Assassin of the Damned

— 16-

Halfway through the next night I reached the southern end of Lake Trasimene. Stars glittered on the still waters. Fishermen had surely retired at dusk and now slept in their cottages, their boats secured until morning.

Long ago Hannibal of Carthage had invaded these lands. He’d lured a Roman consular army into a trap along the northern shore of Lake Trasimene. According to ancient accounts, Consul Flaminius had marched the legions on the road to Perugia. Wily Hannibal had conjured a mist, hidden his troops near the lake and demanded silence. Hours later, the legions had tramped unsuspecting along the lakeshore, with their gear a-jangle. At the precise moment, Hannibal swept aside the fog. With a thunderous hurrah, his army charged down on the strung-out Romans. The sorcerer of Carthage slaughtered fifteen thousand legionaries that day, along with Consul Flaminius.

Thinking grim thoughts, I trod upon bricks laid down by those ancient legionaries. It made me wonder. How long ago had I ridden out at the head of my horsemen?

I raced upon the road, a dark shadow. I passed empty villages. They’d become homes for owls and foxes. A dog barked once. I investigated, and found a villa where a night watch clattered down narrow lanes, no doubt making their rounds. I leaped up a wall like a cat and sat on a dark battlement. I waited until the watch clanked around a corner. They were ordinary men with lanterns, halberds and helmets. They gave me hope. If altered men prowled the dark, a brave night watch became even more necessary. The dog, a gray mastiff, sniffed in my direction and began to bark hoarsely. The watch shouted. Some lifted lanterns, others their halberds. One man aimed a crossbow.

I dropped outside the wall onto gravel, and continued toward Perugia.

On this section of road, weeds grew between the ancient bricks. Later, I passed what should have been the first Perugian outpost at an overhang of ivy-covered rock. I checked, but found no billet or gallows. What had happened to the outpost? I passed more signs of neglect and signs of encroaching nature. Brush grew thickly and sand had drifted onto the road. In a word, the wilds were reclaiming lands laboriously torn from them, no doubt due to the plague. Yet surely, there would be enough people left in Perugia to keep the road clear.

I neared the turnoff to Velluti. Years ago, Erasmo had claimed it was the Baglioni ancestral village from before Roman times. The town rested on a mountainous plateau, nestled between two groves. Darkness reigned in the village, and a gate lay ajar as if the town was deserted.

In my haste to reach Perugia, I would have passed on but for the crickets. They merrily chirped as I hurried. Then the chirping quit. It was so sudden I halted, frowned and stepped back. The crickets burst into life. I walked forward again. There was an eerie absence of noise. I stepped back a second time, and the world’s sounds resumed as before.

As the prince of Perugia, I’d often led her soldiers into battle. I’d just as often camped in the wilds. If a step farther would have silenced crickets those times, I would have slept peacefully every night. I took that step now, concentrating. The silence swung shut like a door. I peered back. Beside the dirt road, a cricket shifted position, its wings a-blur but silent. I snapped my fingers. The sound was subdued, distant. I kicked a stone. I could hardly hear it.

It is said that a cat will deliberately sleep on a person’s chest, its nostrils near the sleeper’s mouth. The cat will steal the sleeper’s breath until death occurs. That is nonsense, of course, but many believe it. As I stood on the weedy road, it seemed that some invisible thing stole sounds as they were made.

I stepped away again. An ominous noise caused me to whirl. Something big and heavy clopped up the road. It jangled of chainmail and clunked of plate.

I hurried behind a boulder because the noise recalled to mind one of Lorelei’s warnings. I must beware once I neared Perugia. I soon spied a beast of a horse. Its hooves were like a smith’s hammer striking sparks on the paving. The horse was black. The rider wore dark plate-armor and a spiked iron helm.

In the old tales, black knights were villains. They painted their armor to blot out any heraldic symbols. That was to hide their liege or their own identity, or it meant they were landless and poor. Thus, the knight lacked a page to polish his armor. So he painted it to retard it from rusting.

The horse moved at a trot. I sensed power, strength and arrogance in the knight. He rode as if he would trample whatever stood in his way. I recalled the moon maiden’s words, to beware the black knight. She had called him Orlando Furioso, which meant, Mad Orlando.

I knew an Orlando. We all did. He had been Charlemagne’s greatest paladin. In some tales, Orlando and his best friend Uliviero had died at Roncevaux against the Saracens. In other stories, Orlando had gone mad and had departed in Charlemagne’s greatest hour of need. Afterward, Orlando had met a grim fate. All were legendary tales and from a time over five hundred years ago. The knight riding toward me could not possibly be the same man. Yet if a sorcerer could conjure any warrior to his side, Signor Orlando would be an excellent choice.

