Assassin of the Damned

— 2-

Wet leaves slapped my face. Mud sucked at my boots and horror crawled up my spine. I was dead. Erasmo wielding a spear had stabbed me in the stomach so all my lifeblood had flowed out of me. The lady in the moon-this was all a lie of the Devil!

After a time, a question broke through my terror. I’d been a prince of Perugia. I’d spoken with scholars, had kept several in my court. They had taught me the art of reason. If I’d died, why wasn’t I in Heaven…or in Hell?

Another leaf slapped my cheek. I tore the leaf from its branch and crushed it. I halted, released the crumpled leaf and watched it drop in the mud. I’d never seen the dead walk. I walked. I ran. How could I suppose…suppose that I was….dead?

I studied my gut. With dread, I pushed a finger through the mail and through the hole in the padding underneath. I kept pushing-and found my solid stomach underneath. There was no hole in me.

What did this mean?

Erasmo had spoken about dark deities who had once rules the Earth in olden times. The ex-priest had tried to sacrifice me on a wooden altar in order to gain power, among other things. I laughed hoarsely. Old gods, pagan altars-it was just another name for deviltry. My stomach was whole. Someone must have healed me. Then why had they put a coin in my mouth as if I’d been a corpse?

I stared at the coin, at the beauty with the mocking smile whose portrait was stamped on it. The coin still tugged my hand. I pressed a finger against my stomach. I could not deny this marvelous healing. For that, I was grateful. Yet I’d lain in the swamp long enough for grass to grow through my armor, and I saw at night like a demon. Had I been in an enchanted sleep? Minstrels told such tales.

I stared at the woman in the coin. Her beguiling smile seemed to promise me power. For a moment, she seemed alive, as if she watched me through the coin.

I clutched the coin to block her vision. I shook my head. I refused to let spells bewitch me. A cold, hard smile stretched my lips. I needed a sword, a horse and a lance. Then I would force this sorcery from me. I would gather my soldiers and scour Italy for Erasmo. Wherever he went, I would follow. Not the Devil or Erasmo’s slumbering gods could save him from my wrath. And if he’d harmed my wife or my children-

I trudged through mud and in a rage swiped aside vines. It was time to leave this dismal swamp. Cypress trees grew thickly, and there was a large body of ooze to my left. The wind blew ripples across it. By its tug, the coin suggested I enter the ooze, the slimy water. I waded into it and my foot slid in the mucky bottom. The slime was cold and soon soaked my leggings to the knees. When the slimy mud reached my groin, a coil like an octopus’s tentacle rippled into view. The coil had scales like a lizard. I watched it transfixed.

I’d never heard of such a thing in Italy.

The vile creature or its tentacle disappeared. I longed for a sword or even a knife. This was a horrible place. Warily, I resumed my trek. It was like wading through blood pudding and soon the slime reached my ribs.

Cruel laughter rang out ahead. A scream followed and a sobbing plea.

I halted a moment and then grimly waded toward the sounds. I was sick of being alone and I wanted answers. For one, I wished to know how long I’d lain in the swamp. Maybe it was dangerous heading to these ruffians, but it was night. I was in muck, in a swamp. Who would suspect me to appear from this quarter? And I saw at night like a demon. That would give me an advantage.

They sounded like brigands, either outlaws or mercenaries. Bands of mercenaries had crossed the Alps from France. These bands practiced an evil style of warfare, looting, burning and ransoming whomever they could capture.

Another scream erupted. It was of awful pain, maybe the receiving of a death-wound.

“Now you know we’re in earnest,” a man said gruffly. He had an English accent and confirmed my suspicion that they were mercenaries.

I soon spied brightness through the leaves. A fire danced beyond a dense thicket. The thicket was on higher ground, protected by a muddy bank. As I neared, a frightened horse whinnied, sounding as if it smelled a wolf or bear, something to terrify it. I studied the thickets and their leaves. The fat leaves shivered as the wind blew toward the brigands. I glanced around, but spied nothing to frighten a horse, certainly no wolves or bears. What did the horse smell?

I pried a stone loose as I climbed up the bank. The stone was my only weapon. I crawled past weeds. Then, after a careful survey, I found space under a thicket. I crawled through dirt and pried away a twig that snagged on my chainmail. Soon I spied their fire through a screen of leaves.

The brigands wore mirror-bright breastplates and mail. Most mercenaries darkened their armor as the best means of defeating rust. I’d heard of the White Company, a vain band of Englishmen who ordered their pages to polish their armor until it reflected like mirrors. These mercenaries undoubtedly belonged to the White Company.

I counted three lances. Normally, a lance was a knight’s spear. In this instance, a lance was a military term for a particular number and type of soldiers. In our day, a lance was composed of a squire, a soldier or man-at-arms and a page. There were also two crossbowmen. Both cradled loaded weapons. The handful of men-at-arms had belted swords. Two wore helmets. Three circled the poor wretch at a stake. There was a second stake, with a slumped-over wretch tied to it. That one looked dead. The first man wore furs and a golden medallion.

The mercenary leader was big, had a red beard and wore iron gauntlets. He grinned at the staked man. “The only thing that matters now, signor, is whether you want to buy yourself back with one arm or two.”

Another brigand suggestively hefted an axe.

“Take my medallion,” the man at the stake sobbed. “Take it, it’s all I have. You have to believe me.”

A horse screamed, and it yanked at the reins tying it to a branch. Several nearby horses neighed wildly.

“What’s the matter with them?” the red-bearded leader shouted.

A page threw up his hands to show he had no idea.

The staked man decided he had courage after all and cackled in a strange manner. He had a forked beard. In the firelight with his sweaty features, he seemed like a devil.

The red-bearded leader turned to him with a scowl.

“This is an evil swamp,” the staked man declared. “An opening to the underworld lies near. The Forgotten Ones march out on cursed nights. The dead walk and capture the living.”

The frightened horse became shrill. Its eyes rolled and spit foamed at its mouth as it struggled to tear itself free.

“Maybe he’s right,” the brigand with the axe said nervously. “This place is bad luck.”

“Shut your mouth!” the red-bearded leader snarled. “The only bad luck will be his if he doesn’t pay his ransom.” He jerked a thumb at the staked man. “Settle the damn horse down!” he shouted at a page.

“The dead walk here!” the staked man shouted. “They’re drawn to murder and treachery. They come for you!”

The red-bearded leader whirled around and backhanded the staked man. “Do you think you’re clever? Do you think you can frighten Englishmen with your child’s tales?”

The staked man had glazed eyes. Blood trickled from his lip and into his forked beard. Yet he smiled.

A crossbowman knelt by the fire and nervously fed it twigs. With wide eyes, he stared into the darkness.

The staked man spat blood. Then he stared where I lay hidden in the thicket. I noticed his medallion. It was a heavy circle of gold. It showed a cloaked man. He silently mouthed words, seemed to aim the words at me.

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.