Vaughn Heppner - Assassin of the Damned

He scowled, and his gaze swept across the misty tree line.

“I believe Orlando Furioso has brought knights to fight you,” I said.

“I’ve heard rumors about him, Charlemagne’s great champion. Such a thing should be impossible. But in this wretched plague, it seems that anything has become possible.” He tried to grin. “Signor, I’ve also heard tales about you.”

“Oh?”

“Ofelia-”

I laughed.

“It is unwise to dismiss her, signor. She has come in the sorceress’ train. She is an attendant and speaks with the sorceress’ authority.”

“What sorceress is this?” I asked.

“She owned the castle where Ofelia sold her…cargoes.”

He meant the priestess of the Moon. “What has Ofelia said about me?”

Da Canale glanced about as if we sat in a crowded tavern and he wished to make certain no one overheard him. He lowered his voice. “She has only told those she can trust. It is the reason Signor Hawkwood sent me up here. Those who can be trusted are to keep a lookout for you. Only they don’t call you Paolo Orsini, but Gian Baglioni. I recall the name, of course. He was a noted soldier, the prince of Perugia.”

I asked, “He?”

“You, if you prefer,” Da Canale said. “Ofelia told me this prince died and changed into the Darkling. The sorceress wishes you captured at any cost. The reward is great.”

“You are a mercenary,” I said.

Da Canale looked pained. “Please, signor, among knights such as us, that is a churlish suggestion.”

“Then I will apologize, signor.”

“No, no, there is no need for that. I’ve thought much about what Ofelia has said about you. And I’ve thought even more about what you did for us when you fought the demon lord. I owe you my life, and Carlo da Canale pays his debts.”

I clapped him on the shoulder and nodded my appreciation.

“The causeway is a desperate measure,” I said.

“Signor Hawkwood is our captain-general,” Da Canale said, as if that explained everything. “He is the commander of the White Company, and the lords have wisely given him full command. The sorceress says time is our enemy. So we push hard to reach the Tower of the East. This post, unfortunately, is not only hazardous, but I suspect suicidal.” He tapped his nose. “I can smell the enemy.”

“Like a human hound?” I asked.

He laughed. “No, signor, I sense them. I can feel them waiting for us. Signor Hawkwood is aware of my ability and my steadfastness. -Can I ask you a favor?”

I hesitated only a moment before nodding.

“You are the Darkling. From what Ofelia says, this makes you the master assassin. Could you scout the jungle, see if an army awaits us? I fear going myself. We sent huntsmen earlier, but they never returned.”

I glanced into the misty foliage. These were brave soldiers, likely doomed ones. But then I too was doomed.

“I will do this,” I said, “for a favor in return.”

“You need but ask.”

“You are a man of honor,” I said.

Da Canale understood. “I swear by Saint George to say nothing about what you ask me. If it is honorable for me to grant your request, I will swear to complete it.”

I liked Carlo da Canale, and I told him my request. It troubled him, but at last, he nodded and swore by his patron saint. It meant that I’d need him alive, and he might have understood that, too. He looked like a bear but I suspect he had a fox’s cunning.

“I will slip into the jungle over there,” I said, jutting my chin. “What I suggest you do, is lead out a team of halberd-men toward the forest over there.” It’s where I’d heard the hounds.

“I agree,” he said.

We shook hands. Then I waited as da Canale hurried back to the mantelets.

***

Da Canale led the halberd-men. The halberd was a murderous weapon. It was eight feet long, with a heavy head that came to a point. On the front it had a blade like an axe and in back a wicked hook. It was a ponderous weapon, but with a strong soldier could cleave helmets, shields, even mail armor as if they were parchment. As they marched toward the forest, with crossbowmen behind them, I slipped into the jungle in the opposite direction.

A pang of loneliness gripped me as I glided through the mist and between twisted trunks. I longed to lead men-at-arms like da Canale. My private existence as the prince of Shadows…the prolonged silences…with only my thoughts as a companion-I began to loathe this existence. Speaking with da Canale had shown me how barren my life had become.

I ducked under a frond and froze as I squinted into the mist. That had sounded like claws scratching wood. I advanced slowly and spied two human hounds that stared with dreadful intensity into the clearing. I slunk near enough to hear them mutter.

“The heart is the best.” The hound had a torn ear and it chuckled softly. “Once you tear open the chest, shove your muzzle into the heart as it beats warm blood. Ah, nothing tastes so good.”

“No, you’re wrong,” the other human hound growled. “Yanking out intestines, chewing them while the man screams, nothing tastes like that.”

I slid my deathblade free and came upon them like a shadow. Then I dragged the corpses several feet and covered them with creeper vines. Foul creatures.

I crept through the leafy maze and found a pack headed east. I followed them, and knew a moment of fear when the leader stopped and lifted his nose. He sniffed experimentally.

“We must hurry,” another growled.

The altered men, with their naked backs high in the air, trotted faster on all fours. I noted the direction they took and followed at a distance. Sooner than expected, I found the enemy camp.

Its size told me a battle must be in the offering. Strangely, three large tents stood in their jungle clearing. Octo-men with vile tentacles stood around one tent. Satyrs or goat-men milled around the second, while an odd assortment of altered creatures, some with wolf-like snouts, crouched around the third. It was a veritable menagerie of evil, maybe two hundred all told.

Farther back Orlando and thirty knights checked their horses. Despite the jungle, the knights wore plate armor and carried lances, swords and mauls. It told me they meant to fight in the open, which meant either the clearing or the causeway. Signor Orlando spoke to his knights. By his tone, he extorted them. Then he reached for a sword, the scabbard strapped to his saddle. Orlando drew a large sword that glowed in the dark. The knights stirred. Several cheered.

I shook my head in awe. I knew the tales, the poems and minstrel songs. That had to be the magic sword Durendal. The legends of mad Orlando told how he had sought Durendal and Angelica. Ah. I’d also overhead Erasmo in Perugia. He’d spoken about the sword and the woman as Orlando’s payment for service. So why had Erasmo already paid him with Durendal? Maybe it meant Erasmo was desperate. Perhaps he was hurt worse than anyone realized. Tonight it meant that Signor Orlando would be like a god of war. The legends of him and his sword-I had to warn da Canale. He had to warn Hawkwood.

I almost slipped away then, but I saw the Goat Man, the muscular satyr I’d fought before. He strode toward the tents and he wore a turban. I could only suppose the crossbow bolt was still lodged in his forehead. He must have wished that hidden.

At the sight of him, the many kinds of altered men grew tense. Some flapped their tentacles. Others bleated fearfully, while others gnashed fangs. They watched the Goat Man. What looked like apprentice sorcerers-they wore purple robes-hurried after him. Two lugged a heavy chest. One reverently carried an ivory case. That one opened the case and proffered it to the Goat Man.

I craned for a better look. So did many altered men. They grew restless, maybe nervous. The Goat Man raised his hated pipes.