The rider stiffened as he passed my boulder, and he shifted so his armor creaked. He brought up a gauntleted hand. A chain rattled, one end attached to an oaken haft. At the other end swung a spiked ball. It was a morningstar, an ugly weapon, difficult to use well. Some horsemen preferred it, and for good reason. While on a charging horse, a sword stroke produced a numbing shock to the wielder’s hand. The morningstar’s ball struck just as hard, but because of the chain, the shock never reached the wielder.

He passed my boulder and turned onto the hilly road to Velluti. The clop, the clink and the leathery creaks quit on a sudden. As eerily, their image wavered as if viewed through water. In time, rider and horse plunged through Velluti’s gate.

I fingered the hilt of my deathblade. This strangeness spoke of sorcery. The black knight was supposedly one of Erasmo’s champions and he had entered my ancestral village. That seemed ominous. With a swirl of my cloak, I glided toward Velluti to investigate.

***

A haunted place meant ghosts or demons. Velluti was dead, without even a moan to suggest lost souls. I passed the village-well, the smithy and sheds. They seemed faded, washed of essence. I spied a rake in the middle of a lane. Elsewhere I saw a hoe and two sickles as if they’d been dropped so their owners could flee faster. In the moonlight, I glided like a shadow from building to building. I stepped over a spool of thread and saw a knife stuck in a shed. In the center of town, I found a smashed church. Every other house or shed had been intact. Here it seemed as if a giant had kicked out the church’s walls. They lay flat, with cracked bricks strewn beyond.

I slunk closer, knelt and let my fingers hover over a hoofprint. My hackles stirred as something growled. In the silent town, the sound was as deadly as the thud of a headman’s axe. The growl came from the ruined church, yet nothing was there, not even a ghost. Then the clarity of the growl registered.

I snapped my fingers. They still sounded muted.

The invisible creature snarled again-a louder sound than before. Then two green eyes like poison fire appeared in the middle of the ruin. Claws slashed air and disappeared.

I froze in my crouch and time ticked with agonizing slowness. What had that been? A ghost? I strained to hear more. Then a new sensation prickled my neck. I swiveled my head.

The black knight sat on his horse about ten paces from me. Bars blocked his helmeted face and it seemed as if his eyes lacked pupils and were all of one hellish red color. With a muted creak of metal, he nodded.

I stood and faced him.

“So you’re the assassin,” he said. His voice sounded distant. “From what the sorcerer says, you’ve left an impressive trail of bodies.”

“I’m the prince of Perugia, signor. This town is part of my land and you’re trespassing.”

“The Lord of Night would disagree.”

“Name yourself,” I said.

“Death,” he said, “to whoever annoys me.”

“You’re also Erasmo della Rovere’s man?”

He laughed harshly. “He calls you the Darkling, the Moon Lady’s champion. But you don’t look dangerous to me. Still, this is an age of weaklings. I suppose anything is possible.”

“Step down from your horse,” I suggested. “Let us test my weakness.”

A snarl from the ruined church interrupted his reply.

I strode from the noise, and glanced at the knight. His eyes glowed hotter and then flickered back to their fainter red hue.

He turned to me. “You didn’t like that.”

“What is it?”

“Stay and find out, O beggarly prince.”

I hawked in my throat and spat on the ground. “You’re a boor, signor, a black-armored braggart.”

He slid the handle of his morningstar from its holder and began to whirl the spiked ball. The warhorse’s flanks quivered as if it would spring into a trot.

“I was going to wait until the sorcerer upped the price of your destruction,” he said. “Now I find you an annoyance. Better draw your knife, O prince.”

Before he charged, the loudest snarl of all came from the ruin. Green eyes blazed, and a spitting thing like a monstrous cat appeared. The beast wriggled as if trying to slither through a hole. Then it spied me and roared.

“The lycanthrope doesn’t like you,” the knight said.

The lycanthrope flickered, appearing and disappearing like a ghost struggling to exist.

The knight no longer rotated the morningstar, but watched the catlike beast. The beast stared at me with avid longing, and it snarled and wriggled harder than ever.

“You came to collect it,” I said.

The knight shrugged with a creak of metal.

A second catlike creature appeared, and a third. I stepped back.

“Not so brave now, are you, O prince?”

“We shall meet again,” I said.

“When we do,” the knight said, “you’ll wish we hadn’t.”

A lycanthrope howled with rage, and it appeared to be solidifying. I nodded curtly to the knight and took my leave.