Assassin of the Damned (Dark Gods) Read online

  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.

  -3-

  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.

  I called out hoarsely. It didn’t matter. He or I shuffled toward the arch, toward the red glow that roared with a fierce fire. He shuffled toward what seemed certain doom.

  -4-

  A jolt woke me. My eyelids fluttered. I heard a creature snort. It sounded like a mule or a horse.

  “Easy now,” a woman said. “It’s all right.” Leather snapped. Reins, I suppose. I had the feeling she wasn’t talking to me.

  There was a second jolt and creaky wood. My body swayed, bumped about. Others bumped against me. Metal squealed below. These were wagon sounds. I cracked open an eye. I lay on someone. There were more bodies around me. None moved. They were dead.

  Rage, fear and indignity battled within me.

  A wheel lurched into a pothole. A dead hand rose and slapped my face. I dragged an arm free, the one pinned under a cold body.

  “Mistress,” a heavy voiced man said. He sounded worried. I think he sat on the wagon’s buckboard.

  “What’s wrong?” the woman asked.

  I waited for his answer, but got pregnant silence instead. My neck prickled. It was an overpowering sensation. I rolled aside. A club smashed flesh where my head had been. I opened my eyes. I lay on my back. Stars twinkled in the night sky. Leaves bordered the edges of my vision. A head appeared upside-down. The head had a bowl-cut of thick hair, vacant eyes and a mashed nose. His club rose into sight. I rolled the other way. The club thudded onto a skull that cracked.

  “It’s fast,” he shouted.

  “Kill it!” the woman screamed. “We can’t let it get away now.”

  I flipped onto my belly and butted my head into the man’s stomach. He grunted, although his gut-muscles were stiff.

  “Kill it!” the woman screamed.

  The man flailed and the club thudded against the small of my back. His angle was bad, however. My chainmail and padding were good. I grappled with him. He was big, but so was I.

  “Help!” he shouted. He had awful breath.

  I wrapped my arms around his torso and jutted the top of my head against his chin. He beat at me. I laughed and tightened my hold so his ribs creaked.

  “You’re killing him!” the woman screamed. “Let him go. Let him go.”

  I le
t go, staggered back and shot a fist into his face. His head snapped back with a crack and he catapulted to the buckboard. He flipped over it, crashed against the pole connecting the wagon to the mules and flopped onto the ground. The wagon passed over him before the woman yanked the reins and shouted at the mules to stop. She lit off the wagon and ran to him. He twitched on the country road. Then he sighed heavily and seemed to deflate.

  I jumped down with a jangle of noise.

  The woman’s head snapped up as she stared at me. She wore a hooded smock and breeches like a man, with boots. She had a flat face with hard eyes and could have been a whore. She had the mercenary feel, a person who knew the underbelly of life. The law said that a whore, a harlot, was supposed to dangle a red cord from her shoulders. Where was hers?

  “You killed him,” she said.

  The force of my blow surprised me. “Why did you want him to kill me?” I growled.

  She shook the man’s shoulder. I suppose to make sure he was truly dead. Then she eased away from him, away from me and jumped up. I took three quick strides and caught an arm. She squealed, whipped out a knife, a Venetian poniard. I slapped it out of her hand.

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  “Ofelia. Please don’t kill me.”

  Although she cowered, I caught her eyeing the knife lying on the road. I pulled her from it.

  “How did I get in your wagon?” I asked.

  “…Ox put you in.”

  “Who?”

  She indicated the dead man.

  I scowled. “Why would he put me into a wagon full of corpses?”

  She bit at her lower lip like a cat toying with a mouse. “We thought you were dead.”

  “I’m not dead,” I snarled. “I’ve been ensorcelled.”

  Ofelia cackled nervously and dared look up, with fear in her eyes. She had pockmarks around her mouth. “Can you blame us, signor? You have caked hair, a deathly pallor and many puncture-holes in your rusty armor. You even lacked a heartbeat, or none I could feel. You ought to be glad we didn’t bury you.”

  I shook her harder. “You’d be dead if you’d tried to bury me.”

  “Please, signor,” she whimpered. “Will you loosen your grip? I swear I won’t run away.”

  I pushed her toward the wagon. “Why did Ox try to smash my head?”

  She massaged her arm. “I pick up the dead, signor. I deliver them…to the magistrates. There’s a plague. But this you surely know. Sometimes we make mistakes. We pick up the dying. They’re going to be dead soon enough. Ox taps them, makes it easier on the suffering.”

  “Who are these magistrates?” I asked.

  Her eyes turned shifty. “You are a knight, I presume.”

  I grunted.

  “A knight or a luckless mercenary,” she said. “It matters not to me. With Ox gone I will need help unloading the bodies.” She jerked her chin at the wagon. “The wages are good—better than soldiering, I’d warrant.”

  I scowled. Did she think me a fool?

  “Look at your attire,” she said. “I suggest you forget about your chivalry, signor, and dirty your hands with some simple labor. I’ll pay you one hundred florins.”

  The outrageous offer and her amazing gall stilled my retort. Ten florins would have been too much. She must believe as Cecco Angiolieri of Siena did when he wrote, “Florins are the best of kin.”

  Blood brothers and cousins true,

  Father, mother, sons, and daughters, too;

  Kinfolk of the sort no one regrets,

  Also horses, mules and beautiful dress.

  The French and the Italians bow to them,

  So do noblemen, knights, and learned men.

  Florins clear your eyes and give you fires,

  Turn to facts all your desires

  And into all the world’s vast possibilities.

