Then the Goat Man was past me. He moved in great bounding leaps, full of vigorous life. He fled. If the bolt had entered his brain, it lacked killing power. Or maybe Old Ones were dreadfully hard to kill.

The remaining goat-men cried out in misery. They lost their courage and glanced about like frightened animals.

The White Company mercenaries surely sensed this. They were among the fiercest killers known. Their captain, a big man with a snarled red beard, bellowed a war cry, and he led the charge. Despite their nearly useless shields, notched swords and battered armor, the mercenaries began to slaughter the goat-men, who finally broke and ran pell-mell.

I decided to kill more of them before their leader recovered and re-gathered his herd. So I followed the altered men into the darkness, stabbing as I ran.

***

An hour later, I retuned to the mercenary camp. Men shouted. Lanterns lifted, and the crossbowman raised his weapon.

“I’m a friend!” I said.

They crouched tensely around campfires. The toughest arose with spear or sword. Many lay on bloody cloaks, some dead, some coughing out their last. Only a handful appeared to be in any condition to fight. One of those was a big man about my size. He had a red beard and wore iron gauntlets. I recognized him as the captain Ofelia had once hired. His leveled sword gleamed, which meant he must have already wiped it down and filed out the worst nicks.

“It’s him,” the big man said. “Lower your crossbow.”

I strode out of the darkness. I’m not sure what they saw. They gave me wary looks. As the lanterns and firelight washed over me, many glanced at each other. Faces tightened. Some looked frightened.

“That was a brave stand,” I said. My voice made some mercenaries flinch.

The leader peered at me closely. He bit his lip. Then he made a show of sheathing his sword. He strode out and held out his hand.

“I’m Carlo da Canale of Pisa, signor.” His English accent was thick.

I nodded, and decided it would be unwise to tell him my real name.

“I’m Paolo Orsini,” I said. He had been my marshal, my second in command while I was prince of Perugia.

Da Canale cocked an eyebrow. “You look familiar to me, signor. Have we met before?”

“It’s possible,” I said, “although I think I would remember a fighting man like you.”

Da Canale grinned within his bushy beard. “Make way,” he said. “Give our savior room.”

Men scooted aside. I sat on a log and rubbed my hands over the flames as if for warmth.

“We have water, signor,” Da Canale said.

I glanced at a nearby bowl, towel and bar of soap. “Thank you,” I said. I scrubbed my face, hands and washed my hair. The crossbowman handed me a comb.

“It’s a gift,” he said.

“Thank you,” I said, and I ran it through my hair.

“You’re human after all,” Da Canale told me.

Several men-at-arms laughed uneasily.

I told them a tale, how the goat-men had hunted me, how I’d hidden in ditches and lain among corpses to fool them.

“They’re clever,” Da Canale admitted. “The Lord of Night has unleashed them like a new plague.”

I nodded sagely.

Da Canale rubbed his leathery face, and he glanced at me with calculation. “I’ve never seen a man fight like you, signor. By the Dark One’s beard, you don’t even wear a sword. You charged the demon lord with a knife! He was fast, but you moved with a leopard’s quickness. I saw one once when we raided North Africa. The Moors kept the leopard in a pit, and tossed down dogs to fight it. I sailed with the Genoese in those days.” Da Canale appraised me. “Are you sure you’re human, signor?”

“Don’t you smell the brimstone?” I asked.

His eyes narrowed, but he laughed.

A man placed a jug of wine beside me and a hunk of moldy cheese. I sipped the wine, and wanted to spit it out. I didn’t even try the cheese.

“Why did the goat-men attack you?” I asked.

“That is their task,” Da Canale said.

“They make war on humanity?”

Men muttered at that.

Da Canale drew his sword, set it on his knees and picked up an oily rag. He began to rub the fine steel, and I felt he watched me closely.

“That was an odd question, signor,” he said.

“You’ve spoken about my unusual speed,” I said. “There is a reason for it, but I’m uncertain you will understand.”

“These are strange times.”

“And I’ve been through stranger,” I said. “The Lord of Night has seen to that. He sent me to a strange realm.”

“Sorcery,” Da Canale whispered, and he made a warding sign. His men shifted nervously.

“In this strange place I learned to knife-fight in a new manner,” I said. “Only lately have I returned. Now I find goat-men and other strange abortions loose in the land. Cities I knew lie in ruins. There has been mass dying.”

“It is called the Great Mortality,” Da Canale said. “Where exactly did he send you? How did you return?”

“That is unimportant. What is important is that I owe the Lord of Night a debt and I am determined to repay it.”

“Vengeance can be costly, signor, especially when your foe is such a powerful sorcerer.”

“I’ve honed my fighting skills for a reason,” I said.

“Join us!” the crossbowman cried. “We can use a fighter like you.”

Men-at-arms glanced at him in horror.

“You march to a fight?” I asked Da Canale.

He took his time answering. “I’ll tell you frankly, signor. You frighten me. Even a deadly fighter should not run out of the darkness to battle a demon. I’ve never seen anyone so quick except for creatures summoned by a sorcerer. It causes me to wonder if you’re fully human.”

He had touched upon that once too often. Before I thought of a suitable reply, he dug in his belt pouch and extracted several coins. He studied them, placed one on his knee and put the others back. He picked up the coin, looked at it, at me, and back again at the coin.