Vaughn Heppner - Assassin of the Damned

I wiped my hands on the leathers of the slain soldier. Then I strode into the night, headed for Cape Lodovico.

***

Two nights later, I reached the coast as the moon wobbled past stars and as surf crashed against rocks.

I climbed slippery boulders. I crunched across sand. Crabs feasted on a washed-up dolphin. Cape Lodovico was an unhealthy place, and I wondered who would be foolish enough to sail so close to shore in the dark? The answer soon revealed itself. A galley swayed a quarter mile from shore. The captain had thrown out anchors. Lanterns burned fore and aft, and I saw movement on the decks.

Galleys were finicky vessels, low in the water and narrow. Rough seas demolished them or such seas made life miserable for those aboard. The galley’s purpose was speed. That speed was gained through oars. Masses of poor men supplied the muscle. In Genoa, a seaman with rations was paid 18 soldi a month or 30 soldi without rations.

Every time the wind blew toward shore, I smelled the stench of packed humanity. Normal galley practice called for pulling ashore each night. The men stretched their legs. Cooks built fires for hot food. Rowers and sailors dug holes instead of defecating over the rail.

Once, Venice had been queen of the waves. Her trade ships had gone everywhere in the Mediterranean. I still found it incredible that the plague had slain the city. Had Erasmo built his tower there out of arrogance? Perhaps there was a strategic reason. Maybe he allowed trade ships at the tower. Maybe he used it as a port. Maybe instead of an army, Da Canale’s lords should have built a fleet.

Rocks rose here like fangs. Sea spray drifted inland with each crashing wave. Recalling the pond, I considered wading into the sea and to the anchor. I would shimmy up the rope, onto the galley and find my daughter. I discarded the idea because I realized it would be too dark underwater for me to find the anchor.

I studied my surroundings and noticed caves. The shore over there was a thin ribbon of sand and then jagged cliffs. The caves struck me as ominous. Or was I simply being superstitious?

Why would they land my daughter here instead of heading straight for Venice-the Tower of the East? Had Signor Fangs for Teeth lied?

Maybe a half-hour later I heard the clink of chains and spied movement in the largest cave. I ducked behind a boulder to watch.

Shambling…men emerged, men and women. They wore tatters for clothes or went stark naked. Each wore an iron collar, with a heavy chain that linked one to another. Several recoiled as they stepped into the moonlight, and they made keening sounds and whimpered with utter dejection. Behind them strode a huge man, nearly a giant. He wore rough leathers and boots and held a whip. He cracked it. The whimpering stopped on the instant, and they cringed in abject terror.

The near giant had long hair and cruel scars along his cheeks. The face was wide, almost square and the nose mashed.

I recalled dark tales of the chained dead. Did those wretches belong to the Forgotten Ones? Lorelei had spoken about someone called Anaximander who marched to Erasmo’s aid. Is that why the galley had anchored here?

Two big men in crude leathers appeared. One held a lantern. He waved it back and forth.

I glanced at the galley. A lantern waved there. Soon, a rowboat splashed in the sea. It was a vacchette or a “little cow,” with eight oars. Men slipped over the galley-side and into the vacchette. They picked up oars as a sailor shoved off.

The chained wretches in the cave began to shriek. Whips cracked and the leather-clad men shouted harsh commands. Those in the chain-gang began a grotesque jig.

“Faster you scum!” a whip-master roared.

Another of the leather-clad men rushed forward with a white-hot brand. He burned one of the wretches, melted flesh. The prisoners danced with greater zeal and their chains clinked more often. Whenever I spied a face, whenever he or she entered the moonlight, their twisted features and haunted eyes told the story.

Had Erasmo forced my daughter to witness such horrors? A grimmer thought speared me. Had Erasmo sent my daughter to the Forgotten Ones and only now, he sent for her? A fierce rage took hold of me.

The big men in their crude leathers roared with mirth. They slashed their whips and bellowed lewd curses. One shoved a package at the near giant. Unlike the others, he wore a cloak. He handed over his whip and accepted a club. The one who might be Anaximander hooked the knotty club to his belt. As the wretches danced, he took his leave and began to work down the cliff.

To my relief, no one joined him, no terrified girl. But I had become too enraged to easily become calm again. Where was Francesca?

The vacchette could have moved faster. Several times, the rowers stopped. I imagine the awful noises from the cave terrified them.

Whips cracked from the cave. The leather-clad men roared, and they drove the chained wretches into the darkness. I didn’t want to think about how deep the cave went or where it might lead.

The thump of oars soon grew louder. The man in the prow held up a lantern. He wore a black corselet and helmet. He had a narrow, evil face and reminded me of a snake. There was something odd about his hands.

If Francesca wasn’t in the caves, she must be on the galley. I needed the vacchette in that case. So I slipped past the waves and waded until I sank out of sight. Then I curved back toward where the vacchette headed. Fortunately, it was a cloudless night with a bright moon, and the splash of oars guided me. I pushed against the water and grabbed at wavy kelp. I hurried to get to the right spot. The bottom of the vacchette neared-I jumped and caught an oar. From above there came a muffled shout. I dragged myself up.

As I surfaced, sailors stared in horror. There were ten of them in the vacchette, eight rowers, a helmsman and a steersman. The helmsman held the lantern-and I saw his hands. It was the tip of a tentacle curled around the handle. The nearest rowers had hard faces and rubbery tentacles instead of arms. It was a sick marriage of octopus and human. More altered men!

With a heave of strength, I dragged along the oar and latched my hands onto the gunwale.

“What are you?” the helmsman bellowed, as if he should ask?

“Gig it!” screamed a sailor. “Gig it! It’s trying to get aboard!”

I heaved up into them. The top of my head smashed against an octo-man’s chin. He slumped. The hook of a gaff thudded into my back, with two tentacles twisted around its handle. I lashed out. The hook tore out of my flesh. That was raw agony. Then my knife was in my hands. I slashed. Octo-men screamed. The hook came down again and I twisted. It thudded into wood. That was their last chance. I had my feet under me now. I stabbed with brutal precision, fast. The rocking vacchette was too sluggish to affect my balance. One by one, they toppled overboard and sank under the waves. Apparently, their tentacles didn’t supply them with greater ability in the waters.

I tested my shoulder, the one where the gaff had hooked me. It hurt to move, but now I owned the vacchette. Unfortunately, the waves slued the boat so it went sideways toward shore. The leather-clad man stood there. He held his club two-handed, and he craned his head as if to see what happened here in the vacchette. It told me he couldn’t see in the dark as well as me.

Since I couldn’t control the vacchette single-handed, not until I had time to study it, I slipped over the gunwale farthest from him and rolled into the sea. The salt water stung my wound.

I wondered briefly if the moon’s constant healing was making me clumsy. The cuts and bruises hurt as much as ever. But a man’s reactions were different when he knew everything could be healed.