  So no man say, I’m nobly born, if

  He have not money. Let him say,

  I was born like a mushroom in obscurity and wind.

  “We’ll be at the castle in less than an hour,” Ofelia said. “With one hundred florins you can repair your mail, buy a sword, a chest plate, a horse and hire a courtesan. That will surely put the life into you.”

  Her jest sharpened my suspicions. She did not react normally. None of this was normal. I wanted a sword so I could run it through Erasmo. His treachery had brought me to this perplexing state. I frowned, glanced at her wagon. Had I fallen along the side of a road earlier? What had happened to the man I’d been chasing?

  “Why does the lord of the castle want corpses?” I asked.

  “Lady,” she said.

  “What?”

  “She’s a lady, not a lord.”

  I thought of the lady etched on my coin. I’d thought of her in my dream. “What is the lady’s name?”

  “…She does not enjoy her name being bandied about,” Ofelia said. “You must ask her yourself, if you will be so good as to help me.”

  “You have bold tongue,” I said, “especially for someone who just tried to murder me.”

  “I told you it was a mistake. I’ll double the wage—I beg your pardon, signor. I am a lowly person. I will give you a gift of one hundred florins if you will help me. Or, if you prefer, you may consider this a chivalrous act. You slew my helper. Now I am in distress and I am a woman.”

  “You’re taking his death easily enough,” I said.

  “…For that you must thank the plague, signor. Death is everywhere.” Ofelia glanced at the dead lout and crossed herself in a haphazard fashion.

  That angered me. “If the corpses are worth so much, maybe I’ll take your wagon and drive to the castle myself.”

  She looked scared, and upset. “The lady is…particular, signor, and she’s powerful enough so it matters. It would be a foolish thing for you to steal my dead.”

  The strange dream earlier asserted itself. It had seemed more than a dream. The lady in it had hit me and given me orders. I objected to both. And the thought occurred that if the lady could plague me with strange dreams she might continue to do so. No. It was the Baglioni way to attack trouble, not run from it. This wagon of corpses, I think it headed to the place where my coin had tugged me. According to many minstrels’ tales, one way to break an enchantment was to slay the sorcerer or sorceress. I would not permit anyone to bewitch me or plague my dreams.

  I glanced at the dead lout on the road. Despite the right of self-defense, it had not been my intent to kill Ox. I hefted him and laid his corpse in the wagon. I noticed shovels on the sides, two of them. Clods were scattered in the wagon. Wet clay clung to each shovel-blade.

  Did Ofelia rob graveyards? Why would anyone want corpses that badly? Were there any good reasons? Pope John XXII had issued a prohibition against alchemy in the year 1317. Surely, that ban included sorcerous experiments on the dead.

  I climbed onto the buckboard with Ofelia. The mules eyed me. The bigger one twitched its ears. I had the feeling they distrusted me. Ofelia shook the reins and the mules lurched into movement.

  -5-

  It galled me I couldn’t remember more. Erasmo and I had waded into a swamp called Avernus as we’d searched for deathbane. Unfortunately, I could no longer remember the reason why I had done this. The swamp had an evil reputation and it lay in Tuscany. More than that…. I think the awful spear wound and later the sorcery practiced on me had locked away much of my memory.

  The coin felt heavy in my belt then. It seemed to whisper to me, telling me I could regain my memories from the lady. The idea made me thoughtful.

  Ofelia watched me sidelong for much of the ride. Presently, the wagon creaked past oak trees and up and down gently rolling hills. This fruitful region lay in the western curve of the Apennines Mountains from Salerno north to La Spezia. The Pontine Marshes were to our south. We rode where the low coastal plains began to merge into the higher pastures and hills of Tuscany and Umbria. A lantern swayed from a post and cast an eerie light around us. Ofelia licked her lips and drew a breath.
Before she could speak—if she had been about to—a horn faintly blared in the distance. She sat straighter and listened carefully.

  I heard distant baying of a discordant kind. Ofelia must have too. Her dirt-caked hands tightened on the reins. She muttered a curse, and she worried her lower lip.

  “There’s a reason you cart your corpses at night,” I said.

  “These are bad times, signor.”

  “Who sounds the hunting horn?” I asked.

  “No one hunts me,” she said.

  “Not yet, you mean.”

  “If you must know, signor,” she said, baring her teeth. “There are…brigands out there as nasty as you. Only they have swords, horses and hounds.”

  I thought about Erasmo. “Who’s their lord?”

  Ofelia glanced at me with speculation. “You’re a knight or a mercenary. What say I hire you?”

  I scowled, tired of her presumptions.

  “Hire your sword,” she said. “By the moon, you’re prickly.”

  I snapped around. “Why do you curse by the moon?”

  She shifted her legs, maybe so she could spring away. “Are you one of them?” she asked tiredly. She shook her head. “You’re a fool to think you can slip into the castle like this and kill her.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Her shifty look returned—then suspicion. I felt as if she fanned options like tarots. Finally, she turned her head and spat, and glanced at me. “That’s what I think about Old Father Night.”

  How did she know the name of the one the lady in my dream had spoken about? For reasons I couldn’t explain, the name seemed linked with the cloaked man medallion I’d seen last night. This was yet more sorcery, more intrigue. I grew thoughtful.

  “You chose this delivery-night for a reason,” I said.

  Ofelia worried her lower lip and glanced at me sidelong.

  “I met a man with a golden medallion,” I said. “Some mercenaries had caught him.”

  Her head whipped about. “What happened to him? Tell me!”

  I scowled at her presumption, but I felt elated that perhaps I could learn now what occurred. I told her what had happened between the White Company mercenaries, the staked man and me.